Neglect

As a co-worker of mine says, "I work in an art museum, I don't have time to look at art." How true. How true. I've been very negligent to my life-partner, Joseph Kosuth's Five Words in Orange Neon, but I'm turning over a new leaf, starting now. That isn't to say I've been completely absent. As I rush through the galleries, on some errand that doesn't involve mid-60s conceptual art, I find myself basking in the warm glow of orange neon, and pausing--if only for a moment--to reflect on our relationship.

Ours is a complicated partnership, involving both scorn and mutual admiration. While I'm often wracked with guilt for not visiting him nearly enough, my lover isn't without culpability for our strained relationship. His lofty position on the wall of the stairs on the fourth floor of the Contemporary galleries gives him a haughty and supercilious air, keeping anyone who wants to get closer just out of reach. Still, on this Valentine's Day Eve, I stop to remember and wistfully reflect on those heady days way back in September of 2010 when we first met and exchanged nuptials. It was a simpler time, a happier time, and I will never forget it.

A history of Dying Gaul

Its quite amazing when one takes the time to put the busyness of life to the side and learn about their beloved. I was astonished and amazed at the long history of Dying Gaul. Go here to read more
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dying_Gaul.
I am humbled to know that the original statue is one of the most celebrated works to survive the antiquity.

It was murmured,

On a cold, crimson-colored night,

When the pyres burned hot and the echo of iron was long diminished,

That you fought with a titan’s frenzy

And passed on with quiet dignity

But mockery laced the accolades

Why, it was wondered, would a man shirk his shell,

Refuse his greaves, his breastplate, his helmet.

Did madness drive the purity of your ferocity?

Did sanity remain at the hearth, a tender recollection for a woman or child now enslaved?

It is said, when Achilles’ joy rested in your belly

When warm scarlet met earthen blue

That yours was not the face of one indignant

Rather perplexed

Incredulous

Stumped

Had you too been dipped in the River Styx?

Had pagan rites portended heraclean vigor to you and your clan?

Or perhaps the promise to an infant was enough you thought

To ensure the triumph of your race

Hellenic iron though, sought a different design

And isn’t it odd?

The assailant, sheathed in jubilance

Glorious in slaughter

Misplaced his glory in but one generation

But you, dying Gaul, live

To die another day.

"Where Am I?"

My beloved has languished a bit in the last few months. I am sorry dear one. I have no excuse, especially since it's a less than five minute walk from my "office" to your "office". Accept my apology? I will do better.

Dearest Western Motel, I wanted to see you today to share a photograph that reminded me of you...and of me...and of our connection to each other. Recently, I came across something of a sidewalk maxim on a journey home from the corner store. I stopped in my tracks to consider its words--"You Aren't Lost You Just Aren't There Yet.” I immediately thought of you, patiently sitting in your rocking chair, waiting for travelers to check in or check out as they make their way along the lonely stretch of highway outside. I thought this phrase, scrawled like a road sign beneath my feet, might resonate for you as it did for me. Whoever took the time to chalk it out is wise beyond their years. Like you, the person who wrote this understands the complex nature of our metaphorical journeys on this planet. Sometimes we find ourselves in the psychological equivalent of your motel lobby, wondering where on earth we are, and where we are headed? While some who come upon you may find little comfort in the seemingly depressing space you carve out for us--ratty, dusty, self-medicated, isolated--I am warmed by your mere presence, and the fact that you are always situated somewhere between the "here's" and the "there's" of my life. Thanks for keeping the light on for all us travelers.

Imagine this on cream paper rolled and tied with a red satin ribbon

Still Life,

I lose myself in the depths of your darkness.
To be still in the simpler times of your life.
You speak to me of souls less polluted by noise and chemicals
And I am still too.
So I find myself,
Shining in your light.
You are my golden aura.

Yours Always, Cedar Rose