Tag Archives: Provincetown

A tangle of trees, a host of sunflowers

 

Indira Ganesan, Bright Yellow Flower, 2014
Indira Ganesan, Bright Yellow Flower, 2014

Today I was stuck in the subway for forty-five minutes, going from one line to the next.  Last week, though, I took a walk, and was very unstuck.

 

Thinking of Wordsworth, I came upon a host of sunflowers;

Indira Ganesan, Host of Golden Sunflowers, 2014
Indira Ganesan, Host of Golden Sunflowers, 2014

I did not neglect Virginia Woolf,

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the salt,

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the sand,

Indira Ganesan, Sand Bar, 2014
Indira Ganesan, Sand Bar, 2014the sea

the sea,

 

 

 

 

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All this beauty where I live.

  

 R.I.P. Mr. BK.S. Iyengar

Back at the Ranch

Indira Ganesan, Ocean with jasmine plant, 2014
Indira Ganesan, Ocean with jasmine plant, 2014

 

The need for a place to settle down, sigh into the space, and make plans to leave and return are part of the appeal of “home.”  Luckily, I have another year to hang my hat to remain in the same place.  As a writer or artist, The Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown provides temporary low-cost housing to Former Fellows to move back to town and produce work.  Five artists do just that, writing and painting in a beach community known for supporting the arts since the time of the Provincetown Players and Eugene O’Neill.  Readers of this blog know how I applied for a lottery, and had my name drawn out of a hat to live here, how I packed out and moved from my beloved community in Boulder because I no longer had a job.  Many times the first year and second year,  I wondered if I had made the right choice.  I planted a garden, admired the landscape, watched my novel get published, began a new job, fostered kittens and their mom, lost a friend to cancer, and struck a deer with my car.  By the time 2014 rolled around, I was waiting to hear from various job applications, grants, and the Work Center.  The spring passed in a blur of waiting and uncertainty, as I wondered what plans I could make for the fall, if I could make plans.

 

Indira Ganesan, weather watchers
Indira Ganesan, weather watchers

I raked Craigslist looking for apartments in Boulder, in Cambridge, In Boston.  I looked at  Princeton, and wondered if I should move back home to my aging parents.  Several bored nights, I wondered if I should pull up stakes for England, or France, or Italy, go to India.  Behind all this question was the unspoken thought: where can I write?  People say one can write anywhere and at any time, but I think a writer needs an anchor, a place so familiar and  unbothered that one can lose oneself in the words.  Hotel rooms work, if they have a view, but  I have never had more than a few days day at one.  I have to live somewhere for three years before I trust it enough to venture forth with cohesion onto  the page.  I don’t mean I do not write at all; I write constantly, but bits and pieces., but the long narrative, for me, requires me to trust my environment completely.

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Just a few days ago, I found out I had another year in my home, a delight.  It is an earned year, a year to write, a year to teach  a course on American Women Writers, a subject close to my heart, and whatever else might fall my way or I reach for with aim.  It is a year to contemplate the next move.  A year to see if any dahlias other than the one so far will sprout, a year to  water the plans and plants. A year for the cats to turn another year over, and a year for me to appreciate every day of it.

Indira Ganesan, So Comfortable, 2014
Indira Ganesan, So Comfortable, 2014

Approach, with mist, with expectation

Indira Ganesan, Summer in Sepia, 2013
Indira Ganesan, Summer in Sepia, 2013

Overcast skies that break into sun when the four o’clocks open.  A blue-mooned month. Night, and the streets are less crowded, but still lively, as the men laugh loudly, in a place they can call their own, and wed whom they want. Marriages on the beach; shark sightings, sail boats rides at sunset.  Treasures of summer, a season that included two recent fatalities.  One, a woman I had just met mid-summer at a reading, a librarian who loved books and writers.  Mist-filled mornings and night,with fog so thick it lashes onto the glass. Summer calls, hurry, hurry, I am here momentarily, so seize me quick.