While working on an article, I came across notes from 1997:
Ice, Iza. A Norse principle of creation. Stiff. A slash. Icicles impending, sword-dangling from heights above the head. Icicles encasing roofs, garage rims. Ice encases human creation most readily. Creation as ice down the back, down between the breasts with its stinging tongue. Stagnation — ice stilling the blood’s forges, stiffening the fingers, toes, ears, extremities, siren-dulling the survival chant of the heart — I live I live I live — the soft killing blanket, the soft killing breast of the Mother who only seems to forgive.
Ice, Iza. What meaning does ice hold in southern August, can its song be heard here beneath the body paint, beneath strategic glitter and well-placed shouts? Ice — absence, cold is heat’s absence, loss of kinetic motion, loss of the iron dance of blood’s filaments. Half of Hel’s face — ice white, ice black, a cold place, an absence — no touch but one’s own bone —
Ice as bone, our bones as ice — unmelting, their steely dignity impelling us to a straight line. Idunna’s ice castle — the steely dignity freezing dew upon apple skin into cold hard tears, a tear without motion, a drill stilled, a gem set into a crown of ice, a tear that never falls, that releases nothing.
But winter offers gentle hands uncreased to the summer-sickened, those feasted upon desire dizzying, dizzying into vertigo. Deep slice, glacial azure bluer than cloudless skies — in cold, in absence, there is an empty peace, an empty peace — the still lake left by glacial teeth — the shallow seas and their fossils — the unwanted tree scepter-straight and undisturbed, a measure of stillness —