I left the City of Green Fire. I didn't know I'd left it because its imprint is indelible. I remember its warm cobblestones. I always walked barefoot there. Actually I didn't wear any clothes at all, yet never felt naked. Was it completely safe? No, but the parameters of its possibilities were so much an extension of me that I didn't feel any more fear than the usual nightmare or beautiful dream. Did it break my heart. I'm sure. But that seems a daily surgery once the hood is lifted, and light pours in. How do I know I'm not still there? Recently someone made a comment about City of Green Fire, saying it is a painting about gestation. Simultaneously I am working on a large collage/painting on paper. Unlike what I usually do I started with no image in mind. I tore up some maps and an old physics book and began to glue pieces, paint, and draw. Sometimes when I work the emotions of the period are very strong and they get purposely mixed in with the making, even if the picture is relatively subdued or, as in this case, mostly abstract. This time this is true and also I'm working without a template. It's pure wing-it. The familiar creatures of the City aren't here. There is no writing on the wall and no wall of green fire. I'm in the illuminated place of action?/no-action? Every time I make a mark, glue a piece of old equation or a bit of archipelago I drift in another direction. The ripples go out and impact everywhere. Of course this is true all of the time but I'm not usually so acutely aware. The City walls, tunnels, arches, and bridges to nowhere are no longer there to echo back my location.
I'll send you a postcard...
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