Dali, Salvador . Slave Market with the disappearing Bust of Voltaire . 1940 |
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In Search of Middle Ground Love truth, and pardon error. --Voltaire I'm not sure about today. There are no Botticelli zephyrs, trees in trompe l'oeil, people in patchwork Klimt and nighthawk-moods. No point-perspective Van Gogh roads. I do hear Picasso's guitarist. A voice in my head says to sing loudly to compliment the blue tones, swirl them with Vincent's vibrato. So, I sing to Allie, a murdered dog whose Munch-like spirit usually keeps me company. But I don't hear her. Perhaps she is screaming out of range or being introduced to Bosch. Or quietly hiding in the space between trigger and rigor mortis. She knows that my heart refuses to harden so maybe she excuses herself when my empathy becomes expressionistic. I play India Arie, dance on the Dhurrie, sing, "Back to the Middle" and think of Dali's clock, and my son. His savant memory is persistent, his ecolalia is idiotic but timely. It sounds a little conspiritual-- a word I coined, meaning, "plot with God." I pray to become John Nash for a moment, formulate the language, the melt-downs, collage the rug in black and white-- give in to critical paranoia. My son is hiding between images. If I could get there- climb down the echo chamber by way of Escher, maybe the zephyrs would return, the guitar would change tune. Or Voltaire's truth would send me across Picasso's bridge- Maybe then, just maybe Allie could stop screaming. 2003 Peggy Putnam Owen |