The sea wall, broached. The heaving ocean swells over it. Water flying in howling wind collapses the brick and mortar and concrete stays like pins. There is no barrior.
What is to keep her from sweeping out to sea, her black dress like a murder of crows flying about her?
Her eyes are lit with terror as the water rises, foaming.
She shrieks at the turbulent sky; her voice joins the screaming winds.
She is thin and flaps like a scarecrow.
She stands on an outcrop. The water swirls around her feet, but doesn’t wash her away. The rock holds her safe.
Her face a venom of fury
when she sees me.
What is it she desires?
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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Woman with Flowers 7.1
(7th sketch in series, first iteration of this one) Woman with Flowers Flowers, props upholding the woman. The flowers, fragrant, imaginar...
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The Buddha says: “ You cannot travel the path until you have become the path itself .” The path is uncertain. Uncertainty is the guiding for...
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What if relationships are the primary ordering principle? What if the way relationships are ordered clarify, explain, and instruct us on th...
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"I hope you are all creating every day according to the inner map you were born with. I know it sometimes seems that map is written in ...
where the wind meets the sea and the edge of insanity that is where creativity flows... we can play in that surf if the roots are right.
ReplyDeleteHow are you creating so much, so powerfully right now? Incredible
Some strange things happened when I was writing this piece, almost like a parallel universe was happening. It's freaked me a bit. And I am thrown into that strange trope of the author who is creating the story they are living by writing its action; strange because reality and writing somehow crossed over. Is it creating? Where do the words and images come from? I don't know: do you? Thank you, as ever, Ira, your reading means much...
ReplyDeleteThere is this moment in creation where we lose control... I think sometimes about Frankenstein (book, not movie) when this happens, ecause there is that feeling of free fall, of letting go, but that's the moment when fiction or art takes flight, and joins the world.
ReplyDeleteIra, it was most strange, not like anything I've ever experienced before with writing. Lots of precognition with writing, like with dreams, but not a metaphorical rendition of a real event, both happening, as far as I can tell, at the same time. Did I create what happened, or just tune in at the same time? It's got me more than a little freaked.
ReplyDelete