wrestling the crow,

November 30, 2013 § 4 Comments

It starts where things do, before and after—
or may be in between.

My process is not linear, not even circular exactly. It spirals and changes planes, like a mobius, and it spans, bridges, nullifies time.

woodblock print by micah schwaberow after sume-i by jon roberts (1943-2010)
IMG_0371

CrowProofWSPaper

On one plane it starts with the sume-i of Jon Roberts, (a man I didn’t know,) and passes through the hands of Micah, (a man I came to know a little) who then offers 10 copies of the print to each of us in the Iota Press Co-op to use any way we wanted.

it was harder than I thought it would be, to take it, have it in the way it was offered, to work with it as if it were mine,
it was harder than I thought it would be to work with it as if it were mine,
it was harder than I thought it would be to free it up

(The only metaphor I had was lo those many years ago when Paul and I first talked about moving in together. We had ongoing conversations about how it would work; would he move in to my house, would I move in to his house, would we move in to a house neither of us had first claim to. And when we finally decided it made most sense for me to move in to his house it was with the caveat that once I moved in, it was our house; there would be no default as to who would move out if the whole thing didn’t work.)

Slapping words, or a string of words on it about crows, seemed easy and obvious and deadly, and so the project died, or as it happened lay dormant until one of those middle of the wide awake nights when I heard myself retort, (as if in response to the many who might have loved saying, they had a visitation! they’d seen him! he’d come back as a crow!) “WRONG! He didn’t come back as a crow, he left as one!”

And so on another plane it begins with him, Don. Heart of my hearts, ahab to my jezebel, who died long before I was ready on a blue moon in december in 1990 as if it were some damned stage play, Don, who listened to all my stories and never believed any of them. Don who stood on and peed on ceremony who knew all about ribbons&peignoirs, whips and chains, metaphysics and religion, motorcycles and tea.

Don who always gave me permission, WRONG! HA!

He dared me. Dared me to do what I wanted. To dismember and reconstitute to connoiter and reconnoiter, to blow anything I wanted wide open, to be fearless to be daunting; to be anything. And to do whatever I did in the grand style it deserved. He did not brook bland, or facelessness, or listlessness masquerading as silence; and he certainly had no patience for polite.

And so, I have. And I am changed.
And so are the crows, as they were meant to be.

whew.

3 broadsides: (he stormed life, he flew in the face of everything, life stormed back)

4 books: sinew; in a fflap p; embody; &

each a stand alone one-off, and/or part of a whole story

p.s. embody is not yet embodied.

starts & midways silence & studio

November 20, 2013 § 1 Comment

holiday cards, and crows which aren’t so much crows any more as stories about don, and death and how for better and worse somehow the dying are automatically sainted as if in life they weren’t pains in the ass and of course the dithering which precedes binding and books

and ones off, or one offs and more artist statements and
red yellow orange brown silence
and before I had a studio I had a bedroom and shower, a journal and just the right pen

finishing

November 9, 2013 § 2 Comments

sand. an edition of twenty
here.say. press 2013
printed in guerneville, ca

sand. abiding its chafe and polish except in my eggs.
original poetry handset in Kennerley and handprinted on C&P pilot
photos by author printed on Canon inkjet

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