Recently I enjoyed listening to this podcast episode "Lost Proof" by Dr. Cindy Shearer, my former professor and advisor in my MFA days, when I studied Creative Inquiry, Interdisciplinary Arts at California Institute of Integral Studies. In response to Cindy's invitation at the end of the episode, I went on my own little trip and made a postcard out of the experience. I feel so-so about the results, but found the process awakening, so wanted to share her invitation with you: "What if you make a commitment to do something that you do every day but to try it on for one day in a new way. What if you try to see it, experience it as travel or as a trip. Don't forget to take your travel -- your traveler -- journal with you. Record words that speak to you...as you travel or images, or pick up small items that appeal or speak to you so that you have them to remind you of the trip when you get back. When you do get back from your trip, feel free to explore definitions or the etymology or the synonyms connected to words that you found...Sit with it all. And then make a postcard of your trip. Don't forget, please, to make your stamp." Cindy Shearer I took a walk in the foothills near my neighborhood as I often do. What most struck me was the number of demolition sites in my path. A row of low-income rentals gone for future condos. An old building (perhaps related to the military site that used to be there) torn down in the dusty hills on my route, resulting in new fenced-off locations and detours. I was able to find a different way to my favorite spot -- a pond leading to a little marshy-land in the midst of high-desert surroundings -- but the circuitous directions kept me thinking about how much is continuously disappearing in our cities and natural landscapes. I think if I spent more time making the postcard, I might enjoy that element more, but going through this short process was a playful way to reenter a larger project I'm returning to this month. I forgot to look up etymologies, synonyms and definitions of words -- definitely something I'll do if I revisit this with another walk and text/image piece in the future. Maybe I will, down the road, or on a break/detour from my current project. If you go on a journey and make a postcard, I'd love to hear about it. So would Cindy -- you can connect with her via Instagram as she invites at the end of the podcast. A few images from my trip:
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i see you hiding stuck in your busyness anxiety zaps your lightning bolt brain release sparks or get comfortable clear the confused moments wavering that hula hoop spinning plates no competition break out smash boxes burst light pools poor or not you're fire magnifying polarities no barriers i am here the saga a high road conscious opening thirsty skin shatter empty smoke to collect the kindling again find breathing room little turtle wake from chaos dance in ocean currents glow star-fused spacious all is in your color stop trying so hard find breathing room, little turtle. Photo by Andri Munazir on Unsplash the grey a mist a cloud this city lives in fire season we got swallowed by a volcano through wide, tall panes fragments of cyan between white/rust/brown but a ghost blue less of itself summer days i squint my eyes peering at bright but an overcast lid traps muggy dry the sleepy light ducking back in bed sight a bronze tongue that makes me fold in on my ribs just so air punishes lungs days like this might as well stay inside watch the months go by Photo by Manny Becerra on Unsplash dig the garden
push into heat shovel, water feed blossoms thin greens tick tick tick at keys pull sprouts one idea, another rake past garbage writing is composting churning one thought, another getting lost pluck sucker-shoots spidery grasses, tough weeds sew hope, prune sentences, enrich soil that patience all the waiting slow grow daily in the dirt vigils on chair, by seedlings fight critics, aphids, slugs distractions sometimes the sun sometimes a frost and everything wastes 50 pages pumped thrown away file deleted note forgotten but the harvest after mind numbing stuck wandering pacing slogging to make something of this land is it even fertile? the chance of leaves, blooms, a whole tomato a feast, a draft a completed work something to dream on to return for tick tick tick Crunch up foothills Swelter sweat, dust Birch leaves rattle Brief moments of clouds, paralyzed in blue Squint Feet ache, my poor bunion toe Ration water Heart starts to slow To-dos crumble Thighs sting, the climb The path by the pond A sign sticks out Warning ice isn't safe Photo by Chris Leipelt on Unsplash the water the ripples wet grass fog grows over the bay campers crowd around coleman for coffee and tea water in the warm of right now i take off my sweatshirt watch the waves listen to humans plan their day i don't think about my syllabus be here pay attention to my bloated belly the black needle beaked birds and finch-like flappers fall away from the business around the table this green tea my heart of whole damp love and squishiness this view of blue away from phone service sun warms my neck with thanks to Nick Jaina for the prompt I want writers who listen who understand vast silences and shine light in shadowlands I want writers who comb deep caverns of sea who fall in romance with the planet around them and ask fellow beings to seek palaces of kindness writers who deconstruct their realities for each other willing to fly free past small lives to find something scared writers with courage who magnify the depths who complicate air and make sense of the noise I want writers who challenge the everyday who create imaginary universes out of a bunch of blankets laid over chairs for a kid's fort who erupt volcanoes and paint figures ready to jump but crawl back home and rip out large sections of biblical text to make a new reality writers who make peace stumbling on sanctuary humming wavelengths I want writers who sing lullabies to their readers but the kind that wake us up writers who make kaleidoscopic dances on the page that acrobat off and up and tumble into our hearts thighs throats writers who crack me down the middle with a sledgehammer and then offer a handkerchief I want to be a writer who takes wandering walks through old growth forests and has soft conversations with trees moss leaflets who drinks in autumn and pours out spring I want writers who map the stars in reshaped constellations and invent myths that erupt with the same grandiose heat as the ancients but have awakening energy that stirs something deep from our seats something primal guttural familiar in a tribal way in the way of us that is forgotten memory beyond the bottoms of our feet yet glimmering starlight too guiding us to sublime faraways I want writers who don't reinvent circles but split apart the old contraption and reassemble the parts until they disrupt my breath until I stop recognizing the form only to unveil the fresh beginning I want to be a writer with the racing spririt of that seven year old who ran in from the front door to meet his parents at the welcome desk a writer with curious eyes who puts ear to the door throws it wide discovers the secret place and smashes a violin case on the ground but only for good a writer who traces back to finds hope in history and future too I want writers who travel to the ends of the multiverse who can pull back the moon and release the sun who empty their ribs and continue to open I want to float in a hot blimp to survey the whole topography below me and uncover blanketed mysteries float in a hot blimp, survey the whole topography below me, uncover blanketed mysteries Photo by Nik Shuliahin on Unsplash In the middle of this world She is falling open She ignores the wind-scarred fantasies behind Sails into new outside over there Her ship made of wings Glowing worms at her feet enjoy marsh pools Water, Water, Water And they fall And she belongs In her skin, her boat, her seascape Everything ocean here Everything made of hands of paint Smells like sawdust, soil, salt Giant earthworms at the bottom of everything Churn this planet Revolve it Into the somnambulant falls Gulls cry Not weep Just loud, louder, loudest Crumbling fevers No sickness anymore Now quiet Living in my stomach She doesn't have the nerve twitch Breathes easy, eyes fierce, a hunter But no blood here, no meat All vegetation, growth and shine The tremble of kill not here Breeze slight, rain drops from singing stars And silver moon Shine on The cracks, waves lapping Always small clouds beyond, beyond, beyond A lot to say She writes in captain's log Where does she go, this traveling sailor on windswept water? Where is she leaving and what makes the giant seem small? Everything ocean here. Photo by Anastasia Taioglou on Unsplash won't you celebrate with me
the cylindrical universes that take us through worm holes from one galaxy to another? time isn't as linear as we think celebrate forward journeys, little stars I see out eye corners when I get up too fast won't you celebrate with me how our bodies move together? where they land when they stop? I'm trying to save memory remnants about my dead father to save my jaw from clenching my mind from getting too jam-packed with information and my heart from splintering from burden to save the breath of cool that comforts in summer Don't panic. Don't fall apart. Don't eat sugar. Don't trip on your face. Don't forget to exercise. sing out music sing out change try to save a life every revolution needs a dagger that starts to guide us wind to our engines every revolution needs hunger poetry can't die because we're always thinking because babies are born and their voices string together unicorns with water balloons poetry can't die because here I am and I need poems to live because birds bring messages from one country to another the strongest of us the bravest because warm cloaks, sleep, fists, paper when I die, poems can't because the sea, the mountains psychic pulse drops she wakes
lifts her head lies back down turns over arm on the empty bedside she looks at that space runs hand up and down pillow as if it were his face, back, front she lies back down the sun won't watch her with shyness anymore blinds her heats her sweats her from covers feet on floor, a little cool on wood, a little sore she's been walking again she still wanders not like she's been running or hiking or dancing hard just walking she breathes in and out in deep ways, trying to remove the added weight at sternum's center coax it away with air face at her feet she changes focus, up to the wall teal sea green wishing it were ocean wishing she were shark something large, monstrous, prehistoric she opens her mouth wide as though her teeth were too jagged/triangle/daunting to close down her jaw the thought of her face full of splintered teeth smiles her brings lips together after 9 and she's a shark in sweat pants, tee shirt, tattered, stained she doesn't look back to his side of the bed listens to morning summer breeze and traffic and with help from her hands on the mattress with an oomph she rises thinking how old lady she sounds shuffling to the kitchen the kettle filling looking out window garden out the backyard forever the maples, grass, sky wishing she were up there swinging from branches not running into walls fall down a rabbit hole inside out looking down and she's a vulture hungry that spells disaster but all she is here is slow grounded stagnant fingers aching heart ink over hands green beans and kale for breakfast |
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$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
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