It’s been stormy for the past four days, it seems, and the river is swollen and carrying the firewood we will burn out into the ocean, to be blown back on shore, washed up, dried and collected . This cycle feels a strong part of our westcoast life.
More and more since your visit I am reflecting on these mundane cycles which make up our life here and considering a future where the rooted sense of place is changed and replaced with something else. It is like a bug in the system, a speck of grit caught behind my eye lid and a reminder of a thing to be dealt with. And yet there is nothing to be done.
I have times of willfulness where in I project myself head first into imaging the future with all my people in it. Still, there is more the sense of taking care of the here and now, in good faith that these steps taken will ultimately lead to the goal I so fondly conjure up in my dreaming.
Today a shelf broke and fell down in the studio. It could not support the weight of the all-so-many bits and pieces, paints in jars, stereo speakers no longer needed, papers, glues, spray cans, fixatives, cables and boxes of chalk pastels. They all came down in a smashed up heap. There was a smell of turpentine.
I spent a couple hours throwing away what was broken and also tentatively, discretely let some things go.