These three things naturally come together at times, like today, when I realize I’ve done nothing in writing new poetry, even though I can honestly say, I’ve been thinking about it. Today I took my 3.6 km walk a little later in the morning because of a rain violation. As I walked, I began to contemplate ways to move a certain poetic story forward (I seem a bit stalled as far as story goes). I’ve been reading an eclectic bunch of books in order to move the thought process forward, mostly on art, and I was thinking about Tracey Emin and the method of plundering the past. And the thing about being in your head and walking through a part-wild, part-inhabited space, is that you always have to be prepared for the unexpected (like the little baby rabbits on the road–they showed little fear of me, not knowing they should be afraid (I’m pretty scary–there are people that will attest to that)). And I wasn’t paying the world any mind at all, until I saw the huge German Shepherd out of the corner of my eye, his tail raised, ears raised, body stiff. And I kept walking, holding its rather frightening gaze (now keep in mind I’m the coordinator for a writer/artist colony, so I don’t scare easily) realizing that the guard dog was loose, and guarding, and holding his ground. I continued to walk by, trying not to provoke it, and I was almost by it, but being as graceful as I am most days, decided to look forward at the road ahead, and that’s when it lunged for me, visciously snapping at me. And that was when I screamed, but didn’t run, though my heart did, up my chest, into my throat and maybe even out my nose. While it came close enough to slobber on my capris, it didn’t bite me, merely guarded his territory, the million dollar cabin being built by the lake.
But, it did something to my headspace. It snapped me out of my stall enough to think about the poetry I’ve not been writing, made me think about ways and methods of pushing at the myths/stories I’m trying to reconstruct in a deconstructing way. It pushed me to think about the art as an act, or the think about the act as art. And sure, that might be vague to you, but it’s an echo that will continue for some time, those teeth grinding, the thoughts plundering, my words reacting with as well as against. Here at writer/artist camp, anything can happen.