Wednesday, January 28, 2015

More Curtisse Park


Art, I make art, sometimes I don't know what I make, or why.
Sometimes something moves me and forces my hand, a new thing, a new place.
Right around the bend, here, at home, so close to the hub of the city, is such a place. I am afraid, very much afraid that this place will break my heart.
 It does not, yet, officially exist. But the land is there, the trees, and the hills and the grasses and somewhere, buried in the mud of the tiny sloughs that dot the properties, green frogs and leopards frogs and toads wait for their spring awakening. This land will break my heart, already I feel it. I love it, deeply, since I took my first tentative steps on the what were lush verdant grasslands. Bitter fear and trepidation to see it marred with it's first hint of scars from the cutting treads of machine tires. Just little cuts, here, and another cut there, one at a time, two at time, droves. They are coming, word gets out, not everyone's idea of a good time is a walk in the park. A section of fence has been erected, a small token of feeble protection against the onslaught. Now there is a sign, small, bright, unmistakable, ignored. Motorized vehicles prohibited, Pedestrians Permitted. It is almost poetry, and as mournful. I've seen what can happen in a single day, and I've seen the permanent destruction that can be wrought in a summer of freewheeling fun. They leave a brownland behind, brown and barren, rutts that will take decades to grow anything better than the most tenacious of weeds, and those sloughs, I don't want to think of what can happen if they get to them. So yes, this land, this place that is yet to have an official name, this place that was donated in trust for environmental stewardship may yet break my heart. My heart beats faster in fear, everytime I think of it, everytime I hear a machine speeding past, wondering, are they going there, to the edge of the fence, where they forced their way in through the shrubs, are turning and whirling, and revving and digging their wheels and treads into the soft thawing soil beneath. I hope not, I hope not, I hope that by spring, when the thaw comes, they will have the decency to leave things be, and leave the grass to be grass, and bullrush to be bullrushes and the shrubs to grow and thrive and shelter seedlings of trees and leave places for flora and fauna to flourish and leave space for this artist to breath and dream and pass through, leaving nothing behind but thoughts.
Or break my heart.









posted from Bloggeroid

Monday, January 26, 2015

What happened? Where did all my words go?


January 24th 2015
What happened? Where did all my words go?
Oh boy, I think I have forgotten to play. It is so very good, to open up this program, with a screen that shows a softly rendered image of a Lake Superior evening making it's grand entrance. The beach is Gargantua Harbour, and it is empty, and it is serene, the waves are long sloshing undulations, many meters across horizontal space with only inches in rise. Slop, sloop, silence, slosh.... Silence, splish, silence, silence, silence. slip, and on. Night is falling, sun peaks through a gap in a thick low ceiling of steel gray cloud, and tints all with pink, and peach and amber. Night is falling, and the chill settles down and firms it's grip, splish. The beach looks inviting, crystal clear water, countless litres of drinking water, there for the taking, silence, not even a fish to rise to the surface, not a buzz of insect wing in the air. It is September, and in Superior, September summer is abruptly over, and winter is just around a very sharp bend. Amazing what gazing at an image can bring to mind.
Remind me to continue taking photographs, remind me to take the time now and again to look at them.

About the image: this is a screenshot of my writing. I write on a tablet using something called Jota, a basic editing program. You can write novels (plural) on pocket sized devices. You can also waste alot of time if you have access to the internet. I have my wifi turned off right now. It would take a small but significant effort to turn it on again. This keeps me from distracting myself and surfing meaningless forum posts on the webs, or my 'etsy' stats, or my email, or my facebook, or did anyone heart my stuff on instagram. Destructive narcissism, that, like a corrossive acid eats creativity. So the wifi is off, and so my fingers keep typing. I have a keyboard too. I love the tippity tap the keyboard. I learned to touch type in Grade 9 highschool. I learned to touch type because I dreamed of being a writer, of novels and stories, sword and sorcery, and or, cutting, socially conscious hard hitting sci-fi. Touch typing seemed like a sensible stepping stone in that direction. No one had computers. I learned to touch type in the days when electric typewriters were a novelty. I learned to touchtype on a mechanical thing with sticky stubborn heavy steel keys. My pinky fingers where muscular and well-developed in those days. I still love to touch type. It feels good, and easy skill, and if the words are in my head, there is direct flow of them onto the screen, thought made tangible, instantaneous. Touch typing feels terrific.
posted from Bloggeroid

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Dear Blog, and readers

Dear neglected blog, it has been a long time, hasn't it. I have not been faithful, I have been flirting with instagram, Instagram is flashy, trendy and fast and requires so little on my behalf. Snap a pic, pepper the post with appropriate hashtags, instant gratification.
Blogs require time and thought and words and sentences and paragraphs that flow together and begin and end rounded out with sumptious middles. I'm not sure if my performance is up to those standards. I get anxious, and then my thoughts dwindle to impotent trite fragments. And so, dear blog, it has been many months apart, many months without any kind of contact, intimate or otherwise, and a blog, is nothing if not intimate. A webspace of infinite space for words that tumble and flow, clash and bang, meander and hurry through the passages of our lives revealing so much to those who can read between the lines.
Whew, that was fun. I miss my words. Thanks, Michelle, for asking. Yes, I'm fine. I have been busy, all good things (see instagram), but the blog has ended up last on the list of things to do. Somewhere along the line, I turned it into a chore, as if it needed a useful purpose, and if failed to fulfill, then it would be last on the list of things to do. I will rethink that. And get back to blogging (so I say) as a creative space that has no purpose beyond itself, with or without readers, it exists, a diary, a journal, a place to share thoughts small and large, trite and (I can hope) profound. Well, no, not the last, 'profound' triggers that performance anxiety, just writing it causes brain shrinkage. But I will leave it and dare myself to be brave, next time, or maybe later.



posted from Bloggeroid

LinkWithin

Blog Widget by LinkWithin