hortus

sometimes i remember to make a record

somehow

of what i'm doing.

why, i wonder,

because it's like this: all the making of all the years of all the ideas

concertina themselves

(which is also why i forget things...)

become one thing only: 

a life in a place.

here.

the new place i call home

(while i still live in the old place called home)

is rich in ridges.

concertina landscape

this ridge i've cleaned out,

the slope is steeper than it looks,

and my partner moved some rocks that are available 

to become part of a garden.

 it's resting now, as winter comes on. 

that meadow 

the ridge points to,

i've seen a coyote lope through

pausing now and again one morning

and i've watched three deer, no four

make their way up to the ridge, 

over and around it.

i saw a mink scurry past the tip of this ridge.

here and gone, quick quick!

today, as yesterday,

i walked around home, old home

gethering greens

and tiny blossoming goldenrods, three fern species,

wild grapes, applemint

rose, honeysuckle, and raspberry leaves

and one rose hip

thick staghorn sumac antlers.

the goldenrod flowers shock me

blossoming on the regenerated growth

after the august field mow.

all this abundance in the middle 

of november!

all this abundance when

it's likely as not frozen and gray and brown and harsh.

today i walked briefly

tired after six hours of printing,

and i saw myself being watched

by a young, furry and large-eared doe.

a this year fawn, 

mostly grown up

attending to me ("is she safe, is she crazy?")

as i went up my walk:

"hello, little one, i'm going in the house, 

eat well and safely there

my friend."

she stood alert,

watching as i went indoors.

sleep and art

i wish i could sleep like tess and gwen. last night, i did, with close to ten hours in bed, reading a little, and sleeping. this is what infections do to me, or maybe it's the antibiotic. this year i seem to be in a battle against microbes...

i am a weaver. at least, that is my background, but these days i think of myself as a papermaker/book artist. i go back to weaver because there's a long connection, back to my mother, elva weaver, her father, john weaver... you see where this is going? west virginia. mountain people are intelligent problem solvers, used to eeking out a livelihood on a scrap of mountainside land. my mom could keep cars going, make a dress without a pattern, cook a meal for one or thirty, clean a cruddy floor so it would shine. with a kid on her hip. 


i once saw a book about families and their stuff. each family was photographed outside their home, with all the people and possessions outside in front of the house. western households had lots of toys, places more marginal had their foodstuffs displayed.


so what use or worth is what i make? i know i'm not good at weaving functional stuff, i tried it. i often make stacks and stacks of botanical or rag paper, but they are rather expensive (in every sense). the artists' books that capture my imagination nowadays are one of a kind or small editions. is it worth it? is art worth it?