skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Today I made ashes
of his last morning.
I put a flame
to the clothes
I'd bundled in red wool,
and tucked away
in the bottom drawer of his dresser.
In a black drum
I set fire to blood
and betadine,
and cotton jersey, scarred
from hurried scissors.
I added fresh sage and tobacco.
And I stood in the smoke.
What could be more different than the right and left brains.
For this week's Illustration Friday, theme "opposites," I was going to make an illustration of two idiots, each on two ends of a string – a straight line…yelling at each other…probably about which end is the beginning…it started here! no, it started here! I was maybe going to include a short essay taking off on the fact that root of 'opposite' is oppose.
Oppose: A verb…to oppose; to attempt to stop the progression of; to object to…
But that got me to thinking about our western culture. We depend more and more on binary, simplistic thinking. Everything’s about taking the shortest route. And of course, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Linear thinking. It’s going to be the death of us.
Either / Or
Off / On
Black / White
Good / Bad
True / False
Night / Day
Consider our planet – a sphere, made from an infinite number of circles. Our planet’s very existence implies an infinite number of paths, journeys…ideas. Our spherical world doesn’t work in a linear fashion. We are not traveling in a straight line. We rotate and we revolve, visiting and revisiting the same points over, and over again. One could even say recycling the same moments each year. A red leaf, a blanket of frost, a crocus...
We are presented a limitless number of chances to learn, understand, and appreciate…to apologize…to get it right.
Yesterday I must have pulled 40 seedlings from an
area no bigger than the size of a table napkin.
Cute little green round leaves on tiny, fragile
stems. They seem so innocent.
And aren't they? All they want from this world is
to soak in some sun and cool water - maybe feel
the tickle of bumblebee's kiss.
Is it immoral to weed? Since all life is sacred,
am I wrong to yank up these poor babies by their
roots and toss them into the dirt road?
Do they know they're dying? Do they feel
the sun's heat burning their pale naked roots?
Do I have the right to sacrifice their lives?
Do the sunflowers and sweetpeas worry that they're next?
There are so many wonderful things I love about Missoula:
Our muffled winter fogs; the way the snow can fill our valley like a bowl of heavy cream; quiet streets shaded in the summer with maple leaves the size of dinner plates; and the incredible greens and blues shimmering in waves up the hills around us.
But what I love most are these days in May, when the lilacs are in bloom. There must be almost a hundred lilac bushes in every square mile inside Missoula - at least one or two bushes on every block. Colours in the palest of lavenders, whites, violet, and deep purple…spilling over fences, gathered in groves, and hedging entire property lines .
Missoula's lilacs intoxicate. Their fragrance drifts in the air. It permeates – saturates our clothing, our hair. It fills our lungs, and tickles our minds. It teases, arouses, and renders everyone in love. People on the street will stop in their tracks for no reason, but to inhale. 
Joan Miró was born today, in 1893. I love his sense of surrealistic whimsy. This is my attempt at a tribute. ahem.
