Clay: Role-Play

Medea, clay figurine: 

stoneware; brown glazing; copper wire.

Stunt model for . . . 

"Ophelia Revised" photo sequence.

Strawberry Creek standing in for Elsinore's waterway.

Beckoning

Arch Rock

Sonoma Coast

Seal-Bird Island and the Rocking Zoom

That sort of fringe on the top of the rocky islet?  Can you see what I mean?  (Move a little closer; enlarge the shot, perhaps.)  I am fairly sure those are birds, standing tall in the wind.   Or, a good many of them are birds, though some are seals, noses held high.

At first I thought they were all seals, a whole lot of seals providing that visual fringe effect, and in fact the creatures on the rocks closer to the water are seals, dozens of them.  

(What do you call a whole lot of seals?  A salvage of seals? A savory?  A soiree? A sea?  A season?)

Now, I'll give you a sequence of shots that illustrate the difficulties of attempting to use the zoom on my amphibious camera -- a camera better suited to close-ups and arm's-length captures -- while balancing in a closed-deck kayak.  I love the motion, myself, but the results are a bit up-and-down in quality.

Off Bodega Bay on a very sunny day.

Happy paddling.

Bodega Bay Kayaking: Misc

Model Behavior

I miss sculpting.
Older pieces, gathering dust here.

Feet Of Clay

"What can I tell you, Carson," I had to say aloud, "that you don't already know?" The pottery wheel slowed to a full stop. I set both feet squarely on the floor. Before me, the clay glistened, a wet lump.  I spoke again to the shadows, to the clay masks I’d hung on every wall. Empty eyeholes stared back at me.  I had to raise my voice. "Omniscience, you know, being the purview of the dead?"

--draft sentences, stepping into a new story

Riddles at Random

. . . in the rain.

Fish in the Rain

Tidal Flower

1/30/14

I mean, tidal animal.

Ashes of an Old Poem, Sparks for a New Poem?

Nights, I built fires from the wood
You did not chop.

--MD


This opening sentence has come back to mind recently, and I've been trying to recall the rest of this poem that I'd written in, oh, Winter Quarter 1980 -- in Carl Dennis' 46B: Intro to Poetry Class.  I used to recite the poem to myself as I walked to and from campus, so the memory may be deep and so retrievable.  The setting was a trip down a river, two characters and two canoes, a definite lack of appreciation on the one hand, and a distinct inability to make headway that mattered on the other.  Rocks and rapids, of course, provided the physical obstacles.  I recall a class discussion of the poem, actually, that lasted a good amount of time, which was both alarming and encouraging to me, as my classmates debated the dynamics between the characters.  I was so shy then and speechless; Prof. Dennis assured me afterwards that the lengthy discussion itself, more than the particular comments, was a mark of success in that my poem had held attention.  That was kind.

I can't seem to find the old poem itself, which is only surprising after all these years if you understand just how many manuscripts and notebooks and what-have-you I've kept year after year after year.  Which is part of the problem, no doubt.

I guess I could or should write a new poem.  Maybe I'll pick up from where the memory has left off . . . .

Or, maybe I'll leave that fragment alone.  Let the one image stand.

Nudibranch: Three Views

Eelfish Sighting

Exploration's Joy

When I first found and read Charles De Lint's "The Little Country" back in grad school--on the heels of De Lint's "Dreams Underfoot"--it felt as if I were rediscovering the best aspects of play and treasure-hunting and discovery itself. I was having a fine time as a Renaissance / Medieval / Restoration / Neoclassic / Romantic specialist--I kept changing my fields, for I'm a hungry and ambitious generalist at heart--but I was spending my days and nights bearing down perhaps too hard as a student, as a researcher, and not as the learner, as the adult-child, as the explorer that I am most at home being. I relearned to refresh my professional studies with such spirited and generous storytelling--and to bring such spirit and generosity to my professional duties in the classroom and in the carrel.

Can You See The Eyes? Those Are Eyes, Right?

HMB: Landscapes, Waterscapes

There may be a few waterdrops on the lens here.  I don't care, this time, here.