July & my heliotrope tree is blooming again. When I wake up, apart from saying “good morning beautiful river” I stare at this tree that stands in its glorious yellow pot on the near left corner of my balcony. How can I not love it. The flowers are plush, sprung towards the light. The first time it bloomed they were red, now more orange & gold. Little miracle tree. Making me want to be alive every day.
Two days ago, I finally splurged and bought a proper audio set up with recording mic, stand, audio box and recording software. I even got my fave bass pedal – the Big Muff. Although a decent amp and monitor speakers are still lacking, I feel so much more focused already on the aural possibilities of one of my key art forms: music. Waking to these learning opportunities and the hope of beauty makes me want to live on. & the gorgeous paintings & photographs behind my small studio arrangement add to the sweetness.
On Friday, this book arrived by post and I just delved into it this morning over java. Going through grief translates into the exploration of new forms and genres for an artist. I have long been fascinated by the elegiac form but now I’m obsessed. This tome promises to deepen my comprehension and provide renewed avenues of excitement. I’m especially compelled by the pieces on ecology and elegy as this twins two of my core interests. Delving into books sustains me every single day.
And of course, my one year old brother & sister cats give me daily joy, even in their aggravating propensities. This is what I do each day, say why am I here, look around, see many reasons, keep going.
(& poetry, always)
Look that way you get the heliotrope, look this way
Look that way you get the heliotrope, look this way – the river –
can’t lose really –
though you already have – a ton of things – enough for a whole midden
on the shoreline – of cats & instruments, photographs & a house,
in it too and him of course – nights that he is stone & revisits you in dreams
no true solace – worse – nothing – an effigy of the subconscious
telling you more
about your own mind than where he’s gone – the other comforting you,
wearying of it – but each morning there’s this greeting directed
at the current –
whether it’s grey, silver, hammered or slickered down – and the swallows
are dark notes slipping fast into their hunt – you hurting every day,
receiving balm –
that cycle – terrible & familiar – little for it but to join him – if you
believed in an Elysium, undamaged, beyond this, where you
would want –
in fact, to arrive.