Snake Sutra beginnings with books, librariums, poetry inked around windows, a poetic life . . . what is a poetic life made up of? Sugar and spice and all things nice? Flowers, cats, books, bottles, arcane, handwork, dragonflies, flasks, light, windows; all covered up sacred secrets become a map, a voyage, into mysterious realms unspeakable . . . that is poetry, the use of words not to tell but to spell the waves upon which ships bob about out at open sea where we don’t see them yet there is a sense of seafaring coming through in words poetic, it’s an art, feel it in my heart though have no idea whether I’m any ‘good’ at it, this is what I’m capable of, open like the book to learning more, unlearning, learning again . . . continuing toward completion; it’s amazing how much gets layered and hidden, feeding transformation from underneath
Components come together, child man woman people birds butterflies eagle fox fairy mortar pestle children trees, arranged, a story board with little poems from other forays, some from books some from Betty Hayes Albright, woven interwoven . . .
A few pieces get set to one side, maybe for adding later, one turns into its own wee book, and the work goes on