“Nothing human is finally calculable; even to ourselves we are strange.” ~ Gore Vidal, from Julian

Max Ernst Humbolt Current 1951-2
“Humbolt Current” (1951-2, oil on canvas with woodgrain)
by Max Ernst

Two for Tuesday: Deconstruction

Tuesday night. A bit warmer today, near 80.

Of course I had this post ready but forgot to schedule it. What’s new, right?

I spent the day with Olivia, and took her to Wal-Mart to get her a truck because she’s been taking a truck shaped magnet off the fridge and trying to roll it across the floor. Too funny. Anyway, when I asked her what color truck she wanted, she said yellow. Bear in mind she just turned two in July, and yes, I am bragging. So we left the store with a yellow Hot Wheels truck, a red fire truck from one of her favorite shows, Paw Patrol, and a small yellow car with a monkey in it.

Oh, and a new jacket, shoes, a jeans skirt, a sweatshirt, pajamas, and some kind of funky Rapunzel castle that makes a cool sound that I found on the clearance aisle for $2. Oh and then there was the kiddy makeup with lipstick and nail polish. Of course I blamed it all on her. Too much fun.

Anyway, hope you enjoy the selections.

More later. Peace.

                   

Arthur Boyd Blue Ram Balancing Nebuchadnezzar 1968 oil on canvas
“Blue Ram Balancing Nebuchadnezzar” (1968, oil on canvas)
by Arthur Boyd

Tear it Down

We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
But going back toward childhood will not help.
The village is not better than Pittsburgh.
Only Pittsburgh is more than Pittsburgh.
Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound
of racoon tongues licking the inside walls
of the garbage tub is more than the stir
of them in the muck of the garbage. Love is not
enough. We die and are put into the earth forever.
We should insist while there is still time. We must
eat through the wildness of her sweet body already
in our bed to reach the body within the body.

~ Jack Gilbert

                   

Paul Jenkins Eyes of the Dove colon Lucife Life 1959 oil on canvas
“Eyes of the Dove: Lucife Life” (1959, oil on canvas)
by Paul Jenkins

You with the Crack Running Through You

I can seep in, I can dry clear.

And yes it would still be there.
And no I couldn’t hold you forever.

But isn’t it drafty at night,

alone in that canyon
with the wind of the mind

dragging its debris—

I wanted to put
my mouth on you

and draw out whatever toxin . . .

—but I understand. There are limits
to love. Here is a flower

that needs no water.
It can grow anywhere,

nourished on nothing.
And yes.

 ~ Kim Addonizio

                   

Music by Agnes Obel, “Avenue”

 

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“It’s often said that we’re haunted by memories. Sometimes I think it’s the other way around: we’re the ones who do the haunting.” ~ Will Boast, from “Where It All Went Wrong”

#6 UTA Flight 772 Desert Memorial 16.864841, 11.953808 Sahara Desert, southern Ténéré of Niger
This image strike me as being incredibly poignant

“I think you wear the dusk like a thin veil. I think
your voice rises from the deepest caverns, your touch
settles like the darkness I try to hide inside.” ~ Richard Jackson, from “Self-Portrait As Window”

Arthur Boyd Nebudchadnezzar, Rainbow and Waterfall 1967 oil on canvas
“Nebudchadnezzar, Rainbow and Waterfall” (1967, oil on canvas)
by Arthur Boyd

In the first part of the dream, my mother-in-law is dead but she hasn’t been cremated yet because Ann wants to give everyone a chance to say goodbye. By the time we get there, it’s been a week, and I pretend that I do not smell the smell of decay because I do not want Ann to get mad and throw me out. My father-in-law is looking at his coin collection, and I suddenly remember a piece of fabric that my mother-in-law said that I could have. It is an ornate brocade.

In the second part of the dream, my mother is alive when she’s supposed to be dead, and I know that I will have to tell her that she needs to die. She take me to a Chinese restaurant where she knows everyone, and they let her order anything she wants not on the menu. The owner, a tiny Asian woman, takes me back into the kitchen to let me sample desserts. While I am in the kitchen I realize that I will have to tell my mother that she can’t stay. When I go back into the dining room, the place is filled with American tourists. While I was gone my mother went to campus to pick up Brett, and I see that he has gotten a haircut, half mohawk in the front and mullett in the back. I decide not to say anything.

My mother tells Brett to order anything he wants, but he only wants chicken nuggets. I apologize to the owner, who has just cut the head off a very large fish. I look at my mother and realize that she is very tired. She nods to me, and I know that she is ready to go, but I want to stay in the restaurant longer. I want to stay in the company of these people. It feels like home.

                   

Take a look at the story of Dillie the Deer

                   

All Days Lost Days

Living
in and out of the past,
inexplicably
so many things have died
in me.

In and out like a tide,
each tear
holds a tiny hologram.
Even this early
I am full of years.

Here are the little gravestones
where memory
stands in the wild grass,
watching the future
arrive in a line of big black cars.

All days
lost days, in and out of themselves
between dreaming
and dreaming again and half-
remembering.

~ Carol Ann Duffy