In the days of Michelangelo if a sculptor's
chisel slipped, or their marble cracked they would grind a little marble into
powder and fill the damage. This ground marble was called chalk. If a sculpture
was pure without blemish it was signed, "Sincerely," meaning
"Without chalk." I figure perhaps I ought to have a blog called “With
Chalk.” I am back rewriting the Hawaiian book, and it will need a bookcase
somewhere.
Speaking of chalk, isn't this a great sidewalk chalk drawing?
On this blog, Wish on A White Horse, though,
dear ones, we will continue rounding those canyon walls. Isn’t that the way of
life?
And speaking of life--it has been one month
and one week since the fire on my daughter’s property and already ferns are
popping through the soil, and the blackened ground is being covered by
amber-colored fir needles that have fallen from the scorched trees. New leaves
of poison oak and blackberries bushes are poking their little heads up as
well—determined little guys whose roots survived the forest fire.
I drove South of Eugene yesterday to my
daughter’s house, past pastoral hills, and valleys that were emerald green when
we arrived in Oregon, and are now golden with fall coming on. It renewed my
spirit to see the wilds, and once through the gate of my daughter’s property I
was met with the scent of the Douglas firs sending forth their Christmas
fragrance, and then as we walked the property we saw life being renewed.
I need to carry my camera more often.
Eugene has a newspaper called “The Eugene
Weekly,” and in it Rob Brezny writes a “Free Will Astrology” column. For
Aquarius (me) his week Breznty wrote that in Germany’s Ostwall Museum there was
a conceptual piece by Martin Kippenberger, valued at $1.1 million. It was
called, “When It Starts Dripping from the Ceiling.” Part of the piece was a
rubber tub painted to appear as though it had once held dirty rainwater. One
night a new janitor came in to tidy up the place and scrubbed the tub until it
was clean thus ruining the art. “Let this be a cautionary tale, Aquarius,” wrote
Breznty, “It’s important for you to appreciate and learn from the messy stuff
in your life—even admire its artistry—and not assume it all needs to be scoured
and disinfected.”
I’m out of here.
Later friends,
Joyce
