Ann Arbor

Guess you can imagine how hot it was at the Ann Arbor show this past week...outdoor shows definitely have their drawbacks: the heat was a monster! It was even stranger to see all these folks out shopping and looking at art: if it was me, I'd be home in the AC. Luckily, it wasn't me who decided whether or not to go out. I had a pretty decent show-far better than last year, if you're counting.
I stayed with Ed and susan Major, who couldn't have been any nicer. I met them at the show last year and decided to take them up on their offer of a close, nice place to stay. Not only was all the above true, but they fed me every day and I hope some day to return the favor. I stand in awe of their generosity and good will.

What I wanted to write about was dirt. The stuff that clings and that you wash off-I have realized that dirt is a necessary ingredient in my work-that dust and ground-in grime go along with history-especially the history that goes along with found objects and found materials-you know, the stuff that I use. It occured to me that these materails wouldn't be genuine and probably would not have real history if they did not have clinging, ground-in dirt on them. They are aged. Used. Worn. Broken. Faded. Ripped....but always dirty.
So for me, there is a credibility that comes with dirt. We know that this thing has been through someone's hands and has suffered some of the effects of age. I suppose that these objects could be cleaned up, possibly even sterilized. But what's the point? We know that we are human by the mess and the dirt that we create and leave behind. This is a marker of being humna, which is why I find it all the stranger that we work so hard at getting ourselves "squeaky" clean. Guess I like my dirt-I'm no "Pigpen", but neither do I spend my spare moments cleaning up.
And I don't beleive in washing dogs too often, either. King Johnny is one lucky hound-ponds, yes. Bathtubs, no.

H.M.

....which stands for Henry Molaison, who in 1953 underwent surgery to remove the hippocampus component of his brain to correct his epilepsy(which began after he was struck by a bicycle). The surgery corrected the fits but, unfortunately, also took away Henry's ability to remember. This gentle soul had to be institutionalized as he could not remember how to repeat basic, necessary functions. He did retain his vocabulary, but the medical staff who worked with him had to reintroduce themselves each and every day. One researcher, who worked with Henry for a long time, grew fond of the man. This sentiment was never reciprocated as Henry could not remember who she was and therefore formed no real relationship with her.
Unlike Henry, I have this sentiment and a long term memory. What is getting a little fuzzier is my short term memory. Although this has never been that sharp, lately I find myself standing and waiting for my thoughts to come back, to reappear-as if they might filter down through my mind and become apparent once more. No such luck. The author's name I was trying to remember did not come back to me, despite the fact that I looked for her far and wide on the library shelves. But Kelly Link's last name was simply out of reach for me, even though earlier in the day I had ordered one of her collections of short stories. Troubling, this-or at least it is at times. Mostly I just laugh it off, but there is the feeling, however slight, of this amnesia drowning me. It's just a little bit of water,just enough to cover me, but enough to do the deed.
My amnesia/forgetfulness is not the merciful kind and even though I would like it if I could leave some of the more bittersweet memories behind, those are not the ones I forget. The memories of my parents and of my childhood with them are actually all the sharper now. On my last visit to the house in Verona, not only was the letter still on the house (the letter "P" was written by an unknown hand on the concrete apron of the house and has been there,even though now very faint, as long as I've been alive) but the next door neighbor in landscaping, had dug up the remnants of an old metal post I was once "tied" to. Long story short: I asked my Mom to loop my belt through this post, pretending that the "Indians" had tied me to the "tree"-the excitement of this lasted about three minutes. When I realized I couldn't really do much else but stay in one place, I hollered for Mom.