Drawing: 5 hours
Writing: 2 hours
Critique w/ David Chung: 1 hour
Meeting w/ Endi: 15 min
Coloring print: 7 hours
I did some experiments with text this week. The first one is stitched, the second one is screen-printed. I don't dislike them, but I'm not in love with them, either. Endi made an interesting observation on Tuesday - although my writings, drawings, and prints are all a related body of work, they are each individual projects. I've been struggling to find a way to present the writing alongside the prints, but I don't think that is the solution. If the text is at the same scale as the prints they will compete with each other, and if the text is small on the wall, it will most likely be ignored. So, I'm leaning toward Janie's idea of putting the poems in a book. Now I'm wondering if the book should be handmade or printed.
I also did a couple more pastel drawings this week. I think it's good for me to keep doing these in between printing.
I started coloring the print from last week, but it's still in progress.
Here are a couple of options that I'm considering for my postcard image. I think I like the second one better, but I'm open to suggestions.
I also did some more writing this week. All of the poems I've written so far are still works in progress, so if anyone has any suggestions or comments, I'd love to hear them.
I once lived here,
and for many years I slept
beneath the window
by the chimney,
for which there never was
a fireplace.
I turn the knob, but
the deadbolt is stiff, and
no one will answer. It's the door
that speaks to me and tells me
to leave.
"It's too late," says the door.
"There's no room for you anymore."
"That can't be right," I say.
"I've only been gone since the fall."
But the door turns
off the porch light,
and I stand there,
directionless,
where to go unknown.
I stand with my feet
planted parallel
atop gray 2'x4's,
which I did not build
but wish that I had.
I stand, and I look at this house,
at its gray siding
and red door,
at its
tall
narrow
body and
gently sloped
shoulders, and such lean,
peering windows with strong eyebrows.
I look at this house, and I see
that it is not mine, but merely
an echo of where I had grown,
still bouncing off the silo walls.
It doesn't share my bones,
and the flesh I see
is not mine. Perhaps
a resemblance,
but this is not the place
I left: home.
I look at this house
and take my hand off
the handle. I turn
and walk down the steps,
and I do not look back
to see if the lights
switch on.
The wind licks my cheeks
and bites my nose, and
the alley stones kick
my shins, but it's a good night
for a walk, and I think
how exciting it is
not knowing
where I might end up.
Dear House,
Your coffee
tastes good today,
not like yesterday:
bitter and stale.
The grinder woke me up.
Dear House,
You are my favorite
movie, and I've seen you
hundreds of times.
Etched into my memory,
I replay you over
and over in my head,
watching our days roll by.
Dear House,
You were best
on stormy nights,
when thunder
cracked
and shook
your foundation.
I was adrenaline,
eyes sharp
to catch each bolt
of lightning
stretching down
from the green-gray sky.
And the roar of rain
against your shingles;
pulsing, rising,
flowing down my spine,
into my chest and
through my legs.
Lying in bed
together we felt
flooded, your roof
the sky, your windows
my eyes, each crash
my heartbeat
chasing flashes of light.
And never did I
wish it to end, but last
forever, a fleeting
ecstasy prolonged
in the deep night
where darkness settles
into its corners.
Your darkness
so inviting, I find myself
dreaming
that I'm inside you,
warmth saturating
my bones engorged
beneath blankets
I watch dripping rain
cast shadows
streak
across the slanted ceiling
falling onto me
into sleep
and back to everything
I ever wanted
inside
and out-
home.
