Thursday, April 17, 2014

Stop gap

I am not dead. I am not ill. I am reflecting. Nothing new there but maybe there is a new depth to the reflection. At any rate, many things feel a bit trite at the moment like quippy little blog posts like this one. As you were.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Summation


This is what I am trying to achieve. The sensation of lying on my back staring up at endless openness while standing upright in the modern world. The sensation of sun on my face when skies are gray and complicated. The sensation of boundless joy while performing the mundane tasks of simply being alive. So far so good.

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Manifesta

 
Drying plastic sheets for Nuno-Felting.

I'm super off track with the blogging. I am in deep self-care mode at the moment. I suspect I will live to procrastinate many more things, the painting, the writing, the endless crafty endeavors. Work is the answer. More work, more making, more sketching, more seeing, more doing, less thinking, less talking, less weighing, more breathing. I got invited to join a group of artists meeting to discuss art and the process of making art and the reality of being an artist. Initially I felt that it was what I wanted. I even thought the invitation had come to me in a sort of divine way. I went to one Salon style gathering and there were many very interesting people there but I felt ill at ease. I feel suspicious at the very idea of the thing. Is this normal? Is it just me? It takes a lot for me to get out into a group of people and I generally reserve the energy it takes to do this for clients and family gatherings but off I went. I even shared my work, I read a piece from this blog as an experiment. People were supportive but I felt hollow afterwards as I tend to. I am suspicious of this need to seek attention for things I have made. I connect it to bowel movements from childhood. My mother would applaud my stinky efforts. It mattered and it felt good to me and to her, both our jobs done. I don't want to talk about making art much in the same way I don't want to talk about my sex life or my bowel movements in public. Yes, I have sex and I really enjoy it, I spend quite a bit of time thinking about sex, I dream about it, I miss traffic signals thinking about it. I don't want to talk about it though. It's private. People do not want to listen to me talking about my sex life. I think making art is the same thing. I want to do it, not talk about doing it with people who have their own methods and manias, fetishes even, sexual and artistic. I enjoy the intimacy of art making and I believe the creative process is a solitary one and I am okay with that. I am superstitious. Whatever creative gift I have been given (as I write this I am stunned that I even thought that, a gift from who/where) I need to protect and explore for myself alone. I can't speak about something that has no form, wrong words could dissolve the gossamer waves of whatever it is that might ooze out of me given half a chance. So I will continue to plan and make and if you run into me, let's not discuss art or sex or shit or blood. All those things are implied. Let's agree to discuss the discussable, the dog, the swans returning from Russia, the new buds swelling in the unusually warm weather and how grateful we all are to still be at this beautiful party.

Thursday, February 6, 2014

Returning


I am back to walking despite the bitter cold. The question of purpose comes up not just for me but for others in my milieu. The young are confused and misinterpret their daily acts as trite and unimportant. I often think if only X would happen then I could do Y, Z. Well here's a news flash. X is happening! I picked up trash today on my way home. I picked up a big plastic cup, a plastic sheath from one of the salmon reparation saplings that flew off in the wind, and an empty bottle of vodka before I found a discarded grocery bag to put it all in. I filled it up pretty quickly. I have been meaning to do this for a long time but haven't. The trash annoys me. Beer cans, coffee cups, fast food bags that like magnets pull the dog off course. So today I did it. It felt good, and it gave me a totally different perspective on my walk. I may never write a great novel and there may be no purpose to any of it but I will be able to walk down my road without hating humanity and that's something.

P.S. Someone on my road drinks a ton of 100 Proof Vodka in plastic mickey bottles. I hope it isn't a kid.

Friday, January 31, 2014

Sundays






On Sunday it was frosty and clear once the sun came up over Sumas Mountain. It felt good to be outside and I took pictures of the frost. I am planning a garden, such as it is covered in black plastic and spare tires. I helped at the Urban Farm on Saturday and came away feeling good about everything. We will have a kick-ass raspberry crop again this year and I have plans to throw in a 20ft row here at home too. We made a rough list of things to grow in the garden, things we think we can handle. Beans, peas, cabbage, kale, the basics. Meanwhile I felt nervous about Monday's surgical event but what can you do, time moves us along and now it's 4 days later. The rain started up again and I wouldn't have walked even if I could have. Tomorrow I will try again.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Bare


I am rowing along my feet are my oars
row, step, row, step, breathe, breathe, breathe.
Merrily, merrily.
I saw seven eagles flying, trill, trill, calling.
Two white capped adults and five mottled juveniles
above the creek. I called to them,
my head tipped back compressing my delicate vertebrae
exposing my white lumped neck.
Hello eagle brothers what a fine day it is.
I bet you can smell the rotting salmon all the way up
in those cottonwood trees. They trill, trill,
call back to me soaring overhead. Showing off
feeling good because of this sudden sun that has
pulled us all out today and made us joyful
when we should be afraid.

As someone who has considered cutting things short
stopping midstream so to speak but fearing the end
incredulous that it all must end in happier times.
I feel lighter now, knowing how it might end
a lump begins somewhere and there you go.
An answer to the question.
An end to the unknowing
but miraculously
step after step, row, step, breathe, step
with my eagle brothers alive above me
and my salmon sisters dead on the creek banks
getting ready to smell as soon as the air bloody well
warms up, and it will. Hope rows along side me.

I am linked to them, the eagles and the bare trees
my flesh exposed, no more or less important.
I am in the flow and that is the point.
And I will row hard like my salmon sisters swam hard
follow my purpose which for now is the simple
act of breathing, stepping, striding, rowing.
Moving when it is time to move,
waiting when it is time to wait.
Sunning myself when the sun
calls me out into the world
along the creek beneath the trees.
My soft neck bared and open
so that the eagles might pull free
and devour what is
unwelcome in this once perfect body.
Trill, trill, call. Step, step. row. Breathe.

Friday, January 10, 2014

One Month

I have not written in a month. Not because I had nothing to say but because I was not willing to go into those deep woods. Instead I have spent the month quietly inhabiting two states. One private, one public. My public self enjoyed the holidays. I ate, I drank, I traveled about dropping off cookies and cheer, spending time with family and friends, it was lovely. My private self came too and sat quietly waiting for my public self to get tired and go home. Some days for hours I forgot completely about my private state and was amazed by how positive and hopeful I felt. Other times my private self scrambled, clawed to the forefront of everything presenting formless ideas that eluded words. I am changed. I turned 50 in December and it was an emotional day. I missed my mother to the point that I could barely speak about her. Like a wounded child I long for her steady hand. In reality she was not that steady, she faltered and I see those fissures in myself. My private self keeps a little album of these creases in our combined flesh. I am not her but at times I fear that I am. We are so fragile. While I was thinking about these two selves as they slid back and forth on top of each other making me feel whole and fractured simultaneously I came to the following conclusion based on evidence and information. I am going to be okay regardless of what happens to me. I have today and I feel fine. As long as I feel fine I will continue to move ahead. My face in the mirror smiles back at me and I think, look at her she looks fine.

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Values vs Memories

I'm slipping into another place
it's serene in here, no sound, maybe birds
I have no memories, I have no goals
is it death? that is the conclusion I jump to first
I have died and death is the ultimate calm state
but I am not dead because I am drinking coffee
and my husband and daughter are down the hall
the absence of worry, concerns me
but most memories I am willing to lose
those things happened
and now they are lost
I'm startled by the odd flash
of what does drift past
Los Angeles midday
my hand raised touches his face
a social perfunctory kiss
I have always felt uncomfortable
kissing for no good reason
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