it's windy today - the dry northwest wind that is featured in the song 'my island home'. the wind that, according to Veronica Dobson's fantastic new book, makes people sick with a sort of restless inertia. it certainly kicks up a lot of dust and fills my head with Woodie Guthrie.
Veronica once told me that fig trees are used to tell stories (as seen on the cover of her book), the leaves planted in patterns in the sand - a method that she said predates dot/circle painting. this stuck in me and resonated like a cartoon arrow, complete with blood and twang. it has cemented an affinity with ficus brachypoda that began, i think, with an admiration for its ability to grow out of rocks. this is something i'd like to be able to do.
yesterday i turned thirty. it was unpleasant and fraught and reminded me why i decided a few years ago never to organise anything (i mean it this time). birthdays are always a stocktake for me. it's not good to count your chickens in the waiting place. so like a few things i've done this year (getting my driver's licence and quitting smoking spring to mind), i'm glad i'll never have to do it again. i am hoping to wash my hands of all that chicken-counting nonsense forthwith, but the northwest wind isn't helping.
it's not helping me think about the book either (in the short term anyway), so i find myself working on a story about attrition instead. it has struck me that if there are desert themes, they must include attrition and resilience. resourcefulness and annihilation. cruelty and serenity.
i wonder what it is about the desert stories that has brought me here, and what i still have to learn from this place (i'm pretty sure i've got stubbornness down). it's an odd process, noticing the themes that pop up in your work over time, and the ways you cope (or fail to cope) with habitual pressures. it requires that you read with a certain nostalgia, which is difficult to muster from the inside. but surprising things grow out of rocks sometimes.
refuge - i forgot refuge. it's a day for hiding in this cave of a house, sheltered from the wind... for now. cause i just blowed in, and i'll soon blow out again.
Dust Bowl Blues.mp3
Veronica once told me that fig trees are used to tell stories (as seen on the cover of her book), the leaves planted in patterns in the sand - a method that she said predates dot/circle painting. this stuck in me and resonated like a cartoon arrow, complete with blood and twang. it has cemented an affinity with ficus brachypoda that began, i think, with an admiration for its ability to grow out of rocks. this is something i'd like to be able to do.
yesterday i turned thirty. it was unpleasant and fraught and reminded me why i decided a few years ago never to organise anything (i mean it this time). birthdays are always a stocktake for me. it's not good to count your chickens in the waiting place. so like a few things i've done this year (getting my driver's licence and quitting smoking spring to mind), i'm glad i'll never have to do it again. i am hoping to wash my hands of all that chicken-counting nonsense forthwith, but the northwest wind isn't helping.
it's not helping me think about the book either (in the short term anyway), so i find myself working on a story about attrition instead. it has struck me that if there are desert themes, they must include attrition and resilience. resourcefulness and annihilation. cruelty and serenity.
i wonder what it is about the desert stories that has brought me here, and what i still have to learn from this place (i'm pretty sure i've got stubbornness down). it's an odd process, noticing the themes that pop up in your work over time, and the ways you cope (or fail to cope) with habitual pressures. it requires that you read with a certain nostalgia, which is difficult to muster from the inside. but surprising things grow out of rocks sometimes.
refuge - i forgot refuge. it's a day for hiding in this cave of a house, sheltered from the wind... for now. cause i just blowed in, and i'll soon blow out again.
Dust Bowl Blues.mp3
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