If a picture's worth a thousand words, what are twenty five photos worth? And does this have anything to do with a train traveling from Saint Louis moving at forty miles an hour meeting another leaving from Atlanta hurtling down the tracks at ninety miles an hour? The price of tea in China? The number of fleas on a camel's back?

Here's the math I'd rather stick to:

Artfest Tuition: $600
Canon Powershot  Camera $196
Airfare from Bali to arrive at Artfest late due to a missed flight: $XX27
_______________
Laughing like hyenas while playing in a world filled with color: PRICELESS

(Guess the Mastercard folks won't be hiring me anytime soon to do their commercials.)

But the memories truly are priceless.

I have to say this was the most trying day at ArtFest, but certainly the most rewarding. Aimee and I took Michael deMeng's class "What a Relief!" learning how to take old, cheap, clunky frames and turn them into...whudidhecallit?...Assem-blage (pronounced very frou frou and Frenchy). Because I'd been in Bali for a month, I came to this event empty-handed. I had to trust Aimee to score all the materials. The one request I made was "If there's to be a theme, make mine Wonderland or The Circus. Or The Wonderland Circus." She so scored. Dude. She came bearing white rabbit keychains and teacups and pocket watches. Oh my. And the adorable flamingo hat I'm wearing above. (Why Aimee is attempting to bite the head off said Flamingo is another story all together. You'll have to wait on that one. But it has something to do with mistaking the shimmery pink Flamingo fluff for the mirage-like glimmer of cupcake frosting.) I was so elated just by all the Wonderland goodness, my tired, sore, jetlagged ass did jumping jacks on the military-issue cot-like beds we were given.

So the day began well enough. Hopes were high even if sleep hours had been low (belly laughing and jack jumping and snorting til all-hours can do that to you.) Michael quickly overwhelmed us with instructions and options and beautification-through-uglification insights. I tell you, it's difficult to create anything with your inspired eyeballs rolled back into your head. But we managed.

Eight hours later (we worked straight through lunch and then stayed after--almost missing dinner) we had completed our masterpieces. For first-timers, I'm quite impressed with both of us. Here are the images of my piece entitled...ummm...it doesn't have a title yet. "At the Heart of Wonderland" perhaps? Maybe you guys can help me come up with something.

(Make sure to click it if you want to see the details! The photos enlarge! Aimee's is here and it's stunning!)

Well I'm home again, home again, jiggity jigg. But man do I feel like I've been hit upside the head with the blunt end of a whale carcass. I've spent the past week on the couch and I so know this is not jetlag. It's some kind of weird flu. Doctor says probably viral so I have to wait it out or go to the hospital if things get worse. Yay. So pardon the quiet. I'm soaking up doggie lovin', chai, and lots of couch time.

 I know it's crazy, but due to a missed flight in Denpasar, Bali, I arrived at Artfest in Port Townsend, Washington at 8:30 a.m. on Thursday, April 2. Class began at 9 a.m. I'd traveled fourteen thousand miles in 2 and a half days and had slept only 7 of the 56 hours it took me to complete my journey.

As luck would have it, my first class was with writer Susan Wooldridge. Her poetry workshop allowed me to give voice to my zombie-fication under the guise of class participation.

I think this poem proves that I write better when I don't think. The writing prompt suggested we begin our thoughts with "I feel" and "Bring me" (hence the use of both--and what a freakin' godsend for the braindead, these prompts!)

**********************************************

I feel shadowed,
pursued by an Odyssean star
trekking through twilight
sails set for dawn--
three transpacific flights
in forty eight hours
plastic oxygen and fluorescent lights
aboard a tin can bird in the sky.

I've just arrived from Bali
via Seoul, via Chicago, via Seattle
a tattered vagabond,
hatches battened for high winds,
delayed flights,
turbulence.
I need a Dewey button for the longest
journey ever made to Artfest--
maybe a sash and a crown,
a bouquet of congratulations.

I feel over-pink, saddle sore,
like a blister.
I need release. I need relief.
Sleep.

But oh the journey is long and long
stretching back beyond miles
and momentos,
beyond silver-leafed souvenirs
beyond blurred photographs
taken from the back of a crowded motorbike,
beyond sandalwooded canopies
and yellow fragrant rice,
beyond ponds made of rose petals
and ginger-flavored milk,
beyond the rows of women
braiding palm fronds for Krishna
stringing marigolds for Ganesh
lighting incense to Buddha, to Shiva, to Life.

I feel worn.
Stained from coffee and sweat,
too much sun.
Haggard with beauty-exhaustion,
overripe and ready to fall
to the ground.
I need reclamation.
Redemption.
Resusci-fuckin-tation.

But bring me the neck aches,
the stiff muscles,
the limp bones,
the lopsided grins.
I'll trade each of them for memory
and call myself rich.
Rich with the slick silk of Python
and Elephant's burlap back.
Rich with saffron tea and tangled monkey tails.
Rich with green-grassed terraces
and dragons made of moss,
stones older than sky,
volcano songs,
thunder songs,
hymns made of sun-drenched wind,
villages whose ancestors still dance
under temples made of trees
and smiles made of yes.

Bring me the wayfaring journey,
the wandering moon over
Orian's skies
for my heart is a battered
light-drinking pilgrim.
I stand at the gates of Jet Lag,
braiding palm fronds,
stringing marigolds, lighting incense.

For me the sojourning soul
wearied and hungry,
thick-eyed and limping,
awash in surrender.
Bring me your wild abandon whim.
I'll trade this one-way ticket
for a carousel horse
pierced with wanderlust,
tattooed with joy
spilling Polaroids of laughter.

Bring me a lullaby.
Bring me a Tylenol.
Bring me a nap.

Bring me alive.

 I am really conflicted about all the penis action in Bali. First, we have numerous statues, like this one, that seem to insinuate the Balinese are quite proud of their-ahem!-manhood. I mean, people, somebody bothered to sculpt and then BRONZE this baby, whose unofficial title is "Save a Horse, Ride a Cockboy". (Or, "On the Good Ship, Do-Lollypop).

Also, on the cheaper side of things, you have penis key rings, penis bottle openers, penis pipes, penis lamps, all carved from teak wood. And the sizes, like the above sculpture, are quite staggering. One might think one had wandered into a Doc Johnson shop, or a Long-Dong-Silver video.

But then you've got reality, or what one could only deduce as reality. If you've read Eat Pray Love then you know that Wayan, Liz's Balinese herbalist friend, referred to the male schlongage as "a banana". And she wasn't just being cute. Today at the market my buddy Jaq finally summoned up the courage to ask about the rows and rows of penis shaped items. "What are those?" she asked all innocent-like, like they could possibly rare Balinese sundials or some kind of strange wind instrument. "That banana!" the woman said with a huge grin.

So imagine my surprise when I check into my new room at the Bali Niksoma and waiting for me on the terrace is a rather beautiful plate of fruit, two bananas posing innocently next to a pomegranate and pineapple. I submit for your review a photograph of said bananas. Now you tell me, if the Balinese male member is being referred to as a banana, and this is the average size of a banana in Bali, what's up with the gargantuan penis statues? If life isn't imitating art, is art imitating...wishful thinking? Someone have a little fruit envy? Can we say overcompensation? One does wonder at the truth behind the banana. Let's just say if you wanna save a horse and ride a Balinese cowboy, you better make it a double. Just to be safe.

I found her! Oh yes I did! "Stop the car!" I shrieked as we drove by her today, afraid I was only seeing a mirage induced from motion sickness and vinyl seats under an unforgiving sun. But there she was, a Balinese version of Baba Yaga, or so I deemed her.

Those of you who know me have heard me rave of Baba Yaga, a Russian fairy tale that features a brave young girl and a shrewd, capricious witch of dark and dangerous power. I used to be turned off by her warty grotesqueness, but now I embrace her fully. She's moved into my psyche where she's helped me become wise, cunning, comfortable with wrinkles (sorta) and impatient with bullshit.

The sixty-something year old shop keepers (brothers, I'm assuming) at this antique store must have thought I'd lost my mind to want photos of her. And I didn't stop there. I posed with her and asked them to snap a shot of us together. They muttered something to each other under their breath which I am sure equated to "Crazy White Woman." But I don't care. Sagging boobs and aging skin, I'm getting closer to Baba Yaga every day. How delish I can pose with her now, at 40. Think of this as the "before" photo. Maybe I'll be back in forty years for the "after" photo. One can hope.

The clothes! The face! The headgear! The accessories! IS SHE NOT TO DIE FOR??? Is it just me or am I destined to want to bring home all things hugely over-the-top and utterly impractical?