Time Out
When Peggy was diagnosed with a tumor in her chest in December
we put all our other concerns on hold. Now she's recovered from
surgery, and been given a clean bill of health, we're picking
up some of our calls. But our sense of time has been given a shock,
and some of our fixations come unglued.
End of a Season
Sharpie's Last Sail
We've enjoyed a true winter hiatus, thanks both to the healing
and to the weather. A real downeast winter, for a change. After
a lingering sailor's Fall, the river ice made quickly in late
December, only to break up in one last warm spell, rafting up
in the bends. Then the chill set in for New Years and quickly
made 4-6 inches of the good stuff. I managed one long skate, checking
for holes and thin ice, before it snowed. The cold hasn't quit
since, at least not enough to melt the white stuff. The smelt
have been running strong. Skiing has been splendid.
But, having stepped off the tredmill for a breather, this winter
has become all winters. The rush of chronicle has become the stillness
of a poem. Without nostalgia for Autumn or eagerness for Spring.
Simply the now of Winter, with gratitude. Time is as you perceive
it. Linear time is the stuff of causality, evolution, progress,
dialectic, and the modern condition. We'd never achieve and advance
and succeed without the linearity of Judeo-Christian time, or
the big bang. It would hardly be worth getting up in the morning
if we thought we'd have to do it all over again tomorrow.
Last Boats
Last Boat
But the older tradition of circular time has never completely
deserted us. Spring planting. Summer fog. Fall colors. Snow. The
seasonal round has been a renewing undercurrent for us ever since
we left the urbs, and we eventually found connections to the old
cycle in all seasons. Ways to sink ourselves in each. The winter
landscape, so stark and brilliant, is a dream highway if you have
skates, and skis, and snowshoes. A chill place to sweat out the
daily bile, and feel the air press around you. A time to feed
the stove. Make and mend. A waiting.
The seasons can be doors to the timeless. A brush with mortality
quickens your sense of time. How much do I have left? What have
I done with it? How fast it runs! But also: what is timeless,
and how am I a part of that? The stars and the seasons, life and
the human condition, transcend the rushing now. Step outside at
night in January and you can look into infinity.. or get a faceful
of snow.
Ice Maker
World on your back
Wheels within the wheel, and an axle which doesn't move. We stopped
spinning ours this month and now are setting off again, with a
slower turning. I've been reminded that those mediations which
rev me up.. the news, the e-mail debate, the getting and spending..
only make me unsettled, make me rush through my days. Turning
them off was a great relief. Now I'm trying to reengage with the
outer whirl without losing my center.
And I've come back to the heart of the work out in Seven Eagles.
To keep from losing it before the surgeon went in to find out
what was choking Peggy, I conjured up a FROG (in your throat)
DEMON. A handful of black amphibian, clutching his throat, and
sticking out his red tongue. I handed him to Dr. Tryzelaar when
he came out of the operating room to tell me the good news. He
smiled. The frog demon was about the size of the tumor, he said.
It had taken me five hours to make. It took him five hours to
take it out. A nice symmetry.
Frog Demon
The Tryzelaar
While I was carving the black frog, I saw a different cure piece
for Peggy. Another dancer for the Spirit Procession. A Heron Dancer. Masked figure in a heron costume, waving great
wings, striding forward on stilts. Striking at the frog with her
long red bill. A demon-eater. A long-legged bird of renewal. While
Peggy was in hospital, I began to carve it. THE TRYZELAAR. A figure of healing power.
So I'm back on the dance path, with a clearer sense of where it
goes. These symbolic figures are shamanic emblems of the seasonal
round and the natural order. A Smelt Dancer holding up the winter
ice. Turtle Island carrying the hemisphere. A Tryzelaar bringing
the renewal of Spring. Ritual elements in a dance of circular
time. Attempts to portray a local seasonal myth.. something timeless.
Water Mask
Xylogator
Time goes on, of course, especially if you make promises. I delivered
a clutch of talismen for Christmas gifts, and a musical pull-toy
for a child with Down's Syndrome.. a plaything to aid hand-eye
coordination.. the XYLOGATOR. Had to saw up my shop straight-edge
to get a resonant clangor. Replaced it with bar steel from the
TOAD's metallurgy.
And a new president was selected. My high school classmates threw
a big bash in Washington on inaugural eve to celebrate the event.
We all suffered through adolescence with George, and even the
Democrats among us figured nothing could be worse than that. One
of my classmates suggested I make a class gift for the president,
and I jumped at the chance to stick out my tongue. I called the
piece DUMBO GOES TO WASHINGTON, and it features George W. Elephant
riding an enraged bucking jackass, looking a bit Gore-d, with
a perforated butterfly on his nose. Snapshot of an American Moment.
To appease those of my peers who found the name disrespectful,
I changed it to RIDING THE WHIRLWIND after W's reference in his inaugural address. I guess that butterfly
is the one in China.. responsible for twisters in Tennessee. Good
fun.
Dumbo
Dillo
I also found an armadillo in the woodpile, to send as a charm
to the president's personnel director, another high school classmate..
as a gift from a dorm-mate. They callem Texas Speed Bumps down
there, but the message inscribed on the belly of this one is :
Illigitimi Non Truckum. Don't let the bastards run you down. The
ears on DILLO got broken in transit, so I found another one. This
one is Tough as Texas.
