Yesterday, in the early evening of the longest day of the year, the wind was blowing especially strong and steady. As always, whenever it gets windy, I went out into our big back yard to watch the two tall trees in two of our neighbors' yards swing and sway, like two many-armed giants glorifying their hair in that unstoppable energy.
These trees are huge and healthy, one a pecan and one a eucalyptus; I think the eucalyptus must be seventy feet high. Anyway, as usual, my mind stupidly turned the experience into an art video. You know, you could capture all that incredible swaying, and edit it, and project it on three screens with music by --oh, Scriabin or somebody. Or --wait! I know! Tony Oursler-type projections! They would appear and disappear like apparitions! No wait no wait no wait-- remember Bruce Nauman's desire to present an idea directly; just let the trees be who they are, film them for however many hours the wind blows, and then project it onto three screens et cetera. With helpful rolling-wheel office chairs . . . and that's what brought me back.
I've developed this stupid habit over the years of trying to make art out of reality. Even after I decided that reality trumps art big time, the habit persists. So I caught myself, mentally cleared my throat, and looked again.
I thought about all the birds now clinging, huddled, in all their nests and nooks and hidey-holes in those trees; about all the creatures who for thousands of their generations knew these trees as home, or rest stop, or flight marker. About cleansing; sometimes rotten pecan branches crash into our yard. The wind bent the trees in long, slow, swaying rushes, the tallest branches scraping the clouds around, it seemed. I just watched and tried to empty myself of all the anger and frustration and knotted pain of the last few days. People are a trial . . .
Art --and all the pomo concretion that has deadened it --has been a millstone around my neck for long enough. I'm sawing it off, but it takes time, so I go out when it's windy and watch the swaying trees, and try to empty my mind, and wait . . . for what? For the message. There's always a message. And after a few minutes of leaning back entranced in that giant green-and-gray hula, it came to me, in one of the earliest songs George Jones ever wrote (with Roger Miller) and sang:
If it's lovin' you want, I've got it,
and if it's money you need, I'll go and get it.
I'll buy you tall tall trees
and all the waters in the seas
cuz I'm a fool fool fool for you.
Tall tall trees and all the waters in the seas! What innocent bravado! What bootheeled heart! So I start to sing it. "I'm a fooool, for you, it may take a while but you know it's true . . ."
But then I turn from the trees and the wind, and there's my darling Catherine, smiling, and she twines her arm in mine, and we watch the two strong tall trees swaying in the wind.
These are the two trees I'm talking about.
Posted by Jerome at June 22, 2005 02:50 PM | TrackBack