Imperfection

I have begun to read voraciously to know just what to say at the right time.   I wrote these words in my journal in the 90's.  What's funny is that I am still reading.  What's funny is how journals repeat themselves.  The only thing that changes are the surroundings.  Now it's a cabin in woods, or a newspaper office in Matador.  Before it was the Carnegie Center in Lexington, or a local bookstore.  

Today I'm re-reading "Small Pieces, Loosely Joined" by +David Weinberger and being reminded that the "The imperfection of the Web isn't a temporary lapse; it's a design decision."  I like that.  He says, "...the Web is unmanaged and uncontrolled so that it can grow rapidly."  That's how I feel about my art.  If I'm starting to feel controlled, anxiety sets in and I'm likely to abandon the project.  And when I make "mistakes" I respond.  I would rather have a few flaws and movement and growth, than control.

Even though this photo is dark, I love that it captures the winter blue sky just before dusk.  It gives me pause to ponder my insanity as I am still making art for the The Kentucky Craft Market this week end when I should be pricing and packaging and loading my booth.

I have begun to read voraciously to know just what to say at the right time. When I sleep at night, I think about what I read, and when I make love, I think about what I will tell her. I think about ideas. They’ll run over my lips and I’ll flick them out with my tongue. I think about stories that I’ll whisper, and when my breathing gets heavier, I’ll think about poems I’ll yell, and when he kisses me on the back, I’ll remember things I forgot, and the excitement will roll me over, and I’ll forget where I was. It never gets crowded in our bedroom. There is always room for all of us, and when things start getting confusing, I disappear for a while, float up to the ceiling, take a slow ride on the fan and re-enter when I’m fresh again, and we all think it is for the first time.

The poems that get digested get sent out in the mail, and when the rejections come, she listens, and he wipes away the tears, and I weave them into pillow cases, the kind that crinkle to the rhythm of love, and there are more poems popping from the toaster. Someone forgot to butter the bread. I can’t remember if her hair is long or short, dark or blond. Sometimes, it’s one or the other, but those aren’t the things that matter. It’s her voice that matters­­—the one I try to mimic, till I learn it by heart—the one I dream and it becomes hybrid.--The Garden Girls Letter and Memoir