Aftermath

It was an eerie day yesterday. Things were all somehow out of whack. The day was characterized by contention. Discord. Lack of flow.

I had intended to spend the better part of the day putting together the pieces of my next "Art of Outrage" episode for Artscene Visual Radio, but I couldn't get my head around it, the shape of it felt somehow uncomfortable, not what I was looking for. I became obsessed with money, and the management of money, and changes we are trying to make on that front. Blockages on that front, too. I had to take time out to visit the dentist for the repair of a front tooth.

In the evening, both feeling weary and out of sorts, Ellie and I went out for dinner at a local sidewalk restaurant. Two officers from the nearby fire station happened by, and we took time to thank them for the work they have been doing these past two days, with the fire that has been a constant presence in our lives and consciousness. Perhaps that's what's upsetting things. There's no escaping the sound of the helicopters, some ferrying back and forth with water drops to control the fire and others--the news crews--hovering, watching the others work and filling the airwaves with their reports. There's a crackle of strange energy in the air

It's a general malaise, a disturbance in the usual flow of energies. Which reminds me that I have a second appointment with my healer friend today. And that I'm still experiencing relief from that pain in the hips at night.

A dream last night: I'm not sure whether this an artist whose work I have become aware of, or whether I myself am the artist. The work is simple in the extreme--you might say minimalist--in appearance. A first series is a single graphite line connecting two points in space. It looks like a straight line, but that's deceptive. The line is delicate, filled with inexplicable intelligence, personal revelation, a subtle expression of the soul. The second series is more complicated. It, too, is based on the line, but in this case the connections are made between thirteen random holes in each sheet of rag paper, made by the scattershot of actually fired shotgun pellets, and the lines are drawn between them to construct a portrait of the artist, infinitely subtle and elusive...

Hmmmm. Back to work, now, on that Art of Outrage piece.