we’re not afraid of the big, bad wolf. so we’re building our houses with sticks. one of the funnest summer projects, ever!
when i was little, i had this imaginary world i would go to before i fell asleep. we lived in the trees of a thick forest, and there were bridges that stretched from one tree to another. i miss that place.
graphite pencil and watercolor on arches hot press paper; birthday gift for my dear friend
Quietness
Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You’re covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you’ve died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.
The speechless full moon
comes out now.
(Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks)
it all started like this, torrential rain in bursts, and the compulsion to fully experience it.
and then he said this, and i couldn’t not write it down.
and then she remembered how fun chalk is when the pavement is wet.
and so did he. 
and let’s just say we were deeply moved.
and then:
and then:
shortcake, holga, tri-x 400 film in t-max dev
An unintended theme in my life lately has been a loss of control. (Maybe “unintended” is a given, since intention is a form of control?) Or, more specifically, the theme is a fucking obliteration of any semblance of control. Control is dying a painful and twitching death here, and I’ve taken the job of holding the pillow over its face. I’m tired of sharing its air. I can’t really give you any insight here, because there is not any hindsight to speak of.
But it has me feeling kindred with the ol’ holga. I’ve got no control with the holga, which sort of kills a woman whose religion is the Church of the Light Meter. The aperture and shutter speed simply are what they are, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Even those settings are relatively uncertain. All I can do is open the plastic shutter and let the light in, to fall on the film as it will. The focus will be off, some frames will be overexposed, and some will be underexposed. There are unintended shadows everywhere and places where the sun burns the negative completely black. But a couple of the frames are, with ironic consistency (or is it pure statistics?), absolutely gorgeous. Alternatively, I could leave camera at home; or worse, I could let a computer set the controls for me.
But I think the illusion of control can be deceiving. The only constant is this beautiful inconsistency. I think. I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you. (But don’t count on it.)
but i'm glad i didn't.
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Mary Oliver
There are those who would misteach us that to stick in a rut is consistency – and a virtue; and that to climb out of the rut is inconsistency – and a vice. (Mark Twain)
I often chastise myself for my inconsistency, despite my apparent tendency to praise it. Or maybe it’s the other way around? And I don’t, in self-pity, mean inconsistency in skills, but in interests.
This is not yet another defense or justification of my fickle-ness. (There are far too many of those on this blog.) I’m just sharing my thoughts. I won’t even quote Emerson. I promise. But I might quote William Blake. Yes. I believe I shall.
Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained. (William Blake)
I do not have weak desires. And I have many—some yet restrained, some not. Here is where I am, regarding a few of the unrestrained ones: 1) in love with this film, and with putting bits of light and shadow on it. 2) in love with my novel again, and with fixing and strengthening it. 3) in love with this new guitar, and with building up these finger calluses. (not only can i sort of play and sing my funny little nonsense song, but i can also sing and play “blowin’ in the wind,” and so how sexy is that?) 4) in love with pencils and ink and watercolor paper, and working on a new drawing. 5) moonlighting, obviously.
When I think about it, there is this annoying grown-up in me that wags a finger and says things like, “Stop this frivolous nonsense!” and “Do the dishes!” and “Go to bed before 1:30 AM!” and “What is the point?” and “If you would just focus, maybe you’d finish something.” and “Be responsible. Make money.” But when they are quiet, which is most of the time, there is myth and art and music. And I can’t quite remember why that is a problem. Myth and Art and Music! I don’t want to remember why that is a problem.
So, to answer the annoying, finger-wagging, grown-up-me; there is no point, really—that is the recent epiphany. The only purpose of all of “this” is simply to share my experience of It with a capital I. If my whore-ish muse wants to flit and float, who am I to stop her? This is how I experience it: an overwhelm of inspiration and emotion and passion and . . . everything. And I do what I can to express that experience, simply because I want to. It’s never enough, I’m never enough, it will never be enough, and yet it is. And I am.
So there.
She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half words whispered low;As earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.(Robert Graves)
Characteristically paradoxical, me. I’ve changed my mind. I’m now officially looking forward to spring, whether I like it or not. I just read the above poem last night (in this book), and that is likely what secured it. Yep. I feel it stirring, despite the falling snow. (Either that, or the extra espresso shot from this morning’s latte?)
This dead little flower is just outside my window, and I was sketching it today with the home-from-school-for-a-dentist-appointment kids, and whoops! Hope and Mother Earth made an appearance. Hey there, Mama. Stir it up.
tri-x film in mamiya 645af. mowgli and a girlie friend.
Today I’m thinking about illusions. The illusions of vision, of art, of social role, of relationship, of should, of connection, of separation, of possession, of acceptance, of proper, of religion, of comfort, of security, of emotion, of praise, of beauty, of insult. Hey! Another one of those lists. I haven’t gone all there-is-no-spoon yet, but I do think I’ll go on a quantum physics kick, now that you mention it.
I’m thinking about how we can become so governed by those illusions, and about what would happen if we . . . weren’t. If we accepted their function when appropriate, loved the illusions for what they were, and then gratefully let them go in due time. “Arigato Zaisho,” if you know what I mean.
I’m thinking, and letting go of a few other . . . thinkings. Oooh, I have a lot more to say here, but I’m operating under the illusion of time, so I must go.
Have the illusion of a happy weekend!
We now interrupt our regularly scheduled upswing with . . .
and
By the time I descended into my lair to get some crazy out last night, I fucked up an attempt to do an ink wash of yesterday’s sketch. And so I was infuuuuuuriated with myself. Because I could have developed film or played the guitar or painted a watercolor or worked on that terrible opening chapter. And those thoughts made me more insane because then I decided that I am just an all-around absolute loser, of course. Why must I (TRY to) do everything? My muse is not just promiscuous, she is a whore. Because she makes it so that I am not even good at anything.
(I am not looking for pity or smoke up my ass, here. I am just spilling. So pleeeeease, so help me, don’t.)
I’m a little thrown off by this. And I’m kind of spinning in circles. And I’ll do some business things when I can today, like working on the photography website and ordering shipping supplies. Good, concrete, boring things. And I will have a friend here for coffee, and I will screw a few hinges onto my cupboard doors. And, of course, I will mother as a verb. But I can’t promise that I won’t just go ahead and have a breakdown. Which makes me feel weak and stupid and lonely, because who feels this way, really? I mean, pull yourself together, woman! There are real problems in this world! Remember how you felt about your fellow college students who complained about their art woes while you studied organic chemistry and microbiology? Where is that one chick? Maybe she was just a sad, jealous, trapped little thing. But maybe we could buck up and channel her today? Huh? You lunatic?
Shoot. I’ve just realized that there are people that blog to uplift and inspire other people, and not to talk to themselves in public.
And so I’m going to try really hard to post something normal-bloggy tomorrow.
*curtsy*
