lettered

 

Untitled, oil and wax crayon on paper, 1969, Cy Twombly.

Dear Blue Letters,

Today I have for you two lovely thoughts on letters, from two lovely books.  

The first is this quote from By Cecile, written by Tereska Torres: 

But this afternoon Myette holds nothing in her hand but the sheet of white paper, on which there runs a writing so miniscule that one might think that there are only light, delicate lines traced across the page, lines that do not form letters, only a series of sea-blue threads marking undulating wavelets on a deserted beach.

These lovely blue lines lead me to your song of the day, and to the Cy Twombly drawing above.  The tangle of unletters in the drawing bring me to the letters beyond z which you can read about in Things in Nature Merely Grow (by Yiyun Li).*  The notion of letters that are beyond z opens a door to fabulous visual and mental experiments: what do they look like?  What can we spell with these letters?  What sentences should be written with these letters that are beyond?

Which reminds me of visiting the page-scented used bookshop with a friend and a conversation we had after:  I was saying that reading was keeping me sane, and we talked about whether all reading could keep you sane, or if it needed to be un-fluffy reading.  Now, we could spend a lot of time discussing what fluffy reading is, that's sure.  Maybe fluffy is the stuff than confers what you know already?  Bias confirming?  Or is it the stuff that entertains?  The books that mesmerize and enchant you into staying up late to see what happens?  I think, though, even so: any port in a storm; any reading will keep you saner than no reading.

*  Yes; that actually makes a total of three lovely books.  Enjoy a further tangling.  And another.

Fall (down) again.

 

Watercolor leaf, Renilde De Peuter.

Dear Today,

A few days into Fall, now, and here is that old feeling.  The summer this year was hot, relentless, bleak (although everything is relative, and no summer yet has been as bleak as the smoky-hot summer of 2021).  Fall makes me see that my Romantic proclivities are partly, maybe increasingly, Melancholic.  

The years I spent in graduate study on the Palouse painting and reading difficult post-modern texts could have been subtitled: Discourses on Melancholia, The Sublime, and The Void.  Those were the things to grapple with, vis a vis meaning in art and existence in general.  It isn't really important now, except as a signpost of where I found that to recall is to experience melancholia, and Fall, ooh Fall was made for melancholy!  It is delicious, actually, if you can keep in mind that sadness is sometimes a choice.

So, the sun lessens, the days slow down, growing things are disintegrating, with only a few stubborn ones continuing to bloom; the longer darkness gives us time to reflect, and boom!  You have your melancholy!  Add a cherry and whipped cream, while it is still hot, because soon it will be too cold for even these cold and benumbing thoughts, and you will have to focus on the turn, the solstice and the starting up of the signs of spring.  It happens very fast here; it has barely become that lovely complicated gray tan, and then boom! again, you have green fuddling up the subtle winter colors. But that is later, for now, baby, let me follow you down into the sweet melancholy of fall and the gorgeous autumn leaves.

Seeing you.

 

Dear One,

I've been one poor correspondent, and too, too hard to find, but, you have been on my mind.  And, when you hear that fourth bar, aren't you running to buy an electric guitar?   To make that nifty surfy sound? Anyway, like I said, I've been looking at the moon, but I've been thinking of you.

The Dodo: Open 24 hours!

 

Dear Old Friends,

How long is it we have been coming here?  I love this place; the worn vinyl booths, the chipped formica table tops.  I am so happy to have a place I can go at all hours and set and write your a few lines.  It's been 8 years I've been coming here and leaving you messages, and that seems like a nice number to celebrate.  

Remember this first post?  How about a reprise of that day's song?  What else can we do to commemorate the years?  We might crack a few cascarones over each other's heads and open some champagne.  We should also have some party music; how about this?

Until the next post!

no use in trying to deal with the dying

Dear Ramona,

Here is your song for today.  Did you know, my friend, that we could have a Bob Dylan written song everyday, for a year, and there would still be half a year's more?   I haven't even written one, but I think maybe that should be a project of mine- to write a song.  I know I want to use d minor in it.  And I think 3/4 time.  It should rhyme, at least a little.  And it should be performed in a suit like Jenny Lewis wears, but in a less 21st. century unicorn color scheme.

The Waters of Oblivion.

Dear Valerie, Vivian, Marion, and Marianne,


Your songs for today:  One and two.  Your project for today is to get yourself a Bob Dylan version, too.  It's nice and bluesy, and grittier than the other two.  After that, you'll want to play it on your guitar,

Under the Gun.

Dear Beloved,


These are the days of our disintegration.  Everything is broken, gone, or rusted through.  The people who shaped my thoughts, my being, are dying daily.  Who knows, now, what it means to 'hang up the phone.'  What we have now is 'call ended.'  The lack of individual will is well-noted.

The streets are sinking, the dust is piling up.  Little expressions like singing Happy Birthday feel like tiny squawks and puny gesture.  Minute bolsters against decay like invitations to tea and secret societies are too little, too late.  We are all of us living in the shadow of imminent loss- every morning I wake up and turn on the radio: when I hear Bob Dylan being played, I think, "oh hell, he's gone...."

Don't bother to check the news, it's true, because it always has been, we are only still yet dying and not dead, and so we will need to fill the time as usual.  Today I will make drawings and a little noise, wash some clothes, and maybe read again some of Seeing is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees.

Making lemonade out of coal.

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.





PS 
Make a few more pallets....  One, two, three, four, & five.

Regrets? Not exactly.

 

 

Object

Meret Oppenheim, 1936.



Dear Boys and Sisters,

Boys, you know I do think of you all- now and then, when I am tying my sensible shoes.  I think of you, when you were sitting a little too near, and I was a little too shy, and I sometimes, very infrequently, hardly at all, really, wish I'd said to you it's now or never.  Or, that I'd leaned closer, to say, I'll be your baby tonight.  But, I drove an insured car, got good grades, and brushed my teeth, instead of calling your bluff. 

There are a lot of us out here, women that take care to be sensible, and many of you boys will never meet us, will never know us, because we can see from very far off that what might have been would be too little. 

To my sisters, to the women in sensible shoes, I say, we are legion, we are worthy, even of the attention of flakes, screw-ups, and bad boys.  However, proving this is not necessary.  You and I know it, and that will suffice.  Correspondingly, should you say "it's now or never," do not wring your hands, do not beat your breasts.  Just move on down the line.






PS

If you are wondering why I have begun this little diatribe with Ms. Oppenheim's sculpture, it is because there is no finer symbol of feminism and femininity.  This sculpture subverts the power of progeneration by rendering the dish useless to hold nourishment, and sexually totemizes the container by lining it with hide.   



PPS

Yes, sisters, there are men you could make a mistake over, and it would be worth it.