#O162: For Ilse

I seldom paint in a high key. When it works, it makes it all worthwhile for me.

o162-inframe


When the day turns olive minutes after the sun sets, I walk the garden and dream of Pessoa’s dreams. He wrote:

But suddenly, and contrary to my literary intention, the black depths of the southern sky – by a true or false recollection – evoke for me another sky, perhaps seen in another life, in a North traversed by a smaller river, with sad rushes and no city. I don’t know how, but a landscape made for wild ducks unrolls across my imagination, and with the graphic clarity of a bizarre dream I feel I’m right next to the scene I imagine. A landscape for hunters and anxieties, with rushes growing along rivers whose jagged banks jut like miniature muddy capes into the lead-yellow waters, then re-enter to form slimy bays for toy-like boats, swampy recesses where water glistens over the sludge that’s hidden between the black-green stalks of rushes too thick to walk through.

I fear the days are passing too fast. So often I forget myself for hours on end. Where was I yesterday, walking amidst the crowd? When I come back to myself I am welcomed by a familiar sense of courage – second by second, anything can be faced.

I hesitate so often, carving just one more figurine before returning home. Rumi wants me to stop this:

Say Yes Quickly (excerpt)
Forget your life. Say God is great. Get up.
You think you know what time it is. It's time to pray.
You've carved so many little figurines, too many...

Tomorrow you'll see what you've broken and torn tonight,
thashing in the dark.
Inside you there is an artist you don't know about.
He's not interested in how things look different
in moonlight.

Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

Thanks for visiting my blog.

Ilse, ou sus, ek hoop jy word vinnig beter. Jy is altyd in my gedagtes.

10 thoughts on “#O162: For Ilse

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