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Archive for the ‘this moment’ Category

After reading Cruzvillegas’ warm book and exhibition, I felt renewed. I walked outside and gazed upon the dead patches on our lawn (that none of our neighbors have) and my children’s scattered toys (that every other parent picks up), and for once wasn’t annoyed:

Not long after photographing this autoconstrucción, I decided to set aside my long held hostility toward Instagram and gave it a try. Would it be possible, I wondered, to approach this communal and fragmentary medium with the spirit of generosity as Cruzvillegas describes it (providing things and/or knowledge to oneself as shares or bits of life-term research)?

From “Popsicle #25: The autoconstruccion suites” at Little Brown Mushroom. I can’t remember if I have posted this before.. but I am posting it again.

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“In the middle of the journey of our life I found myself within a dark woods where the straight way was lost.”

Dante Alighieri – Inferno

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1. Go to a lake.
2. Put down the towels, shoes and clothes and explain to the children how to swim safely here.
3. Have a beer with your friend.
4. Then, swim to one side of the lake and back together.
5. Out in the deep lay your heads on boogie boards and let your legs drop, your eyes lock.
6. By the time you are ready to swim back to the shore all your secrets will be divulged.
7. The older children will follow you across the lake. Old enough to want to know your secrets. But not old enough to swim as fast as you and your friend.

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Cormac (age 6), swims alongside me in the lake one evening after I have come home from work. We are having a quick swim before dinner to cool off. The lake, which is very, very deep is darker than ever with only a slither of a moon above us. He says, “look how sharp the moon is.”

 

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I Have This Way of Being

Jamaal May

I have this, and this isn’t a mouth
full of the names of odd flowers

I’ve grown in secret.
I know none of these by name

but have this garden now,
and pastel somethings bloom

near the others and others.
I have this trowel, these overalls,

this ridiculous hat now.
This isn’t a lung full of air.

Not a fist full of weeds that rise
yellow then white then windswept.

This is little more than a way
to kneel and fill gloves with sweat,

so that the trowel in my hand
will have something to push against,

rather, something to push
against that it knows will bend

and give and return as sprout
and petal and sepal and bloom.

(I wrote about this once, too, though not as eloquently – “Can gardening mend a broken heart?”).

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