Le Corbusier (Corbu) quotes (Swiss architect and city planner, whose designs combine the functionalism of the modern movement with a bold, sculptural expressionism. 1887-1965) :
“To create architecture is to put in order. Put what in order? Function and objects.” “The home should be the treasure chest of living.” "Space and light and order. Those are the things that men need just as much as they need bread or a place to sleep"
Randy Shear of ShearDesigns, posted the third quote listed above to his Facebook page. Robert Winslow, sculptor/painter commented. I also posted a comment. These FB contributions discuss the concept of order. I learned there is an architectural order that is referred to by Corbu, and this inherent order is beyond my capacity to emulate. I can embrace that capacity in others, especially because Corbusier, author of this quote, has provided a profound living memory through his order, his space and light that continues to structure my life. More, I am grateful for social networking to revive this memory, its impact and further develop its consequence.
Villa Sarabhai is a "treasure chest of living". Here, Corbusier incised space through architectural order amplifying light and enabling energetic connectivity. I remember rooms merging and ceilings expanding, surprising spaces presenting opportunities for congregating and repose, eating, sleeping and reflection. Pouncing and dancing of juxtapositions that engaged and cuddled, that invited and developed a magical space of contrapuntal rhapsody. There was a comforting weight of solidity, windows of intrigue and mystifying integration of landscape that cradled the walls. Breathing with anticipation, each corner, every turn revealed an new way of thinking, allowed integrity of beauty to expand. The many artists that lived and worked in this home must have felt this, from the explosive production of art they left for Sarabhai.
W.B. Yeats described the 'space between' in a poem I once read. The title of this poem title escapes me, however, the experience he epitomized refers to the energy that is created between people, their experience of each other, what they create by interacting, feeling, and all that people do together. Corbu's Villa Sarabhai orders space and light, encouraging this dynamic. The intoxication, a love affair with his architecture is intensified by the order. I don't know if I heard the cacophony of Paradise Flycatchers, Magpie Robins and Malabar Whistling Thrushes or the mimicry of Racket-tailed Drongos. I do know that teasing monkeys in the canopy of tall trees were likely oblivious to my presence. Whether Areca Nut, Mango or some other variety is of no matter. I am overjoyed to be a participant in the effervescence that Courbousier created.
One blistery winter storm, I asked my grandfather (Avi), Thorvalder to go to the store for much needed glue to complete a school project. Either his deafness or my poor explanation of what I wanted was the reason for his return with dressmaker’s coloured transfer paper, where you could draw on the back and lines of orange, green, purple, blue, yellow or red would show up on fabric. Having braved the blizzard for my benefit, he handed me this prize with his one yellow tooth brimming with accomplished joy. My 8 –year-old heart didn’t have the will to tell him the packet of drawing sheets was not what I asked for. I am recalling this now, remembering that what you think you want is not necessarily what you need.
Letter writing, whether on paper or computer screen is a practice that is, in my experience a difficult one for many people. I have acted as ‘ghost’ writer for many individuals, including executives, business managers and physicians, both ESL and those educated with English as a means of communicating. The ability to write words describing what one means to say, a seemingly simple act, is beyond the capacity of countless of those wanting to express themselves with letters.
However, for many that are capable, there is a persistent fear to have thoughts and feelings existing for others to read, and refer to; a letter becomes a testament to their perhaps changeable mind. Permanently existing, a letter, whether a personal or business communication, discloses thoughts and sentiments without the guile of gesture, inference of body language, and cleverness of tone of voice that a personal interaction or phone conversation would enable.
The time consuming undertaking of letter writing seems to continue to dwindle due to the expediency of texting and cellular communication. Although an avid email letter writer, I find myself affected and indulgent. The need or desire for speed supersedes the luxury of an enduring hand written letter. It is a loss I feel compelled to take responsibility for, as I too have succumb to promptness over the thriving grace of a letter that has had thoughts wrought through pen and paper.
Crafting memories, prying them from the jumble of images that dart and skip, viscous fluid of blinking eyes brings sounds and smells that tingle and tremble ears and nostrils. Lateral sequences can be extracted from 'global thinking', but the curse of ordering excerpts in time and space directs mindful censorship to edit out discomfort, where flashing imagery allows generous dwelling on lost and found syncopated feelings; all.
Bashing. Crescendoing recollections of touches forced to join with word phrases, waiting, vacant spaces of time to calibrate the emptiness with feelings... there is an attempt to push or playfully awaken associations. When coherency forms, new perceptions can emerge. Sometimes new images are created, not what existed, but what might have happened -should, could, would. Desires. Regrets. There, pictorial scenarios can be more powerful than what has transpired.
Backwards and forwards, those meanderings flow. Future probabilities, presence, presumption, peace intermingled with exasperation, exasperates the creation of memory.
Most importantly, for me, is the vast omnipresence of spirit that occupies me, charging up to shape and form structural dimensionality through this 'crafting' process. Sometimes, time and circumstance allows me to explain this loveliness in to sculpture, and I am grateful.
Craters of understanding Understood? Walking naked in my memory Recollecting fine manipulation In deep pits of consideration Retreating into cavernous space Finding wistful triangulation Strangulation.
Months are predicted on the days, and the days define the year. What will I remember this year being about?
Stagnation, redefinition, lunging towards and away from dolour...that heartbreaking sorrow, cultivated by the relationship that I need to release.
So far and farther...
Confabulation. Not my style. Substance, conversation. It's about understanding... Talking 'small talk'? Quirky and vague. I cannot prattle. Fabricate a memory? Too much work.
Trust. Trust? Dubiety is gone. I no longer have any doubt. I need a new horizon, fresh stories, suprising escapades, amazing reverie, wonderful opportunies for mysterious and joyful, expansive dimensions...
THis is a draft of a collection of poetry and stories I have written for the past 10 years.
As He Lay Sleeping Introduction
Figuration dominates. A form of a human being shapes itself under the covers, reclining into dreams. There are times when a wink is a sigh, and feigning sleep when none is to be experienced becomes a ritual or habit, of life as a lie. A simple thing as pretending to be sleeping, yet remaining in repose anyway can dissolve away desire for life’s pleasures. Insomnia becomes a sleeping soul.
There are those that give us solace, and resistance to their power is futile. That comfort and acceptance will drive us to accept ourselves, believe in ourselves, and work miracles with our talents. Ignoring our gifts creates weight of frustrating circumstances. Lying to ourselves and to others covers our feelings of inadequacy. On-going deceit generates a need to doze, to lie down and sink into the console of a sofa or bed. The stories need consistency, plausibility, and especially, a degree of excitement to grab the listener, a story to convince the listener, which benefits the teller by releasing doubt. When these lies are told for years, the succour that was once found in a willing, kind believer is desecrated. Laying down a friendship to support a habit of deceit is a tragedy.
Here, is a tale, a story of transition and love, of worship chained to greed, and affection transformed. Questions are unanswerable, as the questions are vague transitory emotions that explode into events. The questioned becomes inventive in order to answer with élan, leading with a lie, preventing a truth from holding him, imprisoning him.
Somnambulist? No. The sleeper is conscious. But as he lay sleeping...
Today, after weeks of sun, the rain pours. Its a day when the deceit of the past is getting washed away from my soul. A day of reflection. A day of decisions about the future. A day of mourning. A day to beleive in myself. A day to replenish my joy in living. Rain, cleans my heart.
'They' say, "Ask to receive", "If you don't ask, you won't 'get'. "Be careful of what you wish for... You might get it!".
The premise is - if you don't articulate your wishes, needs, desires, if the cosmos doesn't hear your soul's preferences, you won't allow the delivery/experience of your most cherished wishes to occur. Speak to be heard. Seems simple.
Here's what I want: (my prayer begins here...)
1. I want to write for money, earning enough to make my travel and all my dreams and family's dreams come true; I want this to endure for at least 3 decades.
a. I want to write for people that appreciate my gifts without having to submit a resume.
b. I want to travel and write. I want to write and travel. I want to write about what I discover on my travels.
DETAILS: I want to meet people and tell their stories. I want to get paid for this privilege. I want compensation that will perpetuate this cycle, without financial hardship, with financial comfort, with enough money to support my family's/loved ones' needs and my dreams. (I have restated these dreams to make sure that this is heard, and that nothing of the complete wish is omitted.)
Also, and importantly integral to the above 'wish list'...
A. I want to be healthy, with all the energy, drive and integrity and more to spare to make all my dreams happen, and continue for decades.
B. I want a home to come back to after traveling; I want to share this home with my loved one, as we have discussed - dual studios on the ocean, surrounded by nature, to perpetuate our need for discovery of his science, technology and my art.
C. I want to always continue my education, perpetuate my art practice, and live without fear of poverty, infidelity, inadequacies and ignorance.
D. I want my loved ones to be healthy, happy, and be fulfilled, utilizing their gifts; I want to continue to be active in their lives.
E. I want to continue to laugh, be happy in my activities and pursuits, enjoy my loved ones, friends and family with humility, dignity and joy.
Shutting my eyes at 2am and 2pm... Inbetween there are daydreams and nightmares... Finding a rhythm is a puzzle not found. The rut-tut-snoze of daily living is festering my equilibrium.
Doc's offices are not for me. Can do. Will do... Shall I forever be booking referrals, billing, cleaning speculums, ushering the patients, asking personal questions that is not my business to ask...? and an interview on Friday for a 'real job', not just practical slave labour... How shall I convince myself I am the best for the world I do not want to participate in... Begin with the end in mind, so says the self-help books. I am not a self-help aficionado, but I do occasionally flip those self-motivating pages in a browse of mega stores... This line comes from Covey himself, guru of the 7 steps to effectiveness in one's life. So far, his steps have not lead me to the best possible scenario of my dream life. Maybe I need to write the book that addresses my own needs.
So many people to thank...
My dear 'graces' are so patient. My friends and networking contacts have accessed worlds beyond my ability to do so. (I am still trying to understand why and how I fit into these milieus.) My grenouille, a pet.
Still, my groggyness prohibits liveliness and this I must disect. When I know, I can act...
Somebody once said that the way to your heart is through your mind. There is another thought... It is through your stomach? That I could never condone. Somehow, when I heard a true story tonight of loss of a life, the stomach pitched and the mind cornered itself into my heartbeat rhythm.
The story has been told in various ways...
He was on his way to work
It was 5 am
It was a '53 Ausin with a 'death trap' door
He worked as a meat packer or he worked on the railroad
He was a medical student
He had just passed his exams
He was alone
He was with friends
The friends were on the water tower
It was a snow storm
The train was coming
He saw the train and drove into it
He saw the train and jumped out of the car
He saw the train and rolled under it
The train decapitated him
He had a wife
His wife was buying a dress for a party
He was going to celebrate
They had just finished celebrating
His wife had to see the body
His ring was scored with scratches
He had a baby
His baby was 7 months old
He was 32
He was celebrating
He passed his medical exams
It was March 5
He was drunk
He was hangover
He was late
He was dead
He died in the morning
He died on the way to the to work
He died after the party
He died and the world changed
Love is everything?
Love won't cork the bottle
Love won't keep me from not knowing
Goodness. So many eons since I blogged. And as it was a day of serendipity, it seems appropriate to blog it out...
Leave it to me to stumble upon the past with such clarity that I forgot how to keep searching for the present tense. The net of the succinct numbers were the key. 1530. How could one have guessed the trump. And yet it was the magic number. Perhaps not magic, just a thrust in a future direction that circumvents the past... the circular universal transition where the arcs pass but don't touch. It was a surprise to see the distant future pass before my eyes; it smacked of oddness. No newness, just wonder. Could this be a direction? - I am doubting my direction, as always. I am a curious as the proverbial lioness. I love to explore.
The 3 muses are circling my imagination these days. They are the gifts of a dream where I was bestowed with life and gratitude. The harmonies they offer their worlds are remarkable to me. East, more East and farther East they live. Still, they circle my heart, tho the silence is often a tumult of vibration in my soul. I steady myself with lovingness at their accomplished lives. So much done, and will be done by them. Da la de. The trick is to desire nothing. All stays calm.
And so will the valiant charger hold the staff of the snake?! The province may think so, but will the nation?! And will the taming of the serpent be enough to fortify the melancholy boredom? Metal plates in hand these days, and torches to melt them doesn't seem the likely means to forging a medical practice. Stranger things have happened, I know, but telling it like it is will be and is unbelievable to most. It make me laugh. I am happy to be the witness to such contradiction. I enjoy the disbelief. People are so set on the norm. How bored they must be to need normality.
I seem to have fallen into my need for contrariness also. The practical. The expected necessity. The bizarre inability to be placed by society. I do not fit. I don't appear to not be able to fit. The reality is much different. Lakes fit into large dips in the earth. The oceans fit between continents. The sky does not fall. Mountains erode rather than move. I am definitely more like lava, spilling all over new terrain without the sea to cool me into place; the air will make me solid one day, but not before I have redefined the space I move through. And money is never to be found. Only those that discover the power of the fresh, the potential for re-development or evolved territory can cash in. I am a mystery to myself.
Saturday, June 07, 2003
Seeing my words in print on the web is humbling. Craving acuity, I meander in my word bank with a hungry anticipation, and traffic noise is all that come to mind. A wisp of cold morning air from between trees enters a slight aperture to the towering cedars outside the window and caressess my cheek, lingering with the presumption that a day will be lived with some smiles.
I think of the piano lesson I will teach this afternoon to the cellist of 'THE WINKS'. A furtive act of obtaining a studio in the Academy will compel the student and myself to relish the hour or so of musical collaberation. Timing, titilations and brash key crashing will forge a new level of understanding of the instruments' requirements, and redress the need for parental and filial bonding. Memories are bound to infiltrate, reminding us of the kinder experiences we share. The meeting can be a trial of frustrated technique and yet there has always been a yearning for new discovery. I look forward to this event.
Breathing in the background was a subject of a story sequence I once wrote: While He Was Sleeping. The bound leather booklet has been hiding from me. The stored volume was dispersed with other books from my library, and this book was not found. I know it exists. Perhaps there will be a need for its return when I have it again in hand. I miss this place of description.
Saturday, June 07, 2003
Good Morning, World.
This post originates from the west coast of Canada. This place is a conundrum to me, and I am marooned here for the time being. As I have something to say, usually, I want to share these thoughts with you.
Today is a sunny scorcher. Hot numbness, as today is the anniversary of my mother's death. I awoke with the memories of the last look, the pale blueness, inarticulate acknowledgement of camaraderie dwelling in a shocked awakening, knowing that I am still hearing what couldn't be said those years ago. I am driven to remember the sweat and stillness of a life fulfilled by loving. A rare gift.
Today is a waxy wane. Facing myself, the nub of my search to rekindle the art in me has brought me to this public revelation. And this act is much more frightening than solo travelling in a country far away, or exhibiting work to the cloister of the art aficionados. Organs are pressed into upright alignment, poised for the keyboard to flow. I walk away (mentally) as I would from a work in progress on the bench, tool in hand, and expecting to know how to proceed.
There is a 'leap of faith' that occurs with the greatest of joy when the muse guides and all is proceeding. Yet writing has been a latent development.
Poetry was the first love, and a discarded love. Prose revived itself from necessity. Art critic became a title, and a means of propelling myself into the nebulous intricacies of other's creative forces. This was mode endured an abrupt conclusion. Recently, writing for others has been the form of need. I want to rekindle the gentle art of self expression.