Day 41

The Fifth Chamber of the Heart (my final written submission for Matt Rotando's Surrealist Writing Workshop at the University of Arizona's Poetry Center)


I begged him, “please, please tell me again what it’s like.”

“I can only describe it as a purring,” he said of the snow slurry falling inside his ribcage. He swallowed again, warm and sweet slipping down his throat. And then, “maybe it’s more a feathered butterfly, I can’t quite say.” It apparently had begun, this snowstorm, two and a half weeks before, in the middle of a blue note night when he dropped his glass trumpet, which bounced back up to him instead of shattering.

Magenta smoke swirled over his head as he licked the last drops out of the shot glass and stumbled outside, disappeared. I thought he would come back in and purr some more for me, but after unblinking hours (four of them if my memory is reliable*) of watching the empty door, it too disappeared so I shrugged on my jacket, climbed the back staircase and watched bats dive through the floor.


* Memories, if stored in muscular tissue as opposed to the vast minefield of the brain, are quitely reliable. Take, for instance, the memory of squeezing the heart for the first time with your hands. You remember, don’t you, the tense zing of that first electrical impulse tensing then dissolving as impulse became past tense and squirreled itself away in the fifth chamber of the heart?

____________________________________________________________________________________

I offer this second bit of a tid. My writing class finished tonight (I know! so fast! I already miss it!) and for our almost-final collab activity, we round tabled the super-short super/surreal short stories we submitted, paired them and culled out a fave line from each and finally added a created-on-the-spot line to create our own new works. Found poetry, sort of. We kept reading them aloud after each story pairing and so we got to build together as well as construct our own pieces. It's funny how the same line or phrase would wriggle into the group pieces--one of Pious Gone's lines is one such utterance: "There was nothing left to smother." Good words strung together, yes? And so I offer you the piece I built out of everyone's work, unedited (though I would now lose some of it to pretty it up were I not being true to the moment). A quick note: the first two lines were pulled from published pieces we looked at to open tonight's session.

I put on a dress made of bones
the light has no further need of prisms to break it up into rainbows.
He answered box and egg and oyster and eye and poppy--
add 1/2 cup of a shredded & slim map of Vietnam, stringing
together thefted pearls from that pop-eyed oyster.
Please, please tell me what it's like--
there is nothing left to smother. Chewing spitting
chewing dying breathing chewing falling in love--isn't it all
the same thing? The writing that matters is in the dust.
Asleep, unfold, insert scatter patterns
dizzy roses spit their thorns at the rifle blue sky,
and reading the leaves we see slipping
bare feet slapping the street,
branches broken into math and dust.
Chartreusely speaking, the dark notes
of flamenco mornings become YES, and
salted muppets are delicious but you can
snack on Sesame Street hairballs.

Day 40

markmaking on yellowback
graphite & acrylic on canvas, 11" x 14"

I fell into defacing yesterday's piece. It was somewhere between meditative & mesmerizing and oh-so-fun! I suppose it's not really "art" since it's more like unlearned playing around. I think I like where it landed.

Day 39

yellowback
acrylic on canvas, 11" x 14"

I like to paint outside...today it was a little crazy out there because of the heat. I kept pouring paint and almost instantly it went tacky and then dry, so today's piece has a ton of sticky layers of paint and medium and even though I grew quite parched, it was still a lot of fun!

Day 38

Paris, Or Someplace Like It
A Play in 4 Acts

Our Characters:
Wobat (a brown-black, feathered bat with superfluous appendages)
The Devil’s Soul
Antique Candlestick

Setting: Exterior, sidewalk of a sidestreet, windows partially defacerated with graffiti. Head- or searchlight reflections bounce at random and the competing sounds of heart- or hoofbeats mix with something like jazz and fall across the stage from both wings at uneven intervals. The sky is somewhere between pink and blue.

We stumble upon the play at Act III, Scene 7:

The Devil’s Soul (leaning heavily against a shop window, touching it only with his bald head.): It could be Paris. WE could be in Paris right now.

Wobat shrugs, causing a purring feathered roar.

The Devil’s Soul: I know you don’t agree. I didn’t ask if you agreed. I don’t care if you agree. (Something in the window catches his eye and he slowly sinks towards the sidewalk as if pulled by his kneecaps, his bald head never losing contact with the window.)

Wobat: (her voice garbled and an octave higher than usual): It isn’t whether I agree. Or disagree. Or disavow any knowledge of this entire operation. Or decide to operate on your brain. If you want to be in Paris, go to Paris. (she tries to whistle but makes only wind sounds, then flies to the spot next to and upstage from The Devil’s Soul and looks in the window)

The Devil’s Soul: Isn’t it perfect?

Wobat: (incredulous) That? THAT?!?! It looks just like…(she then walks across the stage away from him and the brassy thing in the window, only to fall off the stage which is no longer the stage but a bridge across La Seine, splashing as she falls in)

The Devil’s Soul: I know.

Day 37

a thought for you
acrylic, canvas, sewing pattern, window screen, vellum, paper & thread

...there is nothing holding any of these items together. There are no knots, there is no glue, the threads here act like thought impulses passing from structure to structure, carrying with them intent, behavior goals, encouragement, sometimes yelling like a drill sergeant at the muscles to fight, flee or fall down and play dead. Like the rest of my pursuits, my college coursework has centered on intersections--as in where body and mind collide, and how the soul is woven in and out and around both.

Day 36

paint chips
acrylic & watercolor on canvas panels, 3" x 5" & 4" x 6"

This was my third painting "expedition" today. All of them just made me say "ugh." I figure I'm not feeling it (paint) for a couple reasons: I'm putting off my writing piece and yet it haunts me; and, the heat is seriously deliriating. So this is where I landed today. Double-ugh.

Day 35

fashionably orbital
graphite on that hard stock backing of a watercolor pad, 9" x 12"

Day 34

nest constellation
acrylic & mixed media on canvas, 11" x 14"

a few details (click for larger view)

Day 33

a dog-eared sky

Day 32

red

Sorry folks, park's closed...wait, that can't be right.

Sorry folks, thought I posted this, this morning!

Day 31

One of these things is not like the others:
feather, flame, ash, margarita.

One of these things is not like the others:
dog, cat, rat, frog.

One of these things is not like the others:
rainbow, knife, fork, leprechaun.

One of these things is not like the others:
hero, polka dot, growl, owl.

One of these things is not like the others:
scissor kick, popsicle lick, double-balled prick, spray-on lipstick.

One of these things is not like the others:
freckle, lizard, sno-ball, cella-phone.

One of these things is not like the others:
pervert, phlamingo, bleep, math.

One of these things is not like the others:
whisker, whisper, whistle, thumb.

One of these things is not like the others:
petal, cup, yellow, brella.

One of these things is not like the others:
hydrangea, sidekick, muster, golf.

One of these things is not like the others:
clipboard, alien, art, stallion.

One of these things is not like the others:
leaf, arc, bucket, soul.

One of these things is not like the others:
surfboard, stars, clock, tool.

One of these things is not like the others:
me, you, you, them.

Day 30

stop action dream sequence / hospital overnight
no loupe required

Day 29

white-hot blaze
acrylic, watercolor & ink on canvas, 11" x 14"

Day 28

Books About Lobster, text & props
(click here for larger view)

I started a new class this week called Surrealist Writing. It's being taught my Matt Rotando, who just may be my new peach hero. Fantabulous exercises, dynamic "home" work, and a pool of creative energy possessed by my classmates whose depths cannot be measured. For our first homework, we had to complete 3 20-minute writings and cull something from one of them; make a mask (real or imagined...mine was real); and choreograph a "hand dance." I'd been playing with this poem about lobsters, and so naturally I created props/finger puppets of lobster claws (and then proceeded to knit a lobstery scarf during my presentation); and made a kelpy mask. It rocked beyond belief!

I wish ALL of this year's 100 Days artists could join in this class--I honestly think you'd love it!!!

Day 27

watercolor on canvas panel, 6" x 8"

Day 26

postmodern nest
acrylic, mesquite & string on canvas, 16" x 20"

postmodern nest detail

Though it may look like the same piece from yesterday, I actually painted a new one just for this purpose.

Day 25

supernova
acrylic on canvas, 16" x 24"

supernova (backlit)

supernova (eclipsed)

In the car on my way home today, yellow occurred to me and a slow wide smile crawled across my face. Yellow makes me happy, and I knew what I'd have to do when I got home.

When I broke out my supplies and set up a temporary painting space in the backyard, I was assaulted by myriad thoughts/impulses/sensations. A-10s and pigeons both screaming overhead with individual ideas of self; shrugging off a long day; JK Davies Day 23; how summer's haze lingers happily in the memory; a painting by my friend ReX in New Orleans; Susan Ersinghaus' Day 24 (which was inspired by Kevin Calisto's Day 20); the years-long shadow a fire can cast over a place; Claudine's mutterance, "warmth of their whiteness"; Coldplay's song "Yellow"; a hot, dusty wind and thoughts streaming as I scrubbed brush against canvas, turning it yellow and then white, yellow again, and finally landing somewhere in between.

I had a difficult time narrowing today's entry down to one image. I like the boldness of the top image ("supernova"), but I caught a glance of the canvas from behind and it struck me as dynamic and unexpected. Since I set up under the big mesquite out back, the leafy shadows played against the canvas, too, and that got me thinking of other things. How impermanent life can be. And how a painting can be art, but so can its picture taken in a moment that will never again exist except as a digital representation. And how I want so much to look back on this summer as my "summer of love." I probably won't, but I will most certainly be able to call it, lovingly, my "summer of paint." And I suppose that's something, too.

Day 24

sideswept

Day 23

dreaming of other places

Day 22

deep water
acrylic & watercolor on canvas, 6" x 6"

Day 21

fire in mind / Wallow (revised)
watercolor on canvas, 8" x 8"

I played around with this some today and I'm feeling better about it, although I suspect it may not be as well-received by its earlier enthusiasts. Wildfires are on our minds these days, and this summer is going to be a doozy. It already is. My brother is a seasoned firefighter and is already on his third regional callout of the season. Though he is well into his career and works mainly with logistical concerns, this fire is worrisome. And hey I just remembered I wasn't going to litter my posts with blahblahing, so perhaps I'll comment some more down there.

first version, posted around 8am MST

I'm not particularly happy with this, and even started a new piece last night. But I think part of the process and inner dialog has to include "showing" the things that don't work, and maybe giving the thing some time to breathe before readdressing it.

Day 20

summon the sky
watercolor/pencil on canvas, 8" x 8"

Day 19

Priority post script
Sitting tonight, images and words spinning around me I found myself scribbling dutifully. There are many people whose work inspired the writing which came to me hours after I found the images in lens.

in part, for Jeff

corners worn down, rounded
by will as much by
the elements--
boron mercury lead
time over distance plus x
=
one way to confess a sin

tornadic gravity of light; white hole

dangle; or, color, thy name is vermilion, ii

Day 18

unwinding the wounds

Day 17

Blue note

X

I really like what my friend Claudine said in her preamble about this project, that after earning (a well-deserved) MA in Fine Art, she's looking forward to rediscovering the joy of creativity for its own sake over these 100 days. It's been awhile since I just looked at how light behaves in my house, among my belongings and makes me see something differently, and it feels markedly similar to Claude's sentiment. Merci beaucoup mon amie!

Day 16

Verde es verdad

There's little relief in sight. Summer in southern Arizona is always a challenge, but this year, with so much of the south and east of the state on fire, the midyear furnace seems especially unbearable. Just tonight, Pops and I were chatting about how much nicer the weather had become after the sun went down. True, smoke was in the air, but it felt almost balmy. As I climbed into my car, I checked the temp gauge: 94 degrees after 8:00. Balmy. Mmm.

Day 15

Uninhabitable Nest (detail)

Uninhabitable Nest
Mixed media

Inspired by cramped elephants, and a blurry memory of trees, and empty but not empty circles.