Acts Creative Week 1 : Keith Kelly

Dr. Keith Kelly, Music Faculty, performing at the Center for Performing Arts

Dr. Keith Kelly, Music Faculty, performing at the Center for Performing Arts

My first week of consciously committing a creative act each day was spent mostly prone, recovering in my bed from hernia surgery.  What a way to start the summer!  Ha!!! So here are some thoughts, followed by some creative work.

C U R I O S I T Y  /  P E R S P E C T I V E
These two things guide my creative practice. "Why is that?  What is that?  How is that?" are questions that bounce around my mind all day.  When I find myself centering, focusing on the act of creation, the first step for me is to (re)discover something about which I'm curious.  As I start to develop why/what/how a thing/idea is, as I get sense for the "thingness" of a thing, the most obvious or most common version is the ledge I am trying to jump from.  If this is why/what/how of this thing, what elements change by shifting my perspective? 

In these moments of approach is where taste - vision - my attempt make the strange more visible - come to bear.  It is only the through turning the prism of thought/ideas/action that something is created; only in doing is the (new?) thing made real.  

W E E K  O N E 
Though I don't fancy myself to be a poet, especially given all of the great word-people I know, my first modality of expression was on paper.  These are three selections from what I did this week while laying in bed, looking out onto an unseasonably/unreasonably pleasant Phoenix May.

From time to time
Red western edges, 
Burnt corners of a tree,
Punched through with gray/blue circles.

Sounds gather closer as
The ice cream truck passes 
One last time.

Five kisses, night dada.

Birds call back and forth, 
A crescendo of clack-click-clack.
A tiny reminder of the seasons close.

Now green/black leaves, 
shadowed.  A slow lull of
Light, a sigh, a slow smile

Learning to love slowly -
to understand the way she is, how she cares,
what catches her eye, and how she breaks - is the only path available.

Her house was ruled by fire and
bits of that childhood smolder 
still - in the wild, remote corners.

When the burn takes over 
and a layer of char appears, 
what first sticks eventually lets go.  

Only after a rain
Nothing grows on the road.
It must be on the edges of certainty,
Someplace wild and dangerous.