As anyone who ever looks at this record knows, I have been been absent here lately.
In my last post, I said I might not come around anymore, that this didn’t feel like something I wanted to do.
I don’t know if that’s true or not.
I recently received a message from a friend, with these words contained therein:
“What I did not know then was that there was also this detailed, day by day account…”
Then I remembered why it was that I began keeping a record and the thought of so many days going by marked only by perfunctory emails and 1/2 finished drawings in piles unacknowledged, the partial segments of memory unrecorded…it all made me recall the years before I kept a record and how I always wished that I had something to show for that time other than the imprecise and debatable sums of my life.
For a long time, posting here gave me proof of myself when I needed it most.
Lately, I have been engaging in intensive relational artforms, going to meetings, talking to people…experimenting with what it might be like if I were a badass community organizer.
I don’t know if I am a badass community organizer. Probably not.
It’s unreasonable to think that a life-long loner can sustainably engage in endeavors that require consistent social aplomb. I am managing it for now, encouraged by the challenge of it, fascinated by the strangeness of it all.
I seem to be systematically trying to prove that I can do every single thing that people ever doubted I could do. Whether or not I want to do these things, really want to, is another matter entirely…
Mostly, I think I am just an artist – a relational aesthetician, a 1/2 assed situationist, a catalyst of variable precision, a storyteller and a storymaker. I am still trying to sort all of that out.
I have, however, decided that I am finally going to build a suitable artist’s site, with galleries and a statement about what sort of artist I am.
Wait a second, do outsider artists have websites?
As an aside, the other night, a person said, “Can we just put away the cameras, just be present here?” and I wondered why it was that I took so many pictures for so long, tried to generate so much proof…of what?
Was it not enough to see for myself?
Did I take pictures to prove something to myself?
Here is my problem:
I don’t like the thought that my entries here will be foisted into people’s email accounts, smeared across their readers.
I can’t unsubscribe my few followers, but knowing that when I hit update whatever I’ve written here will be heaved into someone’s unwitting day is an unpleasant thought to me.
I write longform posts, and they are often disjointed.
They are notes.
People are welcome to read my notes.
However, I don’t feel it is polite to insert myself into people’s days, especially nice people who are my friends. When post notifications from this blog are issued, they show up as PROOF OF GOD…and other tragedies. All caps is like yelling…and I’m sorry for that.
From now on, I am going to post once a week, images only – maybe a poem – and then, once the notification has gone out, I am going to finish the post, saying whatever I want to say, not worrying about cluttering up a person’s inbox. I can add to the post as the week goes on, deposit with a timestamp whatever I feel inspired to save as part of this record.
People can come here of their own volition and will find it if they can.
“honest attempts at an opposite ocean”*
I left the necklace at home
a tooth on the mantle
a tangle of silver
a pearl in a cage
and I wore nothing
and a hat
from somewhere cold
to hold all the spies that my Western mind can muster
I knew you’d notice
because everyone notices
in this place.
These barriers here,
they don’t mean a thing
they may as well be the edge of a field
the door of a room
lines in the sand
as far as I am concerned.
The bones of my hands hung over them
perched and waiting
stretching in sunlight
and out in the open air
I showed off the diamond, the roses,
in my skin
that I am who I am.
I opened my throat
wide enough for the clouds
in the corners of my lungs
in a hush, in a thrum
that cut straight through
of the absent orchestra
that could never have said enough anyway
to fill that empty,
such simple statements
like you didn’t know
and chose to believe
that you must’ve
because your ghosts rose
to see me
lit in blue.
So, what can be said of that?
I could have sworn that we were friends for a moment, friends always.
What words could speak of that?
*this phrase – this perfect and lovely phrase – was not written by me.