Working to create collective words and images...an image for a reponse from a reader of my last post, Torn Black Madonna. An excerpt from Katie Canepa:
"We have a little bit of royalty peeking out at odd moments. Imagine: a little girl in a stained teal sweatsuit, the squeekiest kitchen table you could conjure, and a microwave dinner. This was all served up with her grandmother's china and stemware (filled with powdered milk) while her family was away. The splendor that so captivated Mother gives hope for salvation?"
How's this for royalty on the mix of things? Isis takes shape for my last show at Orr St. Studios, as Torn Black Madonna looks on.
Being transcends time. That is salvation for Elisabeth in the following excerpt from The Daimon:
Daddy died on Halloween, a dark rainy day, Elisabeth’s first year away from home. She had just turned eighteen. Claiming her freedom, Elisabeth had chosen not to go home for her birthday weekend, two weeks prior, even though a college mate had offered her a ride. She didn’t cry when she got the phone call notifying her of Daddy’s passing. In fact, Elisabeth would not remember much except emptiness enveloping her body. Numbed, her arm floated toward the wall receptacle to hang up the phone.
Elisabeth went through the motions of that transfixed day as if she were watching another father’s daughter mouth, over and over again, the words, “He’s dead!”
Her ride home from the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, to the prairie of eastern Colorado, was a four hour entrancement of watching farms and fields go by. Elisabeth’s body took on an amorphous presence amidst the patterns of corn rows and furrowed fields.
“There he is..."
"Daddy!” Elisabeth called to a young man who kept on working.
She had heard stories of Daddy migrating through the West before he married Momma. Elisabeth felt herself sidling alongside him, hoeing with migrant workers. Their heads dropped in silence, under wide-brimmed hats, shading the back-bending efforts of soil breaking.
Like her grandmother who had drifted through the view from her nursing home window, tapped by The Daimon, Elisabeth entered a place where being transcended time. Looking in on little Elisabeth, sitting on Momma’s lap, she pondered eternal space, marked by telephone poles disappearing into the horizon. As the family trundled down the dirt road, coming home from church on Sunday morning, blankness blanketed her mind.