dotty LO30216

Date: 05/28/03

On her unborn in the vast circle
Concentric with our finite lives;
On her unborn, her name uncurling
Like a young fern within the mind;
On her unclothed with flesh or beauty
In the womb's darkness, I bestow
The formal influence of the will,
The wayward influence of the heart,
Weaving upon her fluid bones
The subtle fabric of her being.
Hair, hands and eyes, the body's texture,
Shot with the glory of the soul.


"All things must pass through nature to eternity." Hamlet

" The Temporary has to dismantle itself so as to release the free energy to
enter the eternal."

Dear At and LO,

Teaching is a humbling human activity isn't it? It is a generational thing

" andrew,...leave what you have, and move out..." Joseph Jaworski

For a few years now I have been involving;-) myself in a small project. In
order to create (output an input), post-hoc, I organised a workshop. I
will not go into the details, there are a few clues herein.

We assembled about twenty people, on a sunday of all days. Among the
twenty were a number of couples, two couples, one couple comprised a
mother (35 'ish) and a mother (65 'ish) and another a mother (30 'ish)
Janet and a child Benedict (8 months 'ish). We made some art together, in
a (white) field;-) effect ;-) They co-created a painting. I called it
after a Margaret Wheatley 'ism, 'Walking with Soft Eyes'. It is just lines
curving (cursing;-) everywhere ...and dots, dotted here and there...
Though a small image, about A4, it has a kind of 'numinosity' a
'luminosity' to it, a 'depth' that is somehow infinite. It really is a
lovely thing ( 'thing' in the Bohmian sense, and/or the sense that Hannah
Arandt meant it;-)

When I got home I was looking through a nice van Gogh book and I found a
pen and ink 'dotty' type of drawing, one he'd made of the the shoreline,
oceanedge ;-) and as you'll perhaps know he, Vincent wrote his way through
worry, here's what he wrote...

"Is that all? Is there more to come? Perhaps death is not the hardest
thing in --life. For my part, I declare I know nothing at all about it,
but looking at the stars always makes me dream, I dream as simply as I
dream over black dots on a map representing towns and villages on a map of
France. Why, I ask myself, shouldn't these shining dots of the blue sky be
as accessible as the black dots on the map of France? Just as we take a
train to Taracson or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. One thing is
undoubtedly true in this reasoning is that we cannot get to a star whilst
we are alive, any more than we can take a train when we are dead. So it
seems to me that illness, tuberculosis and cancers are celestial means of
locomotion, just as steamboats and railways are terrestrial means. To die
quietly is to go there by foot. Your ever loving friend,

Maison Jaune
August 1888"

...leave what you have, and move out...

[Dedicated to two young friends and pupils of mine, sisters, -Lianne- and
-Shanie- who both died in their late teens<>early twenties of an incurable
wasting disease. I also dedicate it to your friend, who is a complete
stranger to me, At --....] ...placed in the body of the text...



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