Once, long ago, in a faraway land
there lived a princess
who was as old and dry
as a pile of rags.
She lived in a tower of rust, where all she had to eat
were weeds and sour cheese ,
and gnarled gnomes stabbed into her
with rough-barked thumbs.
One night, as the brass gong of the moon
sounded its single note, over and over,
she climbed the highest, most decayed turret
of her loneliness
and became wings.
Her fall became flight
and she flew far away.
Now she lives in a mossy forest
and is quite young again,
pink as a sunset
As happy, at least, as one can be
without being a child or an animal,
content as the falling amber and umber leaves,
“The Madwoman’s Granddaughter– History of the Drowned Cities: the Granddaughter Speaks” (Page One)
We are all survivors of a personal Atlantis, all of us risen from the sunken continent of childhood. Even yet, I find myself inundated by remembrance, seduced by the drowned sound of bells still tolling from beneath the waves. Sometimes I return in dreams, the lifeless body of a child melting out of my arms as my face breaks the surface and I waken. The South is another sort of dream, suggestive and persistent, a country composed equally of the survivors of dreams and the drowned. After many years of terror and self discipline, I allow myself to live just at the edge, in the hills overlooking the turquoise waters of art, memory and madness.