Favorite line

from gardening catalogue:

"This sterile cross doesn't self-seed in the reckless fashion of other Euphorbias."

Take the "b" out of the last word and you have something different entirely.

Erasing

Truly no horizon line today. Distant boats and low-flying planes are indistinguishable. Blessed rain. Mist.

New garden coming slowly, with surprises. At what point does the leaf become more important than the flower?

Drawn to these colors: greens, whites, and creams with a little purple, blue, yellow. The sky at sunset is florid enough.

No evidence of Great Lakes fish kill here, but clusters of boats day and night circling a single spot just offshore. Must be on one of those secret fishing maps.

Symbolic?

Today in Walgreen's parking lot: Two gulls stand over a dead pigeon. The gulls are normal gulls. The pigeon is gorgeous.

Analyze This

Dreamed of blueberries and meeting architect Farshid Moussavi.

Of traveling to a spectacular whirlpool so cold no human could touch the water.

Of driving up a sculpture thinking it was a hill, and slowly backing down.

Of my sister.

Of being in Chagrin Falls and having the sensation of missing the train to our next destination. (Oh, that was last night.)

Eventalia

It's all about narrative, claims Art Spiegelman, who spoke to a sold-out crowd last night. Chain-smoking onstage with New York Times art critic Michael Kimmelman, the case for comics was made, along with some serious digs at Lichtenstein and a flash of Henry Darger.

Who knew Superman to be an obstructionist?

The latest in the Lockwood Thompson Spectrum series produced by the Cleveland Public Library and Cleveland Public Art at Cleveland Public Theatre (with the help of Cleveland Public Power, according to CPA director Greg Peckham) was the best attended yet. Look for Kimmelman to return later this year with writer/publisher Dave Eggers. Congrats to Corrie Slawson, who got the whole thing together and wore a fabulous dress as well.

Up and out the door to do something I'd never do if it weren't for out-of-town friends: Go to the Rock Hall and pay ten bucks to park. Walked right into the middle of hundreds of Cleveland School kids performing on stages all over the plaza. The percussion group from DCL: heart-pounding.

Then to Coit Road Market in East Cleveland to buy brown eggs from the Amish guy, a pair of lightly worn bronze-colored shoes, Wild Bill's BBQ pork loin. Drank Kevin the spice-guy's special home brew, ate couscous with smoked cumin, saw old chums. Missed out on the rhubarb, and restrained myself from buying yummy bean pie.

Home to work, then out to Chagrin Falls later for art show/day/extravaganza at Nathaniel Parsons' studio. It's a good day it's a good day.

What A Whirled

week! I hauled French Sparks, Grandma Nelle, Nixon and Mao across town in my pick-up.

While the Ukrainians deconstructed my former three-family property, I reconstructed the past in order to move it. Truck after Okie-truckload of memories and books coming to rest. Photos, slides, films, portraits of people. An old Cleveland Press newspaper blaring NIXON RESIGNS in huge red sans serif font.

No sign of tenants I inherited when I bought the place: Lola, straight from West Virginia who loved Rose of Sharon trees and had a ritual for paying her rent, RIP; Raven (nee Debra) and her pit bull Misery (nee Misery, RIP), who moved to Florida.

A Brother and a Remington. Two Macs.

This is what I like about men: I ask for help moving the precious piano and Rocco, Mike, and Dave show up within an hour. They are glassblowers. They like to make things happen. Improvise.

The mother is heavy, but somehow they maneuver it into the truck bed, working as a team, no discussion, no memos, no meetings, no protocol, no second thoughts. How to anchor it? Grab a tire from the treelawn. Go.

Later, Ben, who refuses to move one more box of Angle magazines--can't blame him, he's hauled hundreds and hundreds--pulls the last few belongings inside. Call me moved. I swear it's the last time.

Mother's Day

To all my friends who are mothers: I salute you, and hope you are being wined and dined and waited on hand and foot.

To all of you who have mothers, count yourselves lucky, even when it's bad.

xxoo

Happy Birthday Mabel

It's my grandmother Mabel's 111th birthday. Or would be. Mabel who slid dollars under the table to my mother when they thought I wasn't looking. Mabel who danced with the Thanksgiving turkey in the living room to the delight of my grandfather. Mabel who taught us all to hula after her trip to Hawai'i. Whose body was all circles and curves, whose books went on the treelawn after she died, whose piano I must rescue, whose secrets slowly revealed themselves. Who died in 1966, whose daughter died 20 years later, after having shared too many of the same menthol smokes. Who also lived on Clark Avenue. Who also got out.

Stunned By

these perfect days. School's out for summer, except for one last session at the Venice Cafe in Kent. The first students from the NEOMFA program graduated this past Saturday, which also happened to be Cinco de Mayo, a holiday fervently observed in Kent, OH.

We went to Andrew's semi-annual, ritualistic bonfire in the middle of a Christmas tree farm, where watching Andrew is almost better than watching the fire...

Part of the bonfire structure was made by Nat and Ben Parsons--two installations made of scrap wood (one a memorable Putt-Putt Hole in the back of the Literary Cafe, the other a mysterious bridge/sculpture at the long-lost Here Here Gallery).

Missed the CPT Art Auction (couldn't afford it; heard it was good), but didn't miss the interesting/fascinating/baffling Cleveland Arts Prize announcement of its 2007 awardees.

City Council is meeting at Josaphat Arts Hall this coming Monday--and the Angle office is reverting to a choir loft for the evening. (I'm also writing a poem for the occasion. Is that anything like a being a court scribe?)

Go outside.