Mermaid in Blue, Rising

Mermaid in Blue, Rising: sculpture mix; blue glazing, thinly coated.

This is one of my older mermaids, I believe, from 2000 or 2001. She's been hanging in the garage all this time, and only yesterday did the light hit her in such a way that I thought, "Let's take her outside and give her a good look." I was aiming at a sense of metamorphosis here, what with her arms fused to her sides, merging the human portions with the fishier, finny portion. That's what I was aiming at.

What we have is a long, long mermaid, and even here on a bed of wood chips, she seems to be moving upward, streaming toward the surface, driven by some internal force. Don't you think?

I can't help but fit a story to the form when faced with such work, my own or by others.

To Autumn

Eight is the Number

Octopus: sculpture mix; misc. glazes, layered.

When I first took this out of the kiln (last summer? the one before?) I didn't like it that much, but now I do. It's good to put a piece aside for a while, until the expectations and intentions fade, until you can look at something for what it is, really. How many times have I re-learned this lesson? Plus one, as they say.

This piece highlights one of the reasons I play with clay. Whether or not anyone likes this, I do; and, I caught something fluid and real in cephlapods in this bit of clay.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Banks' "Raw Spirit": Making a Splash

I've been reading celebrated Scottish author Iain Banks' non-fiction Raw Spirit: In Search of the Perfect Dram. I felt I needed a bit of background and further knowledge of my current favorite beverage--Scotch--and this book seemed a lively entry-point and initial tour. So far, it more than suits. (And, I'll be looking for the novels by Banks that I haven't yet read.)

Today, I want to share a passage that has nothing to do with alcohol, though it does involve high spirits. Enjoy.

At Glenaladale, despite the fact I am 49 and Les very nearly is--Les rarely allows an opportunity to pass when he can remind me I am a whole three months older than he is--we spend a significant amount of time and effort skipping stones, trying to hit large stones with small ones while the former are in flight, throwing stones at logs, using thin or circular stones--spun--in our attempts to produce duck's farts, and sweatily heaving the largest rocks we can manage up to the tops of small cliffs so we can throw them into the water and so produce Really Big Splashes.

(Look, growing up is about this sort of stuff no longer being the only way you're allowed to have fun, not about having to give it up altogether.)

I've always thought so, and it's good to find my own sentiments in a book. Wouldn't you agree?

Make some splashes of your own.

Cheers!

Kennelly: "My Heart Is Jacked From Writing"

COLUMKILLE THE WRITER

(from the Irish)

My heart is jacked from writing.

My sharp quill shakes.

My thin pen spills out

blood from my stormy lakes.

A stream of God's own wisdom

flushes my hand.

It blesses the waiting page.

It blesses where holly is found.

My thin pen is a traveller

in a world where books are waiting.

Who dares to see? Say? Who bothers to listen?

My heart is jacked from writing.

--Brendan Kennelly

WHAT ELSE?

Be with me Brendan of Ardfert when I

Question words. Song and speech like mine were cast

Aside when, stung by treachery,

You killed a man. Brendan, was it remorse

Made you confront the problematic sea,

The gruff distraction of the wind until

You breathed the cold air of sanctity?

I see you searching with a passionate will

The changing waste at feet and head,

The constant abyss. What reassured you?

Glint of leaping fish? Arrogance of birds?

The sea's tempers? All that has been said

About your lonely strength and rage is true.

What else subdues the sea or masters words?

--Brendan Kennelly

"The Paths of Glory Lead But to the Grave[s]," Robert Graves, That Is

Or, as I should say, the poet Graves leads the way here. I couldn't help the bad joke involving Gray's line from his "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard." Still, weak humor notwithstanding, I believe that possessing "a new understanding of my confusion" will lead to sure, certain, and true glory. Maybe I should step aside here and let the poet offer his guidance.

IN BROKEN IMAGES

He is quick, thinking in clear images;

I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;

I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images,

Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;

Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.

Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact,

Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.

When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;

When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.

He continues quick and dull in his clear images;

I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.

He in a new confusion of his understanding;

I in a new understanding of my confusion.

--Robert Graves