I must have a child’s deep instilled love of chain link fences and of hopping over one to play with my friends and to explore deep into Nature or sometimes to go undercover for the CIA investigating the neighbors! (Whenever you see children creeping around neighbor’s homes, it’s a sure sign. They’re spies.)
This fence has mathematics in it too. Or so I’m told, which must mean I have mathematics inside me — though I’ll be darned if I can locate them. This fence occupies the upper corner of a painting I have underway. Its meaning is so far elusive. It holds in or keeps out something. Perhaps it guards my optimism. Perhaps it defends against the trends of my era. Inside its enclosure, birds sing brightly. Along its wires a cicada climbs, seventeen-year-cycle visitor of insect Brigadoon lives eternally here. Here flowers bloom by themselves without roots.
“Good fences make good neighbors,” said the poet. This fence is also a fabric that holds one’s self together, a tapestry of beginningness.
[Top of the post: detail of a painting by Aletha Kuschan]