Thursday, 31 March 2011

drowning in March

Anyone else out there found this past month almost unbearably long, depressing, heavy and overwhelming?
 Today is the last day of it and I've decided to take drastic action;
I'm drowning in words, good words, wise words, possibly helpful words..........but I can't think anymore and what's worse, I can't see. I've surrounded myself with the safety blanket of books, an immediately recognisable identity which I needed at the outset of this journey but now, I'm being slowly smothered.
So......................they're going back to the library to wait until I actually need them as opposed to want them. Acquisition is not quite the same as being.
 I have a tendency to buy outrageous shoes in the mistaken belief that owning them is the same as living that life; I buy into a pigeonhole then turn out the light and walk away.

I'm reading Kathleen Jamie today and I now understand why :)

Sunday, 20 March 2011

parallel pathways

  • creating alongside reading
  • the one informs the other
  • blurring the edges
  • merging
  • reflection in action
  • reflection on action
  • becoming..............................
I see now how I think; it's how I see, how I engage, how I learn.
Anyone else feel this way too?

Not knowing, not caring.

 I'd like to talk a little about not knowing...that place we go to as we create; not knowing quite why we feel compelled to make a certain gesture, or mark or stitch or word...we just know we have to.

 I was given this beautiful handmade lace collar by a friend. It had a special place on my wall, waiting....then, recently, I just knew what to do with it. I didn't need to know why, I don't need to know why. The reason was like a fleeting shadow in my mind, then it was gone. No matter.

  I love handmade paper; irregular, smooth, receptive, responsive to my touch.

I'm reading Agnes Martin's Writings with great pleasure and resonance.

I like linen thread. I like words. I like stitching through soft, thick paper. It's slow, rhythmic, peaceful, stitching this lace onto the paper.

I wrote my words, I wrote Martin's words; an act of homage and of connection.

I don't mind that I don't know the cognitive rationale behind my doing this act over several days, it felt right.

I'm glad.