Cedar imprint on vessel – inspired by a poppy pod.

The women gifted them to the other

allowing displacement of face

motionless animals and grief stricken men were humbled by her earthen beauty once upon a time.

and yet we know when we hear those words

that those times have passed and are not to return.

(Part One to be used in paper)

This piece was inspired by “Exercises in Style: Sonnet” and my relation to wedging clay.

Here she enters,

moving with precision in her deathly stained apron

and me, wrapped in plastic

all wet and ready to melt in her hands.

some how we’ll start this damned conversation

Then comes the wire – or maybe raw hands – both dry in a shocking way.

With no warning, or even prep-talk, just slipping, and pulling apart my whole.

She pats me in a manner thats supposed to make me melt – melt into a circular style,

to become whole again. Her hands cursing against my skin, and this, I can appreciate.

She pounds me down, again and again. Taking the air right out of me, finding success and a smile when I no longer have pockets within me.

and I know, that when my pockets have been turned inside out, I will become rich in a new way

maybe to hold golden tea

or fermented grapes

or those sweet beans from down south.

She does have my best interest in mind.

                                                               Doesn’t she?

The lilacs drift into my nose and force-feed me memories of

Ballet on warm Venice evenings

-The quarters clinking into the jar- The repitition of bones

and memory

Jasmine shifting the mind towards my open heart of a child

Which one was it, lilac or jasmine?

They bring it all up, the breezes full of goddess sandals

and movements in the sand that resemble snakes on top of the river bed,

slinking into the memories of forgotton tails.

The swing swept me high into your maple arms, laughing mountainously

back and forth went your memory

Your hands held me only for a moment and then spun me back into a

flying frenzy, opposite your warm gentle embrace

The Sunday lovin’ sings out into the Hawaiian nights, spilling onto the front porch

and the darkness lightens the stars from across galaxies

as I gaze into your ghostly eyes.

And then the lilacs came back as the weeping willow swept a pantomimic hello

This is a reading response to “The Alphabet Versus the Goddess” by Leonard Shlain.

In the first 50 pages, Shlain goes over the history of how women interacted in the world during hunter/gather time.  The woman was valued for her skills in foraging, gathering food for her lover and/or family.  Without these feminine skills the masculine beings would suffer, especially when hunting was scarce or unsuccessful.  These two roles were essential in life and were each valued.

Leonard Shlain says, and I find it important to note that, “Every individual has encased in his or her skull both a feminine brain, and a masculine one. Any particular society can accentuate one or the other of these two ways of interacting with the world, depending on the demands of the environment or the shaping influences of its inventions.” (Shlain 27)

Things started to shift when our environment moved from a more nomadic style, or a more settlled way of being in the world. Once people began to become steady on land, things shifted, men no longer went out on hunts, and instead they would stay on the land, learning how to take care of and raise animals. They also began to take part in the, once strictly feminine role, of gathering food.  Men learned to pray to the earth goddess to bring fertility to the land.  It is mysterious still, how these prayers changed towards masculine like gods, and why they no longer prayed to the goddess. Maybe it was simple that the masculine brain wasn’t getting worked in the same way because of the lack of hunting, that the “masculine brain” needed to be manifested elsewhere?

This is a Wintergreen Oil Transfer I did. For the words I used letter stamps, playing with the balance of Image and Word. Inspired by Leonard Shlains book, “The Alphabet Versus the Goddess”

A poetic response to The Alphabet Versus the Goddess:

Woman gathered food to disperse in trade for iron,

to enrich her bleeding body.  She must have done this

or either traded her sex for their huntings.

She later watched as the words were stolen from her body, from her cherished skills, to now engage in an act that brought apon shame to her collecting, to her giving.

The words were stolen from her body they say.

Because they no longer speak in prayer

for her to bring them fertility. They no longer ask for nourishment as the crops grow plump by manipulated man hands.

She watched

and she, the giver of light, shed on this shift; of body to word

of right, to left

brain

gracefully allowing the

embarking on endeavors that could not hold the sight of her slippery hips, and sturdy hands.

They moved they’re hands to the stolen spaces of the page

the page filled with imageless faces and heartless prayers.

they stole the words from her body

and now her vessel is missing

the piece of fulfillment

that the valued iron gave her.

and yet, She walks on,

handing out poppy’s to the still outstretched hands.

Liberty P.

My hands become the vessel

squeezing the clay into shape

to center.

If I am not centered, the pockets of air cause a wobbling

ending in destruction

-wedging gone askew.

As if I hiccuped and forgot to place my foot correctly

oh the moments of slippage, spilling out from beneath perfectly placed fingers.

wobble

wobble slip and ripple.

Like many things done with time

finding the rhythm of patience becomes a practiced virtue

the clay demands-

be graceful, or i’ll cave in on you

like jello, like a rocky mountain shore

like a booby trap.

I find solace in the blind relationship of fingers on clay,

feeling the depth and the waves in my slow slow motions.  I close my eyes, and a deeper sense of knowing kicks in, a still point within my hands, between my heart, my eyes shut.

expanding my vision to extend to finished pieces.

I dont see the end,

Instead I Feel the movement, a slow one, opening – can be swift, shutting, if there is patience it is centered in the end.

The relation of I on eye

on eye,

and I on hand

with no eye

I

stop trembling, and form the vessel on center.

centering my hands.

Authors note: This was created after a day of centering on the wheel.  Learning to embody patience with the pieces I was opening and creating. I found I could tap into my own center when I was patient with the clay, allowing it to slip past my fingers, blindly, rather then pulling and pushing, working together with this element and with my body. With the simplicity of my hands i formed centered vessels, my eyes were getting in the way of me feeling centered, so i shut them. I like this metaphor and I like knowing I can accomplish a certain beauty while manipulating earth.