Portrait in Linen

Ouch. We are so quickly humbled.

Came across some “state of the art” sand sculpting.

I wish wish wish I had the opportunity to learn their techniques. Not a very convenient medium, unless we build a sandbox in the backyard. Or if I drive to a sandy creek every time I feel like working.

But sand seems like the perfect medium for me. Tactile, sensual, easily manipulated, nature-made, natural tones and coloring, clean, and I could work in the sunshine (at least three seasons out of the year). And, I could work on a large scale. I think sand could be the only large-scale medium that wouldn’t scare me away.

I look at these photos, and it’s not the work I envy; I envy the accessibility. Feel like I could step right into the frame and catch up a handful of sand, let it sift through my fingers.

Discovered the sculptures are carved from sand that’s been stacked and packed. Team Sandtastic utilizes the wood forms as scaffolding and removes the pieces as they work their way down.

The site also mentions a “windscreen spray” that increases the longevity of a sculpture. I read somewhere that one outdoor sculpture remained intact for over a year. I’m not sure what’s in the spray or how to get it, but if/when a time came that I’d need it, a little research would lead me to it, I’m sure.

The more I think about it, the more I want to go out and buy a kiddie pool and some bags of sand from Lowe’s. Wouldn’t be ideal working conditions, but I’m not exactly in a position to be picky. I’m busy, domestic, and amateur. That adds up to…kiddie pool and sand bags.

sand sculpting
(left to right: Bunny, Mo, Mommy,
Priss, Squeak…Rocky, Steampunk;
on the bank…Piko the Peke-a-poo)

Favorite spot on the creek was “posted” and entrance blocked, so we wasted at least an hour and a half scouting another. Ended up barreling through the woods to create a NEW path. Cost the van a huge scratch on the front bumper (when we had to use the truck to push it over a mound), long piece of plastic knocked off the underside, and an even more messed up alignment.

Squeak and Mo weren’t quite over whatever it was they had, and we all suffered for it in a big way. Still, for all the “issues,” the gnats and horseflies and wasps, the draining heat, damaged vehicles, random gunshots within a quarter-mile, and the non-compatible air mattress pump converter, I don’t regret going. None of us do. It was what camping should be–adventurous, tough, unpredictable, and relaxing at the same time.

Through the course of it, I discovered a new art medium…sand sculpture. I remember building sand castles and such as a kid, but I never approached sand sculpting with any real purpose or vision before. Sitting next to the kids and their “Super-Erosion Experiments,” I was compelled to create. Samples of what came out…

Sand Sculpture Album on Picasa

The best part of the trip was searching for petrified wood. Found a whole plastic tub full of small pieces, shards and splinters, and a handful of pieces as large as a hand. Different grains, colors, textures. They’re going into the rock tumbler soon, but it’ll be about a month or so before we know what they’ll look like polished. Tumbling is a slow, multi-phased process. It’s worth the wait, though. Will have the kids make a before-and-after scrapbook.

Worst of it was the sunburn. We all look like boiled crawfish. Priss got the worst of it, a big ‘X’ on her upper back. The worst of me is my lower back, because that’s the part that faced the sun the majority of the time I was either bent over the bank sculpting, or bent down over the creek hunting for petrified wood. Guess one coat of that sunscreen spray won’t cut it next time.

Oh…and the spritzers were a lifesaver. Yes, Mom knows best (sometimes).

(above: family tent; below: “Teen Island”)

kāhili 1 - Hawaiian royal standard
paper cutting

I had the very best of intentions for kāhili 1, but I’m afraid I sorely failed to meet my own expectations. Instead of a wound column of feathers, my standard looks like a strange 1960s potted plant atop a barbershop pole. And this was actually the third attempt tonight; tore the first two. Growl….

I’ll try again, though next time, I’ll make finer feathers, a slenderer wrap at the base, a narrower staff, and thinner stripes in the staff pattern. And, I’ll omit the signature.

Interesting facts about the kāhili:

• In ancient times, the kāhili was carried by the attendants of the ali’i (ruling class) to herald their approach, much in the same way banners were carried to announce the approach of a noble in many other cultures. The taller the kāhili, the farther away they could be spotted, allowing the commoners time to prepare for the nobles’ arrival.
• A single kāhili might require thousands of bird feathers. Yellow feathers were harvested from the tufts of the mamo and ‘ō’ō (honey creepers) bird species, which were primarily black. Both species are now thought to be extinct.
• Kāhili were made large and small. The largest versions were over thirty feet tall; the smaller versions were hand-held and used to fan away flies.
• Today, The Kāhili Room at Bishop Museum in Honolulu houses the “‘Ele’eleualani” kāhili (”Black Rain of Heaven”) which was passed down to Princess Bernice Pauahi Bishop and given to the museum by her widow in 1889.
• The tall kāhili are still used ceremonially in Hawaiian cultural events, including the opening ceremony of the Merrie Monarch Festival Hula Competition, during which the kāhili are carried in with the festival royal court.

—

During the appointment tonight, I considered…might I hide behind study and facts and reconstruction? Like my strange affection for ironing–smoothing out all the wrinkles in fabric, because I can’t smooth out the wrinkles in my head.

Questions, hypotheses, research, collection, evaluation, dismission, acceptance, and understanding of broad, far-reaching subjects from inaccessible eras. Digging up the bones of people who are long gone and trying to piece together their remains in order to resurrect some beauty and nobility that is otherwise dead. Trying to capture the fading voices, to grasp and comprehend whatever might be their dying words. Fighting time for possession of knowledge that is draining away with the years of the last of those who remember.

Because I failed to do the same with Dad. And now he’s gone, along with his voice and his words and what it was that he understood of the world.

And because I am living my own history, and I doubt I’ll ever come to an understanding of the woman I am, the woman I’ll be when I die. Which is why I eke and scratch every fleeting thought and emotion, through images, through words, scrambling to create a record of each moment of my life so when I’m gone, something of me will be left for someone to understand. Maybe they’ll see something wonderful that I never have. Maybe they’ll understand things I never could. Maybe they’ll learn from my mistakes and find themselves spared certain brands of heartache.

To understand a people or a legacy is to know them intimately–their grief, fear, ambitions, beliefs, inspirations…the strengths of their discoveries, the weakness of humanity. It is to accept their inheritance of generations of knowledge, and the richness of their cultures. This, I have never been able to accomplish with my own people, my own family, my own father.

Regret, for all I never asked him, for all he tried to teach me that I never heard.

And an eternal yearning, because all the research I could possibly conduct throughout the remainder of my lifetime will not bring him back and will not afford me the opportunity to tell him how much I loved him, and that if given the chance, I would try so much harder to understand him and embrace his dreams.

Maybe this is a reason, or part of a reason, why I search so ardently, why I dig until I hit a rocky bottom. I haven’t found his bones, but I’ve found thousands of tiny shatterings that reassure me he was indeed here.

“Certain Slant of Light”
paper cutting

Week holds five dental appointments on three different days, evening psyche appointment (she forced her schedule to accommodate me; felt bad about delaying it for another week. Maybe she sensed the Scotch tape that’s holding me together might not last till then), acting class invitational, karate class times-two, Hawaiian language study session, and Chess club. By Friday, I’ll be ready for something exclusively recreational and feminine.

So, Josie and I have cemented plans to meet for lunch at L’Auberge Du Lac Hotel & Casino. She said the restaurant inside is classy, the food pretty good. My question is, Do they have coffee? Simply cannot meet Josie for a meal without good coffee and several hours to indulge in mutual therapy.

Honestly, I’m looking forward to seeing where she works, putting faces to the names of all the colorful characters who are perpetually entangled in her real-life daytime dramas: a couple Davidian security guards whose senses of humor betray their frightening physique; a flock of cocktail waitresses, some beaten and cynical, some flailing about at the end of life’s tether, some wise and sensitive, some a mixture of all these; an especially affecting manager who is rumored to look a lot like Ryan Seacrest (except I wouldn’t know what Ryan Seacrest looks like, since I don’t watch TV); and London, Josie’s best buddy who helped her survive so many months working the buffet before she landed the cocktailing job on the floor.

Lunch and a couple of drinks would suit me fine. Laugh, cry, and vent with Josie, then I can make it through another six months of domestic dueling and acrobatics.

Shopping is on the agenda, too, which is dangerous territory when one’s dealing with crossroads profundity. I think I’ll be safe. Not too keen on malls to begin with. They suffocate me and make me grumpy. I look around, and all I see is a waste of money and corporate creativity. Nothing else brings out the acidic cynic in me like the mall.

But if there’s an Old Navy within proximity, I’ll be perfectly content. And it would be nice to slide into Banana Republic for a moment just so I can smell the Italian leather, and inhale the fragrance of what classy men and women are supposed to smell like. They probably charge for that.

—

Littler Sis and I have hair and nail appointments together next week, too. The stylist is a rugged older man. The loves of his life are his bike, Middle Eastern afghans, and the boat he’s saving up for so he can move to (where was it?) the Bahamas in three years. He strikes me as quite sanded by life, but he’s elegant in his own way. And the man can cut some hair.

Intend to get the same razored, gradating-length style; touched-up highlights, and a couple shades lighter than last time. Summer’s on the way, after all. It would be nice to look “sun-kissed” instead of like I’ve spent the evening sleeping in bleach.

—

Sounds prissy and self-indulgent. That’s because it is prissy and self-indulgent, but seeing as I only priss and self-indulge two times a year or so, I refuse to feel guilty about it.

And speaking of self-indulgent, I’ve been seriously considering a massage. Previously, I flat-out refused to consider it, because I couldn’t stand the thought of being even partially disrobed around a stranger who was not wearing a white coat and did not have “M.D.” behind her name. Terrified of that, not to mention being kneaded and tenderized under a stranger’s hands.

But I think I’ve reconciled. I thought about what a relief it would be to feel the tension leave these wiry shoulders, how glorious to crush to powder these bricks around my spine. I got tears in my eyes just imagining the release. And it was enough to get me past that initial panic of having to present myself “au naturale.”

I’m just writing these things now. Whether or not I possess any real courage to actually make an appointment and go…well…that’s to be seen.

—

In any case, Rocky’s appointed proctor for the duration of Friday. Stocked up on healthy snacks. Will grab a couple movies the kids haven’t seen, some popcorn, and maybe a handful of new games and activity books to keep them occupied.

And I will try not to worry. And I will try to genuinely, thoroughly enjoy myself.