Telling the truth has saved me but I know there are several varieties of truth about the same act. This particular site was intended to tell the truth while other sites I manage  argue different kinds. All play to their own music within me, turning fiction into poetry and poetry into fiction. Riddles native to the telling of renaissance poetry drew me early and distilled with personal experience. The distance is great between thought and words, trying not to think, but thinking.  I took a green pumpkin to the shop to remake it ceramically, but after preparing the skin and  molding it to the pumpkin the clay  tore in several places. The final effect of the tears was appealing, and after several layers of impasto and lamination fabricated with oxides and patterns implanted by tools, palm fronds, it turned into not a pumpkin at all, but a bag tied at the top with a piece of clay string. On a second try it was an open bag of torn, weathered carpet, which in extension became a series of “bags”.  The broad strokes have some kind of general image but no plan, like the best fiction writing on this site constructed in hearing the music, which came little by little in aural accidents and continual seeking of the ear,  or with a visual. image.

This approach to life and art is experimental. One book I took out three times before I understood its importance and found the part that mattered to me, Vanuccie Biringuaccio, Pyrotechnia, where the roots of mines were compared with the roots of trees and the golden age a material form of them. This document is unbelievably  now online in a PDF, although the translation I used was Richard Eden’s of 1540. With the serendipity applied to hundreds of instances that inform these searches, always remembering the search term is most important.My search terms are supplied by continual reference to the first moment of my being when I was formed by Messiah.

This site is unadvertised. It is sometimes like a journal. Perhaps the writings form a loose assembled inquiry. Since I have just been reading Either/Or, liking the Preface and the very first part, this could be an assemblage of some ideas about faith and the self. Kierkegaard’s takes on Don Juan and Tragedy strike me as pedantic and dull, but he has a lot to say about the poet in that first section before he abandons him. Of the ceramic creations that have occurred in the last decade, some at Forms of the Formless, one piece at a time for critique, these show a part of myself not otherwise seen.


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