art is about life / life is about art

the little fighter

I believe persistence is a gift.

It’s a talent.  And I know that I have it.

Sometimes, I think it’s just the caffeine. But with how many people in this world drink coffee, and how few end up being like me, I doubt it. I know I have an uncanny ability to pick myself up and re-orient to the goal, and try again. And try again. And try again. And eventually win.    Sometimes I feel like it’s a strange trait.  Like other people wonder how I keep going and so do I.  But I rely on it, to win. I can outlast anyone.  I can re-create myself and re-appear, and eventually you’ll give up or quit, but I won’t.

Years ago, I found a purpose.  I had taken on a new job, and I was challenged to do something that seemed very unnatural to me—talk to people I didn’t know.   I had to come face to face with my own fear, and drag it, kicking and screaming, to the ground, or I would be faced with failure.  In that first trembling attempt, and second, and third, I needed something to grab onto.  So I dug deep, and I finally found this rock, like the core of the Earth. It was unyielding. When you push against it, it just pushes back. It won’t ever break.  That purpose, when I’m backed against a wall, is what I lean against.

My teachers and other kids used to tell me I was sensitive. It’s true. I’m an artist, and artists can sense many things.  But I think sometimes, sensitivity is confused with weakness.  Wearing your heart on your sleeve, is not seen as a trait of a fighter or a winner.  But I’m both.  I can get disappointed, or my pride can be hurt, and you CAN hurt my feelings.  But– I keep showing up.  I fight back and I make it my life’s mission to beat the crap out of whatever adversity has presented itself.


I was talking to my husband about it today and I was describing it.  I called it “the little fighter.”     He said, you know, that little fighter has another name.

“What?” I asked.   He said, “Lane.”



I believed in you. 

Monuments built out of sand-

Crumbling in the tide. 


There’s a space between these sheets of life.

And shards of aching wind blow through it.

I wonder today what I can do to avoid that space.

The sheets billow with crystallized moans and cries – memories


It was a mutiny. They shot me.

Are you still there?

Where are the heart shaped stones we threw? 

Do you keep them in glass boxes?

I wonder what I shall do today to avoid the space.

Shall I sing or

Shall I scream or

Shall I tear into you with rhyme

Shall I commit my favorite crime?

Shadows follow me. 

So I follow them back. 

And I find you weeping.

Was I the harlot and you the widow?                                                           

Shadows following…

What shall I do to avoid the space? 

Shall I dance? 

Shall I burn papers?

 Shall I draw pictures of death?

The sheets rip back and

It leaks blood and tears and words.

And shards of aching wind blow through it.

I wonder what there is to do to avoid that space.    

Are you Pandora’s Box?

Sheets billowing…

Sweet little cries and thick rasping screeches pass through


It was a mutiny.  

They shot me.

The bullet went all the way through and pierced somebody’s curtains.

Are you the hurricane or am I? 

Lane Katherine Eddington
                                                                                                                                   September 10, 1997

Ordinary Madness

Walking through a cacophony of


On a sunny Saturday

With no particular intentions—

I come upon truth

Within the random;

Walking between words, between sentences

Weaving a conversation

Through whole city blocks of

Swarming pedestrians-

It occurs to me that this

Is just ordinary madness.

Just inconsequential chaos.

The fact that we can read it-

See through the mobs like mathmeticians-

That we can understand the


In something like infinity,

That we can conversate across

The ragingly diverse-

This incomprehensible circus-

And bring order to the tragic-

Doesn’t make us delirious;

It makes us magic.

Copyright Lane DiBlasi 2017

for Paris

I haven’t cried for a long time.

I’ve buried these colors, these emotions, under other colors

Like hiding green inside blue…

Hiding grief in a bored “I’m okay”

Hiding love in a “How’ve you been?”

I haven’t said my piece, haven’t bled through this

Band aid called a smile…

But today I woke up and the world’s misery was

Swimming through my veins like black dye,

Coloring all my moments…

What if what people think is “Depression”

Is really Love, but love for the world, and you think

It’s background noise, just static, it’s just the sound of nature or

The highway

But really, it’s people crying and

It’s not in your back yard, no, it’s somewhere in another country

Where you had no idea your heart was tied up….

It isn’t even on your continent, but see

Emotions aren’t in the brain, they aren’t tied to you like wires,

This is the way YOU feel, part of your spiritual grounding—

We weep inside when we don’t even know why

It’s the people we forgot we cared for,

The brothers and sisters we lost, eons ago, when we split into these small colonies of


But without remembering that those souls are part of our soul, we think,

“This is just another gloomy day.”

Or “maybe I need medication”

To take these blues and greens and turn them


To stop our hearts from feeling what they are missing—

To cement these walls

That hold us

In solitude.



Lane D.

November 16 2015



Excuse Me

Excuse my loudness

Excuse my breath.

Excuse my hem,

And my bitterness.

Excuse my makeup

And my split ends.

Excuse my obsolete


Excuse my presence,

And my insight.

Excuse my staying

Up all night.

Excuse my laughter

Excuse my screams

Excuse my vivid

And violent dreams

Excuse my age

And my ignorance

My starlit sky-

My decadence.

Excuse my passion

Excuse my art

Excuse me constantly

Falling apart

Excuse my crying

Excuse my pain

Excuse my thunder,

And all my rain.

Excuse my soul

And forgive my eyes

Excuse my sunshine

And my blue skies.

Excuse my inflections

That tear you apart.

Excuse my obsession-

Excuse my heart.

I’m sorry for standing

So dreadfully near.

I’m sorry I love you.

I’m sorry I’m here.

I’ve made my excuses,

But still, I persist.

I can’t keep pretending

That I don’t exist.

Lane DiBlasi. Copyright 2017


Between the lines of insanity and sanity lie tiny threads of knowingness

They float like wisps of cotton in the wind, of my mind

And sitting there on one is something you said to me

Which I grab and hold, in its tiny frailness, and keep it near…

Put it in a pouch which I carry around my neck

For protection against villainous worlds of people

Who would undo my joy —

This tiny sparkle, a simple statement

Is the hardest diamond truth and laughs off lasers like the lightning of God

Your words to me were only brief,

A sigh, as in the midst of sleep, almost a dreamed thought in the night…

So quiet, unobtrusive as a lark, perched on the highest branch of life

It reached my ears like caverns, where one whisper would awaken much

That’s parched with silence, listening…

Until the very heart is dry and cracked and cannot beat but waits

With one full glass of tears to cry if one sound could be heard.


And then the roar of that one sound

Echoing through, to bring

An avalanche of life


You simply said…
”I love you.”



Lane DiBlasi

January 15, 2004



Photo by Toy Elephant Photography

when you don’t speak


This sofa is the color of complacency.

The room is the temperature of failure.

Your eyes speak volumes of empty white pages

Books on the shelf, by the hundreds, screaming through sealed mouths

Your hands fold themselves in a secret

How can I understand you when you won’t talk?

How can I make it rain when you keep oxygen imprisoned in a glass jar?

How can I love you when love is made of truth, and you take the Fifth Amendment?

You simply stopped, like a period stopping my sentence.

Like an unsubscribe request-

Unable to Forward, No One Lives Here, Cease and Desist.

I am broken by your inability to finish this line

I am silenced by your silence

I speak into a glass room where even the sun needs a password to enter,

And that password is buried

Under a nondescript expression

An invisible cloak of pretense,

A hundred miles from civilization

Inside emptiness

At the bottom

Of the world.

Lane Eddington

Copyright 2017

elisabeth donaldson

the puzzle screams incomplete

rocking chair rocks unamused by my snoring and the cat purring like a small

steam engine in training

my coffee is cold and dark my thoughts


like a derelict I’m dreaming in pornographic colors

why all this madness in the morning, I was supposed to be writing a letter to my conscience

to say I’m sorry for the way I treated you last night

sorry for the way I shouted into the stratosphere

I was drunk, or my watch was on backwards… one of the two

centuries pass and I’m still asleep waiting for

the girl to come back who

I was? and she? was never meant to be me

and the boy who held my love in a paper cup

drowned in my dream

but this is just a piece of my intricate eccentricity…

dust compiles

but the puzzle screams incomplete



November 18, 2000


Photo: Elisabeth Donaldson photographed by Ruth Chapa


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