Opening Up the Well: A Recording from Oral History
Ride a cock horse to Banbury CrossTo see a fine lady upon a white horseWith rings on her fingers and bells on her toesShe shall have music wherever she goesHe’d grown up in Hawai’i, but his mother’s family was gathering in England for the yearly family get together. A bit reluctant he left his slippers behind and strapped his young teen feet into brown leather and laces after pulling on trousers, shirt, tie and blazer. It was an uncomfortable gathering, formal of formal and his bones cried out to be in the sun again, to let his toes dig into earth. After an hour of great aunts and third cousins he whispered an excuse and headed outdoors and began to walk.The greenery was alive but manicured; this is not what land should look like! Where are your volcanoes? Where is your lush chaos? Then he saw it in the distance, brambles and bushes beyond the hedgerows, and his walk picked up speed. Feet trapped in leather cried out and he kicked off his shoes and tied laces together to throw socks and shoes over a shoulder, and took off native style. He rolled up his pants, pulled off his blazer, and took his shirt, blazer and tie off to tie them around his waist- this is what life should feel like! Sun beating down on skin, birds chirping, and the world of modern man left leagues away.Beyond the brambles were frogs and the sound of water, and pushing away branches he found the old stagnant Roman well. Banbury Cross had been built around this so many years ago, before his ancestors became name and title with the land. Water was life, water meant growing food, and food allowed an empire to expand. The well was overgrown and covered with a thick layer of algae, cluttered with fallen branches and the debris of hundreds of years worth of neglect.Wading into the water his hands began to dig around in the muck before him. Pieces of clay pipe. A rusted gun barrel from the 1800s. Branches of all shapes and sizes. His hands dug deeper as he threw the cluttered world out of the well and looked deeper. Deeper. His hands found rock, found something heavy, and with struggle and determination he pushed the heavy weight at the bottom of the well to the side.Stagnant water met cold water. As he looked down he saw a clear stream begin to bubble up in the middle of the well, and a stagnant pond was given a lease at potency once more.He pushed away the algae. He cleared the rest of the branches. He pushed the heavy weight further to the side… and shortly the transformation was obvious as the muck became crystal before his child eyes.Gathering up the treasures of his adventure, pieces of broken clay pipe, an 1800s gun barrel covered in rust and grime, he ran back towards the estate. As he approached the main hall where his parents and the family at large had gathered on the veranda, the party ground to a halt. He looked down, a Hawaiian boy in Banbury Cross, England. He looked down and saw what they saw for a moment- then recalled crystal clear water, recalled treasures untold, recalled earth under his toes and the sun beating down on his flesh and erupted into a giant smile.“It’s not his fault, the dear boy was raised an American.”As if that could explain it all. And it was enough. The party went back to normal, and he returned to his room to clean up.**This tale, in first person, was told to me yesterday afternoon by a local Kendo Master at his house near Reed College. He had invited me over to pick up my Hakama and ((kaku-gi)) that I had ordered from him a few weeks prior, and we shared tea, tales, insights on humanity, war, politics, sexuality, and more.I keep spending more and more time with random gems of artistic souls. During the yard sale I met an amazing clown and performance artist, Aaron Raz Link, who has worked with Kate Mura… He and I are on call for each other now for performance art support, and really want to collaborate on burlesque, clowning, or absurdist sexuality performance.I have picked up chain mail again it seems. I am painting again. My fingers keep wanting to write. At the Rose & Thorn awards (Momma Cheryl rightfully won) I was approached to do some ropework for a Japanese men’s bondage mag by a local bear who I adore. My brain is gearing up for my NZ and Sydney shows- clown and drag acts, rope and splosh galore.The Kendo Master in question pointed out to me- An Artists life is a Life, not part of a life. Art is what we are, what we do, and sometimes we have little choice about these things. He is also a print artist and musician.An Artists Life.I need to dig into my well and pull out the muck I think. I am trying one branch at a time.