A project started last year, which I was unable to finish until now. Long time. Amazing how college sucks the life out of you. Only catching up now.
http://tanglesastangled.blogspot.com/2010/03/little-climber-and-ever-drowning-fish.html
A marked beginning to a project, a doll.
A little boy.
Who has shown up in dreams, a skeleton boy, one without life, with tragedy and a drowned heart
He is very dear to me.
I recently read about the ritualistic, ancient power of dolls, their important role in pagan rites etc.
made me feel as though my intuition to make these dolls was right and strong
The Miles to
February 27 Dream Tale
“There’s a surprise for you upstairs.”
The pale woman let these words stream behind her with one foot on the sidewalk. I gazed past her down the dark street.
“It’s been dark like this for more then two months.” Before that the days flickered between light and absence.
So it was, is, everywhere, not just in this strange town.
Everywhere this new dark.
Some days I went about as though the sun rose…visible. Warm to the eye/touch.
The light in my heart buoyed my steps.
But when the activities of the day died down, so did these fantastical rays, light I falsely perceived, and not would it be night, but the aching cold in my marrow reminded me it had been so for weeks.
“yes.” I slowly replied. “Yes, it’s dark everywhere, Everywhere I go.”
She shrugged and closed the gate. The scrape of her heels moved in the otherwise cloaked still.
Up.
The hundred stairs to her house waited for my seeking feet and I began the ascent, trees reaching clingingly to trip and caress.
Up.
The dark clung to me, mist swirled. Mist swirls, swirling mist, spinning about my calves and pulling on my clothes.
The neighborhood as usual silently moaning, and patterns of the evening finding pleasant spots in my ears to harmonize and echo.
Distorted refrains of Cry me a river (click for julie london) took the chorus, gloomy and longing. Distorted as it echoed, the feminine strains growing coarse and empty. Such syllables, meeting muting, passing into one another, too fullness, coating the slick darkness.
Washing over the streets...where a million stories not mine, dirty footprints I did not leave beneath street lamps I pass under only to loose their dusty light.
There’s a surprise upstairs
Mute awareness of someone behind me and the door opens, the golden fluorescent light flaunting its irony.
My name was not said, yet they call me two small boys and here is the surprise, two boys where once only a slip of a girl danced.
Sweetness, like memory, slithers and glides down each step towards me, preceding the boys like the scent of past
Behind that quickly the present, with its cast of blood, its cry of
Look!
What’s your name boys.
Oh you must be hers
Oh you must be hers, for the fire and curls she usually carries seem to have been left behind with you as caretaker.
Your mother left her sparkling eyes and red lips to you as well. What will she do now they are yours?
Corinth? Was that your Fathers name?
And you. Smaller.
Arthero.
LOOK!
Arthero.
They walk towards me and through it is the panicked lightness of childhood,
What do you have to
LOOK (plea, command, my heart calling me face)
to the small one...Arthero’s skin and muscle and skull all peal back on just the top and a bit to the side of his soft child’s head. Revealed is few inches of a soft fibrous pink tissue.
The reason for such a wound remains unknown to me, yet it crawls sly, into and through me nesting within my heart and hands, a poison of helplessness.
Oh we are caught dear Arthero, And the trees cling tighter and there’s no way to know the way, The movements I make float away in the rising flood and nothing I do, nothing nothing.
The darkness softly enters our brains through our breath and enters our eyes, till north is good as south, and brambles tighten over our mouths so no words they make but more of the same.
And Arthero.
Waiting, waiting as I and others graspingly…don’t know the way.
We, none, for none, oh none of us remember the way. Ich nicht vergisse.
He too fades into the brambled knotty stair.
Released, and having finished the stairs, I find the house empty. Arthuro not forgotten, just a case turned to air and stone, another ghost for the house, waiting silently on the stairs for help that will never come and a life he will never lead.
Corinth is hiding.
His hands take the shapes of letters, his mouth the forms for words.
His body a palette.
Inside the crusted mahogany door
Inside is a bowl with a fish, Japanese.
(“They haunted me too long, such beautiful strange creatures, so I bought my own, just to prove he had no power over me. But his voice filters through my ears as the waters does its’ scales. It envelops me as the water does its’ too finless body
Isn’t it beautiful?
Some people say she’s just a fish.
Some people don’t know anything.")
Orange and fire. It writhes, and flips with the filmedfirmfired roundness of its smooth body, urging to breathe as only half of it lies covered with water. Precious water. Precious fish, which requires an environment pure. She needs water.
(“They can only exist in un-flouridated, un-chlorinated water. It makes them very difficult to keep. I suppose it also gives them their peculiar value”)
I only have a faucet, cold dripping metallic with a filter catching dirt and chemicals. I only have this, it has nothing but death to fill the tank of a fish with. The same story of Arthuro and it’s him in her wild fish eyes, cold begging eyes. Over and Over and OVER and Again I refill the bowl, the clear pan, never enough, never enough, oh and even when she floats, tense and frightened, staring into me with still–heightened movements, I know its only moments.( to fight and yet achieve nothing, to throw yourself in the air to find no impact)
I have nothing that you need to live. I have not to sustain you. I have no life to give you.
Hear, yet, here you lay in my hands and I am punished in this grand house, a marked by the futile struggle to save the lives of the irretrievable.
(I am scarred, slave to the death i cannot retreat. The need I cannot fulfill)
Kkk. Thats it. If you wanna read some other weird stuff I wrote in that class, check out this old blog entry
http://tanglesastangled.blogspot.com/2010/03/glove.html
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