| Loft Up four flights of stairs, around and around; one of these days I'll be able to run them unwinded. Newly arrived, I'll lug everything up there-- a few salvaged pieces of my past life-- and be glad to do so. I'm gonna live up there all alone for a good long while, padlock my door smear paint everywhere except the floor and the ceiling and the white leather couch where I sleep. Time to forget the past. Let it come to me however it will. I live as my heart tells me. I'll just keep squatting over drop-cloths, trying to squeeze out sheer brilliance-- color and form onto canvas and board while my halogens throw weird shapes against the walls. Eventually I'll get brave and haunt the caverns of my home, with it's vintage bricks and archways and neo-secret stairwells. I will frequent the public restroom like a sacred spring. At dawn, I'll emerge a new and seemingly respectable woman, to put in my time, to buy my time & sanctuary, along with the stores for my tiny little fridge and materials for this quest. Then back, to where destiny calls me to be along or in the company of the like-minded, someday, to say everything using brushes and turpentine to improve and clarify through summer's open-ended days and winter's endless nights new and used blend into one; the old warehouse, desolate in the center of town, its the resting place that my slaughtered spirit needs to get at, to be at to make up for itself. I scream and I plead and I beg but never in those terms. I dare only mention it in passing, or even the mists of the dream will dissipate. PamEhli/2001 |
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| Since 1-20-03 |