LoVe

Jacquline Hurlbert

Need I say more? Check her out, immediately.

Thanks,
Nathan

Jacquline Hurlbert
ceramic sculpture
Studio Ten XIII, Inc.
16396 SW Kimball Ave.
Lake Oswego, OR 97035
503.675.9516
www.studiotenxiii.com

Where the Sidewalk Ends -- Shel Silverstein

I wanted to re-read this poem, and share it with you all. Isn't it sad and lovely and mysterious? It's raining outside, and I can't decide what mood this poem puts me in. Remember: this poem is copyrighted by Shel Silverstein. All rights belong to him in conjunction with his publisher.

WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

*Copyrighted by Shel Silverstein.

Incredibly lovely....

Stromata, Sidewalks, & the Number 4

"Stromata are the supporting frameworks of cells or organisms—the connective tissues that comprise the organs making life possible." Charlotte Martin has posted this definition of 'Stromata,' and I find it so wonderfully appropriate for where we are all at in this crazy existence. I couldn't sleep well last night, and CharMar's new album arrived in the mail yesterday, and Karin arrived with her family. I love having Kare Bare here! Helping to complete the family of the Buck Motor Inn!....I awoke at 6:00am and decided to lay in the dark and listen to the album. I'm in love. The last album was piano-organic and orchestral, and this one is more Casio-roots, pots and pans and forks and spoons as instruments, dripping techno beats in the background. An '80s tribal feel. Different but magnificent. Stromata. More and more I feel, almost see, the cords connecting us all, veils of glitter and feathers weaving amongst us all, turning the universe into one giant organ.

I've always been obsessed with sidewalks, with their cracks and bumps, where they lead and where they end. Shel Silverstein comes to mind, of course, his 'Where the Sidewalk Ends' and his 'Giving Tree.' I love finding those patches in cities where sidewalks just stop and then grass takes over for a while and you wonder, "How odd, why didn't they put any sidewalk squares here?" Then I walk onto the grass, off some pre-determined path, and make sure my shoes sink nicely into the grass and dirt. But I had an odd thought last week. I was on the sidewalk by home, and I turned on the sidewalky path leading up to my house's front door and I thought, "Huh, I always thought that where sidewalks end are these faraway places I'll never understand, they're those patches in cities, but really my sidewalk ends at home, I'm home, I'm free." Grace flooded me and filled me up.

Home. I had the most beautiful thought while listening to CharMar's 'Stromata' today. Her song "Four Walls" came on, and I thought: My home has four walls, proverbially speaking. 4. My favorite number. And then I pictured the roof being gently lifted off my home and I floated above it, looking down and seeing the four outlines of the four walls, making an outline of a square and I realized--for maybe the first time consciously--that 4 has always been my favorite number because 4 is the number equivalent of the word, "Home." It represents blood and family and stromata. I don't know if this makes any sense whatsoever. But I've been feeling safer lately. Safe in a good way, not a stifling way. And I'm letting myself think silly thoughts and even liking them. I'm picturing kissing the men I have feelings for, letting myself really feel these thoughts rather than fighting them. I take them in and drink and digest them. On a final note, Karin gave me a lovely trinity of owls yesterday; their bodies fit together to make one giant tapestry, and their faces look both alien and haunted and Kabuki-like, and they create unity. Okay. "Four Walls" is playing again, this time in Surround Sound, and Karin and Mom are listening too. Time to dance, my friends -- both literally and proverbially.

Moon

I think the moon is incredibly sexy. I woke up this morning to write, and the moon still burned outside, up above the trees, above our neighbors' home, against the blue sky. It is--or was just recently--a full moon, and it's interesting how people are affected by its pull. I was memorized just a few days ago as I drove over the Broadway Bridge; the moon looked three or four times its normal size, and it was orange, orange, orange; I smiled at it. We've all heard how people get more sexual, more violent, more crazy during the full moon. We've all heard the werewolf legends, when they transform, when we have to get our silver bullets ready for action. I can't help but think the moon is so powerful, holds such a sway over us, because our bodies are composed mostly of water. I've heard different percentages--70% to 95%--but no matter what the percentage is, it's like we're all miniature oceans, and we're tides being pulled. We're connected, magnetic-like, to the moon's rays. Who knows what it does to our insides, the tugs and shifts, the messing with our organs? I have lots to say on the sun, too, but the moon is the underdog in this equation. I always root for the underdog. The moon is associated with nighttime, with the dark, with secrets. But if all of Life is Yin-and-Yang, then the sun and the moon are perfect lovers. I'm curious what all your thoughts are on the moon, how it affects us. I have the strangest dreams during full moons (I accidentally just wrote "fool moons" and caught my error -- hmmm....). Last night's collection of dreams: a new song by Tori playing on the radio as I drove into downtown Portland (on the Broadway Bridge, I believe); visiting my father in his new office, and he was changing, and I caught a glimpse of his near-naked flesh, and his back was all werewolf hairy, and Mary Ann was at the receptionist's desk, answering phones, and Pierce Brosnan (!) had just finished some time in the steam room and had a towel wrapped around his waist and was headed back somewhere to change; I was interviewing Elisabeth Shue, and she wanted some undercover job away from acting, and she was confiding in me all her secrets as I sat across from her at an oak desk.

Do any of you know Goodnight, Moon? That book breaks my heart. I think it's because of the movie Dancing about Architecture (a.k.a. Playing by Heart) and the scene where Ellen Burstyn's character reads it to her son, played by Jay Mohr, on his deathbed. Straight to the tear ducts.