Zencatangle

I made up that word!  I like it.  Is it a dance?  A kind of puzzle?   A children's toy?  A bird?  A plane?

No it's just a made up word combining the ideas of Zentangle (which is a form of meditative doodling I learned about a few weeks ago) and this crazy Pi cat as seen on the hood of The Player's car as I was heading off to work Friday morning.

I do love my cell phone's features.  Camera.  Compass.  Maps.  Timers.  Alarms.  Stopwatch.  Internet search ability.  Animation program.  Games.  Did I forget anything?  Oh, yes... you can CALL PEOPLE and TALK TO THEM!  Wowee wow wow!

Here are some of my zentangles:

Materials needed - little squares of watercolor paper and a 0.01 mm pen.  Pencil is nice to start your boundaries and then they can be erased or covered up with pen.  The idea is to have some standard patterns you use in different sections of the piece that you can draw and fill in while you focus on breathing and drawing.  It can be very relaxing if you are in the right state of mind, and then when you are done, you have a little piece of original doodle-art.

January 18, 2011 Day Twelve

Her arms arc gracefully, symetrically overhead:  two swans' necks or two cobras.  Where hands would be, small loops of pewter.  Her head erect, no features are carved into the face or neck.  Two perfect breasts on a slim torso widen into luscious hips.  Instead of legs a dagger-like blade, rounded at its tip, soft, too soft to kill but fit to plunge into earth, marred by the teeth of my sister's curious dog  (The chewed-up goddess necklace.)

January 13, 2011 Day Eleven

A glass, round base, clear stem, goblet reflecting a journal of home-made paper, a white laptop, this notebook.  Deep ruby wine trembles as subtle movements of my hand across the page disturb the equilibruim, a small earthquake of words.  The earth does not split open, wine-colored lava does not flow, but minute shifts in fluid, small readjustments visible until my hand pauses, my breath, my eyes.  I am still.  The wine quiets and settles, praises the stillness, begs to be tasted.

January 12, 2011 Day Ten

The mirror is about a foot wide, about two-and-a-half feet high, or about two-and-a-half feet wide and a foot hight, depending of course on how you position it.  The border is wood, a thin golden frame inside, next the climbing roses painted in a repeating pattern of arced vines, one pink-red bud, then one bursting full pink bloom.  The pattern faces inward on three sides but on the fourth, one of the longer sides, it is reversed.  Here the vines move away from the mirror and the bud is invisible.  Only a hint of the full flower is there, trailing off the edge into the thin gold frame.

Why the asymmetry?

Why not the asymmetry,  answers back.

When I look into the mirror itself, I am there, of course.  I am head, neck, Unicef-logo t-shirt filling the space.  Or I am smiling face off to one side and I see the room behind me, my coffee cup, my hand moving a red and white pen. Depending, of course.

January 10 Day Nine

It's about time for this old toothbrush to be replaced.  The bristles no longer line up in neat erect rows.   They fall outward along the edges, curling and bent like ice-laden tree branches.  The neck of the brush, once clear, has a dull white glaze of old toothpaste and spit.

The body still youthful, a pink arced torso, the center transparent except for seven pink ribs across the area where my thumb rests when I brush my teeth.  These ribs still my hand, allow me to guide her.  Further down the brush is as new, the unused handle, a bridge, a rise on the horizon of the day.

January 9 Day Eight

The mixing bowl is large enough to hold a basketball.  The rim is unglazed, the color of sand.  A few black specks look like stones on the beach, but one of those is a small hole in the ceramic, a piper's footprint or the burrowing of a sand crab.

The outer surface of the bowl is a shiny gray-brown tone.  There is a rim along the top about an inch-and-a-half wide, perfect for holding the bowl, steadying or carrying it.  There are chips along the lower part of the rim and around the base of the bowl, too.  It is a bowl for a brave cook:  it can take a few chips and remain a bowl. 

Inside, the surface is smooth save one area with three smll indentations that must be the thumbprints of the potter as she lifted it off the wheel.  There is no other sign of the origin of the bowl, no brand or stamp on it's base.

When I hold the bowl in my own hands and feel its smoothness, its weight, its imperfections,  I see her handing me the bowl across time and space.  Here is my work, the potter says, here is my hand, here is your bowl.

January 8 Day Seven

The girl in the photo has soft brown curls that are worn short.  Even with her chin tilted slightly upward her hair does not reach her collar.  Her long neck, her downcast wideset eyes as she looks straight ahead, her arched eyebrows all give the impression she antipates something even beyond the flash of the camera.  She isn't exactly smiling but her lips are parted and she has one tooth that is smaller than the rest:  still a baby tooth.  Her shoulders are narrow, a little girl in a pink t-shirt, so slight yet her expression suggests a strength larger than her frame, a patience greater than her years, an infinite capacity for wonder.