Sunday, January 24, 2021

2nd piece from Jungian Art Expression workshop

Big head, little body. Continuing the theme of the relationship of inside/outside with the inside escaping to the outside. Or is it visa versa? 

Saturday, January 23, 2021

3 Monkeys

Took a class today in Jungian Art Expression. And thinking about those who are sick. And not being able to help.

Sunday, January 17, 2021

Last pieces

To Kim Mosley’s “Last Pieces”

The crow who makes a nest of the world looks for colors from the heart left behind on picnic tables or trailed behind careless pedestrians. He flaps down to the grime of a sidewalk and caws in triumph, Here’s a treasure! Memories of sunsets, a scrap of Jamaica turquoise against white sand, a bonfire of bodies shuddering in bed and the dull of oxblood as habit sets in, pencilled love notes, sweat-stained apologies, burnt bridges, frown lines and quirked-up dimples, twigs that scraped against kitchen windows and bedroom blinds, pleading Let me in, I’ll do anything if you let me stay! It’s a midden of a nest, and it steams with the ache of a thousand families, hums sometimes with Happy Birthday, with tears swallowed at Auld Lang Syne and the That’s Our Song of forty different couples. Reproving sniffs, eye-raised ecstasy, malice like a brown slug. A cattle dog’s bark is caught in the corner by somebody’s sob and a whisper It’ll be all right—hang on till I can get there. Once, There’s nothing you can do that would make me not love you—rarest of all and gleaming. People don’t drop those like a crumb from a sandwich. 

Sunday, January 10, 2021

Waves again

 In a sense, “impermanence” and “I will die” are contradictory. That’s why we say there is “no birth and no death.” There is only change. And actually it may be more a continual recreation than it is a slight alteration. You know Lavoisiet’s discovery that mass is neither created or destroyed in chemical reactions. That seems to suggest that “no birth and no death” is not just a pipe dream, but the nature of our world. 

What I’m trying to figure out is who are we, anyway. If none of our physical matter remains after 7 years (I think that is now questioned) then who is Kim? If we’ve been married for 51 years, what (or who?) is it that has been married for 51 years?

I keep making photos and then tearing them up and reassembling them. Sometimes I throw away a scrap because it is too small to work with. I do that with a little sadness. But that scrap gets recycled by the city of Austin into dirt, so not all is lost. 

Saturday, January 9, 2021

In the happiest of seasons...

Numbers 35:17 "Or if anyone is holding a stone and strikes someone a fatal blow with it, that person is a murderer; the murderer is to be put to death." (You might read this as a defense of capital punishment. I don't see it as that. More it is about the inevitability of karma—that our intention is not a defense when we engage in dangerous behavior.)

Sunday, January 3, 2021

More complicated! (

Now To Kim Mosley’s “More complicated!”

The day comes at you.
“Look at me!” it says,
bursting with sunlight and blossom,
making it almost impossible to see
the dirt below the forsythia—
yellow banging at your eyelids—
the pink of tulips, blue of Mexican tile
calling, No, me! Me! I’m the prettiest!

It wakes you up early, the day calling out, hello!
You didn’t really want to sleep, did you?
and keeps you buzzing—a coffee of a day
and three-margarita dance floor jumble in the evening.

When you stumble home at last,
there’s a moment of can I read myself to sleep?
and oh, did I forget ...

But wasn’t it fun, lost in the pretty bauble of the day,
the disco-ball of the night sending
shivers of light over everyone’s makeup?
and just one quiet dream deep in the dark
asking, where have I gone?

Sarah Webb

The Sound of 1 Hand