Janus: Two-Facing
/I found him king-of-the-castling on August 17, 2014 atop a newly arrived mound of rubble. This view is toward open water.
A ten foot clips-on-bike-shoes slippery scramble to leave a note on that shard of orange brick on his pedestal.
Oh, you are too cute to
ignore even if it means
clambering over this
pile of deconstructed
city to get to you!
On his other side, the side looking toward the city, I left this note
Looks are deceiving,
yes? At first glance from
the other side you’re
simply cute up here.
But from this side
your rusty hair does not
obstruct your view either —
forward and back
like Janus as you stand
here in the present. I
admire this about you.
It can’t be easy seeing
that much, being rooted
here. Or does it provide
you with some hold on
absolution?
And only one week later.
From August 17 to October 12, 2014, Janus experienced numerous alterations, semi-deconstructions, reconstructions and witnessed a sinister incursion. On each occasion my response was written on some suitable surface at hand.
And now, backtracking a little to the day of the incursion.
On this late August day the ride along The Spit entry road was unusually quiet. No birdsong, no cormorant squawk, no wind rush sound in my ears — so quiet in fact, that I could hear the insects singing. Not a single rabbit scampered to safety just ahead of my front wheel, when so often at dawn there could be twenty or more successful dodges between us.
The point, where I did most of the creative instinct tracking and writing was hushed. Suddenly, THUMP, that distinctive hollow sound of heavy objects striking ground underpinned as The Spit is by rubble and its air pockets. I stopped, breath held, silenced as if obedient to some instinct.
I crouched. A little hidden and wrote.
Stunning, sobering
the dark force of him.
I heard it first, one clunk as something hit the ground.
It felt somehow notice-worthy when normally such noises out here only register.
Slowly, ever so slowly moving across you
searching eyes
until he spotted his next victim
so sadly thorough and complete his work. I saw him moments later sitting
roadside
bare footed, alone — perhaps the victim of a chaos governed broken heart.
Looking up every couple of words to keep my eye on him I suddenly felt a deep shift . You know the split -second moment - that impossible to put into words eye-lock instant. I moved very slowly keeping him at a constant distance thinking, ‘He is without wheels, I have my bike. Stay. I can outpace him .’ And so, we inched keeping that gap steady between us, our eyes not meeting again, mine averted for fear of triggering something unpredictable in him, something more powerful. Despite my bravado, foreboding allowed no further writing that day.
He appeared and disappeared only once into the path leading up to the lighthouse. On all of my subsequent visits that path has never again looked quite so beautiful, mysterious and sinister as it did on that day.
I remain altered by that encounter. It was more information about The Spit than I wanted at such intensity. The guys from 2012 target practicing were enough. To this day, I cannot unknow their impact or his presence, his methodical determination, taking his time e v e r s o s l o w l y, ever so deliberately until every single creative act was razed.
But then again, The Spit is impartial and deeply dimensional, wild and unpredictable. It holds the tension of opposites with such grace. It has never been my intention to change it (as IF I could) or to avoid this truth. The Spit’s contrasts and mysteries are what draw me. Best to remember this.
●
I had another rule for myself: not to rebuild anything that has been altered or destroyed. But I was attached to this one. It occurs to me as I write today, that I must have needed to soften the blow of that assault from the week before. I did a little restoration work, just a little.
And left this note.
…with the hope
that this is as good
a reconstructions as
Humpty’s might have been.
You are just too good to let go.
Hold on! Hold on!
Until October 12th, when only this remained.
The granite slab on which I had written to Janus at our first meeting was laid, writing side visible, on his concrete block pedestal. I added this to the existing text.
The thought of you still
lingers here — so it seems
that someone has remembered,
has held your thought in this saved note.
By October 25th, all traces of Janus, his pedestal and his rubble mound had been bulldozer-obliterated. The Spit had grown a little and it was time to begin again.
And for us, you and me, until next time.
The Stealth Art Collective
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