Important Work

 

 Capture the Moment

Johnny does the important work of closing the kitchen door.

When did we get so busy?  Nothing is more important than anything else.  Slow down you move too fast. . .

The first artist I ever met and who was an inspiration was Judith Koehne.  She said it takes a lot of time to be an artist.  I wanted to be a writer but I knew I didn’t have a lot of time so I set out to prove Judith wrong.  I decided I was going to write, even if I only had ten minutes, that I was going to capture short moments if that’s all there was time for.

On Johnny doing important work at eighteen months

What there is to do is to do nothing.  So I do nothing.  I walk around doing nothing and while I’m doing nothing I do whatever there is to do at the moment.

What is the need of the hour?

So I wash the kitchen floor.  I’m with Johnny and with Johnny is where I want to be and as I do nothing I want the nothing that I do to be something that Johnny can do with me.  So I wash the kitchen floor and get it clean and Johnny climbs up on a chair he has pushed up to the counter. He gets a dishrag and brings it to me. He wants to help. He has important work to do. He has his rag and he wants to do his important work of washing floors. I concentrate on washing the kitchen floor as he concentrates on washing the kitchen floor. Nothing is more important than anything else, and the floors are clean.

I begin to prepare the dinner. I take out the chicken, wash and dry it and Johnny pushes the chair up to the counter to do important work. He takes the dishes out of the dish drainer and I brown the chicken. He puts the dishes in the sink, and I brown the chicken. Johnny does the important work of putting clean dishes back into the sink.

I walk out the back door to put the dirty rags in the laundry and Johnny closes the dryer door for me. The towels are dry. I take them out of the dryer and Johnny closes the dryer door for me. I open the dryer door, put the wet towels in and Johnny closes the dryer door for me.

Johnny does the important work of closing the dryer door. I add spices to the chicken. Johnny sleeps as I write.

 (c)1986

Anger Art

 

My first poem was on discovering the other woman.  Looking back I can see that it was also my first performance piece and my first installation.  I didn’t think of myself as a poet or an artist.  I was just writing.  And what happens when you write is you make discoveries.  One of the highlights of my writing, reading and performing was meeting Gloria Steinem at the UK Women’s Writers conference in about 1990.

Anger Art

He said, “She is just storing a few things here.”

Heart beating fast, I threw it all on the floor.

First, from the drawers, came the nightgown, panties and bra.

Next, from the closet, came the pants, shoes and shirts followed by birth control pills and make up from the bathroom.

Still angry!

I went to the kitchen and piled on the dishes she brought to cook for him in. Then emptied the fridge of her leftovers—salad, spaghetti, fruit, hamburger.

Still angry!

Needs more texture. How about pancake flour dusted everywhere. And the bubble bath she “stored” in the bathroom—poured it all over.

Finally, icing for the cake—maple syrup, drizzled every­where.

Even on top of the angry, goodbye note— “have fun you fuckers!”

On Being Silenced

When I was in my thirties I wanted to write the truth about everything, no matter how painful.  And it was important that I did write and share.   Now that I’m in my sixties, that is not so interesting to me.  I want to write more about the sound of the dry leaves falling from the trees on this warm early fall day, about being still and listening.

On Being Silenced

Am I the only one whose husband has had an affair?

or am I the only one talking about it?

my husband did have an affair

and while it was going on

I wrote about it

I wrote the truth

the whole truth

and then I shared it

shared it with everyone

every chance I got

and you know what happened?

I don’t think he liked it very much

that I did that

that I shared my poetry

how interesting, I thought

and I said,

but, darling, have you done something you’re ashamed of?

after all,

you expected me to handle it

certainly you can handle my

simply

writing poetry about it.

©1983

Punk at three and a half

 

            Punk at three and a half

            We got a note from his teacher

            I mean, he’s only three and a half

            It’s the sillies, she said

            he’s got the sillies

            he won’t settle down

            and do his work

            he’s just too silly

            having too much fun

            he doesn’t seem to know

            what is socially unacceptable.

            I’ve been wondering what would happen

            all this freedom he’s been having

            I never say no

            unless

            it’s morally wrong

            or

            physically damaging.

            So this is how he turned out

            too silly.

            What is socially unacceptable, anyway?

            I ask.

            Playing in his food.

            Interesting, I say, considering

            his favorite friend is an artist

            and she calls food art

            and Hershey’s syrup food paint.

            Maybe he’s making food art?

            And about his hair

            maybe it would be better

            if he didn’t get it cut so short

            it disrupts the class

            the children gather ‘round him

            what did you do to your hair?  

            they ask

            and they all want to touch it.

            Oh my God

            they want to touch him?

            He’s the one who wants it cut so short

            do you think it could be

            he likes to be touched?

            So this is how he turned out

            too silly

            having too much fun

            and he likes to be touched

            What is socially unacceptable

            anyway?  (c) 1984

If you're the child of a writer you can expect that at some point you will be written about.  It's easier when the kids are young.  It gets harder as they get older.  I'm not sure why that is.  Maybe when they are younger it's expected that the parent will have opinions.  When the kids get older those opinions are more open for debate.  And it's not that you don't want to debate them.  Just not with your kids.

           

           

           

I just keep looking for the orange

I called a friend today.  I listened to her voice.  The words she spoke.  She is always so negative.  Not enough.  Too many problems.  Can't sleep.  Lonely.  It's always the same.  We are all struggling with these things I tell her.  Aging is managing pain.  "Do you use lavender on sleepless nights?" I asked her.  "Are you meditating?  Taking long walks?" I asked her.  Take one day at a time.  I just keep looking for the orange in the shibori dyed alpaca that hangs near the wood stove.  How did she become so pastel?  I evaluate my formula, my process.

 

She wants to come in so bad. I’ve seen her look through the dusty lace curtains. I’ve seen her float in the artemisia, but it wasn’t until the kiss that I realized how much she wanted in. I just keep looking for the orange—looking for it, rough and round, juicy and bright, pulling apart the sections, reaching for the seed, feeling the juice on my fingers, licking them, smelling orange. Maybe orange isn’t something you see, after all. Maybe it’s something you feel and smell and taste and swallow, and it fills you up with an excitement that’s impossible to push down, the way I try to ignore that I like to hear her voice on the phone, even though I tighten up and pretend I don’t.--The Garden Girls Letters and Journal

 Maybe it was the way her hair fell across her shoulders, or a look in her eye, or her voice—that voice, so soft, that sweetness, that purr, that caress with her words. Maybe it was her driven walk that pushed me forward to quickly open the door for her.--Garden Girls

While voices are often found in conversations with friends, my new stories are found in fiber.  The softness of alpaca and merino, the shimmer of silk.  Each palette a new story.  My son had a friend who was dieing.  He asked me to create something soft for her to wrap around and keep her warm.  Something earthy he said.  I never knew her.  I think of her however, every time I use these colors.  I think of him and his sensitivity.