september one, lived twice

the journey begins oddly

filled with portents and signs

all too curious to mention

and best not taken seriously

(but they'll be in my novel)

even the man whose eyes tear up

because i remind him of his mother 

which i think may just have been

the effect of too much inflight firewater

otherwise it makes me old

and possibly also dead

after thirteen or so hours aloft

we reach the California coast

blanketed in fog except for

one significant hill above Pescadero

the sight of which always kicks my heart into gear

leaving SFO the taxi driver asks me if i have had any

terrifying experiences in the air

nothing too awful i say

which is his cue to launch into a litany

of gut-wrenching near disasters   

negotiating my release i 

take my encumbrances to the welcome center

where for a financial consideration they 

relieve me of my physical burdens for the day

outside the pavements swell and

roll under my feet - fortunately it is

not the earth, quaking, but my body

set to vibrate mode by the hours of fettered 

rumbling, strapped to a seat

in the flying sardine can

i have things to collect today

some materials for class

a large bag of unruly thoughts 

a ring, and some made-to-measure workboots.

the latter have turned out rather too small

or maybe it is just me, too big for my boots

which could be another sign.
maybe next time cos
good things take time

further up the same street at Macchiarini's

the doorbell won't ring, no pun intended 

but the ring i have come to receive

is truly beautiful with a moonstone

like a drop of Bay water balancing on

a beaten band that looks as though it has been 

pulled from the rubble of a burning building

and so is exactly what i had hoped for.

i do the usual round of favourite places

get my coffee at Trieste, sit awhile on Russian Hill

wander to the park above Fort Mason

snack on cheese under the gum trees there

then walk back to collect my luggage

and drag it across town, giggling inwardly at

the comments that passers-by feel entitled to articulate,

of which the loudest and most critical, oddly enough,

are made by those who share my first language.

they have no idea they are so generously

giving me laughter therapy

and i resist the temptation to say

"schönen Tag, noch!" 

train stations are no longer the romantic places

depicted in Brief Encounter

or in films about Anna Karenina

the temporary transBay terminal is a holding room

for souls desperate to be elsewhere and

the station at Emeryville even more so

where the vending machines make wild promises

but will only sullenly disgorge diet pepsi

filthy stuff that is strictly for cleaning copper

though, once used for that purpose, has impressive 

mordant qualities

i find a tourist map and mark my day on it in thick black pencil

eventually the train pulls in and we fall aboard

i tip myself gratefully into my tiny sleeping closet 

and give myself up to Morpheus for what seems like days

though only a few hours later i awake as we are 

passing through mist-covered desert spiked with piñon and juniper

and wonder if i'm in the right state

then water on which sunlight flashes and blinks

perhaps the merpeople have forgotten to turn their twinkle lights off

somewhere else a broken umbrella hangs batlike

from a bush on the side of a cutting

in Portland i look up and down river as we cross the Willamette

looking for the iron bridge...then realise we are on it

except for the garbled announcements over the tannoy

(there is a special training centre for railway announcers,

run by somebody who teaches them how to 

make announcements in a Turkish accent. 

the same school also supplies the people for 

the Flinders Street Station in Melbourne, Australia)

the Seattle train station is like stepping through 

a time machine into another era

or like stepping deep inside an angel-food cake 

for a white wedding with all the trimmings

i choose the easy way out

and though a braver woman might have 

tackled further public transport

rain is imminent and so i take a taxi.

the driver is old-fashioned and reassures himself 

as to our destination by the simple means of leafing 

through an actual street directory, though i have explained that 

i am heading for a helltell overlooking the ferry dock just

across from Whidbey Island. kindly (and perhaps unusually)

he only switches on the meter after he has closed his book

72 hours give or take a quarter after leaving home 

i enter a room that is not moving and discover to my delight 

that not only does it overlook water, but the doors can actually

be opened wide to the whirled outside

i drift off to the crash of waves and wake at dawn to flat calm

in the distance a ferry hovers in a silver cloud

seabirds stitch their songs across the place where the sealine might be

if it were clear

it's only September 3 but i feel as though i have lived a week 

since the month began

had September 1 twice

and will lose the equinox to the international dateline

but that

will be another story

because now i am here

re-reading a marvellous book i bought at Shakerag in 2010

and soon i shall be 'being (t)here'

but on Whidbey Island, and with slightly longer hair

+      

if you've managed to reach the bottom of the page and would like to read something more important

then you could go here

ripples in the mindpond

clouds in sky and field

one way

another way

and one more

stars underfoot

possibly too beautiful for words

there's something particularly lovely

about being able to wander

without shoes

and also

about being in place

taking the time to be fully present

feeling the wind on my skin

listening deeply to the music of the birds and the sea 

and the grasses and the small stones

and a flower opening slowly

more and more i feel this kind of slowness and mindfulness 

is where my work is leading me

discovering years ago

that eucalypts could print vibrant colour

(it was 1991 that i found eucalyptus leafprints on an eggshell

and began to put two and two together)

put me on an extraordinary path

and the longer i walk it

the more it seems that really

in the end

it's all about paying attention to this beautiful whirled

wherever we are

and no matter what other agenda is being perpetrated

just being (t)here,

it works for me.

riding the rails

i deliberately scheduled a railway journey into New Orleans at the conclusion of our wandering in the land of enchantment. somehow i knew that i was going to need a good bit of thinking time, undisturbed by too much making or doing and preferably without the need to concentrate on driving

so

on April 2 i found myself sitting in a railway station

with a ticket for my destination

humming a song about being

"on a tour of one night stands

my suitcase and guitar in hand

and every stop is neatly planned 

for a poet and a one-man band"

none of which is true for me but

it's one of those songs that has stood the test of time

:::

i had secured a roomette to myself

and so could loll about in it in comfort

watching the whirled go by

and making soothing noises to myself

on the cedar flute newly acquired in Santa Fe

also

i made pictures with my batfone.

which was most entertaining, despite the fact that one of my favourite apps,

Autostitch, doesn't seem to work on the most recent version of the Fruit phone

 so i played with the Panorama setting instead 

which can be amusing on a moving train.

also i wrote.

the 31 hours on the train were enormously productive.

train travel allows the spirit to sit quietly on your shoulder

(it can sometimes fall off and get lost in flight)

at night i lay gazing at the stars until i was 

rocked to sleep in my little cradle shelf.

at some point in the night i awoke to see one streaking across the sky

in the hours before dawn the waning crescent moon rose 

i caught glimpses of my favourite constellation, the Pleiades.

train travel also allows poems to find you (sometimes when they stand by the roadside waiting with their thumbs out i'm simply travelling too fast to stop in time)

train travel can also put you into interesting social positions.

i discovered to my surprise that my ticket included meals.

on the first evening i shared dinner with a gentleman who had driven across America with his father because he didn't want his dear old dad driving a pickup across the country alone to his new abode in the Pacific North West. the trip back home was his first ever train ride. i think he said he had been on a train for four days already.
happily he was still enjoying it.

for breakfast i was directed to a table at which sat an older couple, on their way to share birthdays in New Orleans. they were quite clearly well off and seemed sweet but reduced me to the state of a stunned mullet when they left the table and he scooped up half the tip i had left for the server. (he had put down $5 for the two of them, i put down $4 for me and he then took $2 from mine. basically robbing the server).
i am rarely rendered speechless but by the time i had found my tongue they had gone.

my faith in humanity was restored by sharing lunch with a brother and sister (he slightly disabled, she taking him home from the west coast to live with her in Mississippi). i think, but i am not sure, that they were both adopted. the other person at our table was a grandmother of eighteen grandbabies who cheerfully announced that she was living day by day due to a brain tumour which, as she told us, had to be managed by "opening up my head every three years and scraping the surface back because the can't take it out" and that after that procedure she has to learn to walk and talk again but that the pain was worth it and she's just grateful to be here. 

the train crawled into New Orleans at sub-glacial speeds, which is probably just as well as the tracks are in a sorry state. and today, seeing the wobbly wooden trestles that the double-decker train had been balancing on, i was grateful for the slowness. 

(last night i was not so sure)

i've been tossed a beautiful bouquet!

just as I was thinking I'd have a quiet and cold July at home between exhibitions (in the UK and the USA) and taking up my residency at the Arid Lands Botanic Gardens...I was tossed a beautiful and fragrant bouquet in the form of an invitation to teach at the organic flower farm tended by Raquel Trejo and her partner Andrew at Scotts Head on the mid-north NSW coast.

Raquel has been my student several times, both in Australia and in New Zealand. I immediately said yes "so long as I am given a leave pass from the farm". Happily that pass has been issued 

so it is with great joy and delight that I am able to tell you there will be a 'being (t)here' retreat here in Australia in July 2016.  details below, in Raquel's poetic language...I should mention that the being (t)here class to be held at Beautiful Silks in November 2016 filled by word of mouth before it had been published to the whirled, so if you're interested, do please drop Raquel a line sooner rather than later

being (t)here

Mid North Coast, NSW,  Australia

July 2016

Journey with India Flint to a place where beauty is part of simple living and living is simply beautiful.  Spend five days being (t)here, on a little biodynamic farm, on a river, by the beach. Explore by thought and by foot the forest and the farmland of this stunning part of the mid north coast of New South Wales where the rivers wander to the sea.

Meander with India in cloth, stitch and locally gathered plant dyes on a country lane of drawing, writing, mark-making and paper-folding, to make a small and intricate workbook mapping the journey of time shared, a hand stitched cloth to enfold it, and a hand twined cord to wrap around it.

Contemplate the honesty of country life with the making and stitching of an apron, thrifted from an old shirt, with pockets for books and poems and places to tell stories, and a tsunobukuro bag to keep it safe.

There will be music and silence, poetry and times of deep listening, experiential drawing and the gathering of gorgeous nothings. Be nourished by our biodynamic vegetables fresh from the farm gardens, home baked and raw treats (with occasional tastes of real Mexico) provided by your host Raquel, and India will share her love of cooking by making a pot of soup for lunch each day.

“Turn on, tune in, drop out “ with India in an intensive masterclass focused on the deep experience of being (t)here. Places are exquisitely limited.

Dates: July 18th to 22nd, 2016

Venue: 923 Scotts Head Road, Scotts Head, NSW 2447

trejora[at]gmail.com 

the solace of the arid lands

last week i took some time away from the whirled 

and headed northward to the Observatory

where a most satisfactory collection is slowly on the increase

 encompassing contributions from the UK, the USA, Denmark and Spain

as well as from across the length and breadth of the wide brown land

+

there's still time to join in the solace project 

or

if you prefer, create your own. i'm happy to share the idea.

grateful to those who have sent pieces, thank you.

+

people have been enquiring whether they may come and assist with the installation. 

the short answer is simply, no. 

the Observatory can only accommodate two persons, 

has no electricity or running water (meaning no showers or food cooling either)

cooking is done with an old wood stove

sparingly burning twigs to heat the kettle for tea

and while there is a pit toilet, it is not available to the public as 

when it fills i shall have to dig a fresh one and 

that's not a thought that fills me with delight. 

solace will be installed at the southern mid-winter solstice 

and (i hope) be available for viewing from June 23

it will remain in place indefinitely. 

i will document it photographically through various weathers and as promised, collate the images (together with the poem formed from all of your words) into a book.

+

the sunrises and sunsets here are equally beautiful

the view of the stars at night is unequalled 

(and nigh on impossible to capture with a batfone)

the arid lands are a perfect place for clearing thoughts

(the Dog decided that my clearing needed further intervention)

it's good to travel with a friend.

on the way home we stopped at the Arid Lands Botanic Gardens

to see how 'elegy' was faring

after which certain wee dog washed the dust of the desert off

with a swim at the top end of Spencer Gulf

inspirational

 

thank you John Hopper for including me.

inspired to read?

it's available here

from January 14

(still) in place

am delighted to say that

though the Arid Lands Botanic Garden Sculpture exhibition has now concluded

my work

'elegy'

will be staying there indefinitely

'elegy' is a poem written in bones

so far wind and weather and passing animals

have not effected any great change

i'll stop in from time to time

to give it a reassuring pat

read it a story

and

document how it is responding

to being there

in place

the solace of north

i've been wandering

northwards

taking some visitors to country

that is quite unlike the place where they live

it's a long way there

but worth the trek

my role was driver and camp cook

and keeper of the flame

feeding the wood stove in the kitchen 

and the donk that heats the water for the showers

[the visitors very kindly took on the washing up]

but in between i still found time for writing

and for drawing on and with country

on the seventh day

i left the visitors in Port Augusta

to make their way to other things

and went north again

this time a little west

past a lake of crystal salt

for a few days quiet work at the Observatory

where i found

six contributions for the Solace project

already awaiting me

all the way from the UK and the USA

as well as closer to home

an invitation

-->

Solace

We live in troubled times. The news is frequently dismal.  Sometimes it seems our beautiful blue planet is under threat from all sides and I for one feel helpless when I hear of plans to send more and more young people to foreign countries as cannon fodder.

Spending a week in the arid lands of South Australia, revisiting a place I left nearly 24 years ago, gave me quiet time away from the depressing news bombardments. Time to think. It gave me solace.

And it gave me an idea.

Reflecting on Emily Dickinson’s “Gorgeous Nothings”, on the beauty of Tibetan Prayer Flags, on Claudia Grau’s lovely wishing trees and on the aleatory [impromptu or randomly generated] poetry that plays a role in my teaching I came up with the solace project. 

The notion of a collective impromptu poem, recorded on cloth, to sing in the winds.

Participation is open to anyone and is quite simple. 

Make a triangular flag or pennon [meaning a personal ensign, derived from the Latin penna meaning a wing or a feather] preferably using a piece of pre-loved cloth.

Stitch on it a word or a phrase or a sentence that might act as a wish for peace or an acknowledgement of beauty, imply a sense of stillness or simply something that  gives you solace. It can be as brief or as long as you like. A haiku, a snatch of song, a word that takes you where you want to be.

Attach ties to the tethering end of your flag as in the sketch below.

Post the flag [preferably packaged in paper* not plastic] to :

‘solace’

c/- The Observatory

PO Box 96

Andamooka 5722

South Australia

Australia


and what happens next?

 

During June next year I will be in residence at The Observatory. 

I shall spend time connecting each of the flags in the sequence of their arrival, recording the words on them as one complete circular poem.

Following this I shall prepare an organic indigo vat and on the day of the southern midwinter solstice in 2015 will overdye the flags in the blue of the heavens before installing them as a circle. if there are hundreds, then a series of concentric circles :-))

The flags will be documented photographically over time and the images and text will be available online as well as in a limited edition book. It may even be possible to make a short film. While I do not have the financial resources to distribute free books to participants, each person who makes and sends a flag will receive a limited edition postcard image of the installation, personally addressed to them and posted from the Andamooka post office. [remember to include your address if you hope for a postcard!]

It is important the flags be made from natural fibre fabrics as they will remain in place following prayer flag tradition, to dispense blessings and good wishes to the four winds...any shreds that part company from the whole must be bio-degradable. Additional decorations such as stone or glass beads, shell or wooden buttons are welcome, but please, no plastic.

Some of the proceeds from book sales will be donated to the Royal Flying Doctor Service, the remainder will go toward maintaining The Observatory. The solace project might not solve any of the world’s long-term problems; I see it more as a simple and beautiful collective gesture of goodwill...a glorious blue installation in the red dust lands.

and I hope you join me.

 

Yoda-san has.

*paper-based packaging from flags will be used in a subsequent project