The Weaverwerx Manifesto or Now what are you doing?

There's a box on the set-up page for this blog called "brief description" and it is still blank. I find it difficult to clarify my purpose and when I try, I sometimes fall down the open manhole of my brain into the subterranean deep thought tunnels where I aimlessly wander for what seems like forever before finally re-emerging into the sunlight, confused, but empty-handed. My mind instantly leaps from "brief description" to "what am I doing with my life" and the fingers hang in the air over the keyboard and down the pipe I go again. With that in mind, I'll press on watching my step and aiming for statements of the declarative variety.
(throat clearing sound)
Weaverwerx is... (you can do it)... the funky factory of my life that has produced everything from sculpture to short films to screenplay (one so far, but I got ideas) to homemade chocolate chip cookies. This blog began as an off-shoot from my long neglected web site and was meant to be an amped up "news and events" section, but actually has become another distraction from actually redesigning and updating the site and immediately mutated into this loose collection of musings. Topics likely, but not promised to be explored; film making, art, computer graphics, animation, writing, the mysteries of the creative process, hiking (including blister secrets and the ballad of the broken shoelace), travel, humor, and apologies for failed attempts at humor. My attorney has asked me to say: In the future, I maintain the right to, without warning, notice or reason, add new topics to said "list" (referred hereto after as "list") or remove, redecorate, or digitally remaster any topics or topic-like objects from "list", but there is no expressed commitment that "list" will actually or virtually ever be altered (or printed out and put into the bottom of a bird cage) or referenced either in polite conversation or used as a veiled or unveiled threat against person(s) unnamed (but you know who you are) or compliment or back-up piece of conversation filler for awkward moments or voids in other contracts either verbal, written, or performed.

Glad that's out of the way. Now, where was I?

the empty inbox

I cleared out my e-mail inbox last week for the first time in I can't remember when. There's always a few lingering e-mails, links forwarded on by friends that lead to sites too fat for my dial-up connection or some digest of messages from the Tom Waits group I belong to or the occasional note from an old acquaintance that gets left like leftover Chinese food in the back of the fridge offering promise and possibility, but eventually just has to be dealt with. But this last weekend, I had time and desire and weeded my way through the dozen or so bits and reached that coveted goal of zero. Now the emptiness stares back at my like that white page or canvas or lump of clay, but even worse, this emptiness isn't filled by my hand but by the whims of the great e-mail god (or goddess? yeah, somehow, makes more sense to me that he is a she), so goddess blessing my meager dry little box with the sweet rain of communication, ah yes. But until then, silence and white space.

As opposed to the low energy variety....

Came across this bag laying by the side of the road the other day.

Amazing how four simple words can create a whole universe of possibility.

OK HW

Sunday night in Gort

A rainy Monday morning here in the west of Ireland. Last night went to Gort (yeah, like the robot), a small town about a half hour drive away. A friend of my wife's invited us to see her brother play music in a pub. "What does he play?", Una made strumming motions in the air, "The guitar". "Trad music?", I asked (I respect that many folks appreciate Traditional Irish Music and can't get enough of it, but I am not one of those people. Generally find that not unlike thrash metal, blue grass or Martin Denny stuff, that a little goes a long way). "No, he plays songs by other people.", she said. "You mean cover tunes, like the Eagles and such?" I replied. "Exactly."

O'Donnell's pub most Sunday nights, is full of regulars that were absent (at first) last night as everyone was at a wedding celebration some where else. This worked out fine for us as we were able to enjoy Paddy's singing and playing. He sat down with us before his session and handed out his song list that ranged from Prince, "When Doves Cry", to Johnny Cash, GnR, "Sweet Child O' Mine" and Christie Moore and everything in between. Paddy had a quick, easy smile and was light hearted and damn near jolly. When he took the tiny stage, his singing and playing were as light and clear as his smile and I sank back into my seat, sipping my pint of the brown stuff enjoying this human juke box do his thing. Una requested, "Piano Man" by Billy Joel, and Paddy acknowledged the irony of playing that song on guitar and launched into a spot on version that had us singing along. I knew all the lyrics from having sung along with it all those times stuck in tunnel traffic commuting to Hampton from the south side. As the verses rolled out, I realized how comfortable I now feel here in Ireland and how little time we have left before we return to the US in May and how I'll miss nights in the pub like this one. A young woman at the bar made a request and Paddy slid into a rendition of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah", that was so sweet and painful and beautiful that it squeezed a salty tear or two out of my old right eye. I was amazed and grateful that Mr. Cohen created such a powerful thing; that one person can transmit such profound feelings and thirty years later another person can retransmit that same message and it is all there, the hugeness of that emotion. Gave me hope for the creative life, for my own creative life.