| FOLLY |
| (R) |
| FOLLY was first published (electronically) in June, 2006. We attempt to highlight the uniqueness and strengths of each artist, set of ideas and organization presented. Thank you to contributors for generously participating and providing material, advice and assistance. |
| Kevin Salemme |
| Judy Dater (c) Judy Dater 2008 |
| Herpetology Fog-sensed, Non-tressed, Slick-skinned, Toe-jammed, Sticky-lipped, Tongue-pitched, Eyes quelled, Throat swelled, Gut-blessed, Fly less-ed, Un-swamped, De-twitched, Hamstrung, Delish! Candy Shue |
| John McNamara |
| George Lawson |
| Tom Lieber (c) Tom Lieber 2008. Images courtesy of Hackett-Freedman Gallery, San Francisco. Photos by HOCASSO/J.W.White. |
| Philosophy and Style, or Who's Afraid of Beautiful Beasts? by Iskra Fileva Realism and the Riddle of Style by Catharine Abell Production Theories and Artistic Value by David E. W. Fenner Animal Aesthetics by Wolfgang Welsch General Semantics in To Kill a Mockingbird by Annie Kasper |
| Humor |
| I have made a special study of the manners and customs of animals. Alas! They have no critics. It is an art of which they know nothing—at least I know of no work of this kind in the archives of my animals. Perhaps my critic friends know of some? Would they be kind enough to say so if they do, the sooner the better. No—there are no critics among animals. The wolf does not criticize the sheep—he eats it; not because he despises his art, but because he admires the flesh, and even the bones of this woolly animal which is so excellent in stew… Erik Satie |
| Martin Luther King's Acceptance Speech, on the Occasion of the Award of the Nobel Peace Prize in Oslo, December 10, 1964. |
| My Mother’s Hands My mother’s hands were swollen puffy toward the end, and shiny, pulled and stretched from the alcohol. Puffy towards the end, and shiny, would they pop if punctured from the alcohol? And her taut swollen limbs, would they pop if punctured? She would not pop but lie frozen, her taut swollen limbs floating on the bed like tree trunks. She would not pop but lie frozen she was dead to me floating on the bed like tree trunks, gliding down the stairs quietly, she was dead to me, moving into me like mud or milky clay. Gliding down the stairs quietly not from grace but lack of substance. Moving into me like mud or milky clay, not from attachment, not from desire, not from grace but lack of substance her soul erased, needing fuel for fire. Not from attachment, not from desire but from primitive greed, things she required, her soul erased, needing fuel for fire. Only a steady voice quiets her from primitive greed, things she requires. Inside of me she rumbles and rolls only a steady voice quiets her not my anger, lacking control. Inside of me she rumbles and rolls unable to breath, comforted not by my anger, lacking control but by something I told her, something I did. Unable to breath, comforted, pulled and stretched, by something I told her, something I did. My mother’s hands, swollen. Sally Hand |
Stag in the Garden
Ann Silsbee’s dead. The poet used to walk
The lake’s edge, finding curious, shiny pebbles.
I don’t mean unimportant, but that she learned
That there are many choices, was a good finder.
She wrote of a family soup so favored it stood
For character: garlic and thyme against winter.
One night she stood with her husband watching
A buck pause in the twilight of her yard
In rutting season, dangerous slender rack
Like music following two bolts of lightning.
It paused, alerted. The lovers stood as still,
The husband’s hand gone lightly to her waist.
Beauty and hunger, beauty and hunger: dense
In all directions, glistening to be found.
Paul Hamill
Ann Silsbee’s dead. The poet used to walk
The lake’s edge, finding curious, shiny pebbles.
I don’t mean unimportant, but that she learned
That there are many choices, was a good finder.
She wrote of a family soup so favored it stood
For character: garlic and thyme against winter.
One night she stood with her husband watching
A buck pause in the twilight of her yard
In rutting season, dangerous slender rack
Like music following two bolts of lightning.
It paused, alerted. The lovers stood as still,
The husband’s hand gone lightly to her waist.
Beauty and hunger, beauty and hunger: dense
In all directions, glistening to be found.
Paul Hamill
Elizabeth Colton
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Rene DeGuzman
Kavita Ramdas
Leonard Shlain
Mark Kozelek
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Your Brain on Jazz: Researchers Use fMRI to Study Improvisation, Creativity
A pair of Johns Hopkins and government scientists have discovered that when jazz musicians improvise, their brains turn off
areas linked to self-censoring and inhibition, and turn on those that let self-expression flow.
A pair of Johns Hopkins and government scientists have discovered that when jazz musicians improvise, their brains turn off
areas linked to self-censoring and inhibition, and turn on those that let self-expression flow.