Drawn after reading DHL’s poetry
A snake came to my water-trough on a hot, hot day, and I in pajamas for the heat, to drink there. In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree I came down the steps with my pitcher and must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.
He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom and trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough and rested his throat upon the stone bottom, and where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness, he sipped with his straight mouth, softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body, silently.
Someone was before me at my water-trough, and I, like a second comer, waiting. He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do, and looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do, and flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment, and stooped and drank a little more, being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth on the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me he must be killed, for in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous. And voices in me said, if you were a man, you would take a stick and break him now and finish him off.
But must I confess how I liked him, how glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough and depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless, into the burning bowels of this earth.
Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honored? I felt so honored.
And yet those voices: If you were not afraid, you would kill him! And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, but even so, honored still more that he should seek my hospitality from out the dark door of the secret earth.
He drank enough and lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken, and flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black, seeming to lick his lips, and looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air, and slowly turned his head, and slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream, proceeded to draw his slow length curving round and climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
And as he put his head into that dreadful hole, and as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther, a sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole, deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after, overcame me now his back was turned.
I looked round, I put down my pitcher, I picked up a clumsy log and threw it at the water-trough with a clatter. I think it did not hit him, but suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in an undignified haste, writhed like lightning, and was gone into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front, at which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
And immediately I regretted it. I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act! I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education. And I thought of the albatross, and I wished he would come back, my snake. For he seemed to me again like a king, like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld, now due to be crowned again.
And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords of life. And I have something to expiate: A pettiness.
Archival print 8.5″x11″ Canson Museum Rag
Upon reflection of the general Circus-like experience of house renovation. Full of surprises, a little chaotic, rather loud, always interesting, and it took longer than I thought it should.
Reflecting on new life after this sad year. Gardening is one of my go-to happy-making activities.
36’x48″ Silk on linen, cotton and metallic floss and thread
Explanation of my spelling of “Premenpausal”: I was thinking about an archetypal female experience. Menopause is an opportunity to “pause” as we rethink what it means to be female, and how we, without the very insistent push from hormones, relate physically to the “men” we love.
This morning because I felt the need to be restored to center, I found myself listening to Terry Riley’s “IN C”, and re reading from “Susan McClary “Rap, Minimalism and Structures of Time in Late Twentieth-Century Culture.” in Audio Culture, Daniel Warner, ed, Continuum International Publishing Group, 2004, pp 289 – 298.” (Yes, I guess I am a little geeky when it comes to my reading habits). What struck me, although I am using it out of context, is her phrase “subjective struggle toward triumph”.
Repetition and geometry have helped me “center” (thus avoiding struggle) over my whole lifetime: saying the Rosary, looking carefully at the elegant design of flowers, dancing, taking joy in understanding equations, and being attentive to the comfort I find in the structure of Minimalistic music. The exhaustion from my strong emotional response to the pain and brokenness in society as the sides “struggle toward triumph”, has directed me back to the nurture I find in the cyclic repetition and geometry of the music of Terry Riley.
8.5″x11″ Canson Museum Rag, archival inks
8.5″ x 11″ archival inks on Canon Matt Photo Paper
Sometimes I just can’t take any more “News” This is my painfilled emotional response to the Rayshard Brooks killing.
Canson Matte paper, archival inks 8.5″x11″
Trying to order the chaos in a way that I find more interesting and less painful. That this takes the form of a leaf with suggestions of the organic, reveals my belief that as they say in Jurassic Park, “Life will find a way.”
8.5″x11″ Archival Inks on Canson Museum Rag paper
Some days really are easier than others.