“Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.” ~ Longfellow
If March were a human being, it would have bi polar disorder. Two days ago I woke to an inch and a half a snow on the ground with more steadily falling, within a few hours, it was all melted away. Some days in March have a cold bitter wind, but today despite a cool breeze, the sun was shining, the skies were blue. We missed the first half of the lovely day, on another adventure, but in the afternoon, the pirate suggested going out to enjoy just wandering around the yard in the sunlight. I love this thing about him, this thing that loves to look at the things growing in the yard.
I told him this morning as we were watching a story on the news about the time change, that I would love to have a box full of clock parts. We wandered, separately and then together and then apart again. I am looking for ideas for making art books, for ephemera for collage and mixed media. Then he calls me, excitement in his voice. I look over his shoulder and find a box full of pocket watch parts. I am thrilled.
Heard this song today. It has been years but the words came back like I heard it yesterday. Love it.
Walk along the river … sweet lullaby
It just keeps on flowin’ … it don’t worry ’bout where it’s going
I am feeling very blue sky today.
I have been thinking all day about this idea of Steam-punk. My love of dystopian science fiction. It is strange in a way how someone who loves nature and the woods as much as I do can be so enthralled by a future that is set in the decaying ugliness of a city. The detritus of the collapsed city. The darkness in many ways, the dirty grit and rusting bits and parts reassembled into something not quite right. I picture a doll that has a Barbie head on a Bratz body with a pair of GI Joe boots. Dolls. Dark, mismatched, sewn bits, collected parts, uniquely put together. No two dolls alike.
When you have this in your heart side by side with a soft tendril of a fern in the moist earth by the side of a crystal lake. The brilliant scarlet of bee-balm with the silver frost of artemesia in the back ground. I read this great quote last week that I did not write down, but should have and of course I returned the library book. It was about the French Garden how it is ordered and perfect, tearing out all the bits that don’t look perfect, constant grooming required but nothing new really happens. Then it said that the English Garden is open to the possibilities of life, all the things that can happen in a wonderous way when you allow things to grow of their own volition that you leave room in your garden for the surprise and the ability to wonder at what could have brought such a thing to your garden. (perhaps like the dark purple columbine that apppeared from no where near my bird feeders) That it is like being a creative person, things grow out of places you cannot plan for, once you allow all that is inside of you to burst out and to bloom. I cannot do the quote justice. Damn.
Steampunk is like an English Garden (or a cluttered workshed) you take all those things and put them together in a new way and what results is a surprise. It startles you into new possibilities. I guess the alternative is a stark crisp white future that leaves no room for freedom, for creativity. If you know human kind is headed to a life without the green earth, the quiet forest, the windy mountain top, the bubbling laughter of a stream across slate, you want on some level to know that something new can still be created out of certain chaos.