the clarity of mystery
|"The Origin of Intimacy" Oil on canvas, 48" x 42"|
I write in the mornings. not often, just sometimes. mostly in winter. before the sun comes up. my writing has parallels with my painting. of course it does, I'm the same man. what those parallels are - I am unsure of, but they are indisputable. the following writing has an inexplicable significance for me and I'm happy about that state of affairs. inexplicable significance. two seemingly incompatible words, living side-by-side ... as in a happy relationship where one only needs to know: "yes" .
Last time I saw her she was on her back, motionless, eyes closed, floating up stream. I've seen other people try this, they can't do it. they try it cause they've read about it, maybe they've seen the petraglyphs, read the scriptures, how it can heal the sick, give sight to the blind, make the rich feel like a grain of sand. Half the community blogged about it, put up posts on the local website, pinned instructions (with pictures) on the cafe bulletin board. She, however, is the only one that remained silent with her efforts, never spoke to anyone about the cause and effect, the pull of gravity, the here and now. two others have seen her do it. I'm one. but I will never describe it, I won't even try. The other one who saw her do it became jealous, full of envy, convinced she was a sorceress, a she-devil. circulated a myth about her and, as a result, when people meet her they are full of both fear and reverence. everyone says the same thing:
"she makes me feel like mouth-blown glass - fragile, beautiful."