“I used to paint dots. Very neat ones. Not anymore. Wild woman now.”
— Mary McLean, celebrated Aboriginal painter of Western Australia
What you see isn’t all you get: night moves the sky
of mind aside enough to let imagination gush in.
Remember the last time you got quiet, then got high
on Mayan, Nubian, African stuff? Grecian? Russian?
Remember how the child-you stepped through scenes
without leaving a trace, your eyeprints all that mattered,
your cave-art heart the clearing ground? Soul cleans
away debris so we can see and feel the heart shattered
under a blanket of daylight come back to hunt us
where we live. If you can touch Hatshepsut with an eye,
then jump to John Brown just before he confronts us
with his death, then you can lose the your, the my
you see as us alone. Most seeing is a mausoleum
laid out with memory-traces, fictions with no breath.
Can death be ore than yet another mask? The Dogon
of Mali, they’ve mastered the mysteries of Sirius B, a star
astronomers stumbled on just recently. To log on
in real-time, turn up at the Art of Africa exhibit (not far
from the pre- and post-amnesiac Americas, or New
Guinea, Indonesia, Polynesia, Central Asia, dream-time
Australia). Wrap your spirit around sculpture the big you
knows already by feel and by heart. Why nickel and dime
your love-leaning, meaning-hungry, beauty-starved self?
Bury the thought-smart you just long enough to stun and wow
the being-you: a living stream of light. Wade in the wealth
of unfathomable years whose moments you can only know as now.
Copyright Â© 2006
Commissioned by San Francisco’s deYoung Museum of Fine Arts to celebrate its spectacular re-opening of 15 October 2005.