It's not easy to post a work-in-progress, especially when I prefer to wait until something is finished before showing it to anyone. But aren't we all works-in-process in our blogs? This format allows, nay encourages, us to forge ahead with our wayward ideas and stray creativities. It all pulls together eventually. We are creating whole bodies of work here. In draft form, in finished form. So I post the progress of this little drawing, wondering myself where it's going. It's quite gaudy today, and much of my 'art' is about saving what are turning into messes, 'saving' it to the point of livability. When I can live with something, and perhaps I'm seeking bold and sensitive, polished and raw, confident and wavering, manifesting and disappearing, in whatever way that happens, then it's done. If I can 'look' at it without jumping up to 'fix' it, then it's done. There gets to be a point when you can almost look at your work as if you didn't do it. You remember the emotion of your life at the time you did it, where you were in your inner journey, but are no longer involved in the traceries of line or paint or design. It has become something in the world, and not part of your inner landscape where you are busy scribbling, drawing, painting, composing, revising and continually re-orienting your life into the work of ongoing art that it is.

Willows. Long, stretchy women. Like mirages in the Sahara. Elongated. Giantesses if you met them. The three muses wandering over the desert. Tribespeople. They are the same as the last drawing, only different. There is a blue astral figure, undefined. Who is she? The sun booms out of her belly. The sun unites all three. They are comfortable in their harsh environment. Without clothes, protection, concealment, camoflage. Thin but not near starvation. These are the women that can find the one succulent shrub in a 50 mile radius and suck its roots until they are nourished with fluidity. Drinking dew. And leave it intact, so that later, once again, they can draw moisture from the plant. They read the stars like navigators, the sun like weathermen, and worship equally the sun and moon. They can sense a dust storm hours away. I'm not sure they carry complex mythologies. Or that it's necessary to have a dense theology. Only the land-dwelling ones, where what is familiar is sacred, the sand, the grass, the burning sun, the hardened soles on the feet. Only the sacred covenant with the embodied self and the land. Their strong womanliness the Shekinah of their souls. They watch; they dance; they make love; they have children; they feed everyone; and it's not effort-full, only what's expected and they sing often. There is no voyaristic gaze from millenia of art capturing them, despite their being white. Civilization barely impacts them. Though they know; indeed they do. They would be comfortable in robes on city streets too. They are free women. I don't know where the men are. Perhaps I shall attempt co-ed watercolour drawings after this one, we'll see.

early mapping of colour and form, 10" x 12", india ink, coloured pencil (so far), cotton watercolour paper, 2006

Oh yes I do. I create you in 'virtual space.' You don't exist where I am; I don't exist where you are. You are embedded in the digital data that I reframe, reinterpret, transmute and transform into recognizable text, image, sound. You are a binary digit. I am a binary digit. We frame each other. We exist through each other's filters. We are a "consensual hallucination." You appear as a reconstituted body, or a map of pixels, however you prefer. I am a refreshed flicker on your screen. We expand the indeterminism of our bodies by communicating this way. Perhaps you are a preconstituted frame, how am I to know? I participate in the process of reforming you, your words, your photos, your audio clips, in my own image. The "place" where we meet is a vague concretized space; wherever it is, we both meet here often. The result of our "body-brain achievement" is that we have intercepted the stream of data and created each other virtually in virtual space; we've created "an internal bodily space for sensation." Hmnn. Did you know that? "Digital data is at heart polymorphous"; now, now... don't you think that's going too far?



From notes from my sojourn to the Toronto Reference Library this afternoon where I browsed Mark Hanson's, New Philosophy for New Media (MIT Press, 2004), thanks to delightful & inspiring email conversations with Mary Godwin of Body Electric.

On the wooden windowsill. Facing south, but too low for the winter sun. Bodies enclosed in olive brown sheaths. Blending into the wood, they lie, rounded thighs, elegant elongated necks, like decorations. A week passes where daily I hold them, press their flesh. They are like fragile stones.

On the weekend I eat one, its pale honey-coloured flavourless fruit hard and crunchy as an apple's.

Those thick, gourd-shaped, olive-brown hides don't soften. They will never soften. Only a dark spot near the stem of one of the pears reveals ripeness as it begins to collapse inwards to nourish the seeds. Even without the presence of warm soil, they would lie on the windowsill and crumple slowly, decay into new life, its possibility.

I cut them and scoop out their seeds and peel the thick russeted skin and slice them and drop them into a bowl, with apples and cranberries, for a compote. They are not so juicy that they slide in my fingers. Sometimes pears don't ripen, but remain dry and coarse. Licking the pear juice, its faint unmistakable flavour, slightly grainy, like delicate sweet-spiced sun, on my fingers, I smile. Patience to this moment of perfection.

The dog is barking, my lover is here. I crumble the topping of oats, flour, brown sugar, butter, nutmeg, ginger and cinnamon over the mixture of fruit, fresh lemon juice and honey, place the dessert in the slow cooker; later in the day, the fruit will feed my slender pear-shaped body...

Only updated because I've hosted the image with Blogger. This is finished, and probably sold. There's something going on, between the crone/younger woman, that I can't decipher myself, and overtop of the blue woman. If you feel inspired, I'd love you to write some poetry or prose, an imagining of what's going on in this drawing...

And it might not be on dancing, dreaming, or disappearing...

Dance, the Dream, Disappearing Into Each Other, 8.5"x11", watercolour pencil on paper, 2006.

Scrawled along the blue woman's leg: "shadow my desire"; up the older woman's arm, "what rises into the self?"; and curling from thigh to breast to arm, "repose curls in on itself."

link to borderless image

You really should take a look at FILMLESSPHOTOS, A Photo A Day From Photojournalist John Lehmann; he's an award-winning photo journalist and one can see why. He started posting photographs on January 2nd, and he's, well, slick, sophisticated, savvy, professional, yes, and extremely talented...

Last night I wrote this after reading Rodger Kamenetz's first chapter of his new book on dreams, at his site, talkingdream. Which I think is in here. But all day I knew that some writing was coming, even before Dave so kindly led us to talkingdream. But there are synchronicities, synchronicities you understand...

On evolution, Biblical Genesis, our individual consciousnesses, bodies, how we put it together…

Scilicet, When Evaporating Condenses, or the Effulgence of Being

Soft canyons iron balls fall into. Unnamable violence. His hands around my neck in the shroud of the dream. I climb spider ladders like fishnet hose. In the morning I forget, the sky is so blue.

Blood rushes like a river's tributaries through my body. The furious tide never stops. Red wash of bone, marrow more alive than stars. Ceaseless production of red.

And on the face of the nameless sea the nameless God breathed. Wind rushing through trees.

The emotion of any poem is its core, and what beats long after. Bones grinding in their sockets. We are scaffolded from within.

Wear the bones, hidden. Hush of blood. Walking heart bombs. Steady beat, in, out, freshly reddened.

Something splinters into an infinity of light, scattering, the refracted holy. Sepulchre of being. Look for the sweetness, it is there. Find the sweet breath, breathe.

Across the continent of the world I lay my pen, weeping. Come, bring yours.

When we entered complexity, there was no turning back.

Refulgence, the brilliant light, an after thought. Past where the sticks fall like loose hay, I dip my fingers through, looking for a needle.

The mist of the evening lifts, and I see you face to face. Curvature maps the trajectory of words flying into feather canyons like iron volleys.

And then I saw it, and knew, before it disappeared into the celestial.

Feather soft canyons of thought.

Each moment I pull myself into you, though I have run away.

The horizon fills with red suns rising.

Stay out here in the space.

Where the winsomely wild.

Exchange shots, vaults of iron; put down your guns. Cling to the vestiges, or let go.

Keep running across the field, though you are coming to yourself. Sometimes the only way to get close is to go away.

Among Christmas gifts were watercolour pencils. This is my first "attempt," and it's a throw-away sketch from a lifedrawing session last Summer (not what I would draw if I were drawing a "Drawing" if you know what I mean). Then again, maybe it is. Don't ask me about the pubic hair, please! Why did I draw it practically up to the navel in both sketches? Ink is unforgiveable, too.

It's called, "Two Black Plumes," 8"x10", india ink, watercolour pencil on paper, 2005. I apologize for the graininess of the writing, it's taken with my video camera; when my digital camera is fixed, I'll re-shoot it.

Do we know the body at all? Or only our constructions of it, our representations/self-representations...

-a Tim Horton's™ chocolate walnut crueller, cut in half, buttered, slathered thickly with cream cheese (a decided improvement);

-a few grains of Nescafe™ instant coffee, because it's better with a whiff of the real thing, in a hot mug of barley, rye, chicory and beetroot Krakus™ instant coffee substitute (it's 9:30pm) with 18% coffee cream;

-under a Sunbeam™ electric throw on the low setting, it's cosy in this cold basement apartment, or probably crucial to survival and not-freezing-to-death this Winter;

-Ruined by Reality by the Internal Medicine Doctor at Mad House Madman leaves my heart thumping in admiration and sadness;

-I'm thinking deeply on how attractive Zen is, the promise of fast enlightenment, and how while I read a number of books on it avidly years ago, I've never felt called to it because of its inherent harshness, preferring a tradition that combines Sufi mysticism, Bhakti yoga, Sikh warrior discipline, and an odd mixuture of esoteric Hinduism and Buddhism, or, perhaps, and this makes me smile, sensual nothingness;

-I believe that we can only be indoctrinated into a system by that system: a person enlightened in the Zen™ tradition is only enlightened in that tradition, they are not individuated in a Jungian™ sense, or a saint in a Catholic™ sense - to be individuated one needs to undergo the long process of Jungian analysis; likewise, to become a Catholic saint, one needs to undergo a long tradition of Catholic prayer and worship. Someone enlightened in the Zen tradition is a master of that tradition, but no other; the same for the Jungian, who can't claim their individuation is akin to Zen enlightenment; and the saint can't claim anything other than Catholic canonization. While I know that mastery in any tradition is wonderful to aspire to, I prefer an eclectic blend that suits my idiosyncratic temperament, being true to the idolization of individuality in my era, though I know advertising has mapped me as a 'type';

-a recipe for slow cooker apple, pear and cranberry crisp sits freshly written from the NET beside me and I keep looking at it, almost tasting the fruit and brown sugar and oats, though I won't make it until tomorrow;

-a photograph from last Summer of a statue with half of a set of arms missing that my friend, Anne, bought at a garage sale; I am sure it is a rendition of the Tibetan Buddha "Chenrezig," the Lord of Love. Please correct me if I'm wrong;

-I am pining for Summer, even as Winter begins its harsh encrustation of snow and ice and frigid wind.

Lights, planets forming, rising, speeding missiles, exploding. They set them on fire and throw them into the park. When the spheres of blue, red, white light erupt loudly and shoot erratically at their feet, they hide behind parked cars. And walk on laughing. It is New Year's Eve.

The streets are snowy, and on the way to a drumming party, I pass groups of raucous students already awash with drunkenness. Women with cleavage in low-cut, short, tight dresses, their thin wool coats wide open, negotiate the slippery, slushy streets in stilettos. They are beautifully made up; I admire their courage and fortitude. In contrast, I am making the snow squeak under my footsteps in boy's size 6 Wal-mart construction-style boots, snowpants, and a faux fur sealskin jacket with the collar pulled up. I cannot bear to be cold, even for glamour. The new year is two hours away, and there is anticipatory shouting on the streets; carloads of kids careen by, honking. It is a strange eruption of public joy. Because it seems forced it has a pallor that usually dissipates once the new year is in actual existence and everybody relaxes.

I find Xing Dance Studio and descend the stairs to the sound of drumming. Inside are about two dozen drummers and as many dancers; the space is large enough, yet intimate. The walls are mirrored and there is a black sprung dancefloor. I haven't danced in a year and feel awkward. I am dressed in a danskin with spaghetti straps, enough cleavage to be presentable, and a long see-through negligee-style black lace dress. As I take off the dress, tie it around my waist, I undo restraints on my hips and let them sway to the music, forgetting whatever self-consciousness I arrived with.

The evening is like a magician's napkin; it looks the same at the end, dark with stars all over it, but unfolded, and shaking starlight on the room. I recognize few people; I've been away 3 years. I dance hard enough to feel sweat trickle inside my danskin, as I pull back my mane of hair, the undersides are damp, and my face bright and rosy with the aerobic movements I cannot help but create with my body to that drumbeat. The woman who captivated the dance floor all evening is in her mid-50s and wears a Middle-Eastern belly dance outfit, her beautiful torso bare and shimmying, her belt jingling to the drums. I shimmy too. Why do I need to synchronize with the other dancers? Around 2am, when the group has thinned, I put my lace dress back on and run, jump, sway, stop, turn, and, shooting somewhere else, continue leaping, stopping, turning, swaying. I kick in the air, my arms above me, and spin and spin. My hair flies everywhere. I'm sure it's lethal and I can't guarantee I didn't whip anyone with it. I let go and sweep around the room like the spheres of light from a firecracker. I run so fast between the dancers and drummers, spinning this way and that, I'm sure I'm dangerous.

By chance in 1997 I ended up at the first New Year's drumming jam put on by Michael Uyttebroek on Richmond Street in a studio on the 2nd floor. It was the best New Year's I had ever been to. There was a black drummer filled with energy and beat; whenever he drummed the entire room literally jumped and danced; it was ecstatic. Michael instituted a Toronto Tam Tam drummer's group after that, and has always put on a New Year's celebration. But the gatherings lost their intimacy when they went to the large space of Dancemakers on Dupont at Ossington. When that closed down, they moved to this smaller studio like a hidden cave in the basement of what was originally a church complex. The drummers didn't form a circle of their own with the dancers dancing outside it; drummers, dancers, hands, drumsticks, feet, twirling bodies, we were all together.

And, collecting all that energy into its multiple peaks, making it shine, was a drummer who rose above the others. His sound bright, his rhythm captivating, his arms powerful; when he played, it was impossible not to dance. What great pleasure he gave me, taking me back to my early childhood in an African jungle and the drumming that I remember so clearly it is part of my soul.

After it was over, surprisingly a number of drummers complimented me on my dancing, saying it was "wild" and "joyful." And I thought my frenzied bursts were hidden in the darkness! Ah, well. I chatted with interesting men and women, including sharing life histories with a man in a long conversation afterwards, walked home alone arriving at 4:30am to a barking dog, and woke nearly 10 hours later. In 2005, yes, I had an outstanding New Year's Eve celebration...