Hey, just wanted to say a big thanks to those who have seen and encouraged this whole cape endeavor....I've "gone public" in the last few weeks and have been blessed by the warm reception wherever I show the capes. If you're lookin' to see them (or me) in person I'll be at the Denman Saturday Market most Saturdays (9:30-12:00) or of course we can do a personal consultation.
We only notice the air currents when the cottonwood seeds
they dance in the parking lot like we used to
around and around
wistfully before the June sunset
We’ve got time like popcorn
all over our picnic blanket getting
soggy in the grass
We only notice the stars when the tent netting
they meet in the air like seagulls discussing
around and around
democratically before the July designs
we’ve got plans like sunscreen
all over my back getting
oily in the sand
We only notice the raindrops when the maple tree
they conspire on the branches like birthdays
around and around
perfectly, before the August karin
we’ve got routes like quinoa
all over our sporks getting
covered in cottonwood fluff
Well, typical of a Taurus who prefers to work with fabric than type on a plastic board, I haven't written in a while.
I've been working on preparing my little boler trailer for the summer season. My vision is to have it as a creative craft/market space where I can make and sell my creations. If you see a little magic purple
My art teacher once insightfully remarked that I seemed to never make a one-idea sort of drawing. Instead, my pieces were mixed, with several ideas or textures or methods involved. I'd found it counter-intuitve to make a typical sketch of one scene or idea. She remarked that since this eclectic-ness seems to be what I do, why no embrace it and explore it where it could take me.
I've been revisiting this idea in the years since then, and feel that these observations apply to not just my sketching portfolio. I tend to do most things in a mixed way. Sometimes this comes off as a scattered approach, but at it's best it is the magical merging of different mediums or ideas. I feel that my genius could lie in these combinations. The way I do art and life is mixed, eclectic, a little of this and a little of that. I'm don't seem to be into the ONE THING kind of style. I love, play, work, a make, talk and think, in a collaging quilting sort of way, uniting pieces of many textures, colours and shapes. In a culture that asks me to pick a career or one life-time partner, or one house to have a mortgage on I feel out of place. Anybody with me in this?
Yes! Solstice has come! the longest night has past, and today there was a bit more light than yesterday. Yes, Solstitch is a variation of solstice, one of my favorite days. And this year it seemed to come more easily, less agonizing dark November. But I dare not comment on how that's "hard to believe" or "my how time flies". In my medium length life I've noted people perpetually saying this, which would lead me to believe there's nothing unusual about it. Seems like we always think time is going "fast so that must just be how it goes, the strange concept that it is. Where does it go? And we often consider it so linearly, yet this seems too to be perhaps an unnecessary and maybe even inaccurate picture. In my visual brain a year is circular, glowing counter clock-wise with winter solstice at the "top". I fin myself remembering things easier if they've transpired in the last year, partly because then they are still "visible" on my yearly whee. After a year, they get overlapped by the next year's moments and I have to peel back, or unspiral more to touch them.
Today is the Denman craft fair, my second time round (does this expression denote a circular vision of time? a riding ring? a race track?). This year I have entered some of my quilting pieces. Some "mini quilts" that are about the size of potholders but would probably be better as sort of a table center piece, and one large bed quilt.
I enjoyed yesterday titling all the pieces, the bed quilt is called "storytime" and some f the others include "dolphin's puzzle" and "cherub's checkers". I conveniently was ableto put them in with the quilters' guild section so I on't have to attend to my table all day long, just pop in and be helpful, through there seems to be several experienced crafters who have it thoroughly under control.
Back to the thoughts about time...Here's a passage from Vladimir Nabkov's autobiography called "Speak, Memory.":
...common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss wit more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour)...Iver and over again my mind has made colossal efforts to distinguish the faintest of personal glimmers in the impersonal darkness on both sides of my life. That this darkness is cause merely by the walls of time separating me and my bruised fists from the free world of timelessness is a belief I gladly share with the most gaudily painted savage. I have journeyed back in though-with thought hopelessly tapering off as I went-to remote regions where i groped for some secret outlet only to discover that the prison of time is spherical and without exits.
I found this passage particularly interesting because of the way he descries the similarity between pre-birth and post-death, and perhaps the comparative strangeness of us having a sense of time at all. And this idea of time as trapping echoes my feelings sometimes, but its curious for me to consider it as a round, perhaps a bubble, enclosure, not Western square box. Though he sees the sphere as "worse" because it has no exits, I imagine from his spherical description a stretchy, sort of bubble, on that if pressed into might gently warp or cradle the inhabitant. Maybe our transcendental experiences of love, connection and mystery are times when the time bubble flexes, moves, like a womb. A few years ago I had a revelatory sort of moment similar to what Nabkov is describing of the twin darkness's. I was picking raspberries and marveling that they now exist, here before my eager fingers, when only "short" weeks ago there were seemingly no red berries. Just the amasing potential for them. i thought of all the factors that come together to "make" raspberries, sun, water, plant genes, temperature...and how in a sense the raspberries (in these pre-existent forms) had always existed. it's only my concept of this particular manifestation of energy/matter that has a very short life. Short because now, as soon as it's deliciously ripe, I plunk it into my waiting lips. now the raspberry is "gone" , but no, I can taste it, it's winding through my digestion becoming movement, words, energy for more thoughts, seeds back into the soil (if I ate it now where there's a more natural sewage system...poor raspberriy carcass at the time probably just went to the treatment plant.) I thought about the "non-existence" of the rapberry on either side of it's life, yet how it was also a part of everything else. I can't consciously remember my existence before conception but all the ingredients were there, in a sense before "I" existed I was tomatoes which my mom ate, or ideas which my dad had. An afte I "die" will I not continue, in a similar way, to be a part of the universe, my muscles becoming food for trees (hoping the Denman green cemetary is completed in time) and my ideas continuing to commune in other people's minds Perhaps even the memory of me. These raspberry thoughts made the other side of death seem as un-known, but as benevolent as pre-birth. Doesn't seem so linear. Perhaps the bubble of time is actually a raspberry, and a circle, and a cycle, and out of the darkness come some new light.
Sometimes I say words out loud and get a funny feeling that they are just none-sense, middle being one of them currently. It sounds sort of like a duck shyly practicing it's vocal chords while waddling towards the water. There are decidedly less ducks on the farm now after what was titled the "Duck Apocalypse". We went from 12 or more live ducks to meat in cans, and two evasive duck who now roam free on our marsh. To participate in this (I learned how to get the meat off the carcases) is to take a life for my own sustenance. I feel a sort of weight, knowing that we have the power to kill these birds (and did) who only moments before were walking innocently on their wonderful webbed feet. I don't feel like this is conclusively wrong, just weighty. Perhaps in a similar way that I don't think my cat's killing the mouse in my wall is wrong, so much as weighty to watch. There is a certain crunch of the skull, so definitive. I feel grateful for this increasing connection to the food (in this case meat) that I eat, that it is more true, and yes, more "right" to know the animals I'm eating. I feel it honors these animals way more than the anonymous (and horrible) lives stock meat production animals live.
I was proud last month to bring home a road kill dear, which we skinned, butchered and ate. Let those who would consider this weird consider that otherwise this beautiful animal would have rotted in a city disposal yard. I felt honoured to get to partake of it's life. And, admittedly I was like a cat proudly bringing home its catch, standing at the door way holding up my pride. Giddy smile, faster breath. Quite a sight at 10:30 at night.
The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.
There's a lively discussion on Denman that resurfaces (like drift wood, back up on the beach) from time to time about animal "problems" on the island. Dear being one of them. Impassioned letters fly into the island periodical like volley-ed fencing moves. Total animal rights activists who shelter injured rats, burly gun-holder who shoot dear from their guzzling trucks. And now the latest battle is over sea-weed. One lady has made it her crusade to stop the harvesting of sea-weed for compost in gardens. Others are plotting a clever response to expose the ridiculous alternative of buying commercial chemical fertilizer. The small island environment seems to expose the interconnectedness of these decisions, and cause us to think of the limited resources and room for us to share. I anticipate a future where it is even harder (more expensive or unhealthy) to buy meat, and where gardening locally makes even more (economic and social) sense. I hope that we can somehow share the dear and the sea-weed with the land and other humans. There is an abundance in nature: nettles, lichen, wind, ants; that we still have manage to jeopardize. It seems to me that it is the supra-humanness (our technology-guns, vehicles...) that has thrown the cycle off balance. And yet, it was our human ingenuity and invention that led us to these things. Perhaps nature's answer will be to destroy us, the ducks taking over the world again with their wonderful waddles.
Oh gosh, this is so much different than the tactile world I usually live in. I know the rest of you have been exercising your electronic abilities for years now, but I feel like a Luddite driven in, almost by force to the city of street lights and inescapable webs of invisible rays. Thankfully I have a fearless companion at my side, telling that this is no as complicated as the freezing browsers and quiet key boards would make it seems. And supposedly there are a few of you who would welcome the notion of me joining your e-world.
I feel that I'll likely still write some of these posts on my typewriter first, there's a certain abandon to my writing on that old friend that I miss with this ridiculous key-board. I feel a bit more self-conscious (perhaps ironically) typing here because there is the notion of backspace, of editing. On the old typewriter I'm forced to follow my thoughts through to a somewhat completed sentence without the option of undoing the whole thing. Now is there an expectation that typed words will be re-read and perfected? I'm not very good at the perfection notion. Prefer the process. And also, I suspect there's a sort of grace given by readers to ink-writing. You forgive spelling/grammatical errors because you realize I can't just white it out easily. Here these annoying red lines follow my thoughts like a bacteria. Oh dear :)