Journals 1, 2, 3

It has been awhile although for those who closely keep tabs on me, you'll know the insane events that filtered through my existence in life here this past week and will be thrilled to learn that I have both successfully not encountered further life-altering/threatening circumstances nor was the primary catalyst in said events for others. Beyond that, I'm happy to note that I have made an investment.

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Once upon a time, there was a girl who had countless journals that a person once commented ought to be named and labeled as to keep track of them. To this girl this seemed silly, as she had a complete sense of every journal and what rules applied to that given journal all laid out in her head. (She uses the term journal loosely as both sketchbook and lines are more appropriate given the book.) This girl was studious at carrying around one journal all the time wherever she went. In this book she filled it with quotes she liked, phrases of conversation that captured the essence of dialogue, sketches of places that struck her fancy, or just the natural notations of an artistic mind. In another journal, the only lined journal she owned, she wrote her woes, her puzzlements, her frustrations with growing up and with people and with life in general. Aware of the danger such ponderings might have on those innocent bistanders addressed in the time of heated journaling, the girl preferred the black leather flap that both closed this journal and reiterated further investigation with a leather cord, tied often in a bow, or knot, depending on the mood. This girl noticed that each journal took approximately two years to fill and then she replaced them as necessary. While the girl did not consider herself compulsive, she held strict rules for each of the two journals, one being that in the carry-around-everywhere journal, names had to be converted into code for fear of falling into the wrong hands, black or blue dribble ink or pencil where also the only forms of writing utensils permitted on the page unless an artistic medium. Similarly, the black leather notebook was permitted to utilize names, (much better for venting) but was only alloted the black dribble ink pen within its pages.

This went on for a number of years until the girl went to art school and the carry-around-everywhere journal disappeared. Following closely after that and given a different set of life circumstances, so too did the black journal. In many ways the girl changed, though no longer recorded in print. The girl changed and seemed to not fit well with the half-completed journals. They seemed like pants too small for the taller body, like a fashion sense that made one lift a brow. This changed girl decided maybe it was time for something new. Some new words, new sketches, new consistency.

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Today, I purchased a brown leather journal. Equally, after four stops into various bookstores/art stores, I have settled on a new journal to carry around in my Mary Poppin's purse.

Maine in a Jiffy

These are from my trip to Maine. As you can see, I've been up to my usual sculpture interactions at the 24 hour L.L. Bean store in Freeport. We also spent our time in York, Maine where we had a great little campsite, were able to go out to the beach/ocean (that my friend actually SWAM in), made friends with a surfer from a surf shop, hit up a kitchen that is famous for packaging Barefoot Contessa goods, played at this gorgeous lighthouse and then battled out the cold. We ended up calling it in early because our whale watching trip was canceled as was our sea kayaking... and well, we left our matches out in the rain. Saddness.

Fall

I have not posted in awhile largely because I have not been "home" a term that I will once again put in quotation marks as I bounce from place to place.
Arriving "home" I am surprised to sense my reaction to the slow change in the weather. I feel the shift in the cool mornings, and the soft layer of leaves resting on the grass. While I have certainly not had my full wearing of shorts I recognize that I have missed that time, my summer in New England has quickly moved into fall. Interestingly enough, fall happens to be my favorite time of year. It is the season that typically causes me the most comfort, providing a sense of comfort, of new things, of beautiful colors, of fall walks, yet I notice my typical feelings of excitement and comfort are more hesitant. I feel as though fall here to me represents more of a "calming before the storm". I have not wintered in New England in a number of years. I have really not caught a whole seasonal cycle in New England period. When I arrived my area was recovering from a wicked ice storm that had left much of the state without power. While I dimly remember this period, I do remember sensing that winter was hanging on a bit longer than I appreciated in the spring months. So now I am here feeling as though my fall, while it is suppose to be the most beautiful time of year in this area, is in fact not going to hold the comfort of my other falls but rather provide that sense of gather your food and head to the cave (or basement) to stay warm because winter is just around the corner. And as I am limbo land for a transition period, not able to fully transition, but not fully in the same place, I feel as though this season, my continued pant-wearing, wool searching, may be far different from my previous falls.

Bird of the heart II

Continuing on with my "Bird of the Heart", while I was driving today a red tail flew right across the street, low enough that I could see the legs folded into the soft fluffy feather stomach. Again, I felt my intake of breath, reached to call one who would appreciate it, and then just paused, watching instead and thinking about heart, those feathers over the hawk's breast, about life patterns and signs and how sometimes allowing for the universe to unfold as it should is enough in this journey of life, and in that unfolding we are sometimes gifted with the natural, or nature, letting you know things are okay, or as they should be.

Bird of the heart

Today on my drive to an Apple store, a drive that is becoming a familiar one, I had the special experience of watching a red tailed hawk drop from the sky to land in the grass beside the highway. I was captivated by watching the wings pose for landing, the body of the chest tilting forward, claws outstretched. For a time I looked towards the red tail as a sign to pay attention to, a guiding post if you will, as my animal familiar. I noted their presence as providing both a sense of comfort and security, and magical to a degree. It seems as though it has been a long while since I have seen one and I like to think again that this sighting provides me with a message of something positive, or just a change in my path, a message to heed. If nothing else, it left me with the impression of once again being awed by that which is natural.

The Starving Artist

I just had a delightful evening out and about in my original hometown. Keene has developed a lively night experience that includes Christmas lights, candle lights at the outdoor dining tables and music drifting from a number of venues. On this night, my boss and I went out to enjoy The Starving Artist (www.thestarvingartistcollective.com) where a handful of clever, creative people piled into a space and joined in the listening and enjoyment of music. There were a select number of guitarists, the owner Lana on a pump organ, a boy with a harmonica and later, the "main star" a girl with a rather quirky voice that at first had me hesitating to smile in praise, only to slowly get drawn into her quirky rhythms and voice variations. (I did think it was strange that she sang with her eyes closed, one slited open and cross-eyed though). She came with a guitar, keyboard and mandolin and definitely rocked out some cool tunes as the evening wore on (I'll post her name later as I left her demo cd in the car). As I sat there by two girls with their cooler of beer, pink streaked crazy hair, and friendly plaid-wearing artsy boys, I had to smile, even as my boss left early to return to her farther away home, at how fun it was to be back among artists. I felt a longing for my sketchbook, admonishing myself that while I purposely bought this new purse so it could fit my sketchbook, I have left it on the stairs of my house for days, with it's cover cock-eyed and falling off. All the same, it inspired me to paint, so arm ready or not, I'm painting tomorrow. And, luckily for me, figure drawing on Tuesday--an event I've happened to miss for two weeks at The Starving Artist, but one I'm freaking thrilled they have. I guess even as I look to move on from Keene, this is some tiny way of saying, "Hey, appreciate the life you're living, in the space you're living in while you're here... it may surprise you with what it has yet to offer your artistic self."