What's it like for you in Washington?

ear to the wood

little attic bedroom, 7. 30 .12

grandpa's boots, a poem

a poem I wrote about the passing on of stories and histories - how they become entrusted to those left behind, but slowly, over time, decrease in the telling and lose traction, until we push them further into the attic as younger stories are collected and retired.

a portrait

Ariana - by c.m. fiske
watercolors + melted ice, at herkimer coffee
7. 21. 12

life lately

Some cute flowers right outside my office.

Chelsea at the CHBP.

Fresh lettuce from my friend Connie's garden.

final words {on light}

To complete my posts on light, here is a 

humble bit of poetry I wrote a while back. 

Do enjoy.

______________________________________________________________

           Passing through the mountains

there I saw a monk

bathing in a fountain

I watched him as he sunk

Fast 

       I went to grab him

reaching for his arm

He sang a sparkling hymn of praise

showed no signs of alarm

His skin as smooth as     butter dust

slipping from my reach

light reflected from his flesh

like beams upon the beach

A warmth, I felt, 

as down 

              he 

                plunged,

unfolding from the air,

a gold that I could nearly taste

a lightness I could wear

What is this?

I whispered 

with breath of gilded flecks

light

I felt him sweetly say

And what is light?

I answered back

The source of every flame.

The thread of life is in us all

burning as a fire

joining every vital voice

it's weaving hand can sire

I'm charged by an electric yarn

that sparks within you too

A match that's calling to be lit

but is struck by just a few

A ray of light defies its death

when crashing to the sea

unsuspecting waves reflecting

shimmering debris

So burn strong now, but when death rears

your fear you must resist

for as the sunshaft on the swell,

your light, your love, persist.

Patient water

sealed him neatly

         holy commandant -

All remaining

radiating

were  ripples    on      the font. 

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

 

“The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man's body.The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?” 
-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being


...Something to ponder. 


                   Here are some of my disjointed scrawlings on the matter:


I don't quite know what to say concerning where I stand on lightness. I am undeniably captivated and compelled by the idea of weight and meaning and consequence. But, more often than not, I find myself trying to shed that desire for weight in an attempt to experience 

                                                     what it means to be 

light.

I suppose my question for Kundera is this: Can't we be light, without being insignificant?

By virtue of the fact that we exist, are we not also implicitly significant, regardless of our lightness or weight?

Can we achieve lightness, without dismissing our significance? Or, is the surrender of any lingering suspicion (or hope) that our existence is born out of some great intention imperative for complete weightlessness?

Perhaps I am reading too broadly and Kundera is simply implying that one living outside the demands of weight and burden possesses a complete disregard for the consequences of action. And that we can chose this or not. The end.


  If this is the case, I think I'd feel awfully alone in a weightless world.

Perhaps my true folly lies in confusing lightness and heaviness with insignificance and significance. The subsequent folly being my preoccupation with the issue of meaning and significance altogether. Which brings me to this reflection: 
                                                                                we exist, and that is significant. and remarkable.

Implicit in our human experience is the possibility to  experience both weight and lightness. So like Kundera says, there is a choice.... I just don't think there's a right one. Each is a valuable experience. The complete experience of one or the other (weight or lightness), however, is unattainable for a person with even one toe in the opposite pond.

maybe the beauty is in the balance -

I think I'd rather have a little of both. It's how I approach 2 scoop ice cream cones. And, like I should but never say:

Life is ice cream. Sample every flavor.

?

___________ . ___________

As for the book: A really interesting and insightful read by a Czech author. Makes poetry out of the mundane, unsavory and vulnerable bits of human nature. Expect reflection. Expect plot that occasionally feels like filler, bridging awesome philosophical essay to awesome philosophical essay. Plot which does, however, serve to cultivate characters and context worth investing in, allowing for fuller appreciation of aforementioned essays. {investment worthy characters? yes. flawed and perhaps even unlikeable? that too.}         I recommend, if you haven't read it.

{Thank you for reading the 4th installment of my posts on light.}

ye olde luminance

old light bulb {watercolor, pen} - caffe fiore, ballard

I got distracted from my week of light posts
               so here is the next. Behold! Ye Olde Luminance!

don't hide your light{switch} under a bushel basket

the theme {for me} this week is
                     light.
How cool that we can harness it! How crazy! This is no mundane thing - let's give the ole flick of the switch the fancy it deserves. 


Why be plain,
    when you could be painted with flowers?


I painted these for my sister's house in Tucson. I took inspiration from fabrics around her house {I sound all crafty and homemakery!...bleh!...Ari, what have you done to me!?!?} Anyways, just some simple acrylic paints on Home Depot white switch plates - think about it.

i dream of creating lighting fixtures.

tabletop tree lamp ©c.m. fiske

This is my lamp.

It is a tree                that sits on a table

It is gnarly, and   made of bronze, or brass or copper or wood.

Little      floating lights that mimic fireflies

glow  in miniature mason jars

that are tangled        in the branches.

gentle man

in honor of my grandpa speaking 

about his experience at omaha beach on d-day 

at mustang library {this wednesday}, 

here is a song i wrote {months ago} 

about him and my grandma ❤

{he's the one on the right}

From their two bit towns 

to the city

Nurses tend the beds

made up pretty

Boys with stripes and bars

in their closets

got presidents

in their pockets

bootleggers on her fathers farm

smokin' cigarettes at six

slim figured

covered neck to knees

spittin sharp tongued cherry pits

he's a boyscout,

hard workin Navy lad

came from Kansas pioneers

simple minded

dapper gentleman

kind eyes and floppy ears

She said you're gentle and

You don't drink

I've been knocked around a time or two

I don't ask for much

I know my lot

And a gentle man will do

In louisiana

he fell in love

with a French Canadian fire

but she said i want a boy who sneaks bourbon at church

not one who sings in the choir

Vous aurez une charmante epouse

On qui est vrai pour vous

You'll find yourself a lovely wife

One who's true to you

she was kissin boys behind the school yard

skinny dippin in the dam

turned down porposals from devoted drunks

and rose to the top of her class

I won't tolerate lazy man

I don't care how well you kiss

It's a man who'll be devoted

And probably promoted

Who'll be the lucky brunt of my wit

Vous aurez une charmante epouse

On qui est vrai pour vous

You'll find yourself a lovely wife

One who's true to you

Well the navy boy

and the New York nurse

share a chocolate ice cream

they settle in for a suitable life

in the land of American dreams

She said you're gentle and

You don't drink

I've been knocked around a time or two

I don't ask for much

I know my lot

And a gentle man will do

confessions of a work meeting doodler:

   oh, 

just a little poem, 

                                 and a 

lightbulb hot air balloon.

singin' songs at dusk.

just an evening cover of a camera obscura song. love them.

...it turns out her real name is petra

A letter to my sister. 


for her 


birthday.

 

photo cred: Sophia Agtarap

ridiculous things happen when i stay up late...

this is a song about my next-door neighbor. some of you have experienced him yourself, so you will understand. others of you know that it is very absurd for me to be up at 3:04 in the morning. perhaps that explains this flapdoodle. either way, i invite you to enjoy my late night amusements...

Conan - lyrics

Hello -

Can you hear me?

This is a song about a man that lives next-door to me

He comes outside with a sword

He comes outside with a sword

He comes outside with a sword

This is a song about a man that lives next-door to me

He cuts our grass with a weed-

He cuts our grass with a weed-

He cuts our grass with a  weed-whacker

he's shaped like donkey kong

he works out to pop songs

all day long

won't see him in the light

straps on his sword at night

shades still drawn

he takes our trash out

like a gentle giant would

then he stalks his prey

in seattle's hood

and if you shout his name

he swears he'll come

to save you from the emerald city scum

This is a song about a man that lives next-door to me

He comes outside with a sword

He comes outside with a sword

He comes outside with a sword…

he's shaped like donkey kong

he works out to pop songs

all day long

won't see him in the light

straps on his sword at night

shades still drawn

Myths are made of him 

this legend man

It's nice to meet you

my name's Conan

We hear him in the basement

as he does kendo

And hear him practicing

his grunts echo….

….

My name's Conan

Ooo OH

***the "Ooo OH"  is the sound Conan makes while practicing Kendo.

sweetness in the bricks

{discovered May 22, 2011 by c.m. fiske}

Sundays are cafe days in Seattle. And the cracks in the crumbly brick wall of Caffé Fiore store sweet secrets from Sundays past...(passed? past?...poetic license?...help.)

robin in the sky

{ari on guitar, chelsea on fiddle}

pub poetry

What am I
without my brain?
A soul? A spine? A fleshy stain?

So give me spirit
make me full,

but I am naught

without my skull.

-c.m. fiske

{written at Kings, in Ballard, on a night of Strongbow and good company}

root to the clouds

{root to the clouds by c.m. fiske}

Welcome. 

I would like to introduce you to a new little corner of the world, a place both Chelsea and I hold close to our hearts, a place known as Newhalem. If you are interested in the full back story head over to our About and we'll completely fill you in. In short, Newhalem is a small town nested deep in the mountain valleys of the North Cascades. During one of our ventures there, we came to an epiphany about life and ourselves and thus, the idea of The Newhalem Charter was born. 

What you will find here is a collection of our own works, works of others we admire and life happenings we find worthy of sharing with you. Our goal is for you to get to know us. We're pretty fun gals (albeit a little irrational from time to time). But that's part of the beauty of life, no? 

And like any healthy relationship, it's a two-way street. Talk to us. Let us know what's on your mind and what speaks to your heart. 

Here's to a wonderful new friendship.