Trivial matters

I keep threatening to quit blogging. I'm thinking about it, but I can't quite do it. I can't write about what I want to, either.

I'm engaged in a struggle. I could blog about trivial matters, the things (according to Google Analytics) that people want to read about (bad hair cuts, mattresses), or I can try to blog about what really matters to me. But, oh, that's hard.

I can write about nonsense and memories pretty easily. It's not great art by any means. I just write as if I'm talking to someone, or to myself. I correct a typo now and again. Done.

This other stuff, I can't quite access it. I have this problem when I try to talk or write about Buddhism. I feel stupid and inarticulate. I can't find the words. I become convinced that I am stupid, and have been blind to it.

I know that's not true, but it feels true, as feelings tend to do. Feelings are such good liars.

The truth is I'm overwhelmed by too much information that I have no idea how to integrate. I've had this problem since I was a kid. When I was in the 5th grade, I had to write a paper (probably called a "report") on Geronimo. I had an adult library card, and I took out every book about Geronimo. That wasn't enough. I took out every book that had the name Geronimo in the index (or so I thought - I doubt that was possible). I read every single one of them. I took meticulous notes on index cards and put them into shoe boxes. My room was filled with boxes. When the paper was due, I had not even started it. A month of weeks went by, and I did not explain to the teacher what was going on. I was overwhelmed. I had no idea how to express what I'd read. Did I understand it? I think I did, in a way, but I was no genius. I wanted to write about the problem of the Native Americans, our country's history, assimilate all this information, but I could not, and I was too embarrassed to tell the truth.

I wound up bringing in all my shoeboxes filled with note cards over a period of days. I vaguely remember the bemused and compassionate eyes of that teacher. She gave me a good grade even though I never wrote the paper.

Y'know, I don't think she should have. I was always a sloppy thinker. I went to private school in 10th grade, and was confronted with significantly higher standards than I was used to. Did I rise to the occasion? Nope. I was too used to coasting. At first I was excited by the great teachers who didn't dumb down the classes, who gave us truly tough stuff to wrestle with. I read for pleasure, but I couldn't be bothered with the hard work of writing a cogent argument, or explaining what I'd read. Please, don't make me explain it.

I haven't changed. It's not that I mind working, or studying hard. I just can't explain. I don't want to explain. I don't want to intellectualize.

Maybe that's okay, but there's so much I want to express that's so damned hard, and I've grown tired of my lazy and blurry thinking. I have no idea if I can change. Sometimes I think I'm disabled in some way; I just can't do it.

I guess I'll find out. Not today.

Image note: Tried to find a painting of languid opium smokers to illustrate "fuzzy thinking." Didn't find one that wasn't protected by copyright. Then I thought of Francis Bacon's strange heads. Not in the public domain. The ones I could cadge are too scary (good for the last post). Came across a new artist (for me) - Nassar Azam. Gave up. See what I mean about lazy thinking? Yet, I spent 45 minutes looking at images and learning some new things. What do I have to say about Azam and Bacon? Nothing.

So, I give you the pair of fingerless mitts I knit and designed for Good Karma Farm. They are cozy.

And yeah, I believe I wrote about my fuzzy thinking just last week. I can't be bothered to go back and check.

PS. Too much "I" in this. Way too much. Therein lies the problem. . .

Missing

It's been nearly three years since I closed my tattoo studio. All my equipment has been sold. Tonight, I can not sleep. I feel the desire to tattoo. Drawing or painting won't satisfy that desire, and if I explained it, it would probably sound bizarre.

I used to have school groups come up to my shop on field trips. How funny, in retrospect. Once, a kid asked, "Are you a sadist?" The teacher told him it was an inappropriate question, but I said I thought it was fair. After all, I spent my working hours hurting people. I could have painted or drawn on paper or canvas, but I plied by trade in blood and skin. I do not remember what I said in answer to this young man, but now I think that I probably am a sadist, in the strict sense of the word, even though I did what I could to lessen the pain of being tattooed (yes, folks, one can do that).

I have often said getting tattooed can become an addiction, but now I think tattooing itself is, too.

I miss the whole bloody mess.

The first time I tattooed someone other than myself, I was scared. I was also excited. Hmm. Does it sound like I'm talking about sex? Perhaps, though I don't remember thinking "I hope I don't scar this person for life" when I lost my virginity.

So, what's the difference between tattooing and painting? For me, it's the struggle. Painting and drawing came easily to me. Tattooing was hard. There was always this crazy tension, and I got a rush out of it most days. Some days it would drain me completely. In the end, I didn't want to go to "work", when once I happily worked six days a week, sometimes twelve hours a day in a street shop, drawing flash or making needles on my so-called days off. The guy I did an apprenticeship with told me he wouldn't take me unless I was willing to "eat, sleep, and shit tattoos" and I did.

I'm skirting the question of sadism, I know. Did I enjoy hurting people? In a way, I must have. I was (and still am) opposed to the use of topical anesthetics. Take the pain out of the equation, and something ineffable is lost. I enjoyed the act of tattooing when tattoos were seen as rites of passage, rites of feeling, of memory, of bonding, acts of manhood (and womanhood), marks of internal pain, and of triumph. I, as tattooist, felt, at times, shaman-like, and this is a powerful feeling. Is a shaman a sadist? Is a doctor a sadist? Sometimes yes. Sometimes no.

Now I"m not so sure of my original thought about my answering "yes" to the question.

I do not know.

Like a painter loves his rags, I loved the paper towels covered with pigment and blood. Though some people challenged me, (fish factory workers at the end of a work day), I loved the smell of the work - bodies, sweat, sometimes the scent of shampoo or perfume, green soap, betadine, and again, blood.

I loved working with music cranked up loud. I'd be high on it, tapping out rhythms with my left foot while my right foot was on the pedal to the power supply. It was like driving over 100 miles per hour without any fear (and no cops).

And yeah, sometimes I enjoyed what can only be called the fight. No one calls a midwife a sadist, do they? Some tattoo sessions felt like helping someone birth a child. One guy I remember so well - a big tat on his concave stomach, from hips to under his nipples. I'd tattooed him before, and he had no problem with it. But on his tender belly (like many), well, that was another story. Every minute of that six hours was excruciating. He would not give in, get up, or give up. He'd see it through. Sweating in pain, I by turns encouraged him, teased him, told him totally inappropriate jokes, made him push through longer spells without a cigarette break. . .and yeah, I enjoyed myself.

Maybe it's only about power. How often does a five foot tall woman feel stronger than a man over six feet?

I can see I'm going to go off on a huge tangent, and I'm getting quite sleepy, so I'll just let this entry peter out. . .there'll be no neat bow tying this one up, nor any fancy catchphrase to end it.

Image note: I don't know who to attribute this photo to. I found it on the web. I imagine these folks worked in the circus. When I became a tattooist, my father said to me, "You're going to become a circus side show freak." My, times have changed, though, damned if I don't yearn just a little bit for the days when tattooing and being tattooed were rare and freakish enough to gain one entry into the world of the true outsider.

Hodgepodge

In the month plus that I haven't blogged (or written, as we used to call it), I've been thinking. I've tried to write, but the thoughts going through my mind have become difficult to articulate, and as I'm not skilled in thinking (or writing) precisely, and am prone to a certain kind of intellectual laziness, these half baked ideas of mine have sat gathering proverbial dust in the virtual drafts folder.

I think "I'll get back to that", but I don't.

So, what have I come here tonight to share with you?

Too many disparate ideas are competing for my attention. I no longer suffer from the endless chattering of self-talk that I used to, so don't imagine there's a cacophony of thought in this head of mine. No, thoughts come slowly, and then fade away. This is one reason it is hard to write. I can't do math in my head, nor play a game of chess decently, for I don't think in pictures, and the little I do fades away too quickly to snatch at. I don't know how I think, quite frankly. "They" say we all think and learn in different ways - visually, musically, physically - I don't remember all the categories, and won't cheat and google the answer (I think you get the point). Well, I think I think in no such way. I can't name it.

I'd thought I was done with blogging because I was done with the business or pleasure of story telling. The urge to disgorge myself of semi-secrets and memories had left me. I still love to tell stories, but they no longer feel like they are mine, nor do I have the urge to be known the way I once was or did. I may be lying to myself to preserve my sanity. Perhaps. I've come to appreciate greatly the company of strangers, and seem to feel no need to tell much of myself. I bought a pack of gum earlier this evening, and the exchange between me and the cashier was a perfectly good social interaction.

But, the exchange of ideas, well, I miss that at times. It just occurred to me that I used to share the minutaie of life on this blog. I've been baking muffins of late, and if this were a year ago, I would have blogged about it every week. If it were two years ago, I would have blogged about it every time I baked a batch. I would have regaled or bored you, depending on your taste, with news of buckwheat, raisins, walnuts versus pecans, a new stainless steel cooling rack, why I want a professional muffin tin, muffin eating as addiction, my fear of getting fat on muffins, my distaste for the smell of buttermilk, the discovery of yoghurt as a perfect substitute, how recipes call for too much sugar, my constitutional inability to follow a recipe exactly, having two kinds of butter in the 'fridge, how my kitchen counter is impossible to keep clean and why, how this entry is making me want a muffin, and lastly, where the word "muffin" comes from. And that would not have been the last you'd hear of any of it, I'm sure.

And then there's my sudden fascination with the Civil War. I finally succumbed to a national obsession in this time of the tea parties, trying to make sense of this country of mine (and don't get me started on how I don't believe in nation states, and don't really think of this as "my country"). That, I believe, is what's driving my desire to get back to blogging. I'm fascinated with my own ignorance, and quite frankly, I'm horrified by other people's of late.

So, with that, merely a preamble to what, hopefully, will come, I'm about to conclude, well. . .nothing. Just saying hello, again: "Hello", and wondering what's been fascinating you.

Image note: When faced with the question "knit or write?", knitting has won out. In the last two weeks, I've knit five hats, two pairs of fingerless mitts, and one shawl, while listening to nearly 27 hours of Yale's David Blight lecturing on the Civil War. Lecturing! What a terrible word. It conjures up wagging fingers or watching a clock's second hand move oh so slowly clicking into place for what seems like an eternity as one waits for a bell to signal the end of a class taught by one who has long ago lost any passion for their subject matter. I hung on Professor Blight's every word, though I was knitting.

Yesterday's woods

I stopped and stared at a pile of scat. Something else was there, but I did not see it for a while. A porcupine's bones. I picked up one piece of vertebrae. The foramen (a fancy word for hole) once held the spinal cord. A sentient being! A little ways away was what was left of the jaw with teeth intact. The teeth were fascinating. They looked like little packets of paper burnt at the edges, only harder (like teeth).

One cedar twisted itself entirely around another tree. Another simply (simply?) twisted up to the sun. They all twist in the same direction. In the southern hemisphere, trees twist in the other direction. I thought of hula hooping. Most of us tend to spin the hoop clockwise. Do folks below the equator tend to spin the other way?

I'm delighted when I have questions like this. I feel grateful I have not lost my almost absurd curiosity.

In the woods, I felt awed, and I'm grateful, too, for that. Once, someone said to me, "Once you've seen one tree, you've seen them all." It was not in jest. Another person said the same thing to me about bald eagles with annoyance when I'd stopped my car to watch one swoop in from the bay.

I'd thought I'd lost all my "firsts" in life, and had been feeling wistful. It is not so. I had never seen a tree scratched by a bear until yesterday , nor had I seen a porcupine's tooth. But even if I had not seen these things, I am never bored by trees or birds or flowers or clouds or even a pile of dung. For this, I suppose I am lucky.

An afterthought: I feel I must have seen a a bear's scratchings before, in the Smoky Mountains certainly. . .but I have forgotten. Recently, someone told me that losing one's memory had a good side - one could re-read one's favorite books and be delighted (or not).

Blog, interrupted.

I listened to an old episode of This American Life today, called "Somewhere Out There", about finding "the one", that one true love, one special friend - y'know, all that youthful optimism of young friends and lovers - forever and ever, amen.

Well.

I took a pause, collected my thoughts, and then heard the sound of incoming email. Must check it! There's a link to a video, The Dead Weather on Letterman.

I may have lost my romanticism, but my love of rock n' roll is not dead. Is that romantic? Nah.I still like passion in music.

So, to heck with the wistful posting. What's left is a link to Randy Travis' sappy 1987 country hit, "Forever and Ever Amen", and the first paragraph, in which I accidentally referenced his song.

So much for getting back to blogging. Besides, I shouldn't be typing. I've got tendonitis and my hand hurts.

Since this has become a post full of references and links, here's a poem I once spent an awfully long time memorizing for you to munch on, "The Dirty Hand" by Carlos Drummond De Andrade, translated loosely by Mark Strand:

My hand is dirty.
I must cut it off.
To wash it is pointless.
The water is putrid.
The soap is bad.
It won’t lather.
The hand is dirty.
It’s been dirty for years.

I used to keep it out of sight,
in my pants pocket.
No one suspected a thing.
People came up to me,
Wanting to shake hands.
I would refuse
and the hidden hand,
like a dark slug,
would leave its imprint on my thigh.
And then I realized
it was the same
if I used it or not.
Disgust was the same.

Ah! How many nights
in the depths of the house
I washed that hand,
scrubbed it,
polished it, dreamed it would turn to diamond or crystal
or even, at last,
into a plain white hand,
the clean hand of a man,
that you could shake, or kiss,
or hold in one of those moments
when two people confess
without saying a word.
Only to have the incurable hand,
lethargic and crablike,
open its dirty fingers.

And the dirt was vile.
It was not mud or soot
or the caked filth of an old scab
or the sweat of a laborer’s shirt.
It was a sad dirt
made of sickness and human anguish.
It was not black;
black is pure.
It was dull,
a dull grayish dirt.
It is impossible
to live with this gross hand
that lies on the table.

Quick!
Cut it off!
Chop it to pieces
and throw it into the ocean.
With time,
with hope and its machinations,
another hand will come,
pure, transparent as glass,
and fasten itself to my arm.

Thinking about tattoos, still

A Facebook comment got me thinking about tattoos again. I suppose I do think about them often enough, as it is. After all, I was a tattooist for 15 years, a good chunk of my life. Often, I long to do it again, but my hands are shot. I had tattooed for some years that way, and I was hurting myself daily, and not being able to work as well as I once did. I couldn't live with that, and so I stopped.

I also had terribly mixed feelings about tattoos themselves. I never understood the urge to be a tattooed person, though I had it myself. The first time I saw someone being tattooed, not a tattoo itself, I wanted to get one. I went to every tattoo shop I could find (not an easy task way back when), and was refused over and over. I wasn't yet 18. Luckily, I knew no one who tattooed from their home and it never occurred to me to pick up a needle and ink and do it myself.

The other thing that made me wait was one tattoo artist that told me not to get a tattoo until I was absolutely sure I'd never be a part of normal society. This in itself will give some idea of how long ago this was.

In spite of the fact that approximately 1 in 8 people in the United States now have at least one tattoo, I still hold that there is something essentially true about the seemingly outdated advice that this unknown tattooist gave to me.

The motivations for marking one's skin permanently are myriad, and so little examined by those that get and give them. Just ask yourself this simple question, "Would you want to wear the same shirt for the rest of your life?" Some might say "yes" with comfort and perhaps even pride. Bikers wear their jackets and their colors for a lifetime, or hope that they will. Same with a military person, anyone who wears a uniform.

Therein lies the contradiction of the identity of a tattooed person. The notion is that a tattoo reflects a person's unique identity, but the tattoo marks that identity now as a "tattooed person." Not so unique, no matter how hard one tries. Add to this that what one's tattoo looks like the same ones of those you identity with and what the passing fads of the year are, and the conundrum multiplies.

Here in New York, I'm seeing hundreds of Japanese sleeves these days. Beautiful art, no doubt, but identity? What part of a person finds meaning in the goldfish, the tiger, the rolling clouds, the lightning, the ties to the centuries of Japanese culture and to the Yakuza? Borrowed imagery, borrowed identity. For years it was "tribal" work, other years a million Godsmack suns across America, Japanese calligraphy, Celtic knots. . .

Upon my own body, I have a mishmash of borrowed culture. There's nothing wrong with that in itself, but ultimately, I see it as empty. For years, I covered my arms and legs. The weather is getting warm, and now I have little choice but to uncover. The person who acquired these tattoos long ago is no longer with me. Who I am today is not who I was decades ago. I am not ashamed of my tattoos but it's not who I am. I am not part of the heavily tattooed "tribe", even if I look like it.

I hear about pride at having the guts to wear such altered skin forever. This is a false pride and a false stance. It's a scream that demands a response from strangers at first meeting: "accept me." I find this a childish notion. It is the cry of a little child who needs unconditional love. It's the longing for belonging. It's the desire to have others accept us as we are underneath the skin, and that altered skin wears the owner's longings for a lifetime.

As tattoos became more acceptable, those who felt as outsiders turned to more drastic measures to set themselves apart - tattooing their hands, faces, necks, places that could not be hidden. They say it takes strength to wear these marks. I contend this is a false strength, or an empty challenge. Life's struggles are hard enough without having to win over every stranger who judges. And yes, they will judge. You who have tattoos may balk at those who do judge, and align oneself with those who were born with skin color that causes them the same problems. On the other hand, oddly, some of the most heavily tattooed white people are racist. Try to figure that one out.

At the heart of the matter, I have held for years that the resurgence of tattoos obviates a deeper problem in society. We all yearn to belong to a tribe, even more than we yearn for individuality. We also yearn for ritual and meaning where there is seemingly little left. And so, we go to the tattoo shop and unconsciously pray that we'll have an experience that will change us, mark us, fix us, fix us in time, memorialize this or that moment, our grief, our happiness, our idealism, our rage, our fears, or conquer our fears, or make us learn some lesson, or man up, or give us relief through going through some pain. The reasons are endless.

I live with my tattoos. I rather wish I had none, that I could wipe my skin clean. Other days I do wish the bad tattoos were covered up, the old ones touched up, and the unfinished ones finished. And yes, I also yearn for a Japanese sleeve, though I'd need a third arm for that. Even I, who's given this years and years of thought, still find it a mystery, though, in the end, I do think it's a search for self, and a part of the mistaken desire to absolutely once and for all be sure of who that self is, and as a Zen Buddhist, I have to say, grasping at the permanence of the tattoo to deal with this dilemma is searching in the wrong place.

Blog posts that trigger memories

Over at Perfume Shrine, there's two posts that brought up memories for me. One is about the closing of the Japanese department store Takashimaya. I've never never been to their glistening new store in New York, but when I was a young girl, my mother and I would make yearly pilgrimages to their seemingly secret one, which, in my memories (that may be wildly inaccurate), was easy to miss, even though it was right on 5th Avenu. We'd go to the virtually empty store and wander around in awe at the beautiful, impossibly expensive and elegant merchandise. The salespeople were cool but friendly, and it seemed no one spoke English. But, we loved it, and we considered it our store, and our big secret. Did we ever purchase anything? Perhaps, but my memories are dim. We may have bought chopsticks, or had tea. I do not recall much except my awe, and the knowledge that being poor and loving such elegance was a frustrating combination, even as a child. My mother loved window shopping at high-end stores, but she preferred actually shopping at bargain basements where she could rummage through the merchandise. She preferred acrylic to wool, thought linen was useless because one had to iron it, and didn't give a hoot that a pair of cheap shoes might last all of two wearings. I was a little snob. From an early age, I wanted handmade shoes that would last a lifetime.

Another post at Perfume Shrine shows us some truly fun antique perfume dispensing machines. Check it out! They are fun just to look at.

I'm sure I've encountered one in my early childhood. The minute I saw the first red one (check the site!), memories of my grandmother flashed through my mind. It's plausible that I did use one, or at least saw one, when having lunch with my grandmother and mom in the City. Or maybe it just reminds me of the years when these things were still lurking in the bathrooms of places now long gone. I'm sure it wasn't in the automat, yet the automat, too, flitted through my mind's eye when I saw the picture. I'd be duplicating old posts by writing more here. Go here to read about the automat and other bits of a lost New York, and here for memories of my grandmother.

Looking over these old posts is illuminating. I was pining for New York way back in 2008. I was also a much more interesting blogger back then. At some point, I ran and out of inspiration but kept on writing. I hope that the rest of 2010 sees a return to more interesting posts!

Photo note: I believe that when I was a kid, this was the only indication that there was a store inside the building. No wonder it was nearly empty.

I had forgotten about depression

I spent about an hour trying to untangle some balls of yarn earlier today. What a waste of time. I wound up throwing the lot in the garbage. Surrounded by bags of trash, empty bags, bags of unfinished projects, bags of scrap fabric, bags within bags, bags of receipts, bags of things for projects never started, bags, bags, and more bags, while sitting upon a rug that hasn't been vacuumed in who knows how long, I wondered how it had come to this. I've never been a slob, yet I was sitting in piles of evidence that I've been one. Huh?

I forgot I'd been depressed. Seems ridiculous, to be sure, since depression, unhappiness, or whatever one wants to call it, has been the ball and chain that's dragged me down for years. How can one forget that so easily? Perhaps this is another reason I'm finding this packing business so difficult. I'm sitting in my own shit, every day, seeing what a mess I had made of my life, and sifting through the tangible wreckage is exhausting.

I've got piles of books I'll never have use for, and it's not because I love books (though I do). It's because I have books about medical transcription, massage, medical billing and coding (what was I thinking?). . .piles of books that evidence my flailing about trying to find a new path in life.

It's not that I feel remorse for any of it. I don't. I think of past flailing, past errors, past anything, as fodder, and I'm lucky for it. Living with regrets is a killer, and it's a soul killer that seems to haunt so many people I know.

I've had rough times, but I am grateful I don't spend much time with the "what ifs?" What a horrendous waste of time and energy they are. We can what if ourselves into true misery. For everything we do, there is always an alternative, and though It's sometimes a useful exercise to wonder about where another path might have taken us, looking back and thinking we've done the wrong thing is mostly an exercise in self-loathing.

Recently someone said to me "You should never have moved to Maine." Absurd! First off, telling anyone that they've made a mistake with nearly twenty years of their life is just plain impolite, if nothing else. Leaving that aside, I just don't believe that even the worst mistakes should be seen as "wrong." Within every thing we do there's an opportunity to learn and to grow, and for that simple reason alone, so-called mistakes can be seen as wonderful things.

I used to feel "less-than" compared to people who had one thing they'd done with their lives and done it well. Amongst my relatives, leading a linear life was held up as the ideal, and those who did otherwise were seen as fooling around. Now, I'm grateful that i've not lead a linear life and that I've tried many things.

As for Maine, in these 19 years, I've done so much. I've raised sheep, woven linen and tartans on huge 19th century looms, communed with moose and ermine and had bats, rats, squirrels, chipmunks, turkeys, goats and lambs right in my own home, grown my own food, owned a tattoo shop, learned to live without running water, electricity, indoor plumbing (and all the things of modern life), met people who had jobs I'd never dreamed of (worm diggers, for instance). . .the list of riches here is long. So, now, I've not got a big 401K plan, or a paid-off mortgage, or any of the things that a linear life would have given me, but, my goodness, I'm glad for all of it.

There's been losses, huge losses, and there's been pain, and life has been tough. But, even as I write that I think "so what?" Life has been rich and life could have been richer. It's been what it was. I'm not disowning any of it. I feel badly that people do disown vast stretches of their lives. What a terrible thing to do to oneself.

Painting note: I was going to post a Resurrection painting, but then i found this. I am more than fond of Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen's portraits, but I don't recall ever seeing this intrguing painting, "Saul and the Witch of Endor"(1565). As a kid, I used to spend many a weekend at the Museum of Metropolitan Art, spending inordinate amounts of time in the portrait galleries. Click the link to see some of my favorite work. It fascinated me then how I could feel as if I was communicating with people whose lives were inconceivable to me, and it still does. For me, a great portrait conveys a life; one can see it in the eyes. The dead do not die through this work. The afterlife? Literally, I do not believe in it, but i don't feel the need. Music and art fill that void (if indeed there is a void to fill).

Not a procrastination post. . .(okay, it is)

I've just stopped dead (from packing, that is).

Tomorrow is Saturday, but I need a day of rest. I feel I ought to write about packing, but what is there to say? Packing is an awful business. Some people dislike it because it's a chore. Some dislike it because it brings up memories. I've figured out what it is I don't like about it: I shows me that I'm a slob. You may not think so if you visited, but my closets, and rooms that are not used (and therefore are just large closets) are evidence that I need to seriously think about my organizational habits. I make sure that what others can see is tidy. Otherwise, the hidden space in my life operates on this rule: "open door and throw stuff in." That's fine if one lives in one house for the rest of one's life, but when moving, it's hell. Not only do I need to go through all this clutter, I'm confronted by a dysfunctional behavior in myself that I don't like.

In my new apartment, there is only one small closet. So, I'm going to have to mend my ways, and I'm pleased that that will be forced upon me.

So, I got the moving part of this post out of the way.

On to other things. I've been blog surfing this morning and here's what I note: Popular blogs, unless they're written by famous people, give lots of stuff away, have lots of links to other personal blogs. and basically operate like Facebook with prizes. Long entries are not common (unless they're written by well-known authors). Lots of magazine style graphics are the norm. Comments are are way longer than posts. Lots of advertising.

Okay. I have none of that. I vowed I'd not use Adsense. I do have links to commercial sites but they're hard to find. My posts are often quite long. I'm not famous. I could be, but I don't use the has-been stuff to promote myself. Every time I think of doing so, I bristle. I am nearly appalled by old acquiantances who use what they've done oh-so-long-ago to keep their names alive in the public eye. How can anyone stand to be known for one thing they've done when they were kids? There's something creepy about it to me. Am I engaging in this just by bringing it up?

I have problems with the fame thing. I hated when I brushed up against it. I suppose some of what I didn't like had nothing to do with fame itself, but with being admired for something I was neither proud of or felt authentic. I also disliked what I've come to think of as the "Kurt Cobain syndrome" - knowing that many people who admired you would have rather beat you up than be seen with you once, and now claimed friendship. Poor Kurt, he never lived past that.

Nowadays, stuff like that makes me laugh. When I was 20, it made me angry and sad.

When I was looking for an apartment, I saw a few people i hadn't seen in over twenty years at a reunion gig of an old roadie's band. Truth is, it was truly sweet seeing these old friends. I don't remember knowing them well, and have a feeling I did not, but I wasn't much of a talker back when I was young. In fact, I was a total jerk who basically glared at anyone who deigned to speak to me. My default mode was being angry (or at least looking that way).

There was a menacing looking fellow named Von Lmo whom my old band did some gigs with, and I discovered that he was frightened of me! This, and other information I gleaned along the years, made me realize that I had developed a most threatening demeanor, which screamed "stay away from me!" I wore that like a skin for years, half consciously.

Being in the City without that cloak of menace is wonderful. One lovely evening last week I watched a man play the cello in Washington Square Park. He was wonderful, took my request (Bach's Cello Suite #4). Silly me, I would have preferred Suite #1, but I figured it was too common for his taste. I stood there smiling, rapturous, and he gave me a CD, on which was my beloved Suite #1, played with some improvisation. Delightful! If I still played the cello, I'd riff on that piece, too.

Yeah, this entry was another Seinfeldian piece about nothing much at all. I am not focused. I need to have my space set up and be back at spinning and making things! Soon enough. . .soon enough. . .

Photo note: The engaging cellist, Peter Lewy.

Trying to cure life

Last night I re-read my sidebar. I wrote that I'm a person who's struggled with depression. I came close to deleting the whole thing, but I was tired. I started writing this entry, but I put it in the drafts folder where things always languish and die. For the first time, I'm interested enough to go back and finish what I started; that's a big thing for me!

What is this thing called depression, anyway? It's been called a disease, and the drug companies sure would like us all to believe that, for diseases can be cured with medication. Anti-depressants have never worked for me, so what have the doctors said? "You have medication resistant depression." Intractable. Oh, a very bad case indeed!

When I was in high school, I read R.D.Laing's "Sanity, Madness, and the Family." This book saved my sanity. The quick and dirty explanation of what Laing wrote is that the "crazy people" were having reasonable responses to insane circumstances. I was a miserable kid with a host of problems who started going to shrinks at a young age. But what good was that (especially back then), when they couldn't get my family to change their crazy-making behavior? If only there was behavioral therapy back then, the shrinks may have been helpful. I would have learned better coping skills. I'm grateful I'm not a teenager now, for I'd have been drugged to the eyeteeth. My own self-medicating, I'm sure, was a whole lot less harmful in the long run.

So, this brings me to what I was thinking about earlier. Can we drug people out of feeling unhappy? As far as I can tell, most depressed people are depressed because of something. I used to balk at that idea when I was feeling at my worst, for it challenged me to examine my life and make changes. Oh no, there's nothing wrong! I just have the "disease of depression."

Is it even ethical to drug people who are unsatisfied with their lives, their jobs, their marriages, their finances, and even their health? I'm beginning to think not. Why don't we just hand out heroin to the entire populace? That would solve everyone's ills, and quite inexpensively, too. But that won't do, for big pharma wouldn't make the big bucks.

We don't hear much of the word "unhappy" these days. We hear people use the word "happiness" quite a lot, but it's flip side has fallen into disuse. What if therapists stopped using the word "depression" and used the word "unhappy" instead?

For one thing, there'd be an awful lot of angry patients. Imagine if you will a woman who's married to an unemployed drunk, is saddled with a posse of kids, does all the housework and cooking and has a low-paying 40-hour a week job, whose home is falling down around her, has a car that needs works but can't afford it, and is being harrassed by social services because those kids are doing poorly in school and they think she needs to spend more quality time with them. That sounds like a lot of people around here.

So, this imaginary woman is stressed out and unhappy. She's been unhappy so long that she has a pessimistic mindset and, yes, is depressed. All the joys in life, which are there on occasion, give her little pleasure. For one thing, she's too tired to feel much pleasure. She hurts all over because she's sleep deprived and eats a terrible diet of over-processed food straight from the microwave.

When this woman finally makes it to a psychiatrist's office, as she might, she's diagnosed with major depression. Oh, the notes might say there's mitigating circumstances, but doesn't everyone have them? What does she get? Prescriptions. Something to make her feel more upbeat, even if there's nothing to be upbeat about. Maybe she'll get some painkillers, too. Five years down the road she'll be in rehab and on Seboxyn.

What if, instead, her living problems were addressed? Well, no, one can't do that. But, if one stops for a moment and thinks about the price of meds and doctors and shrinks and social service workers, giving this woman a monthly stipend so she can work less outside the home, or hire a bi-weekly housecleaner, or whatever might ease some of her burden, well, it'd be a bargain. But no, that is just too simple And, on top of that, tea-party types would say we're handing out checks to folks who've made their own dirty beds and deserve to lay in them.

Well, to those who think the above, everyone is paying a lot for a huge bulk of our society's unhappy overburdened people already. What do you think is best? Enforced sterilization for the poor or soon-to-be-poor?

So, we've got a society in which we have many chronically unhappy people. It's not limited to the poor, of course, but poverty is the great equalizer in terms of creating misery. Sure, one can live in poverty and be happy, but it's not normative, especially in this society where families and communities are fractured, total self-reliance is the norm, and having money and lots of stuff is the barometer of success. This last bit alone is a major cause of unhappiness in itself. Any day of the week, one can read an inspiring story on the Web or watch one on TV about vibrant happy people who live in dire circumstances, but they are regarded as freakish exceptions. The reasons why these folks are doing so well are not examined closely enough. We study disease and dis-ease, not happiness.

And then, the drug companies do not want us to know about how to improve our resiliency and health. Where would they be if we all woke up to the simple physical and mental health-affirming realities of good support systems, life-in-community, and finding true meaning and purpose in these lives of ours?

What if the doctors simply diagnosed "unhappiness"?

I think it would cause a revolution. We all know intuitively that pills can't cure the pain of unhappiness. Numb a person out enough, and they will feel better (or at least they'll feel less), but a nation of zombies we will become. I fear, sadly, that this is what we're becoming.

I, for one, am glad I woke up. I was unhappy. I may be unhappy again. That's life.

Image note: Adriaen Pietersz van de Venne "Allegory of Poverty" c.1630

Stuff

Once upon a time, I was really good about not collecting stuff. I had a rule that if I had something that I hadn't used for 6 months, I would get rid of it. As the years passed, time started flying by, and I no longer lived in cramped quarters, so that wonderful rule faded away. Though truth is, nowadays I would up it to one year. Six months? That doesn't even cover all the seasons!

I'm going through my stuff right now, and there's stuff I still haven't unpacked from when I moved into where I'm moving out of now. It's ridiculous!

Luckily for me, most of this stuff is easy to get rid of. There's no emotional baggage attached to piles and piles of magazines I've saved for doing collage. Some people would not agree, I know. Those are really good magazines for collage!

But no, out it goes. I'd like to give it someone who would like it, but if not, it's garbage. Oh well. Do you want it?

The real reason I'm blogging right now is because I don't want to face all that stuff. It's overwhelming. That's part of the horror of having too much stuff.

I like the word (as if you couldn't tell). From the moment I started writing this, I've thought about Carlin's routine, which I certainly can't top with my words!

". . .that's all your house is. . . a pile of stuff with a cover on it. . ."

Almost raw!

Today, if you offered me a choice between some barbecued ribs and a big bowl of fresh greens with avocado, I'd pick the greens. Okay, maybe I'd have a wee bite of the ribs, but that'd be it.

I feel so good after eating my huge dinner salad that I'd be hard pressed to give that up, even if someone waved a magic wand over my head and made my health problems go away. Hold on - that just made no sense. If I already felt great, and eating certain foods wouldn't affect me adversely, would I go on eating such a (supposedly) limited diet?

No doubt about it - YES!

Everything tastes so much better! My dinner salad takes me almost an hour to eat because I'm chewing so slowly. Tonight I had some fresh mung bean sprouts and the sweetest lightly cooked asparagus. Why would I want to wolf them down and miss the delights of how they taste?

One reason fast food is fast is because if one spent time savoring it, one would notice quickly that it doesn't taste all that good. The more raw food I eat, the more I can taste the chemicals, or notice the lack of taste, in processed food.

This past week I've been eating a lot of carrot sticks. That's what I really meant to blog about. I used to balk, scoff, even occasionally snarl, at the very idea of eating carrot sticks as a snack. C'mon! Telling dieters to eat carrot sticks instead of, say, a milk shake, is absurd. No one really wants a carrot stick, right? It's a farce. Carrot sticks' only purpose is to provide a colorful but cheap choice on a buffet table and a stupid, useless, and totally uncreative snacking solution for dieters.

But wait a minute - they taste good. How did I not notice that before? I've always loved carrot juice, and fresh carrots pulled right from the earth (especially the round ones, whatever their name is), but the carrot stick, well. . .phfft.

Come to think of it, I've always loved anything carrot-y. I used to make a light beef stew in which I'd place a pound of uncut carrots. i think carrot cake is the best cake there is. I adore carrot muffin. I used to also make a three color pate which had a layer made of carrots (an entire day's work for that baby). When I was a kid, I loved my grandmother's plain cooked carrots. I don't know what the deal was with her carrots, but one could always poke out the centers with one's tongue. For a child, this is simply too much fun!

Now I'm munching on carrot sticks without any resentment. That's the key. It's not that I'm craving something else and that carrot stick is a poor substitute - i want a carrot! What not to love? They're a beautiful shade of orange and they're crunchy.

I added Choosing Raw to my blog links before i wrote this post. There's many raw foods blogs out there, but I like this one a lot. Besides the friendly writing and good recipes, Gena has a great photo of an avocado right there in her banner. And for me, finding her blog was particularly great, for she's right in New York City, and I'm sure i'll be availing myself of her restaurant tips and such. Go check it out. If you like wheatgrass juice (I don't), she's got a wheatgrass juicer to give away to one lucky person.

Now, I'm gonna finish up drinking my soy not-so-smoothie. I'm looking forward to making my own fresh soy milk when i get settled in in my new digs.

Photo note: Neither round nor orange, these are Purple Haze carrots. For a ridiculously large selection of carrot seeds, go to Johnny's. Sigh. Now i want go grow carrots. It figures that I'm moving to the city now. But, it' s New York City, and I'm sure I'll be able to buy purple carrots if I want to, or maybe next year I'll join a community garden. Now, that sounds delightful!

I am having altogether too much fun

Spent part of an evening making these. What are they? I don't know yet. That's the really fun part.

When all is said and done, I'm quite easy to entertain, aren't I?

Uh oh. . .

. . .all the action still is over at the Scenic Turnout. But, I had an idea for a post about something a little earlier. Only thing is, i preferred to go card up a batt for spinning.

Moved

It's day twelve of the Olympics. I hadn't watched anything but a few moments of it.

I tend to think of the Olympics as a huge advertising festival. The enormity of that has wiped away wonderful childhood memories of watching the Olympics with great enjoyment. When I was ten years old, I watched speed skating with other children in a strange hotel for kids on the North Sea in the Netherlands. I couldn't speak or understand Dutch, but I loved skating, and we all watched with smiles on our faces.

But then came the up close and personals, and the Tanya Harding episode, and all the athletes plastered in endorsement patches. So, this year, when I realized I couldn't watch it on TV, and then came to find out that I could only see clips on-line, well, I said "I've got better things to do with my time."

But tonight, I watched some figure skating. Wow. Were they always this good?

But, nothing prepared me for the raw footage with no screaming commentators of the two young Estonians dancing to Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters." I love that I have no idea what the experts thought. I love that she has braces, and he's got yellow teeth and looks all of sixteen. They danced with such intensity. Oh yes, they skated. Nothing else mattered.

No commentary? I can think whatever I like.

Image note: From overhead shots of the ice dancing, here. Hey, I just found out the names of the Estonians, and they're Irina Shtork and Taavi Rand, and, well, she is 16 years old. What did you do at 16? On a night such as this, I was probably doing bong hits with some friends. . .

On this most rainy day

There's memories of late summer over at the Scenic Turnout.

Supper, dinner, evening meal

It's been so delicious that I've had it three nights in a row:

One big bowl of avocado, mung bean sprouts, mixed greens, parsley, dill, lightly cooked asparagus, and toasted pumpkin seeds, accompanied by a hunk of warm sourdough bread with fresh butter.

To think I used to scoff at the women who ate salads while their dining companions ate steak! Ah, if they were eating iceberg I'd still grumble. But this? It is heaven.

Painting note: Not dinner, but "Breakfast". Paul Cignac 1886-1887

Creative hopelessness

For some, change comes easily. For others, change comes kicking and screaming. And, for others, change comes only after the accepted notion of "hitting bottom." I recently encountered the idea of "creative hopelessness" and find that a compelling term, one that sits better with me than thinking I've been sitting in a pile of my own poop, and with nowhere further to fall, had to climb out of it.

After I read "Living Beyond Your Pain" (which may indeed have been the catalyst for my "conversion experience"), I wanted to know more about ACT (acceptance and commitment therapy), so I'm reading it's primer right now. It's an exciting book. It was written for therapists, but it is certainly readable for the layperson. The emphasis is on applying ACT to clients, and not just explaining its rationale. I find it interesting (to say the least) how the book addresses many common "scripts" that clients engage in, and how to interact with these barriers to growth.

One of these common scripts is the phrase "I'll just put up with it." There is much about the concept of "settling." Why do we settle? Fear. Hopelessness. Helplessness. ACT challenges the client to engage in thinking about change. Understanding why one has gotten to where they are is the past, beside the point (though not dishonored), and creatively indulging in fantasies of what one's life can be is encouraged.

What's interesting to me is the fact that many a person, when confronted with the question "If you had no obstacles, what would you do?" will choke. First, they might say "That's a ridiculous question. I do have obstacles!" The dialogue ends right there.

I had certainly engaged in that abrupt ending of all creative visualizations of what I'd like for my life (with brief interludes). I had come to believe that thinking about possibilities was actually bad for me. This, I now learn, is common.

Some folks don't like finding out that their neuroses are so average as to be scriptable. I find it comforting, or, at the very least, useful. To see that my non-useful (as opposed to negative) self-talk and behavior as a package, one created by set of experiences that has commonality with others, diminishes it. I can then choose to toss that package overboard. I really don't want to carry around that package any longer.

I make it sound like an easy choice. It is not. I am not young, and it's taken me many years to get to the point where I feel ready to let go of my scripts and baggage. As I'm engaging in some group therapy these days, I see how tightly the young women hold on to the very behaviors that are causing them to suffer. It's also plain to me that inviting them to let go would be futile. Those defense mechanism are there for a reason and it takes years for them to either wear away or become so calcified that they can not be. And, as I've written before, I think that it may be a matter of luck which way it goes - freedom or not.

I suppose when I say that I'm not giving myself enough credit. I've spent a good deal of my life pursuing freedom from my demons. All that meditation should have amounted to something, no? The person who first sat on a meditation cushion nearly twenty years ago is not the same person who is typing these words.

I have always been jealous of those people who pursue one thing in their lives and do it well, the types who know what they want from an early age, who seem to move through life like a bullet or an arrow. But not all of us are like that, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with it. It makes for a rockier ride, but if not for those of us who get dashed on the rocks from time to time, where would the insights come from? Sorry, but I really do not believe that great creativity can come from a life without some trouble.

So, when I read about "creative helplessness", I smile. Those of us who are stuck in ruts, dashed upon rocky shores, pinned down like insects (or any other cliche you'd like to insert here) have a great opportunity to figure our ways out of things. What we come up with is the stuff of great novels, great adventures, and great possibility.

Painting note: Pietro Perugino This is not my favorite painting of St. Sebastian. But, the question is, "What did he do?" I realize I have no idea.

How to make a center pull ball. . .

. . .over at the Scenic Turnout.

Added later, some joyful dying (with evidence of poor housecleaning).

"Give me a good reason not to be optimistic."

That's what he said. I sat there, at a loss for words. Well, I could have said anything. I could have said "onions" or "my cat has been more affectionate lately" or "ta da!" I wasn't at a loss for words. I was at a loss for a good reason not to be optimistic.

I've been feeling enormous optimism of late. It's not part of my normal repertoire. It feels odd, like wearing beautiful clothes that I look and feel good in, but am not used to.

Pessimism is rather like worrying. One thinks it's a good strategy, as if worrying or thinking of worst case scenarios is some kind of protection, but neither way of being in the world has much going for it. They both cause needless suffering. They both sap one's energy. And neither achieve the goal of protecting oneself from whatever negative events might occur in the future.

Living one's life from a place of fear sucks. I searched for a nicer way to put it, but I gave up.

My dear readers who have traveled with me a while, you know how far down I've been. I've had an epiphany. There's no doubt about it. I want to be clear about one thing. I am not preaching. It's impossible to drag others into their own epiphanies. I've been exposed to enough information about strategies for improving one's life to last a couple of lifetimes at least. They've all been helpful, but in the end, it's rather a bit of a crap shoot whether one is going to wake up to reality. Oh, and I'm sure I have plenty more waking up to do yet - I'm not an enlightened being (at least I don't think so)!

Today, as I struggled with a more physical pain than usual, and the accompanying tiredness, I notice how I'm just being with it.
I used to be able to do this only when I meditated for long periods or when completely immersed in creativity (which was a big fat and obvious clue as to how I should have been living!) Painful knees and a throbbing back when I would spend a day or more in meditation were nothing. I sat with the pain, sat like a rock, and came to see it as something of a familiar companion. It was something to work with.

But, in everyday life, the pain was my enemy. I didn't want it at my table. And when it wasn't there, I was scared it would be knocking at my door some other day. I shouldn't have been scared, for pain greets me every morning in varying degrees. How could I be so unfriendly to my companion in life? Sure, this companion is a pain in my butt, but it's been pretty reliable as companions go. Unfortunately, I allowed it to become my bully.

I suppose that's what happens when you don't honor a constant companion. They just start screaming at you to give them the attention they deserve!

So, I finally gave in and became gracious, and in walked a new friend, optimism. Optimism makes me a wee bit nervous, as it challenges me to honor the fact that I do have hopes and dreams, and they've been squelched for so long that they're busting at the seams. I've got all sorts of ideas of things I want to do and try and instead of ignoring these thoughts, I'm just going to go full steam ahead. Is this really optimism? Hmmm. I am pretty sure that some things will not pan out, or succeed, or go smoothly. So what?

Maybe it's not optimism after all. Maybe it's just losing my fear. Y'know, I'm gonna take the words "optimism" and "pessimism" out of my vocabulary. They just don't seem to serve any purpose that I can think of. I'd prefer to use the words love and fear. It rather boils down to those. At least I think so.

Image note: This happy bird is what is sitting on my yarn labels.

No thoughts (sort of)

I wanted to post my new Scenic Turnout yarn labels, 'cause they're oh-so-cute, but blogger won't allow me to open that kind of file (whatever it is). It just occurred to me that I could have scanned it, but I'm not going to jump up and do it now.

Instead, you get this wan little drawing I did. In the midst of having absolutely too many things to do, I had to download some trial programs to work on graphics. Giving 'em all a test run. Of course, I'd like an Adobe product, but unless I win the lottery, I'm not going to be getting that.

Once, when I had a clothing store, on a terribly busy afternoon, one employee was counting pennies and putting them into sleeves. There weren't enough salespeople at that moment, and rolling up the pennies was the last thing that needed to be done. Sadly, this was the last straw with her, and I weepily fired her (my first time firing anyone). Now, I can understand the urge to do something superfluous in the midst of too much to do.

Another new blog? Oh my!

As if there aren't enough things to do, what with all the changes happening in my life. Well, I do need another blog, for I'm making a big push to make an actual living with my fiber obsessions. There will be a website where one can purchase my handspun yarn, finished objects, and purchase the workshop workbooks I'm working on (try saying that three times fast). Oh yes, there is too much to do! The website's not up yet, but the blog is, with two entries about how to knit cables without cable needles.

I had to come up with a name, which is so hard for me. I just don't name things. There are a number of blog entries here about that (and darned if I can direct you to them). I've used random name generators, the Oxford English Dictionary opened at random, and all sorts of other ways to find names for pets and other things (and I do know that pets are not things). I'm sure I'll come to regret my final decision, as I always seem to, but the name of my fiber arts biz is Scenic Turnout, mostly because I've had a lovely old sign that says that hanging in my kitchen for years and I'm quite attached to it. It says "Scenic Turnout - 50 ft." Uh oh. It may say 500 feet, but I'm too lazy to get up and look and am amazed I'm not sure what it says.

Anyhoo, I am fixated on a joke that only I find amusing, that there's yards and yards to go before the Scenic Turnout. See? I'm no comedian, I couldn't even word that well. "A million yards before I stop!" "Yards and yards for you to choose from!" Oh, never mind. The product is the point, isn't it? Sure, a good name will help, but plenty of things have the worst names, though right now I can't bring anything to mind. I've been on the computer a little too long today. It seems to rot my memory cells.

Photo note: This is about twelve yards of a crocheted chain, doubled back on itself with a single crochet. This pile o' mess is the beginning of the edges I'm pushing at. I've always been a traditionalist when it comes to fiber arts. Now, I've discovered pure freedom, and it feels great. No, it feels fabulous! Still, with just too much to do, I've all sorts of ideas cooped up in my brain, just dying to get out. I'm dreaming of embedding silk threads between layers of leaf-shaped raw silk, and then tying them into some handspun. I just love the look of hanging vines, so why not create my own no-need-for-water wool/silk versions? I'm calling them "un-scarves." Drape them over anything!

Old posts & life

I hadn't checked Google analytics for a long time, and I'm sorry I did. Now, 80% of the folks who find their way to this blog arrive at the post about the Ikea mattress debacle.* In spite of my having left a number of comments saying "please stop leaving comments", people have to add their two cents. Do I deserve a weekly browbeating for being so foolish as to have thought I'd find a good mattress at Ikea? How about comments informing me what a whiner I am? Then again, others find solace in hearing that someone else had the same experience, and they leave a snippet of their sorry tale.

But really, of all the posts to attract so much attention, did it have to wind up being that one? Since the rest of this blog is not a consumer's rant-o-rama, these poor visitors appear to check one other entry out, and spend an average of less than sixty seconds doing so.

What is this blog about, anyway? Maybe it's become "Julie thinks her life is interesting." Yes, that might just be true.

I should hope that everyone's life is interesting. So many people say they lead boring lives. I wonder if they're actually bored with their lives. I imagine that they are not, but instead think that an ordinary life is by definition "boring." Ah well, we can't all be floating in long dresses upon red carpets, can we?

Honestly, I would venture to guess that the constant pressing of hands, air-kisses, and all that the celebrity high-powered social life must get terribly tedious after a while, Then again, I haven't much patience for that type of thing, where one must keep their mindless chit-chat muscles in shape, always be on guard against smudged eye makeup, and teeter about in high heels.

So, with that thought in mind, there's a big announcement to be made. Here it comes: Everything is Interesting will be moving out of the countryside. That's right, folks. This old city gal turned country bumpkin is officially getting her ass out of the middle of nowhere.

I'm tired, so. . .to be continued. . .

Ha! This normally blabbermouthed being is being rather mum. Eh, a little suspense won't kill any of you. Especially those of you who came for mattress reviews.

Image note: This is the kind of thing I find not boring: Free patterns! Inspiration! Go here for both, if you like this kind of thing.

*I was informed today that if you google "Ikea mattress" my silly little story is the first hit after links to Ikea. Too bad I'm not a consumer reports blogger! Hmmm. . .

To those of you that make things

You may not have achieved success by society's standards. No, you may not be recognized for what you do, or recompensed with financial rewards.

And so, what I say to you, is probably cold comfort. I know it's hard living in this country without the autonomy that money provides.

But, as I was without the ability to sleep, I spent a some time looking at things people make on the Web. Those who are prolific, who just can't help creating, you have my deepest respect. You have something that people would give up much for, if it was something money could buy. And the thing is, money can't buy creativity.

I've taken my own creativity for granted much of my life, and did not cherish it. It was just me, nothing special, my normal, and I always felt I could do better still. Do better? I was gifted, but schooled in comparing myself to impossible standards, and programmed for failure by people who couldn't help themselves, people who felt as if they'd failed in spite of their own personal gifts. My parents both were brimming with artistic and intellectual talents, and I watched at they suffered indignation every day kowtowing to those who were wealthy in order to scrape by. My mother put a beautiful and happy face to the world, and then came home and deflated. My father raged daily to everyone. And I, the child, cowered in fear of a world I was told I'd never be able to succeed in for a myriad of reasons. I hadn't the ability to see beyond what I was taught, and so, I watched those with far less promote themselves relentlessly as I was too afraid of the world to demand my place in it. I thought I had nothing to offer. I was programmed for failure. I felt I had failed before I had even begun.

If these sound like the words of someone who feels pity for oneself, they are not. I have grown far beyond blaming my parents or my upbringing for the adult I've become. But still I struggle. Some overcome more quickly than others Some never overcome at all. For each triumph, each moment of stripping away at that which has held me back, I am grateful.

But, as usual, I have digressed.

Somewhere along the way I lost my ability to simply keep drawing, painting, making music, sewing, whatever. It's not a "block." The joy and the drive recedes and returns. It lost being an imperative, like breathing. Once, not spending every waking free minute engaged in making music or art was an impossibility. It mattered not that I felt as if I was banging my head against a wall, that I wasn't connecting, that I quaking in the proverbial boots at job interviews, that I had no true belief in myself. I had to make stuff, in every available minute. I didn't even have "something to say." Just moving my hand over paper and producing something was enough. I spent hours playing the same two chords on my guitar.

I suppose nowadays I feel similarly about making things out of fiber, but still I hold back a lot. I spend to much time thinking, "Can I make money with this?" instead of just doing it. Then I might spend much time surfing the web, writing this (which, I suppose, is a form of creativity), or watching yet another movie or British television show. I might not watch trash, but I wonder how much of my life I've wasted consuming this entertainment?

So, yes, I want to applaud those of you who still just can't help themselves, who keep on drawing, painting, making music, exploring their particular dreams and quirky interests that perhaps no one else can see the beauty or meaning of. To those of you who do any of this, you are so very rich. If you think no one recognizes you talents, you probably have many secret admirers who are too shy to tell you how awed they are at your talents and your perseverance.

I try to give compliments where they are due. So, even while I have a number of people in mind as I write this, I also am writing to those who I do not know. You all deserve as much encouragement as you can get. You are an inspiration to others.

Again, it may be cold comfort when you'd like to quit your dayjob and make things all day, get paid for what you do and keep struggling so hard, or get a grant, or have someone recognize you instead of having to sell yourself. Ah well. This world is not fair, and you've heard that a million times. I only want to thank you. Thank you.

Photo note: I've seen the "The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millennium General Assembly" twice in my life, and each time was awed by its beauty, inventiveness of construction, and the compulsion that created it. This is but a peek at it. James Hampton spent fourteen years working on this throne, along with 177 other objects that were found after he died.

Can it really be so simple?

I've been reading "Loving What Is" by Byron Katie.

Here's an transcribed excerpt from a dialogue Katie had with a participant at a workshop:

Woman: "I fear suffering about the future."

Katie: "So, in the future you’re going to suffer. Is that true? Can you absoutely know that that’s true?"

"I don’t know if it’s true. (Pause) No."

"So what happens when you think that thought?"

"I get scared?"

"Now, close your eyes. What images can you see when you think the thought 
I’m going to suffer?"

"I see a bag lady on the street. I see someone who’s dying of bone cancer."

“So who would you be without the thought in the future I’m going to suffer?”

“I’d be someone who isn’t suffering right now.”

The exchange goes on for a while. We watch and listen as the woman who is afraid of her imagined future is just turning on a spit, dying to tell her story, explain why she's afraid of becoming a bag lady, go deeper into her fears about cancer, but is stopped at every turn by Katie, who keeps bringing her back to the present. In the present, this woman is healthy, has a satisfying life, and is "only" haunted by experiences in the past that make her project bad outcomes for the future. Some would say she'll create those bad outcomes because she believes they'll happen. I do not. I think it's more likely a matter of bad luck if she develops the most unlikely brain cancer, and blaming her for thinking bad thoughts about it (you created your cancer!) is a lousy thing to tell people (thus proving, at least to me, that new-age ideas can be just as heartless as old-fashioned ones).

Every dialogue I've watched or read that Katie engages in with others demonstrates how attached we all are to the stories we tell ourselves about what we're afraid of and why. Of course, we're equally attached to the stories we've created for the reasons we are happy or successful. We don't like to think that luck plays an enormous role in our lives. I was lucky not to have died at birth. I was two months premature at a time when incubators were uncommon and rudimentary. My mother went into labor at a party, far from the hospital where she planned on giving birth, but close to one where there were state-of-the-art incubators and doctors who knew how to handle such tiny infants. Of course, you may believe God, fate, or some other higher power played a part in what I call luck. Feel free to do so. Either way, I had nothing to do with the fact that I didn't die on the day I was born.

That seems tangential, but it isn't that far off the mark. We desperately need to find a reason for everything. If I survived this birth, for whatever reason, there must be a reason. If there isn't a reason, we tend to make up stories to fill in the gaps.

Some people think Katie's approach to solving that which causes us suffering is "tough love"; some even call it cruel and without heart. When I see people desperate to talk, I tend to feel they should be given as much space to do so as possible. We go around in this life keeping so much held tightly to our breasts. "How are you?" is the greeting we are met with all day long, but no one wants a real answer. How refreshing to think someone will allow us to say how we really feel! And so, there is much resistance when Katie demands people to imagine giving up their stories. It seems almost cruel, but it is indeed a huge gift. These stories create enormous suffering. We spin tales that may be based in reality, but we spin them to create images of a reality that has not yet occurred and probably never will. What purpose does it serve?

When I'm in pain, and I project myself into a future where there's no one to take care of me when I'm so disabled that I can't get out of bed permenantly, I am not only taking myself out of the present moment, I'm causing myself completely unnecessary stress, grief, and misery by placing myself into the worst imaginable situation. If I spoke to a therapist about this, what would s/he do? Encourage me to examine why I have such thoughts, talk them through, seek their origin, "confront them." These thoughts are like bullies. The best thing is to tell them to leave and ignore them. If I engage with them, they'll stick around and torment me further. Who would I be without these nasty thoughts? Free.

Some would argue that I need to make friends with negative thoughts. Nope. I don't make friends with bullies.

Some would argue that without worrying about future possibilities, one will not have contingency plans in place. I was taught that anxiety drives action by a family filled with worriers. I don't believe it. One can make plans for the future without any worrying. If the only reason you are saving money is because you're worried about the future, it's a piss poor reason. If you're saving for unexpected calamities, that's fine. They do occur, no doubt. But worrying about them does nothing but cause misery.

Another criticism of Katie is that she minimizes suffering. I heard her talk about losing a home to foreclosure. She described how it was a beautiful day, and as the van drove away with an imaginary woman's possessions, while this imaginary woman was sitting on the sidewalk, she looked up at the sky and saw how beautiful it was. In that moment, she was fine. The world was perfect as it was. My reaction? Yes, it was all very well and good that it happened in California where the weather is warm and, sure, one can bask in the beauty of nature for quite a while, but, what's going to happen when this imaginary woman gets hungry? Where is she going to use a bathroom or sleep?

I felt a sense of outrage for a moment, and then paused. I realized I've been in some dire situations, ones that objectively would be considered intolerable to most Americans. Because I can see the beauty in the smallest things, those supposedly bad situations were all not only bearable, but perfect. I've had times in my life when things were objectively going great, but I was suffering inside, and I felt life was unbearable.

So, in my experience, these stories that we tell ourselves, and we allow our society to tell us about what we need from life, well, they are the cause of our suffering. This doesn't mean that being hungry, homeless, sick, or alone is perfectly fine and if you're suffering because of it, you're at fault. It only means that if you are in a bad situation, adding to one's misery by refusing to see what possibilities for learning or appreciation they hold is a bad strategy. Being angry about one's situation doesn't make it better. Righteous anger is still anger. Is it really fulfilling to be angry?

I was once scolded for enjoying a meal too much in the middle of mourning. I was also told I was crying too hard around the same time. Either way, the crux of that matter was that feeling too strongly in this society is not approved of. I might not like Tom Cruise for a number of reasons, but I positively approved of his jumping up and down on a couch crowing about his love for whoever it was he had fallen for. Fantastic! We should all be that enthusiastic. But no. Suddenly, Tom Cruise was "crazy." Hell, he's been crazy for years. He's a Scientologist. Of course he's crazy!

I could keep on ranting for hours. Kids get pills for being hyperactive (too much for the teachers to handle), and pills because they're depressed when their parents aren't parenting them. Wouldn't it be better if we let the "hyperactive" kids run around more? Wouldn't it be better to acknowledge the truth of the pain of a child who's not being taken care of? That's not depression. Depression is being unhappy for no good reason.

Oh, we are so confused.

I never got around to what my entry's title asks, "Is it really so simple?" Well, it is. Reality is what it is. The less we argue with it, the better off we'll be. That applies as well to kids who are being treated with drugs when they should be treated with respect as it does to those who are crying about that which is long gone or has never happened. Denying reality, dampening our reactions to it (keep yourself in check - no big emotions allowed!), or all attempts to alter our feelings about it by external means (booze, drugs, both legal or not), well, it's a losing battle. Reality is as it is.

End of tonight's rant and lecture.

Photo note: As requested, something I've made - my first attempts at coiled thick and thin yarn.

More gratitude

I just deleted the long story of how I became psychotic last Friday night because of taking Lyrica. The horrible details are not useful, nor do I really want to go over them again.

Suffice it to say I took this drug without much thought, even after hearing the pharmacist say that it caused extreme suicidal behavior in some people "who were probably messed up to begin with." Well, I was messed up to begin with, made a joke to him about that, which he laughed at, and merrily downed the little pill with my supper. Three hours later, I was hallucinating. Fourteen hours later, I was admitted to a psych ward, and it took me a few days to calm down after this truly frightening episode.

The thing is, I'm oddly grateful. In my psychotic state, I was experiencing and acting out all the darkest places I've ever been to. It was everything I've ever been afraid of happening, and a regression into the fear of a little child, my little child, the one I've never been able to be kind to.

And as you can see, I survived. What's there to be afraid of now?

I am not my life's stories. I am not the victim of my life's stories.

I got to visit with some interesting people, people who are hurting far more than I.

One man came into the ward, which is also for detox, because his doctor forced him to be there. He was waiting for the three days to be up. He left, and went directly to a bar, where he called his room mate at the hospital. He said he was planning on being dead by the morning. Life without booze was not an option. He'd rather have one last binge and be done with life.

Oh, I am very lucky indeed.

Another man said he was afraid of the surgery he was facing. The doctor's odds for his surviving the surgery without paralysis? 50/50. What condition did this man have that he was willing to face those coin-toss odds? Well, the very same one I have in my back, leg and foot. No one suggested this nasty bit of surgery to me. I told him that. He said that he was told that the numbness in his foot would spread. No one told me this one, either. I beseeched him to ask for a second opinion (or more). He would not hear of it. "If I can live without this pain, I'm willing to take my chances" he said.

Oh, I'm glad I hallucinated on Friday night. I really am lucky. I have a lot to be grateful for. I've got a fairly good mind, one that doesn't accept nonsense from experts easily. I am not suffering all that much, compared to others.

This is not a good way to discern the depth of one's suffering, but it was offered to me, and I took it. I listened as people wove their stories about how they've been wronged, hurt, damaged, and I kept wondering why everyone was doing so much damage to themselves.

Not that I haven't done the same thing. Oh yes, I have. I've done my fair share, and more. But, it's leaving me. Yes, I can feel it slip away. Maybe I needed this one last gasp, the proverbial dark night of soul (even if it was brought on by a bad combo of prescription drugs).

Everything is grist for the mill. Everything is as it should be. How can we argue with that? What's the point? If this is reality, fighting against it is a losing proposition. If I don't like the way things are, I can continue arguing with them, making myself suffer more, or I can make peace or move on. But suffering is certainly optional.

I suffered hard on Friday and well into Saturday. I am grateful I do not suffer from schizophrenia. Psychosis is frightening. I am most grateful for the fact that while I'm a bit flakey, I'm basically mentally intact. Sure, like everyone else in the world, I have some delusions, some of them pretty big, but I am grounded in reality. That is the greatest gift.

On Friday night, I looked out the window and saw children's drawings, images of knives plunging into flesh, all sorts of horrors. They were not real. The trees, covered with snow, and the birds that land on the feeders are. I am so lucky that that is what I do see. How lucky we all are!