Maud

By Marian Glaser © March, 2000

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As I’m sitting here enjoying the goldfish in the pond we dug,

watching our black lab chasing imaginary dangers and

admiring the flowering crab tree, I muse,

trying to think of the topic of the column I write weekly for our small paper.

This may fall short of Monet’s garden but

every bit of life was chosen and combined

as lovingly as the ingredients of the crab salad made by my sister for our lunch.

Colours, tastes, sounds and textures modify each other.

That could be my topic. Ours is an Arts paper anyway.

Maybe painters and writers hope each time they’ve found that perfect mixture, their holy grail,

move forward to completion with certainty,

discover it too is flawed, and try again.

Its imperfections cannot be seen by the creator.

In an exhibition you can see the modification between and within works.

Nor are artists stopped by the time’s tastes.

Libraries and galleries are filled by creations,

now valued, then rejected.

The price of not following the standards of the times

is not being understood or paid.

You don’t have to be an artist for that fate.

If your society thinks money is more important than spirituality

and you disagree, you’re going to suffer.

John the Baptist is a good example of that.

I must stop musing and watching Alan clip the hedge.

There is just time to enjoy the sight and scent of my herb garden

as I pick the sprigs I’ll need for our

evening soup, omelet, salad and herbed French bread.

I want to jot down my ideas quickly,

before they disappear without a trace,

like so many I’ve had.

A piece of writing talking about writing is as self-reflexive

as any of Escher’s paintings but

I can only think in this format

since I am a writer, even if only part time.