20x20 inches. Oil painting on canvas. An offering from Maya Deren: “myth is the facts of the mind, made manifest in a fiction of matter.” A confessional preamble: to be overly vigilant with all the good and not so ‘good.’ It’s so easy to be young and dazzled by beauty and myth On the back register– a scythe, harvesting, but with clogged discontent. The sluggish reliability of pages turning, traffic signage worming its way Through apple cores and leftover dreams As if linearity were as simple as trimming sidewalk hedges, Euclidean geometry and caesar salad cabbage wedges. To clear the path of one’s life so crisply, As if even ground on an overgrown trail weren’t enough. As if the promise of something sacred and organic, real, weren’t enough. I spend a lot of time spinning around, trying to be clever, Clearing out poor habits in small steps, Not looking over my shoulder for the usual suspects Or triple checking the stovetop, the kettle’s still hot. Tired bones, scorched tongue, tired of letting good ideas rot. Pay attention. Cupboards to be dusted, dirty dishes brushed in the subtle recognition That musings and revelations come in gentle gradients, Quiet effervescence, and sandy floors.
