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 happens in a pattern, becoming almost predictable. The girls do handstands, their legs sticking out of the water in a V. There is a large splash, then a small one, over and over again, everywhere. Most of the mothers try to cover their feminine curves with clingy wet fabric. There is sunscreen and waterwing-ing and squealing and running and splashing and jumping and eating and sitting and sculpting and scolding. It is all so random and recurrent that it is balanced, and the entire place is drenched with visible, audible, palpable chaos.
Surrounding the man-made lake, mirroring the vibration, the leaves tremble in the wind, and the clouds above them, and the stars above them. I notice the pockets of space between swimmers. I listen for pockets of space between sounds. I consider the imperceptible space between molecules. I breathe and feel the same stillness within me, despite the warring emotions and thoughts, despite the trembling atoms and all the chaotic processes that keep me blinking. I laugh when suddenly the loud speakers begin to play “The Space Between.”
I think of meditation, of stillness, of how it remains among the chaos and the noise, this pervasive stillness, this infinite silence. And then I think of the following song, because of the lyrics: “we are all notes in this eternal song / god plays his flute, we all dance along,” and its overall reference to meditation. The dance and the stillness, all superimposed, it makes me feel crazy (CRAZY!), in a good way.
(This also embarrasses me to think about because dammit, now every time I think of Trevor Hall, I will think of the concert on Friday night. The crowd was awful and really small, the music was wonderful, but I was so moved beyond reason that I offered Trevor a dread bead as he passed me in the hall on his way out. I mean, what? Why is that OK? From my nappy dread to yours? Because I feel the words you sing, and we have matching hair? This is when maybe the ego could have stepped in and helped me save face? But no. It did not. And Trevor looked at me, raised a finger dismissively, and said “one second…” and then did not come back. And so now I am going to stop talking about Trevor Hall, for goodness’ sake. Right after this blog post.)
This is worth pondering. Does nature in her wisdom intentionally produce nonconformists, or find a use for them, enlisting their disparate talents in her service. Is there a place for everybody, a reason for everything, and we fail to understand some underlying cosmic logic?
Do acts that appear the most senseless to us have a rationale that we fail to appreciate? Are what we consider errors and mistakes really part of the grand design? How encompassing and integrated is the mosaic of life? Just how big and complex is this world that we define so freely and understand so poorly?
The Queen Must Die, And Other Affairs of Bees and Man – William Longgood
(thanks for the words, Lisa, and for the model, Julie!)
saturday / sunday
how was yours?
This past weekend, Louise and I went to investigate the theory that online people are actually real people. On a whim. To . . . Kansas.
It turns out—get this—they are! Real people, that is. Real-person Deb invited us into her home for the weekend, without agenda, without purpose (oh shit! I can do things for no reason!). Just . . . for fun. She caffeinated us and fed us and entertained us and photographed us (oh shit! i have a face!) and even let us borrow her super-cute real-person husband as, oh, you know, our own personal pilot (oh shit! i can choose to fly!). Just . . . for fun. Real-person Aimee met us on Saturday and helped us drink a bottle of wine and splurge on a few items of over-priced clothing at Anthropologie (oh, shit! i can buy an apple shirt! because who does not want a shirt with apples all over it?). Just for . . . well, you get the idea.
aimee + me, holga fisheye
It was a weekend full of frivolous nonsense. It was not rational in the least. And it was absolutely wonderful.
me + deb + rock music
It was incredible to spend time with all of these three women, so full of vitality and wisdom and beauty. One thing that struck me about them was the connection they have to their own power. It is not an I-have-something-to-prove sort of thing, but a certain inner knowing and acceptance and manifestation of their own unique gifts. I am so inspired by them all, by their power and joy and authenticity and the bravery to challenge the concepts of “easy” and “safe” in order to live their own fabulous truths. Lately, I’ve been remembering: (oh, shit!) I am a real person with my own real talents and my own real choices and my own real place in the story. There is the balance between 1., knowing that you are enough, that “all you had to do was be born,” and 2., being connected to that truth and purpose that you were born with, and living. It’s all about the mojo, y’awl. (Oh shit! That mojo is powerful, though. So watch out, when it hits you.)
julie (louise) + me (thelma) + deb (superstar)
AND P.S., HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! (please do sing.)
now kids,
this does not apply to sex, because
birth control, for goodness’ sake.
birth control. but
this weekend, i was reminded how good it feels,
and how obscenely natural,
to stand in the pouring rain,
forgetting that concept of
umbrella,
to raise my face to the sky,
and to get rained on,
dammit.
The imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense.
holga on the then-snowy shores of lk michigan. right image with fisheye. completely irrelevant to the post.
The P word.
(No, not that, you dirty thing, you.)
And, no! not pregnant, godsaveusfromoverpopulation.
P…
Puh…
Pub….
PUBLISHED!!!
I think I’m actually supposed to act cool about this. Like, oh, ho-hum. I am so very important and oh, by the way, I almost forgot about this other thing I’m published in . . .
Except I’m not a good faker. And I’ve never actually been PUBLISHED before. And so, I’m not acting very cool about it at all. I mean,check out some of the other riduculously fabulous bloggers who have been featured in this magazine! I think you’ll agree with me: my freakout is valid.
The Summer 2010 issue of Artful Blogging is available on May 1st online or in bookstores like Barnes and Noble. (Barnes and swearing effing cussing Noble!) This issue is bright orange; you can’t miss it. And when you’re finished with pages 68-73 (that’s six pages of my stuff, woot), thumb through the pages of good company my words and pictures are keeping. Here are a few from this issue that I checked out:
http://emmallamb.blogspot.com/ (crochet flowers! it’s fate!)
http://swirlygirl.typepad.com/ (the illustrious Christine Mason Miller.)
http://lavenderlimes.blogspot.com/ (visual feast and now i’m off to make some dal or maybe move to India.)
http://www.mocking-bird.org/blog/ (can it be? a fellow film-shooter I didn’t know about?)
http://shonastudio.blogspot.com/ (has more kids than me and is well-acquainted with the P word.)
This could get addictive, being PUBLISHED. pub. (the fuck) lished. baby.
However shall I celebrate?
