If you’re in the Baltimore area for the last night of the Light City Festival on April 8 at 7:30 pm (that’s 19:30 World Time)— do join me in the at the UMBC pop-up gallery in the Inner Harbor for a chat and presentation regarding the importance of multidisciplism (see also: generalism) in the technology-driven world of design these days.
As he is in my memory, Handsome Red Two of our horses were in the dream, the Arabians, both of whom perished last year. So, too, the miscreant aptly named Pyewacket— a fierce disagreeable little cat whose provenance is known only inasmuch as she is the progeny of one of the feral cats that took up residence in the barn a few years ago.
I was trying to connect with the horses at turns. But my Night shade was finding them, not the real me— a defensive version, relating to Pye; always the trickster version,
It spooked and scared the horses, the gentle kind— So they told me, in their way, I must find them as myself.
I whispered in my sleep “I don’t know how.”
And Red somehow telegraphed the message to me through what technology he found in that place, it told me
When the stars are going out—
And you’re looking for a face before you leave—
Make it mine.”
And I tried like hell to escape the deep molasses of sleep, to find him; to remember— To shake it all off and just recall that one moment, of him.
Him, merged with my childhood; Magic; the Elysian Fields, the Farm— the Infinite; revisiting me. And I did, sort of— but he was talking about when the Stars Go Out. So I’ll meet him when I die.
I have to wait. (I’ll always look for his face.)
Animals are the closest I get to religion.
. . .
Later on, I painted that little sketch of him. Here’s the one I did when he passed:
And here’s one of Red and Comet, our red and black Arabian gentlemen:
One of the aspects I’ve long understood about getting more engagement on a blog (or any interactive medium) is the importance of directly addressing one’s audience, and asking questions or requesting feedback.
Anyone who’s read this blog for any length of time knows that I rarely employ either of these strategies. The main reason for this is that I began this as a kind of archive, or a conversation with myself, so I rarely have an ‘audience’ in my mind.
Another reason is that no one wants to address an audience to the deafening sound of crickets.
According to my stats, the most consistently searched and viewed posts here continue to be a series of How-To posts I published in 2010 and 2011 regarding printmaking processes. Yet for all that they are viewed, they receive little or no interaction. This is a curious thing.
But, as anyone who is on twitter, for example, knows: a post can garner thousands of views and receive only a few or a few tens of likes or retweets. You can see the same phenomenon on Medium. I believe this has to do with vulnerability, among other things.
Here’s something that I apparently saved as a draft last spring. I found it a week or so ago, and I don’t think I’ll spend any more time on it, but as it was just recently Imbolc, and we had a 60º day Wednesday (despite the blizzard since) I thought I’d post it as a welcome to nascent Spring.
Rain replenishes groundwater,
refills the well
for creation after a fallow.
When looking results in seeing
and metaphor puts pretense aside—
you can pull focus,
delineate the shapes of things.
Eventually, the miles catch up with you;
in some way you needed them to.
Some things realign and make a sense that’s
Sleep refreshes; the coffee works; neurons fire.
The sun; the rain—
it could be molecular, or down to a change
in the weather.
So long as the waltz repeats.
The mythical rituals in Autumn, in Winter— for Spring,
for Summer. Everything is rooted
in something ancient.
Repetitions are inherent, genetic.
With or without a destination,
walking is never wasted—
You always arrive
I’ve been having vivid dreams lately, and retaining some upon waking. This one, from perhaps a week ago, was excruciating while I was in it.
It happened when I was out, and I didn’t even notice immediately. I’d been away. It wasn’t until I went into the loo that I saw there was a hole in the floor where the toilet had been. Water covered the tiles of the floor. I assumed the tenants below weren’t at home, as all was quiet. It caught me completely off guard and was immensely worrisome. I thought of the damage that must have been caused below, and hoped the landlord knew; that restoration would soon be underway.
I went into the bedroom and noticed one narrow section of wall looked in very bad repair; so too with the portion of the walls surrounding the windows. Even as I stood looking at them, I recalled the superintendent having done a hasty job of re-plastering or patching up problem area.
The room was literally deteriorating as I looked, just falling apart.
I went to the wall on the far side. Through gaps in the wall I saw another room— small furniture and cabinets. It was a sort of studio. There, close enough to touch, a rotating display of jewelry and other items, presumably made by whomever was here before. I was momentarily delighted out of my shock at this discovery— the hidden room.
Until— both suddenly and in agonizing slow motion it seemed, the ceiling came crumbling down: a great sodden mass of sheetrock, the way a wet cardboard box falls apart when overburdened. It fell on top of me, yet without crushing me by some luck or because it was too shoddy to have been a proper ceiling to begin with.
The roof itself must have long ago chipped away piece by piece, for the mass of grey now lying across the bed and floor was insubstantial, yet the sky was now clearly visible above me. The room grew cold.