Home Sweet Home

hmmm... it's been pretty quiet around here. Deathly quiet. The real estate market seems to have died. I'm considering it "buying-time-to-win-the-powerball" (now I guess I need to start actually buying them). With nice cool weather like this, who wants to leave anyway? (except for Canada of course.)

I'm leaving the country.

August 5th I'm headed for the Canadian Rockies with my sister and her family. Last time I was through there was on a freight train. Mountains so tall that we had to lean out the window and crane our necks upward. Incredible. This time however I will be making the trip in a mini-van, but as a consolation we'll spend the first night in high-class heaven. Then further north, deeper into the mountains where I could happily get lost. I'll spend the next week camping in oh-so-thin mountain air.

Since I'm positive that it will be impossible to do any writing due to the constant companionship of my 4 and 6 year old niece and nephew, I've decided that I'll dedicate the time to doing some artwork-- a painting a day, a project I started earlier this summer, but fell off the wagon. But I've never packed art making supplies for travel. Ohmygod, what should I bring?! There's limited space. Watercolors? Acrylic? Pastels? Oil pastels? The problem is that the only thing I know how to use well is oil paints. But they are messy, toxic, and not a possibility. Which reminds me-- I might as well bring along enough to share with the kids. They are artists too. Serious artists. I'm not kidding. It's amazing what montessori school will do for the creative intellect. fuck-- I don't even know how to spell it (had to look it up).

Ok, so here's my chance to expand my artistic repertoire. I'm going to use materials I don't know how to use for a subject I know nothing about. Landscapes.

I don't know what to look forward to more--the mountains, that lodge, or traveling art!
10 days and counting.

Since it's raining...

...I have big plans for today including staying home, drinking lots of tea with cream and sugar, and writing. It's a dark day filled with thunder and lightening. A candle burns on my desk, music plays oh so soft. I'm home alone with two sleeping cats and a sleeping dog. Conditions are perfect.

I have eight days to write 20 pages creative nonfiction, 10 pages of literary reflection, and 8 poems. Reading more might not happen. Enough reading for now. I have only one thing left to do and that is write. The rest is only a distraction.

Finally--

a new look. i have my husband to thank for his web-savvy talents. gosh, it feels as good as starting a new journal...or putting on new socks...or new underwear...or......................

8:57 pm: waiting for magic

I thought I had something to say. hmmm... but I guess not.

I think I need coffee. Strong coffee.

Anyway, I broke down and bought a porcelain cup today, handmade by the Husbys... only because it is blue, blue on the outside and black on the inside and has strange looking hieroglyphics on it. I'm quite sure they are ancient or alien symbols holding magical qualities that if filled with coffee, cream, and sugar will give me the vision needed to write. I hope it works. If not, I'm going to have to start taking vitamins.

dumb dogs and lazy writers

I just returned home, unloaded groceries and checked my faculty e-mail for the first time in a month. After deleting a 130-odd junk mails I got an incredible (although momentary) craving for my dark HS office where I spent the last year hunched over my computer in the glow of 60 watt lamp-light all those early mornings. Look at me-- it's my first day of "freedom" and already I am craving structure. Or maybe just darkness. Fall. Cool weather. Summer's nice, but I'm hot and am going to tear my hair out if another deer fly nestles itself next to my scalp.

As for everything I said I was going to do today... I did all of it. Everything except eat a cheese omelet and write. oops. Well, the day's not over. I haven't given up on myself yet.

First, I'm off to turn my country wolf into a city dog. I bought her a 26 foot retractable leash. Tonight's entertainment includes taking her for a walk and watching her try to make sense of it. ha! This should be interesting. She's only a 25 watt bulb.
But that reminds me... this morning she walked with me down to the mailbox. At the end of the driveway is an ERA "For Sale" sign that Vinny mowed around yesterday to make it more visible. Anu (the wolf) just about jumped out of her skin when she saw it. She barked for a solid 5 minutes before giving up. Is she trying to tell me something?

Is this a good idea or what?!

Jim Mott travels around the United States creating paintings in exchange for hospitality. Brilliant!

(Photo credit goes to Jim Mott)

Periodically over the next few years, I will be working as an itinerant painter, traveling through various parts of the United States by car, staying with a series of hosts, painting landscape studies wherever I go, and trading artwork (small paintings) for hospitality (2-4 days room and board).

The Itinerant Artist Project (IAP) officially got under way on March 30, 2000, when I set out on a cross-country drive to visit people and places in about 30 locations--from the Chesapeake Bay to the >California coast--where I’d been invited to paint.

Dear Blog, how I've missed you...

...because it feels like I've been away a long, long time.

Oh, but it feels so good to be back (cosmically speaking). I'm hereby done with summer classes. Well, not completely. I still have independent study work to do... but no more classes. My plan from here to August 5th is to kick ass (kick my own ass) and write, write, write. That is the reason, after all, that I am not working this summer. Remember Jessie? Oh yeaaaaah.

No, but really... it's been a great 3 weeks of poetry. We had a good group of people under all the right conditions and I can't complain about a thing. Not a thing. It feels good to be writing again. And although it hasn't been happening here on my blog, it has been happening. And if you can believe it, I'm even starting to feel NORMAL again. And by normal I mean that I am returning to my true abnormal self. I won't bother explaining, but if you know me, you know what I mean.

My plans for tomorrow?
Get up early (relatively speaking), put on some comfy cargo pants, tee-shirt and flip-flops, eat a cheese omelet on the porch with a cup of coffee, say goodbye to my husband, then off to my new favorite hangout-- the coffee shop where I'm anonymous (sorry, I can't tell you where it is) to write the morning away! After that I'll eat lunch and go to the studio to finish the last painting for my show.
Oh god, did you hear that?? A day filled with only writing, painting, and food! Can it get any better?!

Ahh-- it feels good to be alive. Finally. I haven't felt this way in a damn long time.

Recipes for poor people (instead of working on my paper):

When Vinny's at work I live an exotic life. Since I am poor, tonight it involved cabbage.

Here's my new creation. It was good. Believe me. Oh, so good.

The Goulash:
1/2 a head of cabbage
1 zucchini
3 green onions
2 tomatoes
1 carrot
1 fresh whole cayenne pepper
fresh basil
minced garlic
a little chicken stock
vindiloo (a type of curry probably available at your local co-op)
a pinch of cinnamon
a bit of lemon juice (not too much)

Note: You may use any combination of ingredients you see fit to experiment with from your refrigerator or spice cabinet. Mystery is part of the adventure!

The Rice:
1/2 onion-cut and fried until soft in a small amount of oil
then add the rest which includes...
1 cup water
1/2 cup rice (basmati or jasmine)
a pinch of saffron
a pinch of fennel
2 pinches of curry

Cook until done. Serve all mixed up together in a big white bowl. Eat slowly. Blog. Procrastinate as long as possible.

Enjoy!

here we go again...

...trying to write another paper. maybe it's too close to the full moon for this kind of activity.

1 page down. 19 to go. I need, very badly, to break outside of myself and my monkey-caged mind.

you just never know

The house hits the market tomorrow. Hence, I only felt slight stress (understatement) when a realtor called and wanted to show it within an hour. I've never cleaned so fast in my life. We were almost ready anyway, but the operative word is "almost." It's amazing what one can accomplish when pressure is applied.

House sparkling and smelling fresh, I loaded Anu in the truck and off we drove to give our potential buyers more freedom to look around in peace without me standing behind them jabbering like an idiot. The mosquitoes are nasty little bastards so rather than go down to the river or drive to a nearby lake, we drove to town and ended up at my dad's where wolfie was fed venison for dinner, and I, a glass of wine. Who knows... this place might last even LESS longer than I thought. I try not to get my hopes up either way which fits well considering the concocted brew of emotions I experience on a daily basis.

Stress aside... today's commotion is a good sign.

No theory...

I had forgotten how poetry, like painting, causes me to see the world differently--in color, depth, and texture. A steep ditch becomes a crinkled abyss; the hot wind haze becomes Rajasthan, the bottom of the ocean, the reason for discontent.

Not For Sale By Owner

That is, today I signed the papers. I chickened out and now have a realtor handling all the sticky complexities of selling a house. It will be on the market by Monday. To be honest, I can't believe this is actually happening, but surprisingly I feel oddly ready and a little bit relieved. I might not feel the same the day it sells and I have to move out. But for now I will accept the feeling I have that everything is going to work out. I had temporarily forgotten how strange life can be.

This is the part where the universe opens up and everything spontaneously falls into place. Today I felt it. And I know it's going to happen.

It always does.

Wanted: fast-acting lung cleansers

Audrey and Renee make me want to smoke.

clouds.

The "things to do" list still needs to be done. I mean, the rest of it anyway. But this morning I slept in due to grey skies and several late nights. I don't want to do anything. Oddly enough I am inspired to spend the day writing poetry. L. showed us a great book when we met for coffee and words. Yes, I enjoyed the company and ideas immensely. I'm glad this writers group finally got off the ground-- and in perfect company. Poetry has gotten away from me over the past couple years. I've begun to realize how little I know, that it's time to move forward with writing. Anyway, I'm tired of "to do" lists.

cliche in action...

You know the one-- If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have any luck at all...

Earlier today I got up to mow the lawn. The mower broke last week so we got it fixed, finally got it home only to find out that they put the wrong size blades on it. So we went to town to borrow another mower (and a vehicle, since ours is in the repair shop) and on the way back got a flat tire on the trailer. But worse... I just broke the handle on the toilet. Now it won't flush.

Bad karma.
Yeah, I'm ready for a new season.

The old flatbed red and a dog named Abe

I'm beginning to realize just how fast summer is going by. This thought crossed my mind tonight (not that it hasn't before) as my husband and I drove home from dinner at the Douglas Lodge. As we drove past hills, valleys, the Mississippi, through the dips and arcs of the landscape I started thinking about all the reading I want to do in preparation of this fall's class. I like the idea of being prepared. An idealistic, but worthwhile concept... in theory. But soon the summer will be over. We have an appointment with the realator this week to figure out the market value of our house. We'll have it up for sale within the next couple days. 2nd session of summer school begins Tuesday. Then in August I have an art show in Mnpls. and a 10 day trip to Banff (Canadian Rockies) with my sister and her family as nanny/auntie. Then it will (hopefully) be time to find a new place to live and move if the house sells quickly. There is it. My summer come and gone in a nutshell.

And I'd be sad that it's going so quickly. But in a way I guess I'm not. It's been a fucked up, hard, long summer already. Tonight coming home we drove past a place that has rusty old, but classic trucks parked in a field with a homemade "for sale" sign. I cried when we drove past because I always wanted the red flatbed truck. For me and my old dog Abe. I used to dream long dreams of getting that truck and spending whole days driving down country roads together with the windows down, just me and him. I miss that dog so damn much, there aren't even words.

problem solving

cold + wind = no mosquitoes = perfect summer day.

Just as a white summer cloud, in harmony with heaven and earth freely floats in the blue sky from horizon to horizon following the breath of the atmosphere—in the same way the pilgrim abandons himself to the breath of the great life that leads him beyond the farthest horizons to an aim which is already present within him, though yet hidden from his sight.

~Lama Govinda.
The Way of the White Clouds

You know, the funny thing is...

that he just walked in.

Sitting in Silence

The first round of visitors just walked in, but then left. They're in search of the library. Just like everyone else. Every Saturday I get at least one group that is not here for art, but books... or more likely, an internet connection.

But now there is silence. So, so much silence. I wish my husband would walk in and give me a nice long hug for absolutely no reason at all. He's tall, with long arms. Maybe he could even wrap those arms around me twice. Like a cocoon.
But he's working.

Middle Eastern/ East Indian Hybrid:

My new invention involves a culinary/cultural collision. Cheap and healthy.

1 can garbonzo beans (chick peas)
approx. 1 tablespoon minced garlic
small handful of fresh cilantro
fresh lemon (squeeze for juice)
approx. 2 tablespoons graham marsala (an Indian spice-- more or less to taste)

Put it all in a food processor or blender until it turns into a beautiful mush and wallah! Serve on wasa crackers (or on just about anything). Yum, Yum. Oink.

House For Sale:

Oh man, it gives me a stomach ache. It really does. I've spent the last two days cleaning and I realize I've only made a dent in "decluttering" this place. Yesterday and today I cleaned the basement "studio" and then moved on to the grand task of going through paper work. 6 years of paper work that has accumulated in boxes and piles in my closet. Stuff that I told myself, "Oh, I'll finish going through it later." I'm not a messy person. But, where did all this crap come from?!

I went through the house and made a checklist of what needs to be done. A lot of little things. Nothing someone with a little bit more time couldn't do, but for some reason it's giving me anxiety. The summer is flying past. School and writing is suffering already from everything that's been going on this summer. This would be a lot easier if we could just move first, then sell. It would be easier because I would rent a big dumpster and be done with it. Not to mention, it would make cleaning that much easier and it would stay clean when I'm done. But this isn't a very good sales-pitch. The truth of the matter is that I'm giving myself a week to make this place sparkle and I hope between now and then Vinny wins the powerball. Because this place is incredible. Damn.

For Sale:

Unique, newer 4 bedroom home on 40 (absolutely beautiful) acres in Becida, MN.
State forest on 2 sides.

Fireplace, vaulted ceilings finished with knotty pine, wood floors, open loft, lots and lots of windows, hand-crafted railings, log staircase, custom cherry kitchen cabinets, claw-foot tub, central air, partially finished basement. An artist's dream house! (or a hunter's, a nature lover's... a who-ever's).

Technically, it's the first day of summer and I'm thinking that a cold snap wouldn't be half bad.

Wolfie, the outside dog, has been scratching at the door all morning to get in. Not because it's cold out. Not because there's a storm or too much wind. But because it's hot and the mosquitos are eating us alive out here! Oh yes, it is the price we pay for all this beautiful green. Mosquitos are also why I like winter so much. I have just the right size molecules for their little beaks to fit into. I itch. I itch. I itch. And although I know I am in the minority here... wouldn't some cold weather feel good? Anu agrees.

For now I am off to town in search of a writing oasis with less bugs. Wish me luck.

Vodka 7 with Lime

My head hurts. Family has been in town. I've forgotten how to blog. Mosquitos are out. Friends are on the way with a bottle of wine. It's warm out. I'm drinking hot chocolate with instant coffee because we're out of the real stuff. Last night I laughed so hard my jaw still hurts. Yesterday I attended a funeral complete with a 21 gun salute. Goodbyes are hard. I feel like I just shot out through a rough patch of rapids. The river is high.

Maybe tomorrow I'll try for more complex sentence structure.

Today I:

put away my clothes for the first time since spring break, mowed the lawn, made a path through the woods and one half way across the field, dug up the flower bed, weeded the herb garden, planted tomatoes, more herbs, and flowers in pots; changed the bedding, did dishes, read more than necessary for homework, got an idea for a paper, took a short walk with wolfie, did a load of laundry, checked blogs 3 times, made 2 pots of coffee, pasta salad, and cookie dough (which will be in the oven for my husband later when he gets home from work tonight--oh how domestic of me). damn. it's amazing how much i can get done in one day when i don't think too much.

tomorrow i'll plant my grandma's flower garden, hang out with my brother, babysit the gallery, have dinner with visiting family, then wine with a friend. yes, this is a happily productive and well-balanced weekend. only thing left to do is...

WRITE!!!

3 days away from home feels like forever.

Been staying with my grandma. Helping her to adjust to life without her husband. This morning we bought flowers for her flower beds. She said today was the best day she's had since he passed away. Little sparks of life return to her eyes. After class I went back to make her and I ruebens for dinner before I finally came home. It feels good to be home.

Wolfie is dealing with her own sense of loss-- still missing Abe and then confused by my absence, she spent the first hour of my return with her furry head nuzzled against my neck. She finally ate, but only with me watching her. This taking care of others, helping them deal with death has, in its own way, helped me to deal with it too.

It feels good to be home with my husband, the dog, the cats, a decent cup of coffee, and the sounds of frogs and wind coming in through the open window.

Summer school has had an interesting beginning. Writing in the middle of the night or in stolen moments while hiding ever so briefly in coffee shops. But today I gave up for the sake of good company and an excellent lunch at Tuttos. Yum. Tasha introduced me to the most wonderful cup of Black Forest something or other that I've ever tasted. Transported.

As for writing... I'm still waiting for the flood gates to open. A small burst in the beginning. Strange daily assignments. Who knows where I'll end up.

Random thoughts.

Yet another rainy day. I still don't feel like a normal person. Time stretches in odd directions. Tonight I cleaned yet another room... this time the basement. Did three loads of laundry, but couldn't bring myself to wash the last blanket that Abe slept on. I know I have to move on, and slowly I am. But I feel a little bit like that rock in the tide, my edges rubbed smooth.

Today I spent some time reading the book I chose for College Writing I in the fall. And I realize that I have a daunting task in front of me. The book has its highlights and pitfalls. My job is to figure out the stuff that I like and then make it work. I enjoy this work, but my brain feels like it should be writing and painting at the same time. Summer classes start Monday. I'm not sure I'm up for it, but it has potential if I'm careful enough to be optimistic. I just hope it will be useful and not a waste of time. The class is supposed to a workshop for teaching creative writing. We'll see.

Now that I've had some time to reflect on this past year of teaching I've come to the conclusion that I really enjoy teaching freshmen English. To end up with a hodge-podge group of students with a myriad of majors... I enjoy the challenge of getting even the wary to enjoy writing, if even for a semester (or even a moment). It is an incredible high to witness the occasional excitement. There are many who don't like to teach this class. I am not one of them.

This morning I stopped at the Old School House and bought 2 beautiful pieces of paper. They will become acrylic and ink paintings that I'm working on for my show in the Minneapolis in August. Henna hands. My hands. And for awhile maybe it will be the last I paint of India. At least for awhile. Then to prepare for a show in December. While time has taken on a certain amount of non-meaning, I've also come to the realization that it (time) is moving forward with or without me. So I continue. With hopes that eventually the rest will come.

Abe

There are no words for losing a best friend, my best friend in the world.

Working imaginative muscles.

Today's painting (later to become a letter to Carol).

The rain has made it past the screens onto the glass of windows, clinging, sliding, dripping on not one, but all four sides of the house. The birds are drenched but brave. Grosbeaks sit at the feeder, their feathers standing out straight like spiked hair while the hummingbirds remain small and sleek as they fight for the sugared water beneath the protection of the porch. The rain has been coming down hard all day. I'm surprised to see any birds at all.

At the moment, in jeans, thermal shirt, and sweatshirt, I sit drinking tea after a day of reading books by lamplight. It's been a dark day. Rain on the metal roof. Sleeping animals except for Abe who barks periodically in anticipation of V.'s return home from work which won't be for several more hours.

After looking at Rikki Ducornet's site I am wishing that I was a fiction writer. Damn, she is good! And, I might add, beautiful too. I feel like I am missing out by not doing the conference, but fiction is not my strong suite by a long shot.
From Deep Zoo, she writes:

Gaston Bachelard asks of writers that we "“Dig life Deeper." I propose that by evoking the potencies that animate our imagining minds, and by fearlessly subverting the dogmatisms that hinder us, we will give breath to our own Deep Zoo--—the hot breath and living bones of inspiration--—and set into motion an original and groundbreaking work.

Last year I learned as much about teaching as I did about writing from Robin Hemley. He was a good teacher whose technique I've borrowed from in my own classroom. It was a good experience as well as hearing Judith Ortiz Cofer read one evening. I left that night feeling like a "born again" writer, reawakened into "writing mind." But this summer, I feel as though my plate is full-- piled high with onions, tomatoes, mangos. I need to be working on my nonfiction. But now I have this nagging question in my mind causing me to wonder if the fiction workshop might do even my nonfiction some good. I've never been as imaginative as I wished I could be. Or maybe I just haven't given it a chance. Or maybe I've just always been too hard on myself. The last one is usually the case.

If I could live 5 imaginary lives I might:
1. Be a fiction writer.
2. Be a talented pianist.
3. Be a Bombay film actress.
4. Live the life of Gauguin on a remote, tropical island, painting and writing.
5. Be an old woman living in a white shack by the railroad tracks tending my flower gardens.

When I was a kid I spent 99% of my time lost in imaginary worlds. I hung out in my closet, where in the dark there was an entire universe that existed beyond my little body. When I wasn't sitting in the closet, I was hiding behind a chair in front of my bookshelf. Before I could read, I made up the stories. Hmmm... where did that person go?

One inch frame

Sketch: short assignment through a one inch frame


Alright, I'll admit it. I'm scared to death of beginning this project: my thesis.

At the moment I'm reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird and came across the chapter "Shorter Assignments." In it she suggests that rather than becoming desperate, crazy, or asthmatic one needs only to start with what can be contained in a one inch frame. So I started with drawing yet another ear. This is my jumping off point. The luck of Buddha is contained in nothing more than the lobe of his ear. But I'm not writing about Buddha. I'm not writing about, let's say, Buddhism. I'm not even writing about the expression on the face belonging to this ear. I need only start with the ear. A sentence, a paragraph, a page. I'm not sitting down to write my entire thesis at once. Only one word at a time.

E.L. Doctorow once said that "writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." Anne Lammot adds that "You don't have to see where you're going, you don't have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you."

For right now I don't even need to know who the ear belongs to. If necessary I can grab a journal from the stack I carried back home with me. Grab one sentence. One scene or thought or moment... broken down into one inch. Start with an ear... the rest will follow.

Focusing in on the minute details, after all, is what often makes for some of the best story telling.

Therefore, the ear. Just the ear.

Wind

May 22nd: Sketchbook entry


Today we are being swallowed by wind. It sounds like purple, greys, and blues, thrashing the green of trees in wild circles. This is a pastel drawing from my sketchbook from which I have been doing a drawing a day. Part of a summer long project that I began last week. One day I practiced drawing ears another day I drew the porch, then lotus flowers...

Lately I have been imagining the sky made of molecules; swirling, shifting, fast moving molucules. Today they are banging and crashing against the house, the porch, the woolfie who scratches at the door to come in. It grates on my nerves until I allow it to become color. Just color.

The Jewel in the Lotus

A lotus seeks sustenance not only by turning her jewel face into the infinite and basking in the blaze of heaven, but also by firmly grounding herself to the earth. A slender, flexible stem allows lotus to drift upon the ever changing surface of the water while remaining firmly anchored to the hidden source from which her strength is nourished. This resilient lifeline descends from the world of light and airy breezes, entering an environment of shimmering translucence and shifting shadow. Ever downward into graded, quiet depths, the lifeline eventually reaches the pond floor, spreading a network of roots outward into the black muck. This dark fecund substance represents a constant state of evolution, decomposing in silence. Expired matter flows through the hoop of life, and the alchemic process results in something fertile and nourishing. This knowledge is the jewel in the lotus; life lived in beauty, emerging from unlikely beginnings.

~Helena Nelson-Reed.

Pugdandi

Karwar, Karnataka. Southern India


At the moment I have a certain taste in my mouth of spicy curry snack mix and tea. My sinuses are particularly open after several days of allergies. The light falling across my desk is a cloudy grey-green-blue and when I sat down I felt, for a moment, like I was in Karnataka again. This is a photo of the writing desk I occupied day after day while I was there. I had a goal: 10 pages a day. I met that goal daily, yet I look back at old journals and realize that it was never enough. Never enough to capture even the smells, let alone the sights, the sounds, the people... so many subtle details. Too much of it I have forgotten, but this morning, I was there, for just a tiny moment; I was breathing the early morning air of a south Indian morning. For a moment there was an ocean; an old woman bent, sweeping her stoop; a mangy dog loping down the street, fishermen untangling nets, a store-owner pushing back the metal gates of his small, dark shop. For a moment I was sitting at my desk about to write everything.

Last night I finished Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. I spent the morning taking notes in my journal on just how she managed to accomplish such eloquent writing. I drew out her stories, took notes on her technique, and got excited when I began to see the patterns. I wrote easily without fear of being right or wrong. Today I started reading Anees Jung's Seven Sisters: Among the Women of South Asia. This is all for an independent study. But what I'm really doing is starting to write. My journal, these last few days, has begun to fill quickly. I've been on a steady diet of samosas, malai kofta, and tikki marsala. The kitchen table is piled high with books, paper, pens, and sketchbooks. I've moved another small table and chair out onto the porch along with a potted pink dahlia. I feel, finally, dedicated to something.

The word pugdandi means a path.
It's not any path, but a path that is made by feet.
It is a path of need.
A road that is cut and hewn and flattened is not a pugdandi.
People walk over a road after it is made.
It is not made and affirmed as it is being walked upon.
A pugdandi disappears if people do not use it regularly.
And in a little while no one remembers where it used to be.

And on this path I return to writing. The ground feels good under my feet.

Today my grandpa passed away. That's him with the big goofy smile on his face. Always that smile. Always. Grandpa, I love you.

Never mind about the 5th grade art

It's, unfortunately, been taken down. I'm babysitting a bare gallery. why? I have no idea. I guess I'll clean for awhile. This place is a pigsty.

There are many things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises. The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside by a generous hand. But- and this is the point- who gets excited by a mere penny? If you follow one arrow, if you crouch motionless on a bank to watch a tremulous ripple thrill on the water and are rewarded by the sight of a muskrat paddling from its den, will you count that sight a chip of copper only, and go on your rueful way? It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won't stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get.

Annie Dillard
from "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek."

Marigold Garden on the Ghats of the Ganges

Tomorrow I'm going to start a new painting on the canvas that's been hanging on my studio wall for many months; the 20x20 inch canvas that I first painted pink, then yellow; the one that's been waiting for a long time.

Saturday is the beginning of free studio rent in exchange for working the gallery every Saturday. This month is 5th grader art. Come see. A little strange, but the walls are filled with masks and drawings. Floor to ceiling. It's a yearly exhibit that always inspires me. I love the masks especially. Uninhibited art. 5th graders are good at that. I could learn a lot from them. Couldn't we all.

Getting rid of dead brain cells

Today I cut my hair off. Yes, all of it. Well, most of it. What was 2 feet is now 1 inch. After an intellectual breakdown, drastic measures were needed. And I must say, it feels DAMN GOOD. Thank you, my cohorts, Renee and Emily for joining in on the fun.

-----flatline---------------------------------------

I think I have "anticlimactic ending" depression. Either that or I'm just very very tired. Spent a very large chunk of the day working on my last essay for VW. My weakest work yet. Tried hard to find connections that weren't there, then finally gave up after 8 hours. F&@* it. Raising questions was all I was capable of. It was time to go home; time to move on. Am I done? I don't know. That depends on if I get to revise. Do I want to revise? No. But I'm willing. After that much work it would be even more depressing not to get the grade. Sad, but true. I'm tapped out. But shit, we learned a lot. A whole whole lot.

Maybe I should have done a painting instead. A different class, but she had the right idea.

But right now the only thing I can think of is sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

goodnight.

I like my new job better.

Teaching, that is.

Today I worked at the flower shop for yet another holiday. Why does Mother's Day always have to end up during finals week? Ugh. But I owe my father favor upon favor, so today I worked and in doing so remembered just how much I grew to hate it before quitting to take on the G.A-ship. Retail sucks. It really does. This, I was reminded of after answering the phone and listening to a mother complain that she didn't get her flowers. Flowers that #1, she didn't know IF they were actually ordered, and #2, didn't know whether or not they were ordered from our shop (if ordered in the first place). Now, believe it or not, I am someone who likes to make other people feel good (or at least I try), so it is very stressful when someone tries, for no particular reason, to make me feel bad. Especially for something that I am not responsible for. What is it about retail that gives the customer permission to forget that the person they are talking to is actually a human being? These are problems that I don't need. And I must say, working today made me realize just how nice it is teaching at BSU.

But anyway...

-----------------------------------------------------

At the moment I am enjoying a glass of wine in celebration of finishing my VW final. Yes, it is the same bottle of wine that I was drinking out of to finish my cont. writers paper. So much for alcoholism. And I would be really excited except that I still have two more papers to go. What the hell is taking me so long, I don't know. I've put long hours into sitting here staring at this computer plunking out one slow (backspace backspace) sentence (delete) at a (backspace) time. But fine, I'll continue. And the faster I do so, the sooner I'll be done. As though this isn't motivation enough!

And speaking of writing, I've noticed that this blog has deteriorated drastically, horribly, pitifully. I've given deep consideration into quitting blogging, at least for the summer. But blogs are addictive. Why? Audience? A constant desire to be heard? I'm not sure what it is, but I'm thinking that some private writing time would be good for me. My journal awaits. Summer awaits. Getting away from this damn computer awaits. I'm amazed that I've publicly recorded one of the most difficult years of my life. Ok, I left the worst of it out, which led to pure drivle in the end. It's time to move on. Thank you Blog for being a stepping stone, a crutch to lean on, but...

Blogging, for the most part, has become a space to complain, whine, complain, and occasionally publish words that should never be published. The "writing community" has become strange and vindictive. I find myself wondering what it would be like to be a writer in the "good old days" when people got together and shared their words over good conversation, wine, coffee, cigarettes. I'm trying to remember if I've ever experienced this, and I think I have, but it is too long ago to remember.

And so I've decided that the best thing to do is to retreat from the world until I have something worth sharing. Maybe then there will be a group of people that wish to do the same. In person. I look forward to that day and wonder if I'll have to move away in order to find it. I hope I'm proved wrong.

This summer I am looking forward to writing. Lots of writing. Oh god, lots and lots of writing. I can't wait! I plan, everyday, to write, to make headway on my thesis, but more importantly to tell the stories I've wanted to tell, but have not yet given myself the time or space to do so. My first plan of attack is to go to summer school. Creative writing only! But behind this lies my real motive and that is having the second half of summer off... to write, to write, to write. What would it be like to not be a writer? I wonder. As a writer, an artist, there is no such thing as "time off." Fine, always to have a purpose in life, I can settle for that. To write and to paint and swim in the river... this is my goal for the summer. Everyday except for when it rains-- then I'll just read. I'll sit on the porch listening to raindrops on metal and read.

Until then, I wait, writing side-notes in my head while I drive, or walk, or sit and stare. And maybe I won't quit blogging; I just won't feel like it needs to be done everyday. Why? Because this is gibberish, all gibberish. And I'm looking forward to getting past all this gibberish.

vwvwvwvwvwvwvwvwvwvw....

Got up at 6:30 this morning, not because I had to, but to make coffee for my husband who was once again suckered into working for my dad for yet another floral holiday... Mother's Day. Since then I've drank 3 cups of coffee myself and am struggling to keep my feet on the ground as I drift out to sea on the current of Virginia Woolf's use of stream of consciousness, the final paper. And I must get it written TODAY. No more dog illnesses, no more broken truck, no more frantic paying of bills. Note to myself: Today I must not allow stress to enter my life. I must stay focused and on track. At least 5 more pages. I can do this. Then on to her use of poetics in Between the Acts. I need to write/rewrite an essay I started and never finished. After that... I must STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER. Ah, but this is an all day project.

I will be happy when it's done. Very very happy. Then on to the last paper. Magical realism in Orlando? Hmmm... don't know. Oddly enough, I never feel "smart" enough for these papers. I can write forever about the art being produced during VW's writing career, yet at the same time feel like I should move beyond that. Those art history classes I took have been bubbling up from the depths of memory since the start of the semester. I find it interesting making the connections. All arts, I believe, are inter-related. The modernist/post-modernist movement just happens to be the most intriguing (to me), a time when the arts exploded (KABOOM!), took completely new paths... in the visual arts, literature, music... and in many ways, is still influencing contemporary art, greatly.

Yeah, but anyway. Stay focused.

I'm going to write now. And I'm not going to stop until I'm done. Uh, good god.

Writing as Art:

1. It's portable
2. It's cheap
3. It's easy to make copies of
4. Medium is (generally) non-toxic
5. Easy to store
6. Supplies/tools are accessible and readily available
7. requires very little space
8. Can be done anywhere
   

A trip to the Vet

$375 dollars later I came home with a little blue bottle of pills.

Abe's got a urinary infection.
Anu's got Lyme's disease.

My poor babies. I need pet insurance.

And in human years, according the the chart on the wall at the vet...
Abe's 55 years old
Anu's in her 30's
Moonshadow's 67
and Vico is 13.

God, they've grown up so fast!

I know I probably shouldn't write

I've been reduced to bluthering drivel. The past 2 days spent writing a paper (approximately 16 hours + 2 days before getting past the "delete" key) has wasted me. I'm not blessed like the lucky bastard that can write a paper in 2 hours. But it's done and it is something that I've needed to write all year.

I've got a glass of water in one hand and a cup of hot chocolate in the other. I went out for dinner with my husband, then came home and watched a movie. The first movie in a long long time.

Monsoon Wedding

I need to write more. But I can't. All I can say is that the movie made me want to go back to India NOW. Finally, I feel as though I have made the transition back into myself (through writing). Unfortunately, I have 3 more (critical) papers to write by Monday... then, ahhhh.............. need I say more?

A winner day...

I have been sitting in this chair, this wooden, uncomfortable chair for 14 hours straight today. Did I mention that I am in physical pain? But today I got 8--count 'em EIGHT pages written for Contemporary Writers (complete with breaks to grade essays). And that's 8 pages on top of the 3 that I totally rewrote because they were downright embarrassing. As for the last 2 pages I never bothered to reread what I have... who knows, it could be utter nonsense. And even though it is the fastest writing I've done this entire year, I still have 3-4 pages to go. But fine, I can handle it. The ice may have finally melted.

Could it be this easy for the VW final as well?

I may have figured out the trick although I hope it doesn't lead to alcoholism. Last night, after our final VW class I decided to celebrate with a bottle of wine. I got to the liquor store just as it was about to close, came home, sat in front of my computer, and drank several glasses. I can't say it helped my writing, but it did help my sleep. I woke up relaxed, possibly due to the alcohol still in my system and hit it hard. There's still some left. Maybe I'll have another glass now.

Glory Glory. Let it be over.

Beginning May 9th, I'm not going to complain about school anymore.

until then I just gotta say:

Oh shit.

Today I'm a goddess, but what the hell is up with the hat?

I am Freya, I walk the warriors path, and will
not let anyone get in my way. My way is
my own, and I am fiercely independant.

oh, and meet my goddess friend. Isn't she pretty.

What Kind Of Goddess Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

the studio

ah... art, sweet art. taking care not to erase myself from existence, i neglected work that needed to be done to hang out in my studio. and i am looking forward to this summer, to time spent breathing paint fumes and writing. oh, to have my life back again! it's waiting.

tonight

as i stepped out glass doors
down stairs
shouldered by concrete curbs
snowflakes fell
softly lit by streetlights red
green
and pale yellow orbs

softly one
floating

i
a snowflake
erased
by hard tar, night, and concrete

It might be snowing...

...but spring is here.


Chokecherry blossoms

f*%# it.

Belief and Technique for Modern Prose:

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time

15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You're a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

~Jack Kerouac

I really want to write...

...but I'm melllltinnngg.
ljdb
df zd;ln
f;ldjsag65ioesa84hr;


asjklfheb

goodnight.

just something...

nope. nothing.

Moments of being...

Today there were several of those moments. Including a good class even though I was exhausted. Everyone was there, the room was oddly filled with sunlight even though, if I remember right, it was cloudy all morning. There was strange energy caused perhaps by the fact that we are almost there, to the end. Friendships have formed. There is an ease about them that didn't exist in the beginning of it all. And tonight I am realizing that my first year of teaching is almost done. Wondering if it will ever be this good again and hoping that it will only get better. I hope I always remember every name, every face, every personality from this first year--forever.

Yesterday, god, let's forget yesterday. Sometimes I wonder what it is about me that has such tendency to create conflict. And there's really no way of talking about it or explaining anything, at least not here... so fine, yesterday is done. And soon this year will be too and in some ways I am absolutely relieved. In others, reluctant; this is where it all started. Yet not, because my entire life brought me to this point. Confrontational or not.

After class I packed my bag and went out for breakfast. I graded papers over hashbrowns and eggs and several cups of coffee. Writing good enough to, at least for moments, draw me out of the restaurant and into their stories. Then a walk to the vet for dog medicine and cold, windy, grey air, snapping me back into this real, alternate reality and back to my car which brought me to the public library. I had an hour and a half before I needed to be anywhere. How did I end up there I don't know except that it is that time of year when I am feeling tired and frustrated and looking for moments of reprieve. So I spent my time looking at books with titles like The Secret Lives of Birds and How to Build a Time Machine. Since I came in empty handed, I had to ask the librarian for paper and a writing utensil to scribble down fleeting thoughts, that at the time, seemed relevant. Now I have a pile of these fragments on little scraps of paper, on the backs of recycled coupons.

Words... which from the library led me to the faculty reading. And it was good. Mark, who turns even painful moments into sturdy little diamonds, who notices things on molecular levels. Susan, whose life is full, brimming over with shiny acorns and love, so much so that it too is almost painful. Lauren, who I've never heard read... her persistence in drawing out the story. Carol Ann, who brings back to life memories of Italy in sounds and sensuality. Yes, it was good to hear them read, to see that the writing life never leaves you, even if you tried, it's always there tugging at your sleeve, your thoughts, your way of seeing the world.

What happened after that? Several hours of non-being until after a nap, groggy, I took a bath. Deep, warm water. Our house does not contain a shower... only a bath in a small room that is warm and contained, and good for reading. Which is where I started V.W.'s Moments of Being. And that is what has brought me to thoughts on writing... what we remember, what we forget, and how we turn our lives into something other than meaningless fragments. I was reading and writing on the side (in my mind). Bath tub revelations now fading... realizing now that what a writer needs is time. Time to ponderously eat breakfast, take walks on cold, windy mornings, time to wander aimlessly the aisles of libraries, time to listen to the poetry of others, time to nap, time to warm bones underwater, to read and to stare off into space.

These are the things that create those diamond studded moments of being. The rest, I guess, is just the stuff that gets you there.

Er... I used to belong to PETA...

...15 years ago in highschool that is. I remember getting stickers in the mail and being mortified by the thought of animals being subjected to pain or discomfort.

But life changes ya... Tonight my husband and I shot a porcupine that woolfie was after. I held the stick to keep the dog away while my husband shot it... twice. We looked at each other, smiled, and said, "Good job honey." and walked back to the house out of breath, triumphant that Anu didn't get any needles in her face and that we spared ourselves a trip to the vet.

Ugh. I should be ashamed of myself.

Anu

Bird sounds...

I just came inside from sitting on the porch and talking to an invisible night bird. It's sound is hard to describe in words, but if you you relax your mouth and make your lips into an "O" (like a choir boy singing Oh Holy Night-- the "Oh" or "Ho" sound is the one I'm talking about) and then make a medium pitched breathy "Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho" ... there. That's the sound. The conversation continues outside without me. The windows are open, it pours in with the chatter of frogs and another night bird that makes a "creeeek... creeeek" sound. And another that goes "whee-whee-whee-whee"

Listening to Laura, who speaks for the birds, on public radio, I once knew the names of these winged-ones. But that was last spring. I forget on a yearly basis. I also forget which frogs are which. One makes the sound like rubbing your thumb down the teeth of a comb (tree frogs?), the other makes a "rhe-we-rhe-we" sound.

Tonight and this morning at 5 am when I went out I was swallowed by jungle sounds. Yes, my northern Minnesota home is a jungle. Even without the green. The green that randlomly and reluctantly unfolds.

It was a warm, sticky day... spent not outside, but in my office fighting with another V.W. paper. But now I am done for the day. Completely done. No more expectations until the next sunrise, the next burst of sound. Does it ever go quiet in the middle of the night? While I'm sleeping? Tomorrow my only plan is to read through final drafts of student essays. I think I'll head out to the circle in the woods with a lawn chair, a thermos of coffee, the dogs, and the stack of papers. And I'm looking forward to it... amazed by the strange facts I learn from these papers. Reading, I realize how, yes, we are all in this together... this thing called learning... together in the struggles of writing and of accomplishing those things that at first felt impossible.

And now, with the day done, I am content with simple bird conversations. My back and shoulders are stiff, but my mind... my mind is calm and quiet.

I think, most definateley, it is time to go to bed. Never mind the rambling writing, concentrate on the bird sounds.

Good night.

Darkness has fallen...

... with windows still wide open to the night air and the house is filled with the chirp chattering of frogs and the occassional sound of birds calling to each other from one black bush to another.

This morning I woke up to a bird in the chimmney. It's a yearly occurance when birds, thinking that the tall steal pipe is a tree, try to make a nest in it and end up getting temporarily trapped. That is until I got up, opened the windows, the flue, then the doors of the woodstove. Out it flew, flying over the cat, the couch, and bam into a window that wasn't open, but half expecting this I went to it with a towel, scooped it up, and set it outside on the porch. Anu, the woolfie and I watched over it, waiting for it to regain consciousness. It was golden brown with specks of silver and beige, blues glinted off feathers touched by a certain angle of light. A cowbird? What was it, I'm not sure. But she had a long beak and shiny black eyes that eventually returned to focus. She hopped to the arm of a wicker chair, watching us, and we watching her, until eventually she flew off. Another bird survived. Maybe one of these days we'll actually get that screen put on the chimmney. But I must admit, except for the potential danger of injury, I do enjoy having birds flying around inside the house... especially wild ones.

Later on, for the first time this year, I worked in the garden where I pulled out dead stems, hoed, shook dirt from healthy weeds, and considered what should be planted and what should be left to come up on its own. Plump worms rose to the surface. I don't remember ever seeing them so early, but its been a warm spring. Clumps of lavender are already showing spots of pale green beneath the damage of winter. I wonder if the tomatoes that V. and I brought back from Italy will reseed themselves. Last year they froze before they ripened. I'm still curious to find out if they would taste as good grown in our Minnesotan soil. Or maybe some things just taste better far away.

Alternating between working outside and reading... all day. Now, after a long bath and lighting candles, it is late... and I don't feel like doing much of anything except listening to the night.

ho-hum...

Where am I? I got up at 5am and it's already 5pm and I just got home. It seems like just a little bit ago I was driving to school watching the sun rise over lakes and fields and pines (which made me think of Tasha and wish I had a camera--oh the color!), then to school for 3 hours of conferences, lunch with Vinny, the grocery store, and a treehouse visit with a friend.

A good day, but I am feeling a little strange after only 4 hours of sleep and not getting any V.W. reading done. I fear I've burned a hole through my nap taking time. Instead I feel like writing, watching movies, snacking, and planning classes for next fall, and writing some more. But I'm feeling tired and out of sorts so I pour myself another cup of coffee and stare out the window, at the computer screen, and back out the window.

Writing mind is returning, tugging at my sleeve. It wants me to ignore all other tasks... let my mind wander, to let days float by without minding the loss of time. It wants me to pay attention to sunrises and friends, and odd fragments otherwise neglected.

Things to do:

• duct tape myself to desk chair and work on Cont. Writers paper
• this evening undo writing bondage and go for a walk with the dogs down by the river (even if I must force myself to get up off of my over-caffinated, lazy ass).
  
• After sunset go to office-- read student essays and print off copy of V.W.
• Target-- kitty litter, ect. (all the fun stuff).

Friday:

• Conferences 8-11
• Rest of day... read read read book in entirety so that I can actually accomplish a paper for Monday.

Weekend:

• I promise myself to stay on task. I promise myself to stay on task. I promise myself to stay on task. I promise myself to....

YaY! Am I having fun or what?!

The Blob That Ate Up My Writing Time

My biggest fear is that I've completely forgotten how to write. Rearranging my room was a good idea in theory... just theory. I would call it writer's block, but what I have is even more severe. Crapitis-- it's feeling deadly. I think I picked up somewhere along the lines of this past year. It's been festering, but now the infection is getting worse. Good god, I no longer know how to write! I give myself the benefit of the doubt with this here blog. I know this stuff sucks but I don't really care, because it is my space for mental down-time. But working on an essay both yesterday and today has made me realize that something is seriously wrong. To evade the problem I have spent the last day and a half playing in photoshop working on a new template for this site. Vinny is very kind and has reminded me several times that this is ok, that I probably need to just let my mind go for awhile with something else. He's probably right... but it doesn't help the feeling of dismay I have over my attempts at writing. What has this past year done to me?! I miss my old brain. This new one that's moved into my skull does not work right. It's slow and stupid and doesn't think the way I want it to (or for that matter, at all). I'm feeling rather ruined and wondering if I'll ever get it back again.

This summer I plan to start writing on my thesis. And the only thing I keep thinking is: what if I can't do it?! I know, I know... chill the hell out Jessie. But honestly, I am frustrated by the turn my writing has taken. My brain is completely confused. Words no longer hold meaning. My dreams are jumbled. Ee-gads... I'm ruined!

I also realize that I'm over-reacting and therefore have no idea why I bare my soul to public scrutiny with a blog. It is all beginning to seem extremely ridiculous.

Here's the prompt if you're interested in giving it a whirl:
Take 3 disparate objects, at random, from your purse, your backpack, your shelves. Set them in front of you and begin writing, allowing 15 minutes for each object. See if there is a common image or theme you can use to bind these together.

Sounds like fun doesn't it. I thought so too. Well, if I ever get this one figured out, then it's on to the 15 pager--something on creative nonfiction. I still don't know what I'll write for that one either. Confusion has set in. I want to write creatively, my brain is thinking analytically.

By the way, my 3 objects were a sheep bell, a rock, and eyeliner. I think my forth object will have to be fire. And by the way, I'm considering the idea of never complaining on this blog again once I change the template. ha! Until then....

love,
jessie


p.s.
By the way, does anyone have a copy of Between the Acts by Virginia Woolf that I can borrow SOON?? I just realized that I don't have the book and neither does any of the bookstores or libraries. Damn.

Starting over...

I just rearranged my room. That means I'm going to get something done.... writing. I look slightly to the left and see out my window. A new vantage point. From the second floor I sit looking towards the swamp, a basin filled with black spruce and tamarack. A ridge beyond of poplar and higher yet, a cluster of white pine, their arms raised to the sky like angels. Oak trees and the bare branches of chokecherry bushes are nestled in the foreground. Today is grey, the tawny browns of the field grass subdued and contrasting only with the dark budding limbs of pussy willows. Pale boulders reflect the color of clouds. Rain falls on the metal roof.

Rearranging my room, this one especially, the one I write in, makes me feel like I am starting over again. Today and for the next three... I am going to write creatively. No Virginia Woolf papers, no critical analysis, no, no, no, none of it. Just the words that come to me. Ah, the possibilities feel thrown wide open. My eyes move to the right, to the computer screen, to the left, back out the window-- a good balance for both viewing and recording life. Ravens fly past, diving, flirting, dancing through the air between rain showers. The yard is still a mess, but from here, I can't see it as well. Good, because I don't feel like doing anything about it just yet.

Today I just want to write. To write, and read, and take occasional naps. I want to start working on my thesis. But first things first. Contemporary Writers... I have a nonfiction writing assignment. I'm happy with that. I'm just hungry for something creative. Anything at all.

I feel better now that the dust has been removed. A whole year's worth of dust. My brain feels better with it gone. It's been a long year. I'll be glad when it's over. I'm looking forward to this summer, to being "myself" once again, to writing, to a schedule that is more my own. I'll have a good 8 months, from summer until next January before I have to do anything I don't want to. God, how amazing is that?

I'm looking forward to it... immensely and beyond words.

past midnight...

it's raining out. very softly. outside the sound of frogs fill the air. i cup my hands to my ears and the sound is almost deafening. the world becomes amplified. even the softest breeze moving through bare branches is heard. but the frogs, they make me feel as though i have been transported into some strange northern jungle.

this is also the time, three years ago, that i fell in love with my husband. these night sounds and flashes of lightening remind me of then-- when this love was strange and new. when i slept out on the porch in a sleeping bag night after night writing poems, trying to find my footing as i swam in a vast, subterranean ocean, the sky, the water, pulsating without pause. now i love him in the same way, but deeper. it's strange the way time moves. how things change, yet stay the same.

at the moment i should be sleeping but instead find myself oddly attracted to the recurrence of spring... of it's darkness and mystery. outside birds are sleeping and buds unfurling. rain has a way of making me feel content. to be quiet and just listen.

words and color...color and words

Braiding Earth and Sky

oil on canvas

Red Fort, Delhi

oil on canvas

Another Saturday spent working at the BCAC. These are the paintings I have hanging in the new gallery with The Basement Studio artists. The first is of a woman I met in Southern India where I lived in a palm frond hut on the Indian Ocean for a month and a half. She was a quiet, beautiful woman who spoke no English, but spent a lot of time smiling. One day she spent the afternoon teaching me how to braid palm fronds for the huts. It's amazing what one can learn from another without ever understanding the words.

The second is of a man at the Red Fort in the old city of Delhi. It's ust beyond the train station in the old part of the city. I ended up taking a rickshaw ride everywhere except where I intended to go (to the fort). The driver brought me to every brother's, uncle's, cousin's, and friend's "shop" he knew of, trying to convince me to buy something before he would bring me to my destination. Needless to say, it ended up being an interesting excursion. I could have walked faster but then would have missed out on the opportunity of almost getting run over several times by buses not to mention getting swindled for everything from tours to trinkets (offers which I declined persistently). When I finally arrived I spent the day getting photos taken with complete strangers. In India, blonde hair and pale skin makes one instantly famous. A constant echo of: "Photo? Photo? Madam, please, photo?" But the image of this man walking into the fort was one I caught on the sly during a brief moment when I wasn't the center of attention.

But anyway, back to my present reality...
I've signed up for a show in December/January of 2005/2006 and spent the afternoon considering what direction my work might take. I also considered the notion that I am completely insane. Will I be able to put a show together AND complete my thesis between now and then? ha! Yes, it's quite possible that I've lost all touch with reality. But then again, I've decided to do summer school which will leave me with the month of August off to write by day and paint by night, or vice versa. And to be honest, crazy or not, I kinda like the idea.

But today I am guilty of getting very little done. Perusing books and the internet. Unintentionally looking for inspiration instead of doing what I should. And it felt good although I'm sure I won't think so tomorrow. For the moment I am content with color. Color, color, and more color. The rest, for the time being, will have to wait.

In her defense...

...because I'm feeling guilty for saying mean things. I think the best part about Virginia Woolf are those moments when you can connect with her. Tonight, here's the part I like:

"She took one of the books and laid it on the counterpane beside her. Perhaps because she had been traveling, it seemed as if the ship were still padding softly through the sea; as if the train were still swinging from side to side as it rattled across France. She felt as if things were moving past her as she lay stretched on the bed under the single sheet. But it's not the landscape any longer, she thought; it's people's lives, their changing lives" (211) ...

... "Should she travel? Should she go to India, at last? Sir William was getting into bed next door, his life was over; hers was beginning. No, I don't mean to take another house, not another house, she throught, looking at the stain on the ceiling. Again the sense came to her of a ship padding softly through the waves; of a train swinging from side to side down a railway-line. Things can't go on forever, she thought. Things pass, things change, she thought looking up at the ceiling. And where are we going? Where? Where?" (213).


There Virginia--now that we're on good terms again, can I sleep in peace? Good night. I'm going to India.

please ignore this post.

The best part about today was taking the long way home down dirt roads lined with pine trees and lakes, marshes and creeks, past old cabins and miles of nothing but bright blue sky and unadulterated nature...then getting home and tromping out into the woods with a cup of tea (spilled only half of it) and the dogs, getting to the middle of one of my favorite stands of poplars and laying down with sun shining and happy animals to do my Virginia Woolf reading. I was out there for an hour or so and reluctantly returned with my hair full of twigs and leaves. But I could have stayed forever. This time of year I find myself tempted to never return from the woods. I was imagining myself living out there, roaming the ridge, sleeping under sun or stars. Only to return to the house when I need a new book. If it rained my book would get wet and I wouldn't care.

But as for Virginia Woolf, I hate to admit it, but I am sick to death of her. Maybe it is the cause of reading 400 pages in 3 (too short) days. Or maybe it is this particular story, which although I like it very much, is once again depressing. The Years is about a whole bunch of characters whose lives braid in out of one another, each connected by family or society's circles... and everyone of them is (for the most part) miserably unhappy. The years pass until eventually they find themselves old and asking themselves if they ever really lived. Granted, I haven't finished the book yet and maybe there will be an uplifting twist to the story... but after a semester's worth of reading-- I doubt it.

Ok, I'm being unfair. The Years is really an excellent story. I think it's just me. I've moved on. Or at least... I'm ready to move on. The other thing is that I am really irritated by aspects British culture. And unfortunately they are many of the aspects that Woolf focuses on. I think it's safe to say that she was irritated too. But she was so much a part of the society that I speak of that it's hard to forgive her for it. I'm reading The Years and remembering my time spend in England (about 5 years ago). They seemed to me, a nosy, gossipy bunch. Oh, the airs they had about them. No, not all. I don't mean to generalize. There are a few British folks who I am always glad to hear from or see. But all I remember is how glad I was to leave the country. And I have no desire to go back. Everyone was nice on the outside, but it all seemed like such a facade. Needless to say, France was a relief. I remember getting on the bus in London and thinking: good riddens England! Uh. I fell in love with irritable French waiters.

What am I talking about? I don't know. I'm just not as swept away by the romanticism of British culture as some. Virginia is becoming one of those haggard characters in her novel. Has she lost the excitement of writing, of creating worlds with words? Where has the magic gone?

Alright, it's not Virginia. It's me. It's not her fault that I want to rip her books in two and watch the pages go fluttering across the room (or the woods). It's just me. I want to read something else for no other reason than because I want to read something else.

The frogs have hatched. I feel alive. But man, V.W. is bringing me down. She filled her pockets with stones and drowned herself. Meanwhile I am feeling alive and well. I have issues with depression. I get tired of it.
Anyway, high-society England is boring. Yes, I'm starting to feel like I should join the Outsiders Society. I admit, I prefer the more exotic. I prefer third-world. I prefer real problems over emotional ones.

Blah blah blah.... I'm just complaining. Sorry. Please ignore this post. Virginia Woolf is amazing. She's a genius. And I'm not being sarcastic. I truly think she is. But I still just want her to go away. At least for a little while.

Sitting in my dark, windowless office...

wondering how I made it through a whole winter in here. No wonder the sun outside feels so good. Outside where I just came from to find my husband whose not here, but is at home with sleeping dogs. Do we have any chase lounge chairs around here? I need one for out on the lawn of the union. But I'm willing to settle for sitting in the dirt. As for Virginia Woolf, she's coming with. But I'm beginning to wish she'd just go away.

a few vital necessities of existence...

"As we learn to bear the intimacy of scrutiny, and to flourish within it, as we learn to use the products of that scrutiny for power within our living, those fears which rule our lives and form our silences begin to lose their control over us." ~Audre Lorde (excerpt from "Poems Are Not Luxuries")

Laying it bed, I read poems with a cat asleep on my belly, purring, stretching, lolling for attention. A stack of books nestled against my side. Importance given to things other then the next paper. The dog snuffs and sighs, shifts his weight and falls back asleep. A comfortable night... soft-pawed animal love and poetry.

It's still Tuesday, right?

Ok... I haven't yet accomplished anything I set out to do today. But it's still not too late. The windows are open. The cats are laying in the sill pretending that they're outside. For the first time since winter decended on us many months ago, I can hear wind in the popals and pines. The trees have finally thawed and are able to bend in the wind, making a sound that resembles the ocean if you stand still long enough to listen to it.

This afternoon instead of staying on task I went to town to pay bills. Abe sat in the front seat, Anu in the back. Noses poking out of windows. When I asked Abe: "Wanna go see Vinny?" He cocked his head and made a goofy grin. He could hardly sit still until we got to campus and rescued Vinny from his dark office and went for a walk. The dogs went swimming in the open water along the lake. Abe was happy to walk in town (a city dog at heart) while Anu, the wolfie, acted like the wild beast that she is. They turned heads and caused smiles as we walked across the parking lot back to the truck. And then sighed and snored the whole way home. My truck smells like a big dirty wet dog. Oh, the sweet smells of warm weather.

Now they are sleeping. Content with the excursion. And I am now going to accomplish what I set out to do this morning. Homework. With windows open, birds chirping, and cats making clicking sounds in the back of their throats as they listen too.

Thank god for Tuesdays.... or at least, this one.

Today is Tuesday.

I love Tuesdays. It's my day "off" to stay at home and "write." It doesn't always work that way, I shouldn't fool myself. But today I slept in (still foggy-headed). I have a cup of Costa Rican coffee, yum. Strong brewed, nutty flavor... I'm waiting for it to take effect (never mind the bad writing that is about to occur). Careful of too much effect (that will cause even worse writing). Beginning again so that the rest might fall into place.

Today I am going to finish all my work for Contemp. Writers. And even though it is the class I'm furthest behind in, it is the one that I most enjoy the material. Why is it that the things I want to do the most always get pushed back the furthest? The most pressing repeatedly becomes priority. I always try to get those things done first, saving what I'd rather be doing for last. But by that point, the good stuff should have been done a long time ago; it doesn't get the time and attention it deserves; and then stress sets in, my mind goes flat. But today, no stress, no flatness--just a readjustment of priorities-- just to do the "good stuff" and a little bit of class planning. That is all I am going allow myself to do.

Still there is something else I want to dig my hands into... and that is planning my thesis. EEEh! A sense of excitement found me yesterday after meeting with Susan about plans for graduating... which led to a conversation about my thesis (which is the cause of my giddiness). God, I really do love Susan. I think I've known what I REALLY want to do all along... she just made me admit it. I'm not going to write about it here (yet) cuz it is still bubbling/brewing in my mind. It seems stupid now, but the thing I was really afraid of in doing it was failure. But now that I've admitted what I want to do and was given a "talking to," (thank you Susan) I feel like myself again. Not just going through the motions, but truly involved in the ideas rumbling around in my head.

Graduate school has so far been an incredible experience (stress aside). I have learned more in the past several months than I ever anticipated. But to some extent, all this learning has been taking place outside of myself. I've been learning about other peoples' writing and other peoples' theories. It has been good. I feel like I have ideas under my belt that I never would have come across otherwise. But still, it still feels like external knowledge (at this point). Coming to a decision on my thesis has put me back in the center of myself. As though it comes from a place that only I have something to offer. Not just regurgatation of someone else's ideas and creations... but my own. And what amazes me the most is how much I've been holding myself back (creatively). I've been afraid of everything and playing it safe just to get through it all. I can see now how unhappy this has been making me--this living life like half a person.

Playing it safe always works. But god, safe is boring. I've had this long list of ideas to fall back on and in the process have been drifting further and further away from myself. All I can say right now, is thank you to Susan for catching my fall. A solid, warm body, wise mind, to step in the way of a path that was not mine. It feels good to be walking around in my own skin again, to once again be in possession of myself.

Yes, thank you Susan.

Censored once again...

Geez, I can't believe they removed my pig drawing. It was a drawing of myself-- what's rude about that? So much for creativity.

I am beginning to tire of Internet censorship. There is so much worse I could do.

The project: 355 self-portraits to go...

Today's Self-Portrait: Oink Oink!

The exchange rate:

20 schillings = 1 pound
1 guinea = 21 schillings

1 guinea in 1937 = 41 pounds in 2002

41 pounds in 2005 = $78.00 US in 2005

3 guineas = about $234.00 to you and me = the cost of all our Virginia Woolf books for 2 students. But then again, have book prices inflated? Or does it just seem like it?

Maybe I was being too harsh...

30 pages left of the last section of Three Guineas... and I think she is finally clarifying her point... or at least I am coming to a fuller understanding of her connections. I've read 30-some pages without falling asleep. Hurray! Why? Because she is finally starting to make more sense. What were the first two chapters about? They felt like a progressive rant. But now it seems that she is beginning to settle down which makes it much easier to read.

I especially liked the part about "brain prostitution."

But at the moment I am feeling irritable from too much reading. Back to it though... I want to be done. In the process I am starting to feel more stupid (stupider?) every day.

Virginia Woolf is driving me crazy! blah blah blah...

Ok, first let me state that I have absolutely enjoyed the previous umpteen books by one of my, now, favorite authors, Virginia Woolf. That said, I am 84 pages into Three Guineas and about to loose my mind!!! Good god, it is BORING! A woman (Woolf) gets a letter requesting a donation for a women's college building fund... and then, after much thought and deliberations sits down to write a letter. And while I like the parts that are reminiscent of A Room of One's Own, what is this argument about war about? Please Virginia, about war, support with evidence! But not with a separate argument! And on and on she goes repeating herself the whole way. Three letters responding to the same request in the same way. Reading not 3, but 1 of the chapters would have been enough. And while I've read the same argument twice already, I'm still only half way through the book!

I'm lucky if I can make it through a whole paragraph, let alone a whole page, let alone ten before I fall asleep. I nod off and her words keep reading through my head as though I am still awake. Am I writing the book in my sleep, or repeating the same words of hers over and over again? I don't know. It's becoming a horrible blur, a dream that keeps repeating itself and I can't seem to wake from. But I do, and keep reading, and am once again bored to tears until my eyelids after a minute or two grow heavy and I am returned to the repetitious dream.

It is the kind of book that needs to be read standing, or walking, in order to stay alert. God, a whole week down the drain over this 150 page THING.
Yes, I am a woman. Yes, I am a feminist. Yes, I am anti-war. But what is it about this book that bores me to tears?

...And please, when we get to class on Monday night, please lets not have a long, drawn out discussion about her depression. It is so obvious. Let's not talk about it anymore. I am bored bored bored with the topic of depression, of bi-polar, of suicide. I can only hope that Nancy, or SOMEONE, has something enlightening to say about this book. Or better yet, share it with me now, so that I might get through the rest of it.

Maybe I am just spoiled, as a woman of my time, to have had opportunities that Virginia Woolf's time did not have. But even so, I am sickened by the way women were once treated. I am sickened by the thoughts and actions seen and heard even today. I am not oblivious to the fight. I have had to fight it many times myself. Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I am not as spoiled as some-- only because I have challenged the "system" more times than I can count. I am not a "little woman." As a matter of fact, I am better with power tools than most men my age. Yes, I give V.W. credit for her broad, futuristic vision. So what is it then that drives me crazy when I read this?! I am bored. And she is depressing.

Let it be over!

Ok... but one inspiring moment while reading was the thought: what if I won a million dollars? How then would my life be different?

I considered my options. And decided that I would finish school, but then become a full-time artist (at least for awhile). I would write and paint until my heart's content. Yes, I would be a PROFESSIONAL artist--not just one who does art on the side. I imagined my studio with 15 foot ceilings, white walls, large canvases, a space to write in the corner. A spacious place in which to express myself completely. So I continued reading as my thoughts wandered on this topic and for a moment I was enjoying myself. But then back to reality. Back to Three Guineas. Back to my life as it really stands.

And this is where my thoughts stop. Because I am too bored to think clearly. And too busy to forget what needs to be done.

I think what bothers me most about this book is that V.W.'s argument is incomplete. And maybe by Monday night I'll be able to get my head around this thought in order to explain myself better. At the moment, my brain has been stripped dry.

Sometimes other people say it better...

"I woke this morning wrapped in loss. I was caught between sleep and waking, living again is a house that I had once lived in loved, and lost--lost once and for all to a persistent and dangerous prowler whom we could not rout. Lying in my New York bed, in my New York bedroom, in the midst of my busy and productive New York life, I was back in New Mexico in my house full of saltillo tiles with the scratching sound of my pack of dogs as they waited eagerly for me to be up and with them for the day.
I once had five acres, seven horses, and seven dogs. I do not have them now. If I let myself, I miss every ince--apple trees, wooden fences constantly in need of repair, acequias gently sloughing with water and stray twigs on our irrigation days. I miss every twitch, every hair of each of the dogs, given away, one at a time, to loving friends. I miss the silken muzzle of each horse, nuzzling me for an apple or carrot, saying, "That's it? Hay?" when I fed them each morning.
If I let myself, I connot be in the now because I am overcome by the power of the then, the beauty and grace of all that I have left behind. But the prowler could not be cuaght by any known arm of the law, and it was too hard to stay on, sleeping at night with all my dogs banked against danger, with every scratch of a twig at every window sending us all into high alert.
So I cannot let myself linger in the past."

That's how I feel tonight.
I opened up a book and read this page. Earlier Vinny and I went to the gallery opening and then ate dinner together. We got home, I did dishes, went through bills, and picked up the house. I played outside in the spring nightness with the dogs, came back in, lit candles, and made some tea. I sat down with a notebook and for the first time in too long was acutely aware of the silence. It is the kind of silence that is heavy with stars and the smell of spring. In my notebook I made a list of the things I need to pack before putting the house up for sale. Clutter. But the silence made me sad. It was a beautiful silence that makes me question my occassional desire to move back into town. Out here there are no sirens, no loud cars, no street lights, no neighbors. The silence here is peaceful in a way I have never experienced anywhere else.
Granted, my only prowler is money. The only danger is in giving up my dreams and the things I value most.

Sometimes it knocks me harder than other times... the notion of selling and moving. There are times that I just want to move on, to have bills paid, to not have so many worries. But there are other times, like tonight, that I come home and am all too aware of what I will be giving up. I've left other places that were hard to leave, but the difference is that then I knew my stay was temporary to begin with. Did I think I would always have this place? Yes, I think I did. But life hasn't worked out the right way. And I'm afraid I'm going to feel like that woman... in the future always missing this bit of my past. Will I ever find this again?

And perhaps when I get to the next place, I will find beauty and it will create a space big enough to hold both the present and the past. But carrying the past around seems like a heavy load. In the end, it feels like nothing more than loss.

The price we pay for what we most believe in... I can only hope that is worth it. Then again, there's only one way to find out. I've admitted time and time again to myself that I am not happy here. Money has destroyed my ability to find the peace I once had. Now it is only in brief moments. Moments that remind me of what I won't have. Peace, like the silence tonight, is bittersweet.

Damn it. And all I can hope is that where ever I end up in all my tomorrows that it will be worth it. I'm looking for the positive, but... it's hard. Period.

Sunshine walks and the Triple X...

Today was a day that should have been spent outside. And luckily my truck was broken... so I was forced to walk. I say forced, because otherwise I would have driven everywhere due to a heavy load of books that I seem to think I need with me at all times, books that, today, where left behind. I walked this moring from my dad's (where I slept lastnight due to the broken truck), to the coffee shop, to the gallery, later walked to get lunch and back, and again from the gallery to school. Ah, felt good.

But what feels even better is having a show hung in the brand new Triple X Gallery at the BCAC. The Basement Studio artists, myself and 5 others, have hung our work together. And I must say: wow! We look good together! (although I must admit I wish I had better NEW work--an ongoing desire). But it is not often that 6 individuals can come together at the last minute and create a cohesive show. And in a beautiful space to top it off!

A day of art, good company, and warm weather... what more could I ask for?

But now... it is time for bed. If only it were earlier... the day would be made perfect with 8 hours of sleep. ha!

This morning.

This morning I got up to 2 cats and a dog licking my fingers simultanously. Meowing, stretching, and sighing expectantly. I went outside to let Abe out and say good morning to the woolfie when a flock of little song birds flew by, stopped at the empty feeders and flew away while the white tails of 8 healthy deer crashed past not a hundred yards away, down into the swamp. Such a beautiful ruckus it all created, the sound of deer legs swishing through frozen grasses, breaking through brush with loud cracks, brown and grey birds splintering the air in a multitude of wings. I held dog collars and watched, but they sat quietly, watching too. Silence returned.

Filling the bird feeders for the first time in weeks, I wished the birds would come back. But they are gone. Owing nothing to a winters worth of neglect.

And now, I think it is raining out. Today I need to DO without worrying about what needs to be DONE. Otherwise I'm afraid I might run off into the woods chasing deer... and maybe never return.

And I thought I'd get something done today...

hahaha. Maybe I just started out on the wrong foot... making flower bouquets for the funerals in Red Lake. I spent my morning with sweetgrass and cedar and wild flowers sent from somewhere warmer than this still snow-covered climate. It felt good to do something, to create a little bit of beauty for the grieving. But every time I answered the phone to take another order, the person on the other end of the line was crying. They each told their story. It was their sister, their aunt, their god-daughter, their nephew. I kept my voice strong and steady and told them that my heart went out to them, but what they couldn't see were my eyes brimming with tears each time I hung up the phone, then turning back to the work table, taking another drink of coffee, another trip to the cooler, and making yet another bouquet. I left hungry and depressed. Then went to my studio to write, to do homework. But instead I hung out in the gallery with Nina, Tori, and Teresa and talked about art. When I finally sat down alone, I did nothing except look at books and cover a pink canvas yellow.

Nothing done. Just a headache to remind me how far behind I am.

And if I could just muster up the energy I would try to accomplish all the homework that has piled up from Cont. Writers and Theory. But papers and Virginia Woolf and planning class are nagging at me. My energy is spent. If I only had the kind of mind that is able to do one thing at a time, to set everything else aside, the type of mind that has the ability to focus, single-mindedly. Then would I get something done?

 

Maybe this one will go in the show, an old friend who I painted more than a year ago.