While Barak Obama was aging rapidly in the effort to deflect the great toxic nastiness of the 2012 US election and (hopefully!) emerge as President with some vestiges of grace, I was building, making, taking apart and putting together, writing and re-writing new art equations in my studio.
Through Hurricane Sandy and my dad’s 80th birthday (same day), the arguments over Canada’s Secret Contract negotiations with China and the US Election I’d cleared and cleaned the entire place of all ‘deadweight’ (save for three areas, one of which I’m still tackling – the two-foot-tall stack of chamber music inherited from 5 different mentors over the years, which has been mostly useless to anyone until now).
I gave away old paintings & illustrations or destroyed them, I inventoried the raw materials I have to work with (considerable), I fixed the sewing machine, and mentally catalogued my modest but inspiring stash of fabric – colours like food.
I threw out hardened tubes of paint (there were two), moved furniture, re-wired the electronics, fed the plants, ripped out old upholstery, brought out all the drawing materials to a place where they can be used and replenished if need be.
I played music. I mean, played. This is different from a regimen of practise, even if you cover exactly the same ground.
I walked a marvelous dog to places neither of us had been, over two days. She is an incredible communicator.
I bought an omnibus and found a certain dark resonance inside, screwed in things and screwed out things, I drove, I passengered, I observed, I obtused, I gave myself full permission to be utterly, functionally stupid.
I may have said things I shouldn’t, but only among good friends. I probably should have said more, but I didn’t.
While I was doing this I rehearsed and taught and rehearsed and scheduled, and performed with varying degrees of accomplishment. The Owen Sound Attack won a game against Barrie – yay, underdog!. My dear friends cooked up a new good idea, that will permit release from old tired things – long time coming. My daughter was accepted into the Rotary exchange for 2012-13, my sister blossomed some more, my friend made better friends with his own deep anxiety.
I sifted through the mountain of poppy-seed and sand, and from it made other piles that can now be useful.
I began seven blog posts and trashed each one because they were dull. Whoever reads this deserves better.
I fought a war with my own pressurized, inherited idea of what I should be and do, and I won. So far.
Now here I am, on the other side of this stuff, this hard working stuff, and bless me, but I have nothing to say that has any weight whatsoever.
I’m so happy to know that I don’t have anything even resembling an edge on wisdom.
Thanks for reading this. Feel free to join me in the new series of experiments.