Whenever a book moves me so thoroughly that it becomes an instant favourite the moment I close the back cover, I am compelled to sit down and write a review to sing its praises. With the Sculptor, I’d initially just sat here speechless, absorbing how remarkable of a read-in-a-single-sitting book it is. But now I know how to explain how positively it affected me.
I was fortunate enough to see Scott McCloud give a keynote address at the Toronto Comic Arts Festival in 2015. I don’t attend much public speaking (I should change that) but I can fervently say Scott is one of, if not, the best I’ve ever seen. I can still recall many of the intricacies of his 40-some-odd minutes–how he championed the medium of comics, how it’s changed modern media and how it isn’t just about men in tights–but mostly I want to say I remember walking away that day feeling like I met a man who truly understood passion. Not only that, but a man who helped me understand my own passion better, as well.
Scott talked about the craft, but mostly he talked about what the craft meant: what it could do, how it could do it and where it could take you. There are things in life that are worth devoting yourself to whether or not they get you any farther along in the end, because without them you might not feel the need to make it to the end anyway. The Sculptor is a book that conveys that sentiment, in all the touching, serious, sad, tragic and real ways imaginable.
Life flashing before your eyes.
That is to say, in the only ways that are worth living for.
Total is National Poetry Day. I felt compelled to avoid free verse and try to polish this one up a bit more. So of course I wrote a Shakespearean sonnet for my fiance.
“The Ship Sonnet”
Listen, hear the joy of my loving mind;
Wherein dusty thoughts are swept out the ears
And true, red hearts beat together and bind
Like a stable ship to sail through life’s years.
Billowed sails are crafted from memories
And gusts, strong and tempted by one deep gaze, Continue reading
People often hinge their writing duties on waiting for inspiration to click. I know I do. Really, it’s just another form of procrastination. Sometimes (most times) inspiration doesn’t hit until you have the first word down, that’s the real hurdle.
While it’s actually the second word in this poem, the first word that came to my mind was “crimson”. Weather, war, romance, regret — funny how they can all be connected so easily to that word.
Also, my fantasy mind got the better of me and I wrote “gnoll” instead of knoll. A shaved gnoll isn’t a bad image, though.
Bullets and a Rose
What crimson clouds careen across the shorned [knoll]
and spill their shades to transform the hue–
What dastardly mind could look on such a sight
and not see at least a foreign shape or two. Continue reading
My fingerprint makes papercuts,
All I touch turns to blood and rust;
I hardly write before it shuts
the cover and I must adjust.
I sleep through day but dream at night
because that’s when the stories show
their Continue reading
I’m always reluctant to say things like the following because in a matter of time it is entirely possible that my views will change as I continue to read more and more throughout my life, cherishing any number of novels I come across, but, for the time being: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay is tied with Les Misérables as the greatest novel I have ever read.
Michael Chabon’s Pulitzer Prize Winning novel is, since no other word is as wonderfully fitting, a masterpiece. When I first heard of this book a couple years ago, it was after Continue reading
Mango and burnt orange swathe
a ruddy glow amongst the clouds
with hands folded, hammocking his head,
he lays in the goldenrod and breathes
the pollen of peasant bees, their nine-to-five.
A smile inches across his face–
the watch he removed ticks on and on in his pocket,
the minute hand on it’s fourth lap;
he can’t feel it passing.
The knoll’s grass is lengthy and swaying in
the gust of evening.
He sits up, his clothes a squalor
and peers deep at the retreating sun.
Poplar trees stand sentry, lacklustre, soldiers
throughout the field, there is only eleven–
all but one are losing their hair.
He rises and wanders, his mind producing dreams of
his younger years–when his shoes were
too small for his feet
and his ambition too grand for his street; with
his bicycle a carrier of innocence and future.
He longs for those days
when a girl’s smile meant less than heartache
and he could
feel the rain without getting wet.
But like the dimming golden clouds
dispersing above him,
so too does this reverie subside.
I have been dead a very long, long, long time.
Yet surges of vermillion burst to my
It is routinely terminal.
My veins are electric and the
fever coursing through
me is akin to a sheltered virus.
With no hope for camaraderie,
dusk comes to my mind.
I am a lonely patient zero.