Day One Hundred Ninety-Eight


I decided that I was off vacation the past Monday. I say I decided because I came back last Thursday from the Pacific Northwest, with the later part of it being at an off-the-grid cabin in the Olympic Peninsula, with long walks in the thousands-year old rainforests and the vast beaches with sea anemones and drift logs. In this living landscape I felt insignificant, both in scale and the history of time, and became quiet. Discontent, explanations, meanings, do not matter. They just are. Coming back was uninspiring. In stead of going to the studio I spent a half day sewing together sunflower petals that dried and fell on the dining table after these two weeks, and other time reading, finishing the one I started during the trip and two new ones, wanting to spend some time in other people's brain. At the computer screen I tried typing up the log but I did not seem to have anything worthwhile to share, and was afraid that I would end up casting negativities through this small window to the infinite world with no sense of smell or touch. 

But routines and deadlines help. Today I had a better studio day. I sat down on a wheel and had a long throwing session for the first time since I hurt my shoulder almost a month ago. I'm working on an idea on medicine cabinets, which I will talk more at some other time, making hundreds of small bottles. By two hours in I started to feel the silence coming from this repetitive task. I missed it. I needed it.  In this silence many ideas popped to mind. I wanted to write them down before they slipped out. I cleaned the clay off of my hands and rushed to the notebook trying to write them down, some lost already, some made to the notebook. Now go back to the wheel again and throw.