Category Archives: improvisation life

through the looking glass

Only after this was downloaded from my camera into iPhoto could I see the world in her eye.  The photographer, the line of field and sky –  the mirror of her eye holding it all.

I don’t think that we really look, most of the time.  There is a meditation called gazing that I have practiced a number of times.  Two people sit face-to-face and gaze into each others’ eyes for five or so minutes.  There is the first nervousness, the twitchy, uncomfortable feeling of being seen, of being naked in a close-up way.  Self-conscious giggles.  At some point there may be a calm, or maybe not.

I am aware of how much of my life is scanning – a minimal taking-in of what I see.  A surface tour.  Not very often sinking into the depths, or awakening the peripheral.  The visual sense is so predominant, and yet so often (for me at least) lacking in detail.

I think that is one of the reasons that I love the camera.  It takes me in and let’s me stay.  Gazing, rapt, voracious even. Framing, capturing, dancing with it – my landscape partners, my subjects.

How do you see?

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what he sees

A lot of times I will just stand with Nelson and look where he is looking.  I want to know more about his point of view, what is interesting to him, and what he sees.

I never really know.  But that is the point.  We cannot know what another sees or feels unless they tell us directly.  We make assumptions (which are fictions) and then pursue a course of action or inaction based on those assumptions.  More fiction.

When I am with Nelson, I don’t pretend to know what is interesting to him, or how he sees the world.  Sometimes he will be very clear in horse language (movement).  A spook generally means something was scary.  Coming close means that he feels safe or he wants a treat or both.

I like that things with Nelson are very basic.  I spend a great deal of time complicating and elaborating in many other parts of my life.  Being with the horses is a chance to step away from all of that, to get clear, and have a conversation in the language of skin, muscle and bone.  And heart, and heart.

falling

I took this photograph after the recent light snow.  When I looked at it, I felt a bit queasy – the orientation to gravity, light and the lines of the tree were disconcerting.  I felt myself falling. Falling from what, I wondered?

In recent weeks, I have felt my orientation shifting as I move into some new work.  It started with my morning 750, which I now write in Scrivener.  I began writing, and a piece of fiction (a short story perhaps?) emerged.  I felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland, falling falling falling into the well of this piece.  As if I was taking dictation.   I loved the story and wondered where it was going.  I still don’t know. I have no plan.

When I was in the third grade, my family lived in London.  Part of what we did in school was to write stories.  My teacher, Miss Sherman, loved my writing and encouraged me.  I felt a sense of pride and excitement.  But when we moved back to South St. Paul, my teachers were not interested in writing.  They like penmanship and numbers.  I put the writing away, could not hold the thread of it.  It went underground with the rest of me.

Later, my writing became stodgy and correct.  Dead.  Nothing kills the writing spirit like grant proposals.  And so now, starting right here, every day, I am recovering my writing self.  Recovering myself.

I have had an offering called The Journal (and the deep end) for some time.  I knew that this new writing didn’t fit that old description.  So I changed it to Little Fictions and Ragged Memoirs.  I like this title – the openness and possibility that it holds.

It is a subscription, which means that it is one of the ways that I support myself as a writer.  It also helps give me the resources to make dances.  You see, I don’t write grants anymore.

It has come to my attention however, that many find it hard to pay for a subscription at $20 a month.  I hear you.  I am lowering the cost of the subscription to $13 a month.  I like the number.  It feels lucky. (If you are already signed up, your subscription price will lower.)

If you sign up now, I will send you the first two episodes of the story that I am writing now so you will be up to date.  As always, you can unsubscribe at any time.  If you would like to try it, you can sign up here.

lost & found

Lost

Stand still.
The trees before you and the bushes beside you are not lost.
Wherever you are is a place called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

David Wagoner
Traveling Light: COLLECTED AND NEW POEMS (Illinois Poetry)