“Many nights I wake in a shudder thinking of some atrocity of mine. I bring home minute pinpricks which magnify in the middle of the night into gaping wounds.”
when a piece finds me, it’s stunning and then meditative. It feels very much like the wreck inside my belly is flopping and flailing until I’m struck like a tuning fork on metal surface and the movement makes a sound and the chaos shakes out of me and I slow and I settle.
Visual art often brings me home. Visual art saves my life.
Strangely, literature often tries to kill me.
Go see Tawara Yusaku at the Asia Society Center. The (posthumous) exhibit is so melancholy and… familiar. Like your favorite dessert that you binge on after a hard day.
Marie Kazalia, “Repressed Memory Wallpaper” (Oct 2012), mixed media painting on Coventry Rag fine art paper, 23 x 30 inches
Love’s the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite “The boy stood on
the burning deck.” Love’s the son
stood stammering elocution
while the poor ship in flames when down.
Love’s the obsitnate boy, the ship,
even the swimming sailors, who
would like a schoolroom platform, too,
or an excuse to stay
on deck. And love’s the burning boy.
when summer storms hit before the sun sets. Over my house, white and gray curtains balloon and belly. Beside me, a cat’s sleeping body.
“Like any literary tourist, I am searching for traces of something. Do buildings absorb traces of their former inhabitants? Can yesterday’s private joys and pains retire—like stale nicotine—into the walls?”
Jorge Macchi - In Night
Musical notes of the score are marked with nails
“The challenge is to remember that poetry must still dance. We can all think of poets who lost their sense of joy or humor when they assumed the burden of memory. Memory is the mother of the muses, who weren’t dour figures. They were lovelies.”