RESILIENCE a Community Reframes Disaster Through Art
Total Page：16
File Type：pdf, Size：1020Kb
RESILIENCE A community reframes disaster through art Lake County, California 2018 Copyright © 2018 Middletown Art Center All rights reserved Middletown, California ISBN 978-1719542166 www.MiddletownArtCenter.org Resilience is a wild fire recovery project initiated by the Middletown Art Center with support from the California Arts Council, and Lake County organizations, agencies and businesses. Nature’s profound resilience post-fire inspired the year-long project. Adults and teens affected directly or indirectly by the wildfires of 2015, 2016, and mid-project in 2017, engaged in low-cost, accessible monthly workshops in painting, photography, creative writing and printmaking that provided a safe space, materials, and guidance to reframe the fire experience into healing creative expression and art. Works from participants in the writing and printmaking workshops are featured in this collection. We found that in addition to processing the fire trauma, healing and recovery often brought other traumas to light. Some of these are also expressed in this book. Cover art by Erica Felton Parisi. The Resilience project was made possible with support from the California Arts Council, a state agency. Learn more at www.arts.ca.gov. Visit MiddletownArtCenter.org to learn about the Middletown Art Center/EcoArts of Lake County. Dedication This book is dedicated to the people of Lake County California, and those directly impacted by the wildfires of 2015-2017 in the Middletown, Cobb Mountain, Hidden Valley Lake, Lower Lake, Clearlake, and Clearlake Oaks areas. In particular the writers and artists dedicate this book to Bruce Beven Burns, Robert Fletcher, Robert Leichtman, Barbara McWilliams, Leonard Neft, and all of the pets, farm animals, wildlife and trees that perished in the Valley Fire of 2015, and Clayton and Sulphur Fires of 2016 and 2017. Part I Disaster and Aftermath 5 Returning to Middletown Lourdes Thuesen Where there were forests, There are sticks. Where there were wild flowers, There is ash. Where there were homes, There is destruction. But where there is resilience, There is Hope. Patti Jahsman Resilience In Sadness Clive Matson I walk in sadness through gray scrub. I walk through scrub on steep green hills. The sky is blue behind soft pinks. My legs stride on with little change. I think of all the things I'm not Long strings of gems are dew in webs. with circling mind, with claimless heart. Deep sadness rises, swells and spills. New grass is green beneath the brush. How strange this strangeness keeps on strange. Each bush is brittle, thorned and links The sky is blue behind streaked reds. my loves, my standing, fights I've lost. My chest and head feel stretched apart. Elen V Marsh 7 Beginning Julie Adams I travel with all of myself Wrapped tightly about me, like the petals of a rose unopened. My story is written with Falling stars Firestorm And raging water. Words are ash in my mouth. Red thread of life thru silver needles eye flashing, Pierces the burned and bruised flesh. To stitch the story into my skin, Across my lips, stealing my voice. Words cannot re-animate The transformation by fire. Tears cannot quench it Screams cannot be heard In the hungry roar of something with an appetite For 76,000 acres of wooded hillside, quiet villages. The fragile spider web of our lives vanished into the cyclone. Out of the shape shifting, mother darkness, Blind as cave fish, We begin again, Wearing the clothing of gentle strangers. Resilience Silver and Gray Elaine Watt A thigh-high concrete wall Winter comes. surrounds a foot of fluffy ash. I hibernate in my rented room Cremated floorboards, and wait for the green of spring couch springs, chunks of plaster. while the bald moon wheels overhead. Pipes a twisted maze. Washer and dryer? Crumpled bits of metal. Refrigerator, mattress, bookcase of journals? More ashes. Figurines? Shattered. Not one memento to reclaim. Arms? Left empty. Lips? Taste of bonfire. Mountains? Forest burnt away, every slope exposed. Every ridge, every saddle. Scaffold of land laid bare, blackened earth, crusty and hard. A color photograph scorched black and white. Two pickup trucks rest on bare rims, Dazed deer wander the still-green lawn, ash-coated, ribs jutting. Dead koi floating in the pond. I drift from one stark foundation to the next, The same ashy gray, charred black. Dust heavy with asbestos and airborne metals. Crunch of shattered glass. The silence of birdless air. Darina Simeonova 9 Wind Sage Abella There is a life force. The wind. An energy. The wind. A quickening. The wind. And it blows words through writer’s minds in this room on the paper, page, pages. If I were the wind, and I might just be the wind, would I need to use words or would words use me? Howling through me. The words that scream through this pen. Upending letters and obsessive thoughts like leaves. “Raking them up is futile. One percent of my brain, I’m talking to you now!” I am the child wind, wild wind, fertile and smiling wind, rearranging everything: your scarf, your thoughts, your plans and designs. I’m electric, static, electro-static, magnificence. The good acorns don’t fall out of the tree without me. Listen to the names of my kin: squall, turbulence, bora, mistral, sirocco, and these are just a few of my sisters. You could spend the whole rest of your life getting to know the faces and names of me. All of me. Wind. Breeze. Trees. Shaking knees. Ever think about this – where do I come from? Off the back of butterflies the myths say. Out of the crack between dawn and day that’s where I come from. I rise and disappear like a dream, fragile as a queen, bold like your own destiny you are too afraid to own. Hunting for it with your fingertips all your life when it walks in you like your backbone. Long. The old people call me the Chinook; the new people call me the Santa Ana. Doesn’t matter what you call me. I’m always here waiting to rise. Open a door, I’m there in the push of it. Run with your skirt, I’m in the billow of it. Turn and yell, I’m in the shout of it. Move your hand across the page, I’m in the move of it. Wind. Electro-static, magnetic, magnificent, life cleansing, wild brewing, wandering, at home everywhere. Wind. Resilience Freeing Self Ancha Nitya I am eccentrically I made up my mind Obliterating the world I am not coming down, Around me When I need mind As I breath in Truth I, will summon it up! In the midst No more A Slave Of the darkness Of Mind will I be, I shall shine again Surrendered… Even brighter! With Breath, in Truth I rest. Darina Simeonova 11 Dance of the Djinn (-a Theologue) Russell Reza-Khaliq Gonzaga It was not a question of if –just a question of when. Drought dissolves the moisture which fortifies all organic matter, Withered, sometimes crisp: The succulence of the leaves were gone After such a dry summer and two neighboring catastrophic wildfires already. Left to your sunshielded-slumber, Nearly forgotten in your abode to burn, –As one who rides the night winds, your dreams delight shelter you from the loud, bright burning of daylight. You were jolted awake only when the disaster was already well under way. –Look at it thus so: At least you were saved from the anxiety that culminated into fear that burst into terror. This conflagration was already rumbling fast through the years of careful cultivation and stewardship. The crisp tinder ignites the kindling which invokes the djinn. Djinn are made of fire and most infernal of these are the Ifreet (The Fallen Angel Shaytan is called the Lord of the Djinn) My home, my books, my data, my manuscripts, my car, my cat all made combustible All feeding the monstrous swirls of flame that danced with demonic delight A sinister crimson and billowing black light rising to the sky Like tremendous and ferocious kaiju of flame rising up from the enclosed canyon. So many of us lost the paradise we preserved and protected Scorched clean of green in the hot glow and disintegrading undulation. (Stop. Center. Shift perspective. See the auspicious concealed… ) Water can wash, but fire can purify, cooking out confusion and complacency The ash gives way to sprouts gives way to flowers and trees –New growth pure. Slowly, gradually –regrowth takes time. Rebuilding takes patience and guided vision Resilience In the grim face of catastrophe, you fall back onto the Teachings: Gratitude and perspective after centering and detachment And from here you see the unexpected blessings and signs, for Crisis is always Opportunity And tragedy can always be transcended. So, you return briefly to the seashore tranquility of Bodega Bay Where you once healed from tragedy before. From this centered, serene place, your friends came through for you. Assistance and donations descended upon your grief-seared skin like cool and satisfying flakes of snow. Hope and a humble sort of home was the remarkable gift from another flaming djinn effigy recognized as the Burning Man (A perennial djinn contained in the annual ritual of art and celebration) A re-creational vehicle named by its former festival-going owners “Heisenberg” Your Noah’s Arc; Your Jonah’s Whale –This playa-worthy vessel, your temporary home, flowed the roads upstream Sailing in from the brine Bay; through the gold country; and up to the Sierra Mountains There –docked discreetly to the former brothel and stepchild lodge of obsidian and warmth.