IT IS WHAT IT IS

tracks in the snow

Six inches of snow in the night. Cold, dry ice crystals make the slightest incline slippery. I went out to take seeds to the birds and slipped every step. Took a walking stick to feed the donkeys. Jenny wanted to smell it, feel it with her lips, take it with her teeth, thinking it might be something to eat, the handle the size of a carrot. I've carried a stick among them enough for them to know the stick is not a threat. I don't hit them or threaten them with it. It's for my balance. The donkeys stayed in their den until I went out to deliver their morning hay. Snow on the ground shows me the exact spot in the stream they go to for a drink of water. Later in the day I looked at their meadow from the road, saw the trails to and from the watering hole. They walk on trails. The meadow has trails going every which way. I find it curious so many of the four-leggeds walk the same path until it becomes a trail and remains a trail from then on. In the years I went on long walks through mountain forest, I walked on deer trails. It doesn't take long to find one. The other animals use their trails too. I've seen cows make trails, and now am seeing donkeys make trails. I wonder about trails in their original habitat, northeastern Africa, and see them everywhere. I think there are five hundred, more or less, of the original donkeys left. The people there eat donkeys and live in post-colonial poverty. The donkeys will last about as long as the mountain gorilla, the African elephant, the polar bear, the fish in the sea. It won't be long before the humans have a chance to learn how to exist on a dead planet, the ideal we've been aiming toward collectively throughout my lifetime. It's not just the corporate fisheries emptying the oceans, it's also the people eating fish in restaurants all over the globe and at home. Me, when I buy a tin of sardines. 

new project

My mind has relaxed from the rush of visualizing construction of the new project. I've written about the construction itself, though have not yet mentioned purpose. The construction is a three-legged stand to suspend a rock above the ground. Initially, the three sticks of wood were the aesthetic consideration without the rock. I wanted to lean three lines together such that they would hold each other upright without supports or any kind of hardware. Three boards, two notches, done. Ideally, in a place it would never be touched or swiped by a dog's tail. My test was to stand three lengths of wood in relation to each other, supporting each other. It has to do with a present fascination with triangles.  Every way I look at this model, all the way around it, it makes triangles. The white line that holds the elements together, itself makes a triangle. All the way around it I see three triangles, including the white line. I don't care if someone looking at it fails to notice the triangles, which are there for aesthetic structure of my own, it's purpose, it's reason for being. A lot of people get through their lives without understanding the meaning of life. In like manner, some will see the triangles a theme, some will not. The rock is there for the weight, to keep a tension in the single line of quarter inch white nylon rope that holds the legs in place, to pull the three boards tighter together, an assist to free-standing, the downward pull of gravity. The rock's role is purely functional. A bowling ball would do. But I like a rock better. The rock becomes the focus of interest framed by the stand that holds it aloft. Since living in the mountains, I have come to see every rock, itself, a piece of sculpture made by God, by way of chance and experience, Like snowflakes, no two are alike, even gravel in a driveway, big rocks dynamited from a bigger rock, ground by rock-crushing machines into small chunks. 

new project

In my own personal symbolism, I think of a straight line, a square, masculine, and a curved line, a circle, feminine. For several years I painted round things in square and rectangular frames. Balance. I mean masculine and feminine like in languages, le and la, I think of a triangle the blend of a square and a circle, the child of the square and circle, a balance of both. First, there was one, then there were two, and from three onward it's infinite. Three represents the many.  In this construction I'll call Hanging Rock, the straight lines of the boards and rope make a network of masculine lines to frame and support the feminine, the rock, Mother Earth. I think of lines as mind, the conscious mind, and the rock the subconscious mind, feeling, intuition. The mechanics of this project is the masculine aspect, cut, measured and fitted together by mind. The suspended rock I'll call the subconscious, the force holding conscious mind together, the feminine, gives shape and definition. Therein I find the balance of masculine and feminine, le and la, in a simple object of rock and wood. Therein is what I'm saying in the piece, balance, the feminine and masculine, the yin and yang, interdependent, one whole. My first consideration for something outside where several people will see it, is to make it as interesting to a man's eye as to a woman's eye. Call something art and the men in the world I live in pay it no mind, see it without seeing it. The women will give it a chance and look at it aesthetically, liking it or not, say, Somebody might call it art, but I don't see no art about it. I want both the man's eye to see it and the woman's eye to see it. They will see what they see, art or not art, but they will see It, call it what you want. Calling it Hanging Rock will relax the mystery of what it is. It is what it is. Plain.  

jack and jenny, yin and yang

My feeling is the masculine eye will see the mechanics of it, all the mechanics out in the open, part of it. I feel like the man's eye will see the boards, treated 4x4s, familiar, masculine, as well as the way the rope holds the thing together and suspends the rock. The rock will be familiar to the masculine eye. No what-is-it mystery about it. It's three boards, a rock and a rope. I feel like the feminine eye will see the whole without much interest in the mechanics. And women appreciate rocks, largely, in aesthetic ways men largely don't see. The rock suspended provides a point of tension for everybody. It's a subconscious feeling that a rock does not belong in the air. A rock belongs on the ground. A suspended rock plays with the automatic assumption from a lifetime of experience that a rock belongs on the ground. If someone were to ask me what it's supposed to be, I'll only be able to answer, it is what it is---three boards, a rock and a rope. My feeling is kids will like it. I gave one of my favorite paintings to the library, red, yellow and green bell peppers, asking them to hang it in the children's section. I wanted the kids to see it. I like for kids to like my paintings. A kid liking it tells me it's real. My first clue it is attractive to the masculine eye was Justin liking it, taking an interest in the mechanics right away, raising and lowering the rock, getting a sense for how it works. Aesthetically, it's cool with him if I want to call it art. I can call it anything I like. He'll call it three 4x4s, a rock and a rope, which is how I want him to see it---it is what it is. There is nothing it is supposed to be. To my eye, it is triangles and a suspended rock, what it is. I wanted it to say something about the mountains. That it simply is what it is, not pretending to be something it aint, just plain, is mountain as a fiddle tune. 

shadow on the snow

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CONCEPTION OF A NEW ART PROECT

jenny

Went out in the morning to take carrots and hay to the donkeys in two degree air and a quarter inch of fine, dry, slick, crystalline snow. Rhododendron leaves were hanging straight down curled up tight as green pencils. Donkeys danced and squealed, brayed, bumped each other, snorted. They took the carrots like they'd not had anything yet to eat, remains of yesterday's hay covered with snow. They stood in their shed waiting to hear the Ice Cream Man's footsteps in his barn. By the time I reached the window where I could see them, they were walking out of their den and stood at the fence looking at me through the window. They were cold to the bone. I could see it in the way they slam-danced when I went out the door. It was different from usual; their movements were tighter, fluid, though not warm fluid. In motion by force of habit, too excited to stand still. They may be able to take it, thick hair makes a good blanket; below ten degrees is cold even wrapped in a polar sleeping bag. Both had a good mood about them. Donkeys are, indeed, rugged. I threw hay over the fence for them and returned to my barn. Made some Ethiopian coffee, settled in, read a few pages of Chris Hedges, and called Carole. Mostly I talked about my new project, an outdoor sculpture, explained it and the construction in detail, visualizing as I talked, She helped with some questions, was encouraging, as always. An hour of talking about it, I visualized the process of construction, building the big outdoor one and the small model, while we talked, back and forth, not just one way. Talked with Justin yesterday, told him I need his help on an art project. I really do need his help. It will take some carpentry skills I can do a rough version of, but he can do right.

new project

An hour of talking with Carole about it, feeling like Christo and Jean-Claude, a minor likeness, collaborating in the conception, walking through the process in our minds' eyes, making aesthetic and construction decisions together, I built it in my mind. It was done. Now is the time to start. We got off the phone and I started setting up the small plywood board handy for a table top on the footstool. Found a strip of some fir standing in a corner, just the right length for the three lengths of wood. Put a new blade on the hand-jigsaw, fir is some hard wood for driving nails in, sawing or drilling. The wood for the project itself will be square. The wood for the model is rectangular, eliminating making an exact replica at the beginning. Didn't want to make the model exact. Let it be itself. The bigger one to be made on the same principle, not exact. Needed two stove bolts, four eye-screws, two small s-hooks, string and a rock, all of which could be found in a collection of bolts, screws, nails and so forth. Looked around at rocks I have laying about and found a white one like the big one I want to use. Got out the drill and the extension cord, ready to go. A puzzle where I make the parts as well as put them together. Justin dropped by to use his pickup to bring six bales of hay from the barn to the donkey feeding station. I went out to assess the path to the barn hoping the snow would allow me to pull the car down in the hole and get out. I saw  his truck at the barn and felt blessed. We stacked the hay and put the tarp over it.. He came to the house for a cigarette and I told him the project, showed him the model and asked for some counsel on using treated wood. He said treated wood costs about a tenth of untreated. He said the hardware stores in this area, forty mile radius, have to special order untreated wood.  He said the treated wood takes three or four months to dry out, to let the moisture from the treatment escape the wood or no paint will stick to it. He said it will reject the finish put on before the drying process is completed.

new project

It's looking like the first one will go up raw, treated wood. The blue-green tint of the treated wood, is, after all, what it is. I'll buy the wood this week or next and start the drying process. It looks like June before the wood is ready for finishing. Thought I might buy wood to make two of the objects, put one together right away and save the other to put together later using paint. I might want to make two, anyway. The first one will have to be raw wood. I actually like it better for the unfinished aspect of it. We talked at length about securing it to the ground, considering the time or two a year a big wind comes through, the rock could start swinging and swing the construction out of balance, collapsing it. He suggested putting each of the three legs a foot or more into the ground. Great plan. However, I added I'm not sure about digging holes in a lawn to be refilled when the thing has had its day. I brought up driving a length of re-bar a couple feet long into the ground at each foot. He suggested drilling holes in the end of each one to drive the re-bar through. He knows somebody who can cut and shape the re-bar to specs. Bringing his mind into the project is a practical step. As I knew he would, he appreciated the mechanics of the thing and sees exactly what I want. I feel a little bit like Ai Weiwei, hiring craftsmen to make his art objects he doesn't have the skills or knowledge to make himself. Justin answered in a short time my questions about the construction and how to do things, like cut the notches, I can only do approximately, and he can do exact. He will make the construction's mechanics artful. The joint where two pieces of wood fit together will be a tight fit, and the angle of the holes drilled for the bolts will be right.

justin puts on his winter over-hauls

I like associations with my friends where we help each other as needed. I've known Justin all his life, we've been friends since he was a child, like I'm friends with his girl, Vada, now. He knows I can be trusted with his baby girl from all the times I baby-sat with him and his sister, Sheena, and being his adult friend all the way through his childhood. He needs help with something I can do, he's got it. I need help with something he can do, I've got it. No questions of why, just when. He won't let me pay him for this. We don't accept pay for helping each other. I have full confidence the finished product will be done right by somebody with a good mind and experience with carpentry. He could build an entire house by himself, though would do it like a contractor, hiring helpers for specific jobs. If I make two, which I think I will, if one or both are sold and I make a modest amount of money for them, I'll give it to Justin. I'm in balance with my fixed income, and it's not so easy for him and Crystal with a house, day-care, jobs, utility expenses, insurance, vehicles, on and on. All problems are solved toward the project. It's now a matter of when the snow clears and the temperature rises above freezing. He will go with me to select the wood. Justin has known me an artist, painter, all along his way. He is having fun with the idea of helping me construct an art object. It's important for me and it's important for him, each in our own ways. When it comes to naming the artist, I'll use both our names, a collaboration. I like the idea of making two. I know I can move one of them on right away. The second one will be painted. Original idea was to paint it. Then I liked raw wood better. May put the second one up at home. Now that I've committed my mind to the first one raw, I like it even better with the bluish tint in the raw wood impervious to the ground and rain. Won't even sand it. Use it straight off the lumber rack. I feel like a surfer who found a good wave, standing up on the board, flowing with the groove. .

here comes the snow

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I HEAR THE WIND CHIMES TINGING

Another week has flown along, day by day, night by night, then it's Friday the 13th followed by Valentine's Day. I never was spooked by Friday the 13th. It made no sense to the kid, one day bad things are to be expected. Someplace? Everywhere? Where? I and other kids at school experienced it as just another day, though many of them were superstitious about it, a folk belief with nothing behind it. My experience with Friday the 13th has been good days. Facebook is full of warnings and pictures of the ugly guy in the movies. My last of those kinds of movies was the first Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I swore off scary movies. I liked one from time to time before. Texas Chainsaw took hold of me and did not let go until it spit me out at the end. I said I'll never subject myself to any such thing again. Over. Done. Several years later and maybe ten years ago, I had a crazy experience around the movie. A woman from Pennsylvania took a shine to me and I thought she was weird. She asked me to dinner one evening. We were friendly. She was in the kitchen looking over the stove and I looked at her video collection. It was all silly comedies and children's movies. I wasn't surprised, but thought how can somebody watch all those terrible movies. I couldn't find one I believed I could sit all the way though. Then, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, right in the middle. I freaked out. I saw myself in the trailer of a psycho. I didn't want to eat. Already there, I decided to be nice and not run out the door. The meal was the worst ever. Everything tasted like cardboard. I suspected she'd put cardboard flavored poison in all my food. It was a spooky moment. At one point I asked how she got a copy of Texas Chainsaw Massacre in her video collection. She likes the movie. I exclaimed, Really? She said it's not so bad and was curious why I didn't like it. The first moment I could get out the door and into my truck became a precious goal, get there as fast as I could go. I said I didn't want to eat and run but had to go, fled, in imagination running for my life, possibly already poisoned. 

There was a time in my early years I believed other people's energies had no affect on me, until learning I'm perhaps a little too receptive of other people's energies and need to take caution. I've learned there are different kinds of energies, some aggressive, some not. I know this one old boy, a few years older than me, who radiates energy like nobody I've ever known. It's anger in him. He's angry all the way to the core, or more accurately, from the core outward. But I don't feel threatened in any way by his angry vibes. He thinks I'm a twirp, but likes me a little bit, dumb as I am. Compared to him, I could only call myself dumb. He has a brilliant mind, has skills, experience and knowledge I'm wide-eyed impressed by. I respect him. Anger is his aura. It's an aura you feel instead of see. Intense life. Not someone I would say has peace of mind. He thinks I don't respect him, thinks I judge him. Somebody so different from me it makes me glad to see I'm able to have a friendly association with somebody so radically different from myself, the other end of the spectrum, or so I assess it. I like knowing people different from myself. I live a passive life, largely not engaged with the world around me. I stay at home and wrestle with my own ignorance day by day. I feel the spirit of God all around me on the mountain. The donkeys, Caterpillar, the birds, the crows, the squirrels, possums, coons, the trees, all are in the Garden. But me. They let me live in the Garden with them as long as I don't hurt anybody. The world before the forebrain. A world of peace. I'm grateful to have a home in the Garden. I feel like it makes me whole. My connections with other humans are of the mind, mental, largely, heart too. Connection with the mountain is my whole being. The mountain is my battery charger. Off the mountain, I'm running on battery. On the mountain, I'm plugged in. 

Yes, this is my comfort zone and I like it. It feels like snow outside, like snow is not far behind. Heavy overcast, mid twenties, just enough wind to make the wind chimes ting a time or two. If the temperature rises above freezing, which it may, we'll have cold rain. Or nothing. Weather forecasts have become so dramatic, I seldom pay attention. I saw a weather-related article yesterday saying North Carolina will get ten inches of snow this coming week. All of NC? Part of NC? By the end of the paragraph it was down to maybe one or two inches or none, and no indication of where. It was presented in high drama like the Bush-Cheney color-coded levels of anxiety we're expected to conform to or die. Snow has been a winter phenomenon all my life; now I'm expected to hype myself into a state of high anxiety over a forecast warning two inches of snow. It has become annoying to hear such exaggerated weather forecasts. Brings to mind a friend who tells the temperature five to ten degrees colder than it is in winter, and warmer than it is in summer. Two inches of snow equals at least eight. Called on the exaggeration, he'll say, "In some places." We live with our heads in media mind, ready to do what we're told: be afraid. The song, Leader of the Pack, comes to mind; Lookout! Lookout! Lookout! Lookout! I felt so helpless, what could I do? followed by another great pop nonsense line, after all the things we been through. Allowing the weather to be what it is, I feel no anxiety about the forecast. Receiving it as it happens is relaxing. Earlier, the sky suggested snow ahead, and now, a few hours later, the sun is out, temperature above freezing. The donkeys stand with one side full to the sun, feels so good after a cold night. It comes under one-day-at-a-time thinking. The day, itself, when it  rains or snows, is beautiful in itself. Dreading rain tomorrow ruins today.

A gust of wind passed through, making a brief song with the wind chimes. The chimes bring Japanese composer, Toru Takemitsu, or Takemitsu Toru, into my mind. I discovered him as composer in the soundtrack of a video I was given at least twenty years ago, Japanese gardens. Faulty memory recollects it a National Geographic film. Takemitsu composes with Japanese gardens in the way Leonard Bernstein incorporated American pop into his compositions, and Bartok wove Hungarian and Romanian folk music through his. I've inspired myself to put on one of my favorite of Takemitsu's compositions, I Hear The Water Dreaming. Flute, viola, harp, guitar, with BBC Symphony Orchestra. His music flows through my mind like wind chimes in varying wind. Somehow, it does not distract. The flute and the strings flow into my ears so in tune with my inner space in this moment, outer becomes inner and inner, outer. The wind chimes interject a ting, adding an abstract note now and then, like the drone string on a banjo. I don't like to listen to music while writing or reading. Whatever  it is, it pulls me into it. Takemitsu's music flows with my mind continually searching for how to complete each sentence, word by word, waiting for and finding the next sentence, seeing where it goes, word by word, playing with words fluid as air. I think of words being fluid, easy to change, move around, hear the rhythms. Wind chimes don't distract, perhaps having to do with their seeming random notes. Takemitsu's notes happen with the random quality of wind chimes, though held into a seeming order making music. He has listened closely to wind chimes. They are the only music I want in the course of writing. Takemitsu's music enters my mind as flow patterns the mental meanderings ride as freely as with wind chimes.

photos by tj worthington

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SNOWBIRDS, DONKEYS AND PABLO NERUDA

snowbird

Odd snowy day. The day began above freezing by a degree or two. I gave the donkeys their morning carrots and what was left of the hay, just enough to get them started. Backed down the hill to the barn, stacked three bales of hay in the trunk and took them to the donkey feeding station. Rolled them down the hill to Jack braying, donkeys at the fence smelling the hay, excited, something to eat, gave Jenny a swatch of it by hand to chew on while I placed the bales and threw some over the fence. Covered the bales with the blue tarp and came to the house. Tiny snowflakes floated on the air telling me it is a good time to have fresh hay ready to go. Snow came down lightly an hour later. Caterpillar came in the house with snow flake speckling her back and tail. Donkey backs turned white. The donkeys went to their den to watch the snow fall. Snow covered the ground lightly, maybe an eighth of an inch. Snowbirds hop about, pick up the morning's seeds, intermingled with a sparrow, a cardinal female, a cardinal male, chickadees, nuthatches, titmice. The sun came out for a short time, enough to melt the snow outside the shadows. Donkeys returned to grazing hay. Sun went away and snowfall resumed, though less than before until it faded to sunlight again. Cloud drifted over the sun again, the donkeys graze, snowbirds hop and peck. I took video camera to the door, stood in the doorway until the birds came back that scattered when I opened the door. I was getting some still pictures of snowbirds scratching and pecking, and decided to pick one bird and make a brief video. The wind chimes rang a moment from a Takemitsu score. I put it on facebook earlier today. 

snowbird

The floor has turned cold again. So nice it was to have a floor that did not freeze my feet for a week. Cold floor is back for at least the next week. Saturday night/Sunday morning, zero is forecast. The wind is flowing from the west today, so I project it will blow from the west Saturday night. The donkey den's opening is to the east, and the house will block the wind from the donkey den a little. They will be cozy sleeping side by side, the wind's turbulence flowing over and around them. It will be one of those annual nights, the coldest night of the year with wind out of the west cutting straight through the house like the wall is made of lattice. The kerosene heater will never stop. I checked the tank earlier in case it might need a delivery today or tomorrow. It has more than enough to make it through this next cold spell. The guys working the trucks will be busy these cold days. I don't want to run out. I'm not worried about the cold night. It's not the first time. I'll keep feet up off the floor as much as possible. Sleep. It's time to take some grain to the donkeys. They will need the nutrition for the cold night. May throw them some more hay, enough to get them started in the morning before I rise. Done. I dressed up for zero and laughed at self going out the door. Glad I did. Thermometer said 23. With wind, it was blustery. Jack gets so excited for the grain, he brays when I step out the door. He knows what time of day it is. Finished with the bray, he squeals and grunts a pitiful groan of desperation. I and Jack already know Jenny is first or we both better look out. I carried the container up the fence to Jenny's place. Jack groaning and squealing beside Jenny until time for the pour; Jack knows to step back or he might be swallowing some teeth. He walked beside me the other side of the fence. His nostrils pulled the scent of the grain like vacuum hoses inhaling the aroma of his favorite treat. 

jack

Jenny finished her grain and moved to the new hay tossed over the fence. Seeing her at the hay, just now, surprised me. Usually, when she finishes her grain first, she runs Jack away from his and finishes it for him. Jenny is not a donkey to predict from one day to the next. She expresses her feelings without inhibition. Jack does not show what he is feeling like Jenny does. They seem like Mike Tyson and Beyonce together. Jenny likes a rough man and Jack likes a fine lady. It took Jack six months to learn how to conquer Jenny. The day he took her down, took her will, she fell in love. It was overnight, from one day to the next. She turned her Alpha status over to him and settled down into a gentle, loving partner. They graze the hay side by side. Jack took a step toward the remains of Jenny's grain. Jenny darted in front of him and went to the grain she'd left unfinished. Now she has gone to the remains of Jack's grain pile. He doesn't care. In summer I give them the grain every three days. Cold winter I give them their grain every day. It keeps them warm at night and gives Jenny some nutrition for her incubating baby. Jenny has stepped over to Jack's mound of hay, pushing Jack out of the way. He went to Jenny's hay. Jenny ran him off from her hay. Jack went to pick up remains of his grain pile. Jack took a walk to the den, perhaps to stand out of the wind for a while, belly full, in the gloaming. Jenny went to their den from nibbling Jack's leftovers. Time to settle in for a cold winter night. I'm over concern for the donkeys on cold nights. Marsha told me the equines that tough it out through winters are healthier. I believe it. I think of donkeys in the Andes.

jenny

Found an article in a Harpers magazine about Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda. It inspired me to go the the shelf and pick up his book, Residence on Earth (Residencia en la tierra), translated by Donald D Walsh, 1973, to experience some Neruda poems again. I've come to a place I like to read one poem at a time. More than one is too much. I read poetry with more comprehension now than the last time I opened a Neruda book. Morning is a good time, donkeys fed, cat and birds fed, coffee made, half hour or an hour before time for morning visit with Carole on the phone. We talk at least an hour each morning. This morning I read a Neruda poem, something like starting the day with a creative visualization, Ode With a Lament, a mountain stream of lush images. An excerpt:

          I have only fingernails to give you,
          or eyelashes, or melted pianos,
          or dreams that come spurting from my heart,
          dusty dreams that run like black horsemen,
          dreams filled with velocities and misfortunes. 

This is the second of seven verses, a sample of his surrealist imagery, dusty dreams that run like black horsemen. Melted pianos, Salvador Dali comes to mind. Neruda's mind was a mountain stream running into a river, into the sea and beyond, of interwoven images boiling up from his subconscious. Also dipping into Robert Bly's selected poems, Stealing Sugar From The Castle. Bly has reached the potential he promised in his early books. His anti-war poem, Teeth-Mother Naked At Last, was powerful then, in the time of the war and the poem's first publication, and it's powerful now. It does not seem to me to have dated one week. Fill in the blank, the American war of the decade on the poor people of the world. I even feel like the poem is more beautiful now, with distance, than it was then in its rawness.  

snowbird

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