Resting on yesterday’s laurels does not give much to today. It leaves a vacuous space where creativity likes to meditate and rise like daily bread.
Tinkering with clay, a lesson in form and, for the potter, function. Where art and utility consider ergonomics, the simply beautiful human thumb, is where I like to meet my objects.
I fell in love with a glass slipper, sand sculptures of lizards writhing, blobs of paint arranged with that flair that you have arriving at any moment.
Our home smells of something new, something hitherto unrecognized. Rich aromas fill our living room like your caramel and chocolate, my cucumber and mint, like binding glue and old print meant to absorb a whole afternoon whittling away on a thick tome.
The air wafts through the curtains bringing the outside in. There is something new from the river today,
I want to feel poetic again; wake my spine, and enliven my brain. But all I find are echoes of things past reverberating off the bare walls. We cannot push the stream, but need to feel it open and flow.
If I let go of my wants, live in a poem instead of scratching out words, I can still visit old haunts to see what they have to teach me today. But I need to find new ground, and sounds, and the stirrings of creatures that don’t yet have names.
I dig around and come up empty. I find no message in a bottle, no voice of reason, nor whimsical muse. The truth is I need to do my dishes, find repose in bubbly water and other boring chores that I must do.
Moths are flying from your closet. To you they are magicians made of dust and thin air. Their powdery wings speaking of holey sweaters, and cedar chests’ sweet scent, and all things lying dormant.
The moths are wise enough to come to the flame, but they come as Icarus to the sun; longing, yearning, and burning into light.