Saturday, July 7, 2018

Ekphrases on an Iron

September 14 2015 
(blind drawing)

11:30-11:35

The Iron is iron, for once.
Cast iron, a bit pocked and
slightly rusty, but shiny at the handle,
and on the bottom (except for a
rash of rust).
It's only 5 inches tall,
and the handle juts out another
3 or so, thickening for grasping, with
criss-cross pattern. There are 2 holes on the inner side.
The handle is split where it joins the
iron, at the bottom.
The handle curves elegantly.



September 15 2015
(blind drawing)

11:39-11:44

Two spots like lichen.
That tantalizing gap
between handle and base.
A raised "7".
This new angle is amazing.
I didn't see the crosshatching yesterday.
The pock marks are beautiful,
crusty, like whole wheat bread.
The handle is black and shiny
as a beetle's back.
Funny how boat-like the shape is.
And how inhuman. There is almost
nothing that makes me think of a body.
Only the body implied by what this is:
a tool, man-made, for Man.



September 16 2015


11:34-11:40

There it is.
That face like a tribal mask,
only a cyclops, drinking with
puckered lips from a bendy straw - 
out of his single eyeball.

This angle reminds me of a stethoscope,
and a door handle, 
and the heavy ring-handles
of our roasting pans at Camp.
But now that there is a face,
finally, these things seem less
important.

Whatever he is staring into, that
black hole in the neck and navel
of a seahorse,
it must be enthralling.
"Drink my tail.
I'll kiss your eye" -
some frightening seduction like that.
Like saltwater taffy, Karl Marx,
Andy Warhol.



11:40 - 11:53

cyclops
stethoscope
sea horse
Andy Warhol

If you look with one eye,
everything is flat
and things far away are more
apparently related to the forefront,
though not in proper
relation.

This kind of seeing
allows us clarity of a kind,
for a short while 
we believe our illusions.

Old wounds, deeply
embedded and/or drifting loosely
(like feathers in air
or delicate fish in deep water)
may become sharp and publicized,
as offensive and vulnerable
as Warhol,
only, monstrous and unnecessary
to others intentionally winking.


September 17 2015



11:51 - 11:57

Flower press
Book weight
Sandwich (panini) maker
Musty wooden rooms, 
arranged as they would have been
back then,
with plastic apples and ears of corn,
a broom, kettle, checkered apron,
and iron.
Boat more like an anchor
Sail more like a skewered 
bratwurst.
You could scuff across starched
clean shirts,
or be a murder weapon.
So quaint and 
deadly.
Doorstop.
Full stop. 



September 18 2015


11:07-11:12

What kind of iron did they use in the 1950s?
Because I keep thinking back that far,
no farther. But I'm pretty sure this
could have been 1910, or even 1892.
The "7" is a bit suspicious, though.
It feels modern. (So modern, ha!)

I love cast iron. Cast iron pans 
are the best. The other day I 
used 3 cast iron pans to make 
lunch: omelets, sweet potato fries,
and a quick sauté of onions &
peppers (for the omelets).

There's something so comforting 
about cast iron. But it's meant
to be USED, and so this almost
purely decorative antique piece 
seems weird to me. 






Sunday, June 10, 2018

What You Do for Me, June 3 2018

I left just in time. The drive was very smooth, though I was in strange headspaces a few times: out of it, or dreaming, or suddenly hyper-aware and sweaty. But I drove well.

I took the Merritt Parkway. At one point the surging trees, tousled by the wind, looked like seaweed rolling underwater.
It was a beautiful, Princess Mononoke-esque sensation.

I saw a dead deer that look for a second like a tiger, the cuts in its flesh were so dark against its golden brown hide. I saw a wild turkey stalking in the grass by the road, and mistook it momentarily for a vulture. I saw a dead little rabbit and thought it looked like a fennec fox.

Don't let me mistake You.
I am amazed, God, at what You do for me. The walls are coming down. Thank You for giving me what I needed, including faith and peace. And so very few regrets. Because of Your grace. And because I am choosing again to live in love.


Festooned with Flowers, June 2 2018

I am in a home
I am in a room that glows
festooned with flowers

I am in a room
I am in a bridal bed
festooned with flowers


Another Plentid Day, May 23 2018

I am content.
This is a good day to be alive, and growing, and hearing Your voice. Keep speaking to me. Give me love. Give me wisdom and self-control.

I finally went back to prayer meeting this morning, and walked afterward. I wrote cards for all the transitioning YA Advisors. I cried over my salad of tender greens from the garden (spinach, red lettuce, chard, basil and parsley, sharp garlicky Welsh cheddar and black olives). I used the rest of the peel-off mask, and read Sayers. I talked with A, and briefly with C - it's a boy!

I went to the Rs, where I had dessert and enjoyed a slideshow, and talked for a long while afterward. 

The Maples Could Make You Cry, May 7 2018

The maples could make you cry. I'm serious. I've been struck with the pain of beauty so many times in the last couple of days, while driving. Want so much to stop and absorb it. To paint it, bathe in it, inhale it, eat it. You probably have to feel it from inside a tree. Up in the branches, at least. Feeling it sway and watching the whole, tented, verdant leaves scintillate in the sunshine.

Leaves at this time of year are amazing. They're pristine, nourished, pungent. Their youthful translucence is deepening into something rich and virile.
I'm using all these words because I haven't found the right one. And because this is all about profusion, fecundity, extravagance.
Juice. Verve. Drive. 

The Moon, April 24 2018

The moon on the drive back was so perfect, big, bright, utterly distracting.
Made you want to pull over, get out of the car, and pursue it across the fields.