2005 - Vol. 2, Issue 1

Intro/Presto

1

   The floor mat before the door to my apartment is
one of those scruffy types made of some strong

synthetic fiber which most likely originated as a
chemical byproduct from 1950s nuclear testing.
Adding

to its radioactive qualities is the fact that after
rescuing it from the curb over a decade ago, I painted
it

with day-glow gouache. (Around the same time I tried
something similar with a pair of loafers that

were falling apart, but so many people laughed at them
that I got even more self–conscious than usual

about leaving the house and gave up wearing them in
public.) In any case, by now many of the brighter

yellow daubs of the rug have worn away, at least from
the corners, but in the center is still the whirling

blue–white of some Van Gogh universe. "Starry Starry
Night" was certainly a big influence, and even now

sometimes while standing upon it, I can imagine that a
trapdoor may open up; that it may act as a portal, a

chute, to another world.

   In the city where I live, many of the downtown
office complexes have marbled floors of rose quartz or

forest emerald. To me, they have the same sort of
"transporter" effect. Stepping on the slick, smooth,

highly buffed polish is quite reminiscent of walking
across ice. One is like Eliza across the floes from
that

1920s silent D. W. Griffith film, the bubbles and
black streams still clearly visible in spots
underneath.

All one needs is the hounds.

   Other times the feathery patterns in the floor
remind me of clouds, and I imagine walking across
sky.

It is almost a sort of vertigo, and I think of the
Laurie Anderson line, "walking and falling at the
very

same time," for one does fall forward a little as one
puts one's foot down. This is what life is like in
any

Age of Anxiety, an anxiety which can be amplified by
the echoes of hundreds of other footsteps hurrying

along during the open and close of office hours.
Interesting too, the choice of stone, a latter day
cave.

   On the other hand, when walking like this, I may
remember a particular Georgia O'Keefe painting,

one which she did after a plane ride, the white clouds
of her canvas looking like well–placed bricks in the

cerulean. That's a nice switch, and yes, it does seem
good to hang onto such fanciful mental meandering,

though of course, as they say, go too far and madness
might very well lie...

   Still, fantasy is part of my nature, as genetic
as breathing, and does seem to help stave off the
boredom

of reality.

There's Poetry in the Kitchen

38

In other words, I have a can opener and some lovely tin or other, and one great black metal pan repeatedly used. There is something almost cosmic about it, actually, the constellations of small white specks printed in that onyx sea of iron. Not only does it match the faux speckled granite of the counter, but it reminds me of cowboys and pioneers, of a life not simple, but of necessities basic to surviving.

Sometimes while washing that pan I think of a couple of different things. I think of my ex, an alcoholic, and some of those valiant spells when he worked at staying sober. He learned from a woman friend in AA to take a pan or a cup, and wash it over and over, scrubbing it more than spotless, keeping the hands busy 'til the urge for liquor subsides. I also remember a scene from some PBS special about an elderly poet. Can't remember his name, but in that scene he's washing potatoes at a sink, working spots off the russet skin, the clear water a blue geyser. As he washes, there is a voice–over, scotch– and honey–toned, reciting his poetry. The poem being recited is about the potatoes, the sanctity of cleaning them for himself and his wife, how at the end of one's day, the end of one's life, to be able to do such mundane acts still, with love, is enough.

Having been a person who, at one time, was so much less comfortable with, and confident about, my own solitude, I often find solace in thoughts about the commonplace as sacred and grand. Furthermore, having worked in healthcare and learned a great deal about the blessings diseases and aging can rob individuals of, plus having a partner who still does home care and shares glimpses of his patients' lives with me, I feel an empathic affinity with shut–ins, those bound to dwellings, and perhaps those confined in their own paralytic bodies, whose brain and soul remain active. Of course, homelessness isn't necessarily any great shakes either.

"Is there no way out of the mind?" Sylvia Plath once asked, and I can understand such nearly beseeching desperation, being fickle about suicide by gas, pro or con, on more than one occasion, too. There's such a sense of being the cornered mouse, the nearly rabid hamster trapped in its wheel, and the

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emotion is magnified, claustrophobically, in the skull. Yet, obsession compulsion can win out, for one opens the oven door and there's really a great deal of grime to look at. Be a shame for it to be the last thing a person sees when feeling grimy enough. Better perhaps to try and clean it, first, and then maybe stick around awhile, trying to feel proud of the results. Of course, to the suicidal, perhaps there is no greater grime than how one feels about one's self or how it feels to try and live in the world.

Still, about the stove, surely it has a link to the Primitive, something reassuring and real in the coils and rings on top. I once tried to photograph the yellow–indigo nimbus issuing up from a burner as glimpsed through a glass frying pan — the way it sighs up, a moth of flame, to create a circle, a miniature cauldron. Those who practice Feng Shui also believe in the myth of a well-functioning and very clean stove, a metaphor for sustenance and a means to acquire it.

The snapshot I took did not capture that essence. Indeed, it came out bland compared to the original inspiration and its intent. I've found that that is often the case with photos, though with the wonders of digital enhancements, this is changing. In the meantime, I try to remember that all of consciousness, and dreams too, are a kind of film.