Keirartworks's Blog

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Black and White

Here’s something.  If you slow down a recording of crickets to the speed it would be if their lifespan was equal to humans, it sounds a lot like a human choir (link here).  Huh.

Another thing.  If you look at this global map of the wind, you can see where the wind that just pushed over the old window on your front porch came from.  You can zoom in and check out how fast it’s going and where it’s just been right now, anywhere in the world, the wind. (link here)

Huh.

 

This is like reading Paulo Friere (Brazil) on Education for Critical Consciousness and Theatre of the Oppressed, Patricia Leavy (Boston) on how Method Meets Art, and Shaun McNiff (Cambridge, MA) on Art as Research, Willingham and Higgins (Canada and UK) on Community Music practise.  I feel these thoughts on my skin like wind from three continents, four countries.

Same wind that’s stirring the trees.

And another:  two 18 volt, 3 amp lithium batteries can charge a chainsaw long enough to cut and collect firewood that will last for two days, run a circular saw and a power drill long enough to build a shelf and counter, with a little left to spare.  A Sherpa 100 lithium battery can keep a studio light going all day, charge phone and wifi device, with a little left over to top up a laptop battery.  If it’s sunny out, you can charge the Sherpa from solar panels, and the lithium battery charger from the Sherpa.  Heat from a tea candle can power the reading lamp beside me (invented and produced in Wiarton Ontario at Caframo) for 4-5 hours.

Not sure this is interesting to everyone, but it is to me.  When the water pipes beneath the street froze a few winters ago, I learned how much 16 litres of water weighed.  It was my maximum for carrying from supply building to car (50 yards).  I learned how to do a sink full of dishes with one cup of water.  I’m learning the same direct measurement realities now about energy and I’m fascinated, frankly.

All of this together, the sound of crickets slowed down, today’s fierce wind from Mexico, Paulo Friere’s, Patricia Leavy’s Shaun McNiff’s, Lees Willingham and Higgins’ thoughts intermingling here, the realities of available energy and time, heat and wellbeing – all of these things met this afternoon in a meditation with my thumbs in the playing of the Courante from Suite Number 1 of the Suites by cello, written in Austria by JS Bach in 1717-1723.  That’s the fourth continent, meeting in my thumbs.

I wouldn’t be writing any of this if my since zero years of age friend Marcus hadn’t challenged me to think in black and white, while taking pictures of my life, with no people and no captions for seven days straight (the first three here are in chronology, and then I just started looking at things differently and took more).

Huh.


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A reciprocal boat

Sometimes the boat NEEDS to sink, little miss willpower.  Sometimes it’s just time to release Her.

Boats are practical things that keep you afloat on water, carry what you need for a journey, bring back what you harvest.  They are all female.

Boats are dreams, freedoms, passions, yearnings. They are shared, protected, obvious solitudes.  In them you can aim yourself to the far horizon, traverse the foreign deep and sing the sky.  They cradle in a soft wind, scream in heavy weather.

Without exception, boats require maintenance. Care.

A reciprocal boat carries two, each with her baggage, each with his wounds which, if utilized correctly can transform into oars, a sail.  A tiller, a keel even, to stabilize a fragile idea in rough weather.  Ingenuity is required, shared goals, a willingness to do all the work made necessary by journey.  If one refuses to bail while the other catches the wind, forgets to balance the agreement of labour and care, well then there is no crew, and the boat, She knows it. If there’s no crew to attend to the moment, then eventually, inevitably, down She goes, in sad, sorry relief.

That one sank four years ago, on September 3, 2013. In the course of that time I’ve sung her Her to peace in honour of her ten years of service. Despite a poor crew.

There are fair weather boats, full of jolly shout and sun.  These are white white above but deep and heavy below with a labouring few who may never be seen.  These know Her engines, Her faults, Her upper deck requirements and tend them, cursing the dark.  Below the cursings, deeper still in the hull are dungeons where the scapegoats molder, banished for being born out of place.  Light above, heavy below, She knows full well she cannot be sustained, but grinds the tending souls to breaking point in any case, for the sake of Show.

One like that finally sank three years ago, in long, slow stages.  I watched her break apart and go under, still raging.

It was not beautiful, or poignant.

The boats still out there are better made; They need maintenance at dock, newer crew, so in They come, a float of dignity and good lines, for repair and Captains who understand the weather, yearn for the horizon.

Still others wait ready, clean holds full of nourishment and good sense.

Me, I’ve found safe harbour. Deeply grateful for the peace after the storms.  I repair, rebuild and absorb new information here, I check the shore for the next journey.

I’ll know Her when I see Her; we’ll sail when the wind is right.

 

 


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Little Book

The red book records the odd.

The black one, scars.

The green, intent

The blue, fancy

The yellow is a large sieve

to catch memory for story glue. but

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in a private, cathartic moment

They will all burn.

This is not a world

that is kind to things

sorted and filed in this way.

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In one it is recorded:

I do reject hope.

I hold passion away from my body,

measure trust like a miser,

like a miser, take great care

with my accountabilities.

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The little books know.

There is no family, no truth,

no gift freely given.

This is who we are.  Nevertheless

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I am not dead yet.

Through these Mean Times

I shall continue to search for,

find, and make art.

Little Book, Jan 26/April 11, 2017, studio (house)
KLM

A Note:  This poem was written at a dark time, in a long moment of self-observation.   I refer to this in a recent post called The Far Horizon – a time when I found myself sifting through the broken things – beloved house gone, beloved studio gone, beloved places now pawns in a power-play not of my choosing, family torn apart, living deep inside poverty with my financial resources withheld, lawyers who forgot critical information, mismanaged files, set their own agendas, people once dear to me now like bullies who pout their entitlement, present their victimhood to the world while they sucker punch the whipping boy or the concubine, kick the chained dog. Shock after shock after shock.

How does the human spirit survive catastrophe and rebuild?  Turn from toxic identification with the badness of life into a place of curiosity and ingenuity?  Choose to let go, heal up and move on?  Our history is full of fine examples – I suspect that this happens at least once every second on planet earth – it’s what we do.

For me it has always been the making of art and the writing of journals.  Get it out of me and onto a page, a canvas, and then let it go.  In January of last year I read through and pitched journals from 20 years – a cathartic burning, a profound release of attachment to old pains.  On the other side of that is genuine strength, genuine laughter.  It’s good to stand your ground.


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The scent of change

I’m drinking beer in the solarium of a pub my band used to play in 35 years ago.  More nachos than I can eat, hanging baskets full of boston-themed plastic plants, my old cello safe and warm beside me. A guy with humperdink-voice just started to play a three chord song – now I get why, when I asked if there was a table I could write at, they put me in here the quiet room.

Change, like a subtle draft of air.

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I’ve just finished the second of two intriguing community music classes, which came right after my excellent cello lesson with body-mapper and fine cellist Amber Ghent.  If any of those three experiences had happened separately they would have been the highlight of my month – but I get them all stacked into my Wednesday this week.  Workshop with Gary Diggins, who has used music as medicine all around the world and runs a very cool space in Guelph called Silence.  In the interdisciplinary arts Masters class my fellow students and I pull together dance, pottery, video, theatre, psychology, music education, history, anthropology and more to explore a more holistic approach to facilitation of music and arts gatherings.  Brave new world, this field, with humans such as these.

Change, like the lifting of one veil.

by way of contrast - this is my very real gardenia at home - blooming happily under the plant light, perfuming the room

by way of contrast – this is my very real gardenia at home – blooming happily under the plant light, perfuming the room

I’m home now, packed inside pillows and blankets on the couch, nursing flu.  Reading about Power versus Force; Leadership and storytelling (Howard Gardner); introversion (Susan Cain) who debunks the largely American myth that those with sparkling personalities are naturally also good at running businesses, countries, projects, programs; From Dictatorship to Democracy (Gene Sharp, 1993, 2012, many translations). This is information therapy, to address my bewilderment and anger at behaviours exhibited these past six months and more.  It’s working.

Change, like the practical, forward-pointed shape of canada geese.

Map for planned return from Ottawa. We ended up at the base of Algonquin Park. Much more beautiful than 401.

Map for planned return from Ottawa. We ended up at the base of Algonquin Park. Much more beautiful than 401.

Bow arm injury as a result of old rotator cuff damage I sustained nine years ago.  For the first time in many many years I need to not play cello, until I can get myself into the hands of a good physiotherapist next week (I read that as not play as much, since I can’t imagine not teaching, gigging or rehearsing with Cello Choir).  It’s the deep practises I miss – two or three hours of rotated 20-minute intense sessions – great incentive to dedicate myself to physio work.

Change. An involuntary lift of the eyebrows.

While in Ottawa we stayed in the Jail Hostel. In a cell one floor below the former skid row. I loved it there - sad to leave

While in Ottawa we stayed in a tiny cell one floor below the former skid row of the Ottawa Jail Hostel.  I was sad to leave my little bunk in the little cell with the iron-barred door.  Imprisoned then released, reluctant.

I did my taxes yesterday and three years worth of my daughter’s.  Every year for 23 years now I’ve taken my added-up receipts in to a gifted accountant and listened to his tales about life, human beings, and money.  He is a philosopher who is quite at home with his need to keep things clear and in proper order.  I left well-informed after he quietly and respectfully applied his philosophy to my particular situation and then to my daughter’s.  It’s quite a thing, to look forward thirty years with a wise and practical human and answer, as best you can, the question “Who will you be?”.

Change, like my body does.

death row. Four cells - the prisoners moved one closer to the noose each time someone was executed. Three men died this way officially, though when the jail was converted to a hostel they found the bodies of 150 more buried in a pit beside the building.

death row. Four cells – the prisoners moved one closer to the noose each time someone was executed. Three men died this way officially, though when the jail was converted to a hostel they found the bodies of 150 more buried in a pit beside the building.

In class this past week we were given fifteen minutes to write a memory (with a pen, onto paper), five minutes to edit, and another fifteen to trade written memories with a classmate.  The one read to me brought tears to my eyes.  Here’s my offering:

A snuffling in the trees wakes me – raccoon.  By the distance the moon has traveled it looks like two a.m.. I’d run around to this side of the hit at sunset, just in time to catch the first star, then moonrise over the sighing filed.  I read myself towards sleep soon after, but found my focus skyward instead and resentful of the candle’s glare, I’d pinched it out, lay back on the deck pillows to gaze up, and in.

Awoke without knowing I’d slipped into sleep.  I think the moon called from her new place in the sky.  I saw that the milky way had risen out of the northeast, an old road of ancient dust.  And there – Orion’s belt.  There Cassiopeia, there Mars, low and hot on the horizon.

Wonder took me back into dreaming until the raccoon’s busy-ness.  I look up; all has changed again. I’m dizzy with it.  In my belly I can feel the planet turn and spin, the moon dance around the earth, the earth around the sun, the galaxy through the dark along with millions of other galaxies…

This is the dizziness of knowing how small – how very small I am.

The Bar/breakfast canteen at the hostel, two floors below us. Australians, brits, teenager groups, tweener school groups, loner types, a hijabbed moslem woman reading a book, poet-looking people. Apparently it's hopping in the summer - and will be full up this year on Canada Day. Great place to stay - and not expensive at all.

The Bar/breakfast canteen at the hostel, two floors below our cell. Australians; Brits; teenager groups; tweener school groups with frazzled-eager teachers; loner types; a moslem woman in hijab reading a book; poet-looking people sipping coffee; me comfortable in pyjamas and bare feet.

We make effort in answer to things we value.  Go to watch the sunset; lean in to smell the flower; greet one another with positive news; wear smiles and show kindness whenever possible, as we hunt our future selves and befriend our demons.  Effort, my wise accountant might say, is a kind of currency which requires good investment.  The return is enrichment that equals the effort, or, if we’re savvy, far surpasses it.  If that’s not the return, then you’ve invested in the wrong place – working against your own efforts and so promoting injury (which is what my arm and shoulder muscles are doing, as it turns out).

Change, like the soft closing of a very good book, one long moment after you’ve finished the last sentence.


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Snowfall, December 2016.

A twenty degree angle, up from the east to the west.  After 36 hours of fierce but invisible wind, the snow has begun.  I’m relieved.

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ah, this year, this year.

As I would with child coming down from his destructive tantrum, I want to dose this year with a well-laced hot toddy and tuck it firmly into bed, so we may all have the chance for some self-care.  A break from the nonsensical, irrational, incessant howling we’ve endured to breathe in simple things.

Even for an hour, to be simple, straightforward.

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All of us are on a four-lane superhighway it seems, doing our best to be generous, to be kind, but oh so beleaguered, so worn out.

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The Chickadees sing in the slanting snow.

Despite the breathtaking antagonism, the astonishing indifference, the unrepentant mean-spiritedness witnessed and endured these past few months, they still sing, cheerful.  They have done this every winter, for as long as Chickadees have been chickadees.

Third-floor roof of the studio building.  Looking Southwest across the harbour

Third-floor roof of the studio building (2013). Looking Southwest across the harbour

It follows then, that if the Chickadees sing, so can we.

 


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I feel change

It’s a mouth-taste, odd.  Also pit of my stomach when I notice I’ve casually ‘turned over a stone’ and uncovered memories from 13 years ago.  Remembering I ran away then, wondering at the grand plan that overrode those better instincts and pinned me like a specimen inside a story that wasn’t mine. For a decade.

Print of the Music Room at Haddon Hall, Darbyshire.

Print of the Music Room at Haddon Hall, Derbyshire.

I understand I’m being triggered by recent events that have little to do with me.  It’s fascinating – I feel my pulse change as old traumas rise to the surface, still stinking like dead fish.

In three years I’ve healed enough to function well at a steady pace, to build new systems that will I hope benefit many, articulate plans well enough to go hunt them with proposals, maintain full-time work and a part-time Masters study.  But these rememberings are embedded deeper than surface function.

I’m shocked, ten years on, by the detail of my recall.

 

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This is happening now because I’m painting again, in preparation for the December 3 Studio Tour.  There is no way around it – the visual art work always takes me down and in.  The paintings are a by-product.

Nov 2 Bridge to CM Masters

Nov 2 Bridge to CM Masters

Standing Rock #NoDAPL,which on facebook is getting twenty to thirty times the coverage of the US election, world-wide.  It’s not just the pit of my stomach that knows this is a game-changer.  Idle No More, indeed.

I seek to understand my own ancestors, and the ways and means I can forgive them – industrialists, colonials all – for the damage they wrought here.  I am part of that history – that long awful story of dominance, abuse and neglect.

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My belly is telling me change is here.  It’s time for a new story.


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Grand Plan

In the corner of my well-collected room there is a gilded chair, with cushions of soft cedar green.

I observe both chair and my pleasure in it, thinking how odd it is to have something right there in my room so finely made that the gilding is not ostentatious, but appropriate.

I do not sit in it.

My room, looking away from the gilded chair, at the bay window couch I do my reading in.

My room, looking away from the gilded chair, at the bay window couch where I’ve been reading anthropological studies of the Western Conservatory Music culture all day

Art Fundamentals 7th edition (Ocvirk/Stinson/Wigg/Bone/Cayton, 1994); Free to be Musical (Higgins/Campbell, 2010); The Tone of our Times (Dyson, 2014) – this week’s doors, waiting to be unlocked, to be passed through. Other doors I’ve left open behind me, each granting passage into a thought-provoking room, hallway, staircase.

view from reading couch

view from reading couch

Up, down, through, in.  Cognitive dungeon to library to kitchen to widow’s peak – each a different ‘ology’, each a story that links to all the others ever written, and those only now being conceived.

My mind is becoming vast like an ever-expanding castle, which, although timely and immensely satisfying, is not entirely comfortable.  Often it’s a tight squeeze.  I forget things like where the car is, what music I need to find, what day it is….

Union Station subway poem, Rush hour Oct 27

Union Station subway poem, rush hour Oct 27

Travel and roads.  I’ve spent a great deal of time not-home, in-between.  I don’t mind this 600+ km each week of highway through orange maple trees and purple skies, cropped fields and pumpkins on shelves by the roadside. Pumpkins like people, each one a different shape and size, some sideways, some flat, some enormous, others tiny, a couple of them smashed into pulp on the road.

In between I read through and into cognitive change.  I tune my cello/voice and play/sing for Tom Thomson, for Mary Sue Rankin, who are gone from here but also Not-Gone, ever.  I am honoured and humbled to be part of a circle teaching gift from three powerful indigenous women, and to be gifted an improvised-traditional calligraphic rendering of my friend and colleague’s Chinese name. As the kilometres go by and events sift down into understanding, I realize with growing certainty that the most valuable ones are those that cannot be purchased.

Home from Toronto Oct 29.

Home from Toronto Oct 29.

Oh yes.  Lawyers (an interesting and useful contrast), to collaboratively and fairly settle and resolve a marriage that ended three years ago. Muffler replacement on my hard-working honda.  These are purchased in the name of maintenance, a ‘taking care of’.  A garden full of beautiful perennials (rescued from the bad marriage), now being choked by goutweed – I will start digging it out tomorrow morning, also putting away the beautiful summer writing space on my back deck, now blanketed by yellow ash leaves.

Certainly, for things like these, for ‘taking care of’, it’s good to earn a decent living.

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My beautiful ash tree, three weeks ago, just after Thanksgiving. Now it’s mostly on the deck.

Remembrance day concert soon in the marvellously thriving community arts centre – this one a collaboration of elementary school musicians and the community concert choir, who both need cello, lucky me.

Things you can’t purchase, but have the greatest value.

Generosity.  Thanks-giving.  Remembrance.  Care.