Sunday, September 24, 2017
Dear Glad You Asked and Been Meaning to Say,
I am not even remotely over it. I sometimes don't think about it, but it comes out of nowhere and hits me like a ton of bricks, which I have noticed have little words and phrases stamped into them. Things like 'well, now what?' and 'futility,' and 'wellerschmertz.' If I ignore these bricks, more come along, which only proves their wretched little points. Beware the bricks.
I am going to get a sofa that people can stay in my studio on- overnight. It's not an easy decision. Many things will have to be removed, re-located, given away, in order for the space to accommodate a making down of a pallet on the floor. An artist pines for years to have a dedicated space- a space without a washer and dryer in it, or mice, or a dresser full of clothes, or shovels and hoes. A place that is only for making. I set mine up for that, and for reading, but only for reading the 'right' kind of books- theory, and picture books, dictionaries in various languages. I made shrines to the things I cared for in it- photos of people, birds and animals; rocks, leaves, dirt, shells, seeds, sticks, and the red powder they use in India.
Still, what use are secret shrines anyway? Who would be the initiates that might see such sacred spaces? There is a very nice* bakery in Los Alamos, and the bathroom has a little Joan Didion shrine in it. And isn't that the right kind of place for a shrine? A place that people visit? I think putting people to bed in my shrine-filled studio could be a step in the right direction; although I remain far from certain about the right direction; sharing a space surely cannot be worsening things, can it?
* Par exemple, they make terrific canelés AND fabulous pretzels. Imagine mastering both of those, and consider how wonderful the croissants and bread must also be.
Make a few more pallets.... One, two, three, four, & five.
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
Oh, golly, what if you have stopped checking these pages? It's been years since I started to write you here, and now I worry that you have strayed. Well, not strayed, but moved on, or lost interest. Which is fine, except, except for this one thing that I want you to read so much! Oh, I hope you are reading still!
A not-song for today.
Friday, September 15, 2017
Dear Record Collection,
This song, is a sort of counterpart, perhaps, to that song. Do songs talk to each other at night, when we aren't listening? I have noticed my Lou Reed albums seem to be sidling up to Rosalie Sorrels, and I am certain that Debbie Harry likes to be between Jonathon Richman and Nick Lowe. Bob Dylan keeps filing himself next to Dawn Upshaw.
Thursday, September 14, 2017
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
A song for today, because my DJ played it for me a few days ago, while I rolled along under the oak canopied byway - it was a beautiful time; magpies flapping up and ground squirrels scampering out of my way, the first loose leaves falling out of the cottonwoods in the creek.
I love this song; I love the operatic shifts and the chanting anthem refrain. I want to sing it often, and you will too. Be sure to watch this one, because it's a pretty wonderful little bit of film. Want another another version?
Friday, September 8, 2017
Dear Rhymin' Simon,
I send you this poem-ish bit of writing today, and I anxiously await your response, if not your approval.
As I Was Going to St. Ives
I met a man in a coffee shop. He wrote poetry and wore a leather short brimmed fedora. He spoke of his 40 years of rejections; said he didn’t care for abstraction in poetry.
I did a double take, because I thought abstraction was all there was in poetry. But, thinking more on it, I suppose I am wrong.
Another man I met was a designer; he said he knew I would like it, because it was conceptual; said he knew how I worked.
I thought he was out of his mind, but reflecting further, I see that he was right; many of my works are composed by systems.
I met a third man, an ex-high school coach; said he would have loved to have had me as a discus thrower.
This was an even more shocking notion. I always duck when the ball comes my way, I told him; I am not what you think at all.