decay, minimalism_____and the art of new beginnings

Arriving at the farm on Tuesday morning, I was sent to feed the poultry out in the pasture. S came over and asked for my help. The night before, a heifer had gone into labor. There she was, overcome with pain, lying, back legs paralyzed, close to death, -------her calf, deceased, covered in placenta((((blue and gold and purple and orange)))) a yellow butterfly resting on its back. We pushed and shoved to get her to turn over, to no avail. Four hands was not enough. Later, two amish farmers came over and we got her onto her other side.

Over the two days, I took to caring two buckets of water to her, four buckets, six buckets, fed her, gave her salt. I sat on a bucket and spoke with her. Come on girl, come on, you've got to get standing.

Summer is good. Sights like this, upsetting...but it is life and death and all things in between. Things die, so we take them to the woods and life on the farm carries on, it goes on and on and on.



In the kitchen, I speak loudly, with force, so Omi can hear me. Translation constant. Eating European, fork in the left hand, ham and tomatoe on rye. Another soft boiled egg. This is my summer, how can I complain?

I can't.

Coming back to the city, the heat is unbearable, but lovable. Buildings high, angst much more. Exhaustion. Exhaustion. Exhaustion.

in other words::::

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this upsets me.


If I spoke French, I wouldn't be here.

In the morning, early, as the sun does rise, I am sleeping into augmented fifths and fiddles
that dance:
I am a Texas corpse hanging out on clothes line.

We are creating
false
false
false
images, replications, our artistic notions curbside.

Please, set fire to all the possessions that possess you.

He is there polishing the woolly mammoth's remains
polish
polish
polish
to shine. shoe shine. deluxe.

We will rise tomorrow whether we like it or not and by the end of the day we will like it.

I am sure of this:
Just get dressed you dapper fellow, just get dressed.

"I don't speak French, but I like diamonds"

says a woman at local trendy restaurant. the seriousness with which she said this, makes it worthwhile to have sprung out of bed this morning.

I had some things to say- albeit- uninteresting.

This woman though-Roni Horn-
http://www.libraryofwater.is/landing.html

I don't feel a need to say much more--------


except, my boss took me out to dinner tonight and I went for it, so what the hell, I skip ballet class. It's summer. There's some wine from France to drink and connections to build and sweet summer air to breathe. As we wound down, guess who should stroll by in his swanky sneakers but Roni Koresh. (sensing a theme here?) I pull out a cigarette, reading this opportunity like a tiger on the hunt. And then, ironically enough, I cannot for the life of me, find a light. I lean over to my boss, and she doesn't either. To which she turns around and asks Senor Roni. He responds accordingly, as any gentleman would---and proceeds to lean in and light me.

hello life. hello moments you could never predict nor search. there you have the art of chance flapping her musky wings.




soon we will leave. and then we shall arrive. and then we shall partake in merriment. before we rise again tomorrow and work until we tire.

laugh
laugh
laugh
with your mouth open. (watch out for flies)

Tsk a tsk,

k

the art of chaotic matter*****AND, jean shorts

ARE IN.

In case you were wondering.

http://www.denimology.com/2009/04/Daria-Werbowy-in-Isabel-Marant-S%3AS-09-ad-campaign-denim-jeans-shorts-.jpg

My boss called me upstairs to give me a load of her "hand me downs". Says "I think you're more conservative than me, these are too long". Yes, okay. If it wasn't for la reserve, I'm wondering how I would be clothed and fed.

Well, the jean shorts she gave me are great---they're just begging to accompany previously mentioned white blouse.


I have the next three days off from work, so it's farm time. Value check: days off now spent working 12 hours in the hot sun, smelling like a field, chicken shit on my shoes. I don't dance as much, but you know, summer is time to just be in the sun, drinking water, darkening the skin, slumbering in the shade. I think a life well lived makes for better dancing.

Plus I can work on my posture while I feed the poultry...









goodbye.

there goes another.

autonomy

I've been thinking about the word autonomy.

Autonomy:
1. self government
2. (philosophy) the capacity to make an informed, uncoerced decision.
3. (mechanics) the capacity of a system to make a decision about its actions with the involvement of another system or operator.

From Ancient Greek αὐτονομία (autonomia) from αὐτόνομος (autonomos) from αὐτός (autos), “‘self’”) + νόμος (nomos), “‘law’”)

(thank you wikipedia)

In discussion as to what it means to be free, there are many interpretations. I argue that much of what begins one to express desire for freedom is found in the external realm. For example, a career change, a location change, a change in appearance, dress, personal hygiene, relationships. However, these things do not allow for actual freedom to be experienced because there are still limitations with the body/physical. Actual 'freedom', whatever it may be, seems only found internally via the external.

So for example, I often equate freedom with an empty mind, one not cluttered with preconceived notions. The few times I have come to brush the surface of this possibility, has only been after extreme movement (ie a day spent only in movement). I am left to fall asleep with freedom, my body so exhausted and well used, my mind has the opportunity to BEGIN good thought. Often, I have found after a day of hearty physical exertion, I am able to open a book and, well, read, with freedom from my mind's usual business.

So what does this have to do with autonomy.

I have, in the past, equated freedom with being autonomous. An ability to not only govern the self, but to survive without help from others. To be able to reach a point where looking about you, there is no one who can assist you (in whatever it is, decision making, life advice, climbing up a mountain and cooking your dinner alone) You are forced to turn to yourself. If one has never done this, they do not realize the power that rests within themselves. And while being autonomous is great, independent strain, idealized, I think that autonomy is imperative in building good relationships. This is because the autonomous individual does not expect things from others. Two completely autonomous individuals co-existing seems to me, ideal.

Being autonomous does not mean that you are unaffected by things external as well as others. Being autonomous may even allow for deeper emotional reaction. Reaction that does not rock you off your axis, but enables one to see the fruits and colors, feel the textures of the world a bit more.

Capitalism is based off of the idea of autonomy, therefore freedom. A constant reliance upon government and others does not allow one to experience the freedom existing within themselves (and i believe it is possible for everyone) However, our society limits the ability to be autonomous unless you intentionally seek it out. Our families, our friends, our schools, our jobs, our cities become things we depend upon. Autonomy is achievable in every circumstance, but it takes work and intention.

When going to the ballet barre, no one else can extend arabesque for me. When climbing a mountain, no one else can carry me. I like things that force me to be autonomous. And I like learning how to be in a place that breeds a lack of autonomy and attempting to remain autonomous.

And maybe it's okay, while learning, to have someone hold your hand...

but not for too long.

If they like you enough, they'll let go because they want you to be free.






On a less philosophical note: a raincoat is a great investment
On an even less philosophical note: so is coffee.



Ce va!

white blouse:::::a horseshoe crab::::::(((exploring the abyss on a Wednesday)))

I've been wearing this white blouse as if it were the last shirt on earth. It smells like sunshine, sand, sea salt, farm, and sweat. I'm wondering if the approach to beat this heat is in the art of the blouse. It let's whatever air there is arrive and depart, no questions asked. It's not cotton. And it looks good with anything. You can be classy and tuck it in, or sport it at the beach. What's not to like, or daresay I, love?

The past week or so has been busy. A last minute trip to the shore on the fourth in which R and I watched three sets of fireworks by the bay. I do declare that the fourth of July is a holiday of abandon. For me, it has no tradition and seems always attached fondly to an evening spent with people I could not have predicted. RH and RH rode bike down to the shore and the four of us enjoyed an evening together out on the back deck.

But this is besides the point. The weather has led me to appreciate the current ability to spend time outside the city. I received a phone call from the farm on Monday with news that farmer Axel had his foot run over by a tractor. I took Tuesday and head down to help Stephen feed and water the poultry. Spent the day feeding, watering, setting up a station for the newest chicks, washing eggs, all with seven year old Mike. He sprayed me with the hose. Some turkeys escaped. It was hot. We drank lots of water. Some delicious open faced sandwiches with Omi and Opa, who want to take a trip to Muddy Run state park before summer's end. I'm becoming quite fond of my hours spent on the farm and it looks like I'll be spending more time there than originally thought, what with farmer Axel with his leg propped up on the couch, recovery time unknown.

Yesterday was great. The white blouse accompanied R and I on a late afternoon drive to the beach. The water was cold. perfect. we walked out until we could walk no further. a sense of abandon when you lose footing. no ground. a good kind of fear. we found a stranded horseshoe crab and wrote him a verbal letter of appreciation. An amazing creature! 445 million years old, having changed very little.

Whenever I go to the sea, I feel a sense of being at home. The air. The smells. All of it brings great thoughts to my mind. Somers point is divine. The quiet streets. The mussel sandwiches at Bay Shores II Restaurant and Marina, which i have yet to eat as I've only ever had time for breakfast. The people move slowly, folks sit at the bar and drink coffee, the waitress remembers your face and likes her job. The seagulls are noisy...there's salt on your skin.

Last night, walking from the ocean, you could only see distant lights through the fog. I forgot who I was, where I was. I wanted to go then to the library, take a long walk home, brew tea and drink it with a friend, or a lover, or a dog. You know, the things that actually matter.

PARIS
THE SEA
SHARING OUR STRANGE


The importance of consistency is becoming more clear. It doesn't matter what you choose to do, or where you choose to live, as long as you do, you stay, you see the people around you, bearded or not bearded, scruffy or refined, distant or overwhelmingly open. It may be cultural or the unfortunate opportunity of my generation, but there is a trend to travel, to change location, to change careers, to change interests, to change relationships-------I question this. There's much to be seen in the present smallness. You don't have to go looking. Sometimes, if you just sit and watch, things move about you and change you from the inside. The tides, moving in and out and about, constant yet full of movement and change. The flow of a river etching through rock, a thousand years of sameness producing beautiful work.

It may take more courage to stay then leave. It may also take even more courage to leave things you cannot change and build your own life, devoid of where your childhood could have predicted.


speaking of which, recent news makes me wonder...
(((http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128043329)))--- more on this later.


let's end on a more positive note. important things--- blouses, functional and stylish footwear, trips to the sea side, open faced sandwiches (TOMATOES)---

the ability to shake hands with the farmer who puts food on your table---even if his foot has been run over by a tractor---



.au revoir.

the fourth.

It was one of those days where I stopped looking so far ahead. You could blame it on my glasses, all scratched and crooked hanging precariously off the bridge of my nose, attempting a jump. The train was set to depart at 4:48 p.m. sharp.

"Twenty minutes late, damn," exasperation from the woman to my right on the bench.

I could not have found a better afternoon. The taxicab picked me up from work and I said, "the train station, get me there, as quick as you can". To which he replied:

"If you miss the train, I can take you in this taxi."
"I can't afford your taxi."
"Then just give me your phone number after I drop you off."
"I think my number is worth more than a taxi cab ride."

He laughed. I rolled the window down enough to leave my stray hairs with the city winds and continued to speak with the driver. It was hot. We agreed. Was only supposed to get hotter. The traffic stood aggressive. I did not notice. I was safe because I was headed somewhere.

the sun was torching as I stepped out, a glint refracted off the cab door. Fare, $5.46. "Just give me two back."

I stepped out and entered the station. The feel of train station tiles reflected my toes. I was walking on water. There was slight air conditioned air. I felt strong. A gigantic rooted Sycamore. I felt free. A solo soaring avian. Five minutes to spare, I bought the ticket.

Five minutes late, coffee. I hadn't eaten much all day, been busy, occupied.

Ten minutes late, I took to reclaim my hair in a braid, put on a shade of red lipstick, let the late afternoon settle into my previously perspired skin.

I felt breathless, like nothing could touch me except to love me. The blatant rigidity of the train bench scooping down my back, drying sweat behind my knee caps, the tickle of a hair in my eye, warm coffee to my lips.

Twenty minutes late, just enough time for a smoke.

Putting my cigarette out early, I felt the pull of the train even with the building in between. Sure enough, I squeezed in the door as it shut, brushing my arm, my coffee tinkering-but caught, composed, graceful, for once.

I sat down and took to looking out the window. I was going to the ocean, today was the fourth of July, my friend would pick me up at the station.

It was only later that I realized, in my severe bliss, I had handed the taxi cab driver a twenty.

everyone is traveling::: still at la colombe doing a crossword puzzle...

which, to be honest, is not one of my fortes.

<<<<<<

Main Entry: ¹forte
Function: noun

Etymology: French fort, from fort, adjective, strong

Date: circa 1648

1 : the part of a sword or foil blade that is between the middle and the hilt and that is the strongest part of the blade
2 : one's strong point

>>>>>>>>>>

It's Friday evening, July 2nd of the year two thousand and ten. Today was well spent cleaning toilets and changing bed linens, transplanting another set of impatiens. It's first friday in Philadelphia, but to be frank, I'm not too interested. After a good ballet class at Kip's studio, I took to La Colombe and treated myself to a nice crossword. The ponytailed employee has taken to attempting to predict my coffee choice for the day. Today he got the temperature wrong, however, was right in assuming I would stay inside. While waiting, the girl who was working, Angie, I recognized as the girl who was just in ballet class. Confusion.

Does she have a twin?

Do you have a twin? A doppelganger?

I wish.

of course, Sarah then enters, her twin who was in class and I feel better about the world.

Smallness entertains and this city sure is small. There was my teacher, Meredith Rainey on the corner, shouting my name, getting ready for a weekend trip to the Chesapeake with his partner. It's interesting though, so many people take summers and leave. I came home and proceeding to check el facebook, was bombarded by photographs of everyone traveling or spending summers abroad or spending summers in the tundra. I looked around my room in it's brilliant chaos and wondered..."am I doing something wrong?". If I documented my "travels" (also known as my current life...) with a camera and my photographs were summarized in a set of words, it would look like this:

coffee. coffee. work. ballet. farm. work. farm. coffee. ballet. coffee. work. work. work. cigarette. coffee. water. water. water. cigarette. ballet. book. newspaper. book. notebook. coffee. cigarette. work. work. work. farm. letter. farm.

i'm okay with this. but maybe someday, it could look like this:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------> (life.)

and so i don't have facebook then anyways.

it doesn't really matter. it reminds me of a quote my brother once said while we spent the afternoon spitting seeds off a bridge in Harrisburg:::: "a bridge is a poor man's boat" to which I replied "a book is a poor man's plane".

i digress. i admit, i am a bit jealous of people who can leave and escape in travels. i've done it before but promised myself i would stay put for awhile in one place and watch things shift around me. It's a balance I have yet to understand. A part of me wonders why we crave this travel, this escape, this abandonment of our lives, if only to pack a bag and see things more clear in our minimalism. I think you can find it in one place. That you can abandon your own life within your current reality and build off of that. At the same time, what is the effect that an environment has on a person. Is it about rising above your environment (ie current, Philadelphia) and living in accordance with your own values/finding beauty and inspiration in the smallness of a sidewalk stone or glint of light on a building----or can one reach a point where their environment is not conducive to promoting health and livliness? Each person is different and different environments work for different people-- ie, how one's body reacts to certain weather patterns, or the general mentality attached to a social environment. We have to be careful because the mentality of "it's better there", is a grassy patch that may not be greener. (oops, acted on this one plenty of times)

Let's take a look at some literature in regards to this topic:

I'm reading Annie Proulx's "The Shipping News" again. The main character, Quoyle, spends most of his adult life in remedial jobs, staring at newspaper print all day, marrying a woman with a loose you know what. She sells their kids on the black market and runs off with the guy she's seeing behind his back. She dies in a car wreck just two days after Quoyle's parents commit suicide. His life in pieces, his aunt (whom he's never met prior to these events) convinces him to move back to Newfoundland where is ancestors lived. This change in environment awakens in him his natural abilities, brought to the surface by a cold, brutal environment in a place where getting from point A to B can be difficult. An environment that keeps only the most rough and brave of individuals, a place where, by the end of the book, he is surely shining.

At times, walking around Philadelphia, I feel like I am doing myself a disservice by staying. In being attracted to extremes, I am often bored by simple things like how people dress and walk here. I like awakeness, intensity, efficiency, hard work---I idealize that this exists in New York, Paris, London, the kind I can only imagine must exist in extreme environments like the far north.

Well---atleast I can write letters to W in Alaska and D in Brooklyn. Measly ole me, still slumming in the awkward, lazy eyed streets of Philadelphia. Nothing a bright shade of lipstick and brutal pair of heels cannot heal. Or maybe it's time to leave these streets and intentionally place myself in a place I want to be.

BUT WANTING IS SCARY.

it's simply safer to not want and pretend your a buddhist. but good god, without desire and intruige and questions and exploration---we'd still be thinking that the earth was a square. Actually, we'd still be sitting outside the cave scratching our heads with pine needles. I think that sounds nice, actually. However knowing myself, I'd probably be inside etching philosophical physics on the cave walls and daydreaming about mr. caveman with the intelligent spectacles drinking a cup of coffee in the top of the mighty Sequioa.

a toast to crosswords, smelling like a French woman (STEREOTYPE ALERT), and friday nights alone with the plane of a poor man,

caio.