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There is a head shaped
like an ear that carries with-
in it a magic mirror that
may or may not hear, but
offers a diffident aspect
of the ocean. A woman in
a little black dress carries
it as she waits for dinner
to be served. The narrow
pyramids of sand are there
to snack on if she gets hung-
ry, fretting for her date to
arrive. Who may surprise her.
The sea is fairly flat, seems
perfect for galloping in on.
Night approaches. Upright,
uptight, the painting that
divides crepuscular &
corrugation bursts its banks.
Too much to contain, that
the same day has different
times in different places.
Maybe even a different
season as some kind of fruit
is falling. It rolls out of that
picture & into this. Gravity
strikes. Plus globalization.
No sign of source identity.
Confusing. This time of day.
In a time of turbid
media & a weakened
economic outlook, this
display of stone tools
was put together. We
struggled with the
structure, were divided
over whether, with
the data sets that were
available, we portrayed
a goddess of resurrection
& rebirth or Fanon's dictum
that colonialism doesn't
come to an end with the
declaration of political
independence. Both
would require dark glasses
for their viewing. The one
because the brightness
blinded, the other so we
wouldn't see our shame. In
the end we compromised,
put both together, some-
what incomplete. Are pre-
paring a plaque which reads:
"Will be a lifelong pity if
having visited Tiger Hill
you did not visit Gödel."
