Feeling like I can’t keep up – displaced. Is there a corresponding word for out of step in time?
Links to savor later:
Dwelling with Place: Lorine Niedecker’s Ecopoetics
The Art of Exploring: Flanerie in an Age of Mass Tourism
10 authors who excel on the internet
Dream: driving up the road to my parents’ house. All the houses approaching my parents’ house were burnt shells. Wondering if my parents’ house was also going to be a burnt shell. Wondering what caused this.
I walked out of the building tonight about 7 pm. The wind was fresh and alive. The air was soft and room temperature. I felt like I was surrounded by air. It was delightful. It’s still windy. The house is stuffy. The temperature has dropped.
Sights of today:
Fat tadpoles in dirty pond behind the office.
Wisteria in full bloom hanging over the arbor.
Car on fire on the side of the highway on the way to work.
the wisdoms of the universes in a single string of letters
A record of the 2013 International Pwoermd Writing Month
I beliving in anthologies.
My sense of home has been challenged these past few days, working on getting my parents’ house ready to sell. I lived there six years from 7th grade through high school, and then summers while in college. And visits for many years thereafter.
After cleaning, it’s a whole new place. I only took photos of these two small outbuildings. The ceiling in the well house is so beautiful. I don’t know what will happen to them.
bird’s nest in pulley, well house
Pea shoot growing in the wrong place – tastes like peas.
Cilantro – self-seeded from last year! A few leaves.
The garlicky tasting stem of a ramp in Woodland Park.
From Walter Darby Bannard’s Aphorisms for Artists:
Art is in the materials. Don’t look for it somewhere else.
When rhetoric elevates the spiritual over the material, art slips away and hides. As Oscar Wilde said, “The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.”
Good art makes the material and the spiritual the same thing.
Materiality is coming up. Both sides of it. That the material object is the whole thing. And that it is not the whole thing.
Sort of beside myself discovering Margaret and Christine Wertheim. Going to crochet me some hyperbolic structures. Embrace my subjectivity. And the domestic arts I was taught.
Turning point: when everything you thought was wrong is right. Everything you thought was bad is good. Everything you thought was Less Than is The Way.
Also reading: Rings of Saturn, with its catalogues of objects (some alive, some dead, some human, some not).
Feel so happy.
Neglected…a lot of half fledged insights lost. Walks disappear from memory. But not from maps. I mean Moves. There’s a park in Redding called Topstone, land bequeathed to the town by the photographer Edward Steichen. Thus the name “Steichen’s Pond.” (There is a typo in the map data.) I have memories of hiking and swimming there as a teenager. Briefly. And seldom. Free memories. I retraced those trails, and more. A few bugs, a few birds. Brown brown brown leaf-mulched surfaces. Lots of rocks. Blue water, and a nervewracking crossing on a cement walkway over a small dam between two ponds.
steichen’s pond, topstone park