the golden west volume 21 part 2 - 2000 october | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
1st Oct
4th
5th How it's been - brutal. How do I want to say this. Friday night like a kid who'd been brushed off again and again. What did we do Saturday, went to Bread and roses [Ken Loach] in the afternoon, a relief from the unending strain of trying and being tolerant. Drove around, PNE neighbourhood, the Pan Pacific. Sunday drove to Bellingham. I was extraordinarily stressed about letting him drive - somehow - then in Bellingham horrible Pete's attack. The motel. Tom in a rage that I'd been awkward. I'd gone along with his visit in goodwill and been subjected to attack, and he got into a rage that I hadn't submitted to it. So there I was in a motel not able to sleep and there he was sleeping. I turned on the light and pushed the issue. We ended in a little poke with a lovely moment at the start. Next day I was weak but rallied. Weak how? When he was furious he attacked my social unskill, said I shouldn't have fired Phil, etc. Driving home we stopped by the road next to cows. The sun shone. He was sorry for bullying me. What did we do Monday night. Tuesday he came to the logic class, we had breakfast at the Havana, drove to Deep Cove, Mt Seymour, North Van. The moment at Goldie Lake when I saw the branches interwoven. Tuesday aft I had to prep, he slept. Weds he came up the mountan with me and walked around while I did a tutorial and TA meeting. Now it's Thursday and he's doing the laundry, I'm in my long day. Tomorrow I come up for the morning, maybe take him to the gallery for the impressionists in the aft. Saturday, Sunday morning. Then that's it. We've had catastrophes and talks. My heart is not home. I'm weary of being wrong and he is too. Angry last night because he wanted to make loving love and I wanted to get centered with the book. I tried it later and was immovable and so good will was no help. Good will seems to be very little help. I have been sleeping half the nights and am not fresh. The disorder in the house bothers me. What bothers me most is the talk that does not connect on and on. Not on the same wavelength, nine-tenths of the time, he said. That was correct. We've been willing to go on on the basis of the other one tenth. It was straight talk finally, last night after he was angry. Now is there anything really to be said. I'm wanting to quit aren't I. Tired. We've done what we can. What else I've got. The art school panel in November. Ann says do I want to shoot film on 35 for a loop. Sure. The woven forest? Maybe. What would I like. Company. To be able to sleep. To feel goodlooking. New surroundings. To make good with my work. To fix it so I feel it's good. To honour it and live in love with it. To find its friends and build with them. To build it out into art and film, to keep going with it. To make images for the web. To get so I'm connected when I'm in nature, again. To have enough money. To be good to Rowen. To work out of work I've done. Complete it and give it. Find my audience. Talk to Louie. Visit Luke. How is it going to go, how am I to go on - [with Tom]
6 What it is, is that I'm waiting for the moment when I believe, and I don't know why it isn't happening, and I wonder whether it is my fault. I'm holding a distance at the heart. It was there as I drove to the airport. I was saying, I've waited so long and done so much and still there will be no one who knows me. It's something like that I keep feeling. It's what it is for him too. 8
There were two wonderful things this week. One was the wall of boughs at Goldie Lake, one was Gordon Smith's big painting at the gallery yesterday. The painting was better better better than anything in the gallery, purest illusion. I sat on the carpet in front of it feeling all the other paintings were summarized in it. A carved native profile, an extraordinary future kind of human, a patch of sky with two winged things in the light of their own world, a sort of white flower. The thing over all a twiggy hillside black and white with snow, a cave, everywhere cream and black alive with touches of green, blue, red. He was born in 1919, seventy seven years old. All I care about is extreme invention in that mode. What about the boughs - different kinds of trees with their boughs shingling a wall top to bottom, lapped in amongst each other from different angles, very perfectly.
9
- Hit by a breaking-up pang at 6:30. wondering if it's his or mine. There must be things to know about this hard week. I'm kind of stalling not wanting to be bad or unfair. There are things I felt I don't want to say, but I will. I don't get excited about his little half-hard penis. I don't get excited about his bent old frame and crisped old skin. I don't even get excited about the parts I used to love, his hands, his wrists, his upper arm. He keeps asking if I'm proud of him and I'm not. I think he looks unintelligent, rough. He has clear eyes and bright skin, fine silver at his temples, a good hair cut. But he looks off-center, something else, like an ostrich, beaky and hungry. I resist his remarks, in a stew of dislike. I want something else. I go silent because none of it gives me leverage, so it feels, for response or feeling. I watch him pitching a sale. Resist. He fishes for compliments, wants me to promise this and that. Wants me to sign up for the rest of my life. He also does many things he used to refuse to do - cleans up when I'm teaching, pays for gas, strokes my clit, asks about my day. Folded my clothes very beautifully. But keeps wanting to be praised for doing them. Meantime I am sorry and uneasy to be reserved. I give whatever praise I can but it feels patronizing. I feel frozen and helpless in critical distance. Struggle, try saying bad things, try saying good things. Am holding and testing a hidden sense that I want it to be over, but not saying it because I am not sure whether I can trust this disaffected state. I know I'm tired. There's the summer with only work. There's not sleeping enough beside him. but why was I already on the way to the airport grieving and sullen that there would be nothing for me. The young man I saw greeting his family, whose face lit up with pleasure to be back with his wife. Hugging her with his five year old hanging on his neck. I knew there'd be no such visible joy on the face of the man so careful of his image he doesn't like to hug at airports, who couldn't hear anything I said for the rest of the evening. My feelings are always hurt when I run into the raw man. I don't think how it will go, I don't remember how it always goes, I'm not ready. Then he's manic in the stress of the journey, he doesn't see me, he's expecting me to comply, he isn't ready either and hasn't remembered me. I was aching, too, from house cleaning poisons and dust. I missed the way I used to feel. We both came to tears when we started to remember our times. I kept thinking we'd get through but I didn't. He said he did, I don't know. He remembers he gets into a persona at the Golden West. I remember he needs time off before he becomes himself. We were in the herb garden at nightfall, sitting on the edge of the tank. He said he doesn't like to feel what he feels when he meets my friends and they all seem to be into something deep. (- I am just realizing there is no observation in this recital. I didn't see him or hear him or feel him.) He said he acts dumb and doesn't say what he's actually thinking because he's afraid it won't reach the standard. Is there something simple I can stretch for. It was my lack, it was his lack. His lack was his usual lack. I lacked what I don't usually lack. He was boorish but trying hard, scared. I was somewhere else, or nowhere, not trying hard, giving much less than I used to. It wasn't his anger, though I didn't like it. I don't like how I am always having to defend myself, from anger, pressure, blindness, carelessness. I notice I'm dismissing what he thinks he gives me - love, loyalty, faithfulness. Am I wrong to dismiss them? No, because they are demands: I'll be anything you want if you stay with me, because you are saving me from myself. Is he actually doing anything for me? No, it says, it's all demand. That's harsh. Is it true? Yes, it says. There have been moments of real giving, but not in this visit. I am not going to have time for that transcendent effort anymore. 10 6:30 on Tuesday. Go to the lecture later. Take Rowen shopping, haircut, go downtown to the computers, give up on writing for this week. Though it's so close. Landscape and mind. The Coleridge project. It needs a name. Commission work. Make individual works members of the foundation. Do shows. Ask for staff. Ask for space. Funding for shows. It's anti-technology, in a way. Ask for a salary, $40,000 US. Show that work from land-mind can be cutting edge. Brakhage. Nicole. A salvia garden. Tap into technology money. Export the idea. Balance. Keeping technology sane. How does a mind formed in landscape make high art, use technology. Art as evidence. Connected mind. Am I conceptually sound on this? Yes, it says.
11 October Something practical and honest, a kind of design, landscape consultancy, environmentalism, landscape activism, environmental consultancy, landscape theory, landscape advocacy. Get an overview of what's needed, going on will tell you about the last chapter, it's related to the grain book, it's related to Gordon Smith's painting. Defending land in terms of mind, in terms of art. Mind related to land. Make a web magazine landscape and mind site. The fit of plants. Think of Leaving the land as the core. Out of it there'll be consulting work. My thesis is the first issue.
I'm doubtful that this is a fantasy of grandeur that has the instant pleasure of vaulting me out of worries about the doc, worries about where to live and how to make money, worries about Tom, worries about being a bad TA in logic. I can imagine myself the director of a foundation doing important work, funded, autonomous, connected, with an office and staff, excited, smart, honored. Yeah, good idea. Can I do it? Probably. It's work out of my core. Mind and land 1) A mind formed in landscape, 2) what happens when you connect. People who are lovers. People who aren't. Find the lovers. Promote them. Facilitate connection. Support them with theory. Mission to strengthen a culture. Interdisciplinary. Find the lovers in art, writing, science, philosophy. I have always done that. The question to ask of anyone, are they a lover? What corrupts mind and land. Is there a single answer. Yes. What it calls withdrawal. Is it always a cynical decision. Maybe. Only humans corrupt land, but there is corrupt land and corrupt land corrupts minds. Corrupt means not functioning. Rumpere to break. Debased, a spoiled relation to base. Interrupted. Think of it that way, physically interrupted.
15 1) Where's Rowen (Pitt Meadows) and when is he coming back? 2) Money for this week 3) Nora's light, orange voice suddenly. She says no she was never offended, I'm one of her favorite people. Her dad died three weeks ago in Calgary, and she owes me money. Where should she send it. 4) Luke saying he was at a broadcasting conference where the keynote speakers were repeating what he has been saying. 5) The first part of ch 11, up to the abstract sensing section, is good, but I'm dithering about getting on with it. 6) Louie last night reading chapter 1, wearing purple and writhing through yoga postures as she read. She wanted to be fixed in her anguish about Val. Okay, if we're going to talk about it let's really talk about it, I said, and got the cards. Louie still working without cease to defend herself from what she would otherwise feel about being younger than three people who were boys and not able to see that she was smart. - Chinook jargon illahie the ground underfoot, a handful of soil, this place, this property, this country, this earth. [Susan Mayse] 16 "curtains of rain falling around the house off the open verandah & that wet noise dense with a thicket of birdsong, in the wet & falling rain, transformed into falling notes, falling & ascending, crossing the rain in darts of melody running across and through the warp of the rain." Reading Daphne remembering she was what I'm saying I am going to do, land and mind. What am I feeling about that project, unreal. I have told David, Tom, Louie, Nora. With each, I was watching whether I and they believed it. I am immediately wanting to research it - read my own notes, read books, get on with something. Louie was blank about it. Said nothing. Tom said it's perfect. David saw my smile. Nora felt she didn't understand, I think. Describing it, I didn't find a convincing mission. Is this called wavering? I think the point is that I can do it, something like it, but I'll have to build conviction. The minute I look at the record two pages back I'm convinced. Nothing would be better for me to do. Should I be writing it up in finished paragraphs? Mind and land
- In Barry's office yesterday facing his heartlessness. "I've been doing this so long I know how to pace myself." Giving me advice about getting jobs in a hard voice. Wanted nothing to do with being my senior supe. And gave me a meaning look when I said I had probably burned my bridges with Phil.
- What else. Rowen last night sitting next to me on the bed learning symbolic logic. I could homeschool him, he thought. The way I taught him algebra in ten minutes. And went through Phil 100 with him in half an hour. How Rowen is. An angle in his face I see when he turns his head suddenly, a jut of bone. Black eyebrows and a bar of faint black over his lip. We are familiar. When we're talking I stroke his arm, he strokes my hair, we'll hold hands for a moment. I was sitting on the edge of his bed yesterday morning about to go to work, talking to him about his day, when I put my hand I thought on his thigh under the quilt. I felt a soft length instead of bone. My hand had gone unconsciously directly to his penis. I felt it the length of my palm. What's this, I was thinking dimly. We both laughed. Silly Mummy, he said. It's winter. The glass is black at seven in the morning. Sheets of paper flap on the wall in a breeze from the heating vent. I close my door to warm the room.
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