Safekeepings
Under my bed is a box of books, classic as Augustine, holding prisoner my ideas while I am trying to be somebody else. Not van Gogh or even Ignatius of Loyola although my times have been insane, and my lucidity, briefer than the saint's vigil by the bed for the space of an "Our Father."
I keep my paintings under my bed and my pains too. I keep my heart and my treasure, photos of my vision, my artistic persona.
I keep Pierrot under my bed pirhouetting freely inside his porcelain doll box, painted tear on his hard white cheek under his silver eye.
Under my bed are the hopes and dreams of a thousand winters past the Reformation, western civilization marching forward and I still am not free.
I keep my masks under my bed and this is my pantomime, illuminated in gold-leaf ink.
I keep it all under my bed waiting and hoping for the performance of a lifetime where Birkenstocks are ballet shoes and I am whatever comes.
c2003,2004Mary Bach-Loreaux |