The New Yorker Cover Story (October 31, 2022) by Sergio García Sánchez
First, let me say I love the work of Sergio García Sánchez. I find it very creative, using clean lines and a lot of symbolism. In the October 31, 2022, issue of The New Yorker, Sánchez uses the backdrop of the Grand Central Terminal for Halloween creators passing through the now busy terminal compared to during the pandemic.
On May 5, 2020, I did a Cartoon du jour posting of the Sánchez cover of Walt Whitman on The New York Times Book Review cover. I first so it as a cartoon, or was it? Was it an illustration? To answer the question, I turned to David Blumenstein, who wrote a posting on Medium, Illustrations vs. Cartoons vs. Comics. What’s the difference, and when do I use each one?
Generally speaking:
Illustrations can tell you what is happening.
Cartoons can tell you how people are feeling.
That works for me, so the October 31 cover is an illustration. Thank you, David.
Cactus Blossom: Kind of Holiness or Wonderfulness in Nature (April 10, 2022) — Image by kenne
“Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.”
Wildflowers on Mt. Lemmon, Santa Catalina Mountains — Images by kenne
What is the late November doing With the disturbance of the spring And creatures of the summer heat, And snowdrops writhing under feet And hollyhocks that aim too high Red into grey and tumble down Late roses filled with early snow? Thunder rolled by the rolling stars Simulates triumphal cars Deployed in constellated wars Scorpion fights against the sun Until the Sun and Moon go down Comets weep and Leonids fly Hunt the heavens and the plains Whirled in a vortex that shall bring The world to that destructive fire Which burns before the ice-cap reigns
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the sixth, and last, I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home (Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
The nuances between us were scattered with the
January snows of Peter's arrival.
Ambiguities, second starts and brokendreams were too
Tangled up in Blue to
Cut to the exact place on the page where our rhythm had
Broken.
I'm not that young any more.
"Get off your stagnant ass and do something."
The scenario years later would speak.
The Pacific Northwest and a three quarter profile statement
Echoing out Denny's window
Why I never got a job during all those summers.
Only the facts she put to me.
I couldn't keep in step with the definitions you
Dreamed.
We speculated endlessly in different directions
Whether our togethrness might might imaginable be framed
From inside so that the usual connection between lover
And lover and loved and loved would be interchangeable but
Paradoxically unchanging.
(For my benefit, I suppose)
Was the fiction of my eroticism so damn necessary?
Somewhere I glimpsed you
Coming at me; balancing cryptic hats . . .
Laughing comic confusion.
Now I never see you anymore.
The summers are much colder tha used to be
In that other time, when you and I were young.
I miss the human truth of your smile;
The half-hearted gaze of your voice and all the things
That you'll always be to me.
Only thee is no comic relief
Just a
Curious translation of cracked nostalgia.
But lets
Skip the arguments.
I already know how the story ends:
A-not-so-crytic-message:
Don't be naive
You could only gaze into the distance at my life.
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the fourth of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home (Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
Closely watched trains came and went without me without us
I somehow missed you
Eyes have a way.
After love with my caliban sweat and noises
A vacant resentment would knife
From glares askance
First seen in the pain of Vanessa-labor.
And this is what happens when you love someone?
Progeny and sunburn haired sensualness
Prefaced Rare-Earth and a student nurse.
The ideology of lesbos intimacy had
Clandestinely raised its latent head.
But it doesn't matter anymore.
(You were the poet in my heart)
91st street was the end
Wasn't it?
Curious how our windows are always steamed-up
On Autumnal days.
(Was ANYTHING central?)
The "is-this-all-there-is" syndrome sums up the
Period: Existentialist discontent
With a walk-up duplex decor.
A matter-of-fact sexuality
Presaged a psychic-incarnation I couldn't see.
Lisa brought home a metamorphosis I didn't
Realize.
They cut your "tubes" after she came and that was that.
Funny how I thought even then that is was
All a matter of hormonal imbalance. Shit!
And what about you?
Paradoxes betray the limits of logic
Not of the reality we shared.
Your "passion" was stillborn though so damn necessary.
A dissolution of absence into substance sucked
Screaming through a Rimbaud-Day-On-Fire.
I could't laugh enough for the
Frivolity she needed but detested.
We can speak without voice to the trees and
the clouds and the waves of the sea.
Without words, they respond through the rustling of leaves and
the moving of clouds and the murmuring of the sea.
Follow the Narrow Trail (The Tucson Mountains) — Image by kenne
No Name Trails
My trails don’t always have a name.
They are the ones on which I roam
Gathering new views to capture
Sharing with others who read books
And write poems on the earth and sky.
Each day I try to develop myself beyond the conventional level of existence. I transcend the light of being through threads of space and time allowing me to see truth in different reflections. Most people adopt on view for the sake of security. I prefer to use all views than to maintain artificial boundaries to have one view. By utilizing all views, I can know the truth in much the same way I come to know a butterfly, a wildflower. To do otherwise is to limit oneself to what is always true.
As I shift a point of view, I have the freedom to transcend any actuality which I may encounter. By doing so, I’m able to accept the freedom and responsibility of being human and become more authentic in my expression, therefore better able to actualize my existence. By being flexible in my point of view, I’m better able to include as much of reality as possible.
“Global Warming” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Sunrise On Wildhorse Trail (Saguaro National Park – East) — Image by kenne
nearlywildcamping.org
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Sunset January 22, 2019 — Image by kenne
Cactus Wren — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Follow the Narrow Trail (The Tucson Mountains) — Image by kenne
Mt. Lemmon Trail — Image by kenne
Becoming is Superior to Being 