Running with Sentences.

I just finished writing this post for SEED‘s blog about some of the things the store (and myself) is (are) doing this summer, the most important part of it being this sentence:

“Festivals for us, are like a hippy treat, a gypsy fix, a place to find a loving home for every silk patterned beauty we would at any other time of year need to layer over and under with fleece.”

My school teachers always told me not to run my sentences on-and-on-and-on, but but but, I just can’t stop! (and according to Vladimir Nabokov, I may never need to) Cause,  they don’t teach style in school, right? So you have to make it up. Cookie cutter me out.

Lately – “Ohhhhhhhh, a life in the arts”.

continued

– I entered a poetry slam for the first time at the Cathedral Village Arts Festival! After at first feeling terribly self conscious and in no way intending to participate, I was thankfully convinced otherwise and wrote this piece called, ‘Hearts Need a Place’.

-These are my business cards! Each one is individually kissed by myself or someone I’ve kissed, ahah. I was of course doing this at some early am hour the night/day of the festival street fair so I enlisted the help of my friends Jera and Martin, to get them all done in time.

– At the street fair, held every year on the Saturday of the Cathedral Village Arts Festival, I was working in the Seed booth where I was also selling my paintings and photographs.

Thank you to Shawn Fulton for these photos of my friend Eric and I “working” (playing photoshoot) at the booth/store/homebase. This next photo is off a friend named Imari who’s only 6, but can play the violin like you would not believe. He was kind of like the highlight of the festival, shhhhhhhhh don’t tell the other artists, and also, his outfit! common.

– Also at the festival, was the launch of an arts publication, put together by my very good friend Katherine Boyer, called ‘The Crop‘. K-boy, as we call her, an artist and just total  jem who specializes in printmaking, conceived the concept with Michelle Brownridge and Ian Jestadt, then collected the artwork and printed it herself (wonder woman anyone?).

And, in the (loveliest) of Crops, I had a piece published called, ‘Hello, My Name Is, I’ve Missed you’ which is a painting done in india ink, based on a photograph of my father when he was younger (like, early thirties) and the feeling that I have of constantly meeting (and loving) these younger, different variations of men who remind me of him.

Lately to be continued…

Sitting on the rooftop of the pub and,

unable to think about anything,
except how easily it is that we could die.

and that,
yesterday,
or what was today,
in another world,
while I was sitting on a rooftop drinking bottled beers,
named ‘dead guy’
my dad would be turning 61 years old.

but not in this universe,
not in my world,
where I am a singular pro-noun,
sitting on rooftops.

and remembering that lately,
I’ve been so sad.
and
angry,
without a knowledge of why.

and,
without a knowing of why lately,
I have never remembered these such landmarks,
until they’ve passed me by.

happy birthday dad.

the days I spend not wanting to be myself seem to be piling up.

feeling restless. procrastinating every email, every phone call, and blog post even.

wishing I was alone in a field with nothing but a sketchbook and a pen. so much there is I wish to say, to articulate all of these incredible experiences with accuracy, but feeling they deserve better than my uneasy distraction.

the plus side is, these seem to be the only days I can stand to clean the house.

Like shut up, I can’t get off the internet.

Earlier tonight I clicked a link posted by a FB friend leading to this fantastic post by my new favorite blogger: Am I A Hypocrite For Professing Radical Self Love While Wearing 5 Inch Heels? The Intersection Between Fashion, Personal Expression & Loving Who You Are www.galadarling.com.

Her blog is endless in itself and filled with links to other incredible sites, so I’ve been stuck in the internet since, reading/looking at things like:

Add that to checking up on all of the other lovely lady bliggers I’ve been following lately like Model Burn Book, Rachel Rabbit, Slutever, Jane-in-bedHeadspace (n.) and the whole universe of Thought Catalog, and I may never leave my bedroom again.

Except yes I will.

But seriously, it’s dangerous, there’s so much to see and read and feel inspired by. I’m so easily distracted by wanting to absorb it all, while also trying to write and create my own work (and do things like clean or whatever).

The internet feels like an endless buffet of every kind of food you can imagine,
and I love food. Talk about over stimulation.

Can you still call it art?

Yes.
Poets write poetry.

But why shouldn’t a computer also.
Or at least, help to inspire and cultivate more poetry within poets.

If I’m a poet and I give said computer/program the tools that it needs to create spontaneous, beautiful and interesting poetry, what makes it any less valid than the words themselves I first wrote. Where is the line drawn between words jumbled until they just happen to arrange in a way which is beautiful and the way jumbled words spill from my own brain?

If our minds are the worlds most engenious computers than how can my mac book be any less than a kick-ass side-kick?

If the paintings I make by creating the proper conditions, choosing colours, canvas, tape, water and pressure, and then leaving the result up to chance, be considered art; then why not/would my words wrung through a melting pot, re-served to me in new forms and then re-aranged again by me, be themselves foolish, or laugh worthy?

How can you distribute worth to one series of words and not the other?
Especially if they’re equal or greater than, in substance.

When do words become poems and images become art?
Sound become music?
Moving become dancing?
Clothing become style?

If you stick a film camera on your cats collar,
and then let it roam freely, can you still call it art?

**Written in response to friends disregarding (and laughing at) a poetry project which is ironically still in the works.

Patterns

Not writing what I intended to,
only what I never knew I needed to know.

Learning lessons while evesdropping on my own thoughts.

Sometimes in the silence I hear nothing but the voices of others.
And yet, when surrounded by so many, the music and conversations of hundreds,
my own voice calls out clearly to my fingers.

Sometimes these fingers know more than can be told,
knowing me best when I’m distracted.

Not wanting to rhyme,
I prefer to make sense of what you didn’t think possible,
to find the beauty in what others miss.

Who says florals can’t go with stripes?