DeBorah the intrepid photographer has just finished braving Linus to photograph the snowflakes in Brooklyn. Linus making a snowy mess near my home in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.
Looking out my lonesome boxcar I see my brothers in bondage singing freedom songs. Wondering when their healing will come as I seek mine. Islands of Lost Souls sentenced to endless purgatory.
American where is my traveling train? Darkness enters dawn diminishing shadows play havoc with sun, moon, and stars. Tuning Forks humming. When will I see my Rosie again? Overseer rifle gun trained on me.
Chain gang
Southern Prison Blues Rosie Chain Gang Blues YouTube
Steamer Trunk moth riddled clothes. Ashes scattered into the Ganges. Speckled Watchmen screaming swing that pick boy. Keep that rhythm. Berta, Berta every day is Monday. I’ve fallen into a dark place with no sight of myself. Cleansing Monsoon wash me into dank sinister funeral sands.
Early morning every morning I rise on the wrong side. I cut myself on shards of volcanic ash but the boulders cannot crush my soul. Freedom is a lonesome word.
When that sun goes down then I escape in mind if not in body. In my dreams I see her beside me. A voice keeps calling me. Is it my honey sweet baby or an Angel fit to carry me home? Death Angel. Death Angel, holding the reapers sword.
Earth unanchored by trees or foliage swarms like Biblical locusts covering man, woman, child, animals, farms. Souls unanchored traveled westward to face the Grapes of Wrath searching for the Promised Land. America’s extended Harmattan. Swirling dust that invades every orifice of the body. Soil erosion has eroded me. Breathing death. Breathing untimely burial. Earth to Earth. Ashes to Ashes. Dust to Dust. We packed up everything we could salvage leaving this grimy badlands behind.
Foreigners in a Bizarre Land ~ How shall we sing God’s praises whilst saddled in a dystopian universe, that longed for Utopia a broken promise beat back by the School of Hard Knocks. Here and on our journey westward many souls did leap upwards into their new home in the sky. Each soul a grain of sand a soul reborn, escaped the cobwebs of this poor life. Now fragrant grains of frankincense and myrrh. Bury me beneath my lullaby.
I Ain’t Got No Home In This World Anymore – Woody Guthrie
Homeless. A Wanderer. All is transient as are we. Singing my Hobo blues catching the next train to who knows where to lay my head under the stars. Click Clack. Click Clack. Roo. Roo. Scree…
Life as a Void Consisting of Only Time and Eternity
An exploration of Emptiness, Nothingness, Inner and Outer spheres/realms of being
Do women occupy the inner sphere/sanctum of purity? Is the enclosed female space a sign of sanctity whereas the open hinged male space the spirit of adventure? Are women contained by societal definitions of femininity resulting in us being “Birds in Gilded Cages”. What is the extent of the power we have as women to define ourselves?
Katrin Sigurdardottir’s piece “Boiserie” explores many levels of existence. The enclosed room a replica in white of the Hotel de Cabris located in the Wrightsman galleries of the Met brings to mind a sense of the finite and infinite. As I observed visitors who thought they would be able to see their friends on the other side of the windows, they quickly realized the panes were security glass, meaning one could look…
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 