I did not know where I as going when I arrived at the island. (Such strange metaphors of physicality.)
I drove around the island. Searching the Maine landscape for a half-remembered name. I really should write these things down. I eventually stopped and asked for help from an old man with a big, sweet dog. I found my way to the Poor Farm and Design Inquiry.
Am I in the right place? (Such strange metaphors of place.)
It is a gift. Time to think, space to think, being around people who endeavor the same. I started out beginning to map out McLuhan and Fiore’s The Medium is the Massage. I got about half-way through it when my computer died. There was no reviving it. It lay silent, mocking the things I was supposed to do; the production.
An artist/designer without a computer. (Such strange metaphors for being.)
I read a whole book in one sitting, watched the grasses blow in the wind. They were so much like a Wyeth painting I wanted to cry. I watched the netting, the printing, the bread making, the mending of broken things, while the sound of a distant violin played. We broke bread, all these people and I; each pursuing our own endeavors. We spoke of design, of design education, of netting and dogs, and of a thousand things I cannot remember now as the days pass and fill in the distance: the counter-production.
I am home now. (Such strange metaphors of time.)
The emails do not stop. The crises begin, although I suspect they never really end. The cat needs to go to the vet, there is dinner to cook and a house to clean. But I will choose to carry this time, to hold it dear, to read whole books in one sitting, to spend the time to think deeply.
I am there still. The wind is soft and it feels like freedom.
