What gives you inspiration?
It could be anything that ‘stun’s me visually... could be as simple as a pattern on fabric or color combination. For a while now whimsical art and illustrations from children’s stories of the 19th and first half of the 20th centuries have inspired me. A childhood pen pal from Sri Lanka sent my family a handmade doll she had created. That, along with visits I’ve made as an adult to The Museum of Childhood in Edinburgh, Scotland have inspired a signature project I do with my students called ‘burlap people’. The way my great-grandmother (circa 1920s/30s) had taken bailing wire to weave around the legs and back of a wooden chair to repair it or give it strength amazed me and inspired me to create, with standard utility wire from the hardware store, armatures with my students for their sculpture projects. American and French art deco and the zigzag era have inspired a few of my pieces including Finding Peace.
What fuels your creativity?
The excitement of knowing that I can create something rather ornate, full of meaning, symbolism, from what is at ‘arms reach’ ...as you so beautifully put it.
How do you get that special feeling?
It comes to me when I’m watching period or contemporary movies...adventure, exotic, thought provoking... I feel I’m in the best place in the world (in my little work space) with a movie that touches me playing in the background, or great music, working on art. I’m absolutely in the ‘zone’ and most productive at these times.
What influences your art?
Thoughts of my great-grandparents, great aunts and uncles and grandparents ...their stories, styles, keepsakes ...things that made up their ‘essences’ influence me tremendously; Decorative arts from ancient to mid 20th century ...American folk to Aztec and Islamic art; Art influenced by war. Some of the angels gestures in the Lollipop Tree piece were influenced from a painting by John Singer Sargent in which young men (soldiers of WWI) are gesturing towards loved ones as they march off to war.
What artists (or art) do you admire?
Art with ‘expression’ in form ...may be flat or three dimensional. Artists that don’t seem to be afraid to express themselves in their rawest form through their art ...Martha Graham (dancer), (actors) Anna Magnani and Marlon Brando. Frank Lloyd Wright’s textile block houses.
What is your work space like?
The garage is my studio. I use fold out tables for my work surface and plastic chair or wooden stools. Sometimes I paint a piece while it’s hanging on the wall. But most of the time I gravitate to the living-room, on the floor, with the coffee table as the place I set supplies. I move around ...dinning room table as well. My work space has included art on the walls, mine, others, period photos, mirrors, big windows.
What kind of lighting is there?
I probably need to use more lighting...standard soft white light bulbs. The metallic paints I often use provide a lot of different contrast in different lighting ...so it’s never a dull moment.
Is it a big space or small?
The space is contained ...everything is in arms reach.
Is it simple or complex?
Simplicity is important ...it may be in disarray, but it is simple.
What colors are there?
White walls, neutral colors generally speaking.
Are there animals?
Yes, my dog Sage. When I’m at a table he is usually under it, asleep on or next to my feet. He is always close by and catatonic. He senses the peacefulness with the universe when the creative process is at hand ...I think :) Before Sage, when I had my cat Chumley (bless his precious heart), Chumley would lie very close to where I was working and watch my hands work. If given the opportunity he would lay on the piece of art I would be trying to work on.
Is there music?
Yes ...Movie soundtracks (The Hours, Castaway, Glory, Harry Potter, Davinci Code ...) Frank Sinatra, Gershwin, Classical, more jazz, swing, acid jazz, swing, classic rock.
Where do you feel the most creative?
When I’m on location at ‘places’ that inspire ... a museum, junk shop, book store. I’m from the San Francisco/Bay Area and when home I usually visit the Legion of Honor Museum at the presidio ...one of my very favorite places to be. I go through exhibits taking notes and sketching details I want to remember. This inspires more thoughts and ideas.
When do you feel the most creative?
When I take quality alone time, to explore, like to some of the places I mentioned above.
What time of day do you like to create in?
Really anytime, but I most enjoy the nights even though my brain gets so stimulated that it is hard to go to sleep after working on a piece.
Throughout creating a piece of work what kind of emotions do you feel in the very beginning, the preparation, the middle, the completion of the project?
If I had the ability to express this in writing these would be my words, but alas they are not. Anahata Katkin (artist and blogger) gives my answer to your question better than I ever could:
‘I believe resistance is part of the natural creative expansion. Creative expansion is the juicy stuff artwork is made of. Some artists display a faster process and can work more fluidly. I believe this is due to how they react when they hit the edge of a creative expansion.
Artwork is made up of steps and mental landscapes. Like a good music soundtrack there are moods and different stages of fluidity and tone. Learning to navigate our creative process is about how our individual minds and emotions operate. The good news is it doesn't require any mental activity as much as a general awareness while working.
Stage 1: Bloom
When you're just damn inspired.
I generally have a BLOOM state where I can easily get engaged and enjoy the process immensely. I feel impulsive and guided to an extent and at this point my mind gets excited and interested in the project. It's a time of gathering, contemplating, enjoyment, and play. Materials come easily and there is a general well being about the prospect of the artwork. Try the best you can to stay with this segment as long as possible. I try and ride this wave in one sitting. When I begin a project I like to have enough time that I can stay in this groove if I have stayed inspired...otherwise..
Stage 2: Resistance
Then suddenly I hit a place where I have maximized that stage and I hit that RESISTANCE. Resistance will occur usually in the first third of the project. Almost every time! Learn to expect it. Do not be surprised when you suddenly hit the edge of your honeymoon phase. It is REAL for everyone. The voice of reason is loud, convincing, and intense. It can show up in the form of boredom, disinterest, frustration, tiredness, comparing, and exaggerated mental chatter about your artwork. Nor I have recognized the value and realize that I have to work in spite of that voice. It is crucial during the resistance phase that you keep on working! The more you pause and stop working the mere power and habit you establish with resistance. Most people stop right here and don't push further. This defines an artist from everybody else. Artists will work through this nagging stage and move into the sweetness of creating in time. They have learned to expect this irritating part and they trust that it's temporary. At this point try your best to observe the critic without reacting to it. Your critic will have some good ideas if you ask yourself questions like: What is it I don't like and what flashes into my mind as solutions?" That should be the extent of the power you offer your resistance. The resistance only signals that you have hit the edge of your creative breath. And when this happens it simply shows you that it is time for a new strategy or another creative inhalation. Solution of phase 2...
Step 3: PING PONG
...and that's when I like to ping pong between materials. Being that I am focusing on mixed media artwork and that is primarily how I like to create we have an added advantage. When I reach my resistance phase or in a scene a place of critical mass, I bounce to a new material and a new perspective. Drop your current medium and pick up a new one. Stop painting and start drawing on the same piece. Change colors. Use your hands instead of a brush. Do something unpredictable to get the energy moving again. The trick seems to be move even more quickly and implosively at this point. Remember your critic will be trying to grow by using your impulsive instincts you will learn to tame the critic faster. With “ping ponging” you can gain a real momentum in the artwork and trick your brain into a new place. You can get your mind to come along for the ride by doing this rather than letting your mind dominate what you’re up to. Change your focus from the main image perhaps to the broader. Lay down some charcoal in border areas, switch to fine pointed pen details or doodling for a little bit. Anything that will hone your intuitive creative eye and switch your perspective. Practice step two and step three EVERY TIME you create anything. It is a lifelong skill that will serve your creativity every time.
Stage 4: Full Expression
My high school art teacher told me once that the moments when you return to a piece of artwork after a period of struggle are the most supreme moments in the creative process (Right on!! JP). I have never forgotten that and it has been a great discovery every day. During the resistance part of your process I believe it creates a kind of artistic vacuum. A puddle of skill and life force builds up behind all of that resistance- because while you are resisting you are also asking from within yourself to be able to express yourself. And once the resistance is released all of that good stuff comes shooting in with a rocket of ability and artistic expression. And this place generally feels good and easy. Music sounds sweeter, (I usually start crying at this point ... thankful tears J JP) the project seems to be coming together. Your body is able to move along with the brush. It’s the cream of the process and it’s what we all look for as artists.
Stage 5: Completion
I often find that I might experience the first couple of stages again before I am ready for completion. Depending on the scope of the project this can happen many times. But at some point there will be a refining, a detail time. I work on the details of colors and patterns, and finishing touches. I generally know I am there by the slowing down quality. The desire to fuss over it like a Christmas tree and fresh tinsel. I keep wanting to go see the piece through fresh eyes. That’s when I know it’s finished. ‘
- Anahata Katkin 2006
When do you feel the project is complete?
When I look at the piece and can say ...’I can live with that.’ When I no longer have the inkling to add something here or there to the proportions and the colors work for me.
Which part is the most fulfilling during your creative process? (your favorite stage)
I love developing the design. I never plan it out. I just start somewhere, could be a corner or smack dab in the center and go. I add, take away, overlap ...and the other favorite part is when I finally realize the color scheme I want. I often change colors 3, 4, 5 times on a piece. It is just my process.
What tools and materials do you use to create?
My standard tools and materials are the following: Scissors; tacky glue; a hard somewhat flat (it can be warped) piece of wood or compressed material; cardboard; utility rags; container of fresh water; paintbrushes; water-based acrylic paints; hammer, screws, D-rings, hanging wire, paper bags, battery powered saw and screwdriver, box cutters, nails/tacks, wood glue, newspaper. Sometimes twine, burlap, polymer clay and clay molds, baking sheet, stove, toothpicks.
What do you enjoy about creating?
Feeling useful. Feeling connected with something greater than myself.
What challenges are there in the process?
I definitely know what I like and don’t like. When I’m caught between the two I characterize myself as very moody. But when the breakthrough comes it is a great feeling. I’ve caught myself jumping up and down with excitement.
Do you create best when alone or with others?
Mostly alone, but I enjoy working when others are present. When children are around I’m interested in their perspective and quite often ask for their insight.
Why do you think doing art is important?
Probably because it is perhaps the most intimate form of self expression. It builds character.
Why do you think sharing art is important?
It’s not natural for me to want to share my art. But the importance of sharing has a direct connection with the universe whether a person believes it or not. It’s bringing your art (self) full circle...somewhat of an obligation.
Why do you think telling stories important?
Stories teach ...expand our imaginations ...Inspire ... Make a statement ...We are stories ... Giving a child the opportunity to create something tangible, then give it a story ...it’s giving life to ideas and possibilities.
How is art and community related?
I’d like to think that you are a part of my community now and that I’m a part of your community. Our arts have brought us together – the power of sharing comes into play, bringing people together.
How do you feel about others opinions?
With respect to my art I’m free of worry truly. I refer back to the Martha Graham quote on my web site bio page and I believe it whole-heartedly (see two questions down). I’m definitely interested in how a piece may affect other people. There was a man, I’d say in his mid fifties, who told me that the angels in the Lollipop Tree piece were frightening to him. My immediate thought was - very interesting! And, it reinforced why I took the approach with the angels the way I did. They were meant to appear unexpected, out of the ‘norm’ to reinforce an idea (for children)... good often comes from the unexpected and different.
I do my art for me. The expression remains real that way. It is what it is. I was very happy to learn about the affect the Lollipop Tree had on you.
Do you feel linked with your art or is does your art and yourself stand separate?
Yes I do. I have cried when parting from pieces.
What would you have to say to an artist who feels paralyzed with fear of not ever making something beautiful?
I’d first sit the person down and read two stories to them, ISH... and The Dot. Then I’d read the quote by Martha Graham and I’d do it with all the drama and passion I could muster ...
‘There is a vitality, a life force, an energy that is translated through you into action. And because there is only one you in all time, this expression is unique. If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium . . . the world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly - to keep the channel open. ‘ - Martha Graham, Dance to the Piper.
Then I would assure them that if they themselves consider it beautiful, automatically at least 10,000 other people throughout the world would also consider it beautiful...it is just how the universe works.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
At Willow's House
“Did you know the only reason they have us add eggs and oil is because back in the 50‘s when boxed food was introduced housewives wouldn‘t use it because it made them feel useless? So they let them break a few eggs and the market took off. They needed to feel they had a role in the process. The whole mix could be, ‘just add water…’”
Alli and I are making food for the party tonight at the Art Barn. Art Barn is in Seal Rock, off the Oregon Coast near Waldport. Willow is the propretress of the artist venue and barn of murals, rugs and couches boasting a ping pong table and a croquet course.
Everyone will dress as a farm animal.
She throws a mold of jello in the crowded refrigerator and starts tossing something in a bucket that is a kind of bean salad. From the Midwest, her diet is what I call “future food” - appetizers and jello - the cutting edge food of post-war America.
Alli tells me she loves Oregon, it’s the most beautiful place in the world. I agree with her but I’ve not been many places.
I mix the eggs with a fork. The table I am working at is scattered with ephemera: beads, crystals, toys. A placemat of some Disney movie is under some books. There’s a basket filled with dusty knick-knacks.
Above the table hangs low a series of prayer flags depicting yoga positions. Plants grow in the window sill and a montage of potted plants are shelved in the hot sun room. The water in the sink has sulfur in it so drinking water is taken from the bathtub.
As three large sheets of brownies cook I sit at the table and read the notes on the refrigerator. They are mostly positive affirmations; “live your dreams,” “dance to the beat of your own drum,” “You’re awesome!”
Drawings by Oceana, Willow’s daughter, are tucked under and over layers of lists, notes, pictures.
In the other room Oceana warns a friend not to touch her mother's shrine as they prepare their costumes for the party.
The house is filled with these bursts of sunshine.
It's a wild home, overgrown with sentiments and feeling.
Warm and used like grandpas sweater.
Plus, there are cats.
Willow’s home makes me consider my concept of HOME.
My mind wanders.
I have this friend James who tells me whenever I see him he is giving away his possessions.
“James!” I say, “you said that last time! Do you have any possessions left to give?”
“There is a center in us and all the things we own revolve around that center.” James says. He puts his hand near his chest.
Maybe he doesn’t do that, but that’s what I imagine him doing.
“The more objects we give away the more that center can grow. It gets bigger and bigger and we have so much energy!”
He tells me he is keeping his mandolin because it is small enough for his travels and when he plays it he can communicate with the people along the journey.
What to take from this? Willow and James are happy. They are free. One has jars of tea and books falling from the shelves, the other lives in a backpack.
Be Willow and fill your jars up with loose tea and fairy wings. Be James and let everything but your mandolin go.
Who the hell knows? There's no one way. Complicated, Simple, Messy, Orderly. What feels right? What are our spirits telling us?
Mine says, I need to paint a mural and throw away old magazines. I need monster costume and I need to give away the old wall paper
Okay, the brownies are done and I still have to get my costume together.
The Lorax
Lia, Peter and I. We’re headed west to the ocean.
The two hitchhikers, Steph and Thomas, we pick up on the way need to be dropped off in Eugene.
“What we’re you doing in the woods?” one of us asks, when they tell us they’ve been camping for about ten days.
At the base of the trees lived rats, they were looking for signs of their nests. The Northern Spotted Owl feeds off of these rats and the Northern Spotted Owl is a protected species. The owl needs these rats and the rats need the trees so the area around trees are protected. This is why, they tell us. They were finding ways to protect the forest.
In Eugene our small black truck rumbles into a narrow alley. Bikes rest against the brick. Stencil spray paint of bike wheels with pentagram emblems and anarchy symbols ornament the walls. Maybe there’s a compost pile or some vegetables growing. Young people are watching us from a doorway. I wave. They wave back.
“This is the Lorax,” one of them says. “Students from the college live here.”
We drive away but return when I noticed a whittled staff left by one of our hikers in the bed of the pick-up.
On our return, Thomas gives us a tour of the house.
The Lorax is a student co-operative founded sometime ago. Thomas shows us the expansive community kitchen where residents cook vegan food from around the region for everyone in the house. The living room looks set up for a performance with two old pianos off to the side. Illustrations are painted or sharpied directly onto the walls. Tapestries hang over the windows and it’s dark. Thomas tells us people at the Lorax have meetings and work stuff out. It’s a communist model. There are 25 or so college students living here at any given time.
Four or five floors up we climb a wooden ladder leaning onto an open hole and we’re outside on the roof. Lia is probably smoking a cigarette standing too close to the edge. Peter is probably inspecting bottles of alcohol for anything salvageable.
Thomas is talking to us. He tells us, one time, he saw a sunset in the west and a double-rainbow in the east and he just wanted to keep spinning around so he could see it all.
“Almost a triple rainbow?” I jest. “Yes,” he says with a smile.
The view is spectacular save for some grey clouds. Looking into the horizon where Thomas was facing to watch the sunset I itch the old doubt.
“How does it work?” I ask Thomas. “How does the house work?”
The question is rhetorical and he knows this because he doesn’t say much in response.
“You just have to believe in people,” he doesn‘t say.
The frustrated little misanthrope inside me is pacing circles around his office. Banging on the desk. Making the secretary nervous.
“It just can’t work” he mumbles. “A group of humans working together in peace. Everyone following the rules and respecting each other and being harmonious. BAH! RUBBISH! What about the dishes? Who does the dishes? What if someone doesn‘t pay their bill? What if someone pees on the ground? What if someone sleeps with someone‘s lover?!” Grinding his teeth. Wringing his hands.
I turn to look for the triple rainbow. Why is it I can’t see it?
It’s been awhile since I opened my arms and fell backwards from the picnic table. Since I trusted in another person’s ability to catch me.
Thomas and Steph hitchhiking, maybe they considered for a second that a car wouldn’t stop for them. Maybe some people at the Lorax wonder how the human web has held together for years and years being simply young people coming and going. Maybe they wonder, but then a ride comes and things work out somehow.
It works because in a very real form, a house, proves it does. Proves humans can get along. Because they hold the faith.
“It just works.” Thomas doesn’t tell me. "It's not always easy. It's a working love."
Human connection is the heart expanding. My hand is covers my heart, the misanthrope speaks for me, protects me from the possibility of disappointment. From the pain of unrequited love. I have a hard time letting go.
Lia and Peter pack ourselves back into the black truck. We set off.
“I trust these people,” I acknowledge to myself, sending a memo to the misanthrope. It's a start.
We are driving to the coast. To the ocean. Everything is fine.
Standing on the picnic table, I open my arms and fall.
The two hitchhikers, Steph and Thomas, we pick up on the way need to be dropped off in Eugene.
“What we’re you doing in the woods?” one of us asks, when they tell us they’ve been camping for about ten days.
At the base of the trees lived rats, they were looking for signs of their nests. The Northern Spotted Owl feeds off of these rats and the Northern Spotted Owl is a protected species. The owl needs these rats and the rats need the trees so the area around trees are protected. This is why, they tell us. They were finding ways to protect the forest.
In Eugene our small black truck rumbles into a narrow alley. Bikes rest against the brick. Stencil spray paint of bike wheels with pentagram emblems and anarchy symbols ornament the walls. Maybe there’s a compost pile or some vegetables growing. Young people are watching us from a doorway. I wave. They wave back.
“This is the Lorax,” one of them says. “Students from the college live here.”
We drive away but return when I noticed a whittled staff left by one of our hikers in the bed of the pick-up.
On our return, Thomas gives us a tour of the house.
The Lorax is a student co-operative founded sometime ago. Thomas shows us the expansive community kitchen where residents cook vegan food from around the region for everyone in the house. The living room looks set up for a performance with two old pianos off to the side. Illustrations are painted or sharpied directly onto the walls. Tapestries hang over the windows and it’s dark. Thomas tells us people at the Lorax have meetings and work stuff out. It’s a communist model. There are 25 or so college students living here at any given time.
Four or five floors up we climb a wooden ladder leaning onto an open hole and we’re outside on the roof. Lia is probably smoking a cigarette standing too close to the edge. Peter is probably inspecting bottles of alcohol for anything salvageable.
Thomas is talking to us. He tells us, one time, he saw a sunset in the west and a double-rainbow in the east and he just wanted to keep spinning around so he could see it all.
“Almost a triple rainbow?” I jest. “Yes,” he says with a smile.
The view is spectacular save for some grey clouds. Looking into the horizon where Thomas was facing to watch the sunset I itch the old doubt.
“How does it work?” I ask Thomas. “How does the house work?”
The question is rhetorical and he knows this because he doesn’t say much in response.
“You just have to believe in people,” he doesn‘t say.
The frustrated little misanthrope inside me is pacing circles around his office. Banging on the desk. Making the secretary nervous.
“It just can’t work” he mumbles. “A group of humans working together in peace. Everyone following the rules and respecting each other and being harmonious. BAH! RUBBISH! What about the dishes? Who does the dishes? What if someone doesn‘t pay their bill? What if someone pees on the ground? What if someone sleeps with someone‘s lover?!” Grinding his teeth. Wringing his hands.
I turn to look for the triple rainbow. Why is it I can’t see it?
It’s been awhile since I opened my arms and fell backwards from the picnic table. Since I trusted in another person’s ability to catch me.
Thomas and Steph hitchhiking, maybe they considered for a second that a car wouldn’t stop for them. Maybe some people at the Lorax wonder how the human web has held together for years and years being simply young people coming and going. Maybe they wonder, but then a ride comes and things work out somehow.
It works because in a very real form, a house, proves it does. Proves humans can get along. Because they hold the faith.
“It just works.” Thomas doesn’t tell me. "It's not always easy. It's a working love."
Human connection is the heart expanding. My hand is covers my heart, the misanthrope speaks for me, protects me from the possibility of disappointment. From the pain of unrequited love. I have a hard time letting go.
Lia and Peter pack ourselves back into the black truck. We set off.
“I trust these people,” I acknowledge to myself, sending a memo to the misanthrope. It's a start.
We are driving to the coast. To the ocean. Everything is fine.
Standing on the picnic table, I open my arms and fall.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Insta-apron
Seamstresses of the world prepare to be cheated. Introducing the barely even 6 step, no-machine-required (unless you're a badass and have one), guide to making an apron.
1. Go to a thriftstore and find a skirt in the little girl section.
2. Cut the skirt vertically along a seam so it a long piece of fabric
3. Acquire a ribbon and size it so you can tie it around your hips comfortably.
4. Sew this ribbon onto the waist-line of the skirt.
5. Sew patches for pockets.
6. Embellish to personal preference.
1. Go to a thriftstore and find a skirt in the little girl section.
2. Cut the skirt vertically along a seam so it a long piece of fabric
3. Acquire a ribbon and size it so you can tie it around your hips comfortably.
4. Sew this ribbon onto the waist-line of the skirt.
5. Sew patches for pockets.
6. Embellish to personal preference.
Rangoli
Rangoli is floor painting.
In the morning, using materials such as rice, grain, powder or colored sand, Mothers in India step outside to create beautiful and colorful designs on the ground in front of their home. The images are intended to express hospitality. In creating a Rangoli piece the artist typically draws a series of dots in white chalk. The dots are then connected and the artist fills in the between with the other materials.
Rangoli is an art of impermanence; not one to be framed, saved, and sold but a daily meditation of the transient nature of reality.
By the end of the day the image has been obscured by wind, movement from in and out the house or the appetites of animals.
In the morning, using materials such as rice, grain, powder or colored sand, Mothers in India step outside to create beautiful and colorful designs on the ground in front of their home. The images are intended to express hospitality. In creating a Rangoli piece the artist typically draws a series of dots in white chalk. The dots are then connected and the artist fills in the between with the other materials.
Rangoli is an art of impermanence; not one to be framed, saved, and sold but a daily meditation of the transient nature of reality.
By the end of the day the image has been obscured by wind, movement from in and out the house or the appetites of animals.
CADA-CASA article
"Cada Casa classes start ten minutes late," says director Tymon, sitting in a circle of students of The Mural Project.
I sit and look around. Poet House Art, off of Minnesota in downtown Bend has exploded since it's expectant beginning. What started as inexpensive studio space and gallery has morphed quickly into a social lounge, music venue, and an open door for those who want to do something cool.
It's the second week of The Mural Project class and students gather on or around couches with notebooks and white paper coffee cups. Class begins with Tymon dividing the students into two previously decided groups: "'Truck-stop group' is leaving to do a project proposal onsite, 'Mate group' is staying here to work on planning and finalize drawings."
Tymon sits with me a moment to discuss how he became motivated to start CADA-CASA and future intentions. His experiences in Cusco, Peru where a strict emphasis on performance and meeting standards made up many of the childrens education heavily influenced his ambition. He observed "there was a disconnection between the childrens perception of education and its relation to their life." In response he brought college students and volunteers into the town to teach screen-printing, web-site developing, musicianshop and more.
"CADA-CASA is a community-based education organization aimed to connect educators and students of all ages. Our goal is to redefine education as a life long process that comes from passionate members of our community."
It's guiding principles, given more attention on the CADA-CASA homepage, are Explorative Learning, Positivism, Community Awareness, and being Evironmentally Conscious.
Everyone has assumed action stations. Half have left. The other half opened notebooks or have pulled out sketches of proposed images for the Mate Bar mural. The mural itself will be painted on the brickwall of Tin Pan Alley one floor below.
There are about 10 students left, all teens, in the gallery with teachers who give direction, mediate questions, and collaborate mural plans.
It's a simple formula. Bring people who have something to teach together with students who want to learn and pair this with fascinating and explorative subject matter.
The Mural Project also seems simple enough. Divide into two groups, pick a theme for each mural, draw, translate onto large scale using a projector, combine everything together, and paint the wall.
I start looking over shoulders. CADA-CASA student Nicole is drawing mushrooms. She explains to me the theme of mural is urban environments returning to nature. "It's like the book Waters of Babylon," a student adds. "Post-apocolyptic."
Another has drawn a yerba mate tree, thick branches with bunches of leaves. Students are drawing and searching on the computer. A planning station maps out the mural in its entirity is being scrutinized. Everyone is very involved.
The future of CADA-CASA? Being recognized as an offical nonprofit and in a year have elective classes where students can earn school credits. And growing. More students, more teachers, more collaborations and more learning.
I sit and look around. Poet House Art, off of Minnesota in downtown Bend has exploded since it's expectant beginning. What started as inexpensive studio space and gallery has morphed quickly into a social lounge, music venue, and an open door for those who want to do something cool.
It's the second week of The Mural Project class and students gather on or around couches with notebooks and white paper coffee cups. Class begins with Tymon dividing the students into two previously decided groups: "'Truck-stop group' is leaving to do a project proposal onsite, 'Mate group' is staying here to work on planning and finalize drawings."
Tymon sits with me a moment to discuss how he became motivated to start CADA-CASA and future intentions. His experiences in Cusco, Peru where a strict emphasis on performance and meeting standards made up many of the childrens education heavily influenced his ambition. He observed "there was a disconnection between the childrens perception of education and its relation to their life." In response he brought college students and volunteers into the town to teach screen-printing, web-site developing, musicianshop and more.
"CADA-CASA is a community-based education organization aimed to connect educators and students of all ages. Our goal is to redefine education as a life long process that comes from passionate members of our community."
It's guiding principles, given more attention on the CADA-CASA homepage, are Explorative Learning, Positivism, Community Awareness, and being Evironmentally Conscious.
Everyone has assumed action stations. Half have left. The other half opened notebooks or have pulled out sketches of proposed images for the Mate Bar mural. The mural itself will be painted on the brickwall of Tin Pan Alley one floor below.
There are about 10 students left, all teens, in the gallery with teachers who give direction, mediate questions, and collaborate mural plans.
It's a simple formula. Bring people who have something to teach together with students who want to learn and pair this with fascinating and explorative subject matter.
The Mural Project also seems simple enough. Divide into two groups, pick a theme for each mural, draw, translate onto large scale using a projector, combine everything together, and paint the wall.
I start looking over shoulders. CADA-CASA student Nicole is drawing mushrooms. She explains to me the theme of mural is urban environments returning to nature. "It's like the book Waters of Babylon," a student adds. "Post-apocolyptic."
Another has drawn a yerba mate tree, thick branches with bunches of leaves. Students are drawing and searching on the computer. A planning station maps out the mural in its entirity is being scrutinized. Everyone is very involved.
The future of CADA-CASA? Being recognized as an offical nonprofit and in a year have elective classes where students can earn school credits. And growing. More students, more teachers, more collaborations and more learning.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Childhood Spring Zine #7
Their names are remembered like dreams but they are tattooed in my mind. A forever etched memory in my childhood. My old phone number: 503.643.1353. Call it. See if someone still has it. Ask for Rachel. Holly's old number was 646.9466. That was an easy one to remember. I could type it into the phone in less than a second.
***
In front of Holly's house was a pile of barkchips and an old wood trailer. A ham radio antenna emerged from the roof and if you were standing a certain distance from across the street you could see the fort behind the house which was so high you could touch the powerlines if you were standing inside.
Holly had a trampoline in the backyard. The backyard was mostly dry with patches of grass and for reasons unknown, was infested with a huge amount of black spiders.
Most of the time Holly and I ate dry top-ramen and watched tv.
Holly had a square pink FM radio that was always tuned to Z100 and I remember going to sleep listening to Always Be My Baby by Mariah Carey. Holly made it very clear she was Christian. Her family took me to their church once. During the youth ministry some guy talked about how in the future, "very soon," people were going to have microchips implanted in their brains. He told us that Chistians would resist having the implants and be persecuted. I on the other hand found the prospects of having a microchip in my brain very exciting.
***
Alice and I walked home from school together for a long time before we ever spoke. I know this sounds weird. we both lived really close and walked home at the same time but we didn't talk. Then one day we did.
***
I guess you could call Steven Mach the Chinese kid. He walked home from school with Alice and I. Alice was the Korean kid. Alice went to my church. Steven was Buddhist. Walking home from school one day Alice found out Steven was Buddhist and said he was going to hell. I disagreed. It was a pretty horrible experience. Alice eventually became kind of exclusive with the other Korean kids in school and stopped walking home from school with us.
***
There were these three brothers who lived across the street from Holly. Justin, Drew, and Mitch . Justin was Holly's age. Drew was my age. Mitch was my sisters age. They were Mormon and liked sports. I went into their house once and it was nothing spectacular. Once Holly and I pranked called their house. We talked through a towel to disguise our voice. Their dad came over because the family had caller ID and wanted to make sure everything was ok. It was really embarrassing.
***
Right next door was Mrs.Kennedy. Ash anyone, she is the Mother Theresea of the neighborhood. If you ask my sister the first thing she remembers from Mrs. Kennedy is candy. There is a video my dad shot of my very young siblings going to Mrs.Kennedy's house for candy, a regular pastime. My dad shoots the film from some distance to capture the moment like the children themselves were coming for a visit. In the video my sister reaches her hand up to ring the door bell. They wait. Then they start banging on the door and window viciously. Mrs. Kennedy never let us down. Once when Mrs. Kennedy gave me a glow-n-the-dark rosary. I had no idea what a rosary was but it was cool getting a glow-n-the-dark necklace.
***
Matt Paris is a liar. He called my parents "Mr and Mrs. Carmichael."
He told my dad once about a burgler breaking into his house and how he, Matt, got a rifle and fended off the burglary while his grandpa was afraid. For reason my dad called Matt's house to verify the story. It was not true. Obviously. Matt played video games all the time. He knew a lot about guns. It scares me to know he is still out their in the world.
***
Celeste was my sisters friend. Her parents had the backyard of my dreams. It had a playhouse with appliances. It had flower, vegetable, and herb gardens as well as fruit trees. Celeste's Mom, Claudia was famous to me for her bagels and cream cheese but mostly for her serving of snack in general which was not customary at my house. Celeste's Dad played wrote software guides (I believe) and played guitar.
Celeste went to a Waldorf school for her early years and had a big fluffy cat named Mina.
When I think of Ashley and Crystal I think of baked beans and kittens. Ashley is one of many Gemini's in my life born three months after me. Our Moms were pregnant together and living next-door so I could almost say I knew her since inuntero. There are many memories of Ashley and I together as we were best friends as young children.
Behind our houses there was a "crik" which was just passed the blackberry bushes and was full of crawdads and shells and treasure. We would wade in with rainboots and pioneer all the way to Celeste's house where there was a secret bush of rasberries.
Blackberry bushes.
Over the three foot chain link fence behind our backyard was a massive wild scrum of blackberry bushes. Unconquerable and growing - reaching their little thorny vines everywhere they can, they are deemed invasive.
To me they were a blessing and a summer treasure.We would use our shirts to hold blackberries when we were picking. On a succesful day our faces would be red with blackberry juice.
We had blackberry jam.
Blackberry pie.
We had blackberry juice.
Blackberry syrup.
Once we tried to make blackberry bread which was was just flour and blackberries and it didn't work. But it didn't matter, there were plently more blackberries to try again.
Blackberry marinade.
Blackberry with sprite.
Blackberries are best warm by the sun. You know a blackberry is good when it practically falls into your hand. When there are no red "druplets" or when then are soft to the touch.
Two things to keep in mind when picking blackberries: thorns and spiders. Make peace with both, not war.
We found, picking blackberries as children, to be careful of both. All of us believed if one were to fall into the bushes the thorns would cause us to quickly bleed to death. To fall would be to perish, of course.
But always the best blackberries were the one's fathest our of reach. The edelwiess of blackberries, I suppose.
Sirens of the fruit world.
The German People
Across the street in the white house with the green trim was the German people. Not once did I ever understand what they were trying to say even though they apparently spoke English fairly well (I am told). They were a really old couple and it was said they were married before or after WWII. I'm sure you want to know their politics but I'm sorry I do not know. Kids pay attention to the weird smells of people's houses before they are bothered with any kind of philosophic rheotric. I really hope someone besides myself has told their story or that would be a freaking shame.
Nancy from Nebraska
Nancy from Nebraska was a boy with another name but I forget what it was. I think Justin. He talked about Nebraska all the time because he really lived there and had to live in Oregon because of some kind of custory thing with his parents. Eventually he went to Nebraska and never came back.
He was kind of like the "Dill" of To a Kill a Mockingbird to our neighborhood. But instead of To Kill a Mockingbird we would be something like, "To Kill a Mallard Duck" because there were mostly ducks in our neighborhood. Unless you want to focus on the symbolism of the mockingbird in the story as a peaceful creature who never does any harm but is nonetheless persectuted. Take Boo Radley. Our Boo Radley would have definitely been
The guy across the street who had a push mower.
The guy across the street who had a push mower was only persecuted by my father who would often be found scoffing at him from behind the blinds from our living room. The persecution went no farther than that. He had a daughter who lived with him sometimes and he seemed to live like a Buddhist only from lack of initative. Driving a small white car no one besides himself ever seemed to come or go and no one had much interaction with him. Another mystery surrounding the GATSWTPM was that all the cats in the neighborhood used his under the house crawl space as their clubhouse. One would often see a cat or two ducking into the beneath workings of his white ranch-style abode.
Backyard garden soup
Saltlicker
As a child I loved salt. Almost as much as my sister loved sugar. The salt shaker in the cupboard was often encrusted with salt. Occasionally I would slip in from the kitchen and hide in the backyard by the wood pile. There I would lick all the salt off the lid and then sneak it back into the cupboard licked cleaned. Your welcome family.
***
In front of Holly's house was a pile of barkchips and an old wood trailer. A ham radio antenna emerged from the roof and if you were standing a certain distance from across the street you could see the fort behind the house which was so high you could touch the powerlines if you were standing inside.
Holly had a trampoline in the backyard. The backyard was mostly dry with patches of grass and for reasons unknown, was infested with a huge amount of black spiders.
Most of the time Holly and I ate dry top-ramen and watched tv.
Holly had a square pink FM radio that was always tuned to Z100 and I remember going to sleep listening to Always Be My Baby by Mariah Carey. Holly made it very clear she was Christian. Her family took me to their church once. During the youth ministry some guy talked about how in the future, "very soon," people were going to have microchips implanted in their brains. He told us that Chistians would resist having the implants and be persecuted. I on the other hand found the prospects of having a microchip in my brain very exciting.
***
Alice and I walked home from school together for a long time before we ever spoke. I know this sounds weird. we both lived really close and walked home at the same time but we didn't talk. Then one day we did.
***
I guess you could call Steven Mach the Chinese kid. He walked home from school with Alice and I. Alice was the Korean kid. Alice went to my church. Steven was Buddhist. Walking home from school one day Alice found out Steven was Buddhist and said he was going to hell. I disagreed. It was a pretty horrible experience. Alice eventually became kind of exclusive with the other Korean kids in school and stopped walking home from school with us.
***
There were these three brothers who lived across the street from Holly. Justin, Drew, and Mitch . Justin was Holly's age. Drew was my age. Mitch was my sisters age. They were Mormon and liked sports. I went into their house once and it was nothing spectacular. Once Holly and I pranked called their house. We talked through a towel to disguise our voice. Their dad came over because the family had caller ID and wanted to make sure everything was ok. It was really embarrassing.
***
Right next door was Mrs.Kennedy. Ash anyone, she is the Mother Theresea of the neighborhood. If you ask my sister the first thing she remembers from Mrs. Kennedy is candy. There is a video my dad shot of my very young siblings going to Mrs.Kennedy's house for candy, a regular pastime. My dad shoots the film from some distance to capture the moment like the children themselves were coming for a visit. In the video my sister reaches her hand up to ring the door bell. They wait. Then they start banging on the door and window viciously. Mrs. Kennedy never let us down. Once when Mrs. Kennedy gave me a glow-n-the-dark rosary. I had no idea what a rosary was but it was cool getting a glow-n-the-dark necklace.
***
Matt Paris is a liar. He called my parents "Mr and Mrs. Carmichael."
He told my dad once about a burgler breaking into his house and how he, Matt, got a rifle and fended off the burglary while his grandpa was afraid. For reason my dad called Matt's house to verify the story. It was not true. Obviously. Matt played video games all the time. He knew a lot about guns. It scares me to know he is still out their in the world.
***
Celeste was my sisters friend. Her parents had the backyard of my dreams. It had a playhouse with appliances. It had flower, vegetable, and herb gardens as well as fruit trees. Celeste's Mom, Claudia was famous to me for her bagels and cream cheese but mostly for her serving of snack in general which was not customary at my house. Celeste's Dad played wrote software guides (I believe) and played guitar.
Celeste went to a Waldorf school for her early years and had a big fluffy cat named Mina.
When I think of Ashley and Crystal I think of baked beans and kittens. Ashley is one of many Gemini's in my life born three months after me. Our Moms were pregnant together and living next-door so I could almost say I knew her since inuntero. There are many memories of Ashley and I together as we were best friends as young children.
Behind our houses there was a "crik" which was just passed the blackberry bushes and was full of crawdads and shells and treasure. We would wade in with rainboots and pioneer all the way to Celeste's house where there was a secret bush of rasberries.
Blackberry bushes.
Over the three foot chain link fence behind our backyard was a massive wild scrum of blackberry bushes. Unconquerable and growing - reaching their little thorny vines everywhere they can, they are deemed invasive.
To me they were a blessing and a summer treasure.We would use our shirts to hold blackberries when we were picking. On a succesful day our faces would be red with blackberry juice.
We had blackberry jam.
Blackberry pie.
We had blackberry juice.
Blackberry syrup.
Once we tried to make blackberry bread which was was just flour and blackberries and it didn't work. But it didn't matter, there were plently more blackberries to try again.
Blackberry marinade.
Blackberry with sprite.
Blackberries are best warm by the sun. You know a blackberry is good when it practically falls into your hand. When there are no red "druplets" or when then are soft to the touch.
Two things to keep in mind when picking blackberries: thorns and spiders. Make peace with both, not war.
We found, picking blackberries as children, to be careful of both. All of us believed if one were to fall into the bushes the thorns would cause us to quickly bleed to death. To fall would be to perish, of course.
But always the best blackberries were the one's fathest our of reach. The edelwiess of blackberries, I suppose.
Sirens of the fruit world.
The German People
Across the street in the white house with the green trim was the German people. Not once did I ever understand what they were trying to say even though they apparently spoke English fairly well (I am told). They were a really old couple and it was said they were married before or after WWII. I'm sure you want to know their politics but I'm sorry I do not know. Kids pay attention to the weird smells of people's houses before they are bothered with any kind of philosophic rheotric. I really hope someone besides myself has told their story or that would be a freaking shame.
Nancy from Nebraska
Nancy from Nebraska was a boy with another name but I forget what it was. I think Justin. He talked about Nebraska all the time because he really lived there and had to live in Oregon because of some kind of custory thing with his parents. Eventually he went to Nebraska and never came back.
He was kind of like the "Dill" of To a Kill a Mockingbird to our neighborhood. But instead of To Kill a Mockingbird we would be something like, "To Kill a Mallard Duck" because there were mostly ducks in our neighborhood. Unless you want to focus on the symbolism of the mockingbird in the story as a peaceful creature who never does any harm but is nonetheless persectuted. Take Boo Radley. Our Boo Radley would have definitely been
The guy across the street who had a push mower.
The guy across the street who had a push mower was only persecuted by my father who would often be found scoffing at him from behind the blinds from our living room. The persecution went no farther than that. He had a daughter who lived with him sometimes and he seemed to live like a Buddhist only from lack of initative. Driving a small white car no one besides himself ever seemed to come or go and no one had much interaction with him. Another mystery surrounding the GATSWTPM was that all the cats in the neighborhood used his under the house crawl space as their clubhouse. One would often see a cat or two ducking into the beneath workings of his white ranch-style abode.
Backyard garden soup
Saltlicker
As a child I loved salt. Almost as much as my sister loved sugar. The salt shaker in the cupboard was often encrusted with salt. Occasionally I would slip in from the kitchen and hide in the backyard by the wood pile. There I would lick all the salt off the lid and then sneak it back into the cupboard licked cleaned. Your welcome family.
Monday, March 29, 2010
ZIne intro
This zine is set in winter.
If your not in the mood to read about winter put this zine under your pillow. Save it for a cold day.
As I write this it is raining outside. The mood is austere. It is still winter in Bend and will be until June, promise.
This zine was written between November and April 2009 & '10. In December I was had tea with Bend Bulletin reporter David Jasper about my zines and the potential for a zine community here. Late December revealed a photo of myself and a flurry of words I have craved the people of Bend to read for some time. This place is a good place for zines. There are many cafes and many people in deep musings and skill. Thanks again David Jasper.
In January I saw Patti Smith in Portland and came in aquatiance with the fabulous Laura Walker, another zine writer in Bend.
Also in Janaury, Handsome, my family's golden retriver, breathed his last. Never in my life have I ever witnessed anyone transistioning from life into death. Death has been a thing that happens in secret. This amazing friend I grew up, who never knew for one second that he was old, let go of his struggle and it was so absolutely sad and perfect. He was old and very tired and he had done enough for that day I suppose. Putting my hand on his head and told him "thank you." We buried him in the backyard next to the young birch tree. My Mom sang "We Will Raise Him Up on Eagles Wings."
February a story came out about members of the Aryan (neo nazis) nation considering John Day, Oregon as a headquarters. The people of John Day are resisting the movement and gathering in demonstration for equal rights. A guide to making patches was begat from my need to express support for their cause. This is around the time when a little brown cat from the Humane Society came into my life. An odd brown colored cat, I call her Miso and she bites sometimes but neve mean.
In March I turned 24.
For the past three months I have been drawing daily comics about my day-to-day. These comics, made for the Stumptown Indie Comic Fest, have revealed to me how truly banal my life is. I long for the messy inspiration of Spring. Going downtown and scabbing my knuckles drawing with chalk.
Winter was funny this year. I was more ready for it than I have ever been and mostly stayed indoors save for night walks with Kevin. It was winter and satisfying in a strange way.
And with that, Show & Tell #6.
If your not in the mood to read about winter put this zine under your pillow. Save it for a cold day.
As I write this it is raining outside. The mood is austere. It is still winter in Bend and will be until June, promise.
This zine was written between November and April 2009 & '10. In December I was had tea with Bend Bulletin reporter David Jasper about my zines and the potential for a zine community here. Late December revealed a photo of myself and a flurry of words I have craved the people of Bend to read for some time. This place is a good place for zines. There are many cafes and many people in deep musings and skill. Thanks again David Jasper.
In January I saw Patti Smith in Portland and came in aquatiance with the fabulous Laura Walker, another zine writer in Bend.
Also in Janaury, Handsome, my family's golden retriver, breathed his last. Never in my life have I ever witnessed anyone transistioning from life into death. Death has been a thing that happens in secret. This amazing friend I grew up, who never knew for one second that he was old, let go of his struggle and it was so absolutely sad and perfect. He was old and very tired and he had done enough for that day I suppose. Putting my hand on his head and told him "thank you." We buried him in the backyard next to the young birch tree. My Mom sang "We Will Raise Him Up on Eagles Wings."
February a story came out about members of the Aryan (neo nazis) nation considering John Day, Oregon as a headquarters. The people of John Day are resisting the movement and gathering in demonstration for equal rights. A guide to making patches was begat from my need to express support for their cause. This is around the time when a little brown cat from the Humane Society came into my life. An odd brown colored cat, I call her Miso and she bites sometimes but neve mean.
In March I turned 24.
For the past three months I have been drawing daily comics about my day-to-day. These comics, made for the Stumptown Indie Comic Fest, have revealed to me how truly banal my life is. I long for the messy inspiration of Spring. Going downtown and scabbing my knuckles drawing with chalk.
Winter was funny this year. I was more ready for it than I have ever been and mostly stayed indoors save for night walks with Kevin. It was winter and satisfying in a strange way.
And with that, Show & Tell #6.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Patti Smith
Driving North on Hwy 97 the desert turns to forest and snow falls softly over the Mt Hood Pass. I am going to Portland.
It's still winter and a good time for being alone. Good time to drink tea, clean house, and listen to the radio. But this was last week when I was cleaning my house listening to Fresh Air.
Terri Gross was interviewing Patti Smith. They were discussing her recently published memoir of her formative years, "Just Kids." In was the background between dishes and vacuuming I caught her story: a twenty-something New Jersey girl dropping out of college and heading to New York City, making lifelong friends, transforming beatnik poetry into something prepunk and becoming the iconic "white-shirt black-tie" image of youthful angst in the seventies and eighties.
Patti Smith did not instantly fascinate me. She was dry. She had a rough South Jersey accent and talked slowly and almost irritably.
They played Horses and Birdland. I had never heard these songs before and I liked them.
Patti brought up her various experiences with death.
"Each of us, you know, leaves in a different way according to the person - according to the energy of the person - the way the spirit manifests. Each of us dies differently and I believe we have a unique journey. Whether it's a journey of pure energy, if there's any intelligence within the journey but I think each of us has our own way of dissipating or entering into the new field."
"Horses" Patti Smiths first record plays over and over as I drive. I begin to connect with the words and by the time I hit Gresham I am singing along.
Her voice is ugly and so am I.
The music makes no sense to me. I make no sense to me.
In Portland I celebrate getting into town by getting lost. At the Bagdad Theater I am close to a nervous breakdown from the drive. I drink the darkest beer on draft, turn in my ticket, receive my edition of "Just Kids," and a find a seat to the pack venue. An MC introduces Pattie Smith and she comes out tall and thin and takes her place in front of the microphone.
Why am I here?
There is something in Patti Smith which I need in this time of my life. I wanted to learn from her something I can not do. And what is that? Dealing with her pain. Through her I wanted to learn how she carried it.
"Let go of the spirit of the departed and experience your life's celebration. Time heals all wounds isn't true, we just learn how to walk with them. We learn that some days we're going to feel intense pain all over again & we just have to say, 'ok, I know you - you can come along with me today.'"
As I draw in the margins of her book Patti Smith is talking of the summer she turned 23 - the same age as me. My copy of the book is imperfect. The paper on the inside of the cover is crumpled. Patti Smith is talking to my pain.
I want it all to come together, this whole experience - Patti Smith, my life, the hard stuff. "That's ridiculous," I think as I gaze up at my newly adopted patron saint of youthful troubles. It's her slow irritable voice which drew me here - that is what speaks to me. It speaks to the dark parts and coerces them out. The voice replaces my desperate worrisome chatter and it talks me down.
"You can come along with my today," she tells them - I tell them. You can sit on my shoulder like a heavy cumbersome bird as I cook in my kitchen, make my tea, and lie next to my partner. I won't shuffle you around the contents of my head but I won't stare you in the eyes, today. You can come along with me.
Patti Smith is so many people's personal goddess. Looking around at the Bagdad Theater and as people step up to ask their questions people are almost bowing. If there were a table for it the audience would likely place icons and animal sacrifices.
Patti Smith spoke strong words for a lot of peoples hard times: homosexuals and women and disillusioned youth. And now she speaks for mine.
It's still winter and a good time for being alone. Good time to drink tea, clean house, and listen to the radio. But this was last week when I was cleaning my house listening to Fresh Air.
Terri Gross was interviewing Patti Smith. They were discussing her recently published memoir of her formative years, "Just Kids." In was the background between dishes and vacuuming I caught her story: a twenty-something New Jersey girl dropping out of college and heading to New York City, making lifelong friends, transforming beatnik poetry into something prepunk and becoming the iconic "white-shirt black-tie" image of youthful angst in the seventies and eighties.
Patti Smith did not instantly fascinate me. She was dry. She had a rough South Jersey accent and talked slowly and almost irritably.
They played Horses and Birdland. I had never heard these songs before and I liked them.
Patti brought up her various experiences with death.
"Each of us, you know, leaves in a different way according to the person - according to the energy of the person - the way the spirit manifests. Each of us dies differently and I believe we have a unique journey. Whether it's a journey of pure energy, if there's any intelligence within the journey but I think each of us has our own way of dissipating or entering into the new field."
"Horses" Patti Smiths first record plays over and over as I drive. I begin to connect with the words and by the time I hit Gresham I am singing along.
Her voice is ugly and so am I.
The music makes no sense to me. I make no sense to me.
In Portland I celebrate getting into town by getting lost. At the Bagdad Theater I am close to a nervous breakdown from the drive. I drink the darkest beer on draft, turn in my ticket, receive my edition of "Just Kids," and a find a seat to the pack venue. An MC introduces Pattie Smith and she comes out tall and thin and takes her place in front of the microphone.
Why am I here?
There is something in Patti Smith which I need in this time of my life. I wanted to learn from her something I can not do. And what is that? Dealing with her pain. Through her I wanted to learn how she carried it.
"Let go of the spirit of the departed and experience your life's celebration. Time heals all wounds isn't true, we just learn how to walk with them. We learn that some days we're going to feel intense pain all over again & we just have to say, 'ok, I know you - you can come along with me today.'"
As I draw in the margins of her book Patti Smith is talking of the summer she turned 23 - the same age as me. My copy of the book is imperfect. The paper on the inside of the cover is crumpled. Patti Smith is talking to my pain.
I want it all to come together, this whole experience - Patti Smith, my life, the hard stuff. "That's ridiculous," I think as I gaze up at my newly adopted patron saint of youthful troubles. It's her slow irritable voice which drew me here - that is what speaks to me. It speaks to the dark parts and coerces them out. The voice replaces my desperate worrisome chatter and it talks me down.
"You can come along with my today," she tells them - I tell them. You can sit on my shoulder like a heavy cumbersome bird as I cook in my kitchen, make my tea, and lie next to my partner. I won't shuffle you around the contents of my head but I won't stare you in the eyes, today. You can come along with me.
Patti Smith is so many people's personal goddess. Looking around at the Bagdad Theater and as people step up to ask their questions people are almost bowing. If there were a table for it the audience would likely place icons and animal sacrifices.
Patti Smith spoke strong words for a lot of peoples hard times: homosexuals and women and disillusioned youth. And now she speaks for mine.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
When I am dead.
When I am dead I hope they will play the Imperial March at the funeral.
I hope I didn't eat so much preservatives in my time that my body can decompose naturally.
I hope nobody had anything left to say to me and I hope I died in a non-embarrassing way.
I hope Terri Gross will rehash an interview she had with me years before in my memory and everyone will remember what I genius I was at one time and think what smart things I said.
I hope at least one person gets black-out drunk to deal with my loss. Just one.
I hope I didn't eat so much preservatives in my time that my body can decompose naturally.
I hope nobody had anything left to say to me and I hope I died in a non-embarrassing way.
I hope Terri Gross will rehash an interview she had with me years before in my memory and everyone will remember what I genius I was at one time and think what smart things I said.
I hope at least one person gets black-out drunk to deal with my loss. Just one.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Ok.
Things are going to be ok.
Let me tell you a story.
In the laundry room at my apartments there are boxes and bottles of laundry detergent, bleach, and fabric softener. It hasn't always been like this. When I first moved in nobody left their laundry supplies. If anything was left it was a few parcels of "Watchtower." My laundry room is located in a seperate building perhaps fifteen paces from my backdoor. Sometimes there is a light on at night which I can see from my kitchen window but sometimes not. What I am trying to say is the laundry soap, we just leave it in there because it's easier than bringing it to and fro our places. We leave it there because we've learned to trust one another and we've learned to trust everyone else.
I like this place. "I don't know where it's likely to go better," as Frost would say.
Let me tell you a story.
In the laundry room at my apartments there are boxes and bottles of laundry detergent, bleach, and fabric softener. It hasn't always been like this. When I first moved in nobody left their laundry supplies. If anything was left it was a few parcels of "Watchtower." My laundry room is located in a seperate building perhaps fifteen paces from my backdoor. Sometimes there is a light on at night which I can see from my kitchen window but sometimes not. What I am trying to say is the laundry soap, we just leave it in there because it's easier than bringing it to and fro our places. We leave it there because we've learned to trust one another and we've learned to trust everyone else.
I like this place. "I don't know where it's likely to go better," as Frost would say.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Winter
In the winter we must clip our wings
we must allow the ice growing over our heads
and accept a nature inflicted hibernation
in the mornings I wake in the warm nest
of blankets and think,
"I could sleep forever,"
outside seems unbearable
but late at night kevin forces me into the fog
sitting along the river we realize
it isn't so cold - so unbearable
a coat, a hat, a pair of gloves
sitting beside the bank
we speak of gardens
vegetables and herbs in beds set on the south facing deck in the spring and summer
harvest enough to feed us and the neighbors
I stroke my fingers along frozen ground
but we must remain present
it is winter.
we must allow the ice growing over our heads
and accept a nature inflicted hibernation
in the mornings I wake in the warm nest
of blankets and think,
"I could sleep forever,"
outside seems unbearable
but late at night kevin forces me into the fog
sitting along the river we realize
it isn't so cold - so unbearable
a coat, a hat, a pair of gloves
sitting beside the bank
we speak of gardens
vegetables and herbs in beds set on the south facing deck in the spring and summer
harvest enough to feed us and the neighbors
I stroke my fingers along frozen ground
but we must remain present
it is winter.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Juniper Fitness
Sometimes at the gym when there is line of people running of the treadmills I like to pretend I am in a Russian training camp like in the movie Rocky and everyone is being trained on machines.
"We're going to lose the fight," I think to myself.
Beyond the wall of glass seperating the runners from the outside I watch as a sweatshirt clad man runs by shadowboxing. From the corner of my eye I consider my silent and beefed up running partners.
"We've lost our heart."
"We're going to lose the fight," I think to myself.
Beyond the wall of glass seperating the runners from the outside I watch as a sweatshirt clad man runs by shadowboxing. From the corner of my eye I consider my silent and beefed up running partners.
"We've lost our heart."
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