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capri0mniFor those of you new to my f'list (and there are a few, I think), who don't know, The Art Garden is a literary event organized something like a magazine; the editor-cum-moderator sends out a specific theme to a select group of writers, and each writer creates a literary work based on that theme. It may be a poem, or a song, or an essay, or a memoir from childhood, or a comedy skit, or something else not quite definable. Each writer then sends his or her work back to the editor-cum-moderator who arranges the collection into a coherent entity, and presents it to an audience.
Only, in the case of The Art Garden, this literary magazine is presented on a stage, instead of on paper, and the writers gather for one night to read their work aloud to the audience who is sitting in chairs in front of them (not a huge audience--even in the new, bigger theater, it's no more than 80, or so). In the beginning, it was four times a year; now, it's two: the last Saturday in April, and the last Saturday in November. ... So guess where I'll be, this weekend! Anyway, this time 'round is unique, since it's the 20th anniversary special. The program will be double-length, and the writers will be reading their best work (or at least theirs, or the editor's favorite).
I started doing The Art Garden in December of 1989 (how to feel old, in five seconds), and the piece I'll be reading on Saturday is from June, 1990 (the year that movie came out, with John Goodman). I thought some of you might be interested in what I was like before I "met" any of you. So here it is:
Like most people, I am awed with the poerr and grandeur of nature: thunderstoms that fill the sky with blue-green light for minutes at a time, the exploding crack of trees breaking under ice, or the spires of mountians ringed by clouds. But I am impressed most with the little things: the reflection of sunlihgt off water, the sound of dew drepping from the leaves at night, last autumn's leaf curled adid the grass of spring.
And while I coo at all the cute and cuddly things: baby seals, rose buds and squirrels – I feel most protective toward the creepp-crawlies. If I ever found a bug in my college dorm, I tried to get the creature out the door before she or he met with an unfriendly shoe. I guess, when you spend a lot of time craling from place to place, as I do, you have a different perspective on life.
Spiders hold a special place in my heart, particularly the web weavers. These creatures erect what for them are huge structures, all of pure silk and glue – not even Donald Trump could do that (though if he could, he might not be having all his money problems). Every spider's web is different. The little broun house spider weaves the three-dimensional web we see in corners-marvels of geometry.
One night, while sitting in the bathroom, reading, I had the privilege of watching a house spider build her web up close. I looked up from the page to find her going from finger to finger on my right hand. I laughed to myself: the image of me, sitting on the toilet, book in hand, covered with cobwebs, was too apt to be ignored. I left my book and turned my attention to the joke in progress.
She (usually, only the females are avid web-weavers) first ran down the inside of my pinky, playing out the silk behind her. Then she ran up the ring finger and over, forming a triangle with a bridge across the fingers. She then crossed this bridge, and continued playing out the silk across the tops of all the other fingers down to the thumb – the top of the web-frame completed. A drop from the thumb to the palm formed the first real three-dimensional element, She went from there to the index finger, back to the palm and then to the ring finger. Crossing once more to the thumb, she began to eat the silk she had laid out before, playing out more silk behind her at a slightly faster rate (reading up on spiders later, I learned that this was to create slack needed in the design). Halfway across, she dropped to the palm and up again across the pinky-ring finger bridge. Then she played out five or six layers of silk across the ring-middle finger bridge.
Whether this was for strength, or if she was planning to spread the strands out later, I'll never know. My legs were falling asleep, and I was ready for bed. I carefully guided her off my hand onto the wall. I felt bad about destroying her creation, but I knew it would never work out. I am, after all, right-handed. I'd probably clobber the poor thing by accident. If a spider ever decides to build a web on my left hand, I'll let you know how it turns out.
PS. No, another spider has not decided to do that, yet.
Only, in the case of The Art Garden, this literary magazine is presented on a stage, instead of on paper, and the writers gather for one night to read their work aloud to the audience who is sitting in chairs in front of them (not a huge audience--even in the new, bigger theater, it's no more than 80, or so). In the beginning, it was four times a year; now, it's two: the last Saturday in April, and the last Saturday in November. ... So guess where I'll be, this weekend! Anyway, this time 'round is unique, since it's the 20th anniversary special. The program will be double-length, and the writers will be reading their best work (or at least theirs, or the editor's favorite).
I started doing The Art Garden in December of 1989 (how to feel old, in five seconds), and the piece I'll be reading on Saturday is from June, 1990 (the year that movie came out, with John Goodman). I thought some of you might be interested in what I was like before I "met" any of you. So here it is:
Like most people, I am awed with the poerr and grandeur of nature: thunderstoms that fill the sky with blue-green light for minutes at a time, the exploding crack of trees breaking under ice, or the spires of mountians ringed by clouds. But I am impressed most with the little things: the reflection of sunlihgt off water, the sound of dew drepping from the leaves at night, last autumn's leaf curled adid the grass of spring.
And while I coo at all the cute and cuddly things: baby seals, rose buds and squirrels – I feel most protective toward the creepp-crawlies. If I ever found a bug in my college dorm, I tried to get the creature out the door before she or he met with an unfriendly shoe. I guess, when you spend a lot of time craling from place to place, as I do, you have a different perspective on life.
Spiders hold a special place in my heart, particularly the web weavers. These creatures erect what for them are huge structures, all of pure silk and glue – not even Donald Trump could do that (though if he could, he might not be having all his money problems). Every spider's web is different. The little broun house spider weaves the three-dimensional web we see in corners-marvels of geometry.
One night, while sitting in the bathroom, reading, I had the privilege of watching a house spider build her web up close. I looked up from the page to find her going from finger to finger on my right hand. I laughed to myself: the image of me, sitting on the toilet, book in hand, covered with cobwebs, was too apt to be ignored. I left my book and turned my attention to the joke in progress.
She (usually, only the females are avid web-weavers) first ran down the inside of my pinky, playing out the silk behind her. Then she ran up the ring finger and over, forming a triangle with a bridge across the fingers. She then crossed this bridge, and continued playing out the silk across the tops of all the other fingers down to the thumb – the top of the web-frame completed. A drop from the thumb to the palm formed the first real three-dimensional element, She went from there to the index finger, back to the palm and then to the ring finger. Crossing once more to the thumb, she began to eat the silk she had laid out before, playing out more silk behind her at a slightly faster rate (reading up on spiders later, I learned that this was to create slack needed in the design). Halfway across, she dropped to the palm and up again across the pinky-ring finger bridge. Then she played out five or six layers of silk across the ring-middle finger bridge.
Whether this was for strength, or if she was planning to spread the strands out later, I'll never know. My legs were falling asleep, and I was ready for bed. I carefully guided her off my hand onto the wall. I felt bad about destroying her creation, but I knew it would never work out. I am, after all, right-handed. I'd probably clobber the poor thing by accident. If a spider ever decides to build a web on my left hand, I'll let you know how it turns out.
PS. No, another spider has not decided to do that, yet.
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no subject
Date: 2007-11-22 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-22 12:49 am (UTC)Kinda bitter sweet, reading this again, though. Both my parents were alive when I wrote that, and now, the house where that bathroom once stood is scheduled to be torn down...
I still remember seeing that leaf I referred to, on my way to classes, way back when...
:::Sigh:::
no subject
Date: 2007-11-23 03:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-23 04:42 am (UTC)Symbiosis FTW!!!