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Archive for the ‘recycle’ Category

rear quarter panel, finishing off interior door frame

fur coat seat, pizza map deco

hood: double headed wind serpent

rain, sturgeon, lake, mud

seat: quilt from poly clothes, backrest fur coats

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headlamp nest with rose bumper

getting dressed,  a final fitting.  no cake or pie will matter now.

i have to be a tailor these long days, although i am shakey with the scissors.

i am inventing things for myself, meaning, working in techniques i have not tried before.  these days i am trying to figure out flat-lay finish rows for 1/3″ wide weavers and warps, running ends 42″long (gasp).  i am not saying i figured it out, just that i have to think about it.

misted cedar bark helps me.  it sleeps when i sleep, and when i awake, i see it has kindly harmonized itself with the hood, the trunk, the panels.  so kind of them to get along so nicely.

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dressing up in my best

cedar, wool, plastic strapping tape clothes, kept in place with oak strips and metal screws.

holes and bolts must  line up, cedar must lie down.  where do they fit together?  a little too long on this side, a little short on that.

where is craft in modern art? traditional aboriginal technology in the post-steel era?  contemporary arts and community engagement? and me and you?

trying to fit together steel, trees, and a dream; industry, ‘progress’, aboriginal  logic.

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i used to say i didn’t care how much pain i was in, in this lifetime, as long as i did not have to be reborn.

question:      suffering = enlightenment

answer: yes ___  no ___  maybe ____

this time is bad enough, the next time will be much worse.
but now with things changing so fast, it is like being re-born into a newer more horrible era without the dying in between. maybe hte collective sorrow and helplessness is a form of death. will the gulf ever recover? what has my driving wrought?

i had a dream that there were many people going into the gulf with old empty tomato cans, filling them with oil, selling them to a refinery.  BP had to pay for it, a few pennies a pint. there were any old containers and people out on the shore, gathering as if plants, or in dingy’s as if fishing, filling up every can, bucket and pot and turning it in for a quarter each. in this dream there was no other food and no other work. for miles along the gulf throngs of people there were so incensed, horrified, that they wanted to do something, alongside others who were hungry and wanted to make a little spare change.

so we dare to recycle our cans, dream our dreams, live with/within wild and be better than we are now, tomorrow.

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wanna see my back seat?

a fur coat,

strapping tape,

road maps,

pizza boxes

argue about their differences, then

decide to admire

their commonalities

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roof interior

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landfill full

landfill full,

graveyard grave.

four dozen  polyester roses with plastic thorns left in a brittle office paper box on a loading bay, the one the morgue uses for the missing feet, with a card, ‘happy valentines day, 2008’.

they were a gift from someone who found them when he was smoking, although the doctor told him to stop or he would die.  one year ago he had liver failure, skin the color of fluorescent paint.  i said it was a miracle, he said the doctor simply made a mistake, and he has a scar that covers half his midsection.

i live in my studio.

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