Thursday, November 30, 2017

Muddy Waters

I dream of mud.  Well, I don't dream, but I think of it. Swimming in it. Swimming in shallow ponds, hitting my knees on the muck below.

I think of it as a sensuous delight.  A way to FEEL.  Not just the wet, but the sediment;swimming through the world, in the few places I can.  Knowing it is made up of decaying dinosaurs and leaves and birds and sea monsters. 

I had a dream once of the very shoes that Van Gogh painted.  Dirty and old, farmer's or worker's shoes, and how they were made holy by the strokes of Van Gogh.

The dirt from the grave.  Wipe it from the headstone, but the dirt on your hands is "clean" dirt, innocent dirt.  Isolated from the corpses below, insulated in a cement box, inside which is a wooden box, inside which is a silk lining, and probably all the flowers you laid around his chest, and the knitted wreath that you bought at age 5, when you had no idea you needed to bring money for the fair, and a teach gave you a dollar.  He had no idea it was a Christmas ornament either, and so he put it over his button hole.  To be funny, or to be Jewish, you were never sure.  he is in the movie EXODUS.