OPUS FROM SPACE "Almost everything I know is glad to be born—not only the desert orangetip, on the twist flower or tansy, shaking birth moisture from its wings, but also the naked warbler nestling, head wavering toward sky, and the honey possum, the pygmy possum, blind, hairless thimbles of forward, press and part.
Almost everything I’ve seen pushes toward the place of that state as if there were no knowing any other—the violent crack and seed-propelling shot of the witch hazel pod, the philosophy implicit in the inside out seed-thrust of the wood sorrel. All hairy saltcedar seeds are single-minded in their grasping of wind and spinning for luck toward birth by water.
And I’m fairly shocked to consider all the bludgeonings and batterings going on continually, the head-rammings, wing-furors, and beak-crackings, fighting for release inside gelatinous shells, leather shells, calcium shells or rough, horny shells. Legs and shoulder, knees and elbows flail likewise against their womb walls everywhere, in pine forest niches, seepage banks and boggy prairies, among savannah grasses, on woven mats and perfumed linen sheets.
Mad zealots, every one, even before beginning they are dark dust-congealings of pure frenzy to come into light.
Almost everything I know rages to be born, the obsession founding itself explicitly in the coming bone harps and ladders, the heart-thrusts, vessels and voices of all those speeding with clear and total fury toward this singular honor."
"Flake by flake falling softly, covering the ground in a white blanket. The trees whisper in the wind— snow, snow, snow they seem to say. Smoke is billowing from chimneys into the cloudless sky. A soft whoosh of the wind— I watch. I listen. I look at the setting sun. It goes down like a melting ice cream cone. Through the fog I can see the ocean lapping up the sand. The moon rises. I get into bed as I hear the chimes of winter. I shut my eyes and go to sleep."
As I walked throughout the display studio into a patio the led into a grassy courtyard,
I was greeted by letterpress printed gifts!
Tags with poems had been handprinted and displayed for guest to take away.
The trees and honeysuckle branches proudly displayed the poems as
they gently dances in the late afternoon breeze.
Sandy Tilcock's studio was brightly light and neatly displayed many pieces currently in the works.
The crown jewel of the room was the press affectionately nicknamed, "Phoebe".
I was so excited to pull sprint on this lovely machine, and jumped at the opportunity to do so!
The press ran smooth and clean and seemed to glide with little physical effort.
I was then invited into the lush garden courtyard.
Here I enjoyed a glass of Sparkling wine, nibbled on appetizers and met with friends.
It was a lovely way to wind up the day.
To learn more about Lone Goose Press
Watch this short video
and
Frances Ann Day summarizes the three-day celebration, the Day of the Dead—
“
On October 31, All Hallows Eve, the children make a children's altar to invite the angelitos (spirits of dead children) to come back for a visit. November 1 is All Saints Day, and the adult spirits will come to visit. November 2 is All Souls Day, when families go to the cemetery to decorate the graves and tombs of their relatives. The three-day fiesta filled with marigolds, the flowers of the dead; muertos (the bread of the dead); sugar skulls; cardboard skeletons; tissue paper decorations; fruit and nuts; incense, and other traditional foods and decorations.
”
—Frances Ann Day, Latina and Latino Voices in Literature
