“I have been writing nearly all of my life. Before that: pre-verbal memory, dust motes in shafts of light, fly on the swag, its buzz. Gradually, from the cadence of the lamplit parlor, I came to know myself as an artist working with my hands (to assemble found and fabricated objects and rusted or exquisite parts into three dimensional boxed narrative vignettes. These juxtapositions became the generating fuse in my poetry, but also, in the fever pitch I reached as a poet the day I discovered I was writing prose, plays, essays, using the visual image for trigger, and ultimately, the play I started at five (with my actor father) became the libretto I've just completed after two years work with a composer previously a stranger to me. This is the sublime coming full circle from cadence of the nursery, to cadence so resonant in all I do, read, listen to, all I am, including the conceptual artist I became in order to work with architects on invisible ideas. (Yes, I have now ascended one of the higher rungs to which I aspired:: to talk about the metaphor of a building, its footprint and voice. I live elsewhere, write elsewhere, and among transporting moments are my first glimpse of holographic manuscripts of Bach, Beethorven and Bach, and incidental moments such as the transcendent discovery of red in all its expressions, from the obscure (to me) portrait of Chopin standing beside a red piano, red bench...which I how I arrived, without half-trying at The Red Room, breathless, as if it had been waiting. I now conclude I must make red covers for the books of the writers who mean most to be--those which I keep on my over=crowded nightstand. “Complete Chekhov, Kafka, Rilke, Proust (for the landscape of memory); Bachelard's Poetics of Space for the whirlwind in my imagination it creates. Have I found here in a populace of mirrors my 'others' ? Speaking on the same frequency. Informally assembled? Who are you to whom I would speak? Will we read each other, we soliturdes, who do not speak, to whom silences and distances are either great or not great, who hear time as a tiny hourglass with ticking grains, who forget little because we elect not to but are, each morning, startled awake by being alive. What? Still? Write back to me, will you, each in your separate maxims, notched twigs lofting, ateliers and grimed panes looking out. Rimbaud, age 17, in a letter to a childhood friend, wrote, I was born to be a poet. Can I help it if I am a poet. Can the wood help it if it wakes up a violin?" Salud. Think of me, if you do, as Voyageuse. “Is the cause lost, then?”
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