The red book records the odd.
The black one, scars.
The green, intent
The blue, fancy
The yellow is a large sieve
to catch memory for story glue. but
in a private, cathartic moment
They will all burn.
This is not a world
that is kind to things
sorted and filed in this way.
In one it is recorded:
I do reject hope.
I hold passion away from my body,
measure trust like a miser,
like a miser, take great care
with my accountabilities.
The little books know.
There is no family, no truth,
no gift freely given.
This is who we are. Nevertheless
I am not dead yet.
Through these Mean Times
I shall continue to search for,
find, and make art.
Little Book, Jan 26/April 11, 2017, studio (house)
KLM
A Note: This poem was written at a dark time, in a long moment of self-observation. I refer to this in a recent post called The Far Horizon – a time when I found myself sifting through the broken things – beloved house gone, beloved studio gone, beloved places now pawns in a power-play not of my choosing, family torn apart, living deep inside poverty with my financial resources withheld, lawyers who forgot critical information, mismanaged files, set their own agendas, people once dear to me acting like bullies who pout their entitlement to power, presenting their victimhood to the world while they kick the chained dog. Shock after shock after shock.
How does the human spirit survive catastrophe and rebuild? Turn from toxic identification with the badness of life into a place of curiosity and ingenuity? Choose to let go, heal up and move on? Our history is full of fine examples – I suspect that this happens at least once every second on planet earth – it’s what we do.
For me it has always been the making of art and the writing of journals. Get it out of me and onto a page, a canvas, and then let it go. In January of last year I read through and pitched journals from 20 years – a cathartic burning, a profound release of attachment to old pains. On the other side of that is genuine strength, genuine laughter. It’s good to stand your ground.