The Art and Poetry of Christina Conrad Groping in darkness, I erect MY BELOVED at the centre of my creative life. Around this sticky mandala, I spin. All the while the heart screams in its ricketty cage... for love. I use the object of my desire to peg down the abstract ideas I'm secretly courting. I must work secretly, in hidden places; I must not draw attention to the fact I am groping under life's yoke. I must feed the fires - the fires of torment, the fires of desire - where love is crucified by its own purpose. For these fires, I choose the largest and juiciest logs... It's the idea behind the idea behind the idea one winsomely suckles... I laugh when people tell me my secrets are safe, as if in a womb... I have no secrets... yet I am a wrapped secret. I never felt safe in the womb... that seat of emotions wherein the blood-red throne is wedged. Ah, the womb! How I swooned in my skin coracle inside my mother's high-walled tomb. Fear of materialization clutched me. Having gone through birth and death a myriad of times, I crouched in fear at what lay before me... In full knowledge I busted out, pushed my way down labyrinth's darkness, the soul limping on its ancient chain... staring in blind shock, the eye falling in and out over millions of incarnations... Where were the great trees I knew? Alas for this - these words... these poems... these paintings... Christina Conrad today Click on photo to go to POEMS Performance Poetry The Art of Being Christina Conrad Visitors Free counters provided by Honesty.com. powered by SignMyGuestbook.com View my old guestbook