Orcas Ch. Pt. 2
A blur of a day, a slow blur. Awakened a bit hung-over from a dinner party & our inaugural trip to the Lower, where a band played & people closer to our age danced about the small stage in various states of inebriation, some drunk, some clearly tripping, some merely enjoying themselves. & today the sun has been constant. Took Willa for a run through a private trail, the sun dappling the fine needles underfoot, the forest alive with a vibrance it hides in the rain. Stopped to help Steve with the worm compost on the way down to the barn, raking fresh scrap aside to get the soil thick like wet black cement piled aside for sifting. An awful stench, but a valuable lesson & an opportunity to help around the farm, which I welcome. A shower outside, the mist fine & articulated by the golden sunlight. & here, now, a sudden sleep upon me. We sink slowly into the island’s black soil, I think, as if it spreads its arms. Landing.
***
Something about being resourceful becomes a kind of benign infection; first, you tender your sustenance from the field outside your window, & next you find your quiet nights slowly filling with endeavors previously unimaginable. The last time I used pastels I must have been sixteen, though at that time I used them fervently, harboring some silent dream of an artistic fervor that was never there. To break them out tonight signifies something quite different; a shift towards self-reliance of a breed I’ve not yet met but often dreamt of. To allow one’s mind & heart & hand to act as nexus can be enough, more than enough. I would measure product with process even a year ago, even a week ago, & find the former so glaringly void of efficacy that it would preclude the possibility of even conceiving of the latter. If my drawing proves terrible, then it is terrible. I have a woodstove that needs frequent fuel. If it proves somehow an articulation of something temporarily of interest, then I’ll keep it. In either case, I have the time, the tools, the strange & novel desire to create in ways I’ve not called upon in years & years. & this the birth of something.
When I wanted Alaska so badly, I wanted this kind of simple resourcefulness the most, I think. It enriches, in a myriad of untold ways. I want to be accountable for myself, to know fewer excuses. & this natural simplicity seems an avenue into just such a goal. This spare barn teaches many lessons.
***
Something about being resourceful becomes a kind of benign infection; first, you tender your sustenance from the field outside your window, & next you find your quiet nights slowly filling with endeavors previously unimaginable. The last time I used pastels I must have been sixteen, though at that time I used them fervently, harboring some silent dream of an artistic fervor that was never there. To break them out tonight signifies something quite different; a shift towards self-reliance of a breed I’ve not yet met but often dreamt of. To allow one’s mind & heart & hand to act as nexus can be enough, more than enough. I would measure product with process even a year ago, even a week ago, & find the former so glaringly void of efficacy that it would preclude the possibility of even conceiving of the latter. If my drawing proves terrible, then it is terrible. I have a woodstove that needs frequent fuel. If it proves somehow an articulation of something temporarily of interest, then I’ll keep it. In either case, I have the time, the tools, the strange & novel desire to create in ways I’ve not called upon in years & years. & this the birth of something.
When I wanted Alaska so badly, I wanted this kind of simple resourcefulness the most, I think. It enriches, in a myriad of untold ways. I want to be accountable for myself, to know fewer excuses. & this natural simplicity seems an avenue into just such a goal. This spare barn teaches many lessons.
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