From my sketchbook, Sunday, February 21 :
*Today I witnessed the sun rise in magenta blasts and the sun set in auburn glory. From dawn til dusk it has been a beautiful day.
I love these late winter days. Early spring. Spring fires, getting wood from the shed in a wet mist, the hens clambering for corn or meal worms at my feet. Standing on the saturated ground watching the sky transition from cobalt and hot pink to petal brightness and then cloud cover, deepening the greens of the budding trees. The lilac in the backyard is shooting out little green buds - but I'm relishing the continued cold, I want it. I dream of a house with a long view, in a long winter, that when spring comes it pushes forth with such ferocity that it nearly assaults the senses. To stand in fields muddy with snow melt, crocuses pushing through the frost.*
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I missed a bluebird day of skiing with The Machinist and my father-in-law due to my immune system failing on me earlier in the week, letting in a nasty cold. With my head in my pillow I could only respond "hmmgshjjhh" when asked, "are you feeling up for going?" and the next thing I remember is hearing the front door shut. But after coffee, and with the promise of breaking clouds, I hopped in my car with my camera in search of a place to stretch my legs and feel some air on my face. I ended up in a tunnel...
I've always loved graffiti, and trains, and railroad tracks, and the fact that those things just go together like it was part of nature. There are lots of criticisms that can be made about painting on private or public property without permission. And man, I wish these artists would pick up their garbage...but even the garbage becomes part of a larger aesthetic that's so specific to this kind of environment. And this environment can be found everywhere, from urban industrial areas to rural rail tunnels far outside of town. A funny memory I have of driving across the country when I was first leaving home to set out on my own was seeing, in large dramatic lettering across a barn wall in the middle of the South Dakota badlands, "Morrisey is dead, long live Morrisey". I couldn't help but imagine the frustrated, most likely young man, desperately dreaming of sodden alleyways in London while finding himself trapped in mid-west isolation. The lengths these artists go to to express themselves cannot be denied, all while remaining anonymous, ghost-like expect among themselves.
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So my weekend consisted of writing long-hand pages, eating crispy bacon, fire-tending, and local wandering. I'm also working on some good new things. I can't wait to start showing you.