CREATIVE

COLLABORATIVE

CAGEBREAKERS

A PROJECT of RHINO RAVENDOVE RIFFS

BY

Ran ‘Rhino’ Klarin and Adwin David Brown, ‘The Ravendove’

©2011 by Rhino Ravendove Riffs, Angel City, CA
For info on workshops, salons, performances, and coaching go to www.cagebreakers.tumblr.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover art from an original drawing by Adwin David Brown, Contemplating Freedom ©2010
Section drawings by Adwin David Brown ©2011
ISBN: 1456523023


TABLE of CONTENTS

Section I: Introduction 3
What the Hell Is This? 4
Why Am I Doing This?
The Ravendove 5
The Rhino 6

Section II: What Is It to Be Creative? 7
The Rhino
Intro to Piece One 8
Kooks and Creativity 9
Intro to Piece Two 11
Poetry and Communication 12
The Ravendove
Intro to Piece One 15
The Creative Tryst: Finding Time to Flow 16
Intro to Piece Two 19
Comparison Kills 20

Section III: The Creations 23
The Ravendove
Intro to Opposable from Flowdowg: 24
Opposable from Flowdowg: 24
The Rhino
Intro to Lust, Love, & Loss 31
Lust: Freedom In the Bush 32
Love: She Gives It To Me 33
Loss: Telling the Truth That Sets Me Free 35
Epilogue: Another Stranger In the Fair of Promise 37

Section IV: In the End Was the Beginning 39
The Rhino
Inspiration, Collaboration, then Dissemination 40
The Ravendove
Most Portem 44

Suggested Media 46

Biographies
Ran ‘Rhino’ Klarin 47
Adwin David Brown, ‘the Ravendove’ 48

Giving Thanks and Praise
Adwin David Brown, ‘the Ravendove’ 49
Ran ‘Rhino’ Klarin 50


SECTION 1:
Introduction or What the Hell Is This?

Sunfence 1

Three artists walk into a coffee bar...
Our plan was simple enough. Meet up, sit down, and not only create, but explore/discover/investigate how to share and distribute our creative projects in the emerging, ever changing social media and the dynamic gig economy. We decided the best way to do this was to take a hands-on route; collaborate and create an ebook for online and print on-demand distribution as well as gain direct experience marketing and monetizing our art. Initially, we dubbed ourselves the Creative Collective, set-up our laptops and entered the vast digital world. Just like Lewis and Clark, Henson and Byrd, Kirk and Spock, Hillary and Norgay, we trekked, traversed, traumatized and returned with the boon.

How This Book is Structured

To maximize your reading experience we’ve arrange the project in a that way that (hopefully) helps you get into our heads, hearts, and feelings on this journey and the creative process in general. Each individual piece is introduced by the writer, followed by a poem, short story, or essay by each Cagebreaker with an intro explaining his experience. The book concludes with a short commentary on each of our personal insights, lessons, and gains from this project. A suggested media list of the materials that inspired us in this journey into creativity is also included. Get ready for a wild ride into unfettered creativity. Enjoy!!


Why Am I Doing This?

The Ravendove

Why? ‘Cause completion scares the @%&*! out of me. I hang a lot of stuff on completing a project: the experimentation is over, the thrill of creating in the moment’s gone, and so on. I like potential and most likely I’m a novelty junkie. Another barrier to completion is the fear of being judged. Better to keep the ‘works’ in the closet and be thought of as a ‘master’ than to show it to the world and remove all doubt. Yet, I’m committed to creativity as a practice that helps me embrace fear, shake off unhealthy narcissism, and simply share! I have enough self awareness to know I need a fellowship to complete things. Hence, my creative conspirators: the Rhino and -- initially-- the TechnoMystic.


The Rhino

In a cool cafe’, diggin’ some bebop jazz on the sound system. It is mid-day in Santa Monica. About 71 degrees and sunny outside and I have no mandatory appointments today. My routine is in place, I am at my table with my netbook and writing. I am discovering, learning, and grounding my lifestyle and identity as a writer/ teacher/ coach of the Creative. I write to explore and share my soul’s story and that is why I am in the Creative Collective; association, community, expression, distribution, upliftment of the human race. My vision on this project is to solidify my practice of writing and then to stretch by coming out of the creative closet and sharing my words to with the non-friend, non-family, non-acquaintance public. This vehicle of on-line publishing and internet social network schemes is an outreach to my tribe. Using this medium and collective to spread my message, challenges me to face down the technologies and to maintain accountability with myself and community. I am here to stop kicking the can of writing down the road and express and share it now. I am living the dream deferred.


SECTION TWO:
What It Is to Be Creative?


Gato 1

The Rhino: Piece 1

Uncovering my long hidden creative medium (writing) after all of my traditional self affirming structures have disappeared (job retirement, relationship striving and dying, investment responsibilities sold, and a tennis injury), has exposed my always incipient fear of failing. Once I developed interest in various artistic forms, I became aware of creativity all over the place. One day I heard about the Cardiff Kook and his costumes. The longevity his costumes are short (at most a few days), the form was uninhibited (any costume may emerge), and the location at a surf beach was rife with irony (surfing has a very steep learning curve and its culture is not kind to ‘kooks’). For me, the image is iconic of the creative life and its inherent chronic failing that may lead to a few moments of flow with one’s muse. Surfing illustrates the necessity to keep getting up (try to catch a wave sometime), to withstand the cacophonous doubters (locals overtly harass kooks and strangers), and the ephemeral nature of bliss (a good day of surfing may result in 60 seconds on a wave).


Kooks and Creativity

Last week at a well known southern California surf spot, a new costume was draped on a local statue. The statue is of a surfer riding a wave. The overnight prank was to build a papier-mâché shark’s mouth engulfing the surfer. The statue is in a pose that is inimical for a good surfer and was originally mocked by locals. Then not long after being erected a few years ago a series of such pranks were perpetrated on this community hub. The statue, known locally as the Cardiff Kook ago, has been draped in costumes from clown to female stripper.

Kook is surfer slang usually used as the ultimate putdown. Writer and surfer, Peter Heller wears that label proudly and states, “Being a kook is a way of life. It’s about being willing to learn something new, to make a fool of yourself and just go for it.” What I gleaned from the Cardiff Kook pranks is to be free to try on different personae and just go for it in public. It regularly gets attention from local media with praise from passersby and surfers alike. It is not viewed as a problem but entertaining and fun. Being a kook is fun for the community.

Some lessons about creativity can be gleaned from this oddity. As a novice creative expresser, I noted my tendency to resist trying the new, out of type activity. Holding back or worse giving half effort short circuits the fun of creativity. And as an older beginning artist it is easy for me to come up with excuses to not ‘go for it.’ My litany includes; the learning curve is too steep, I am not talented, and who cares if I do it? Each of these cop outs are eschewed by the Cardiff Kook.

• Lesson #1: His kook-ness is proudly displayed and loved by the community. Beginners can be well loved.
• Lesson #2: Recognizing his unskillful style, the prankster can play a variety of roles. Experiment with new and personal approaches to the new art.
• Lesson #3: Great public acclaim and interest accrue to the kook’s variety of personae. Sometimes the different, unusual, and original are enjoyed by others.

Creativity can and should be fun and the prankster and the Cardiff Kook are great exemplars of the courage it takes to actually do and practice creative expression. Especially for those of us who were labeled at a young age that we couldn’t draw or sing or act or…? The clear cue is just do it, do your thing, express yourself. The attitude you bring to the art is more important than any talent you may think you don’t have. Sure there may be a long period of skill development. And yes, you may be seen as a ‘kook,’ but don’t let that stop you. The community may be waiting for the kind of kookiness you share. And who knows you may get to wear some fun costumes.


The Rhino: Piece 2

The following piece emerged out of my discovery of the world of academic ‘poetics.’ At a summer workshop at a renowned graduate school founded by Beat luminary, Allen Ginsberg, I recognized a familiar fog that I often feel when reading poetry found in many in MFA programs and journals. I noted a style where the writer’s finely crafted poems carefully hide the meaning in vague descriptions. These poems are then read from the stage word for word, head down, in a monotone voice. Coming out of the spoken word culture of today’s youth and the political rebellion of the sixties and seventies (Gil Scott-Heron’s The Revolution Will Not Be Televised), I was in shock. What is the purpose of writing a poem? What is the reason to get up on the stage? Naturally, the answers are as varied as the practitioners, but my inner quest led me to the core of my motivation. Is it solely to purge myself of my demons or to communicate my ideas and insights with others? Both are valid and useful and as the essay notes, maybe you don’t need to do a public reading if you are in the purging crowd.


Poetry and Communication

The youngish poet gets up to share her heartfelt words. She seems to be a very interior person and we catch a glimpse of a smile. Beginning with recitation from her recent play she enunciates slowly and in a low pitched monotone. As I struggle to hear her words, I also wonder what inspired her to get up to the lectern. Is she promoting her new book? Is she working on a long held phobia about public speaking? Is she reluctantly returning a favor? Strangely, the words that I was able to hear were filled with anger and resentment, a lot of emotion. Her second piece was a little stronger and was prefaced with an intro about an unappreciated Jamaican woman who nursed combatants in the Crimean War. I mused on the role of communication in art, specifically in spoken poetry. Who does it serve? What is the purpose? What makes it effective?

Coming from a profession where effective communication was crucial, I admit to a bias for poetry as a vehicle to inform, educate, and a bunch of other worthy social goals. On that rare occasion it may entertain at the same time the poet/ speaker is informing the audience. Moving onto the second poet, who was introduced as a machinist with numerous publications in renowned poetry journals, I was eager to be moved by his words. Would he incite me with strong social and political statements? Perhaps he would drill into me with his musing on the interior scape of intimate relationships. Beyond all hope I wanted to be stirred by powerful words about the human condition in the particular that might be understood on the universal. His words were calm and introspective depictions of his experiences at work and his daily life. So calm that when he finished a poem the crowd did not know it ended and he had to say, “In my next poem…”

Dangling imagery, clever word combinations, and flat intonations seemed to be the order of the day, until the last poet mounted the platform and took command. He wrote about his daily life, his new twin babies and shopping at Costco, the shadow dramas of Miles Davis’ life, and the street life in New York. What distinguished his work was presentation, a strong point of view, and rhythm. He varied the tempo, he altered his voice for different characters, he made declarative comments, he made his pieces live.

Poetry on stage is a communication art form. It stands on its merits by what it says and how it is said. Many questions arise in consideration of this point. What do we do art for? Is it to be shared with others? Can it be good art if it is not understood? Does a falling tree make a sound if no one hears it? This koan has danced around art and creative expression for millennia. One might say that the audience is just behind the artist who is avant garde and that is the limitation of the communication. Reminds me of a music festival I attended recently in Leimert Park. If you know L.A., you know the reference. In any case, in the middle of a very cool jazz set a middle aged man with a powerful voice read a long poem by a locally famous poet and musician. During the reading the band played appropriately rhythmic music. The reader used inflection, tone, volume and cadence to communicate the message of the poem. The music highlighted the spoken words. At the end the crowd rose in unison of agreement with a message shared effectively.

In the end, the work must stand on its own and the work is in the moment it is read. Did the writer share his/ her interior experience effectively? What did it do to or for the reader or the audience or the viewer? Perhaps in those terms a creative expression can be evaluated as art. Was it a solipsistic exercise? Was it a polemic? Perhaps it evoked insight or emotion in the recipient? On what terms does the artist want to be considered? The artists that make an impact, have an impact. Work that counts communicates.


The Ravendove: Piece 1

I was feeling pressured to get a lot of non-writing things done. The usual culprits; a light switch to replace, daughter’s homework to review, and a stack of bills on the corner of the desk. Where was I going to find the time to write? I like sharing this anecdote about Terry (whom you’ll meet real soon), and it gave me an opportunity to take off my ‘good boy pants’ and wade provocatively into the deep end of the creative pool.


The Creative Tryst: Finding Time to Flow

Stop me if you’ve heard this one: I’d love to create, if I could only find the time. I hear this a lot from my students. I hear it from myself, though not like I used to.
Terry Wolverton, author, poet, and one helluva writing teacher said, “Finding time to write is like finding time for your lover. No matter how busy you are, you always find time for your lover. Treat your writing time like a lover.“
You always find time for your lover

I remember my college days when the books were stacked high and the papers were scattered and deadlines stood behind me like waterfront goons with folded arms waiting for me to finish my work. But all it took was a call from mi amor and the books, the papers were left in the dust, granted that may have been more of an escape for me, but you get the point I’m sure.

Everyone finds time for their lover, even busy married southern state governors find time to tryst with lovers in Argentina.

Notice Terry said ‘lover’ not wife, husband, partner, etc. I think this is significant because your partner or spouse may not be your Lover, your Creativity. Relationships beget familiarity and familiarity can cool the heat that burned in the beginning.

But the fire for the Lover should never die. If it must cool then let it appear cool like the blue of a flame. That’s the hottest part of the fire is it not? It’s that kind of heat, that kind of passion that I believe Terry is talking about. That flaring, smoldering, sometimes simmering where throughout the day you’re preoccupied with the thought of spending time with your Lover, your Art, your Creativity.

An ideal and romantic state of mind? Perhaps, but an essential one to cultivate if you are called to create. You have to sustain the heat in your creative coupling otherwise interest wanes and you may find yourself on the couch in front of the tube ignoring your Creativity sitting next to you tapping its foot -- or worse, like Elvis, it’s left the building. Just like any spurned lover, Creativity will leave and find someone else who is open to spending time and tasting the goods She has to offer.

“But I have to work, I have kids, obligations...” Ever read about people who have affairs? We’ve all met cheaters and the cheated. I bet they were all busy people with busy lives. You may have even wondered, “Where do they find the time to do this?” or thought “How selfish!”

That’s kinda what I’m encouraging here: selfish time between you and your Creativity. Time to, as artist-teacher Ayize Little Crow says, return to the Dream. And stoke the desire to do so throughout the day, and then fantasize at night about rolling in sheets of music, spilling colors on the floor, getting messy, carving out moments of time to be with your Lover, meeting in gardens, empty unused office spaces, abandoned cubicles, on the beach, in a coffee house, in the garage, heck, in the bedroom after the kids are sleep, before they wake up and especially when your partner’s gone. Yes, I’m encouraging you to step out on your partner and have a tryst with Creativity.

And do it with all the gusto, the ache and titillation you can generate. Be bold, be brazen, be clandestine, be willing to find crevices in the calendar and the clock. Plan a spontaneous rendezvous in a busy or out of the way coffeehouse, in the backyard behind the trellis and the bougainvillea or creep downstairs where the streetlight slips through the little basement window, or upstairs and bathe in the moonlight on the roof on a blanket romping bare and brazen in the breeze.

Should you get caught (and you will) show your poems, the stories, the words, the pictures, the music. They’ll understand. And if they don’t, tell them to go tryst with Imagination, Creativity, their Passion and let loose the inner artist within. And, who knows? You may have set the stage for a creative menage’ a Flow...


The Ravendove: Piece 2

This piece was born of pure flow. Just like I like it. I was doodling (my version of meditation), my daughter walked past, and the rest is Flowtisserie! The teacher in me is always on the alert for those juicy teaching moments. This one for me was ripe, full, and ready for picking.


Comparison Kills

“How do you draw like that?” she asked. “You’re perfect, I can’t draw like that.” The snap of her pencil breaking in half punctuated her sentence.

Teaching moment. “You see the end result,” I said, flipping through my sketchbook filled with half-dones, abandoned doodles, assorted scribbles with X’s laid over them like those X marks on the eyes of dead cartoon characters. “Sometimes you’re looking at the 10th version of a cartoon character I’ve been working on. You didn’t see the erasing, the start overs…hey, go look in the trash and see all the ripped out, balled up, tossed out versions.”

“You mean the ones on the floor?” she asked opening the crinkly wads as if they were oysters. There had to be a proverbial pearl of wisdom inside one of them.

I smiled, “I’m a flowologist, not a ballplayer. But you see all the mistakes I made? Think of them as stepping stones on a path of…”

“Perfection?”

“Not perfection, more like insight or discovery. Trying to find the way – check that, a way – to say something with a picture. My way. The minute I look at another artist’s work and say, “I could never do that” or “why doesn’t mine look like that?” I’ve killed my creativity.

“You never look at anyone’s art?”

“I look at a lot of other artists’ work.”

“Do you compare it with yours?”

“All the time, but I try to catch that thought and see it another way, ask a different question like, “How does she do that?’ or ‘What tools did he use to make this?’ These questions inspire, they blow on the spark inside me and cause a fire. Now I have a Burn To Learn: Who is this artist, what’s her background, where did he learn to draw like this? And do you know what I find out?”

“What?”

“That he also struggled and made mistakes. She wanted to quit – and sometimes she did – before she picked up her pen or brush again. Now I’m inspired, not ‘cause they didn’t make mistakes, but BECAUSE they made mistakes. I feel connected, connected to another human being. I don’t feel so alone. I might even try to draw like they do and in the process I find my style, my flavor, my flow.”

Silence. I felt like I talked too much -- again. Then I heard the gentle crack of paper wad oysters being opened again, the easy click of a mechanical pencil, and the soft scratch of its tip guided by my daughter’s hand. Moments later she handed me an 8x11 piece of paper with a doodle.

“I looked at your drawing and got inspired by you.”

She handed me a sketch with some erased lines and eraser crumbs clinging to the paper. It had traces of my style and all of her struggle, her surrender, her soul.

“What do you think?” There was a smile on her face and recovered confidence in her voice.

I smiled back, “That’s flow, baby girl, that’s flow.”


SECTION 3:
The Creations


EarlGreyCrunchBerryIII 1

“Opposable”
(from Flowdowg)
by
The Ravendove

My third piece had to be fiction. I like making up stories, but for some odd reason I do not like to share them. Probably that old bugaboo in the white wig, The Judge, at work again. How many times I’ve I allowed his gavel to slam down onto my creative expression? Too many.


[the following is an excerpt from Flowdowg: the Urban Legend of Po Tolo, described as one part graphic novel and one part sci-fi, fantasy meditation on the meaning of humanity. This scene is a transcript of a conversation between a young Flowdowg and his counselor Dan ScreamingEagle, DVM]

Opposable: Rescued from a ransacked, secret vivisection laboratory, mentored by the mysterious AME Monks of Assisi, Po Tolo aka Flowdowg, a human-animal hybrid searches for wonder in the wilderness of himself and his surroundings.


From the desk of
Dr. Abraham ScreamingEagle, DVM

Dear Bro. James,

During the past 3 months I’ve spent observing and working with Po Tolo, I’ve seen remarkable growth and changes: 1. Less hair (Ambras syndrome in remission doubtful), 2. Vestigial tail has shrunk significantly; gnawing less and less, hand-paws itching more and more. I’m more concerned with the emotional, psycho-social development. Adolescence is challenging enough for regular human boys, but a human, feline-canine Brid (hybrid)? My skills as a veterinarian and animal behaviorist are really being tested, and I find myself relying more and more on my Tongva training as a fourth generation medicine man. Again, here’s the transcript. Not surprisingly, the subject was marbles.

Following is a transcript of the session I had with Po Tolo or ‘Flowdowg’ as the boys at the monastery call him. Just a few quick notes. (hope you can read my writing!)

This is Dr. Abraham ScreamingEagle, the day is Tuesday the 23rd day of March 2021. This is session number 15 with Po Tolo who’s lying on the floor looking at a white card with a black circle…

Dr. Abraham ScreamingEagle: Anymore dreams, Po Tolo?

Flowdowg/ Po Tolo: Last night. I saw a universe and 36 rainbow coated planets in a perfect circle. And 4 gods in black robes. Three of them were chewing bubblegum and rolling planets at the big circle of planets with their thumbs. They won’t let me play, so I bark and run knock the planets all over the sky.

Eagle: Are they real gods, Po Tolo?

Po Tolo: No. They’re the other boys at the monastery.

Eagle: Last time you called it a sanctuary.

Po Tolo: Yes. It is. It was.

Eagle: It was?

Po Tolo: It still is, I guess. I want to stop now.

Eagle: Okay.

Po Tolo: No. let’s keep going.

Eagle: Fine.

Po Tolo: You’ll agree to anything I say won’t you?

Eagle: No. So, back to the boys in the monastery…

Po Tolo: Sanctuary.

Eagle: Your choice.

Po Tolo: Well it’s a little bit of both. Anyway, the other boys like to gather on the grass court with their bamboards.

Eagle: Bamboards?

Po Tolo: Yes. They’re these smooth, square boards made of bamboo.

Eagle: Do these boards have a purpose?

Po Tolo: Yes. They were game boards to play – no, not to play. Not at first in the beginning. They started off being used for beheading wild game. The boys carry them around and during breaks or free time, flip them over put them together, make a big square, empty their marble bags and make one big circle.
Are you drawing a circle on your paper over there?

Eagle: Yes, how did you know? (cognitive remote viewing or a lucky guess?)

Po Tolo: Just knew. It sounded like a circle. In the dream it’s always 4 boys with a bag of planets, 9 planets in each bag.

Eagle: Do you have a bag? In the dream?

Po Tolo: Yeah I have a bag, but only 7 marbles. I’m always missing two. Kuklos.

Eagle: Excuse me?

Po Tolo: The game they play’s called Kuklos. They pour out their marbles. Watched them bounce across the board. Line them up in a perfect circle. One of them would pull out a white marble and thump it at the circle knocking one of the marbles loose. They start shouting, and laughing, they start fighting and say they’ll never be friends again. Then the next day comes and they gather around their brown squares in the green grass and start again.

Eagle: Do you play?

Po Tolo: Not with them. Not in front of them. And they never ask me. But I bet that’s because they know how good I am. I never understood the game, but I watched it with the eyes of a pointer. And I have my own technique because I don’t have, you know…

Eagle: You don’t want to say it?

Po Tolo: …they say I’ve zota. That’s what the boys say when I used to ask them to play.

Eagle: Zota?

Po Tolo: Yeah, z-o-t-a: zero opposable thumbability. “You aint got an iota of zota.” That’s what they say.

Eagle: How’d you feel about that?

Po Tolo: I don’t care… do you know what it’s like to…to ache for something, to want to do something and be left out because you do not have? Or to live in a world that is so… available and so unreachable, unattainable, ungrabable…to not be able to hold on to anything except with your mouth, or be trapped behind an unlocked door, yelling for somebody to come open it, or go hungry all day and pretend that you’re fasting while sitting with everyone at a dinner table full of utensils? What about the ache to hold someone’s hand or to play a stupid meaningless marble game…

Eagle: What else?

Po Tolo: I’m done. And what were you scribbling?

Eagle: Notes, doodles, insights. Here, I sketched this for you.

Po Tolo: An eagle?

Eagle: The eagle is a great bird that soars. It’s a formidable hunter that seizes its prey with talons and perches on peaks too high for many to ascend. I like to work with graphite pencils. Used to do a lot of artwork when I was a kid. I lost my hands in the First Gulf War. These prosthetic hooks get the job done, but I miss my opposable thumbs. Here is your picture.

Po Tolo took the picture, pondered it, then rolled it up and put it in the sleeve of his robe. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at my hands, blinked at my hooks, looked up at me, and smiled in that way only he could, and left. A few days later someone had slid a rough recreation of the picture under my door. There was something written on it:

We are all relatives. Grandfather and grandmother gave us much. Some of us have paws, some of us have hands, some have talons. Celebrate what you are given and you will learn to use your gifts in surprising ways.

I hung the sketch on the wall in my office. The smudges and pawprints almost blurred the signature, but it is still clear:

To Screaming Eagle: Fly High.
With love, Flowdowg.


Lust, Love, Loss, & Epilogue
By
The Rhino

These four poems chronicle the stages of an intimate relationship. Naturally, each represents an actual incident of lust, love, loss, and epilogue. Aligned with my comments for my second piece, these poems served to handle feelings that bubbled up in the throes of the most basic aspect of life--the Creative arising in the form of sex. It is my hope that since virtually everyone has gone through at least the first two stages, readers may be able to relate. The post-script piece seems to be a work in progress and what I felt to be a finality is really just another step on the unfolding path. Perhaps my next piece will be on the state of pissocity, (low grade irritation).


Lust
Freedom In the Bush
Joshua Tree National Park, CA

Breaking sunset
Sacral chakra orange
Fueling my creative source
Sky of hazy beige
My soul flies to see the sun
Still waiting for my ride

Sweet, succulent, seedy, bushes
Seductive, bright red flowers
Perched on slender spires.
Fear not! They won’t prick
But they will give a roost.
The reception line is sweet.
Welcome home, somebody loves you.
Don’t let me escape my destiny.
I am free in the bush.
She is so kind.
She won’t let me go.
With her flowers and stickers
And her unpredictable shapes and moods.
I am a captive of the love bush


Love
She Gives It to Me
(for the Palaver)
Santa Monica, CA

My soul needs a flushing.
Some old stuff is stuck deep in the super-unconscious.
Where is the metamucil of the soul?

Currently in an intense and committed relationship
And I am discovering the material that was “processed” long ago.
Where was it hiding?
Some how the heat of the union is calling out
neurotic glitches that have been in hiding.

We dance around my reactivity to her reactivity.
We are getting better.
These days instead of an all out break up that lasts days,
We simply go into hiding and fondle that sensitive spot.
She gets quiet and cries.
I get frustrated and cry.
And then we both cry for help.
At $150 per hour we make sure to leave happy and renewed, resolved, and restored.

Now, I’ve got a thing about wasting money, I don’t like it.
For me getting counseling is an investment.
I need a return.
We have the best therapist.
He works hard.
Gets down on his knees imploring us to appreciate each other.
I think that must contribute to convincing her that I am for real.
I wonder if she would be happier with a ring.
It would sure be cheaper.

Do you know what $600 per month gets in the marketplace of professional “relationships?”
This is my proof that men, at least this man, are not completely driven by supermodel looks and young vixens.
The heart is a stronger attraction.
My heart seeks connection, understanding, partnership and communion.
When I think of my queen the sun shines and my soul is home.
If it takes $600 per month, it is a good deal.
My materialistic friends can’t get that from the escort service.
To paraphrase her mother, ‘this girl gives it to me.’


Loss
Telling the Truth That Sets ME Free
Venice, CA

My baby’s gone!
She done left me high and raw.
The world knows and everyone has a comment.

Outrage from the gardener
Insight from the shrink
Support from my bud
Analysis from my brother in law
Maybe from a practitioner
Frustration from my older brother-mentor
Optimism from my street vendor friend.
And me I fall into the love pit where you can’t see the bottom or the top.

BOGUS! She, me, love, relationships, L.A., the church and YES---
God! Dammit! The thousand names of Allah and Ram.
Rumi you lucky twirling mystic.
Leary you psychedelic trickster.
Lennon you dreamer.
Marley you 11 baby mama propagator.
Rajneesh you ‘free’ lover.
Muktananda you devotee user.
Beckwith you agape love surrenderer.
Pollack you expressing drunk.
Ginsberg you howling ommer.
Jesus you crying martyr.
Gautama you mindful fatso.
Erhard you used car salesman who got it.

All of y’all.
Talking your way into smug self conning and
then having the chutzpah to hype it.
Worse than the doctor who promises a cure and then charges when you don’t.
We are talking peoples’ hearts, dreams, souls.

A common line runs through all of y’all:
‘Know the truth and the truth will set you free.’
Well, the truth is you don’t know the way.
And if you do then it is for you, not me.
In Jamaica they say, ‘back off screwface.’
Bob Dylan said it best, ‘don’t follow leaders, watch your parking meters.’
And to paraphrase the Who, ‘I fooled myself again.’


Epilogue
Another Stranger in the Fair of Promises
Santa Monica, CA

Cold and distant day near the ocean waves
Sand blows a chill as she did today
Checking the fair of vendors of original;
Body lotions, African masks, chiropractic, tango, juicing, salvation, oxygen, and
Her POTTED plants

Painful, slow extrication from an impossible fit
Left us bones in the desert;
Bare, dry and dead
Nothing to chew on
Nothing to smile about
Nothing to wax nostalgic
Best left in the attic with those other relics
The spirit has made its transition leaving bones
Brought down from their hiding place
Just old bones, bare bones
Bones of lost hopes, love, desire, dreams, dependence, fantasy, projection and illusion

Today, after 180 days is the day
The day to see what survives in the rubble

Passing one booth of dreams and then another
Til I reach.
Til we reach. Til we arrive.
My words are light, cool, and bland
Her words are jocular, cool, and banal
As I feared
As I anticipated
As I welcomed
Who is this woman who was my queen?
Who is this apparition who can’t even look at me?
Where did the old story go?
A program that rarely played clearly
A series that embodied fantasy projection
By souls who yearned for
authentic, real, soulful, veracious, communion,
oneness

Dead more than 180 days, so dead that
even Jesus wouldn’t lift a hand for
this stinky, decayed confabulation
It is good to see the corpse and
smell its stench, ugliness, and deadness
Where there once was life, now there is
No love,
No feeling,
No attraction,
No spirit,
No interest,
Not a friend, less than an acquaintance, without
even enough juice to be an enemy
Just another stranger in this fair of promises


SECTION 4:
In the End Was the Beginning
Emaginate 1


Inspiration, Collaboration, then Dissemination
by
The Rhino

A dark and dreary day at the local artists’ café and the free lance denizens pass through as the Ravendove and I dive into documents and files. Outside an aging troubadour appears on his bike, with white man dreads, and his guitar. Pulling out paper and herb he rolls a fat cigarette, then fires up and shares with a young compatriot. Strumming his guitar with a sign on the case soliciting tips, his Creative is here and now. For me, it requires coaxing words on to the computer screens, compiling those words, editing those words, formatting files for publication, and delivering the package to you, the reader.

Inspiration, collaboration, work, product, life lessons, creativity all emerged and then merged in this project. It has been a winding and twisting road leading now to completion. A physical trip can be solo, with a companion, or in a group. Each offers different rewards of inner and outer growth and experience. In actual travel a solo trip leads to new connections and much introspection. Traveling with a companion can bring tensions and profound bonding. A trip with a group of three has been very satisfying in my experience. The strengths and weaknesses of the individuals stimulate variety and balance. In this creativity journey we started out as a collective of three and ended a partnership of two. Along the way we encountered bumps and grinds in the road. When we lost one of our members, it totally changed the dynamic and forced a new strategy for continuing the work. The momentum of the threesome kept the project on track and avoided conflicting work styles in favor of the collective. As collaborators we needed to construct new systems to reach the finish line. We opened the door to the Creative and it demanded flexibility in order to continue the work. Stepping into this adventure necessitated following a path without a map. Taking one step at a time and seeing only as far as the next step.

Our journey began as an inquiry into marketing original, creative projects through the constantly shifting sands of the internet. The premise behind the project was that in the modern media artists can find and reach their tribe, their niche, their market and grow an audience. So, this ending is really the beginning of the next phase of the project. Bringing it out to the world, literally from Santa Monica to Sudan, from Exxon to the 212 Café, from Jamal Wilkins in L.A. to Tim Van der Fliet in Amsterdam.

The idea emerged out of a meeting of the Rhino and the Ravendove with a mutual friend, the Techno Mystic at a local Starbucks on how to do a podcast. The stimulating conversation led to a follow up meeting for sharing some of our work. There was a lot of energy and the Techno Mystic suggested we pull together and do a collective product marketed solely through the internet. The Rhino and the Ravendove enthusiastically signed on for the digital express. Not using a map, GPS, or guide we decided to strike out and see where it led.

What happened? What did we learn? Where are we going now?
Lesson #1, Put out an SOS and trust in the Creative
Early on in the process facing an agreement to the collective, I felt pressure. What can I write about? Staring at the computer and reviewing the past week, I remembered an interesting experience in San Diego and from that wrote the Kook & Creativity. Fearing approbation from my colleagues and myself, I put a call out to the Creative and it responded.
Lesson #2, Be receptive to colleagues’ useful feedback.
Later, we were doing mutual critiques of each other’s work and one of the collective mentioned the tone of one of my poems. Initially, I recoiled and upon reflection agreed with his insight on an emotional topic I was too close to see.
Lesson #3, Those that start the journey with you may not be there at the end.
After about three months, during which time we wrote and edited the pieces, it was time to prepare for publishing. At this point the Techno Mystic missed a meeting. Repeated emails and phone calls yielded no response. We (the Rhino and the Ravendove) were at a crossroads. The collective of three was now down to a collaborative of two.
Lesson #4, The mission is more than any of its parts.
A decision was needed, do we wait for him to come around, do we shelve the whole thing, do we edit his works, or do we push on without him and his work? Incompletions can leave one wondering and clutter up the mind. And waiting can linger on until the juice is dried up and without power. We elected to carry on with our mission. It had become greater than the sum of its parts. It was more than our self-centered ‘pieces.’ I demanded completion.
Now, at the end of this written project is the beginning of the marketing of the work. The incubation from inception in August 2010 til the birth and publishing of the work is just step one. Step Two is also fraught with the unknown. Will both of us make it through this phase? Will it be totally on line? Or also use tried and true forms such as flyers and speaking engagements. Who is in our tribe or niche? How do we find and contact them? Is this a springboard for more creative collective projects? Do we want to monetize with ancillary products such as audio cds, t-shirts? Is there a place down the road where new collaborators contribute to the project? DON’T KNOW. And as the mystics teach, ‘knowing you don’t know is the beginning of awakening.’


Most Portem
by
The Ravendove

When I met with The Rhino and The TechnoMystic I had no intention of creating a book or any kind of project. They were meeting to talk about podcasting, with Rhino particularly interested in the ‘how to’ technology of it all. At that meeting, TechnoMystic talked about a project/experiment that would test the waters of creativity and marketing. The irony is that at the end of this journey, Technomystic is nowhere to be found.

Such is the nature of creativity. You have an idea, you make plans, dive in, and the results are…different. Perhaps if everything turned out exactly as you planned it, then that was a recipe, but it is certainly not experimental or creativity.

Sure we had structure, an outline, meetings, bullet points. This was wicker for weaving cauldrons to hold the creative, imaginary stuff we poured into it. When the heat of completion gets turned up the cauldron overflows, springs leaks, and sometimes cooks leave the kitchen.

Creation is an exercise in discipline, structure, wild-abandon, rule-breaking, stamina, and letting go. It’s discovery, finding out what you are made of. It is an act that carries you to yourself, holding up a mirror saying, ‘See the beauty, see the flaws?”
I saw mine. Where I excel: free form, unencumbered imagination. And where I exile; completion, willing to share my art, my work with the masses and the few.

That’s why collaboration is crucial. The quarterback doesn’t block, the running back doesn’t always pass. The team takes over where the individual’s skill set ends.
∞
There’s a sadness here within me. I think about the Fellowship of the Ring. Everybody didn’t make it. Even though they began with resolve and a swell of music in the score, they all didn’t make it. Not everybody does, and I get that theoretically, but my spirit, looking for a missing smile and not seeing it at the finish, mutters a prayer. I don’t know why he didn’t finish. I’m sure he had good reasons. Does it matter in the end? Not really. The project goes on, and that brings me a sense of peace, especially when I think about how often I wanted to quit or let it slip into the sticky enticing goo of boredom and PAD: Perpetual Almost Doneness.

I like to wander. Or as someone once said, I like to wonder while I wander. I find gems and ugly truths like I’m a devoted Novelty Junkie. The ‘devoted’ part gives it a sacred twist, like a crucifix hanging on the neck of a wet rat. What I’m not saying is, I get bored easy and don’t like to complete things. I’m sure I’m not the only one. Just feels like it sometimes. I think I’m going to end here, feeling open, incomplete, and not knowing what else to say except “I came, I Saw, Created.”

SUGGESTED MEDIA LIST
Booth, Eric. The Everyday Work of Art: Awakening the Extraordinary in Your Daily Life. I Universe, 2008

Keyes, Ralph. The Courage to Write: How Writers Transcend Fear. Henry Holt Co. 1995

Mailer, Norman. The Spooky Art: Thoughts on Writing. Random House, 2004

Moore, Thomas. Dark Nights of the Soul. Gotham Books, 2004

Moore, Thomas. Writing in the Sand: Jesus and the Soul of the Gospel. Hay House, 2009

Moore, Thomas. A Life at Work: The Joy of Discovering What You Were Born to Do.
Broadway Books, 2008

Osho. Creativity: Unleashing the Forces Within You. St. Martin’s Griffin, 1999
Ueland, Brenda. If You Want to Write: A Book About Art, Independence, and Spirit. Bottom of the Hill Press, 2008

Sher, Gail. One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers. Arkana, 1999

Film: Curtiz, Michael (Director). Casablanca. Warner Brothers, 1942

BIOS
Ran ‘Rhino’ Klarin

Exploring and facilitating the Creative in all of us is the Rhino’s mission. Born and raised in Los Angeles, he completed a thirty year career in education and now devotes himself to service of the arts. Recently, he discovered his hidden, innate creative self that wanted to emerge and began to explore it in poetry, music, painting, and spoken word. In all of his works there is a bare bones honesty, toughness and sensitivity that has earned him the alias, the Rhino. He is committed to supporting others (especially older adults and teenagers) in finding and developing their own creativity and does so through his podcasts, salons, essays and poetry. His podcast with renowned multi-discipline artist, Adwin David Brown, can be found at www.rhinoravendoveriffs.podbean.com. They also facilitate creativity workshops called Expression Session More of Rhino’s poems can be found in is volume, Expression Is Liberation: Self, Sex, Society, and Spirit. . For his blog on creativity for older persons check www.liviingthedreamdeferred.blogspot.com.


Adwin David Brown, ‘the Ravendove’

Adwin David Alexander Brown aka the Flowmasta is an award winning poet and multi-media artist and explorer of the Imagination. “I was a shy, quiet, introverted kid with a vivid, active imagination. I understand the allure of creativity and the fear of being judged. My Walks with Flow have taken me from recording artist, to children’s health program designer, Native American flute whisperer, classroom teacher, creative education consultant, creativity coach, writer, and Imaginaut. For more info: www.adwindavidbrown.com.


GIVING THANKS & PRAISE

The Ravendove
is grateful

Big Ups and Gratitude to that elusive closer-than-my-breath source of wonder, The Flow. To The Rhino, my collaborative, cagebreakin’ cohort: your commitment to getting things done is unbreakable. Thank you for the encouragement and keeping my feet to fire. To Mr. and Mrs. Brown who let me draw on the walls (okay, sometimes), and jam in the living room with a four piece band. To my daughter, Nia, who teaches me patience, how to listen, and reminds me to keep the child within me alive. And to my beloved Lonia, whose fierce love yells into the tomb and calls out the creative man who has, once again, faked his own death. Finally, to you, the ImagiNative who answers the call to create, unconform, and blaze trails through dark caves and high clouds. This flow’s for you.


The Rhino

Teachers, guides, supporters on the journey all deserve ‘plenty’ gratitude and praise. And above all I salute the Creative which grows in and as me every time I put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, and brush to canvas. Awakening to the power we all share is the Gift. It is always available at no cost, indeed it is always on. In this particular endeavor I give thanks to the context that emerges when two or more are gathered. I salute the original advocate of context in my life, Werner Erhard, whose est training set the foundation for the ensuing thirty plus years. Much respect to Rev. Michael Beckwith of the Agape’ church who celebrates everyone he meets. In this specific container, I hail my colleague, friend, and co-cagebreaker, Adwin ‘the Ravendove.’ Adwin has consistently pointed to the next iteration in this digital creativity hurricane. Finally, my sincerest thanks to everyone who has read one of my poems, essays, and blogs; from Ms. Long in sixth grade to YOU. Everyone and everything counts in this world and it is all grace.
One Love

Impressum

Texte: Rhino Ravendove
Bildmaterialien: Rhino Ravendove
Lektorat: Rhino Ravendove
Übersetzung: Rhino Ravendove
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 06.02.2012

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