Gods, Fate, and Knowledge

It is today, and once again, that you find yourself at the end of some wandering. Confronted, face to book spine, with shelves full of knowledge - paralyzed with the apparent "limited" selection. You are fully aware, that when broken down into time segments, there is far too much here to take in in one lifetime.

It is amassed, this knowledge, and in front of you, a hands reach away.

To this, you let destiny take the lead. Closing your eyes, taking two steps to either the right or left (being careful to avoid the ladder), reaching in front of you, thrusting your hand forward until your fingers stub on a spine. Opening your eyes, you survey what fate has brought you: "Modernism and Abstraction." You play with the book, pulling it out slightly, feeling guilty for (honestly) just wanting to put it back.  Not wanting to seem ungrateful, you pull it out and flip through it before putting it back on the shelf.

Closing your eyes again, taking two more steps - to the left - and again thrusting your hand forward, stubbing your fingers with slight, excessive force this time (as if punishment for the lackluster interest in the previous offering), you open your eyes to "Hieronymus Bosch" and know that the Gods of fate are laughing at you.

Tomorrow your finger will surely be in a splint.
[01.04]

The Collector Rediscovered

Edward Gorey's Elephant House

I have nothing but collections. Collections of lines... of studies... of things that would be art - gathering dust on shelves, in corners, in fleeting thoughts too soon to disintegrate. I have nothing but lines of books - empty or incomplete texts, saved for someday when the thoughts might be completed. When the lost become found or rediscovered. I am the elephant house but without shell and shelf - without room or stair. I am incomplete and waiting - for space, for time, inspiration, encouragement. [1.25.04]

Book.List:
Elephant House: Or, The Home of Edward Gorey. Kevin McDermott
You Are Here: Personal Geographies and Other Maps of the Imagination. Katherine Harmon
Squeak Carnwath: Lists, Observations & Counting Squeak Carnwath.

An Exerpt

"A scrap of paper crumpled up and thrown on the studio floor amongst unstretched canvases, on which you stand, pails of pigment - some mixed with clay, the odd saucepan, broken sticks of charcoal, rags, discarded drawings, two empty cups. On the scrap of paper are written two words: FACE and PLACE.

The studio was once a bicycle factory, no? You work here in your painting shoes and clothes. The shirt and trousers were originally striped. Now, like the shoes, they are encrusted with pigment. So I picture you as two people: a man about to ride away on his bicycle and a convict.

However, the only thing which matters, when the day is done, is what lies painted on the floor or leaning against the walls, waiting to be seen the next day. What matters is what the changing night can never quite reveal - the thing to which one is nearest when one fears one has probably lost it."

John Berger, The Shape of a Pocket
. (p. 27)

Stolen Biography of Paper

The Cellar

Finding ones' self masticated and beaten, hoping only to be whole again. Longing for rooted ground and sunshine. Instead left to dry in some dark room in preparation for a life of enclosures. She'd heard the stories but never believed them to be anything other than myth.

Cumulonimbus

To pass the time we choreographed plays, casting characters to be guessed at by those looking from below, shading the one disappointed plant who only seemed to reach further for the sun. Barely discernible whispers of "please move" waft up as I float by. Sounds of others, telling stories of places where no sun exists as they giggle at the ridiculousness of such a thought.

Sustenance

Stretching upward, pleased with the warmth of the sun on my face and the coolness of the ground beneath as I heave and sigh breathing in all that surrounds me. I stretch and wave as a cloud passes over. Please move I whisper, longing once more for the warmth of the sun on my face.

The Sun

It was startling, this giant forcing her fingers into the dirt around my roots, but she brought warmth. It was like the sun but without the light. She said my roots were strong; I'd do well here. "Good Stock," she said, "Good Stock!"

Listening In

There were two of them, walking the garden path with trowels and shovels. I'd heard one say to the other that it was harvest time. I liked to play in the garden, pretending I was the farmer. I'd stick my fingers in the dirt like they did, and in a deep voice I'd say "Good Stock" and then agree with myself, "Yes indeed, good stock!"

The Prophecy

They left. Startled, the birds left, the sound of their wings growing distant and quiet. The Sun disappeared and rough hands pushed me from one side to another. "Harvest time," it said.

Fantasies

Looking upward to the strange, sunless sky which now seems always to be covered in wooden clouds. Please move, I whisper over and over, Please move.

Reprise

I again find myself by the lake, birds playing in the sun-filled sky above, and cool earth beneath me. I hear my own breath as the wind blows through me, pages flapping like birds' wings.