Writing > Writing—100 Vessels-Theories of Evolution

The Vessel Series

The Vessel Series focuses on theories of evolution with allegorical and metaphorical references to the past, present and future. The sculpture, images and writing adhere to an underlying investigation of anthropology, politics, psychology, physical science and theology.

Once

Our path stopped before it began. Too short to deceive the tail. Too tall for the advancing climb. Breathing easy, tasting the air.

Tinged with the fragments of Spring: Stone/lick. Tongue/bark.

Branches burdened with moss carry a fragrance encumbered by the movement of perpetually shifting plates, kicking and screaming in a primal surge, braking for the pasture.

A torn Fragonard, floating with pink flesh, a clandestine Watteau, an homage to Venus. A place of erratic movement yielding the semblance of tranquility, stifling the sound of approaching steps.

Hiding places scarce: a buried hole, a pitch-black enclave,a lightening-slit tree, rain-etched granite, tense bodies of water. Tap, tumble, tap—a steady cadence of miscreant movement.

The pace quickening with each step. The precipice poised in the distance. Fear—cheating the wind at its own game. Time—the enemy of a beating heart. Leaves swallow. Shadows retreat. Colors dissolve. Limbs numb. Sounds cease.

Is it a Fence, a Wall, a Partition, or a Barrier?

Is it a fence, a wall, a partition, or a barrier? The first Chinese Emperor, Qin Shi Huang never asked himself that question. In 220 B.C. semantics was not on his mind—his primary concern was building the Great Wall to keep barbarian nomads out of his empire.

Ghandi couldn’t figure it out in India, Hitler searched for his “solution” in Auschwitz, Khrushchev thought he had all the answers for Berlin, Sharon was buying “peace” in Palestine, Trump wanted one on the US border to keep out “killers and rapists,” and the Pope says, “It’s not Christian. “

A physical presence or psychological divide inhabits space located on a plot of land or rooted in the mind. Fear draws a line, drives the tractor and constructs obstacles while loose tongues spill words meant to wound and demean.

From the mountains of Kashmir, the desert in Gaza, to the Sudanese savanna, the camps in Kabul and Bangladesh and the long march from Allepo—Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, Jews, Christians, Sunnis, Shiites, Republicans, Democrats, Communists, Anarchists—all gather at the gates of inequity to caucus for exclusion and righteousness.

A shifting timeline marking the arc of history—A perpetual conundrum riddled with illusion leaves a trail of unanswered questions in its path.

It Must Have Been Love

He heard it when he climbed a tree—sliding down the branches, hugging the leaves, tumbling to the ground in silence.

She tasted it when she bit into an apple—juice dripping down her chin, ripe with the sweetness of yesterday.

He saw it when he turned the corner— running down the street, a breath out of focus.

She smelled it when the wind whipped through her hair—salty ocean spray flipping like a seal through her curls.

They reached out to touch it—cunning and illusive—but caught in the act. It must have been love.

Steps

A faint light groping through the night stumbles with hollow steps as it comes tapping down a narrow corridor.

Doors slam on the right, windows snap shut on the left. A fragrant breeze moves in languid circles stealing through open cracks cut between time weathered slats.

Abandoned sleep is buried under thinly peeled layers of crystalized snow, silently cleansing the landscape of brittle edges and uneven corners.

The light, acquiring luminous momentum is caught in a brazen act of seduction and scurries below the surface, attempting to avoid its own brilliance.

Bound by a persistent shadow, the faltering glow calls for reason and demands a new trial. Evidence, presented by the blue-grey breath of broken boughs, is declared inadmissible.

Soft mounds rise to appeal apprehensive reflection. Stones, alarmed by the urgency of a distant avalanche, burrow beneath crevices packed with arcane alibis.

The jury, hung between hoarfrost and oleander, declares a mistrial, promises an escape from a restless limbo, and departs in a cloud of contempt.

Circumspect blossoms exposed in wanton undulation retreat behind rows of impatient buds struggling with the mask of vanity, punishing themselves for asking about the vagaries of the light, knowing that the answer will lead them to a further discourse on the termination of propriety and the origin of darkness.

Heed

A canary in a coal mine. Trout swimming upstream. Red sky in the morning.
A night with no stars.

Consider asteroids. Connect the dots. Test the water. Look around the corner.

Listen to art—it informs the culture. Listen to rhetoric— tyrants hijack language.

Reread history—heed lessons of failure. They are harbingers defining tomorrow.

Right Arm

Taxes ramped up —shots rang out—a revolution began. No army—no banks—no credit. The king bowed—the king plundered—treaties hit the deck.

A right arm was given.

Not for land—not for morality—from the north and south a cry went out—dignity shackled—tethered to terror. An identity struggled to emerge. Freedom wrestled with dollars.

A right arm was given.

An archduke fell—submarines fired—a world made safe for democracy. Pacifists, pessimists, neutralists gathered at the gates of war. Munitions were drawn—warships were launched—profits were deposited.

A right arm was given.

A fleet caught off guard—atrocities emerged—madmen seized the day. A sleeping giant woke from its slumber. Power, greed and barbarity rose with the morning sun. A mushroom cloud left it all in its wake, foreshadowing the future of a planet in peril.

A right arm was given.

No battle lines—no common tongue—towers tumbled—gas filled the air. Ideologies clashed—liberty wrapped itself with suspicion and inherent resolve. A boat bobbed on the horizon filled with hope for a new day only to be capsized by fear of the other—compassion lost in the mist.

A right arm was given.

A Summer Wave

An itinerant wave in conversation with the moon frets about being late for a meeting with the summer tide.

“Can the season start with me?” asks the wave side-stepping the light. “No, the tide can’t rise or fall without you,” the moon sputters, “and don’t forget to keep your back to the wind.”

The wave turned and began to swell. “Have you packed your gravity?” “Back pocket,” said the waning moon, “right next to that shifty wax.”

The wave became sullen and began to swoon,“when are we meeting the tide? Hope she’s not too high again.”The moon rolled over to present its better side, “Depends on the time of day—she should be low this afternoon.”

The sun slipped around a corner. “Can I join in? ”The wave peaked and the moon lit up. “Why not—it’s the Earth’s party—and last we heard—we’re all welcome.”