|"On the Portal, Ghost Ranch, 1959" Photo by Todd Webb, © 2010*|
I pack the suitcase, trembling with excitement.And fear. Alfred will miss me.
He is so fragile, so tragic.His long white fingers play with my valise,His eyes cast down in sorrow.
But I must go—It is for my spirit, for my life.
I wish I could see you this morning—more than that I could tell you how important these months have been to me—Maybe you know—I am ready to go now—in every way—If you were here I could tell you quite definitely how it came about—it is some thing so perfect—so perfect for ending this and beginning a new thing—(August 1929)**
I dream a wild wind over my bare bones,a terrifying song through the cavities of my skull,my hips. The thin digits of what once werearticulating fingers, trail paint.
I am reduced to light wind.I can feel myself inside this bodylike hills, like a vaulted room,like spans or poles setbone-deep in pearly earth
A dark shell falls away, light risingthrough translucent flesh.I am haunted by skeletons, stripped cleanof blood and dirt.Shaken, I vibrate to the sensationsthat were once this body. The wind whistlesmusic through these bones.