Everywhere, the Dance
Every time I try, but each time it slips away. That split second balanced between death and creation, that pinpoint of original bliss before thought appears to ruin it all. My life is a destructive one, but so is the earth, speaking of mirrors. The desert and oasis, the tempest and rainbow, the calamity and calm, with the sunrise through it all as the earth keeps spinning. And this is why I present these words. Creation led by destruction and everywhere the dance! This tango push-pull, seduction-rape, kill-caress. Why the artist must struggle. And that was a statement, not a question. Death must be present, the eyes raised heavenward with no one looking back, returned to earth with damned-up floodwater tears. There is no azure sky of deepest summer without the house-splintering tornado, without the wreckage of every dream. And in spite of all this, you say, “Oui, merci!”
(This excerpt is from my new novel, Blood of the Sun...)
Van Gogh, "Wheat Field Under a Cloudy Sky"