Thomas Peat 1791

Apollo's Knot

Here lies the body of Fanny Hepsibah Walker
Wife of Capt "Chan" Chauncey Walker
Who died March 31 1832
She was aged 21 years, Adieu

Burying Our Dead

In the twilight an infant creature is peacefully observing it's new world.

Resting tranquilly after meeting a disorderly death with tears, most unbecoming.

It rests silently, fixed to the soothing sound of a breast broad with composed and harmonious breath.

Feeling much contented, the new creature stirs and graciously collects the remains

of the former self, and with devotion and ceremony it carefully places each bone into the grave,

playfully admiring it's own shadow and paying it's respects, pondering the prospect of it's new capabilities.

Rodin Shaw Cole © 2011

The Vampire

I woke from my sleep and lay there warm in the bed next to my boyfriend for a few moments until I felt clear enough to get up and go to the bathroom. I had had a succession of dreams that I had wet the bed, signaling me that I had better wake up before I truly did. I visit the toilet probably twice each night because I bring water to bed with me. Bottled in the Summer and a cup of hot in the Fall, Winter, and Spring. After my chore I crawl back into bed, pulling the comforter to my chin, and I lay there listening to the sounds of the city at night. I wandered my thoughts remembering doing the same thing in my youth. From my bed I would listen to the traffic on Route 7 going past while everybody in that big old house was asleep. I was comforted by the words that my mother had read to me from a book titled "What's in the Dark" when I was a child.

What's in the dark?

After they've clicked the light off
And everybody's said goodnight,
What's in the dark?
The pants that you wore today,
Your shoes, your socks, your T-shirt--
They're in the dark.

Your crayons in a jumbled pile,
The new ones, used ones, broken ones--
They're in the dark.
The radiator under the window
Makes a jiggety shadow
On the wall
In the dark...

But now I am 38 years old and living on Upton Street with my boyfriend and Boston is unexpectedly quiet at this hour. After all the restaurants in the South End have closed and the gaggle of laughing cows in the alley have stumbled their way home and have fallen into their own beds, one can hear the soft swoosh of a taxi or delivery truck making it's way down Tremont Street. The headlights make a pass through my blinds and across my ceiling and very briefly, and not so brightly, illuminate the room before it is dark again. Nathan stirs from his own sleep and then resituates himself beside me and I hear the clock on the mantel in the living room strike. I count three muffled gongs and then I turn on my side and position myself for settling back to sleep next to him for the last leg of the night. I was enjoying the hypnotic sound from the escapement when I got the very distinct feeling that I was being watched. I wasn’t at all panicked and I turned myself around so I could see out the window from where I lay, calmly. Peering back at me through the glass was my friend that I was certain did not exist. I don’t believe in the undead, but there he was, and I could tell it was him because his eyes were little dark pools of cold water that shimmer in the moonlight. They were just how I imagined them to be, and I just lay there staring into them in a kind of ecstasy while my mouth formed a contented smile. My eye lids became heavy and I drifted off to sleep knowing that he would come to me again and I would ask him everything I’ve always wanted regarding his origins and his experiences over the centuries in the dark. He would become my professor, mon meilleur ami, and I would be his favorite company, because I would find that he loved an audience, and I loved a good story.

Rodin Shaw Cole © 2010

The Bookish Turkey

Scholarly fowl. Feathered, sober mishap.
Picking through our proud galleries, pausing to fluff your ruffled barbs,
and smooth your waddle with a rude and hearty claw.
If you are not dazzling, handsome and elegant you are.
A dignified, sturdy local bird, worthy of regard.

Rodin Shaw Cole © 2010

Death and Licorice

Anger and great disappointment meet like sweet vermouth and Kentucky straight bourbon, a sobering drink. No evil waits for us in the dark savoring our failures, no saints celebrating our victories, and the man in Rome is an ordinary house fly, nothing remarkable. Death and laurels, death and black ribbons. We sit together, but quite alone, on a bench chewing licorice in our shade gardens, each of us longing for a community to embrace us before we pass into the unknown, quite alone. Quite quite.

Pigments

Charcoal & Bone black, lead white, yellow ocher, and umber. Painting my space spare, hanging only a Dutch Master.

One, Eames Management Chair
One, Athos table
One, Moooie Smoke Chandelier & Tizio Table Lamp.

I would spend my hours studying my collections in the beauty of natural light, resting my eyes in the soft shadows. This palette soothes my restless soul.

~Rodin Shaw Cole © 2009