Friday, March 28, 1986

GOOD FRIDAY IN SAN IGNACIO

GOOD FRIDAY IN SAN IGNACIO

We're back in Baja, Sur
at the Hotel Presidente, riding on empty,
and it's 65 miles to the next Pemex.
We stalled at a granite oasis
where a Roberto Acosta died at age 21.
His blue iron cross bleeding with rust
etched with his dates 1956-1977.
Born after me, died before me. 
Did he live a life with choosing?

At the San Ignacio Mission
we walk amid pastel shrines,
carapaces to house the dead,
on Good Friday, under a waning moon,
listening to the rosary in Spanish,
the padre's face, lit by candles
and the dark gold sheen of the altar,
a subtle coinage of faith.



28 March, 1986
San Ignacio, Baja California Sur
added & revised 2/17

Saturday, March 15, 1986

A CAGE FOR THE WIND



Claimed in the beginning faces
of defeated children,
our shadows fall
from the smoking mirror
and hurry through the window.
This harvest of bone,
and dust—wind spews debris
from which to hang the heart
under a nervous moon.
Sweet lies, shipwrecked flesh
could do no better.
Let the wind pass.

 Spring 86




Wednesday, March 12, 1986

How Color Came to Be—teaching notes


HOW COLOR CAME TO BE

Did you know the molecules of darkness are transparent? Reach into your pocket and grab some darkness so we can begin this story:

In the beginning it was dark, darker than night trapped in a lava tunnel. The ancestors of color were indifferentiated, they hadn't migrated yet.

The ancestor of yellow was the first to swim toward the beginning of time. It swam and swam so hard and so fast, it began to glow the color of the sun. Yellow is the color of warning. Slow down/speed up at a stop light, it's all the same to yellow.

You can't call yellow a chicken or a coward and get away with it. Yellow is the first floral reminder of spring; the sun's reminder to the earth under winter's blanket, not to forget about spring. 

The buttercup held under the chin of a child in spring; yellow is butter's secret desire to marry the sun. The descendents of yellow live in the hearts of mustard flowers, the feathers of song birds—canaries know yellow best. Sent down into the darkness of mines to warn the miners of poisonous gasses.

Everyone—those to come, and those who will die—will know at least two names for darkness. The pavement under the new houses becomes a name for darkness. Darkness of black holes so ravenous for light, nothing escapes, not even the straight arrow of light itself, the fastest known racer in the universe. The unmeasurable space between ink and paper—under the pen is a darkness that brings both light and color.

Green is the secret desire of yellow and blue, grass seeds buried under the earth dream of yellow. Then there's the rainbow to be considered, but what of the barely visible essence of indigo, and what of the colors we can't see, like infra-red? Bees see more colors than we do. What are the names of those colors we can't see, what do they look like? Can we imagine what we can't see?

Now you tell me about the invention of other colors, named and unnamed, with the darkness of your pen.




? 1986? No idea