Well – this is just lovely…

no uploading pictures, no copying emails to myself…it is remarkable how much our productivity relies on the technology that we use to be ‘productive’ –

in the lapse – I am realizing that I like crocheting clouds with regular gauge snow white cotton yarn. It holds the form amazingly well and would likely respond well to starching. I am thinking about several presentations I could propose that would dovetail my interests nicely…I just have to write them up and propose them. Papermills @ Redux would be brilliant…with hands-on family friendly workshops on building with recyclables and papermaking while images of those behemoths of the southern coast loom just a little from the walls. It would be a fun mini-residency – go in for a week, build it up and then tear it down. I just have to figure out how in the heck to write a proposal. I don’t even have a blessed cv. I think, however, that one of the core elements of my maker-ness is that I don’t have a cv. I never wanted to have one. I liked art, but I never wanted to be an artist. Until it became clear that art and ideas and a bit of solid teaching are about all I am good for…I burnt myself on the rest, or it burnt me…depends on how you look at it.

I know that I definitely needed to get out of Asheville for a few days. I am able to see fairly clearly how dangerous monotony of setting can become – how the stories of our imaginations simply grow, unfettered by traffic and the only surprises are found in the sky.

I am going to paint the house a riot of color when I get back. Or at least the table will be some clear blue. I need to do some work on the walls anyway…the kitchen hasn’t been painted since we moved in…the second night there I brushed the walls red, thin and sinewy in some places, others with a barnlike opacity. I just needed some wall to be something other than dull-primered white. We still have some primered walls at the house. I am hoping to get a solid Back to School blast of energy to set things straight at last. I have just one more crate of their father’s stuff to move out and the last bags of the binned detritus of an American Childhood will be goodwilled or garbaged, depending on how pointless/icky it’s contents are.

I can’t believe that I didn’t do almost any of the things I wanted to do this summer. I didn’t take my kids to one single Dying Downtown of the American South and I failed in the realm of playdates, too. However, I did manage to re-establish a small measure of my footing as a mother to be taken seriously. They don’t seem to respect me much. I guess it must be strange to have me as a mother.

I definitely am always there for them…the just don’t seem to want to be always there with me – which is totally healthy and normal, I think. Especially given the heavy revelatory vibe that has settled into the corners of our house. I need to wash the walls hard and scrub everything clean. And then I need to figure out how to write a proposal for a experiential exhibit on re-seeing the things we have gotten used to.

I hope I can do it. I sort of have to at this point…the bridges and what not. Which maybe that was my issue all along – I was just trying too hard to be something I am not, to live up to standards I had no say in setting, and to smother all the little points of lights that I see throughout a day.

Note: these are not literal points of light. There is no actually seeing of light. I am referring to the points of perspective that I often learn from but that tend to jar me off course in my thinking. I like being able to relax and let my mind wander a little and to not always be reigning it back to focusfocusfocus…I need to strike a balance. Clarify a goal.

I still want to talk to Glenn Beck, because why shouldn’t people be able to ask questions if they feel like the question is good enough. I know plenty of sociologists have talked to Mr. beck and plenty of reasonable people have appealed to him. And he has twisted their words into his own agenda and used them against themselves.

I think that Mr. Beck would likely have a field day with me and it would be horrible, like being fed to the wolves. And maybe I have some pathology that craves the opportunity to not wither away…

And even if Mr. Beck were to flay me for whatever he could come up with – and there is, as this blog attests – plenty. Well, still – it might make one person realize that maybe he isn’t so interested in helping people after all. I am a person. I need help. I need help understanding why it is such a darn big deal that a 34-yr old weirdo mom from NC wants to talk to Glenn Beck. We really may be related. (Search: Marcus Beck)

I don’t want to cause any problems, I just want people to see things for as they are. It is just an idea, but it one I have enjoyed thinking about. My impulse to talk to Mr. Beck informs me that I am not just worried about poor people or oppressed people anymore, I seem to be very concerned about all the ordinary people who are just trying to live ordinary lives and their minds are plagued with threats they have no power to quiet…

Speaking of threats: “I’d be very careful if I were you in regard to mynameisfaith.net”

Don’t worry folks – it’s nothing to be concerned about. Just another reason why I am so tired of being mis-read and mis-written by people.

And why should one have to be careful regarding a personal blog? Where is the freedom of speech in that?

Looking forward to pictures – I got some amazing ones of the crazyprehistoric giant aloe plant (need to look up actual species info – NOT aloe, just looks like it – except huge) in bloom – a single stalk the size and stature of spindly palm with branched pod-bearing blooms, all very sparse and precise against the sunset lavender grey of east. It is probably a rare thing – that tree like bloom. Nobody seemed to notice it.

Onwards, onwards. New youtube – not political, just a song about what I was thinking about when I decided to record a song.

Sorry if I offend people. Odd that in a world of offense…it would be someone like me that would raise hackles. Oh well. Good to know, I guess.

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