Made by Wooni

a new resident

There have been many sightings of this fellow, yet I have been the only one that has not seen him. He is commonly referred to as The bloody old fox. However, the mister describes him as a gentile faced insect eater. 

I have no problem with foxes, but apparently we are the only ones that think so. The other neighbor has seen it trying to get into the chicken coop, and it has been in the Weidenthal news circuits. I find it quite exciting since I am not used to so much nature and wild life, since I grew up in a big city. The only wild life I was used to were construction workers, old buses, fast cabs, and pigeons. Now I have to watch out for field mice, wild bores, foxes, snakes, ticks, and huge spiders that like to appear migically in my sink. I don´t even want to think about how it got there.

 

Burnt to a crisp

It is amazing how when you reach a low point you are able to have some clarity and see where you wanted to go. Well, I was laying on the seabed and right there in front of me I found a box full of old memories. It was a box full of words, papers, pens, books, paint brushes, pencils, erasers. It was a box full of my adolescent dreams of being a writer and artist. I am back on my original path. I still seem to have one firm foot on the soft seabed. And every now and then my foot seems to sink a bit deeper. However, my other foot is lifted in the air, pointing to the surface as a promise to return to the fresh sea air that will once again regenerate my soul. 

So I have, as usual, returned to the empty page and filled it with scratches and scribbles and doodles. 

Some silly

Some hopeful

Some for the moment.

It is a wonder how much it helps to draw and paint, especially with watercolors. 

Glorious play

Today I decided to let the dishes sit in the dish washer a little longer, the laundry wait to be hung, and the vacuum to be silent. There are more urgent things at the present moment.

Shifting, grazing, burrowing into fibers. I am time travelling and listening to each scrap. They talk about long winters, speechless merchants, crooked yellow houses, un spoken truths, hidden dreams. They are buzzing like the sleepy bugs that are swarming outside. I am recharged as I untangle my beloved scraps. 

And as always through the mess comes a foundation. Stepping stones leading up a pathway to home. My own place. My little crooked house. 

And I continue on, grabbing, returning, looking, placing, removing; until something else feels right and fits.

I am safe here, engulfed by warmth. I am home. 

on my mind

As I was wandering around, looking at colorful illustratuins, and pictures I kept on clicking and searching for houses and trees. So I sat down and began doodling and out appeared our little crooked house that even though it is small and unfinished it has grown on me. It has changed my world. It stands out from the others because it is mine. My own place on this earth that I can do what I want with it and in it. I haven't had that until now. When I was a child I had to obey my grandparents rules, then the dorm rules, then the landlor's rules. It is very limiting to not be able to express who you are.  

As I continued down the page the mountain turned into a head. Two closed eyes pondered about the importance of a place of truth. I am myself here. I can sing, dance, draw and put up on the walls withouth being judged. I am finally free and for someone that has always been shy about their abilities it is wonderful to finally be able to lay myself out in the light without having to hide it in bags or whispers. 

 

Returning

I have returned to cloth. I have had enough of the relaxing effects of crochet. They have done me a world of good. However, I have realized there is an adverse affect. My mind becomes dormant. I stop being that questioning, imaginative person that I love being. The cloth, on the other hand makes me search, question, wander, and some times loose my sense of reality. 

It is when I get lost within the fibers that I thrive. 

So after a few slices of my banana almond bread smeared with nutella and the obligatory coffee, I went upstairs to my space.

Straightened things up after a messy weekend. And looked for my forgetten self. Bits an pieces were hidding underneath bags and dust. And among them I found my first large cloth, Monster City. Something I never got around finishing . Now that I looked at it again, with a different mind set all I can see is anger, and fear. I could not continue with it. 

I took it apart. There were still pieces that I can use later. And the girl, well, how could I get rid of her. She is a reminder of my battle, that dark period. She needs some light and ease after such a struggle. 

So I sit here, surrounded by cloth and it feels so good. I feel eager to see what can come out of my happiness.

Bon iver - skinny love

 

Whispers for the Sun

 As a boy he had always been mystified by the sun. The sun seemed to summon him, beckon him to be its observer. He had felt a deep connection, a burning link that joined him to the sun. 

Every day he forces his eyes to watch it closely. He ignored the pain and the tears flowing down his cheeks. He desperately wanted to watch the swirling flows of color that created the Sun. They seemed to be alive, dancing and generating heat with their melodic and graceful movements.

One day, as he laid staring up at the sun, the messenger came. A fellow being of the sky. His fur shone as brightly as the Sun, and seemed to also contain the melodic flows of light and color.

"One day you shall reach the sun." he said

"One day you shall join the flows of time and sound." 

And with that he disappeared.

The observer, now wrinkled and crooked with time held on to the words of the messenger. He had given his destiny great thought. He had asked himself many time how he could reach the sun. 

"A ladder" he thought, and spent the rest of his life building a ladder tall enough to reach the Sun. 

As his stiff hands pulled the ladder out to begin his climb up the messenger reappeared. 

"You only need your voice to reach the sun. Release your song and join the others. Your time has come to observe no more."

The observer observed one last time as he whispered his soul to the graceful Sun. He was one with all, and moved along with the melodic waves of his destiny.

By Wooni