losses

I get overly attached to people. When they have to move on I become disfunctionally distraught. Lately there's been a lot of people who've become dear to me, and I guess just by odds, I am losing a lot at once.

I'm feeling the loss of Elm Shakespeare, as this is the first summer in 5 years I'm not working for them. Wildfire brought me great new friends who are now spread across the east. And now, roller derby, true to its nature, has begun to take its toll on our numbers with injury and exhaustion. The news of girls leaving the league has especially gotten to me. We've struggled together, become intimately familiar with each other with close contact skating and 6 hours of practice a week plus endless meetings. And by captaining I've become intensely invested in their development. Losing any of them is losing family.

But with 45 girls and rougher times ahead, I'd better start getting used to it.

Really, I do apologize for continued grimness. I have confidence this blog will eventually get back to its original light hearted spirit. In fact I'm going to make a conscious effort from here on out to regain my sense of humor.

pruning

A new gardener often has difficulty pruning and thinning. You have to plant a lot of seeds, then pinch off some of the seedlings that sprout, so that the remaining seedlings have enough space and light to grow large and strong. You have to cut off some blooms if you want to eventually have a more bloom-filled plant. This is painful when you are a new gardener. Every seedling, every bloom is beautiful. How to choose? After you've been doing if for a long time, you've seen the benefits and it is not so uncomfortable. You get a feel for which should go and which should stay, even when they all look equally promising. It takes time to reach this level of expertise. Until then you have to do guess work and make yourself let some beautiful things go even if you can't stand it.

Rumi, caught

A BookCrossing book I released months ago in the Edgerton Park fountain, then blogged about, was just logged in as "caught" by an anonymous finder. The odds of that happening have been about as slim as balloon findings. The site says it was released 10 months ago. Have I really been blogging that long?

The mysterious finder seems to have lukewarm feelings about my choice, Chasing Rumi by Roger Housden, and suggests Landscape Painted with Tea by Milorad Pavic. That sounds marvelous. Chasing Rumi is the most personally synchronicity-filled book I've ever read. It was only a matter of time before it brought me a new clue to follow.

Another little miracle in an auspicious week.

wind, sand, waves, fire

Last Saturday evening: a seaside bungalow, a good and lovingly made dinner, a gift of a ring with a white mother of pearl heart.

A walk to the water, a hula hoop, a can of fuel hidden in a kitty litter bucket, yellow police tape, major crime scene unit, a suspicious death.

A dark abandoned beach, stars, barefeet, and fire where waves, sand and wind meet.

An audience of dear and rarely seen friends: Grace Lin, Anna Alter, and Libby Koponen. I spin and it's different, a connection happens that hasn't before. Maybe even the "affinity which links and draws together the elements of the world."

I attribute it to the fire retreat I've just had, the sea, and the love and enthusiasm of the people who watched.

34th year, so far

I really haven't stopped working or chasing wild geese, but I've lost my appetite for talking about it. So I'll just post some pictures.

Getting the next book, Chiru, into sketch form finally.

















Co-captaining a roller derby league, working towards a debut bout in December, working the press.













Gathering wood and learning new dances and fire arts on a retreat with my fire family.


















And unphotographable but unforgettable: seeing Cirque du Soleil's Corteo in NYC, body guarding Jay Jay the Jet Plane at the New England Air Museum, hearing I get to do a new puppet show for Puppetsweat.

bad art night #4

I make more things with wings and Tony draws fishes flying to heaven.

I'll post more on the Real Bad Blog a little later.

R.I.P.

Philippe, my beautiful fish, has died. He was an excellent fish. Very personable and engaging, he'd come out of his underwater bottle home to say hello to whoever walked into the kitchen. He was getting old. I got him 2 1/2 years ago, rescued from a Walmart shelf where his brothers were mostly already dying in their little tupperware cups.

It's not just the death of a $3 fish, but perhaps the end of an era that's got me feeling nostalgic. I bought him when I was newly obsessed with ice skating, street theater and sufism. I was re-learning French and preparing for a grand trip to Paris. I was in love with the sea and the sky and the places where they meet, and just starting to paint for the sake of painting again. It was an exhilerating time.

Peace to you, little buddy.

balloon

It seemed to be waiting for me outside my house this afternoon... curiouser and curiouser.

No tag attached, though.

state of affairs

I'm late on the sketches for my next book. There's a septic smell coming in the house from outside. I am bruised from premature body checking drills with rookie girls who don't know not to use elbows. I've got a weird lopsided haircut. I am dubious about my career in public speaking. My studio is becoming more and more claustrophobic. I think my fish is dying. I'm running out of the only paper I ever paint on which has gone out of production. My blog has become increasingly sparse and unhumorous.

But, my iPod is not broken afterall. The backyard garden has come back despite neglect. There is sun today. Things are pretty good.

bird-woman

woman-bird

rollergirls

I couldn't resist blogging this picture for the pleasure of seeing it in contrast to the fairy painting below.

It's important to try new uncomfortable things frequently. A couple of months ago I went to a Providence Roller Derby practice to shake myself out of a chronic funk. I achieved the high discomfort level I was seeking and found that 4 years of crowded public session ice skating had groomed me very well for close pack skating and weaving. And that I have a love for knocking and being knocked around. And that rollergirls are some of the most impressive women I've ever seen. I kept going back.

By some strange twists of fate I became a co-captain of the new Connecticut Roller Derby League and took the name Polly Sonic. Now I'm in part responsible for preparing 40 girls to fight each other on skates. Already, it's tailbone injuries everywhere, and it'll only get worse. But they've got a fierce dedication, and I've come to be just as dedicated to them. I can't think of any other time I've just happened to have a specific group of skills that were this useful anyone else. It's wonderful to be so needed. This new venture might seem like one of the unwisest I've taken on, but I'm sure it's a place I'm suppose to be.

Photo: the Connecticut league scrimmaging at the Danbury roller rink.

slenderish things

Somehow I've become known as a fairy painter and keep acquiring fairy assignments. Here's another for a Spider Magazine poem that just went out today.

Nashua

I spent the weekend at the annual New England Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators conference in Nashua, New Hampshire. It came on the tail end of a tough month.

The best part of the three days was a pristine, quite hotel room to myself (an oasis away from the Grand Central Station that is my house when Karl's theater company is in production and I'm trying to meet deadlines), and the trip up and back, done in style with a Piper Arrow thanks to Brett.

On Saturday I gave a new presentation on children's book illustration with a slideshow of my work and influences. A small technical glitch between my laptop and the hotel's projector rattled me more then it would have had I not been so worn down. The next day I was unpleasantly ill and in an emotionally difficult 6 hour writers' workshop.

Until now my 4 year experiment in following synrchronicity (which is what this blog is about for those who haven't noticed yet) has been smooth and easy. I've been perfectly content with the feeling of being led which has never let me down. I've found myself in just the right place at the just right time with just the right people a hundred times over, perfectly prepared for the next unexpected adventure.

Now there is so much calling me that I keep crashing trying to honor them all. This weekend made it clear I have to do something about it. A little more sleep should be the first step.

A scrap of paper on my wall, a poem, by my first beloved minister, Thomas E. Ahlburn:

Out of all this will emerge a form
Contrary to what we may have thought
Or what we might be thinking
There was no mold
To make our lives this way
No island from which to examine the stream
No way for the water to examine itself

yellow bags

What is it with these flying yellow bags?

Since I blogged about the first one that landed on my premature daffodils, I've seen 2 more drifting high in the air around my house, always yellow. Yesterday one paused while blowing past my third floor studio window as if looking in and saying "hello there". In the 5 seconds it took me to turn and pick up my camera, it had sped up and crossed the sky high above the trees.

I'm not sure why the flying bags get me so excited. Watching them kind of reminds me of the annual Washington Elementary School balloon release, which, I guess is an activity that's become unpopular for environmental reasons. But oh how I loved seeing hundreds of balloons, including mine, that I had bought and tied my name to, fly up into the sky in a tremendous coloured mass until they scattered and became invisible.

More, I loved the possibility that someone very far away, who I did not know yet, might find mine and become a friend. That never happened. Out of the hundreds, always only a handful of tags were recovered. The names of the children whose balloons were found were announced each morning with great importance and ceremony, and they commanded a higher respect for the rest of the day. I don't think I ever questioned this at the time. No, those kids didn't actually do anything more noteworthy then the rest of us, but it was as if a magic force had chosen them, or God had given them a little nod of approval. Whatever it was, I envied them furiously.

roller doll

I've finally made a doll, all the way through. It's been a while since I've done that. Though I've started many.

This one is a rollergirl doll that I donated to a raffle for a local fundraiser. She was meant to be quick and basic, but of course ended up taking me a couple of weeks and a lot of figuring out. She's bigger then most I make, about 18 inches tall. It was only at the fundraiser when she was claimed by her raffle winner that I realized I didn't want to give her up to a randomly chosen stranger. Luckily he turned out to be a respectable fellow who assures me she's being well looked after.

She stirred up some interest in my doll making work from a whole new culture. Plans in motion to make more rollerdollies like her.

for the record

planes

This is my dad, Bob Wingerter, somewhere around 1954 at the Woodbridge Air Force base in England. Behind him is an F-84 fighter jet that he worked on as an electrician.
This is me last week in front of an F-100 Super Sabre. My aviation history expert friend Brett took me to the New England Air Museum to see it (and sit in it) last week during a rare open cockpit day.

I have about 150 letters my dad wrote home to his parents during his time in the 79th Fighter Bomber Squadron working on planes. He was most excited when the F-100s replaced the F-84s, it was the first American production supersonic jet. He couldn't wait for a chance at a ride in one. "Quite a thrill to fly faster than sound and rise from the ground to 40,000 feet in a matter of seconds." I wish I knew if he did.

technical difficulty

Blogger stopped letting me upload photos midway through my last post. Either I've reached my limit or Blogger has gone crap. Lots of interesting things to tell-- puppets! fire! planes! dolls! roller skating! But I can't blog without a photo, so I'll have to fix it before I can go on.

puppets

A gallery exhibition of puppets at the Guilford Art Center, with a dozen or so puppet builders represented, including Puppetsweat which had James from James Mars, and Don Quixiote from Master Peter on display. Then there was Weinerville....

And Growing Up Linda, with a terrifying Carvel Cookie Puss ice cream cake and a tormented girl named Linda.

Bob, Leslie, and Margaret of Puppet- sweat with Don Quixote and James Mars.