Some say the purest death is to be ravaged alive by beasts — a final communion with creation and instinct. I could give myself to the lions as red men gave their flesh with joy to birds of prey, a feast laid high on offering altars of pine, their bodies rising bite by bite to fill the mouth and longing arms of god. And if I should die on African soil at the pawing of tigers or men, I pray the ants will piggyback my sun-pressed crumbs across each undulation of the ancient and bare breasted earth and leave me soul to soil, to nurse the hungry wild and mingle with the stars.
When he called to say he’d be home early, an hour away at most, she hurriedly grabbed the signs of her weekend with passion: the voluptuously hot-colored glass, (a spontaneous deviation from her usual blues), the achingly sharp tools … the milky white adhesives, the markers (you are MINE!), the ubiquitous remnants of joy left strewn across the table, the chairs, the floors, her clothes… the Tears for Fears, the Prince, the Elton.
Closet closed now, the sweep of the vacuum, the stash of memories now buttoned up, but only a wisp away from tomorrow’s studio time.
Some days the wind is so merciless that the few birds venturing out hasten in their flight, cursing the rougher movements, the lack of food, the strain of wings.
Some days the sand blows so briskly that it stings, minuscule dots of quartz and glass co-mingling with the sharper air that pulls my breath away.
Some days seem ripe for staying in and lolling here and there on softer sofas than this.
Yet some days lay splendidly before us, mingling breath and sea and quartz into our dreams.
It’s been a busy, busy week! Our show opens in six days, and we’re fine-tuning, re-tuning, extra-tuning, and then the ubiquitous “starting over.” Today I’m hoping to get a few things “glued down”, and I mean that not only figuratively, but quite literally.
It started with an order of lovely fabriano paper, which of course made the rounds of a few countries before getting to Listowel, even though it was listed as “in stock” just a few counties up the road, so supposedly already in Ireland. But it finally arrived and it’s gorgeous. When you’re displaying poetry, it’s nice to have great paper, right?
And then came play time — which poems to choose, shall I add backgrounds, is my handwriting good enough? I took a valiant stab at a saucy alternative, but couldn’t find any locally or even semi-locally (this is why they say “plan ahead — WAY ahead”), so I moved to Plan 54 and finally made it work.
Then of course there’s the sizing. I want it big. I want it big, thick, deckle-edged and able to hold thousands of thoughts and considerations and magical ideas and sleepless nights and heartbreaks and memories and centuries past and future.
Now I just need … … … … maybe a tiny little nap.
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland, Day 22
Fluff my garden
Sweet pink.
Rustle me til all my pollen whirls
And let me water you
With sticky sweetness
Top to toe
In the dew-wet morning.
Wild
Flowers.
Pam Goode Writes 