The Secret Pleasures of Confrontation

 

7.01.2008 32" x 22" Archival Pigment Print

(Printed on Harmon Baryta Fiber Glossy paper)

 

7.2008

In the wolf house the witch’s sun is black and forbidding, and the statues would not relinquish the strange vessels of their thought, nor defy the privileges of wonder and deception, and for each shadow casting that crosses your path, they dissolve in the light that takes its body from the water at midnight, and wanders aimlessly through the stages of changing, when firing the invention, or hunting the gatherers... In your efforts to remain indifferent, and highly amused, there is a sealing of the hermetic, and a stoning of the philosophers; there is the crafting of witches and the surmounting of the real...

*

You are a glowing margin from her memory, and the rapidity of quartz that flows from the gallows of her marrow to the sinew of last evening’s storm, within you, peripheral, awkward and acute, lighting up your feverish landscape with cressets of pale eyelids, and she is the furthest from you when you hesitate, yet she continually beckons to you, and lures you with her flesh of fireflies... unnatural being of the air, speaking the leaves, whispering the roots and stems, fading the light, in the buzzing of wind, invisible burning in the circle of sleepwalkers spinning contrary to the blood released from it’s hive, one drop at a time... “There is no mirror that cleaves through your being, but the molecules that surrender their utmost clarity when they include the distance from you, smearing the edges with fingers, diminutive cocoons no bigger than pores watching you...”