Notes From A Burning House

My house is on fire.  I alternate sitting in contemplation of the blaze, as the forms change all around me, including me; and wanting to write something about it, document it in some way, even though the effort is like grabbing at the tracks of a flying bird. 

This is an experiment, at a time when this child could use some creative distraction.  Nothing is certain in an inferno, and so there are no promises here about how long this will continue or what will ensue in this space.  There may be recipes, riffs on the madhyamika, nursery rhymes, or arrangements of words and objects that are pleasing.  There will be damned lies and tortured fantasies.  There will be delirious sallies.  There may be trouble. 

Umberto Crenca, a visual and performance artist in Providence, once told me he liked paintings that had nails or thorns coming out of them.  He liked art that could defend itself against an attack.  I wish I could create a blog that periodically sprouted sharp needles, tied itself into knots, or exuded the aromas of garlic, pine nuts, strawberries, burning oil, and sweat.

Let us be friends on the level where it hurts.  Let us witness each other in sorrow and joy.  Let us release all of it.  Let change be us. 

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