Imbolc Waning Wild Moon
Sheepshead tonight. We seem to pass around the points, playing as if each person should get a turn at the head of the list and everyone a turn in the barrel. Always a good time.
Tomorrow a public tour. Stuff I enjoy. Historical. Highlights. I’m still seeking a way to understand this world into which I emerged, a swimmer on the path to become a walker. Objects, material objects, created by people with skilled hands, wild hearts and a need to create tell a part of the story. They tell it from the inside out, the human experience filleted and boned, served up for others. As I learn more, the ancientrail of the creator lays itself more and more open to me, oracle bones crackling in the fire, fish hooks made from bone, statues of bronze and brass, people molded from clay, ornaments from gold. How do we wrap ourselves in the terrible passage of time, time that has seen the creators dead, dead long ago, gone, often, usually, nameless, yet the stuff they shaped continues on their journey, small capsules from the ancient past.
We see it and walk past it, looking for the next best thing, passing by the cycladic figures, the woman of LaMouthe, the Greek vases, the section of wall from Ashur-bur-nipals splendid palace, walking on past them to see the show, the Louvre show or the modern galleries, some of the objects in those places made by people still alive, still breathing, their hands still working while the sculptor who shaped the rock into the plump representation of a woman does not.
Museums are strange, often scary places if we look for the ghost, the hand behind the object, the living person with five fingers and a mother, creating with no thought that 15,000 years later–yes, 15,000 years later–we would pass by, maybe glance down, maybe not. And what of 15,000 years from now? 17, 010 a.c.e. Will someone walk past, glance down, wonder about who cared for this object, these objects, all those many years ago?
