Mare

renegade
ceramic, 2008
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POEM-

Instructions for living a life.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

– Mary Oliver
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I love her so much I feel ok calling her “Mare.”

Well..

I am paying attention all right..

Paying attention to my tired skin and psyche as I shift abodes once again.

I am astonished by the friends I have in my life who are here, shoring me up and ‘re-membering’ my phantom limbs which now are adrift in their own orbit it seems.

I am astonished I still have the curiosity and capability to keep waking up and donning my favorite red lipstick as I re-enter the world to see what lights and shadow I see.

Here I am telling you about it..

Telling you the chessboard intrigues me.

And I still got game.

My Sweet Crushed Angel

"BLUE GIRL"  11 x 11"   m/m

“BLUE GIRL” 11 x 11″ m/m


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You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One.
You have waltzed with great style,
My sweet, crushed angel,
To have ever neared God’s heart at all.

Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow,
And even His best musicians are not always easy
To hear.
So what if the music has stopped for a while.
So what
If the price of admission to the Divine
Is out of reach tonight.
So what, my dear,
If you do not have the ante to gamble for Real Love.

The mind and the body are famous
For holding the heart ransom,
But Hafiz knows the Beloved’s eternal habits.
Have patience,
For He will not be able to resist your longing
For Long.

You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.
You have actually waltzed with tremendous style,
O my sweet,
O my sweet crushed angel.

-HAFIZ

Breakdown Dancing

Most people I know have been entertaining the flu this season.

Or they have been stripped to the bone by the herculean energy and effort it takes to navigate a once-friendly-but-now-fierce world with even a modicum of grace.

My personal trials have come in the guise of the question: “Where the hell am I going to live after March 1 and can I even afford an affordable housing development and how do I do what all this asks of me when I do not feel well?”

Where/what/who is ‘home’ anyway?

My spirit animal is the turtle and I keep learning from her that in the end we all will realize that we must carry our home with us and not do ourselves the disservice of leaning too far into the comfort or beauty or safety of a coveted abode

Because sure as shit- it can be gone in a nanosecond.

Soon I will move out of this gorgeous place I’ve lived in and into a temporary place for a couple weeks, stuff goes into storage then move again to a newly built apartment complex and a space outfitted for the disabled in me.

I have never set eyes on it.

Yet this is where I will be.

There are little deaths every day.

Once I felt free.

And now am beholden and often feel too transparent to my supportive family.

Privacy has gone by the wayside.

We are all negotiating this new territory that is ragged and whipped up with instantaneous dirt-devils appearing out of nowhere.

We are all full of grit and grime

Because it is happening so fast

And our parkas and bullet-proof vests are in some closet

Forgotten

Because we have been mercifully complacent

Until now.

We lost that privilege.

I crave a strong drink with an umbrella

And possibly a cigarette to pose radically with.

Anything to make the rock tumbler get to the reveal of the gemstones

When before they weren’t worth a second look.

I like the rock tumbler metaphor:

It takes grit and friction and steady time to transform an algae-crusted nothingness pebble

Into an agate anybody might even want to EAT, it’s sheen and beauty attract us so..

I think it is this way in the ‘breakdown’ times:

GRITTY and TUMBLING and SEEMINGLY ENDLESS and GREY and ORDINARY

Somehow opens into clarity.

It happens every time.

But seldom in OUR time….

Pesky time…

Underbelly

10_Underbelly_2
“UNDERBELLY”, 2008, ceramic, 14 x 6 x 3″
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If you look closely at this sculpture you can see hundreds of little hook-shapes resting in what, for me, is a boat.

It really is a self portrait.

I remember the day I made it thinking of myself as a boat floating quietly on a smooth lake during a moonlit night.

I wanted to pull the light down into my dark.

The dark.

I am familiar with the dark.

I’ve befriended it over time.

The hook-shapes in the piece are testament to my desire to glean.

My tendency to harvest.

I love this piece.

The underside is a world unto itself.

Pocked here, smooth there..

And the fundamental shape of an egg.

Fragile. Meant to be broken. Giving birth. Then discarded.

I am that.