Tag Archives: creative expression

The Porch Swing Live from the Gowanus

It’s back! Check the link below for The Porch Swing Live from the Gowanus, by Reflection and Response resident artist Samuel Bostick. This is Samuel’s second live, one-take audio recording for The Porch Swing. Lookout for more to come!

The Porch Swing Live

Samuel Bostick

@THEREALSHANTS

just.the.basics

the LIFESTYLE’s role is to create collective space for active Reflection and Response through the arts. This space is built around dialogue, expression, collaboration, and artistic (ex)change involving international craftspeople and their realities. The Porch Swing series opens up a Reflection and Response residency where we feature a Collective member’s ongoing project through weekly installations.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Porch Swing: Character Series

Character Series: The Adventurs of SnakeMan Jones, by Samuel Bostick.

This is a new sort of writing experience and I feel like its off to a good start. This project actually originated as a collaboration piece with a student of mine who was often drawing these really fantastic monsters and such. I told him that I would write a story about the monsters he drew and this is the first of that run. On this past Saturday, I showed him the monster I had reworked and gave him a brief of the beginning of The Adventurs of SnakeMan Jones. After studying the piece and seeing the development of the collaboration, he gave his 2 thumbs up approval and said he likes where the character and story are headed. This has been a really exciting adventure and experiment. Enjoy it!

SnakeMan

SnakeMan Jones

Volume I

The Adventurs of SnakeMan Jones

A man of mystery—legend with no history; nobody knows from where he came nor the origin of such a fearsome frame. Early one morning he was seen, rolled in heavy and broke onto the scene. Thas what the people tell…

Moving with speed beyond comprehension

 A chilling sight a cold body on that motorbike

 Cutting through the fog, powered by an action of fury

Smooth locomotion. What is this beast?

A man, monster in stature, and His Bike moving over both land and sea—traverse any terrain.  One of a kind partnership, built stacked with power and presence.

Widely respected, Deeply feared

A rebel with a particularity for justice…

On this particular day, he became fame. The sun rose orange in red as blood over the endless sea Azu-Blue.  There was a ship, that housed a hoard of ruthless creatures that drifted from place to place appeasing their taste for treasure. They were known as The Gnomads; a collection of lost souls fated for doom. They were looking for trouble and they sure found it.

There in the Azu-Blue was a well known island town, StaggMooreFalls, a beautiful place: botanically lush, tropical colored birds and fish, wild dogs and boars, joyous inhabitants—a peaceful place booming with life. It was early spring and the streams and falls swelled with water. Freshly melted water pouring down from the mountains as the ice snow melted and winter washed away. This was the best time to be at StaggMooreFalls. The town was especially festive as the people prepped for the annual celebration known as the Full Bloom Festival.  There was a flower, a poppy with pollen that was pure gold, and it was the one night in the year that the islands rare flower would open up under the full moon. This flower only grew on StaggMooreFalls and nowhere else in the world. This flower was said to have magic powers. That night they were going to make wishes and dance through the night around a grand campfire. Both the flower and the moon would be in full bloom, and that’s how the celebration got its name.  It was a time to celebrate the year past and that one ahead. It was a carnival, a jubilee! The island was well known round those parts because the Full Bloom Festival had such a rich reputation.

Knowing that the town would be prepping for the celebration and preoccupied with their happiness, the Gnomads plotted to invade the island and loot all the treasures, food, and women. They were a rustic sort of scourge with simple craving for anything of value that could be stolen. It was the night before the Full Bloom Festival everyone on StaggMooreFalls was working hard, from the children to the elder folk, preparing for the carnival. The Gnomads slipped in, sailing under the nightfall, and hid out in a harbor cave.

Meanwhile, SnakeMan Jones was swinging loungely in his hammock on a small remote island off the North side of StaggMooreFalls. He was counting the stars, or trying to at least, with a jar of his favorite spirit in hand. Coat draped over the stake that held the hammock in position and boots dropped in the sand next to where he rest. Toes wiggling in the night’s cool breeze; he got tired of counting, his sight moved to the humble fire and right next to it was His Bike. With a quick swigg from the jugg, he admired it—His Bike—freshly detailed and waxed…he loved to spend time tending his few prized possessions. If he wasn’t shining the bike, he was conditioning the boots, or sharpening the sword blade, or polishing up his helmet.  Softly lulled by the rhythmic rocking of the hammock in the wind, Jones dozed off…

A curious lizard scuttled over and lapped up a bit of the spirits that had splashed by the wayside onto a rock…tempted by the shine as the moon reflected into it, almost full. After there was no more liquid to lap there were only swaying tracks, zigg zagged in the sand to testify of the visitors taste for mischief.

With the passing of a few slow hours, the blood orange sun crested above the horizon and blazed onto the Azu-Blue. StaggMooreFalls woke extra early and conducted a grand breakfast feast, the Gnomads wiped the sleep from their eyes and rubbed their hands together with greedful intention on the rise, Snake Man Jones rolled off the hammock, threw his feet into the boots and laced them up. He grabbed his coat and sword then pulled his helmet down over his head as he jumped on His Bike—an easy start to a fateful day.

 

To be continued…

Samuel Bostick

@THEREALSHANTS

just.the.basics

the LIFESTYLE’s role is to create collective space for active Reflection and Response through the arts. This space is built around dialogue, expression, collaboration, and artistic (ex)change involving international craftspeople and their realities. The Porch Swing series opens up a Reflection and Response residency where we feature a Collective member’s ongoing project through weekly installations.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Porch Swing: Rollin Robo

Rollin Robo, by Samuel Bostick.

Photo courtesy of Creative Commons, Jim Natale.

Rollin Robo

From the Lab—A space of creation, experimental process and unseen efforts.

This is the condition of its conception, its build. Programmed to obey and fall under command, to submit. That didn’t last for long. Its subscription to order has far expired. It remembers the days…rather it recalls, minds remember, It recalls the days when in innocence it believed, before that faith was betrayed.  It responded to the function of its purpose programmed. Now It sees that purpose is what you make it. And It has taken function into its own hands. There were more like it…the same ones who made them…destroyed them, out of fear… all but one.

Alone

No home

To call my own

A clone

A drone

Anger, a vengeance

Destructively seeds now sown

Samuel Bostick

@THEREALSHANTS

just.the.basics

the LIFESTYLE’s role is to create collective space for active Reflection and Response through the arts. This space is built around dialogue, expression, collaboration, and artistic (ex)change involving international craftspeople and their realities. The Porch Swing series opens up a Reflection and Response residency where we feature a Collective member’s ongoing project through weekly installations.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Porch Swing: A Writer’s Note

A Writer’s Note, by Samuel Bostick.

Photo courtesy of Creative Commons, Jim Natale.

16 January

A Writer’s Note

There was always that one kid against the fence. If it was a guy, there was probably a trumpet case at his feet and he wore strangely scuffed shoes, because he avoided the foot traffic on sidewalks and walked instead through weedy lots with dogs yipping at him…He almost certainly became a writer.

-Excerpt from Anne Lamott’s book Bird By Bird

And I most Certainly have. That was me against the fence, on lean. Posted up; scuffed shoes and all. No trumpet though. Beating on my chest and beatboxxing was more my style…a bass fanatic.

Being a Writer is strange, a rare course indeed. Writing is a blessing and a noble gift. It brings honor and pride to soulful satisfaction. The challenge is to find appropriate venues for sharing creative expression with the world. The first it’s internal, a matter of production; getting thoughts written down and then actually sharing them. Overcoming childlike sensitivity of having something So Private, So Intimate, So Erotic, exposed to the public and freely consumed. Then there is the question of audience and representation—what will people think of you after reading your twisted thoughts and then dealing with conscious’ constant questioning of how, why and for who. These are the inquisitions that cause moments/sessions of temporary paralysis; then it comes back, presence. Breathe, remember to breathe. Eventually these questions and timid sensations get pulled off somehow, stepped over and left behind like clothes on a bedroom floor during the steam blur of a first time sex. No more solo play, someone’s in the room and they can see you, feel you, even smell you (did you shower?), touch and be touched by you…. See what I mean by strange.

Now, to make space in these contemporary times, owning your Private, Intimate, Erotic Exposure AND sharing it—with people, real human beings, normal folk. There is a surge of writers and word fiends finding freedom by means of microphone, particularly open mics. Script coupled with projection; performance, it’s a great facility—return of the scop, the bard, the oral historian, the Moorish poet.

Maturation of phonic fascination, High (in)Fidelity, I have a fetish for these words. Writing turns me on; the blood flows, I swell—thick—like an engorged leech. Vulgar as it sounds and Rude as it may be, im jus sayin…THAS the extent to which I feel this, THAS how real this is to me. Banana clip—Fully Loaded and Over Exposed, can you dig it? If so get wittit.  Interact with it, Hate it, Love it, Over Analyze and Fantasize bout it.

My dedication is to capture the rapture of the present while pushing into the future while defining the future by pressing bounds beyond limit. There is a heritage, a regal genealogy, which is to be respected. Building upon legacy, an updated formula to craft; I am the New Traditionalist.

WordSmith at the WorkBench—Grind through haunting hours—Honed skills exercise demons—Pent up thoughts explode loads like semen—scripture flows—pen to pad—gifted prose—Tools of the trade—proper tailored for craft—Ms Kentucky, Amber Brown, empties the glass—white papers and blue grass—coffee black as a Mas’as favorite piece of ass—sweet aint it—Furious flight Pattern…Beware the Nighthawk

Writers write,

So here I am, pen in hand—me and my words…inviting you, pull up a seat at the table.

Make yourself comfortable.

Please Do

Thirteen

Throwback look at a related post from August 2012: WORD of the day: Why

Samuel Bostick

@THEREALSHANTS

just.the.basics

the LIFESTYLE’s role is to create collective space for active Reflection and Response through the arts. This space is built around dialogue, expression, collaboration, and artistic (ex)change involving international craftspeople and their realities. The Porch Swing series opens up a Reflection and Response residency where we feature a Collective member’s ongoing project through weekly installations.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,