I received the latest volley of creativity from the prolific Cheryl Penn who unlike the lilies toils and spins without end. This particular tomette (not a small tomato, but a small tome) is dedicated to my Aunt Ruth who died a few weeks ago and is all about the ephemeral quality of this lively dust we inhabit. We, who are creating ephemera on a daily basis, much of the time, from ephemera, are ephemera are ourselves and Cheryl, with her winding red thread spells out a Carpe Diem that is equal parts exhortation and reminder of that which we might choose to forget.
Cheryl's books are crunchy in the extreme, raw, textural. Sophisticated artifacts made from cat gut and buffalo hide. Post-apocalyptical creations from the seer on the hill, madly spinning out meaning against the twilight sky.
Becoming blurry...Cheryl has a endless supply of these scary polaroids with all the faces melding into one great homogeneous family pic. These are your people.
TS Eliot gets the last word which he wraps around like snake eating its tail. And the red threads tie it all up in an untidy unraveling musical chord that keeps going even as we stop. Thanks again, Cheryl.