Keirartworks's Blog

hmmm. hmmm? Observations, actions and connection points through art.


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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.

ashtree_fall2016

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.

 


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Hackers, passwords and hooks

I woke this morning at 5am with the thought that I was carrying around way more stuff than was actually mine to carry.

At this point the image of a lake trout with three sea lamprey attached to it appeared in my mind at this point – I’ve looked for an image like it to include here, but what I found was just too awful.

Dreams are clearing houses for experience  – or so I believe – so the fact that I’ve spent much of the past week educating myself about hackers and identity theft is likely at the root of this.  It’s interesting that the key to identity theft is a weak password – I’ve had to seek and change them all.  There’s a password to everything I do it seems.

I shook the lamprey/lake trout image from my head and went back into sleep.  No sooner there than I had another image – of rooms and rooms, and floors of rooms in my beautiful, bright, grand old house – each one empty save for a pile of junk left there by someone else.  Of course, in this dream the front and back door locks didn’t work so I didn’t bother with keys…..

hmmm.

Awake now, I lay there, thinking about junk left behind, piles of mess, doors left open, unused keys.

I wonder if it’s possible to ‘hack’ into someone’s personal space and junk it up?  To hook a power line to someone’s central power systems and supplement their energy with your own?  To take the stuff you don’t want to deal with and dump it into someone else’s space, so they will deal with it?

Or the reverse of this:  how many people am I powering up in my life, without even knowing it?  How is it that sometimes I’m so drained I can barely function – and not from working on my own material – just on maintaining a basic clarity?

I guess I need to seek and change some more passwords.

Apologies, to anyone who’s been sent to a commercial site from here.  Please let me know if the problem persists.

Happy Tuesday, all.  Here’s to looking after our own junk.