Tonight we study more Van Gogh letters and the work that he inspires. I recall seeing his paintings live and being unable to believe that they were what they were ie: real Van Goghs and not dorm posters or boxer shorts of starry night.
His colors, the shagginess of the paint, sigh... I am so tired still. I can't wait to go home and make some great veggies, eat spring mix salad and sleep. I am reading a borrowed book and oddly-distracted by far-away persons and the way they cast long shadows that are not unwelcome, unrefreshing.
Today's offering is from my new find:
Freud with a Picture of Teiresias Finds Dora with a Picture of Cassandra
When I wake, glass is all around me.
Millefiori glass. Venetian glass. Glass
with thin vein-like cracks. Glass like
the breath of an anorexic.
Glass like the brains
of deep-sea fish. Glass like language.
Glass like belief. Glass filling the room.
Glass like echoes. Glass like the language
of aboriginal people. Glass from the mothering
caves of memory. Glass like swollen objects
that have been misplaced in dreams:
Birthmarks and terrariums.
Glass like the uterus of a saint. Glass
like the sewn language of memory. Glass ready
to break into a mosaic. Glass like a body of someone
touched. Glass like an indelible language.
Glass like the memory the body has
of places that have been touched.
Glass filled with twisted light. Glass so fragile
it breaks when I think. Glass that cuts into flesh.
Glass that grows more dangerous
with every step. Glass that sees everything
with its shattered eyes. Glass like a fantastic
plant with fruit that will make us transparent.