Spizella was founded on the understanding that we all have unique methods of connecting ourselves to Nature, and these ways of knowing are creative and illuminating and inspiring and vital to protect.
It was a risk of creation for creation’s sake, for the delight of things untethered from that narrow idea of progress. We find ourselves in joyous search of the corners of life in step with Nature. Without art, our relationship to the land would be either arid and simple, or overwhelmingly unknowable.
How do we create a sense of place, a sense of homeland? What are patterns and rhythms only we can explain, colors that bleed and blend when we recall a footprint or the curve of a shell, but words of a hidden language that reminds us our place nestled in the arms of Earth? Spizella is an effort to inspire expression of those languages of thought and color and sound.
by On The Loose
This does not mean blind appraisal, or love without balance. We are interested in every connection point to Nature, every complexity and abstraction and absurdity. This is a space for risk-taking and exploration above all else, a space where honesty is the highest intention.
We hope those who collaborate with us feel mutual respect and inspiration. If that is achieved, Spizella will bloom from the minds of all of you.
D. A. стигматы
Powell to Clark—
My God, more treacherous than I
Rightfully anticipated, nevertheless we
Move forward, Smith recovering and
Jones the opposite, the water
Described as cruel—
Scorpion snake indian man coyote
In brief moratorium at the water
Indeed, the only relief the water
And appears our only path onward
A river running north
I woke up, my throat was burning
Trails of virga fading against the gray
Expectant dirt curling to sand
Stood over Lucifer Falls
Stretch necked herons and kingfishers
Like a stove top, the scene
Flat stone falling and breaking
Against the horsewhip surface of the plunge
From this shallow basin, drinking
Scattering Gerridae by his step
Powell prayed for an end to his wilderness
Honey, Blood, and Marmalade
Autumnal breezes, winds of change
They coat familiar worlds with strange
The brightest greens, the skies of blue
Replaced with colors warm and new
The forest crown begins to glow
Through canopies the colors flow
Like honey, blood, and marmalade
The beauty of the world betrayed
They lay in piles on the ground
The vivid reds, the richest browns
A breath of air, a gust of wind
The empty boughs, the branches thinned
The warm hues swirl around your feet
A sadness full of memories sweet
The world of tones and tinges drains
Leaving cold and empty veins
A Blush of Sea
Smell my father’s workbench on the sea,
Or perhaps see the smell, oaken color,
As daybreak nausea pushes crimson light through my chest
And into absinthian September wind.
My paws tremble.
Fiberglass come to glass on the dash, glass to foam,
and foam to hook.
These hooks I know.
Monofilament clasps feather, deer.
Old bodies left
in the old world, their sheddings further now
than breath dare reckon.
We move along water
a flaunt of fishes and men,
Eddying in ungainly unison
as a bus of schoolchildren along a pot-holed avenue.
But as the menu meagerly shouts the meal,
Our imitations are not herring, nor shad.
Their indigo not so mercurial,
their backs arched without adornments.
A bathymetric teacup is the place
To smell migration.
And I will, when lattices
Of ancient direction and adolescent astonishment
Hiss upon intersection.
My feet remain to the bow, my father the stern.
Southern swells sing without dissonance
I arch, he subsides, twenty years of
Murmuring beneath the transom,
entrancing songs of megalithic daydreams in
lance-sharp water, or perhaps the ochre he once painted upon my vision,
brilliant and gracious and never to fade.
A loon wails.
I have my mother’s eyes.
Green and hazel, a garden caterpillar,
The nape of a warbler
beneath an awning of Clethra.
They are not my father’s.
His blaze the sea light below,
Crownstones of some Ancient of Eternal Azure,
The calm finds these eyes first.
Night has arched away to the west,
Rods of railway-tunnel gold splintering its matrix
as Boreas, the northerner, his task complete,
Lays his head upon the far inlet.
The smells of Sweet Fern and Pitch Pine
fading in a confident light.
My father stares east and my eyes follow,
Sky, with Ocean’s love now steady and plumb,
Unveils her form in the silence
Blushing blue and pale nimbus.
A loon paddles, limning the edge of sea and ether.
I clasp cork. The fabric before us, once ironed
Now whispers heat and lavender and jolts me from half-dreams.
Laminar flow betrays her motion, saxatilis,
Yet her place before the bow I must gather
rather by obligation
to the etchings of old routes,
Roads cobbled by sea-liced scutes,
a Cretacean merchant of scale-strewn death,
Sweetwater of southern marshes come to brush fate with
submerged and gloomy gneiss, as northern a sight
And the boy before her, extolling her dazzling light.