July 1, 2019 by petrujviljoen
Seven people around the lunch table. Ma, Pa. Us kids. The bread store-bought. A choice of toppings on the table. Ma didn’t really bake, she didn’t have the time having had to work full time to help put the store bought bread on the table.
A slice of white for me, (I don’t remember what the others did or ate) a dab of butter – no margarine those days – generous spread of peanut butter, table knife dipped into the syrup, twirled on the knife edge, holding it high, letting it drip, creating patterns, watching it run, erasing the creation. Savouring the first bite.
butterfly’s wingbeat –
a decade’s worth of scent and search
– hurricane Pollock
Discussing what makes a haiku a haiku with Lionel. Where’s the cut? Where’s the kigo? What’s a haiku? What a senryu. The first nature based, the second, a more personal situation. Some don’t make the distinction any longer; I told him I would like to though. People have been removed from nature, by their nature.
I was born two years after Pollock died. I played with the food when I was maybe eight or nine years old? I know, I know … but I did think about my playing with my food and Pollock’s drip paintings and wondered – I was freshly a Buddhist but not any longer – was it then I became an artist? What the hell. He lived a dangerous life. So did I back there for too long a while.
A mark of the haiku is the first and third lines can and apparently should be interchangeable. That’s what ‘they’ say.
So: if I do that … an edit is permitted – who shall tell me no?
decades worth of scent and search
– butterfly’s wingbeat
I don’t know if I shouldn’t be running some more. I am, I think. Gently painting realism.
skies rose-gold and blue
the mountain drowned in dusk
– what of tomorrow?
Scent and Search are the last two paintings Pollock made.