July 8th, 2005
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Make a small book. Start with the cover, taking a drawing or painting or photograph for your visual material. For the words on the first page, use a grocery list fron the last time you went to the market. Let that book grow–one thing leading to another–until the last page, which will contain a few lines of poetic insight (from an anthology of poetry, or song lyrics). See how the cover photo (or other graphics evolved to the final words. Just let it happen.
As you make the book, keep a list of the relationships and connections that happen. Things will come together that you never planned. There will be connections between paper and thread, glue and poetry. Keep lists of things that strike you as funny, improbable, or downright silly. Respect details. Make and move on. Don’t wait for inspiration. Just do it.

from Learning by Heart, by Corita Kent
(click cover to see rest of book)

July 6th, 2005
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Yesterday I came home to find someone had painted a daisy on my front walk. It was the perfect gift. When I went out on my walk I found them in several other places, (on stop signs.) The world could use more daisies.
I’ve been sketching random things in my journal again. I didn’t realize I was missing it. As soon as I started I felt a wonderful sense of relief. (This was my Uncle Rupert’s camera.) I don’t know what it is about drawing in this way that is so fulfilling, (I am not particularly drawn to representational work.) I think it is more of a meditation, sitting quietly for ten minutes, contemplating shapes. I love working with watercolor, swooshing the brush in the water, letting the paint roll around on the paper. I like looking at it when I am done and feeling a sense of accomplishment. Makes me feel like the artist I wish to be, or maybe the artist I am.
“It takes courage to grow up and be who you really are.” ~e.e. cummings

July 5th, 2005
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One of my greatest joys in living in a rural area is the daily jaunt to the post office. There is something about making the trip to the mail, a quick seven minute walk, that adds to your anticipation. You have much more time to think about what might be sitting in that box waiting, time to feel good about what your are about to send off. Your packages and letters traveling around the world, going to places that you currently cannot go but wish to. Energy flitting about the continents.
Today I fit my key into the little box, number 411. It is in the top right hand corner of a wall of little boxes. I always liked the corner, you never have to look at the numbers. I opened the small door and for the first time noticed the marks left on all of the mailboxes. The light was hitting the wall in a certain way, causing the marks to stand out. Marks left by dirty hands, finger prints, grease smudges, marks left by key rings hitting the boxes as people shut the doors quickly after retreiving the mail. They were all different and told a bit of a story. I like thinking about what they were doing. This person has been working in the garden and just popped in on her way to the hardware store. This person was working on a car. This person is elderly and scrapes their key along the side of the box trying to find the keyhole everytime. This person was eating chips and left a grease smudge and some crumbs.
Like a new kind of language that only a person who cleans post office boxes on a regular basis might notice.
Or someone who was afraid of germs. (which I’m not thankfully or it could have been a problem).
Or maybe someone who is looking at things in a different light for the first time.

July 1st, 2005


“I don’t think I am ever bored. I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say ‘This is it’? What is it? And shall I die before I can find it? Then I see mountains in the sky: the great clouds, and the moon which is risen over Persia; I have a great and astonishing sense of something there, which is ‘it’ -A sense of my own strangeness, walking on the earth is there too. Who am I, what am I, and so on; these questions are always floating about in me.” ~Virginia Woolf from her 1926 diary


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