Nothing Much to Say
(I)
The world seems cruel
in the face of pain.
A suffocation of silences.
When if we tried to speak
we would scream,
then we are silent.
When what we feel
fills our throat
then we are silent.
When what we should feel
is not what we do feel,
then we are silent.
When we don't feel
and we don't know how
then we are silent.
People die curled around their pain _
unable to say what hurts.
We cannot find the words
to make it right.
Helpless to help,
we turn away.
Nothing much to say...
(II)
When an artist dies
what can you say
to equal the art
that's gone out of the world?
(III)
Rub someone's shoulders.
Drink gingerale. Eat pizza.
Make more art.
What else can you do?
In honor of Boyd McLaughlin 11/3/95
Boyd McLaughlin died on November 2, 1995 at the age of forty-four.
Boyd came into Seattle's StreetLife Gallery, "the home of homeless art," fresh off a greyhound from Montana. He was trying to get off of cocaine and turn his life around; he threw his life into the Gallery.
In a year Boyd went from homeless and searching to housed and working as a prolific, self-taught artist offering inspiration, instruction, love and generosity to hundreds of artists walking in off the street looking to the Gallery for healing themselves.
He was at the Gallery eight or more hours a day, seven days a week, and the service providers who managed the Gallery at that time became concerned about him. They insisted that the Gallery close two days a week, Wednesday and Thursday, so that Boyd would have some time to himself.
Within two days, Boyd was dead. On a Thursday night.
It may be circumstantial, or not. But please hesitate the next time you want to decide for someone else what is best for them.
1 comment:
Makes ya think he knew it was better to keep moving. Sad.
Post a Comment