All posts filed under: Narrative


time travel in white snow records a fresh journey footprints, a story While looking out of my studio window last week, I noticed a few tracks of footprints snaking across my driveway and side yard, after a light but fresh overnight snowfall. I didn’t see imprints from boots or loafers but instead, paths…decisions…time, by the moment. Someone was there. They had a place to go, or someone to greet, or maybe just needed to eat. And they were probably thinking about something, although the subject of that thought is now lost to the ages. But it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that they had a story. © 2018 Joe Blend. All rights reserved.


The stage is quiet. Curtains are closed and lights are low. A sense of anticipation hangs in the air as the conductor takes his place. Behind the scenes, the musicians are assembled in rigid attention. Though always poised to create, the players know the first performance of the day is always the most important. The program lists both well-known and obscure participants but despite varied backgrounds, the conductor’s nerves are steady. The players have performed this piece countless times. It’s therefore expected that the aromatic melodies will be executed to perfection. This is, after all, a symphony. As the conductor surveys the scene one final time, the players occupy their usual locations; their sculpted forms appear somewhat disjointed in their proximity but are clearly bound to each other through their roles. Confidence holding in place, all activity ceases as a brief pause pays tribute to what is about to happen. And then it begins… The first calculated movement of the conductor’s arm summons the opening piece as the metal basket is brought to the front accompanied …

Stale Popcorn and Cotton Candy Dreams | 2-oz. Read | Blog


Within a narrative of stale popcorn and cotton candy dreams stands a small canvas tent. Weathered from disinterest but living nonetheless within the carnival’s subtext, the tent precariously stands at a slight angle as its stained cracks crawl around a mere flap of material that, during a stiff wind, conveys a teasing invitation into a creepy catacomb. It is, without a doubt, a distant cousin to its big-top counterpart. The players—a master and marionette, both relics from a bygone era—sit upon a crumbling stage, ready to gift their performance to an audience of eager eyes and believing minds. Once seated, it’s the assumption of innocence that fuels the comfort of the audience as the man begins to move each of his arms in succession alongside the goofy and playful gestures of the clumsy doll. However, it’s when the doll lets go of the strings and leaps from the lap of her marionette—into the audience and of her own accord—that panic and mayhem set in. The man slumps over, inanimate and staring blankly at the chaos …