Pickin' up sticks




Pickin' up sticks


It's a mixed bag, picking up sticks. So many seem to have fallen from my collector's pack. I try to set them up on my path far enough away from each other to see the space between them.

Pickin' up sticks, pickin' up sticks, in the mix. I am a mix of sticks. What's in your bag? What's your bag? Mine is to find the old and create anew.

I'm makin' them into a house, a house of sticks. Will it fall over at the slightest blow like this? How can I fix the sticks so that they will wear the storm and bend?

Breakin' down sticks, breakin' down sticks, bye, bye brittleness.

Take a seat, sticks. What if my seat were made of sticks, like a wicker throne on a round pedestal? 'Round and 'round the the wicker winds under my legs. Will it always support me? Am I stuck here on this throne?

'Round, 'round the wicker sticks, 'round, 'round the wicker sticks...

I'm not full of sticks. I'm a solid tree trunk, wrapping and grabbing, moaning and slamming...celebrating the sky.

Yes, that's what I am. Celebrating sticks, celebrating my sticks.

I hope this sticks.


Text: Kristen Mastromarchi

Photo: "2010-06-23 Ron Mueck - Woman with Sticks 2008 - 41" by Degilbo on flickr is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

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