In addition to AEDM, I am working at reigniting regular, not just art, journaling. Might as well go at it all at once. This monring’s written journal entry (none of them are planned – I think of them as the “morning dump” – braing to hand to paper) wound up talking about AEDM (of course – it stays on my mind) so I’m going to let it be part of this post.
Tammy’s Journal, 11/3/17
Journaling every day, even 1 page (and surely this page [unlined journal page] is worth 2 spiral bound pages) is not yet on my horizon. I wake with my purpose aimed at art every day month. And then, sitting withithis journal for art every day, I think of writing. Pen to paper. No stops. “Free write” with no expectations or goal except one page.
My hand cramps. It has been a decade since I regularly wrote 3 morning pages. The muscles get lax, forget that hands write as well as type. Beside me the detritus of today’s AEDM offering alys scattered across the laptop keyboard: words, pictures, scraps of paper with pictures of texture and color. A Banana Mania Crayola crayon ha been left ou of the box. Scissors sprawl across my calendar. Over is all the flickering blue light of the dongle pulses letting me know I can access the world wide net if I just clear away all this stuff. The “oaut ther” vs. “the right here.” Right here, immediate, alonge but not lonely. Out ther, still sone, but with millions of other “alones” even if I only interact with a hundred or so…..
A picture to ilustrate that paragraph is at the top of this post.
Today’s AEDM offering (day 3) is a two-page spread in my journal on gessoed pages. I did several in anticipation. Wound up painting with acrylic a bit, then more collage, which doesn’t really need gesso, and another word poem:
Uncommon eyes influence
make it new, suddenly
discovering missing links
in my personal history: bound
not only to a certain time, but
also to the place I grew up.
Within this gingle present, shorn
of past and future, no whereabouts
can be found. Our presence
is disturbed. If never fully present,
can our memories still attach to place?
Or will only the flowers remember?