soon and very soon we will have to trim the stunning plumes off the grasses in the backyard. dogga loves to walk right alongside these grasses and the spikelets attach to his fur. posing as perfectly harmless golden seedheads, these little spikelet awns end up on our bed, in our socks, on the area rug in the living room – and ultimately stab us repeatedly, until one finds the source of the pain and removes it.
last year…as fall progressed and the number of spikey jabs increased, it occurred (slowly) to us to remove the source – and so we reluctantly trimmed the plumes out back, even though the way they catch the sunlight is remarkable.
nevertheless, they somehow sneak in, these tiny posers. and we heroically hold up one or two showing each other that we have literally saved the other’s life.
it’s those sneaker-inners that plague us…like needles from a long-gone christmas tree…they show up…and the longer they are around, the dryer and pointier they get. so it is important to try and eradicate them from inside the house as soon as possible.
ahhh…speaking of eradicating them from inside the house – we are ever closer to midterms and the big house – that-white-one-that-no-longer-has-an-east-wing – the one that every single one of us owns – that house needs big time eradication of the posers lodged there.
any reason to continue to tolerate that which brings pain is not acceptable.
they are seeding nothing but cruelty, bigotry, gluttony, self-serving agenda. and it is all at our peril.
we are wise enough to remove the spikelet awns from our comforter, our rugs, our socks.
we must remove the same from the leadership of our country.
(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – even if any absence of the happenings of the day, even in the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)
and so…
we didn’t burn the chiminea this past summer or fall. but it sat outside in our backyard, waiting, just in case.
and when winter came and we were in the middle of the middle of rearranging and sorting and all that other stuff I’ve been writing about in the going-through of one’s trappings and baggage, we looked over at it waiting and decided to bring it inside.
we tucked its gorgeously sculptural clay form into the corner of the sunroom, eliminating a high stool we tended to pile upon, simplifying the space. we added a strand of happy lights and a timer and we placed a heart-leafed philodendron on top of the chiminea’s cap.
we stepped back to see it. to decide.
the chiminea has been there every day since and every day since we have exclaimed (yes – exclaimed!) how much we love the chiminea there – inside – in our sunroom – across from the backdoor – tucked in the corner – lit.
i suppose were you to step into our house you might wonder about it. we have these two chunks of concrete, a salvaged architectural column, a reclaimed repurposed piece of old desk, a weathered deck-glider, old suitcases, driftwood, an aspen log, old doors as tables or propped against the wall. in my studio there’s a metal slatted swivel patio chair topped by furry pillows, an old stool, the skeleton of a lampshade. there’s a vintage mailbox with our house number in the bathroom that holds magazines, glass doorknobs that hold towels, an old black shutter that holds space. old coffee pots hold teabags in the kitchen and an old trunk holds a metal sculpture in the hallway. there are two old window frames on the radiator in the sitting room across from a small rickety farm table. and we haven’t gone upstairs yet.
sometimes we take a little walkabout through our house and talk about these things. we kind of glory in the repurposing of these old objects, otherwise possibly put out to pasture. i’d like to think of them all as just waiting.
relevance is a funny thing. like most everyone else, we could certainly go to the local furniture stores and pick out contemporary (as in at least this decade) pieces with which to furnish our home. we could have things that are more – say – typical, more – say – normal, less – say – unusual. but those would also be less relevant to us.
because we are just like the chunks of concrete, the old desk, the weathered outdoor pieces, the old doorknobs and coffee pots, the chiminea.
we are artists. always waiting to be seen. always creating. just in case.
