|
Been in the midst of a big rabbit hole project this year I never anticipated with this cycle of centuries. What is a century? Most basically, a list. This collection of lists is becoming a novella of a book, a shadow box, a podcast. Learn more about the process through the MFA at CIIS Artifact Podcast where this month they devoted an episode to my process completing this series and trying to represent that visually with a shadow box. This weekend on Sunday (May 1) at MING Studios in Boise, I'll be reading from this series for the first time. If you're in Boise and want to hear, I will begin at 7pm through MING Studio's 7o'clock series. Sometimes they lock the doors right at 7, so get there on time :) It's $7 if you're not a member (and if you're an artist, you can be a member for $13 a year!). A lot of the stuff will be raw and vulnerable, freshly typed, so friendly faces please, for this work-in-progress reading. Thank you! Maybe I'll see you there. If not, you can check out some of my process below and the podcast to learn more.
1 Comment
The rushing Payette, gentle roar by the shore. We sat on wide boulder, low sandstone flat at our feet displaying our black Rubbermaid plates, containers, bins of food, brought out one at a time. Mountain pines stretched all around. The day in high 60s but a breeze asked me to pull up my sweatshirt hood. Pale sky, trace clouds. Greens, strawberries, crackers with chevre, a yellow cheese that bit back and tinned oysters. Blackberry bubbling drinks rested on river rocks unopened. We watched the ants watching us, pools of sugar sand circling round stones, the sap and water scents infusing life in our bones. Kayakers waved paddles by. On mountaintop, grass dried underfoot. I reached the height of one landing and knew the climb continued far above. I craved a hike deep into wilderness, to walk on and on to forever. Our red Prius pulled into a temporary spot. Tiny saplings emerged on the ridges, bright needly tips shot up just in time to greet us. On one side, thick brambles of conifers, aspens, huckleberry shoots, reeds. A rocky soft hill descended steep down the other. And up above this plateau with fresh open land for wandering, ATV treads dug in from beyond leading up to fire pits, fresh burnt logs, still smoldering. Across the road, another peak raised giant. Cars motored past in quick succession, short bursts of quiet between. Anytime we leave the house it doesn't seem like anyone else is isolating. Traffic doesn't die. Lycaenidae and Pieridae flutter by too, black with orange wing tips, white with blue specks, damselflies with translucent pixie wings. I step up on a log, a stump, aged, cracked, to see what's below the surface wood, leveraging out the spaces under crevices, wanting to hole up inside.  April 2020 birthday picnic. Photo Thomas Paul. Of course the leaves. The wind moving leaves. The burble in my stomach. Breeze. Breath. Smiles. Footsteps. A soft creak. A chair adjusts. Sink into this spring evening, waving like a syncopated drum. Songs of silence and motorways. A little finch pours in her child's lullaby. Feel whispers of hope in high waters. A river gushes, rushing fast bubbles that wash willow tree trunks. We're all spiraling together. The flagpole squeaks. Motorcycle revs. And yes the air currents through lavender bushes, through maple, oak, aspen. Everywhere singing birds in their own notes and keys. Some steady, slow, some quick, high pitched. Everything green. Everything vibrating. Everything the river. Years ago, the river at its high point closed the greenbelt, so I took a different route home from teaching on my birthday, on my bicycle, and Dr. Alluri ran into me in his night blue sedan. I wear a helmet now when I ride. I look all ways with more caution, more of my dad's fighter pilot sense behind eyes. A wavering melody creeps in: violins, ragtime accordions, silent film pianos unseen, as though some invisible composer designed a cinematic soundscape for this moment. Across the way, thundering booms hard to distinguish. The traffic stops and starts in spurts, but constant. Kids yell in a tunnel. I tell myself hush. Tell worries quell. Some bicycles creak, their spokes sputter. Some run clean and flow. Footsteps on brick, on concrete, on wood steps. My dad wasn't always a great listener but he was quiet most the time. He allowed space. Didn't interrupt. Didn't not talk over me. He waited, that patience that boiled my organs when I wanted something now. A whistler soothes me with her lips.  A little finch pours in her child's lullaby. Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash  Photo by Frida Lannerström on Unsplash Alone time: scale rocks, run impossible sprints. Write with all my senses, limbs. With my own pace, clock, rhythm. Trust that. Spend weeks, months, years lying in wait, envisioning my next feast from my cave. Then it's time to act, to launch rocket in belly. The taste of my craving. Locking sight on her there. Embrace, attach, drag my target up cliff face to a spot safe from vultures, jackals. Engorge, rest. Resume slow. Dream my next fierce outcome. Stealth, quiet. In silence, listen to the orchestra around us in this mountain land. Tiptoe, keep clean, everything arranged as I like. Or I get ruffled. Always watching, preparing the next big leap. Waiting with whole-bodied attention. Inside I growl and bellow -- and sometimes outside. Mostly I seem calm. Hiding in splendor home, creating bizarre fantasies about all of you. Examining differences between the world and me, measuring the limits.  Photo by Uriel Soberanes on Unsplash Another hearty poem inspired by Dorianne Laux's "Heart" in the spirit of this week.  Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash Heart takes long trips across the frigid planes of winter An explorer of underwater planets A trickster bounding one way then doubling back Heart trickles out dewdrops from lilac blossoms An opening, a cave door I see you and melt with a plate of buttered potatoes Squishy heart of dancing Russian soldiers Tiptoeing their way home at 3am Departing the Ukrainian border Sneaking back to bed with their wives With their husbands With friends and strangers And all alone A dream looking out the window Sugar sticks across my lips and brows A blood orange dripping from my hands That tastes like dark chocolate But a little smokey with forest fire My heart on a plane to Belize  Photo by camilo jimenez on Unsplash I was reawakened in Erik Ehn's 30 day virtual silent playwriting retreat last July. I'm craving that kind of submersion again, especially of the in-person variety. We did much much much that month, making/reading/writing intentionally TOO much, with big pockets of stillness, silence invited throughout. We created in all disciplines and I often felt back at my MFA Program at CIIS, the first academic environment where I felt at home. Here are a few remnants, scrappy poem cut-ups/blackouts that helped me move forward in my process toward a larger thing.  Oh you green and luscious peat moss, fruit of my hips hair in mouth light in eyes sink my unaligned posture form pressing me down small breeze, nuthatch on elm I'll one day stop making up for lost time and the death of everyone I love I threw up twice from the heat and cookie dough ice cream squeezed my eyes tight into tomorrow into home  A big emptying out rotting cold astroturf we slept in oceans of smoke my upper half went numb What is the color of sun?
A family escaping overloaded raft made of scrap wood, piles House on fire, they lost everything Drifting apart into Pacific A choke pulsed up My heart sparks me in their folds, their kingdom Clouds pressed on through the wind I hope inside you are bright  Photo by Gary Bendig on Unsplash Once upon a time, I had a little rabbit. I found it on the side of the road one winter night on my walk. It didn’t move, munching on stiff grass, looking up at me as I approached. I knelt close to its face and whispered hi. Its eyes glowed red. Then flashed back again. I watched a while and continued on. Close to home I looked back. It was following me. I knew it was just a rabbit but I walked faster and even jogged my last blocks, ducking fast around two bends. At my front lawn I turned and saw it still following, eyes flashing red to black. I dashed in my front door and locked it, scolding myself for how silly I was to run from a rabbit. I decided to call her a she. I decided it was a gift to see her out in my lawn munching grass. I looked out my peephole and then out my window. I saw how cute her hazel ears laid against her back. Her eyes no longer red. I decided I made up my fears. I started to fall for her bushy tail, hunched walk, big back feet. She caught me staring. I waved. She returned to her dinner. She had been on a long winding journey. She lost three litters to poison. She smelled something trustworthy on me and decided to try trusting me for a while. I needed to trust someone too. I needed to feel trustworthy. I needed someone to believe in me. Every day had felt so alone that year. I decided she was a good omen, the start of a lucky break. In the previous year, I lost too many people. Sometimes tragedy comes in threes. For me that year it came in 30s. In 300s. I couldn’t remember what it was like to not feel completely alone in the world. Everyone leaves or dies. This rabbit, let her stay. Let me let her stay. In the gracious benevolence of the gods, I besought them with all wild display, hands to air to ceiling, mouth to lips and prayer of my heart, I needed their boon now, to look out for me and this creature. Amen. I decided to go out. Give her a proper greeting. Out the front door, she looked up at me. Her red and black eyes flashing again. She looked more like an it now, not a she. I kept my heart still. I had to trust it. I needed this. I breathed and knelt down, my fingers to the earth, a gesture of welcome, coaxing. She/it bounded slow toward me. Eyes transfixing me. I heard her/its thoughts. Becoming my thoughts. I heard instructions to pick her/it up, bring her/it inside. To care for her/it. To give her/it a home. To shelter her/it. To let her/it into my body. To let her/it into my brain. To let her/its spirit out of this rabbit and into my body. I saw myself feel her/its power, soon to be her/my power. I had no more willpower. I soon would have no more me. Her/its eyes and fur against my skin paralyzed me, broke me. I picked her/it up, I no longer I. On my bed we laid ourselves down, my no longer my. I let her/it hold me, climb me, peeking head inside my mouth. Between my teeth, through those red eyes, she/it breathed her/its/my spirit, consuming/becoming me, l eaving this rabbit shell, this body corpse on my/its/her/their bed. The shell soon to be eaten, discarded, as this human body would be, once we finished. Another being taken, our one-by-one assemblage for our mother planet, as we consume this earth with our brainwaves. Once upon a time, we had a little rabbit/little woman/little planet.  Photo by Tolga Ahmetler on Unsplash Happy. New. Year. (The more we say it, the more it's true?) As challenging times continue for many/all(?) of us, I'm finding it even more important to reflect on wins, losses, missed opportunities and new connections. There are a lot more highlights than I expected from 2021 -- maybe if you look back, you'll find the same? I hope so. Here are some from my end: Highlights:
I did make progress on my 2021/2022 goals, but I notice my goals for the next two years do look similar to last year's (and the year before). As Andrew Simonet encourages, I'm trying to think more in terms of decades now, rather than years or days, so that's okay. Progress is progress. These are big goals for me. These days still aren't usual. I'm grateful to be healthy, have work, have a home to live in, be able to afford groceries, rent, bills and small luxuries, and be *relatively* mentally stable. 3 Big Goals for the Next Two Years:
As I've found it challenging to make bold steps in these days of continued uncertainty, finding myself occasionally paralyzed by the unknowns aided by past trauma festering in my ribs, I want to make this a year of more bravery, more stepping forward into what I know I need, letting go of what no longer serves me, more courageous joy, more openhearted rejuvenation, more grounding reflection. May 2022 be my year of claiming space for what I know I need.  Heading toward the highest sea cliffs on the world on Moloka'i. What a light spot -- fully vaccinated, before Delta, just married. Thanks to those of you who shared your thoughts about my 500-word artist statement in process. Below is the 250-word version. They'll both live in the "About" section of my website shortly. Feel free to again share observations, what feels like the strongest pieces of language, how it makes you see/invites you into my work and questions, if you like. Regardless, thanks for taking an early glimpse. As a playwright and writer across disciplines, I study the distance between us, seeking connection across differences.
Writing teaches me to trust my brain and get present in my body, two things I once thought impossible. I mine monsters that plagued me through child-and-early-adulthood (and still chase me down), amplifying them to mythic metaphors in locations loaded with personal history, so I can grapple with my mind as a human who lives in an absurd world, just like you. By revealing my most vulnerable secrets, I hope we can see each other more clearly. In my work, tactile language, playful contradictions, kinetic imagery and haunted landscapes bridge spaces between words, between universes, between you and me. I uncover how my disorders, scars, terrors, regrets, curiosities, heartbeats, delights and wonders link with yours, the earth’s and the cosmos’. I cook our rawest parts together in hot lava stew. By physicalizing my most difficult moments and mashing them with yours, along with surprising bursts of dazzling beauty and mystical forces, I hope laughter and meet-cute swoons can bubble alongside the brutality of reality. I want us to take more time to pay attention with intention, to see that the shadows inside us we can’t bear to acknowledge also overwhelm the stranger next to us, those too far away to comprehend, nonhuman persons and unrecognizable entities – and that we share intoxicating joys, dreams, desires, too. Without shame, we can unveil, heal and embrace our weightiest, wildest places for love of interdependence between everything. Hello! I'm working on updating my artist statement. Below is a draft of the full 500-word version (that I can cut down as needed for various applications, but would live on this website along with a 250-word version). If you want, feel free to share your first impressions, using the following questions as guideposts: What is the strongest language -- words/phrases that linger with you? After reading the statement, is it clear what kind of art I make? Is it clear why I do it? Why (I hope) it matters in the world? And how I do it? Does it make you want to see my work? If you already know my work (a bit or a lot), does it sound like what I make, or more aspirational, something I'm reaching for but doesn't quite fit yet? Thank you for reading and any help you'd like to give! Observations and questions are welcome, prescriptions less so. No troll remarks needed, either :) As a playwright and writer across disciplines, I examine the gaps dividing genres, people, perspectives and my own disjointed fragments. Studying the distance between us, I seek connection across differences. I write what terrifies me, juxtaposing the rough and the funny, the silken and sharp, the gorgeous and grotesque to catch a glimpse at what it means to exist on this planet.
Writing teaches me to trust my brain and get present in my body, two things I once thought impossible for me. Swimming through memories I can't believe happened, I mine monsters that plagued me through child-and-early-adulthood (and still chase me down), amplifying them to mythic metaphors in locations loaded with personal history, so I can grapple with my mind as a human who lives in an absurd world, just like you. By revealing my most vulnerable secrets, I hope we can see each other more clearly. Sensory details spark mirror neurons that unite nervous systems. In my work, tactile language, playful contradictions, kinetic imagery and haunted landscapes bridge spaces between words, between universes, between you and me. As I exorcise my past, my peripheral vision widens. Disparate pathways coalesce. Through searching research, conversations, surveys and letters shared with me, I uncover how my disorders, scars, terrors, regrets, curiosities, heartbeats, delights and wonders link with yours, the earth’s and the cosmos’. I pour together collected stories, observations and devised collaborations in hot lava stew, cooking our rawest parts together. Cathartic release brings breath. My play see in the dark: a new myth churns a recurring nightmare from my adolescence with our fears of the other and climate disaster. In a future Juneau, Alaska when all the glaciers have melted, the ice fields have vanished and nothing is recognizable, an isolated community of mutant outsiders must decide what to do with a newcomer: the young girl with a great power that threatens to destroy their village and everyone in it. This play collides environmental collapse, collectivism, poetry, a genocidal shadow beast, radical love and the value of compassion over suspicion. By physicalizing my most difficult moments and mashing them with yours, along with surprising bursts of dazzling beauty flooding with waterfalls, oceans and mystical forces, I hope laughter and meet-cute swoons can bubble alongside the heartbreaking brutality of reality. It's hard being alive today. I want us to take more time to pay attention with intention, to see that the things inside us we can’t bear to acknowledge also overwhelm the stranger next to us, those too far away to comprehend, nonhuman persons and unrecognizable entities – and that we share intoxicating joys, dreams, desires, too. I want us to take stock of our hidden monstrosities. Without shame, we can unveil, heal and embrace our weightiest, wildest places for love of interdependence between everything. What if we held unconditional friendliness toward all citizens of the multiverse, ourselves included? I want to hold out a hand and sit with you through your struggle. Together we can get through this thing called life. |
Like what I'm posting? You can leave me a tip!
$1, $10, $100, whatevs :) Heidi KraayProcess notes on a work in progress (me). This mostly contains raw rough content pulled out of practice notebooks. Occasional posts also invite you into the way I work, with intermittent notes on the hows and whys on the whats I make. Less often you may also find prompts and processes I've brought to workshops, as well as surveys that help me gather material for projects. Similar earlier posts from years ago can be found on: Archives
April 2024
Categories
|
RSS Feed