our wok continues to transcribe stories
most fading slowly until erased through interweaving
while ambiguous semi-poetic language may be thought to obscure meaning, it also allows multiple interpretations to be embraced. all of our conflicting truths and stories can coexist on some level.
so now we know what
six yards of wood chips
looks like and our bodies know what
six yards of wood chips
is it ok to have a favorite?
the softest (japanese larch)
the most astonishing (curved-trunk apple)
the beloved species (american sycamore)
the mysterious (hollow-trunk cherry)
the best climb (mountainside ladder-branched sugar maple)
the revered (three grandmothers)
but this shagbark hickory we planted eleven years ago is a magnetic spirit.
the correlate to the rarely spoken mantra
nobody is special
is the pervasive, misread, and drippy
everyone is special
which, in the right light, can be let through
(but there still might be a favorite)
this may marks the fifteenth year of monome. and so we released a redesigned grid. it's approximately the eleventh redesign. (i say approximately because qualification is blurry, and that doesn't include the prototypes prior to the inaugural edition in 2006).
this round number 15 (which is actually 20 including the pre-production years) felt like it merited some level of acknowledgement. i started writing a "history of the grid" which quickly sprawled a dozen pages even before i reached 2006: it became a sort of memoir.
and so the art (self) business (corp) dichotomy debate quietly reemerged. trying to detangle what and why to share certain things. to sort meaning from deafening noise and false conviction. to share moments and thank sincerely without overexposure or inevitable misinterpretation.
there is a story. but perhaps a new grid is enough.
there are also apple blossoms in which to immerse ourselves.
foraged violet, ceramic by kelli cain, worn table made from the salvaged hemlock joists of our two hundred year old house.
today we discovered the closet was locked, from the inside. a few weeks ago we finished walling it in, not having used the door because the wall was just, well, open all the time.
so we re-opened the wall to unlock the door. sadly this story did not end with the discovery of long forgotten treasure.
we lived in a city, dreaming of life amidst heavy-laden fruit trees.
twelve years on, this plum's blossoms suggest that just maybe, we are here.
addition to the obscure specialized tool collection: okuda shiitake innoculation stick.
this year is snow cap shiitake in sugar maple. eighteen new logs.
horse chestnut arriving with new colors to share.
"You are strangling your life-force with words. Do not live your life searching around for answers in your word-hoard. You will find only words to rationalize your experience. Allow yourself to open up to wyrd and it will cleanse, renew, change, and develop your casket of reason. Your word-hoard should serve your experience, not the reverse."
brian bates - the way of wyrd (1983)
still reflecting on nan shepherd's the living mountain.
her writing is keenly perceptive, exhuberant, deeply appreciative: wholly celebrating the natural world. a resonating analogue of psilocybin-unveiled all-one-ness. eyes open. all senses open. mind open.