tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8197276800546828822024-03-04T23:25:15.606-08:00Inga Clough FaltermanInga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-38939719794676999932014-09-17T10:07:00.000-07:002014-09-17T10:07:17.357-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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She writes, or dictates to me, after an offering of western bluebird feathers and juniper berries from my pockets,<br />
<br />
<i>Rocky Mountain treasure</i><br />
<i>Through the open glades</i><br />
<i>No one has seen them</i><br />
<i>except you and me.</i><br />
<br />
And she steals my heart and buries it in a small treasure box or a bag, whichever she chooses this time to keep her foundlings. She tells stories to the time of rain falling, and flowers opening and shutting. I cannot keep up.<br />
<br />
Working on a current project of live oak wood as hard as steel, I notice my hands get very tight upon closing them tightly. I like the calluses and I am sad that the sanding and planing and planing and sanding is over. There will be more projects after this one, however. I will try to stay in shape.<br />
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I have moved into a storage unit. I am waiting for garage bands to play on the weekends. Perhaps I am there at the wrong times for such happy company. The environment is very anonymous, and secrets are kept inside numbered steel doors in neat rows, as if it were really that easy.Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-79385115304489902832014-04-15T20:04:00.000-07:002014-04-15T20:04:02.028-07:00A favorite gift.<br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-53636037254500018752014-04-14T20:12:00.000-07:002014-04-14T20:12:07.058-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The worst wishes are the ones that are there for the taking, and they still seem unreachable. Paths are revealed by obvious markers, and the hopes and ideas wrapped in their wish clothing flutter in the softest of breaths of air, like the seeds of a giant roadside dandelion.<br />
<br />
Rocks stare at us, dumbfounded by our stupidity and by our unmoving feet. Why don't we just run in there and pluck a wish from the ceiling of the low cave? Why can we not dash into the shadow, grab the prize, and run, smiling and laughing and filled with boundless joy and excitement, back into the sun where we can celebrate our dreams by making them manifest? <br />
<br />
The disappointment of the waiting landscape is mountainous.<br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-90395265527302436182014-04-14T10:53:00.002-07:002014-04-14T10:53:49.181-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtjA1vGa8_ClMZGkCNZVpMfYEO1PLv_mw-e3l_ivyVfozQ-0D7RQcOS7pR_9R91mxwFu0gCpNuA6ZmPjRLEBXrhrXzsaz-HGbKJhgh0BLp1URHoGj3TzyTBd8Y-8T191hAIQr0xLv2S8/s1600/IMG_9766.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtjA1vGa8_ClMZGkCNZVpMfYEO1PLv_mw-e3l_ivyVfozQ-0D7RQcOS7pR_9R91mxwFu0gCpNuA6ZmPjRLEBXrhrXzsaz-HGbKJhgh0BLp1URHoGj3TzyTBd8Y-8T191hAIQr0xLv2S8/s1600/IMG_9766.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a><br />
What is it that you want? Perhaps for someone to be interested in what I want. I just asked you. Then maybe the answer is to be asked what it is I wish, and then the working towards that. The going to. The going to what? The going to is the content, the reaching<br />
<br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-54453681357408772082014-04-10T14:40:00.001-07:002014-04-10T14:40:15.306-07:00do you remember walking<br />
postholing<br />
through the snow<br />
deep, even though we were on the trail through the trees<br />
my world black and green and white and blue, and so perfect in its simplicity<br />
<br />
do you remember walking<br />
(up, up up we go)<br />
higher and higher<br />
(all the way to the top,<br />
all the way to the top)<br />
and we were burdened with our toys for wonderful locomotion down<br />
and we were lifted with the goal of reaching the point of the<br />
beginning<br />
of the<br />
descent<br />
<br />
and I said<br />
<br />
don't you see those little white moths? are there little white moths here? do you not see them?<br />
<br />
and you smiled<br />
and said<br />
let's have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.<br />
<br />
and we sat down and had a snack.<br />
<br />
the moths went away, sadly. but I remember them.<br />
<br />
I remember them and the memory makes me smile easily.<br />
<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-49089601956575660882014-04-10T09:02:00.002-07:002014-04-10T09:02:45.207-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Big spaces and open roads only confirm what I already know, regarding my inability to find comfort in this conventional lifestyle that has taken over. The tent is a solid home, in that big and little hearts all sleep as one, and that one heart tends to rise and set with the sun as a new and stronger animal. I have little desire to watch games from the sidelines, but enjoy seeing the black and blue knees of my cactus-poked children as we play games with rocks and jackrabbits.<br />
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<br />
No better school exists than the mythology in the stars, the direction of the winds, and the roll of the ocean. And no better playground exists than puddles and piles of rocks. <br />
<br />
Hide and seek games in Santa Elena Canyon, however, can result in the worry that something could have gone wrong.<br />
<br />
Everyone is found. <br />
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Things we find:<br />
<br />
tracks<br />
wonder<br />
little animal<br />
oyster fossils<br />
a running man, looking to make sure of the empty hands of two strangers<br />
paths<br />
more rocks, that we love<br />
daughter, wild girl <br />
an embrace as an answer, fierce and not one to forget<br />
an apology<br />
a river<br />
sun and shade<br />
heat and cold<br />
something blocking the throat, making it hard to swallow, with eyes about to spill over<br />
quiet hand holding<br />
slow steps <br />
Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-76503611567329150302014-04-10T08:39:00.001-07:002014-04-10T08:39:32.041-07:00Those swarms that hang over my head, in the corners... they are not hornets gathering to wage war. Instead, they are unattended things with promises of such certain and exhilarating happiness. Their darkness and hardness is from the staleness of neglect and makes them impossible to forget. The shadows they create on the soul's walls make a misery much like a nightmare.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It is time to begin sewing again.<br />
<br />
<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-41941537041885070762013-05-29T18:36:00.000-07:002013-05-29T18:36:25.623-07:00When a curtain that is a door moves with the trade winds blowing through the windows, I think it is a small person hurrying from one place of hiding to the next. I live among ghosts. People come and go, paddles and hands in the water and out again. A shadow in the sun, here they were.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgentUHwApc_0PqPojf6m-P6Em8tyi2spP2OTDyPy0as-r6AFWZa0j3wmUnNxhCn5UQgf70p-D1SURLEhAjW7KBHY0uH8I40msWsQcwXZRZoGowQE8I3x8OG7HrnuDsdgeryorf8URe6vA/s1600/photo-58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgentUHwApc_0PqPojf6m-P6Em8tyi2spP2OTDyPy0as-r6AFWZa0j3wmUnNxhCn5UQgf70p-D1SURLEhAjW7KBHY0uH8I40msWsQcwXZRZoGowQE8I3x8OG7HrnuDsdgeryorf8URe6vA/s200/photo-58.jpg" width="158" /></a>Oh, the things I consider. I make a list:<br />
<br />
hell and high water, and I choose neither; unless the water is pretty<br />
dogs<br />
the strength of character and tough feet<br />
big dipper<br />
frangipani caterpillars<br />
Einstein's Dreams, always, by Alan Lightman; especially the chapter about houses on stilts on mountains<br />
that odd feeling after climbing up high and resting, and looking out, over, below; and wanting to jump because flight seems incredibly possible<br />
likewise, the need to keep swimming once one has left shore<br />
likewise, paddling into the wind into open sea, and never wanting to look back to land<br />
self made cancer<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-46121881461215460372013-05-26T20:52:00.000-07:002013-05-26T20:52:06.160-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSF7icM31lzgaVm2m9rAIF6zo8TVSKJgad9-_1vtEXui3vp0k7OZxxFM-9gf1wG9HI_PoKKFDQRtyobroUZOnvnAsQ89pW-P7oMFGGar_zARnLSX3oGPZ0zby3M_QhmCeWcyPbknR_V_4/s1600/photo-51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSF7icM31lzgaVm2m9rAIF6zo8TVSKJgad9-_1vtEXui3vp0k7OZxxFM-9gf1wG9HI_PoKKFDQRtyobroUZOnvnAsQ89pW-P7oMFGGar_zARnLSX3oGPZ0zby3M_QhmCeWcyPbknR_V_4/s200/photo-51.jpg" width="149" /></a><br />
I remember both of my children<br />
(and I wonder if I did the same<br />
when I was small)<br />
trying to grasp the water that poured from the faucet in their bath,<br />
their little hands closing<br />
making fists<br />
over and over.<br />
<br />
They failed, and I am certain I did, too.<br />
<br />
I bet you, also.<br />
<br />
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Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-27058982975331585672013-05-25T20:25:00.001-07:002013-05-25T20:26:45.895-07:00Life gets in the way sometimes, and so the charcoal pencils get left behind. Most recently, all the pencils are wrapped up in boxes labeled with the names of their stuff inside and sent away to some foreign room or left prisoner in the dark of a space that was trying to finally breathe again.<br />
<br />
I must be doing some things correctly, I said to a hiding sun disappearing behind magic mountain islands. <br />
<br />
Painting walls makes people smile, and so I find myself on St. John, USVI, making walls smile with swimmy things. I win today, as I am in a beautiful place and I am making things.<br />
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I lighten the load. Keeping nothing, as usual, I walk away from everything to gain more. My bags returning will be less heavy than when we started.<br />
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Painting walls for others is an incredibly different process than seeking a goal with charcoal, than finding an answer or finding the right explanation through oil paint. Painting walls is fast and silly, and in the end I find myself enjoying the hurried work of it. The puzzle of color and shape and form is always there, no matter the content.<br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-91419703078206925242013-04-10T00:19:00.000-07:002013-04-10T00:19:14.619-07:00Almost a week has passed since the return from Switzerland, and already the visit seems twenty years behind me. I have not yet unpacked the drawings from their airplane home; the box looks like it fell off a baggage cart and was run over on the tarmac by numerous vehicles. Perhaps tomorrow I will find the time to release them from their rolled up misery.<br />
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The drawings are not what is important regarding my residency in Trelex, but instead the practice of making them. The wishes that came home with me have a great deal to do with the maintenance of making, and the recovery of purpose.<br />
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If my work is about keeping, then it is also about the effort of keeping making.<br />
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Restlessness can be a tangible anger. <br />
I would choose to throw myself down mountains, over many other options, to keep that animal quiet.<br />
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Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-9344112513830335542013-03-29T03:06:00.001-07:002013-03-29T03:06:54.646-07:00work <br />
husband, children.<br />
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people, house.</div>
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little house</div>
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with big plans</div>
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They come, pretending the rain is not here. The rain hits the roof, and when you close the door, that is the sound you listen to.</div>
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I am a bird and these are my feathers</div>
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(they come to the windows now).</div>
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<br />I am a small person. </div>
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-49934282720176224582013-03-27T22:26:00.001-07:002013-03-27T22:33:26.720-07:00<b>morning</b><br />
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From yesterday.<br />
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<b> </b>Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-74481346252716437402013-03-27T15:12:00.000-07:002013-03-27T15:12:10.631-07:00<b>later nighttime</b><br />
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<i>six crows, </i>all done, still on the board. More importantly, Little Owl calls out, 11:02 pm, twice. Wish working to do. <br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-19809288426126167652013-03-27T14:52:00.000-07:002013-03-27T16:21:42.575-07:00<b>nighttime </b><br />
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A few things I consider:<br />
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the fortune, from a fortune cookie, and why it is taped to the refrigerator<br />
a secret written on a scrap of paper and hidden in a rock wall<br />
pennies, sunk and making copper bottoms of our fountain pools<br />
dandelions<br />
stars<br />
while stopping at rest stops or truck stops, how much money I have given to the<br />
scales which provide your true weight accompanied with a fortune<br />
Euler<br />
crossed fingers<br />
the difference between plans and wishes<br />
the difference between wishes and dreams<br />
whether the difference is something worth considering<br />
curses<br />
escape velocity<br />
snowflakes <br />
the emotions of broken umbrellas, or how dead umbrellas affect us<br />
the ESA's Rosetta project<br />
stars again<br />
my little pine cone song, and therefore, little pine cones.<br />
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I ask Min to throw the wishes out the window. She is busy, and I interrupt her day. I see her smiling when she throws, so maybe my asking is not so much an intrusion; I can only hope. I do not ask her if she likes to throw wishes out the window.<br />
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They fall. I throw them over my daughter, also. She spreads her arms wide and stands smiling. I see she likes the feeling of these light things, hiding secrets from her, falling near her. She calls it magical. She asks me to throw them again and again and again.<br />
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Sunday, she was in the playhouse with me while I threw the wish objects on the shelves. She immediately ran to a pile of them and touched them all, trying to understand what they were hiding. She stomped on the ones on the ground. Surprised at her destruction, I asked why. She said, quite honestly and plainly, that there is something inside, and she needs to find out what.<br />
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I walk under the full moon. I see Min looking for the moon, too. The clouds want to hide it from us, but we have seen it already. The big house gathers us. I feel like a wish discarded, and then taken back, again and again and again.<br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-18574103945397728992013-03-25T14:08:00.000-07:002013-03-25T14:08:41.692-07:00<br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-3477252005483472312013-03-24T22:30:00.000-07:002013-03-24T22:30:52.952-07:00<u>Six Crows: A Fable</u>, by children's author Leo Lionni (1910-1999), is the basis of the drawing <i>six crows.</i> It is a story in which the settlement of an argument is reached through compromise. A farmer is irritated by six noisy crows who steal from his wheat farm, and so he builds a scarecrow. In retaliation, the crows build a frightening kite bird to scare the farmer. The farmer builds an even more harrowing scarecrow, and the birds reciprocate with an even bigger, more horrible kite. The two parties suffer; the crows go hungry as the farmer hides in his house, shutters locked, neglecting his fields. <br />
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With the intervention of the wise owl, eventually the crows and the farmer reach an understanding gained through civil discourse, casting aside their violent or aggressive tactics.<br />
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<i>six crows</i>, in progress</div>
<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-73932966020437466422013-03-24T14:08:00.000-07:002013-03-24T14:08:16.244-07:00<b> afternoon</b><br />
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Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-59072652399657362952013-03-24T01:01:00.000-07:002013-03-24T21:00:37.949-07:00<b>morning</b><br />
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I cannot keep, I told her. She had asked. and so I answered. She asked me to talk about keeping.<br />
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The answer took days. I could not find the words to answer at the time of the question. I sat on the floor, dumb. <br />
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Finally, I can answer. I cannot keep. I cannot keep anything. I cannot keep the time from passing, and so everything within that broad realm slips through my fingers. Like water. I can keep something just as I can keep water cupped in my hands; the water eventually just slips through my fingers. I cannot keep my children small and wide eyed and new and the things that make a three year old different than a twelve year old. I cannot keep home. I find bits and pieces, and then home morphs, twists, moves. I get taken away, or the actual structure breaks. I cannot find a home that fits. I cannot keep from growing older, just like my children. My eyesight worsens, my time disappears.<br />
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I cannot keep. Objects can be kept, but for how long? These things are separate; they house themselves. They don't care. Clothes rot, glass breaks. Stability of the object is just temporary comfort. That goes away, too.<br />
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I asked her, can you keep anything?<br />
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She was quiet for a small time, and then said, I guess I can just keep my breath.<br />
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I said,<br />
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No, you cannot.<br />
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You cannot keep your breath. That is why you take another, and another, and another. You cannot keep your own breath. You cannot keep anything.<br />
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I try, I said. I try, because that is how we live. I try to keep, because that is what we do. I cannot keep, and so I make pictures. <br />
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I gather treasure, sew it up, hold on to the energy as long as I can. I am happy it is not mine. Simultaneously, a profound longing exists because it is not mine to control or ingest. It is not mine to manipulate or maintain. Although balance cannot be attained, it is perpetually sought. Rocks falling, thoughts escaping, ideas vanishing, houses waiting, all become parts of a language describing the inability to keep a breath.<br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-179999944119058182013-03-20T12:12:00.000-07:002013-03-20T12:12:27.515-07:00<b>nighttime</b><br />
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<b> </b>Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-53964221935927865632013-03-20T12:09:00.001-07:002013-03-20T12:13:14.394-07:00<b>midday</b><br />
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Min Kim and I coax the birds to come to our windows. No luck yet. I think our seeds are too big. The better bag of seed was 6 Fr, and the bag I bought was only 2. Guess I should have been a bigtimer.Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-91014856929819737322013-03-20T00:12:00.001-07:002013-03-20T12:13:26.352-07:00<b>morning</b><br />
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The stationmaster's house, coming along:<br />
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This drawing is doing its good job. I am learning from my sketch what my objects need to be. Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-33598404043185516452013-03-19T15:45:00.000-07:002013-03-19T15:45:12.285-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It could work if I made thousands. They could move around by themselves, helped by the shuffling feet of strangers. Not strangers, really, because everyone is the same. Everyone has stories. Everyone seeks a home; comfort within themselves at least. Everyone has wishing character.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1NSNzZXctPV2r8Be4WpF9e-jt1iCaCRc-y5aYRDb0iyQ9OA39rmHV4rh9-7V9H2b6HdVUZ7wxlnmEBOXeHAYQCSNrddHLTCZDCCBWdWAtmbPtANissI7dkfW9u-AeGJsi8NKaORGSveY/s1600/IMG_6673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1NSNzZXctPV2r8Be4WpF9e-jt1iCaCRc-y5aYRDb0iyQ9OA39rmHV4rh9-7V9H2b6HdVUZ7wxlnmEBOXeHAYQCSNrddHLTCZDCCBWdWAtmbPtANissI7dkfW9u-AeGJsi8NKaORGSveY/s200/IMG_6673.JPG" width="200" /></a>Some fly and circle, hoping to win some kind of game, like a keep away game. I think of a small child running between two bigger kids, trying to catch the ball the two throw back and forth. The small child wants that ball. Very badly. I think of a piece of paper, fallen from my wallet or pocket or bag on a windy day. I try to catch it, chasing it across a parking lot. I need to retrieve it. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5kpQVBDm9rwGihrmF1WIBvwlA49MAA3XsiV5Ke0XfTquNDIlis1kSJxfr1a84sb14RCchtMPPM_YyMFaVASwtbt2WVMMS8CX2pfI52W7rn3xx26ScGKfNqtRYEgXsacb1XgfrD77yBQ/s1600/IMG_6662.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5kpQVBDm9rwGihrmF1WIBvwlA49MAA3XsiV5Ke0XfTquNDIlis1kSJxfr1a84sb14RCchtMPPM_YyMFaVASwtbt2WVMMS8CX2pfI52W7rn3xx26ScGKfNqtRYEgXsacb1XgfrD77yBQ/s200/IMG_6662.JPG" width="200" /></a>Some are dark, like shadows, but they are harder. They have grown thick skins in their waiting and they are hungry.<br />
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The path in making an idea manifest often throws curves. I have to reconsider my shape, although I am enamored still by the little objects I sew in the attic. The byproduct of my little shape, however, has the weight which I think this piece will need. I like the way the cuttings float on the floor.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAv_uOK3m2fGmjDjfTwuAVwaQOgbgnHw5Divisej4fLlscFhdv33WJBOea1qEwSdtDIss_2N7WP0CSwwKrNCGfjMXdFFeQXfCHZhO2SJpNbjU4InKj3It17ZKnb9tFuSq1tFnADHfZ9e8/s1600/IMG_6674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAv_uOK3m2fGmjDjfTwuAVwaQOgbgnHw5Divisej4fLlscFhdv33WJBOea1qEwSdtDIss_2N7WP0CSwwKrNCGfjMXdFFeQXfCHZhO2SJpNbjU4InKj3It17ZKnb9tFuSq1tFnADHfZ9e8/s200/IMG_6674.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Oh, but my little wishes have treasure! I look for treasure. I hunt for it. I put it in my pocket. I keep it, sometimes with someone's name on it, and then I sew it safe. I capture a wish. I keep a thought. I make hope tangible. I make spells.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxf6CS9ljJ9i89jSp0WXAKlhwLB15mdDz3kJvPy2gEN12_5NhmKr9zGTj7hEj0RBslJ2Ege3_1LzfOEptT3-FGCb_fLvlTf5iS9TuvsssQ72QQjghmu1YPRZW2ehoHV3WWVBsioAPQcA/s1600/IMG_6678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxf6CS9ljJ9i89jSp0WXAKlhwLB15mdDz3kJvPy2gEN12_5NhmKr9zGTj7hEj0RBslJ2Ege3_1LzfOEptT3-FGCb_fLvlTf5iS9TuvsssQ72QQjghmu1YPRZW2ehoHV3WWVBsioAPQcA/s200/IMG_6678.JPG" width="200" /></a> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicS3GIZ2FTGu85W038jUQsukQuao-FPodHiZSU78iQpnorFn_L8B7vpiuxs73-019F7qgd2ZEyAoSz7B-FBJU3F4WjDyfuAoZRAGbHmdxJKNP7XDbwizsrwB1SsvePlgvLVG7P3J2zKPc/s1600/IMG_6677.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicS3GIZ2FTGu85W038jUQsukQuao-FPodHiZSU78iQpnorFn_L8B7vpiuxs73-019F7qgd2ZEyAoSz7B-FBJU3F4WjDyfuAoZRAGbHmdxJKNP7XDbwizsrwB1SsvePlgvLVG7P3J2zKPc/s200/IMG_6677.JPG" width="200" /></a>When I sew, I keep thinking of wishing. At a place in my life where I am surrounded by children, I am relieved and also surprised at the constant and incredibly unselfish gift giving that takes place. Leaving school, my daughter sees a father of a friend who has broken his arm, and she immediately finds (what some might call trash) a twist tie on the floor of the car."This is for my friend," she says earnestly. The father thanks her graciously, telling her he will give it to his son as soon as he sees him. Everything, anything can be treasure, and thus a gift. The gift, then, is a wish of love or kindness or however you choose to define it. The gift would be the same, the wish would be the same, if the treasure were diamonds or a candy wrapper.<br />
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The treasure, or at least the essence of the treasure, inside the sewn shape is therefore important. It has the same magic as a rock in a child's pocket. Here, we find something, we put it in our pocket. We make a wish. Perhaps someone gets a gift.<br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-49776808026935716662013-03-18T07:54:00.000-07:002013-03-18T07:58:31.962-07:00The very first thing I do upon waking up is look outside. Rain turned to snow this morning, and so the world was quiet and smiling and pure and all of those things that snow is and does. Snow is one wish granted.<br />
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A third sewn drawing is taped on the wall. Here is another drawing of a child, in the ether, on water, in a wave, in the world. She creates her atmosphere; her thoughts and wishes so thick they surround her like snow, quiet and pure and powerful. She is everything and everything is her, and she is home wherever she walks. She holds up her sky. <br />
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My studio mate is South Korean artist Min Kim (<a href="http://www.min-kim.com/" target="_blank">www.min-kim.com</a>).
I walked early, before she awoke, and then returned for coffee, eager
for her to see the snow. Her love for the snow is more articulate than
mine. No matter, she said it is for me. I know it is for all of us. Smiling,
smiling, smiling, we hope it never stops.<br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-819727680054682882.post-37826693590475317402013-03-17T06:07:00.000-07:002013-03-17T06:16:41.006-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Where I stand, I can see that my elevation is not high enough. Rain fell on my house last night, but dusted the trees at the foot of the Jura range. It rains now, thrumming on the tiles and slate that are roofs of our houses. I can run to the snow, but it does not run to me.<br />
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The charcoal drawing below I am calling <i>cairn. </i>Cairns make me happy; they show me a way. I remember my daughter's first true cairn, and it seemed to make her just as happy. When I am in the company of small or large piles of rocks which strangers have left to guide strangers, I know I am in the right place. <br />
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<br />Inga Clough Faltermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02256096375594893876noreply@blogger.com0