Riza and Lags, Liza and Rags.
Dearly beloveds, I love you so. Thank you for reading what I have to say and also for the deep care. I feel you, telephone calls are never necessary; to me, written words hold so much. Much more than many things. I am terrible on the phone. Last night's letter was not a crying out to anyone, just a crying out to myself. In actuality, I read a post by Beth Mans just before sitting down to write my own and was so comforted by her security in being unhappy (at the time). She named it loud and proud, splayed on the floor, chipped nails and tears. And that is okay. It is brave to write it down sometimes. I so admire that ability in people.
It is time to be real. Fall is all about peeling off, paring down, stripping bare, shaking loose until there is nothing left but the very core. I am definitely in this place. Knee deep in my own refuse (which is always more hopeful than neck deep. Being neck deep in places is unnerving. Like a swamp! Being neck deep in a swamp should be a sin). It is only in that place, shaken loose, that one can begin to add new layers. So, there in lies the rub. I am going to be real, even when it results in an unpleasant read, a darkened heart, heavy boots. I am dark as night right now. There is an obvious pattern at work here. Like a five year afghan in the works. There are light spots, and racy details, and smooth pearls, and then there are the dark lines that feel never ending, even though there is always a hard right turn somewhere in the pattern and back into the light I burst. Like a fish flying out of water. The only thing that has proven to lift that feeling over the years is to name it with painful honesty, to write about it and to make it real. Thanks for your love you two. You are so dear to me, both of you.
This morning I looked in the mirror and began formulating a new letter. It felt like a string of words swept down around the curve of thought like a string of something fitting around one's neck. 'Oh, that's nice', a quiet murmur of thought. Two letters need to be constructed very carefully for my two new portfolios for art school if I want to have a fighting chance of weaseling my way back in again. It just came, that first whisper of an angle. What a glorious feeling to stare into at eight ten in the morning. Those are some of my favorite moments in life (in terms of writing and being a writer of sorts); standing there in stripes, toothbrush dangling haphazardly from between my teeth, my eyes unseeing as my mind blinked and then began to bind bits of words together in such a way familiar--sort of like Leo and his blocks--so precise and so vague all at once. It felt nice.
And then there was light. The correct wall and the precise swat of a switch. Poof, the re birth of. (Arthur is an excellent name. Side note, duly noted).
I have decided the theme for the new portfolio (two in one style again. Last year it was a giant fabric envelope bearing two paper parcels wrapped up in string): all things soft. Soft faces, soft light, soft eyes, soft hearts, soft design, soft fabric, soft paper, anything and everything wrapped up so prettily and thoughtfully and painfully soft. Choosing 19 photographs to submit from a sea of a cool million might be the death of me, but what doesn't kill one makes one stronger. As for the Studio Arts angle, I am forced to broaden the scope this year as I have slim to no new silk screen material to choose from. But then there was watercolor. And that is soft. Ink and quill, fabric crests, soft dolls for nice people. Margot Polo is going to be all over this thing. If they don't like it, that is okay. I like it, these ideas newborn, soft seedlings of hope. What I am without at the moment is how to tie both the Photo package and the Textile and Print packages together under one big soft umbrella. I need a vehicle (not in the literal sense). Last year's vehicle was a giant envelope. I am thinking a quilt, a ragtag, ratty, hand stitched, thoughtful quilt that folds up like a hitchhiker's. Or someone, something, somewhere on an incredible adventure with an incredible crest swinging from a stick, marking the path.
My crest. Oh my god, my crest. This damn thing has been percolating in thought since the beginning of September. It is not near ready to be attempted yet. I guess that is part of my process. I get an idea and stew, and stew, and stew. And then I stew some more. Like one of Mitch's amazing sauces. He is always telling me how important it is to let the flavors of his sauces stew. So I am stewing some more until the time is right to pick up my shears and race through the softest muslin I can find. So something with a crest, maybe sewn onto a quilt filled with a flat of nineteen of the softest photos I can think of (Old Eyebrows in there for sure, along with the Face Painted Boy, and a picture of Rollin because he was in the mix last year too), and a package overflowing with drawings and one Lady Longbody for good luck.
That is just an idea. Thank you for reading, for writing your own posts that I eat up on the regular like a fancy dessert. What a treat, this internet thing. It is hump day today, my first one seeing as I have to work on Friday this week (oh no! My beloved Free Friday!), so do something good for someone.
Write a letter today.
post script: stay tuned for a Year in Review photo post coming soon (AGAIN, does anyone know how I can change it so that posted photos show up as wide as the written post itself? Aghh, I am inept in so many avenues. Please help. Stay tuned for the Couple of the Year, Baby of the Year (Leo, Rollin, Olive, Izzy, Avery) and so on photos. If anyone knows a scrap about the photo sizing thang, please write. Merci.