In the "Wilderness"
Doing taxes when you have multiple jobs and sell your own art is difficult. Meanwhile everyone is adjusting to a post-vaccination U.S., and I have no idea what that is, really (I know—some populations, including some states in the U.S., are still in crisis, still suffering terrible losses). But here in Central California, suddenly everyone wants to meet up. I want to meet up too, and I have, but my psyche is simultaneously putting on the brakes.
I’ve probably been spending too much time watching YouTube videos about people who are trekking alone through uncharted wilderness, and reading newsletters on similar topics. Maybe I’m just seeking a fleeting sense of space or silence—a silence that, strangely enough, rarely happened for me during the “isolation” of lockdown.
In Isaac Fitzerald’s Walk It Off newsletter, which I enjoy reading, I answered his question, “What was the first walk that was meaningful to you?” with the following:
“My first meaningful walk was probably the mile I walked to school and back. But the walk (or hike) that sticks in my mind took place much later. I'd never done anything like a serious hike in the wilderness before. In community college I went on a field trip with my geology class to Yosemite, near end of Spring. No tourists; it was very quiet. At one point everyone was sitting around taking a break. Because I have asthma, my instructor let me start off by myself towards the base of Sentinel Dome -- so the rest of the class could catch up with me, and not the other way around. The forest was pristine and fragrant, with patches of snow still on the ground; the lichen and greenery of the trees was vibrant, like nothing I'd ever seen. I stopped at the valley rim, and about a half hour later my classmates showed up. They wanted to hike up the dome, but I decided to stay where I was [sitting on the rocks], because it was so majestically beautiful right there. A mild storm was bringing towering clouds, trailing curtains of rain, over the other side of the valley. I loved being there by myself watching the clouds and rain drift across the steep cliffs (but somehow thankfully not towards me). I don't have the language to properly describe that moment. "Awesome," whatever. I think you know what I mean.”
I don’t have a photo of that. No digital copy. No Instagram or Facebook posts. So it sits indelibly (well, more or less) in my mind. It’s mine. But I could still share it with you.
I do have a photo of a crow standing on the peak of a garage roof (good place to crack nuts):
While I may feel like taking off into the wilderness right now, or at least going off for a weekend to some quiet spot, I think maybe what I want even more is “real” silence and spaciousness—the ability to be in the wilderness of my own mind. Staying at home during the pandemic has been anything but isolation—mainly because I’ve spent so much time on the computer attending Zoom meetings, emailing, and social media scrolling and posting.
I’m surprised at the anxiety I have about returning to social life, but I think it’s not so much about seeing people in person again (which is a relief, in some ways), as it is about shifting to a different communication paradigm after becoming even more habituated to the “social” media this past year. Damn. I feel it trying to pull me back into that gigantic global room full of people murmuring, shouting, cracking jokes, lying, promoting, trying to sell me something.
Art:
And then there’s art, which creates that sense of silence and spaciousness for me, even as I create it. Or does it create (re-create) me?
Here are several works from the “Patternmaker“ series—actually part of a larger series called “Family Papers,” all collage incorporating pattern pieces that my mother drew on scrap paper used in dressmaking:
I have kind of mixed feelings about the Family Papers series, for various reasons. First, I didn’t feel satisfied with how I had made use of the papers documenting parts of my father’s life: computer-punched timecards, immigration papers, etc. Maybe that’s because he was not one to talk about his work life. I know that the part of his life before he was in the merchant marines was grueling. He worked as a laborer in the agricultural fields of California, Oregon, and Washington, and in the Alaska fisheries. He took part in strikes (San Francisco’s “Bloody Thursday strikes,” but there was violence, and he didn’t want to talk about it. Second, I started having feelings about “letting go“ of these works, since they did document some aspects of my parents’ lives; they felt “personal.“ Nevertheless, one lets go of everything, eventually…
Five Good Things:
From Alison Bechdel’s graphic memoir, The Secret to Superhuman Strength. Here is her remembrance of Climbing Desolation Peak (Paris Review): https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2021/05/10/climbing-desolation-peak/
Mason Curry (in Subtle Maneuvers - and hey, I just noticed he’s got a new article on Alison Bechdel’s cartooning process) writes about Duke Ellington on creativity and “isolation” and “having a hungry ear.” Do you have a hungry ear or eye?
A few years ago, I co-edited the first and second hay(na)ku poetry anthologies with Mark Young, whom I never met in person, since he lives in Australia, but whose bemused and occasionally curmudgeonly personality I enjoyed through his emails. I admire his steady output of poems and commitment to publishing experimental writers and artists in Otoliths. Here is Otoliths issue sixty-one part one (lulu.com). Mark Young’s poetry blog is Gamma Ways (I also love that he still uses blogspot for both his blog and Otoliths). See also Eileen Tabios’ hay(na)ku site—she invented the form.
Thanks to Joe Livernois for bringing to my attention Stuart Hodes, “Dancing Into Old Age.” You’ll find Joe’s writing in Voices of Monterey Bay (VOMB). For example, “George Pollock for the Defense.“
Kade L. Twist and Cristobal Martinez: Postcommodity in “Borderlands,” Extended Segment (in Art21 - YouTube).
I’ll be back next week. Keep dancing…