I don’t read poetry when I am here. My senses dull and merge into an easy warmth. The safety is cloying.
Today all the windows are open and the house shudders with Santa Ana wind. There is paint under my nails and my hair is getting longer. I am cagey and ungracious in demeanor. I am waiting to be somewhere else.
Making is my one sureness.
hungry for new textures and interactions in these tested and tried materials. how far can i ease them into each other before they resist and seize up. a severe fluidity.
"We forget we’re
till the rain falls
and every atom
in our body
starts to go home."
"If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heartbeat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence."
"Conditioned to ecstasy, the poet is like a gorgeous unknown bird mired in the ashes of thought. If he succeeds in freeing himself, it is to make a sacrificial flight to the sun. His dreams of a regenerate world are but the reverberations of his own fevered pulse beats. He imagines the world will follow him, but in the blue he finds himself alone. Alone but surrounded by his creations; sustained, therefore, to meet the supreme sacrifice. The impossible has been achieved; the duologue of author with Author is consummated. And now forever through the ages the song expands, warming all hearts, penetrating all minds. At the periphery the world is dying away; at the center it glows like a live coal. In the great solar heart of the universe the golden birds are gathered in unison. There it is forever dawn, forever peace, harmony and communion. Man does not look to the sun in vain; he demands light and warmth not for the corpse which he will one day discard but for his inner being. His greatest desire is to burn with ecstasy, to commerge his little flame with the central fire of the universe. If he accords the angels wings so that they may come to him with messages of peace, harmony and radiance from worlds beyond, it is only to nourish his own dreams of flight, to sustain his own belief that he will one day reach beyond himself, and on wings of gold. One creation matches another; in essence they are all alike. The brotherhood of man consists not in thinking alike, nor in acting alike, but in aspiring to praise creation. The song of creation springs from the ruins of earthly endeavor. The outer man dies away in order to reveal the golden bird which is winging its way toward divinity."
Henry Miller, The Time of the Assassins: a Study of Rimbaud
detail of another work in progress. getting in one last afternoon of stillness before all hell breaks loose tomorrow.
after months of drying out this piece of driftwood finally moved it to my studio. not sure what will become of it next but it sure is fascinating.
this summer has been a nourishing pocket of aloneness. seemingly endless hours evaporated with the frenzy of making, destroying, and fumbling through an uncharted process. i am terrified of loving anything as viscerally as i do this isolated making. the clarity quiets me and the longing taunts me. my pride boils up to soothe the raw edges and further insulate me from the reality of vulnerability that follows loving anything. i am barely navigating this chaos of desire and fear and pride and intimacy and delight and destruction that clouds my making.