My review of The Feathered Heart by Mark Turcotte.
I once found a teeny-tiny downy woodpecker feather. At most, the feather measured one inch (2.54 cm) in length. My guess as to the year found would be 2010. I had since lost the treasure to find it again while packing up our house to move. Today’s date 3/11/2018.
The feather, seen above in the bookmark constructed, is grey/black with five incomplete white spots. The spots are not complete circles as the white color lies on the fringe. As such, it mimics my teetering heart, lying on the edge of an invisible border erected by thoughts. It is my feathered heart that led me to find Mark Turcotte and his book of poems, The Feathered Heart.His book will be returned to as often as needed. To remedy my soul with feeling words erected as fences. (I found a used copy, to be delivered just in time for my birthday, through Amazon 😁.)
My wayward feet travel searching for answers. The silences weave protection. The war i battle is not within but from outside the curtained window. I learn to dress in velvet’s hope.
My first attempt at a still life in late 2016. I added another layer to the painting today. Am I satisfied now?
I hope to try a still life again once moved and settled. Canvas and paint packed away after the past weekend painting spree. Shall see how long the tape keeps the box shut this time. More paintings here and here.
1/26/2018. 7:23 am. The world is still dark. I am feeling the same. My inner world needs a spark. A match to strike this fear.
This, whatever this is, is my thinking out loud and inviting you in to my space, wherever that is…
Hurry! Look over here… Here! Right here and right now, movement is happening. I peer into the roaming molecules, all bumping in to each other. No “excuse me” or “beg your pardons” just blatant “get the xxxx out of my way or else!”.
Then continue “Heck, see how important i am. i am the queen of this world after all and you need to be ruled. Right?”
“Go ahead. Talk back. Be visible!” i tell myself.
Laying, lifeless, in the core of my soul, is an orange dot. An identified solar system rotates, bowing to this dot because it radiates warmth. But the surrounding air is so cold… this dot burns out.
This! Whatever this dot is, is attempting to pull me through a black hole. Deeper still, i stumble. I fall.
“Captain! all planets and stars identified!” A pause in time ensues. “How would you like to proceed?”
I guess we do write what exists in the mind. Whether we like it or not, no matter how we try to change the course of our thoughts, we always sail back to the inevitable.
These days I no longer fight the pull but patiently wait, my head littered with the spirits of this earth.
Genesis 1:9 And God said, “Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear.” And it was so.
Wild dreams torment me as I lie. And though a god lives in my heart, though all my power waken at his word, though he can move my every inmost part – yet nothing in the outer world is stirred. Thus by existence tortured and oppressed I crave for death, I long for rest.
Man’s hour on earth is weakness, error, strife
–Faust, Part One
The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. –Vonnegut