Explode Goes To Dreamscape

https://www.trenchpeople.com/

THE DREAMSCAPE MEDIA KIT

 

EXPLODE – The Writers Environment is a platform for curated and commercial content in an immersive and interactive meta-environment… and DREAMSCAPE is the landing. It’s an immersive environment that functions like a wikihole — and a literary Pokémon.

When content on Dreamscape tells a story about a beautiful woman swimming in a pool – we want you to see her.  We want you to stumble for points on a link you cannot see, fall down a rabbit hole and land in an environment with a beautiful woman swimming in a pool, on the inside of a glass house – in Hollywood Hills…

Like Seth Godin’s Purple CowDREAMSCAPE is remarkable because it has to be. Or, it’s just another brown cow — an ordinary website — with ordinary content. But Purple Cows need Purple Cows to be Purple Cows. Dreamscape facilitates purple content, purple website design and development, and purple product placement — for purple people.

Advertise with us!  DREAMSCAPE  is space for visionaries — Poets, Writers, Coders, Programmers, Filmmakers, Thespians, Graphic Designers, Artists, Musicians, Directors, Cinematographers, Designers, Educators, Historians, Actors, Conceptual and Performance artists, Photographers, Influencers, Virtual Reality Developers and Designers. XR and AI.

It is a platform for curated content in an interactive meta-environment that facilitates content and other stories – using digital media and art that redefines how artists, their audience and visitors experience real and virtual content on several levels — where every paragraph, period, and ellipses is space for discovery.

Dreamscape is what William Gibson described in Neuromancer, “A graphic representation of data plugging your consciousness into a digital world, while watching the physical realm evaporate.”

Partner with us!  Help us realize an alternative reality… where presentation is myth, and space is a purple experience.

WORLDWIDE AUDIENCE REACH >11M
FOLLOWERS ACROSS SOCIAL PLATFORMS >354K
GENDER F: 47% M: 51% Unspecified: 2%
DEMOGRAPHICS 18-24: 41% 25-34: 26% 35-44: 13% 45-54: 9% 55-64: 6% 65+ 5%
LOVE DIVINE VIDEO IMPRESSIONS >1M

 

Acknowledgement:
DREAMSCAPE will benefit humanity as an alternative to social malfeasance e.g., sexism, racism, classism, genderism, ageism, colonialism, colorism, persecution, oppression, violence and subjugation… It is space to dream unencumbered – immersed in dopamine and replete with points for discovery. It will also be a ton of fun that satisfies a generation that is increasingly becoming homebody consumers in a homebody economy.  What we experience in RL, we can experience untethered in XR and AI.

© 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller

Yellow Tape [A Memoir]

Author’s Note:  The following excerpt is from the book titled, Yellow Tape [A Memoir] coming in the summer of 2021.

 

Prologue

I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in synchronicity.
We were meant to be – because we happened.

 

We took shelter in dark closets and screamed like tiny Sirens until our eyes were bloodshot and bulging, our ears ringing, our faces slick in tears and mucus, and our legs were covered in urine.  Chaperones in an obliged competition for who could scream the loudest and longest interval — to stop MaMommy and MaDaddy from fighting again.  We were toddlers.

When there was silence – except for the tinnitus in our ears, our eyes blinked for sound and with unclenched fists we dried our faces with the palms of our hands and the cuffs of our pajamas.  Sometimes we looked to each other for muted answers – our eyes suspended like question marks. 

I was two years older than my sister, and much taller. I reached for doorknobs above our heads —   I slowly turned. We peeked through the crack of light in the door.  If the crack was too narrow and my sister couldn’t see behind me, she would get down on her knees and look under the door for shadows.  We had this routine, you see.  If we heard our Mother moan, I would shut the door again — quietly.  We squatted on the floor close to each other for comfort and embraced our knees like pillows against our chests and waited interminably.  Twin hearts beating in sync. 

I can’t remember when, or how, or who rescued us from the closets… we may have rescued ourselves, quickly scurrying on bare feet to the bedroom we shared.  Success was silence, and when there was silence, we were safe.  We never looked for our Mother. She didn’t want to be found.

The next morning, my cheerful Mother would fix our favorite breakfast.  Pancakes and bacon and sometimes scrambled eggs.  We loved sugar, so we smothered our breakfast in Aunt Jemima syrup.  With care we looked for signs of injury to no avail. What were we crying about, after all? A tacit agreement that we were silly little girls worrying over nothing.

But we had so many questions. What happened? Why aren’t you sad? What can we do for you?  Was it our fault? Did we do something wrong? Why was MaDaddy so mad? Did he hurt you?  Do you love him?  We always settled for, may we have more syrup, please? 

I huddled over my breakfast once to hide the stain of a teardrop in my syrup. My Mother said, “Don’t cry.” as if crying was unnecessary, inappropriate, and a violation of her privacy.  Strong girls don’t cry. So we colluded with our Mother and pretended the incidents never happened, and drowned our pancakes in syrup, swallowing quietly, staring straight ahead, wearing our happy faces, our lashes blinking in accord and swung our legs under the table. It was a quiet ritual and the feelings were always the same. My sister and I learned early to swallow our feelings like pancakes, smothered in syrup.

******

I know pain in a vacuum and how hollowness and emptiness can coexist, like a moon that blocks the sun. This morning was metallic like the quicksilver mercury a classmate shared on the playground in a secret show and tell.  It was one uncontrollable morning that moved without impediment. 

It was my sister’s 10th birthday. My mother was standing at the stove scrambling eggs in her night gown. Out all night, my Father burst into the kitchen. With five children at the breakfast table, he grabbed my Mother by the neck and at the same time pulled open the kitchen drawer grabbing the big knife without looking… as if it were placed there specifically for this one morning. 

I bolted from the kitchen on the heels of my Father dragging my Mother out of the kitchen… but somehow, she broke free… running and begging, Honey please, please, I love you… she ran, but not far before he slashed her right buttock with the knife, and I saw white meat… White meat! I ran for help! 

I left my Mother. I left my siblings trapped in high chairs, and screaming over bowls of Sugar Smacks… I felt my sister on my heels… we ran down the winding stairs, screaming… determined… pleading, the horror… the mortification!  What is going on? What is happening?  Call the police!  Call the police!  But my Aunt, my Father’s sister, called a sibling, a brother for guidance… Call the police!  I screamed.  I couldn’t stop him.  What was I to do?  My Mother never wanted to be found…

“Call the police!” I demanded over and over again.  She didn’t.  Instead she locked herself and her daughters in the bathroom… and my sister followed her there.  They barricaded themselves… and I faced him squarely… Pugilists without gloves, without tape, without corners… “I hate you!  I hate you!  You killed my Mother!  You killed my Mother! I hate you.” I screamed repeatedly.  

He hit me.  A Pugilist hit me in the head.  My knees buckled.  I didn’t fall.  He hit me again.  My knees buckled, but I didn’t fall.  I would not fall.  He reared back and hit me with a roundhouse punch a third time.  Boom like Forman punched Frazier.  My feet left the floor.  I sailed across the room and landed behind a Settee… the back of the chair toppled over with me — and behind the chair I peed on the floor and it ran like mercury.  I sat in it and looked up at my Father doe-eyed and mortified.  With the back of the chair in my lap I thrashed like a deer hit by a car on the side of a road looking for grace. I don’t know why he came downstairs or who he was looking for.  He found me. At 6’ 3’’ he loomed in the doorway like a dark ghost fading up the stairs with the footfalls of an athlete and the precision of his occupation: meat cutter.

I mustered the courage to follow him… Determined I climbed gingerly up the stairs that reminded me of every corner and crack in the doors of those closets my sister and I hid in when we were toddlers, but this time I was alone.  

At the top of the stairs, I turned the corner, and my Father was in the mirror in the bathroom cocking a brown suede fedora on his head.  He was wearing a brown silk walking suit and brown suede shoes.  I didn’t know where my Mother was.  I was awestruck. He was beautiful.  Fate would have my Mother behind me watching me watching him.  I wondered how he could be so cruel, so vain, so cold, so calm, so cool.  He didn’t see me, or perhaps he did.  I didn’t look for my Mother.  She didn’t want to be found. 

Quietly, I retreated back downstairs and waited for the Police. I left my Mother.  I left my siblings. My sister and my Aunt were still locked in the bathroom, and my uncle had not arrived even though my Aunt called him for advice.  Instead, he called the Police.  The Police finally arrived, a paddy wagon behind them.  A paddy wagon for my Mother!  Not an ambulance. 

At 12 years old I was indignant.  I knew my Mother was not to be treated like a criminal and a paddy wagon was not appropriate for her!  My Father should be in the paddy wagon!  She was the victim, she needs a Doctor, she needs help, sympathy and proper care.  How would they even secure the stretcher in the paddy wagon?  They were in the house and up the stairs before I could finish my thoughts.  My Mother was carried back down the stairs, and because she always wanted to protect her children, she asked the Police to cover her bloody head so her children could not see what would taint her maternal code of propriety, only her children understood.  

My Father was escorted down the stairs like a hero… a god.  He was a star.  No handcuffs… It was as if the Boston Police knew and respected him, and were impressed with his walking suit, his fedora, and those brown suede shoes.  The crowd cheered him!  By this time, my Aunt and sister stood behind me. We peered through the curtains at the crowd that gathered to witness the death of my Mother and someone, a young woman pointed at me in the window and shouted, “Look!  She looks like a monster!’  Quickly, we closed the curtains and retreated to our separate corners.  My aunt gathered the bearing she hid in the bathroom, now on full display and my sister and I shared a gaze and we knew we would never share a closet again. 

I had a concussion.   No Doctor examined me.  It wasn’t confirmed by the authorities. I bargained with God between crying jags until I fell asleep over and over again. My face, my eyes, and lips were swollen and lacerated.  My family walked around me as if they would not see me — except to offer soup, and then I would remember why I grieved, why I lay in the same spot on the same couch and again I would cry myself to sleep.  They left me there until my eyes were no longer swollen, no longer bloodshot, and my lips were no longer bruised.  Traumatized. My eyes didn’t blink, and they left me on my own.  That was perhaps the most generous thing they could do, sans calling the authorities to rescue the catatonic child, and putting the son and brother at risk.  He was jailed without bond.  I saw a snippet on page 10, or perhaps it was page 2, in a little box at the bottom of the page hidden in plain sight, “Colored Man Attacks Wife with Meat Cleaver.” 

We gathered ourselves by degrees.  I heard snippets of conversation.   My Mother was alive… She lost so much blood she needed transfusions and they reached out to other jurisdictions as far as Florida. We had to go to the welfare office for assistance and were instructed by my Grandmother and Aunt to dress down to look poor and pathetic…  We dressed in a manner that my Mother would never abide for her children. I overheard a constant refrain. My Mother “… must have done or said something.”

They said a man called my Mother on the only phone in our Victorian house – my Grandmother’s phone on the first floor.  Another of my Father’s brothers, told my Father a man called my Mother and chided him to do something!

I was alone in an abyss of violence justified by hostility, doubt, and betrayal.  I was convinced they didn’t like my Mother, or me for that matter.  My breath was alien, angry, staccato.  My Father slashed my Mother’s right buttock and left random slashes on her back.  He broke her arm, he cut her skull… and finally, and this was a first — he scarred her face.  A crescent moon on her cheek – the symbol for a new beginning.

Because of the institutionalization and practice of The Rule of Thumb, women in Massachusetts endured domestic violence. It was incumbent on women to press charges.  The D.A. begged my Mother to file criminal charges against my Father.  My Grandmother begged her not to file charges against her son.  My Father begged her not to file and guaranteed he would never harm her again.  My Mother did not file charges. 

The yellow tape was removed from the door.  We cleaned the blood and flesh off the floor and the walls, and discarded bowls of cereal abandoned and calcified in sour milk like the bark of a tree my Father fashioned into a lamp, and filled the space with children tethered and tripping over yellow tape that tangles as they grow taller.

My Mother came home wearing a shield of armor – a cast. White, clean, no graffiti.  She was proud of that cast – a symbol of survival – of an accident.  We were so happy!  Our Mother was alive, and even more beautiful than before!  I remember my Mother lying in the center of her bed surrounded by her children.  One of my siblings ran his hands through her hair, and she scolded him, “Don’t do that.”  The polar opposite of “Girls don’t cry.”  Don’t make a girl cry.  Don’t avail yourself to her body.  Don’t break her skin.

My Father stopped by. They had an announcement. He was coming home.  My sister and I were bewildered, and disappointed but always respectful; however, upon that announcement, I slowly rose from the floor and walked away without explanation or hesitation. 

This time my sister followed me up the stairs to our bedroom in the attic.  Not long after walking away from them my Mother did something she rarely did – she came upstairs to our bedroom.  She sat on the edge of my bed and gingerly told me my Father said, he hit me because I was hysterical.

I am not a monster!  I am not a monster…  It’s more complicated than that.

 

Copyright © 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller

 ________________________________________________

Edited by Brahidaliz Martinez

The Polyptych — Interactive Installation

 

The Polyptych Interactive Installation is a web-based literary and musical sensory narrative in an interactive meta environment. The project is an allusion to Alexander Calder’s Homage to Jerusalem, The Mattress Factory in Pittsburg, Marcel Duchamp’s Readymades, Jeffrey Shaw’s The Legible City, and Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s The Gates in Central Park.  Moreover, The Polyptych bows to Christo Vladimirov Javacheff who passed away on Sunday, May 31, 2020 at his home in New York.

“Installation art is an artistic genre of three-dimensional works that are often site-specific and designed to transform the perception of a space. Generally, the term is applied to interior spaces, whereas exterior interventions are often called public art, land art or intervention art; however, the boundaries between these terms overlap.  Installation art can be either temporary or permanent. Installation artworks have been constructed in exhibition spaces such as museums and galleries, as well as public and private spaces… The genre incorporates a broad range of everyday and natural materials, which are often chosen for their “evocative” qualities, as well as new media such as video, sound, performance, immersive virtual reality and the internet.”   Wikipedia 

The Polyptych consists of twelve closely interrelated and distinct themes and parts.  It is a blending of the viewer’s imagination and artistic renderings — like Walt Disney’s Imagineering, where viewers are the illustrators, architects, engineers, lighting designers, Showrunners, directors and graphic designers — crystalizing conceptually and literally in your mind — where time is irrepressible like a pulse, a beat, and measure of uninterrupted space.

The Installation is a site specific environment using Russian Nesting Doll functionality to structure the linear concept between themes and parts while flirting with computer gamification; to encourage engagement and participation.  It functions like a docent, a walk-through assistant, a tour guide or watchtower simply by clicking the stars (below the title) in the blue sky,  for the next experience — on trenchpeople.com.

Viewers are encouraged to follow The Polyptych in the order it was conceived or walk-through the environment using the menu and dropdown arrow on Dreamscape to navigate the experience.

Welcome to The Polyptych Interactive Installation!

Spontaneous Ode to COVID-19

Nothing

Nothing

Nothing
No pork
No meat
No GMO
No pesticides
No chemicals
No vegetables
No leather
No feathers
No farmers
No pickers
No corn
No food
No work
No prosperity
No friends
No groceries
No sugar
No fashion
No affection
No morgues
No burials
No speculators
No beauty
No makeup
No vanity
No vacations
No restaurants
No music
No movies
No sports
No theaters
No plays
No crowds
No police
No museums
No cable
No concerts
No chaff
No trough
No travel
No cars
No bars
No trucks
No brick-and-mortar
No hospitals
No nurses
No doctors
No assistants
No parks
No prisoners
No tickets
No economy
No gouging
No lipstick
No hookups
No intimacy
No strangers
No kisses
No hugs
No love
No metro
No nursing homes
No taxis
No buses
No ventilators
No PPE
No toilet paper
No democracy
No capitalism
No money
No jealousy
No flossing
No vaccine
No schools
No blessings
No immigrants
No refugees
No freedom
No children
No churches
No humans
No handshakes
No greed
No gluttony
No gyms
God

 

Copyright © 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller

 

Artist Statement… Unfettered Birds (WIP)

Introduction

My work explores the relationship between what is real, and what is unreal.  With influences as diverse as Yukio Mishima’s Onnagata and 2001: A Space Odyssey.  Where words are illusory and freedom is real, and brick and mortar is a wasteland — for mortal dreams and nightmares.

Where categories don’t matter, and you are god… the god of your dreams.  My work is a journey – from the perspective of the young prince and princess in Hollywood, Dubai, the Great Caves, and Capote… Where freedom rings supreme and the fiction in your mind comes true — for real.

We launched Dreamscape in a glass cocoon — opaque me and transparent you.  Content is buried there — over black people, white people, red people, yellow people, brown people, rich people, poor people, and melancholy.  Inside pods power is fetish, and fashion is an avatar.  My work explores the freedom to be who we are — dreaming unfettered in space — birds…

 

TRENCHPEOPLE.COM

 

Copyright 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

DREAMSCAPE — Promotional Special During the Holiday Season

PREMIUM CONTENT

Airport Announcement in Manila

 

PREMIUM CONTENT

 

Love Divine — Opens

 

PREMIUM CONTENT

 

Love Divine — Official Release Date

 

PREMIUM CONTENT

Update #6 – Super News!  Explode – The Writer’s Environment is a Winter 2019 Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor – for Northeastern University!

 

Explode is a platform for content buried on several levels encouraging the user to earn points for discovery. It’s a platform for curated and commercial content, using digital media — in an immersive and interactive meta-environment. Like Seth Godin’s Purple Cow — The Writers Environment is remarkable — because it has to be. Or, it’s just another brown cow — an ordinary website — with ordinary content. But Purple Cows need Purple Cows to be Purple Cows!  Explode facilitates purple content, purple website design and development, and purple product placement — for purple people.

In the words of Sam Altman (Y Combinator): “Initially get the small group of people who really love the product vs. a lot of users that like it a little bit… We can build on a lot of love, but we cannot build on a little bit of love.  Make something your users love. Start with something simple…”

Deliverable Vignette:

When content on Explode tells a story about a beautiful woman swimming in a pool – we want you to see her. We want you to stumble for points on a link you cannot see, fall down a rabbit hole — and land in an environment with a beautiful woman swimming in a pool, on the inside of a glass house — in Hollywood Hills…

©️ 2019 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

It is my pleasure to introduce the next level – the NU XN Winter Team 2019 for Explode – The Writers Environment:

Qili Ou
Project Manager
Software Developer
iOS Application Development
Front End Website Development and Database Management

Master of Professional Studies, Informatics • Northeastern University, Boston, MA
Bachelor of Science, Computer Information and Science • University of Oregon, Eugene, OR

Xiaoxing Chen
Front End Web Developer
Network Engineering
Database Management Systems

Master of Professional Studies, Informatics • Northeastern University, Boston, MA
Bachelor of Science, Network Engineering • Beijing Information Science & Technology University

Hongzhi An
Front End Developer
IEK E-commerce
Operating System Database, Web Development, Object-oriented Programming

Master Informatics • Northeastern University, Boston MA
Bachelor of Engineering Software Engineering • Wuhan University, Wuhan China

Han Xiaoguang
Front and Back End Development
Data Mining Engineer
Interface Design

Master Informatics • Northeastern University, Boston MA
Bachelor of Computer Science and Technology • Beijing Jiaotong University,
Beijing, China

Xiao Yang
Website Design
Database Management Systems
Cloud Computing

Master Informatics • Northeastern University, Boston MA
Bachelor of Geomatics Engineering • Wuhan University, Wuhan China

Watch this Space!

 

[Untitled WIP — The Triptych Roman à clef]

Triptych:  A set of three associated artistic, literary, or musical works intended to be appreciated together.  Mash it up!  Press play at the same time…

 

 

Directing the Master Scene in the Mirror

 

We’re standing behind you

The window is your mirror

We‘re filming your reflections

 

In the window

You can see

The teardrop on her cheek

The other tear — is in your hair

Reach up and wipe the tear

 

With your thumb

Roll the tear on your fingers

As if water — is on the wings

of a butterfly_

 

Now, your face is dry

You point and say something

Insignificant like

“See that gas station down there.”

 

Vignette for Love Divine.

 

Copyright © 2018 E Maria Shelton Speller

 

 

 

Last Thirty Days on Top (Untreated Pin Impressions)*

*Note:  Prose Poem and Literary List (Prosody, Parataxis, Blank Verse, Free Verse, and Found Poetry) based on E Maria Shelton Speller Pinterest Analytics as of June 6, 2019 10:00 PM (EST), for 15 Muse Boards and 5K Pins.  

 

LOVE DIVINE [LD]

All You Want To Know

Beautiful and vibrantly dyed locs_

[The [Dollhouse] with the Red Corvette]_

Kanye West’s Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy

[Point Him Out]

[Wait… there’s a surprise at the end]

I’m not Shy

Biggy!

A Windy Summer Day — Vogue Italia_

[Skylar — Look at that face… that stop…those eyes!]_

[Blue Chip Stalk]_

Five Weak Words

Ten Iconic Fashion Photographers_

[An Allusion to CAROL Coming Soon to Explode]

Paint_

Art_

[Champagne and Balloons in Gothic City]_

[I have a story to tell]_

Swan Queen_

[Marilyn Monroe and James Dean Smoking on a Balcony…]_

BeautifulBizzzzarre_

Portishead — Glory Box_

Elizabeth Taylor — Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award_

artemisdreaming_

A Queen’s Torque_

[Love Divine]_

[Andy’s gaze. Edie’s eyes.]_

The Queen of Bollywood

This is Why I Like Art_

White Hot_

Idris Elba_

Purple! Beautiful!_

Diar in Sassoon_

Denim Corset_

Bartolini’s Nymph With the Scorpion_

[Int. — Boudoir — Late Afternoon]_

Anthony Thornberg_

[Pluck & Aplomb]_

Ruffles_

The Russian Tea Room_

Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase_

Brooks Casamance_

[Legs in the air like you don’t care]_

Paul Robeson and Master Julian Bond_

Visualize your highest self

Water Sculpture_

Look Like Barbie_

Michael Maczuga_

“The Name of the Rose”_

 

[Copyright] 2019 E Maria Shelton Speller

 

 

 

 

Update #5 — Soft Launch! Explode — The Writer’s Environment — Spring 2017 Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

 

Explode — The Writers Environment

 

Soft Launch!

 

Thank you Girl Band of STEMs.   You rock!

 

“Life is lived forward, but can only be understood backward.” Kierkegaard

Explode — is a platform for curated content in an interactive meta-environment.  The Environment facilitates content and other stories using digital media to redefine how artists, their audience and visitors experience real and virtual content.  Explode is not a ‘mule’ as one follower proffered, with too many components — in a dream too big to bring to fruition. Explode is a spacecraft – and this soft launch is focused on development, functionality, and adjustments before a wider release — that accommodates the Team’s good counsel and the Project Manager’s concerns: security, budget, data backup, thousands of lines of hard coding and tuning using three.js — the best candidate in a 3D environment; node.js for interactivity; an engine to loop data in response to commands; a requirement for different headsets to present the same effects in virtual space, labor demands — every part of the project divided into sub projects — interface, infrastructure, and content, and finally the project needs a whole project team (5-10 people) and technical professionals to build up the spacecraft in a hard launch for product development. This glib paraphrase, to the Girl Band of STEMs dismay — is necessary to protect what Explode want’s to be and how we get there – working backwards.

See prototypes linked below for the conceptual articulation and submergence of the ceiling, walls, and floor of the arcades, the arch, atrium, footprint, and oculus

designed for Explode – The Writers Environment!

 

Hard Launch Coming in 2018

 

E Maria Shelton Speller

Project Sponsor

 

Weiwei “Vivi”Huang

Interface Designer

 

 

Tejasvi Kandula

Programmer

 

Yingqian “Selina” Jiang

Project Manager

The [Dollhouse] with the Red Corvette

The [Dollhouse with the Red Corvette] is a lateral, vertical, linear, horizontal, and spherical art installation. It is a poesy puzzle for verse or graffiti, with sublime imagery. It functions like a mnemonic, a telltale pastiche for found poesy — in a digital world. Some of the pieces fit, and some are misfits — that lead to other immersions… in this stained-glass heaven — this society in the machine…

[][][][][][][][][[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

Copyright © 2017, 2018 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved.

Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)) [Reserved][Reserved] 3.0

Overture:  Woodstock is an ensemble.  There are two voices and the beat in this WIP… the Narrator’s voice, Hitchcock’s, and “That Yoni” by JuseBeats!  

 

In a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

In his magnum opus

about a world… full of extras

in architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning and more — of her

 

He wants

Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

He nods

 

I’m  thinking

Disappointed… in us!

[There’s no other way to say it — I can’t dress it up]

 

Caught between a slumbering scream and Vertigo

Cruising isles and isles of sweet and sour

People who think they are special

People who know they are not

People who wish they were

Impeccable

 

He wants

Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

 

Whispers prologue

Guess what we did?

A Springboard!

A party of twenty

Three couples played before

winking and willing

shills playing in the round

Lovely trips on the Hill

in augmented VR

 

I’m thinking…

Baby boomers had their turn Woodstock!

Barefoot bell bottomed hippies

Denim sweeping the ground

[Reserved]*

[Reserved]*

 

Revolutionary hair —  fists in the air

Dragging us back in the mud

Blunt antiquity

Move on Woodstock!

 

Take your shades, caps, change and loose articles

Bombs in black holes!

[Where did you go?]

 

We should be sunning in the Bahamas

chilling on hemp swings and

chairs swiveling in immersive environments

Higher than kite fights

A soaring for points experience

 

Get off the ride Woodstock!

You had your turn — at freedom

Thank you

 

Exit signs are easy to find — look

The dragon is in the window

Freedom is accessible

Wonder is a trip

with walk through assistants

Dreams of power and prizes

Optional…

 

Fall out and Jack into

a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

in his magnum opus

about a world… full of extra

architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning — and more — of her… virtually surreal

 

He wants

Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

 

Whispers song

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

 

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

 

Copyright © 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved.

 

 

*I’ve toyed with a conundrum, for too long. [Reserved][Reserved] functions like a digital art installation in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)).  I could render [Reserved][Reserved] a mechanism – to catch That Yoni’s beat in perpetuity.  I could close the brackets with bars that fills your loins with blood.  I could leave redundant emptiness here — like tautology or romanticized art, or structural language — in this bifurcated space, like stars.

I could invite Poets to fill the empty bars for [Reserved][Reserved]

 

 

Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)) [Reserved][Reserved]

 

Overture:  Woodstock is an ensemble.  There are two voices and the beat in this WIP… the Narrator’s voice, Hitchcock’s, and “That Yoni”.  See Side Bar by JuseBeats!  

 

 

In a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

In his magnum opus

about a world… full of extras

in architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning and more — of her…

He wants

Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

He nods

I’m  thinking

Disappointed… in us!

[There’s no other way to say it — I can’t dress it up]

Caught between a slumbering scream and Vertigo

Cruising isles and isles of sweet and sour

People who think they are special

People who know they are not

People who wish they were

Impeccable

He wants

Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

Whispers prologue

Guess what we did?

A Springboard!

A party of twenty

Three couples played before

winking and willing

shills playing in the round

Lovely trips on the Hill

in augmented VR

I’m thinking…

Baby boomers had their turn Woodstock!

Barefoot bell bottomed hippies

Denim sweeping the ground

[Reserved]

“Interrupting — The Star-Spangled Banner like

That Doors dude dizzy on Dewey Decimal”

Copyright 2017 by Tang

 

Gawd made them like him

they never met — ticks time

            Copyright © 2017 The Parthenon

The flag was a smoke screen over a grid

a chance to be — a white Supreme

Copyright © 2017 — Nudedcendg

They were diptychs, triptychs, and chapters…

The beginnings and endings… you can play too >>>

Copyright © 2017 E Maria Shelton Speller

Shut the fuck up

Sit the fuck down!

Copyright © 2017 by Donjoncity

[Reserved]

Revolutionary hair —  fists in the air

Dragging us back in the mud

Blunt antiquity

Move on Woodstock!

Take your shades, caps, change and loose articles

Bombs in black holes!

[Where did you go?]

We should be sunning in the Bahamas

chilling on hemp swings and

chairs swiveling in immersive environments

Higher than kite fights

A soaring for points experience

Get off the ride Woodstock!

You had your turn — at freedom

Thank you

Exit signs are easy to find — look

The dragon is in the window

Freedom is accessible

Wonder is a trip

with walk through assistants

Dreams of power and prizes

Optional…

Fall out and Jack into

a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

in his magnum opus

about a world… full of extra

architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning — and more — of her… virtually surreal

He wants

Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

Whispers song

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

Copyright 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller

I’ve toyed with a conundrum, for too long. [Reserved][Reserved] functions like a digital art installation in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)).  I could render [Reserved][Reserved] a mechanism – to catch That Yoni’s beat in perpetuity.  I could close the brackets with bars that fills your loins with blood.  I could leave redundant emptiness here — like tautology or romanticized art, or structural language — in this bifurcated space, like stars.

I could invite Poets to fill [Reserved][Reserved]

“It is said that what is called “the spirit of an age” is something to which one cannot return. That this spirit gradually dissipates is due to the world’s coming to an end. For this reason, although one would like to change today’s world back to the spirit of one hundred years or more ago, it cannot be done. Thus it is important to make the best out of every generation.” ― Tsunetomo Yamamoto

and this…

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.” Albert Einstein

 

[Reserved][Reserved] — An Invitation to Dine

Dear Poet, [Yes, you!]

I’ve toyed with a conundrum, for too long. [Reserved][Reserved] functions like a digital art installation in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)).  I could render [Reserved][Reserved] a mechanism – to catch That Yoni’s beat in perpetuity.  I could close the brackets with bars that fills your loins with blood.  I could leave redundant emptiness here — like tautology or romanticized art, or structural language — in this bifurcated space, like stars.

I could invite Poets to fill [Reserved][Reserved] with dope poesy and select a date for submission. However, if we receive one hundred thousand and one couplings, we’d read them…  but frankly, why not do, all of the above.

The empty brackets function like missing endings now — lacking only your bylines, pseudonyms, and ghosts — in translatable bars that work in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)).

Poets make this space immersive.  Explode – The Writer’s Environment is an interactive environment — and this is the first foray for interactivity in this community — that links back to you!

Starting August 15, 2017 — let’s finish this poem with the best bars — curated for Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)) here…  Bon appétit.

Cordially,

The Chelsea Hotel, Manhattan

PS:  No Spam — Balls in the air!  An experience for us and them.

Copyright © 2017 E Maria Shelton Speller

 

 

 

Tagging Dystopia

 

McKay shouts and then nearly whispers to Ellison, ‘It takes more than creative androgyny to “embody” the opposite sex. The storytelling responsibility of all writers, whether female or male is to fill the void. When a woman creates a man, she must imagine the sensation of “owning” a penis. When a man creates a woman, he must imagine the sensation of “owning” a vagina. It is a void, not a vacuum. A vacuum would imply the all-consuming black hole — the feminization of sex. It is not trained comprehension or chromosomes — it takes pure imagination to get the story straight…

Copyright © 2017 E Maria Shelton Speller  All rights reserved.

Girl Band of STEMs

my eyes

 

Girl Band of STEMs, is a lark, a careful ruse about a writer, who comments on her own stories. It is metafiction in a digital world. This, I would argue. The author writes a story about herself, writing a story about her Band, and the Band knows they’re in the story, about a story that interacts with you.  She writes a story, where her audience is her muse – may demand she change the ending, in an installation we build in space — for dreams, on a loop…

The Band asked me to write tags for my work. Tags!  But, opportunity or obstacle… the Muse is insatiable — until it works.  Poets know that tick, when everything becomes art – in a second glance. Woodstock, was absolute freestyle in a digital world. I worked on it for weeks… and wrote it Live one Saturday afternoon – five hundred revisions at least. Poets know that tick. I changed commas to periods and back again  – metaphors to imagery, slowed it down, sped it up. Reminisced. If you were there on that Saturday afternoon, Woodstock was a writer’s tick at work.   I wrote the hook on the 7th Street Bridge.  Installed [Reserved][Reserved] when I lost my way.  Found the beat, marked the spot, and then it looked like a digital art installation, in spite of the implications — for structural functionalism in space. But, my muse is pissed…

Tag:  Yellow Tape [A Memoir]. “I don’t believe in coincidence.  I believe in synchronicity…

Tag: Woodstock.  A Band for Immersive Content.  A Woodstock Experience.

Tag:  The Foreword to Insomnia’s Istanbul — The Voice of an Unreliable Narrator in Medias Res:  Unlike the neighbors next door, who desperately moan for us all, in the back of a dolmus — sex is existentialismIt is earnest copulation, a period of decline in a carriage drawn by a wild-eyed spooked horse — and I hoped she felt the sharp turn, at the corner of the Soup Kitchen of Lady Nilufer, in her throat.

Tag:  Love Divine: Tadao bathes Tess in a black granite tub. Then he slips behind her like an ice cream scoop. Blood spills like a waterfall in a Japanese dream over the side of the tub. Red water on the porcelain floor looks like a strawberry swirl.

Tag:  Metafiction — [The Dollhouse] with the Red Corvette:  [Vous êtes contrarié parce que je suis sorti du lit. Ce n’était pas ce que tu imaginais – dans le film dans ta tête. Je ne peux pas aller aux toilettes, quitter la pièce ou fumer une cigarette. smh]

Tag:  Tagging Dystopia: [OdamnIwantedtheopportunitytocomefrommichelleO]

Tag:  Aristotle Michelangelo and Louis Picasso’s Parallel Discussions:  Come on baby.  All you have to do is dream — from the end of a pen.

Tag:  Luda’s Second Soliloquy — Miles Language II.  [Metaphor].

Tag:  [For The Purple One]

Tag: [The Life of Pie]  He thought/Big Blue was a deeper trip/Absurd space looked/Absurd from here/He looked around the virtual/And mad shouted/Who read the pieces first?/Anyone?/How did it ring?/How did it feel?/How did it resonate?/She said, I started at the slices/Chaos, straight out the gate/When Big Blue was just/The sky.

Tag:  Picasso The Bohemian (Les Demoiselles d’ Avignon) “…She told halcyon tales of life —  uninterrupted by death and chthonian sex — like the brazen whore in the fore — riding the fugitive cube — with the wasp waist and black aft — Eucharistic grapes, and the curl of the rind — pointing to glorious thighs — and with eyes in the back of her head — she watched the spectator off center… watching — Picasso The Bohemian — who lived in Barcelona — standing behind the curtain — wearing a mask

Tag: Explode [Am I awake, or are you a dream?]

Tag:  The Gaze (WIP)  I know I needed to stay in and listen to music like Paz did and avoid humans — he said, “To read a poem is to hear it with our eyes; to hear it is to see it with our ears.” Instead, I left my home and this is what happened…  Apparently, a new and poorly trained employee provided incorrect information over the phone. Consequently, I arrived unprepared, and had to return to my vehicle. Because, I had to return to my vehicle (in the rain) parked around the corner — I ultimately, received a ticket for expired meter!  A ticket.  What should have been a $26 transaction is now $76 in this crowded, greedy — unimaginative city!

Tag:  Directing the Master Scene in the Mirror.  It’s impossible to write poetry, without libido.  Without libido, there’s no passion and without passion, there’s no pluck.

 

Black Marnie

Looked like [Mardou Fox]

through Kerouac’s eyes_

Remember… those puffy lips?

Yakuza found her in Tokyo

and lost her — in the Philippines….

 

[Wait… There’s a surprise at the end]_

 

[Poets are Dreamers]

 

They stole Alexa
She had all the poetry

Yakuza chased her through Tokyo
to the Phillipines

Alexa, was everything to him
Cream like the color of his skin

Ahh, the poetry
He lost everything

Fell in love with a haunting hunt
Baby, come back to me

 

Copyright © 2017, 2018 E Maria Shelton Speller  All rights reserved.

Escapades and Props (WIP)

Its Manhattan...

No.

Istanbul.

Istanbul’s Muse Board

June 2, 2017

Explode — The Writers Environment Experiential Network Project — has a girl band of STEMs!  Stand by for updates.

May 19, 2017

You never appreciate home

As much as when you come home

Where God lives… with you

May 11, 2017

Haiku #13

Name baby something

Something easy to retrieve

Then share Me with friends

About a Prisoner of Love (Props to Christopher Logue’s War Music)

Look at the smile on my face. I knew you were selfish. Abandoned, you left me on the side of the road. Gone. Put yourself in my place. Left, on the side of the road. Naked. I knew you would own me — broken and falling to pieces — in halcyon swirls, dark storms, and faints. I would let you stand me on my head, spin me like a top, a dreidel — and catch me, before I fell. Then, you said you would sleep with her because, “Why not?  It’s not a competition — though you might win. Its not about… us.” That’s balls. CUT!

April 9, 2017

Notes on Manhattan: This is not a Warhol ~ Basquiat Installation.  I curated the Opening and a still – not the fucking gorgeous film.  While it is lovely — I did not curate Manhattan.  Not my composition — not my triptych.  This space is for art — for the sake of art — unaltered.  It’s Explode: The Writer’s Environment!

To curate content in this space, please contact me.

April 25, 2017

Thanks Halo Music!

April 29, 2017

Last night, a friend and I

took the Kimye Tour

in Cuba

I was a voyeur

A friend took him there and there and there

Unbeknown to him

I asked him if he knew where Kimye went

in Cuba

We roared and stumbled on together

Please please paint a picture…

Funny, you asked!

Copyright 2017 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Update #2: Super News! Explode – The Writer’s Environment is a Summer, Fall and Winter Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

The XN project for Explode is conducting a poll to gather feedback on your experience and expectations for Explode – This Writer’s Environment. The poll should take no more than 4-5 minutes. Be assured all answers you provide will be kept in the strictest confidentiality.

With much gratitude and appreciation, please take this opportunity to participate in this XN project poll for Explode – This Writer’s Environment. Your voices are a critical component for the successful launch of the writer’s environment! Thanks!

The poll is located here:

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScsGtw6V4ituIBM33Hw_EcITxxOXo3wcEbZ9IF  BZvsJICRvhg/viewform?embedded=true

Update #1: Super News! Explode – The Writer’s Environment is a Summer, Fall and Winter Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

It is my pleasure to introduce Yingqian “Selina” Jiang. Ms. Jiang is the NU XN Winter Term student for Explode – The Writer’s Environment! Selina, MS in Project Management with a concentration in Finance, and MS in Informatics – graduates this fall. Her academic projects include the Peking University Science and Engineering Building, the Movable Sidewalk for Logan Airport Terminal E, and the Casino in Mashpee. She is also a volunteer for the Japan Festival Boston Committee and the Mulan Non-profit Organization.

Ms. Jiang would like to conduct Voices of the Customer (VoC), or surveys if you will, to inform the project completion and launch of Explode – This Writer’s Environment in March 2017!

The XN survey would gather feedback on your experience and expectations for Explode, and should take no more than 4-5 minutes. Be assured all answers you provide will be kept in the strictest confidentiality.

Your voices are a critical component for the successful launch of the writer’s environment. With much gratitude and appreciation, please take this opportunity to participate in the survey, and join me in welcoming Ms. Jiang to the writer’s environment!

Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars))

Overture:  Woodstock is an ensemble.  There are two voices and the beat in this WIP… the Narrator’s voice, Hitchcock’s, and “That Yoni”.  See Side Bar by JuseBeats!  

 

In a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

In his magnum opus

about a world… full of extras

in architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning and more — of her…

He wants

Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

He nods

I’m  thinking

Disappointed… in us!

[There’s no other way to say it — I can’t dress it up]

Caught between a slumbering scream and Vertigo

Cruising isles and isles of sweet and sour

People who think they are special

People who know they are not

People who wish they were

Impeccable

He wants

Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

Whispers prologue

Guess what we did?

A Springboard!

A party of twenty

Three couples played before

winking and willing

shills playing in the round

Lovely trips on the Hill

in augmented VR

I’m thinking…

Baby boomers had their turn Woodstock!

Barefoot bell bottomed hippies

Denim sweeping the ground

[Reserved]

[Reserved]

Revolutionary hair —  fists in the air

Dragging us back in the mud

Blunt antiquity

Move on Woodstock!

Take your shades, caps, change and loose articles

Bombs in black holes!

[Where did you go?]

We should be sunning in the Bahamas

chilling on hemp swings and

chairs swiveling in immersive environments

Higher than kite fights

A soaring for points experience

Get off the ride Woodstock!

You had your turn — at freedom

Thank you

Exit signs are easy to find — look

The dragon is in the window

Freedom is accessible

Wonder is a trip

with walk through assistants

Dreams of power and prizes

Optional…

Fall out and Jack into

a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

in his magnum opus

about a world… full of extra

architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning — and more — of her… virtually surreal

He wants

Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

Whispers song

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

Copyright 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller

“It is said that what is called “the spirit of an age” is something to which one cannot return. That this spirit gradually dissipates is due to the world’s coming to an end. For this reason, although one would like to change today’s world back to the spirit of one hundred years or more ago, it cannot be done. Thus it is important to make the best out of every generation.” ― Tsunetomo Yamamoto

and this

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.” Albert Einstein

Cheers! I would also like to thank 40K poets at heart (like us) on FB et al, who like and love, and laugh, and mislike this WIP!  Please pardon the broken link… We’re working on it.  However, this glitch is an opportunity to say thank you for being in this Writer’s Environment with me.  Happy Holidays and have a wonderful New Year!

Super News! Explode – The Writer’s Environment is a Summer and Fall Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

XN is a new initiative from Northeastern University (NU) that offers graduate and professional students and sponsoring organizations experiential opportunities to collaborate on short-term, real-world projects in the best co-op program in the country, and positions NU as the global leader in experiential learning! Organizations move forward on project-based work and connect with rising professional talent while students gain real work experience and valuable learning opportunities.

Students have a range of skill-sets including digital media and marketing, data analytics, corporate and nonprofit project management, regulatory strategy, communications management and the Creative Digital Solution for a VR/Game-Inspired Concept for Explode – The Writer’s Environment during the Summer, Fall and Winter Terms of 2016!

Details included the Project Description:

Explode – This Writer’s Environment is a Kick Starter Project 2.0. The first launch is what Rita Gunther McGrath calls, “failing by design”. The launch was admittedly, a treatment to direct investors to Explode, as well as a serious foray, to define content while using the Writers Environment as a springboard to other experiences. That unsuccessful project was a lost opportunity, but an intelligent fail. Explode — The Writer’s Environment is space for visionaries — Poets, Writers, Coders, Programmers, Filmmakers, Thespians, Graphic Designers, Artists, Musicians, Directors, Cinematographers, Designers, Educators, Historians, Actors, Conceptual and Performance artists, Photographers, and finally, Virtual Reality Developers and Designers. It is a platform for curated content, in an interactive meta-environment – that pulls and pushes information. The Environment facilitates content and other stories – using digital media for curated art to redefine how artists, their audience and visitors experience real and virtual content. The project details included problems to be solved, goals, and deliverables — scheduled for completion March 2017.

Please stand by.  See updates!  Thank you for your continued support!  Let’s rock and roll!

WAR AND PEACE BURIED HERE

One Single Act of Love

I sold a rock opus to the best Black rock band on the planet. A band that lost its capacity to dream. Formulaic guarantees skewed their imagination for platinum discs. The male coward covered their lifework, literally. My story reminded them of what ‘rushing’ felt like, how complete, how deep blushing could be obvious. And they bought it, and produced it. And it was good — it was better than good. It was thought provoking and it was an African-American affirmation of our realities and our fantasies — no matter how unrealistic.

Suddenly, they were very significant and the world truly believed, that rock music is black music and black music is everything. Power is aesthetic. Aesthetics is politics and being black is philosophical and our philosophy is phenomenology and being black, is being real.

No Hip Hop could say as much as this rock opus did, ever — no matter how many stories they sampled. So, this black rock band were crowned kings and were exulted, and revered; incandescent icons, the envy of friends, the consumption of man, the image of immortality — like the stained-glass heaven you summon before you close. And they loved me. I was the wick in their candlestick and without me, there was no burning flame. I was the source of their energy. I, was the unstained virgin encamped.

Sooner than anyone imagined, there was nothing more important, than our collaboration. The media was our medium. They stopped referring to me as a writer, and started calling me, a Love Supreme…..

 

Copyright 2016 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

 

Aristotle Michelangelo and Louis Picasso’s Parallel Discussions

Aristotle Michelangelo and Louis Picasso’s

Parallel Discussions (In Medias Res) Overtaken by Events

 

Behind Pushkin’s Coffeehouse, Aristotle Michelangelo and Louis Picasso sat on the remnants of a barge, trading barbs in Ibiza… swinging high top leather sock hip hop sneakers, and creeper boots in blue green virtual water, with Rick Owens’ reflection in the pool, burning fat ones – away from the beautiful ones — in a Period Piece.  The Darlings of today’s literati — visionaries during the Harlem Renaissance, play themselves in a satirical throwback in VR.

Louis Picasso: “In RL, it’s 6 P.M. You just got home from work or you work from home in your virtual office. You decide to spend the evening in space! You scan Balmain for your Avatar – dope fashion — with as much audacity as Hype Williams’ black lacquered Keisha in Belly — wearing Versace!

You decide to download your brand new Porsche designed by Porsche and Atari for Microsoft, on the Pacific Coast Highway — Malibu on the left, Pepperdine University on the right, you’re on your way to virtual LA in the fast lane — your thighs are burning. Other avatars and their cars share the PCH too — driving Vipers, Corvettes, the white BMW X6 and you are speeding at 100 MIPS, streaming Coltrane.

Aristotle Michelangelo interjects: “Then you decide to go to BET’s virtual Nuyorican Café in Gotham City for the Open Mike – Saul Williams and Jessica Care Moore are featured (as themselves) tonight. You hand the keys to the valet — pay at the door with your password, sit front row center no matter what time you arrive, sign up to read your poem — because you can start over from the beginning or resume.  Gender! Lame. Race is unimaginative in Space. Ethnicity is a brand — at best.  The Open Mike is over at 10 P.M. but there is still time to go to Bar Pitti. You walk in and Claude McKay is at the bar in a heated debate with Ralph Ellison about literary ownership — by Netflix.

McKay shouts and then nearly whispers to Ellison, ‘It takes more than creative androgyny to “embody” the opposite sex. The storytelling responsibility of all writers, whether female or male is to fill the void. When a woman creates a man, she must imagine the sensation of “owning” a penis. When a man creates a woman, he must imagine the sensation of “owning” a vagina. It is a void, not a vacuum. A vacuum would imply the all-consuming black hole — the feminization of sex. It is not trained comprehension or chromosomes — it takes pure imagination to get the story straight…’

Louis Picasso:  “Then, at Midnight, you blow kisses and wuggles to your friends, and log off. You stand and stretch your back, and your bladder is bursting because you forgot about your biological realities. The television is off; it has been off for weeks. Why watch television when you can be your own audience? Randall Walser said it best, “The filmmaker says, ‘Look, I’ll show you.’ The space maker says, ‘Here, I’ll help you discover.’ We will be our own creators functioning like actors in high culture — tools of the taste public!  We will create our own universes — our own planets.   We can superimpose our images circa 6 BC – AD 30, and follow Jesus to the Promised Land, witness the crucifixion – and how we feel and what we think is utterly private and without commercials! Because, global messages with common appeal will forever change with today’s technology, the challenge is to make communication visual, images symbolic, and still sell product… I want to propose arcane ideas…”

Aristotle Michelangelo interjects: “I want to develop, manage, and direct vision. My goal is to be where imagination and business are indistinguishable, because imagination without business, and business without imagination is as incongruous as capitalism without consumers…   I found a dope quote dog!”

“When, she was still in her teens, well before she met Caesar, Cleopatra already had slept with Antony… though Caesar was fifty-three and she but twenty-three or so she proved ready enough to bed her third Roman. It is said that Cleopatra was a woman of lively turn and enticing talents. She also had a keen sense of the political. That this Roman [Caesar] conqueror had the power to secure the Egyptian throne for her must have added to the attraction she felt for him…Caesar established her in a sumptuous villa across the Tiber, from which she held court, while political leaders, financiers, and men of letters, including the renowned Cicero, danced in attendance.” Michael Parenti

Louis Picasso: I’m reading the same book, and I have a better one!

In a prologue to Caesar and Cleopatra [George Bernard Shaw] that is almost never performed, the god Ra tells the audience how Rome discovered that ‘the road to riches and greatness is through robbery of the poor and slaughter of the weak.’ In conformity with that dictum, the Romans ‘robbed their own poor until they became great masters of that art, and knew by what laws it could be made to appear seemly and honest.’ And after squeezing their own people dry, they stripped the poor throughout the many other lands they conquered.” Michael Parenti

Aristotle Michelangelo:  Shrugged his shoulders unconsciously, “Chez Bricktop in Paris?”

Louis Picasso:  Not now. I am having a violent reaction to prescription drugs!  My body is like, ‘Don’t put that shit down here again!’  They gave me all this medication for Acute Caesarion whatever — and I took it! Of course, you don’t exhaust the shit. You’re not an idiot. But, what the fuck? Where the weed at?”

 

 

Aristotle Michelangelo:  I think it would be dope to channel Kerouac’s apology for automatic writing.

“He likened writing to dreaming and fantasizing, as a substitute for life. So, he wrote The Subterraneans, in three days and nights of speed typing energized by Benzedrine — to imitate the rhythm of Bebop like free energy flow, and unrestrained association, to reveal the unconscious…  because he wanted to flow from inside out in spontaneous prose!” Dystopia, Explode 2015 2.0

So, here goes… They called her Marnie — behind her back. I was torn. I played with variations of Marnie. Black Marnie. Brown Marnie, Tortilla Marnie. It’s the language of found art. Bansky, Kehinde, Jazz, Hip Hop… They teased each other.  Hitchcock’s Margaret, Mary, Marnie, teases Mark, so she could get the combination, to his company safe, and steal the money. She was a Kleptomaniac, a compulsive thief. A killer. She disappears. On the run! He tracks her like an animal, and finds her at a Lodge, riding her horse to the stables. He orders her off the horse, tells her she’ll walk — he’ll ride. He interrogates her. She tells him a bullshit story she can’t keep straight. He calls it, manure! Tells her to start over from the beginning, and this time — tell the truth. Back at the Lodge – he tells her to freshen up, change her clothes so he might take her to the police – she thinks. She does not know… It’s Tippi Hedren in RL!  The white woman of a black man’s dreams – when he dreams about white women. Blonde, pearly white teeth and skin — Barbie! Beckie!  He tells her, they will return to ‘the house’ and announce they are engaged, would to be married within the week and then cruise around the world. Of course, she thinks he’s “Out of his mind!” He told her, it was either marriage or the police, old girl. Black Marnie. Who would play her?

They get married. Eventually he takes her virginity. She tries to commit suicide. I don’t think I want to go there… Suicide. Who should play Mark? [#nomoreslavestories.]  Does he catch her?

Louis Picasso:  I remember that story.  He said,  I caught a real animal this time. I had to train her… to trust me.*

Aristotle Michelangelo:  Pussy Riot danced in the cathedral — goes to jail, and the artist nailed his scrotum to the Red Square.  She’s a prisoner of love. That kind of love makes me uncomfortable, racked, and anguished like a pet must be around possessive people. The energy is ignitable like the choice between blowing up and letting go. I don’t want to belong to anyone. But, what do I know about love?

Louis Picasso:   Black people don’t like black people. That’s why we’re in this — hole… barrel, bucket, duck it, fuck it… We know it’s true.  Listen to the tonal center of this beat!

Aristotle Michelangelo:  In sixty revolutions a minute, if it’s not organic, I can’t get with it. Hate is not organic. Hate is a social construct. I want to live the life I swam to the egg for… A social construct is like zoon pushed to the egg, by stronger swimmers behind it. It’s still goal niggaz. I want an organic experience on this gridiron. A certain freedom, mere man can’t give, conceive or contrive. I want freedom Divine.  You want to be free — you have to fuggin’ work for it.  Zufi?

Aristotle Michelangelo:  You need money, software and rigs in the virtual world. Bombs are obsolete. Race and gender is a pastiche — game challenges for points.

Louis Picasso:  Beauty and power is iconography and homely stamps are hiccups – and brick and mortar is a path to experience the destruction of daredevils and matadors — in coliseums of pestilence and poverty – empirically.

Aristotle Michelangelo:   Why go there? When, life is a perfect dream in a virtual world.

Louis Picasso:  IJS. Get on board with — evolution. Evolution is not physical space. It’s the diamond life in our heads on a loop. Its VR not the moon…

Aristotle Michelangelo:  I love wearing the mask! You can’t see my countenance — in La La Land, my eyes may smile.  My lip may curl up or down… I’m an introvert; an INTJ — is that Caprino?

 

Copyright 2016, 2018, 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast  rewritten or redistributed without permission.

*Alfred Hitchcock, Marnie

Dada — Lost and Found — Triptych

 

Doing nothing

and falling

down the same rabbit hole

I would be nosey

like numbers on analytics

Floating lollipops and gummy bears

 

Copyright 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

On the 48th year since the assassination of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. — the language for this mash-up, was for the revolutionary icon.

Happy Holidays Poets! Played Like a Diptych — A Triptych…

 

She gets played like a Diptych – in a Triptych…

Happy Holidays Poets!

by E Maria Shelton Speller

It happened at a Springboard Party…  She barely glanced at me.  Looked at my woman like…   Her locs were in a ponytail — they have to be down her fucking back… when our friends shouted at the screen, “The Screening Room.  The furthest found.”

Copyright 2015, 2016 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

 

ONE ACT PLAY — SPRINGBOARD!

FLASH DRAMA

Genre: Comedy

9 actors

Duration: 10 mins

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Cece – Art Curator, Poet

Tess – Communicator

Lena – Data Scientist

Wife – Analyst

Wife — Homemaker

Said – Data Scientist

Etan – Consultant

Luda – Data Scientist and aspiring Poet

Kent – Data Scientist

ACT 1 — Installation Art (Sit next to me)

The scene takes place in a private home theater under a Proscenium arch. Stage right is a door to the dining area. Stage left is a door to the great room. Upstage is a grand screen.

It is Tess and Said’s turn to host the Football Sunday dinner party for three married couples – their closest friends. Tess’ single BFF, CeCe with the gratuitous beauty, on everyone’s dream team (and it is rude to stare) is visiting from the city – and having so much more to offer, as usual she is flying too close to the sun and upsetting the social balance.

CECE: I have a story to tell! I promise you — you’re going to love it! You simply must experience it. The absolute audacity of the writer is stunning. She’s THAT motherfucker. (Giggle) That bitch. Tricky — Romanticist.  Epic like the Iliad…

(RESTLESS MOVEMENT)

ALL

We’re watching the game… in a minute.

CECE:  But, wait…

CONVERSATIONS HAPPENING IN THE ROUND END DOWNSTAGE

 

UPSTAGE

SAID:  Of course you have data.  Do you know how to use it? Give me data.  I’ll give you algorithms… synced with the principles of Six Sigma.  It’s over.

TESS:  I said, If you don’t knock on my door, someone else will.

STAGE LEFT

ETAN:  Evidently, you’re attracted to me, and I applaud you for knowing who you want.  I’m flattered.  But, I don’t sway that way.

WIFE:  What did he say?

ETAN:  “It doesn’t matter.”

WIFE:  Oh! O-kay…  (LOOKS AWAY STAGE RIGHT WITH A GAFFAW) He’s funny.

ETAN: Define funny.

WIFE: Funny is funny.

ETAN: What’s funny to you, may not be funny to me.

WIFE:  Are we going to go back and forth on what is funny? I want to talk about something else. I want to talk about Project #99 (GAFFAW)  Again.  You pushed me… But, it was good. It’s true.  Where was I? I’m crazy! Yeah. No doubt… (LOOKS AWAY) But, I love you.

TWO BEATS

WIFE: I’m kickstarting my project this week. (THROWS HEAD BACK DEFIANTLY)

(BEFORE WHISPERING IN HER EAR)

ETAN: “Sex packets …”

WIFE: (SUDDENLY) You said, I would be your wife, not your slave.

DOWNSTAGE LENA WHISPERS TO LUDA AND THE AUDIENCE

LENA: So, what if it’s all true? Does that give you the right to kick my ass and keep it moving? You’re a mutation. It does not sound like we’re the lazy ones.  We will survive. You will not… and if that’s true why would I compete with you, when you are doing all the work? You cannot survive without us. We’re going with. Wouldn’t you?

LUDA: Human DNA enlarges mouse brains.

(LENA LOOKS AWAY STAGE LEFT WITH A THROATY LAUGH)

(LUDA TURNS TO THE AUDIENCE WITH A SOLILOQUY

STAGE RIGHT

HOMEMAKER:  Look babe, it’s tulle and mesh — and if I bend over just right…

KENT:  I am not going to kiss your ass (Chuckles)

HOMEMAKER:  Why not?  You’ve been kissing it.

KENT:  Don’t try to goad me into an argument to justify your own.

HOMEMAKER:  I’m just saying… if it’s in our heads, it’s pure fantasy.  Don’t float what you imagine out here in the void, like what you think is really real.  If it’s not real… like your hands on me — it’s fiction.  You cannot possibly know what I think, how I feel, how I will respond to your bullshit… or even how you will respond to mine.  I thought?  When was the last time you imagined a confrontation?  Of course, it never happens like the movies in our heads.  Not even close!  But, to be content to covet the same dreams, is so… unimaginative.  Is that the best we can do?  To be part of a crowd?   Look at me.  (VOGUES) I am the fastest swimmer in a sea of zoon!

KENT:  (Chuckles) Who the fuck are you reading lately?

HOMEMAKER:  (Playfully) We have to spend more time together!  I do have a wonderful quote… “I have a lesson for you.  Do you want it?”

KENT:  “I have a lesson for you.  Do you want it?”  Who said that?

HOMEMAKER:  My mother… in so many words.

KENT:  He called me Money.

(HE BEGINS LIKE A STORY SHE’S HEARD BEFORE)

KENT:  (CONTINUES) He said, I want a boy who gets what he came for. A boy who knows he’s the strongest swimmer in a sea of zoon. It’s true, a boy could have been pushed by stronger swimmers behind him. Like Mad Max. I want a boy who would survive the hood. A boy that knows changing direction is nothing. The trick is to breathe again. That’s the boy I want. Do you think you could be that boy? I would sit up straight, tip my head, and say, Yes Sir. I’m that boy.

HOMEMAKER:  Every time you tell that story I’d forget to mention, it feels like he’s looming over you. What were you sitting on?

KENT:  My potty chair… I thought you knew?

HOMEMAKER:  Oh no. He didn’t! (GIGGLES) Your father is bananas.

KENT AND HOMEMAKER LAUGH TOGETHER

KENT:  Jules Winfield reciting Ezekiel.

HOMEMAKER:  That’s why you’re so ambitious. I love that about you, Honey. Look at us! We’re a Stupid Power Couple.

KENT:  (CHUCKLES)  The first time we met, I wondered… how does THAT work? (LAUGHS)

(HOMEMAKER FIGHTS A SMILE)

KENT:  You said, “I’m not looking for a husband.”

(BOTH LAUGH ON KEY)

HOMEMAKER:  You want to play with me?  Are you sure? Are you sure?  Are you sure?

STAGE LEFT

(HUDDLING WITH HIS SILENT WIFE)

ETAN:  Conscious decisions are all that I can respect.  Don’t cling to insanity, or criminal passion, or peer pressure, or social expectations.  Don’t talk to me about losing control — momentarily.  Or, the poverty and violence of pain heaped upon more pain because you’re black.  This is not a gang-rape.  This is not Dionysia all over again, where women and children are sacrificed, and blood is beer.  If I change my language, the outcome will still be the same…  (STOP)

(THREE BEATS)

ETAN:  Jack Kerouac… likened writing to dreaming and fantasizing, as a substitute for life. So, he wrote The Subterraneans, in three days and nights of speed typing energized by Benzedrine — to imitate the rhythm of Bebop like free energy flow and unrestrained association to reveal the unconscious…  because he wanted to flow from inside out in spontaneous prose!  Am I going to read that trippy book again, with absolutely no punctuation period, when I can imagine my very own Mardou Fox?

STARING OPENLY AT ETAN, LUDA STOPS LISTENING AND LOOKING UP TO THE HEAVENS, STROKES HIS BEARD, AND TURNS TO THE AUDIENCE WITH A SECOND SOLILOQUY.

LUDA TURNS AWAY FROM HIS AUDIENCE AND LOOKS STAGE RIGHT AT KENT 

A PHONE HELD IN KENT’S HAND ILLUMINATES HIS FACE.  KENT SPEAKS LOUD [AS IF] SIGNALING THE END 

KENT:  A black man is charged with burning black Churches in St. Louis Missouri…

KENT LOOKS UP FROM THE SCREEN.  HIS FACE IS STILL.  EYES UNFOCUSED.  HE MOVES HIS LIPS.

KENT:  Unbelieveable.

HOMEMAKER:  I’m gonna’ need to pinch him.

KENT AND THE HOMEMAKER THROW THEIR HEADS BACK IN HEARTY LAUGHTER.  THE HOMEMAKER SUDDENLY STOPS AND LOOKS AT KENT.  WHISPERS.

HOMEMAKER:  Wake up, blue pill.

THE HOMEMAKER LOOKS AT THE AUDIENCE — IN A MONOLOGUE — LOUDER THAN KENT.

HOMEMAKER:  It’s the Age of STEM.  With VRs for your fancies, imagining aggressions you never lose. Where are we going? Who are we doing? How shall we dress for the joie de vivre?  I want to meet the best Black Rock Band on the planet and their Muse; to be the woman in the Dolmus, the Driver, Simon… I want to hear Luda deliver his soliloquies in a courtyard enclosed by trees, with stapled bark once covered with flyers — for missing pets, and outworn, archaic, and unimaginative campaigns and trade for sale or giveaway. I want to be where someone says, I have a story to tell, and those who’ve heard the story reply, we’re watching the game in a minute…  I know how the story ends.

(WITH A MONA LISA SMILE)

HOMEMAKER:  (TAGGING) I am sorry, but, honestly, the 21st Century is so… contrived.  (STOPS SHORT OF LAUGHTER) Let’s move along.

CENTER STAGE

CECE:  We have plenty of time!  Indulge me.  I’m going to read it.

(MORE RESTLESS MOVEMENT)

CECE: Come on! It’s my birthday! Okay, it’s not my birthday….Listen! This is a quote from Interview magazine. I think it’s poetic.  “I use pot for depression, and I am depressed often.  When I am high, I am very creative, and because my word is work in progress, I have no regrets. Self actualization is anticlimactic…  I am the hopeless writer.  I spent most of my life being angry that I, didn’t have an audience that would pay for my work.  Girls, gotta’ make a living.  It’s amazing what turns people on.  It’s not at all what I imagined. I spent too much time trying to create a persona, when I am one.   I suppose it’s okay to spend your life chasing a dream.  You have to have one or two to live for.”  She’s extra… Did I mention Ovid?

If you don’t like it (PAUSE) I’ll blow every cock in the room.

HUSBANDS

Whoa! What? Fuck? Really?

WIVES

Shut up! Girl! Bitch! Are you crazy?

Continue reading

Bars and Verses for the South Side (Inspired by Kendrick Lamar’s The Blacker the Berry)

 

You are here

In front of the Mona Lisa

Provoking six million gags a year

Dismissing she’s da Vinci in drag

 

You are here

So valuable she can’t be insured

Sfumato eyes and slanted smile

Dangle like sneakers…. on a pole

 

I can hear you thinking

You are here

You are here

You are here

You are here

 

Bored with near misses and boors

And the fealty of Jim Crow fifty years ago

Riding a labyrinth carousel in the wilderness

You are here…  before the fiery furnace

 

Freedom not long actually happened

While you were sleeping unaccountable

Transfixed on transitions a half-century ago

Don’t pretend you know what’s going on

 

We are here beyond the status quo

Beyond owning cable movies until 2024

Beyond the fear of dread before joy

Where do we go from here?

 

I know, they know, he knows, she knows

Like assumptions on the street is folly

Free your children what can you do for them?

Who are we?

 

Where conceptions… are constructions

Subject to… demystifications

Like symbols are… adroit for points

Take your children… Over there!

  

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Freedom!

 

You are here

 

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Free them!

 

There are non-profit-tax-exempt boarding schools

For girls and boys who would die on the fourth of July

Because snitches get stitches and fathers disappear

It was an easy sale – – – –

 

Wooed scholars thinkers and Morehouse men

With paeans and promises for the liberal emergence of altruism

With curriculums and schools of thought designed by them

It was an easier sale – – – –

 

Bernanke, Chomsky, Aslan, Witten

Micheaux, Baldwin, Davis, Marsalis

Thompson, Sir Timothy, Nash – – – –

Gates, Plato, Picasso, and Sowell

 

Over there where students create Kickstarter projects

Before the class trip to Paris, France in the fall

Parents watch their children dance under the balustrade

On the sunken floor after the Science Fair on Saturday morn

 

Where conceptions… are constructions

Subject to… demystifications

Like symbols are… adroit for points

Take your children… Over there!

 

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Freedom!

 

You are here

 

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Free them!

 

Cunning like military brats have to be

Wearing class A red cardigans and purity rings

Watching Venus north of the crescent moon in the dome

Reengineering the next generation

 

I called myself a Ghost writer

I never claimed to be one

But Talking heads and Rhodes Scholars

Join the flute girls at the grog bowl serving sharp edges and chum

 

This life is a bizarro disinvestment

But, before you head home by GPS

Where the last honest man is on video

Here’s a bar and verse… for the road

 

Our Father who art in heaven – – – – 

Hallowed be your name

Thy kingdom come

Thy will be done

On earth

As it is in heaven – – – –

 

Where God given gifts are never squandered

You are here in the foyer with problem and solution

Where common sense is not enough

Where who and what is forever kitschy

Affirmation is a function of negation and vice versa*

Social constructs are under siege and should be

Where talking heads shut the fuck up!

 

Free them!

 

You’re welcome to stay for Church

Or join Yogi… Temple

 

Copyright ©2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

*Octavio Paz