I had a quiet week. there are no pictures because the sky was uneventful and the food matched the level by being boring. My cats are still cute, so no new pictures there.
I went to a very small neighborhood party. Took a bottle of red wine. Drank some to answer the question, “Sandy, what kind of art did you make?” I went through a couple descriptions of exhibition work…Former Yugoslavia, Expedition to Elsewhere, etc. Then told of hiring a backhoe to bury it all. Puzzled looks before returning to the weather and the hostess’s beautiful cat.
I also went to a poetry meeting and read the following.
I Saw Her in the Laundromat
She folds the underwear carefully, hers and her daughters.
In doing so, she holds them out in front of her body – chest high –
gently pinching the waistband’s elastic between forefinger and thumb,
trying not to notice, too much, the vast difference in size.
These simple garments are a condensation of their differences,
their almost total unlikeness of each other.
She becomes agitated all over again with the senseless longing
for what she no longer is and probably never was.
Amid the smells of laundry, softeners, and soaps,
neatly piled stacks of plain white cotton and colored silks,
she remembers to smile.
There was a short discussion about where a comma should be and a woman wanting to point out how thick her waist has become. Other than that there was complimentary comments about my ability to point out the importance of the mundane. All of which made me read the one line from Thomas Wolfe that inspired me to make a small edition of books with relief print illustrations of clothes on a line stitched to each page. This quote was my inspiration for the artwork done about my comfort in being with a group of men and the feeling of belonging I continue to recognize.
“”And this utterly familiar common thing would suddenly be revealed to me with all the wonder with which we discover a thing we have seen all our lives and yet have never known before.” Thomas Wolfe
I will be taking a break from this poetry group as well. Both groups have more attendees reading poetry with very little, if any, time for discussions beyond the use of commas. And to be honest, some of the poetry is very far over my head. If I have to look up the meaning of words that just seem stuck in to be an example of knowledge that takes the reader away from what is being said, then I lose the plot as they say. My inspiration and lessons in writing poetry will be learned in the words of Ted Kooser, the over-used Mary Oliver, and pre-snarky Billy Collins. And maybe use some of the characters in my poetry as being worthy of a larger story. I need to listen more to what else these characters have to tell me.
And I need to stitch. Just thread a needle and poke it into ratty old cloth that wants to be mended and used as if it mattered. I also need to draw more. Go back to painting stems and leaves. Concentrate on making something look like it is.
The other night I had an annual visitor come for dinner. Judy, a basket maker from Washington state who is in town teaching at the folk school. I am grateful that someone brings her over here for scotch and dinner while we talk about old times. She was recently in Australia teaching and caught me up on old friends. It was a delightful few hours.
So that is all I have. Just words. No pictures.
A wine I poured is now mostly gone. Perhaps a refill…
til later…