Friday, April 18, 2014

Puddles and sky, some of Gloria's favorite things

Photo credit here.
Photo credit here.
Gloria wondered what people did who didn't daydream.  Where did they take their minds for rest, other than sleep, to step away from elbows on the sidewalk, sardine conditions on the subway, tedium at their desks or simply too much, for the moment, of everything that wasn't quiet.  She lived a life that looked close to perfect and it was a pleasing existence, one in which she made her own choices, kept a schedule that she set, breathed the scent of the sea and fresh air, had days that never wanted for beauty.  Even in the almost-perfect, one needed to slip outside the tent.  We can be, she thought, truants in our own minds and no one would ever know.

Puddles and tide pools knew her name, just as though she were one of the fairies who perched on their edges, letting them mirror on unruffled surfaces what ordinary sight often failed to detect.  She found the reflection of sky in a puddle, especially with fast-moving clouds revealing expanses of blue, to be a small miracle.  Tea in a teaspoon, lifted to the lips for a temperature reading, seeing into or beyond the tiny, fragrant pond, asking questions of your own eyes.

Back to as young an age as she could remember, Gloria loved in equal measure puddles and clouds after a rain.  The summer squall that lingered beyond forecasters' expectations made her want to squeal with glee.  Instead, to maintain her disguise as a grown-up while at work, she bustled.  Every movement was quickened and exaggerated with what could be called flair, like a dancer's hands.  She was already borne along by the wind that stirred the curtains, could feel herself grow light, lighter.  All concerns scattered, everything open to the air, unencumbered.  Wind is the best broom, she told herself, no cobweb can withstand it. 

Monday, April 14, 2014

Word of the Week - 6

Since this is still National Poetry Month, the Word of the Week is WORDS.
Illustration by Kai Pannen.
Today's author of Poem-A-Day is Gregory Orr, who said, "When I write a poem, I process experience. I take what's inside me — the raw, chaotic material of feeling or memory — and translate it into words and then shape those words into the rhythmical language we call a poem. This process brings me a kind of wild joy. Before I was powerless and passive in the face of my confusion, but now I am active: the powerful shaper of my experience. I am transforming it into a lucid meaning."

Those of us who are not poets still face the task of wrestling, shoveling, wrangling and subduing words to do as we would have them do, to speak our truths.  Recent experiences with upgrading land lines and internet connections made me acutely aware of being precise about the questions I asked, about verifying what I had been told and then, when bits went awry, of explaining the situation unambiguously to the next representative.

Caring about words can be burdensome.  When only THE word will do, not finding it in the memory bank causes distress.  Second-best is not good enough in wordville.   As a girl, my mother had taken elocution lessons.  In those days it seemed to matter more than it currently does whether or not one could speak clearly and confidently.  As a result, my sister and I grew up following her patterns of speech.  Many a caller on the other end of the phone could not tell one of us from another.  It was once pointed out to me that I leave spaces around my words.  Yes, I do.  Without those space, I am more than capable of just blurting out any old thing, which can happen even with the spaces, but the chances decrease.

My admiration for poets is without limit.  They are my magicians, well, along with musicians and those who write songs for they have their own language, a version of words unknown to the uninitiated.  There is an aspect of writing that I think of as akin to moving furniture, if one had all the furniture in the world to choose from.  Words arranged just so become image, metaphor.  What the poets possess, the rest of us aspire to.  It is not different than the alchemy of cooking, knowing what a pile of ingredients will taste like when combined.  Words have their own alchemy, are their own alchemy, a wizard's tools, the wonder of letters stirred together to make this, Gregory Orr's "lucid meaning."  We can always hope.

Rave on words on printed page.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

A gift? Are you sure? It doesn't look like one.

Illustration by Shaun Tan.
Today's unanswerable question:  will we always know the gift when we meet it?

The thought that landed on me as I left an art project in the glue-drying stage was this:  what if all that we feel is most shameful, unacceptable, unwelcome, self-destructive and just ewwwwwww about ourselves is THE thing that somehow managed to keep us here so that we could grow into the people we were meant to become, people who have more than a vague sense why we are here?  Yes, I think and talk to myself in rambling, run-on sentences.

Some of us, and I count myself among them/us,  once found human existence more than we thought we could bear.  Depression was diagnosed but inefficiently treated and its poisonous swamp gas continued to swirl for years, decades, adding to the sense of despair and, mostly, of having done everything wrong.  Apathy and addictions do not enhance self-esteem.   One addiction, even two or three, faced down and surrendered still leaves the bunkhouse crowded with shifty layabouts.  Will I ever meet a shortbread cookie I don't like?  At least for me a combination of flattening medications and advancing age have kept me from continuing to take up with men with whom I, perhaps, ought not to have taken up.  But here is what I ponder.  What if the cookies and other foodstuffs that do not promote optimal health and what if the drama and sometimes danger of unsuitable companions blunted the pain just enough to make it possible to go on when without them I wouldn't still be here?  That could be true, couldn't it?  What if those sources of seemingly enduring shame were actually gifts, temporary life preservers, not intended to be used forever but only until no longer needed?

I feel that I'm approaching a crossroads, or maybe it is a summit, after which I and my path will no longer look the same.  I have been coming to it, at it, for some time, in the growing company of writing and art and love.  There is so much I want to do, so much about what I do that fills me with awe at my good fortune.  And that's with various, let us call them limitations.  I can imagine what all this would be like with restored or at least enhanced strength, vitality, agility and options.  I absolutely believe, whatever IT is, it takes as long as it takes.  A great benevolent hand has gotten me this far.  How much easier its job if it didn't have to carry quite as much of me, if I could get back to something more identifiable as self-propulsion. 

To see shortcomings not as failures but as training wheels, part of the process of becoming, necessary until they're not, what a revelation that would be.  I am still, in a way, thinking out loud in answer to my question.  I feel there is truth in it, not just an easy out for not yet having become entirely moderate and sensible and consistent.  I may never be all of those at the same time or I may.  I didn't believe I could do many of the things that are now part of me.  Yes, I expect miracles.  I have experienced too many to stop now.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Word of the Week 5

Word of the Week:  PALIMPSEST
Palimpsest art by  Marie-Therese Wisniowski
A simplification of the noun's meaning is: a manuscript (usually written on papyrus or parchment) on which more than one text has been written with the earlier writing incompletely erased and still visible.  The word speaks to me of a more personal rewriting, of how the people we used to be bleed through the strata of time, how the scrims that occlude our past selves are thinner, more revealing in some spots than others, how remnants of our histories allow us to reinterpret the parts we can decipher.

My ruminant tendencies are heightened in the middle of some nights.  They may be prompted by dreams or, more likely, result from a sudden awakening that leaves me vulnerable to previously unrealized possibilities.  I have sanded and scraped away bits of 28 years in two marriages, the first begun when I was 18, and even through gesso and acrylic washes, decades of becoming,  I find those younger selves waiting, looking to me for enlightenment.  In a palimpsest, what had been recorded is not quite here, not quite gone.  I observe with eyes either more knowing or more kind.  The boys/men benefit from these gauzy revisits, as though some of what has been eroded is a hardness of heart in response to pain.  There is greater forgiveness for all that I could not have known, appreciation for being not only still here, but softened rather than steeled.  Blame and fault grow more faint on the page.  Where the words can't be decoded, they appear as dots and blotches.  Love's great speckled egg.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Dreaming 101: Gloria and Robert

Among the yet-uncounted overlappings that Gloria and Robert held in common were vivid dreams.  Not that they occurred each night yet were present often enough and for enough years that each of them was never unaware that what they dreamed was as specific and detailed as a topographical map.  Instead of elevations and land forms,  they were shown the contents of drawers down to the shortest pencil stub.  Ink colors on the 80-percent-used book of matches from a once favored club in San Francisco were bright and true, the phone number with word prefix legible.  In dreaming conversations secrets were revealed in a way that didn’t alarm or even surprise but explained the why of what had been a mystery.  As participants and on-lookers, each was aware of the fabric print and weave, the cut and fit of a garment, along with the radiating warmth of the companion who wore it.  They had not spoken of this simply because they had not yet gotten around to it, or perhaps because they already knew.

In the past Gloria kept a dream journal, as did Robert, where they recorded as fast as they could write the details of each forest and pond, suitcase and hotel front desk, take-out food order and bird’s-eye view of an Asian river, every word spoken or thought.  Each hoped preserving the minutae of these unconscious excursions, however baffling they were as first experienced,  would grow the collection of tools needed during waking hours.  They wished to know themselves.  Even more, they wished to see behind the veil.  In their once distant and separated lives, they both half-suspected they might have simply been making it all up.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Catching up - Word of Last Week - 4

Cut off from the internet and unable to meet my own deadlines for nearly a week, I will eventually catch up.  Or close to it.

Word of Last Week:  UNMATCHED

“I stood willingly and gladly in the characters of everything - other people, trees, clouds. And this is what I learned, that the world's otherness is antidote to confusion - that standing within this otherness - the beauty and the mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books - can re-dignify the worst-stung heart.”
Mary Oliver
Illustration by Sarah S. Stillwell.
For me it was occasionally socks of two almost matching colors, there is more than one shade of brown, or the skirt and sweater in differing, incompatible shades of blue, or so Sandy Lansdale told me in the 7th grade.  She didn't use the word outre which would have been my mother's choice but her vehemence kept me from ever again wearing those two garments together.  Thinking then of unmatched, it never suggested without peer, special,  rare, stand-alone.  In sets of paper dolls, girlfriends who looked to be the same age but not related each came with a plaid dress.  As I mentally wrote the dialogue for their imaginary conversations, they once agreed that all would wear a plaid dress to school on the same day.   They viewed this as a unifying statement, proof of a superior sameness.  They stood in for the real girls, born around 1944 or 1945 who owned at least two plaid dresses each, replaced when outgrown but often kept as the hem and waistline crept up and up  until perhaps the fourth grade when, for me, clothing from the children's department no longer fit.

Even in my Brownie or Scout uniform, I felt the moved-off-to-the-side separation of the overbaked Cheerio or ill-formed animal cracker.  The cheese stands alone.  I suspect it is the rare child who finds true, deep comfort in being the only one to see how much Aunt Dorothea resembles the actress on the magazine cover when everyone tells her, in so many words, that she's crazy, there is nothing the same about them.  An ability to see or know beyond is not welcomed in most families.  Time and its grace change that, replacing isolation with attachment to what is unmatched or unequaled within its own sphere.  There is such majesty in being the only one of us that will ever exist, a singleton, not relegated to the small table near the door to the kitchen but a presence, embodiment of grandeur, beaming with unique yet universal light without which the world, the galaxy would be too dim and cold to bear.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Spoonflower, my new best friend

Photos, hence the unironed folds, etc., of the fabric pieces as mentioned in yesterday's Facebook post.  Here is a link that may or may not take you to my page or gallery or what-have-you.  They are under the name buttonbunny, which is what I picked without thinking a few years ago when I first signed up.  Good luck trying to go back and change it, though I may still try.  There are a few other patterns of which I have not yet ordered sample fabric but think I will having seen these.  My first attempt, with the computer skills of a right-brained 69-year-old.  It is an amazing world.