IvanEwert.com

Many of you know that on September 23, red dust enveloped parts of Australia in the worst dust storm that continent has seen in nearly a century. You probably saw photos on news site, Flickr or in other digital media.

However, did you know there’s a magazine already available, two days later; which has collected them in print form?

Strange Light is now available through MagCloud, a service of Hewlett-Packard. Self-described as a “virtual magazine newsstand in the cloud,” MagCloud seems geared toward niche publishers, self-aggrandizement and fringe interests – but with Strange Light, I can see something else beginning to grow under their aegis.

The return to a tangible archival system seems delicious when you see these photos fully printed, something I’m loathe to admit as an environmentalist but forced to as an artist. The tactile addition to the artwork pulls me in, makes the oranges and reds seem far more real and alive.

It’s a trick of editing, of course, that made this hit me. Someone had the bright idea to collect what they thought to be the best representations of a moment in time, not only online but into a format that could, in theory, be handed down through generations. If you lived through the dust storm, I imagine that would have some appeal – and other savvy editors could easily capture other moments in time.

For example, Teabagger: The Magazine. If anyone does it, they owe me 50% of the profits.

(Incidentally, I first found MagCloud through Constellation Magazine, which is now publishing its Libra/Scorpio issue and is still well worth checking out, if you’re at all astrologically inclined.)

Why do I hang out in the places I do? Allow me to explain.

Le Petit Marche, my home away from home, makes sugar cookies bearing various flags.  Mostly American and French, given that we’re Americans and the bakery sells French goods. However, sometimes, the bakers wind up with a little extra frosting and a little extra time on their hands.

I walked in today to see the American flag, the French flag, and the White Tree of Gondor in array before me. I have some awesome geeks for friends.

Dawn, Sue, Missa, Jeanette and Kate: You have my flour. And my sugar. And my axe.

And the cookie was delicious.

January 6 and the thermometer marks 49 degrees – unnatural, bitterly unnatural; but undeniably pleasant. The snow which had stood shin-deep yesterday morning is all but gone, leaving behind a wet spread of grass too green for this time of year. What snow remains sends up steam-wraiths in a stiff south wind, carrying the damp further afield than ever it’s blown before.

I’ve been awake for four hours, though the sky is just now truly light enough to see through the dirt-pearl clouds above. Either that wind isn’t doing a thing so far into the heavens, or there is no end or beginning to the cloud cover, just a massive roll of singular color and no particular shape.

The wind can be heard here below, both in itself as it lows in from the south and in its effects: The rustle of bare branches, the snap of an American flag that hangs in the Cosley’s yard, the complaining cry of the chains holding a FOR SALE sign on three abandoned houses nearby. Those sounds pale to the cry of a lone crow, heralding his murder.

They’ve returned, after four long years. The West Nile that terrified humans slaughtered the crows, more than ninety percent of them vanished from the county. We once had murders thirty strong landing in our trees, calling to one another, coming to dine on the blocks of suet and scattered seeds and berries I laid out against autumn’s dearth and winter’s chill. It’s been four years since I heard the cries in greater numbers than two, but this month they came back with a vengeance.

They don’t remember the food I laid out for them, individually or through ancestral memory, and so the local squirrels run fat and sassy on the bounty I mean for the birds. It’s only a matter of time, though. Eventually one will raid a squirrel’s nest, looking for young flesh and blood; and will turn a black eye onto the picnics below. Then it’s war in my yard, a return to form between two tribes in the day and mobs of possums in the night.

That cry itself is undercut by the bells, eleven long tolls from Immanuel Lutheran. I don’t know why eleven bells at eight in the morning, but I don’t see much point in questioning it, either. Faith is faith and if that makes eleven out of eight, as long as they’re happy it’s little of my concern. The animals are fed, my coffee is strong, and I’m three hours into my writing.

The weather – the wind and the damp – were just a sabbatical. It’s time to go back to work.

There’s a really wonderful feeling you get on coming across someone else’s art, especially in a place where you never expected to see it.

I am deeply inspired by nature – by woods, prairie and the rapidly vanishing farmland around my home, by the deserts and rugged terrain I saw in the West, by the green mountains of my wife’s former home in the South. Since exercise is another great method of finding inspiration for me, I find that walking through a landscape does wonders for my mental health.

We spent part of Christmas Day walking though a local city park – Veteran’s Acres. I grew up across the street from this park and spent many days in the pine woods and prairies, fishing in the stocked pond or sledding down the hills. It’s full of nostalgia for me, and while it naturally seems smaller than it used to, it’s still capable of surprising me.

Back in the pine woods area of the park, we stumbled across this installation of fallen trees and branches. It’s difficult to put into words just how silent the pine forest is – how like a cathedral it seems, especially in winter, when few other visitors arrive and the birds are silenced or away to warmer climes.

Spotting this gave the forest a more primitive feel. Less of a cathedral now than some hidden, ruined temple; a place where someone found something meaningful and erected a memorial, knowing it would not last but putting forth the energy to create and build regardless. The sunlight washed out the
deciduous woods beyond, and the snow which lay on the ground was barely enough to cover the needles which had fallen, both verdant and maddish.

The pines are sickly – make no mistake. Half of them are dead, as you can see from the broken branches running up the trunks, and that added an even greater sense of solemnity to the joy you have to feel on coming across them. Is this the meaning of the installation – a gateway through which the spirits of departed trees must travel? You can’t say, and neither can I.

Even without ascribing any greater meaning to it, the installation spoke to me. The center pole’s height sets it apart, giving a human feeling to the entire piece. The angled piece running from the bottom right to upper left mirrors and contrasts the shadows on the ground, though that’s obviously dependent on the time at which I found it. The unnaturally straight rows in which the pines themselves have been planted created a canvas of empty space for this unknown artist to work with, and the placement of the center pole creates an even more striking feel to it.

The artist’s no Andy Goldsworthy, not unless things were much more ornate before I came across them. Seeing it in the middle of nowhere, though … a piece that isn’t trumpeted, isn’t signed, is located where only the lucky few might come across it?

To me, that’s inspirational.

Well, the holiday has passed us by and I think we did a pretty good job of it. I’ve updated the Flickr account with all the necessary photographic evidence, and probably some that was unnecessary.

There was a perfectly fried turkey, my first experience with that method of cooking; and vegetarian lasagne for that side of the troupe. Spiral cut ham and squash casserole, mashed potatoes and plenty of stuffing, beer and wine and Maker’s Mark for the after-dinner conversation. I saw almost the whole crew from Evolve and made some new friends, from Arlington Heights to Poland and a few steps in between.

As usual, most of the actual party conversation has fled with the coming of dawn; but I remember talking about prison and sickness, about health and hope. I remember discussing families and friends and all the wonderful ways those two can intersect one another. I remember talking about plans and dreams and regrets and challenges, about great moments in history and Guitar Hero strategies.

Mostly, though, I remember the fun that I had, the warmth of a friend’s hearth and home on a chilly night and a short ride back to my own comfortable bed. This is the way I’d like to see the holidays: close at hand and light of heart.