Upon packing...

I've decided that every art major should be allotted a dolly and a storage unit at the time of graduation. This, of course, should be funded by the state. In the past two days I have hauled (at least) a good 1,000 lbs. of artwork. Yes, it's been a very productive 6 years. I'm only half way there.

By the way: Beware of ever getting involved in ceramics.

satisfied in every aspect of being.

wow-- what a day. too bad i don't have any energy left to write about it.

• an adventure on foot, miles and miles through water and woods, just wolfie and i.
• a very large, half finished painting.
• an offer on the house.
• blue dragonflies, flannel shirts, and tired muscles.

goodnight stars.

It's about loss, but also about hope... and whatever it is that gets us between the two.

"Why I Am Not A Painter"

~by Frank O'Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

Seeking artistic vision (and not finding it)...

Today I decided to get serious about December's art show and spent the day in the studio. Finished gessoing the big canvas and added my first splash of color (literally)-- dripping rust and patina colors. But still no overriding "theme" has emerged. It shifts... along with my ever-shifting obsessions and perceptions. I seem to be lacking artistic vision.

For a moment I even considered doing portraits of literary figures important to my life this past year: Virginia Woolf, Edgar Allen Poe... you know, all the crazies that I could have fun figuring out how to express the many colors of their eccentricities. Uh, but then I realized that I was being truly morbid.

Back to the drawing board. Color. That's all I know... it's about color.

And rocks. Maybe rocks too. Fish? Horses? Trains? Emotion? Pure, meaningless abstract? Squares? Circles? Lines?

The last of summer reading (an abbreviated book review)...

Well, today I realized that it is NOW-OR-NEVER. One week before school starts again and I figure that if I want to do any reading for fun I better do it now. Scanning my bookshelves was a little overwhelming. The pressure is on after all. I may not be able to really relax into another book until next May (sniffle, sniffle--say it aint so!). What makes it even harder is having just finished an EXCELLENT excellent book by Margaret Atwood. Bluebeard's Egg.

(SYNOPSIS: By turns humorous and warm, stark and frightening, Bluebeard's Egg infuses a Canada of the 1940s, '50s and '80s with glowing childhood memories, the harsh realities of parents growing old, and the casual cruelty that men and women inflict on each other. Here is the familiar outer world of family summers at remote lakes, winters of political activism, and seasons of exotic friends, mudane lives and unexpected loves. But here too is the inner world of hidden places and all that emerges from them -- the intimately personal, the fantastic and the shockingly real...whether it's what lies in a mysterious locked room or in the secret feelings we all conceal.)

While in Canada I decided to pay homage to a Canadian author and having never read Atwood's work before I took her with me from the book store to the campsite and had a hard time putting her down. Ouch-- the insightfulness with which she writes! The book is a collection of short stories, character sketches really--so emotionally honest (without being sentimental) that it almost hurts. I have a new-found respect for both Canadian authors and artists. But now what? Dang, it's so hard to choose another book after finishing a good one.

So today I started Sherman Alexie's Ten Little Indians which has been sitting on the bookshelf collecting dust since last year. I read one of the stories and was disappointed because it wasn't as good as Tonto and Zoro Fistfight in Heaven... that is, until I got to the end-- surprise! Ok, so he definitely writes like a man (I think I'm on a female author kick)... but I'll continue with the book, if nothing else, for the sake of curiosity.

But waiting for people to come look at the house made me antsy and unable to sit still for more than five minutes at a time. Open House, edited by Mark Doty caught my eye (not surprising--considering my obsessive personality. ha!) and since it's only on loan from a professor I picked it up and started reading. I find myself reading a lot of books of anthologies and collections lately. Maybe I'm just afraid of commitment. Oh, but right now I'm in the middle of a story that has inspired me to write! I would say more, but it's incubating. For now I'll just say: it's a good book. Trust me.

And last, but not least, I'm still working on The Jade Cabinet by Rikki Duccornet. I started this one after listening to Rikki read at the Writer's Conference. It's about a girl named Memory who tells the story of her mute sister and her eccentric family including her father who has a theory that language is only a pale copy to what it once was in the Garden of Eden. He spends his life studying the patterns of zebras, cats, and beetles in order to reconstruct this original language which was "so powerful as to conjure the world of things." Language, a species of magic. Rikki's in love with language. How can I resist her?

Excerpt: "There are those who say that the memory is like a collector's cabinet where souvenirs are tucked away as moths or tiny shells intact. But I think not. As I write this it occurs to me that for each performance of the mind our souvenirs reconstruct themselves. The memory is like an act of magic"

If only there was more time. I think I could read forever. But as you can see, I'm a rather disjointed person--reading too many things in too many different directions with never, never enough time! Sometimes I wonder what direction my own writing would take if I were to allow myself the opportunity to read whatever my heart desired for as long as I wanted. I guess it is a lot like wondering what it would be like to live deep in the Alaskan wilderness with no one to get in the way of myself. There are dangers either way. Still, the idea of it sounds wonderful.

Until then, I exist in perpetual confusion of what to read next.

House Beautiful:

Keeping the house in pristine condition 24/7 is getting rather old. However, I am getting good at it. I mowed the whole yard including weedwacking, filling in gopher/doggie holes, and removing all doggie doodles, straightened up the pole shed, and cleaned the entire house from top to bottom in less than 2 hours. By the time the first showing of the day came (early) at 12:41 I was red-faced, but ready. I got a good feeling from this girl. She's single (as I was when I came to be here), but best of all seems aware of just how much magic this place possesses. In the end I imagine the person that buys it will appreciate it the same way I do. There's something strangely incredible about this land and I've been noticing the way it either takes people's breath away or else they seem a little bit oblivious to it (they're the one's I don't much care for either--imagine that). There doesn't seem to be much in-between. Funny thing is that I can feel it within moments-- it's in their eyes and vibrations. But then comes the money part. Yes, what I really need is someone that loves it, but also has the money. 2 more parties are coming out tonight. V., wolfie, and I will hide out down by the river or in a coffee shop while they look. It makes me nervous being here--better that I'm gone. Today might be a long day.

Oh, but cool weather. Thank god for cool weather. In the 30's last night! Fall is coming. I love it.

Breath

Fredrick A. Varley's "Dharana"

"Dharana" can be translated as "holding steady." Last summer I built a platform in the field overlooking the marsh and beyond towards the ridge. I went there tonight and sat with wolfie-- where, in the cool deep breath of night, tears sometimes sound like laughter.

Weather like this...

The cat sits in the open window sniffing the breeze that blows through the screen. It's a nice evening, the kind that makes me want to walk until i wear holes in the bottoms of my shoes. It's the kind of night that i should be camping in, making me feel alive, a little bit restless, and craving a certain kind of freedom.

Water Stones

While I'm waiting for photos from Canada... here's some artwork instead. These stones cover the bottom of a blue-green glacial lake that I would have liked to never leave. Surrounded by this kind of inspiration I easily managed a painting a day. Writing however only included a handful of journal entries and several postcards to my long lost husband.



oil pastel on paper

at this rate

i'm beginning to understand why parents tell their kids to go to college directly after highschool. at this rate i won't be finished until i'm 35 (best case scenario). V. will be 40.

my sister's advise is that once i finish a doctoral program i can do whatever i want afterwards. i gravely doubt this. then again, i'm getting good at doubting. logic never works for me. never has. but for once-- i wish i could just be logical.

at the moment i'm working on a story about a lizard in the shower. i think i need to go for another walk.

traveling "local"

Darjeeling tea with cream and sugar from a middle eastern grocery store in the city. Incense burning soft southwest shaman swirls of cedar, pinion, and alder. Lila Downs sexy, forceful voice twirling Spanish rrrr's as she sings about blue sand and snake clouds. Candles burn, I float the Egyptian Nile.

Settling back into myself after being deposited back home in the middle of the night. I decided at some point during my absence that I want to start over. Theoretically this is good. Realistically: not really all that easy. Life comes crashing back in.

Upon my return, I feel a little bit like I did after spinning my niece and nephew around till we couldn't stand up straight. You know the feeling: when you put your arms out wide and spin until everything begins to blur dangerously. So you stop but everything else keeps moving. Brain molecules flying out of control. The world falls out of place with everything shifting like that. (please-- try it now if you've forgotten this sensation.)

Maybe I'm just acclimating to these low, swampy altitudes. Or maybe it's because the house was shown 3 times today. Maybe it's because I feel like I exist nowhere in particular. Vertigo. These past days people have been asking me for directions-- in Minneapolis, Waterton, Banff, Fielding. I like the feeling of people thinking I'm a local in those strange lands when in reality I live nowhere. Not even here.

Tonight, with Wolfie, we swam in the river and then hiked for miles and miles into the woods. Going further than we ever have before, we came to a steep incline. Hiking up it I pretended I was still in the mountains. I thought about what V. said not too long ago, that we don't need to own nature to enjoy it. I crested the hill and ridge upon ridge folded in on itself. For that moment it was all mine-- without owning any of it. And I decided on my hike back that if I could walk forever... happiness could be maintained.

Help!

I'm stuck in Minneapolis with no coffee, no ride, no money and stinky waves radiating off me like you wouldn't believe.

Lord she's gone done left me done packed / up and split

I'm usually a light packer. But this time, for some reason, I have enough things crammed in my bags to never come back.

The "art bag" alone consists of acylics, oil pastels, watercolors, pencils, two types of paper, and sm. wood panels among other misl.

The clothes bag has everything from shorts and tank tops to long underwear and winter jacket.

Why should I come back?

Note to V.: If you don't see me by the time my passport runs out, meet me in Canada. Bring the dog. And any others (dogs) you find along the way.

Progress...

After two days of serious work I finally made progress on something. Class is planned. The finer details still need to be filled in, but the skeleton is there--and is, despite my creative impulses, rhetorically sound. I'm curious (and a little scared) to meet my class. It appears that I have a large handful of math and science majors. Ooh-- the test is on. We'll be writing a lot and whatever their major, I hope they like to write... or at least are willing to give it a chance. I say "we" because this time around I really want to do the writing assignments along with the class. I know, I said that last year too. But this time I might actually have time (I hope). One mistake I made last year was not giving myself enough (or any) time to write creatively. It about ruined me. This year I'm on a mission to live a more balanced life. I look forward to teaching again. But I think what I like most about it is that it allows me to remain a perpetual student; to get other people writing, but to keep myself excited about it too.

And although it's crazy to think I'll have time this coming week, I'm bringing a notebook with me to Canada. Maybe I'll make a little progress on that Indendent Study while abroad. I'm imagining a few stolen moments hiding out under a pine tree or next to a glacial blue lake or sitting on a log next to a river and writing. I've come to realize this summer that writing the first draft long hand takes all the pressure off. I can write in 10 minutes what would take 2 hours on the computer. I use a medium point, blue pen. And I like the way the paper feels like braille when I'm done.

I'm sick of writing being a struggle. Damnit-- I want to enjoy it again.

Another hot one.

Just think, in a few days I'll be high enough in the mountains to eat snow.

93 F (no wonder).

Well, that's that. We're back from a relatively miserable trip, but the show is hung, looks good, and now I can only hope that they all sell... or even a couple. Art should NEVER be about money. Still, I would not complain if it started making me some.

Two more days until I leave again. I've given up hope of getting my independent study writing done before I leave. Fine. I've decided to switch things up. What I really feel like doing is planning class. Ok-- so I'll do what I feel like doing. Yes, what a great idea-- to do something without struggle.

These days I find myself craving simple beginnings like my friend R. has found. I stopped by her new place, The Granary, on Saturday. White walls, cream carpet, wood floors, ceiling fans, more wood, windows with wonderful views. Yes, she lives in a peaceful little corner of the world and although I know her life is not perfect or even easy... there is something about all of it that I wish I could find.

In the meantime, I'm going to try and enjoy what peace I can manifest for myself. It's a hot hot sticky hot afternoon. Wolfie and I just returned from the river. What else is there to do? Drink iced tea. Plan class. A pool of sunlight across my desk... books await.

I'm packed and ready for an art show.

Everything is even in the car. Ready to go. My god, I'm leaving town for the FIRST time this summer! Could that be right? No, it is not right. It is very very wrong.

Nonetheless, I have a pile of paintings, a bag of clothes, and a bag of books. A trip to the cities has never felt so exciting (oh how pathetic am I).

Tomorrow morning I look forward to waking up, making coffee, taking Anu for a long long walk and then hittin' the road. My little wolfie is going to spend the next 3 days at a kennel. She's never been away overnight before, but I've packed her bed, a ham bone, and plenty of rawhide. Am I babying her too much? ha! Never. I don't think I should ever be a mother. It's hard enough leaving the dog for christsakes!

ok... but there are bugs crawling all over my computer screen... moths, knats, mosquitoes. I think it's time to call it a night.

The Old Woman with a Chrysanthemum

One day, a week or so ago, I talked to a very old woman. A stranger. She had long white hair, walked with a cane and carried with her a yellow potted chrysanthemum. During the course of our conversation she said that her astrologer told her that July will be a very bad month for everybody. For me, bad means: no writing, no house selling, no money (not to mention, no smoking). It also means the cat is sick and I hope he makes it through tomorrow because it will be August and then maybe, just maybe, everything will work out.


According to the stars and planets @ astrology.com:

You now enter the calm before the storm. Psychic war clouds are gathering on the horizon as Venus nears a polarity to Uranus and Mars locks horns with Saturn. Both of these turbulent sky patterns will materialize tomorrow, but there are definite hints of their presence on day one of the weekend. Before you have to confront a wide array of challenges, enjoy visiting art galleries, bookstores or museums. Your creative and artistic powers feel rejuvenated by a Venus-Mars parallel at 10 degrees north of the Celestial Equator (11:09AM PDT). Romantic partners can also enjoy a loving experience close to this time or make sparks fly if the big chill has been recently intervening in their affairs. Inventive notions and intuitive promptings are flying fast during a Moon-Pallas trine in air signs (3:18PM PDT) supplemented by the Moon in Gemini aligning with Jupiter in Libra (8:40PM PDT). Be extra sensitive to dear ones this evening as celestial mischief makers prepare to wreak havoc on earthlings during the next 24 hours. Offer a healing massage to someone overwhelmed by stressful circumstances beyond their control.

It's not over yet. God, I can't wait until Monday.

Thirteen hours and two horrible paragraphs later-- she is about to come undone.

Day 3 and they haven't divorced.

It is hereby the third day of no smoking. Vinny and I quit at the same time. And this, if anything, is the true test of our marriage. Only one blow-up yesterday, but nothing that an hour long walk with the dog didn't fix.

Moving on, I'm trying not to drink too much coffee (another love of my life besides cigarettes) because one begets the other. Oh but I feel so goddamn healthy I could puke.

Yeah, moving on. This morning I'm about to grapple my way out of the hole I've fallen into with writing (that is, storytelling). I have a three page essay that I've been staring at for a week trying to change it from a nauseaum of abstract imagery into a story that actually says something (although I have several of these to work with). Since Monday I've been pacing from the computer, to the bed, to the bookshelf, to the coffee shop, to the... (you get the point). I've been waiting for an epiphany. It hasn't come. I think there's a really brilliant idea out there, but it's hidden in a pack of cigarettes that I can't have.

So instead I'm embarking on a new mission... and that is to start over, to tell the story again, but in 3rd person. This is V.'s brainchild, to distance myself from the story. Such a wise man. I will become she... because when it comes down to it, I don't want anything to do with myself right now anyway.

She's going to start now. Goodbye.

Henna Hands

My newest obsessive-compulsive doodle paintings.
(sorry--image detail is disappointing)


acrylic and ink on paper



acrylic and ink on paper

daydreaming

Sometimes I like to daydream that my life is different. Not that I'm not happy, maybe just easily bored. I like occasional change, and lately my life has been lacking them. So today as I was driving home I started thinking about living in Bemidji. I was daydreaming about living in a rented house with a fenced-in yard. Anu was contentedly gnawing on a rawhide out on the back step. I painted the kitchen lime green. The cabinets were white and there was a bright yellow oncidium orchid in the window sill. The living room was warm with books and rugs and even cable tv. I had a writing room that I was still undecided on the color. blah blah blah... on it went. For some reason, in my daydream, living in town gave me a lot more time. Time to write, time to take the dog hiking in the woods, time to go places like Duluth or Minneapolis or Winnipeg or where ever I wanted to go on a whim. Not to mention, I drove a reliable car.

In my daydream, life was much much simpler. When I wrote bills it only took 4 check blanks: rent, phone, electricity, and car insurance. Not the 12 I sent out today. In my daydream I had money to buy books and clothes and a bed that doesn't leave my husband and I with abnormally formed spines.

But in my daydream, there isn't a beautiful little deer grazing just beyond the window I look out as I write. And damn it! (softly playing music screeches to a halt)--life gets complicated again.

That's it. Enough dreaming. I'm going to watch a movie.

bad combination:

too much caffeine + not enough nicotine = midnight snack.

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.
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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.