#69…it is June…and matrimonial thoughts…

IMG_0003 The little creek that runs near the tent is clean, convenient, free, and close. Some participants in the reunion of anarchistic emotives have apparently decided to get married or celebrate an anniversary of such.  The cake and the wine appear to sit somewhat unstable just now, don’t you think?

Matrimony (what this table seems to offer) is based on the future, it is a promise.  Sounds nice, but there are always issues from the past enclosed in little emotion bombs (quick to hand) and today’s occurrences of – now,  wherever “now” lands.

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The following is just conjecture.

“Now” might have been the first meeting, the first fifteen seconds; the dancing began, awkward probably, (an interruption on the way to mundane work?).  A bit of prancing about, hiding and showing, bending and bowing, looking and avoiding…afraid to fall?

 

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To that out-of-balance whirl, a dance if you will, unchoreographed bodily truth; something moved on.  Both dancers clutching lit anarchist’s bombs: ancient bits and pieces of pain; brought from, visited upon, invented by, bought and cared for – presumably defensive.

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Look at this, so soon after their meeting.

What do you think or, what do you  know: dropping his bomb would destroy his footing, even if both hands would be free to remove the mask…or dance better, closer.

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But, of course, the partner would have to give up her little bomb…and vanity.

 

 

But thankfully (at least apparently) all went on.

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Now meanwhile, out near the peaceful stream, some wine and a little cake await, why?…do you know?

 

 

 

#65…the change, spring….

IMG_0002Certainly this too will change: a thicker, darker, more heated, densely leaved, buggy, irritating evidence of life proceeding into summer. But for now the winds blow from wherever…

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Wherever, whenever, always and ever…change.  It is hard not to personalize, whatever changes, hoping for some stability; for a complete ever and forever.

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But, if only the changes stopped at…(…whatever would you want…)…

#64…considering manure and weeding…

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The emotives, artistics visionaries in outlook, have uncovered their agrarian roots.  While their tent world is airing, these balmy days call up the genius of gardening.  Spring opens all that will come; fruits, vegetables, viney growths, sprouting green goodies, the gentle haze of chartreuse over loamy soil ( a spread of lightly sanded microbial nursery and grave).  No bugs yet, just a few bees gathering in the ditches pollinating flowering weeds.

But surely the bugs will come, with associated fears and pain, and the delicate delights now coloring the roadside will spread happily among the rows of newly planted edibles.  The elbowing for sunlight, the spreading drinking roots, the happily (are plants happy?) gnarling fertilized stems will need removing. Killing (killing a happy plant?) from these purposeful rows, now neatly tilled valleys of ancient worm graves, will be required.DCS_1682

 

 

 

 

 

The circus, as mentioned, uses part of the tent for their menagerie, assuring a plentiful supply of manure to replenish the soil (though not likely to return it to the prelapsarian) but maybe allowing some dance of a sort: a grim pass between danger and delight, beast and grace, weed and fruit, stench and aroma.

 

Sometimes (maybe always) even the simplest places have layers, some meaning veiling some other meaning.  Myth upon measurable truth, nobility upon coarse brutality, angels (the good kind) upon fearsome savage, all contained in a few squares of a measurement; studied surface laid upon the unfathomable. Aromatic manure upon antique compost, all feeding weediness (and so the question – who will weed?)…and maybe…gain fruitfulness.

 

As spring moves souls and seeds this world of effusive artistics has a plethora of planters. But the garden holds sparse hopes for abundant fruitful harvesting, considering the happy weeds and the plentiful old and new manure,  and it being probably bereft of weeders.

 

 

 

Planters are cocky, forward, proud; the harvesters self-congratulatory:  but in between must be the weeders (when employable), hot, bug-bit, bent, ill-tempered; maybe also feeding a crotchety delight in killing.  Across the road crop farmers use chemicals, kind-of crotchetiness in a bottle.

 

But, for this artistic’s garden, the only hope is that a disciplined few will be weed editors.

 

 

 

 

#63…considering someday, some appropriate day…

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Somedays just want to be enjoyed, a breezy Spring day, full of new green – the pale soft new green full of new sun and new waters – on a new breeze.IMG_0001

 

 

 

 

Someday, with the sun at the appropriate inclination, the ground at the appropriate warmth, the wind at the appropriate breeziness, the picnic table appropriately leveled (to keep our bombs from falling off), the fears appropriately displaced, for now…maybe.

 

 

Someday fancihatted twisted crazies might just take a walk, not searching for anything, not for some personal goal, just a walk, some wandering in the breeze for now.

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Someday just a picnic ( like We had offered at first) no drama, just a breeze and some nibbles awaiting nothing, nothing, nothing…without the turbulent gyrating synoptic folderol (okay maybe with some pleasant wine or cool frothy beer).

 

Somedays we remember we now eat the harvest we saw six months ago, now it is plowing, tilling, seeding time, six months from now another harvest.

Someday, maybe this day will be remembered; opening the flaps of the tent, airing it out: letting the breeze do what we can’t…move the past onto someplace other than…now.

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Someday to maybe just take a walk, for now, will a picnic just be there?

 

#58…considering unemployed elephants…

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Unemployed elephants, shouldn’t we admit that it is inexplicable – the course of history.  Unemployed elephants with nothing to do, covered with dust and mud and sequins and plumy tops.  Unemployed elephants, unconcealable immensity of individuals – dense in matters of gravity, numbered as Stars, as real as the circus unknowns.  Unemployed elephants, bearing their wonderful equipage showing the finesse of their servant girls, now wandering in the provinces.  Some in memory ponder the big idea, the Big Tent, presenting the fears, the follies, and some skills brought to – finesse; and the value of pachyderms, now past.  Maybe it is best.

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Do Elephants Remember Mastodons?             oil        H.Eaton

All emotive lives are the stuff of dramas, runny mascara on artificial heroes, pains from discarded dreams (or is it discarded activities); taming a beast or learning what the beast would have. Sequins and ribbons on wrinkles and scars.

The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture sits on the glacial out-plain of the ancient iced home of the mastodon. As things warmed the tree top ripper and scat pooper provided useful service. Mastodon was gone long ago, before these enforced migrant elephants came to entertain and provide bits of a story.

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We have offered fields for the elephants to spread their droppings and fertilize the home of ancient grasses, the gift to future growing.  A home for unemployed elephants, as if we knew the mastodon – or remembered to care.

Please join us next Saturday, the befuddlement of urban myths arrive at the tent.

 

 

#57…Idle thoughts Illinois and Ballerinas…

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Her Grace, Illinois           ink           H.Eaton

Our balletic prairie, The State of Illinois.  Illinois, a graceful ballerina, balances; just look at the map. We are surrounded by a bunch of boxy, less lusciously graceful states, in the great fly-over land, the American midwest.

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The Great Fly-Over Land

Illinois, as a ballerina, has a hefty derriere; bounded by, and fondled by, the Father of Waters (maybe a bit inappropriate).    Illinois is somewhat flat-chested in outline and topography, but that aids the corn growing, which maintains many  derriere’s.

Illinois has a most unfortunate abbreviation…Ill, nobody wants to be in “illness”.  Ill is  the correct description of its’ unbalanced budget and politics, but not Illinoisans.  And while noise is the description of our wind in winter, traffic in the Windy City, and garbled logic from our capitol, we actually don’t pronounce the “s” at the end of Illinois.  We prefer a more subtle uninflected, even artistic, spoken language (except for Chicago, where a lot of the people live),

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Prairie Picnic       oil

The sound of “Illinois” is rather feminine and, considering the amount of feeding it does for the rest of the world, rather appropriate.   It is also births the Mother Road, old Rt. 66, which crosses the prairie in a smooth dancer’s diagonal thrust.

High above our often stormy expanse of sky are many jet contrails, temporarily marking travelers from coastal metropolis to coastal metropolis.  With no need of maps or electronic guiding voices few know what is below.  Those who might wonder often confuse Illinois with Indiana, Iowa, Idaho, Ohio, Omaha, Oklahoma, Oahu, Ottawa, Ottumwa, and Ionia (which isn’t even in North America), but the sounds are similar.

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She Wonders About Her Treasure        oil

The vasty prairie of Illinois is where the reunion of the emotive anarchists takes place. Our “rivers gently flowing” have watered a number of artists,  including ponderers and dancers of svelte, and even passionate, dimensions.

 

#57…Idle thoughts Illinois and Ballerinas…

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Our balletic prairie, The State of Illinois.  Illinois, a graceful ballerina, balances; just look at the map. We are surrounded by a bunch of boxy, less lusciously graceful states, in the great fly-over land, the American midwest.

img_0002

Illinois, as a ballerina, has a hefty derriere; bounded by, and fondled by, the Father of Waters (maybe a bit inappropriate).    Illinois is somewhat flat-chested in outline and topography, but that aids the corn growing, which maintains many  derriere’s.

Illinois has a most unfortunate abbreviation…Ill, nobody wants to be in “illness”.  Ill is  the correct description of its’ unbalanced budget and politics, but not Illinoisans.  And while noise is the description of our wind in winter, traffic in the Windy City, and garbled logic from our capitol, we actually don’t pronounce the “s” at the end of Illinois.  We prefer a more subtle uninflected, even artistic, spoken language (except for Chicago, where a lot of the people live),

img_0983

The sound of “Illinois” is rather feminine and, considering the amount of feeding it does for the rest of the world, rather appropriate.   It is also births the Mother Road, old Rt. 66, which crosses the prairie in a smooth dancer’s diagonal thrust.

High above our often stormy expanse of sky are many jet contrails, temporarily marking travelers from coastal metropolis to coastal metropolis.  With no need of maps or electronic guiding voices few know what is below.  Those who might wonder often confuse Illinois with Indiana, Iowa, Idaho, Ohio, Omaha, Oklahoma, Oahu, Ottawa, Ottumwa, and Ionia (which isn’t even in North America), but the sounds are similar.

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The vasty prairie of Illinois is where the reunion of the emotive anarchists takes place. Our “rivers gently flowing” have watered a number of artists,  including ponderers and dancers of svelte, and even passionate, dimensions.