Good Night Little City, Time, and a Victory.

It’s cold out there but the wind is behaving. 

Today my warm-weather biker self is wondering at this nut case who is out here in November.  I’m dressed in so many layers, I feel like the Michelin Man. 

As soon as I see that yellow gate closed across the Spit’s entrance, all things except my determination slide out of my head.  I push at the chained gate to widen the gap a little more, enough to squeeze in myself and my bike.  Already this is feeling deliciously illegal. 

There’s not a single soul on the inner road, well, human soul.  A monarch caterpillar beats a path across the road in front of me. Out of transformation time, he’s made his commitment. I’ve romanticized the monarchs. Now I remember how tough they are and am encouraged to think he’ll make it.

He stops.

I slam on the brakes. 

He needs a little help to safer ground.

On the bike again, I’ve convinced myself it’s only cloudy, not anywhere near twilight. 

Focus! Pedal hard. Keep warm.

Wait, just a sec, off the bike — checking in on the situation with the Magnificent Pile and I take as usual, more time, a lot more time, unmeasured time.  That’s the trouble out here, time passing becomes like when I was a kid, back before there was time.

I rationalize that it will be okay since I’m already so near The Little City, I can just push the bike those few metres along the rubble cliff.

Okay, camera, check.  Pens, check.  Phone. Do not forget the phone, in case.

And then, surprise! Not only is The Little City still here, it has grown again.  Just look at that thing! 

08 Nov 2018

The nerve of it!
How can the sun be
going down already?!
And me here with
no bike light.
I could stay here with
you mini metropolis
for the longest time —
waves breaking rhythms
on your shore.
Oh sigh — best I move on
with my nearly cold-stiff
fingers and my complaining
pen. She’s right I guess
the light fades minute
by minute now and
it’s a lightless 45 to home.

The mother-implanted apprehension of being alone in the dark in a remote place begins to surface as cold and wind and dimming light increasingly penetrate my fixation.  I am so far from the relative safety of the paved inner road. I climb over the rubble cliff edge, pack up my gear and begin to pick my way. Sometimes I ride a few feet, sometimes I just cannot see enough and am forced to dismount.  Anxiety ratchets up.  Finally, fear by now in my throat, I can make out the inner road. 

Anxiety down a notch.  Back on my bike, knowing the road is predictable, if you don’t count the potholes, and there is a sliver of moon after all.   I remember I’m an adult, not that overly admonished adventurous tomboy I once was.  Well, I’m hoping maybe still the tomboy.  Perhaps I can get her back.

I trade anxiety for exhilaration.  If I could ride no hands, I’d be throwing my arms in the air.  At the top of my lungs, I yell into the night, something defiant, victorious, and not printable. And then I laugh out loud, really, r e a l l y, loud.

This part, surely this part of today’s adventure is what I was supposed to live. 

Good night, Little City.

Until next time.

Spit-love and Wild Art

 

Our Spit-Love story’s anniversary is today, ten years today. A good day to begin telling our story, yes? And I am delighted to be the one in our small collective of artists to tell it.

I’ve noticed during our time together ― The Spit and mine ― that most visitors, especially the camera bearing ones are interested in this urban wilderness for its wild life, the conservation efforts. Visitors without cameras might be carrying fishing equipment if you are out early enough to catch them, or they are earbuds wearing walkers and joggers.  Oh, and the cyclists. 

The results of a Google search confirm this.  Compared to recreational and wild life interests, there is relatively little to be found about wild art, about the creative instinct and its dance with us on The Spit.  This has pride of place on the Stealth Art Collective’s list of what we love and what excites us about The Spit.

In the beginning using photo documentation, our purpose was to track the creative instinct as it reveals itself in the spontaneous, anonymously made artworks to be found there.  We’ve not been to another place where you can get this close to a clear uncompromised view of the creative instinct at work. 

In this wild, messy urban location, there is absolutely no incentive to make art: no curator, no art enthusiast to please, no critic interested, no formal institutionalized setting for display. Certainly, no prestige. Urban-world ideas of what is precious and valuable and conventional definitions of what is art  are impossible to apply. And, except for once in 2014 ―  that’s a story for another time ― there are no financial rewards, and yet…

I had experienced The Spit for years before 2008 but on April 14 I saw it differently. At the furthest point, below the lighthouse I saw this:

I felt a shift in perception. It was one of those rare experiences when the universe seems to open her curtain just a little to reveal something important, enlightening, some truth. 

And so it was the first day of the next ten years. 

Immediately we made a rule of conduct.  If we were tracking the creative instinct, then we could not intervene, we would only document what we found.  And just as immediately, we broke our rule. Not our fault. The creative instinct coaxed us to play.

There was something irresistible about crowning it with a stone spine. Perhaps it was for us a way of marking the beginning of something significant.  You never know when something is beginning until hindsight kicks in. We’ll return to this fine rebar creature in its many incarnations later in the story.

Until next time. 

The Stealth Art Collective

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