joanna dane, vocals
tad neuhaus, guitar, bass drum, toy organ, chains
I can't fight anymore
Halloween is here
Make a pillow of my mother's letters
for my head to rest for all eternity
Sweetheart, when you read this, I will be dead
Do not grieve
I have loved only two women in my life
My dear mother
And my wife
Yours in life, death, and the ever after,
who was once Ehrich Weiss
Matt Turner, electric cello
Tad Neuhaus, electric bass prepared with chains
Joanna Dane, vocals
Who do you see when you see me?
How will you know when I'm gone?
Where do you go when I can not see you?
How do you disappear?
Where do you go when you leave me?
What do you conceal?
What binds will you put me in?
How many more days do I have left to live?
|A Painting I Painted when Pregnant with my First Child|
On our way out of River Falls we stopped at the Fox Den Book Store because Roseanna had seen a book she wanted, a book of gross jokes, so I also bought Virginia Woolf's A Writer's Diary in which on Monday, January 26th, 1920, she writes that she is very happy, "having this afternoon arrived at some idea of a new form for a new novel. . . . Indeed, I think from the ease with which I'm developing the unwritten novel there must be a path for me there."
In the introduction, her husband and publisher Leonard Woolf explains how she wrote her diary on blank paper that was then bound, 26 volumes in all. How tidy! Meanwhile, I am writing on this and that, half finished journals thrown into forgotten boxes, slips of paper, rolls of receipt tape, almost nothing dated.
This morning, I am torn between writing and planting the basil. I was going to clean out the porch gutter, but the neighbors said they know a guy who will do the whole thing for under a $100 and that, yes, I should definitely call because, no, Andrew should definitely not do the second story. They have four friends who have fallen from ladders and injured themselves, all academics, yes, but all in very good shape at the time.
It's taken me over two decades to convince myself not to feel guilty about spending so much time writing, and still I am not always convinced.
I like when Virginia Woolf says (p.46), "There! I've written out half my irritation."
I suppose I am something of a monk, or a housewife, depending on others' generosity so that I may continue with this habit that brings me around to the same conclusions that humans have been coming to for millennium.
And now the kids are home. Maybe this summer I will write only on this onion paper that I bought at a garage sale and then bind the pages into a book.
Often a new paper will invigorate me to declare a grand project, usually inspired by some book I start and never finish (To the Lighthouse comes to mind), and usually for some distinct length of time - a year, a summer, a week - grand projects which I nearly always abandon not long after getting started.
I could see this as a sign that I never finish what I start and get down on myself for it. Or I could see it for what it is, an end in and of itself, a way of practicing.
After Elyse told me about Henry Darger,
I sought out his photograph, of which there are only two
and I drew him,
puzzled that each rendering was so different.
Later I watched the documentary In the Realms of the Unreal,
and found out that the few people who knew him
all differed on the facts of his disposition, his habits,
his history, the pronunciation of his name.
Chuang Chou wrote philosophical poems
anecdotes and conundrums on strips of bamboo
that were stitched together into scrolls,
each scroll a chapter,
master of the non sequitur,
these third century BCE sensibilities,
the fascination with oneness,
this ancient way to communicate
not so vastly different than our own,
blog posts as bamboo strips,
blog as scroll.
I used to be so much more bold in the ways I used words, able to write for hours at a time. There was a reckless way about it.
Now I write in small bits and then sit and think and notice all the birds that are singing and how warm the sun feels on my body.
I like to think about patterns; visual, musical, behavioral. I like to ponder how recognizing and creating patterns is at the root of all thinking.
Yesterday, I dreamed up a squirrel with a mutation that makes him attracted to empty nut shells, so he only gnaws at the shells other squirrels have discarded. He dies before he has offspring.
I like to notice how logical thought dissolves as I fall asleep. I like to get as close to that moment as possible. I like to have "I am falling asleep" as my last conscience thought of the day.
I like finding things I've lost.
It strikes me for the very first time that to decorate means to add patterns, whether patterns of lines made by streamers or of shapes by balloons or colors made by flowers.
Getting attention for making something stimulates the human being in a way that causes us to want to do more making. The problem with craving attention is that it eats up a lot of our energy. We get some attention and that feels good, so we immediately want more. Where does it end? If we are disappointed that only 12 people came to our show, then it doesn't matter how many come, we will be disappointed because that is how we have trained ourselves to think.
Someone once told me that some famous musician advices that there is always one person in the audience who needs to be there. Play for her.
Isn't it possible to make the choice to thrive off the pleasure of making rather than the attention for making?
Isn't it a skill we can develop, like being able to walk a tight rope?
Underrated artists have more time for making. Underrated artists are more free. Underrated artists don't have to please. Consider becoming an underrated artist today.
* Just think of how easily our opinions change depending on the time of day, the weather, our mood, who we are with, our health, our expectations, our beliefs, our influences, our status, our clothes, our income, our sleep, our nutrition, our cravings, our addictions, our thirst, our comfort, etcetera.
all drawings selected from the tiny collaborative book "devices"
Imagine City Park collection
Despite the rain, at 5am, eight gathered to welcome the day
And even though it kept raining,
More people came, with music and dancing,
Doughnuts, coffee, and conversation,
Stories, ideas, families,
Hotdogs, pasta, cake,
Laughter and delight,
Until the sun came out
And we danced and sang and read poetry,
Thank you all for making Imagine City Park happen!
Looking forward to the next Imagine. . . .