the forest is not to blame.




yellow leaves spin. screeching hinges. the pig-sounds
of wind snared in tall trees.
my breath goes a loose white.
swaying.
limbs are coming down.

yellow leaves spin. an awful determination.
sparks radiate. crack my palms. catch in a crescent, this
lowly rabbit. the transparent virus.

last night i lay awake a long time. my thoughts were angry.
polluted and skittish.
the scent of too many deer.


i want to think of the forest.
i want to think of my mother and
the forest behind her,
behind her roses. her roses
behind her iron rods:

deer-bitten.
slowly frozen.
the cracking-sounds, her upturned palms.

my mother will not die in concrete.


the death of frozen things- people
held down, cars
flipped on their side.


i wake to find things on the ground that weren't there before.
black branches, black burl, bits
of litter flung from the highway. i wake
to check the calendar. i wake
and well up my Fear Traditions.
the silver and the shards dug in.


the moon is white. full in the little window between the tall trees.
full-blown. this cold, unclouded thing.
yellow leaves spin.
there is a gaping eye to push through. a solid white.

the wind is to blame.

it wants our doors. splits its knuckles.
toys with our hair-delicate hinges. fingers creeping
against the dry seal of so many mouths.
fingers like thermometers. cold. cold. and sharp
against our fevered pink.

first thing, i look up to the little window


i am lonely. it is a black morning.
aching. windless. an awful veil.
stolid as a dried out fish belly.

apples fall out of the trees, thickly black.
no time to cut the bruises out.
wrinkled and twisted. i lock my eye
on the tiny shimmers of gold below the cracks,
wilting on the inside.

my mother will not die in concrete.


yellow leaves spin.
limbs are coming down.


here
is the thread end

and the needle cut loose.

a solid eye to push through.






.

waking

i need to finish my essay about kate zambreno's book soon. all the weirdo hoopla around here lately has been very distracting. and then the long weekend of sirens sirens sirens, drunk people driving off of cliffs or smashing in to trees. wine-country is the land of the road-side memorial. it is sad. it is heart-breaking. it makes me want to hug everyone all the time.

but i am finally shrugging off the new tensions and getting back to my regularly scheduled program of writing, reading, painting, drawing, writing, reading, painting, drawing. i finished a big ice-berg drawing yesterday. it's the same size as the tire-swing. i'll photograph it soon. i've been bad about documentation lately. and tonight i'm going to go have a slumber party with my friend becca in the city. she's back in town, up from the southern california beaches, and ready to laugh and laugh and laugh and suck up that wonderful san francisco fog. and so am i. i think it's been almost 6 months since we've seen each other. and i absolutely love being in the same room with other artistic women. love. i love the friendship that arises out of that dynamic. a friendship based in crazy discussion. ethics and aesthetics and belief in the power of art. a friendship born of the shared belief that art is important and meaningful and relevant to daily life. it's amazing. and that's the part of going to art-school that i miss the most: daily conversation about aesthetics and relevance and the push/pull of images and words. ideas everywhere. that's probably why i like the blogging community so much- the continued engagement with ideas and aspirations and loves and The Struggle.

it's a cold morning here. my finger tips actually feel a little numb. the seasons have been strange this year. but i have my coffee mug to warm them by and soon a long, loved run to take. my dreams from last night are still very much on me. odd feelings and a light anxiety. i will jump in to a painting or a book for a few hours before i head out to the city. lose myself in my love for these things. swim.

trying...

dreams are sometimes scary things-
this great big goal of being an artist. what does it mean? what does it entail? how do you do it?

how do you make your love support you? should a person even ask for such a thing?

i guess this is how you figure out what 'aspirations' really are-
what is feasible, responsible, ethical... necessary.

since 6am, i've been finalizing a grant application. it's taken me well over a year to even work up the nerve to apply to this particular foundation, to risk the rejection letter, to prepare myself for the potential of receiving the big, fat NO. basically, i've been second-guessing my own practice for the last 6 hours. i've been staring at my portfolio thinking that it's all crap, that i'm not good enough, that it's ridiculous of me to even think i stand a chance. every success i've had has become invisible and mute. i can't see them or hear them. this is how it goes. this is the artist ego kicking in. this is our frailty and fear, our lack of logic in the face of desire. i know that i am being completely unreasonable. i know i've done at least some good work. i know that, should the rejection letter come, i've done my best and that it doesn't mean my work is without value. i know all this and i am talking myself down. once the envelope is dropped off at the post-office, i will calm down. i'll let go of my anxieties and i'll say, "it's out of your hands now, girl" and i'll go back to my day, happy as i always am, and i won't think about it much until the response shows up. right now though, i am in the thick of it- all my hopes and dreams laying inside a manila envelope... and all my fears that i'm not good enough to make them happen. but taking the chance is exactly what has to happen. isn't that what love requires? i have to be brave. i have to practice being brave as often as i practice painting. i have to put the work out in to the world and risk getting the response i don't want because, in the end, it isn't about me. it's about the work. i owe it to the work to push it out of my safe little sphere. at least that much i owe.

i will eat lunch and walk down the lonely 1/2 mile to the post-office. i will let go. i will try. i will come back home and lug my canvas outside. i will obey The Jog and sweat the anxiety out.