Weather Diary - Day 19 (Friday April 7 2006 Sun Cloud Wind 80F)

'On Creativity'

I am dreaming in red.

I'm actually dreaming of fire, a red crackling campfire, a campfire of leaping sparks, surrounded by darkness. I feel a deep luscious sense of contentment. All is tinged with red. Warm and comforting.
And when the buzzing drone of an insect breaks the spell, I open my eyes only to see a pinkish glow enveloping my room, the first tinted light of day.

It is 7 a.m. and I have slept in.

It is the first time in nineteen days that I have slept past 5, and I (despite
breaking the morning ritual) am elated.
Before my morning tea, before spiritual reading, moments of meditative silence, plans for the day,
artwork, food, radio, domestic chores, before anything else happens, I pull on some clothes (where they lay from last night), rouse Chester and head out into the day.

Everything is sharp and bright. (Is it me or my mood or the weather?) Everything seems fresh and twinkly with tiny dew drops and dancing light. Chester is feeling it too, so we ramble onward through the village, cutting through the (still quiet) school yard, and up deserted Howard Street.  Howard Street, (more of a footpath, really, but in actual fact a one-way road), with the leaves of the ancient live oak trees rustling and flickering with light.
Past small family burial plots, the slanting light illuminating shaded mossy stones, ('loving father', 'dear sister of', 'rest in peace'), past the front-porch dogs, barking in frenzy but keeping a distance, and then out of this cool light onto the circling harbour road, where things are slightly more active.
We keep to the road's edge, but are passed by only two vehicles, pick-up trucks, each one turning onto the British Cemetery Road, (heading for the coffee shop?), and one with an old yellow lab in the back staring balefully at Chester but passing without comment.

And on we walk past the ferry docks, across to the NPS shop, the little patch of woods behind, the wide expanse of grass, parking lot, public boat launch, a glimpse of Pamlico Sound, the David Williams House, (the museum run by the Ocracoke Preservation Society), and on to the road where the two trucks turned. When we arrive at the coffee shop fifteen minutes later, sure enough, the two trucks are there, the old yellow lab waiting patiently for his human.
Once coffeed, and deciding that I am in need of some new drawing materials, (reds primarily), we make our way to the little book shop which (happily) has a small section of art supplies. As Chester lies on the bookshop porch, I chat and choose a beautiful set of French oil pastels. Thus armed, I am ready for home and the creative part of the day.
The creative part of the day.
What is it about that? Doesn't this part of the day count as 'creative'? Surely my day is already packed with all things creative - sights, sounds, scents, tastes - but I practically disregard it all in the rush to get to my drawing table. Shouldn't all of  it count as 'creative'?
Can these perceptions - sights, sounds, scents, tastes - be useful in creating something new?
Whatever the answer, I do know one thing.
I am all about the 'process'.
Which, in actual fact, covers a lot of ground. My being here, after all, is part of the 'process'.
Process -  the course of becoming.
Exploring, experimenting, (sometimes disastrously), but moving. Moving beyond, taking things further, where even the disasters play a part in the new creation.
That is what excites me, and what allows for freedom to explore ideas, concepts, materials. Because if even the disasters have a role in what is to come, (creatively speaking), I am completely free to play around with ideas and concepts and materials, and be influenced by sights, sounds, scents, tastes, without any inhibitions.
Is that the secret to creativity?

The day turns hot (but breezy), and up in our little sanctuary of creativity, both dog and explorer are happy. One in a shady spot on the deck, and the other in a shady spot on the deck, with a small round table at which to work and a beautiful new French oil pastel set.
And lots of reds.

Weather Diary - Day 18 (Thursday April 6 2006 Partly Cloudy 64F)

'On Friendship'

When I finish my current 'page-turner', I celebrate by hunkering down and getting on with it.
It is absolutely time to
Get. To. Work.

Artwork that is.
Here is where I stand on Day 18:

• The works on 24" x 36" panels are progressing well. 
• My self-portrait at age twelve, is coming along beautifully. 
• I have two (quite successful) watercolours for our hotel-owning friends (So far... working on number three.)
• I am completely and utterly faithful to my evening drawing, (10" x 10" oil pastel and graphite abstract landscapes, seventeen and counting.)
• A small pad full of notes, colour studies, sketches of the sea, comes with me everywhere.
• I  have (at least) half a dozen women's basketball games under my belt.

Oh, wait a minute. (Did I say that out loud?)

A guilty secret, but true. I am still on a high after the NCAA 2006 women's basketball final of Tuesday night. (Maryland Terrapins 78, Duke Blue Devils 75)
A basketball game of such skill that it really makes little sense to point out that it is women's basketball. They are, quite simply, incredibly good basketball players. And the joy for me is that I can watch it! As they actually show such things here in North Carolina!!
I do feel a (wee) bit guilty.
Here I am on my 'self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage', spending the days beginning at 5 a.m., with spiritual reading, art, contemplative walks and sea study. And here I am spending the evenings in front of a 36" TV, perched on the edge of the sofa, clutching a beer.
Doesn't quite fit the image.
Even so, I like this time to myself, for myself. It is my 'kick-back' time, after all.
I am an enthusiastic retired basketball player, (University of Toronto, Scarborough College 1975-78). Thirty years ago.
Ew.
But I can relate to, well, to the extreme closeness and friendship that this level of competition brings out.
And these gals are close. Oh my, they are tight buds. Yes yes, they are a well-oiled machine, excellently coached, highly skilled and trained on plays, (so much so that they could run them in their sleep). But also this.
They clearly clearly care deeply for each other.
And I find myself wondering, "Is this a girl thing?"

Because if nothing else, if I take away nothing else from my basketball playing days of the mid-70's, friend-wise, it is a glorious golden time in my life.
There are four of us.
(There are, of course, others team members, and each year we do have strong ties that bind the team together.)
But the four of us are inseparable. And dedicated.
Dedicated to the point of knowing each others moves, thoughts, reactions.
We master silent communication.
We practice together daily. We hang out together. Go everywhere together. We play together.
We win.
I can't help but wonder if it is friendship that makes things work for us.
The fact that we do anything for each other, that we care what happens, that we love each other.
Doesn't that count for something?
And yes, we all have other friends. Childhood neighbours, school mates, camp friends. But with the four of us, it is as though we have been through something together. Something big. Like people who cling to each other through a crisis and have that extra perception, that tie, that memory, forever after.

It is a strikingly beautiful day on Ocracoke Island. For Chester and me, perfect conditions to walk the beach and study the sea.
The sea, a deep blue-green, the clouds scuttling across the open sky. I think of my basketball friends, all far away. We do still keep in touch, (although there are often longish gaps), and there is still love, the kind of love that has softened and faded with the passage of time and changing circumstances. But it is love, this deep binding friendship.

Chester and I have an hour on the beach, marching its empty length. I, in the frilly rippling shallows, he, nosing around the base of the dunes, matching me stride for stride, (unless he finds something 'interesting'). On the way home, we pass the coffee shop, the library (both closed), the one and only Ocracoke school (finished for the day), the outdoor basketball court (with a single orange basketball sitting under one net).
No one about, and a single orange basketball sitting under one net.
As Chester lies in the cool grass, I (at first disastrously - so badly that I am grateful there is no one about), shoot baskets. But gradually gradually, it comes back, and after fifteen minutes, (due more to luck than skill), I sink a hook shot which is, for this fifty year old, enough.
And we head for home.