Archive for the ‘Creativity’ Category

to them . . .

March 10, 2010

i am
sandwiches on plates
milk in cups

I wrote a poem the other night that started like this.  Except, I don’t actually know what “poem” means.  And so I won’t share it with you as such.  I will, maybe, make the words lyrics someday. 

>>>digression.  I listened to the very end of an interview with Anais Mitchell this weekend on NPR.  I turned on the radio, on my way to my beachy solitary-ing, intent on remaining open to signs and natural instinct.  Of course, then, she was being interviewed for her new folk drama, Hadestown.  Hades!  Persephone!  Orpheus!  Eurydice!  Alright, already.  I get it.  It is time to focus on that damn novel again, apparently.  (ha, ha!  damn!  underworld!  get it?  is this thing on?)  But I bring it up, because she said something like this: ”If you want to be a poet nowadays, you’d better learn how to play the guitar.”  end digression<<<

Essentially, the ”poem” was a list of all the pointless, meaningless things I am to them, these kids.  I realized recently, or remembered, that I am not as important to them as I think I am.  This is both heartbreaking and liberating.  I am the biology that got them here, the biology that facilitates their continued living.  But beyond that, they are independent little bodies, free little spirits.  Usually, I am just getting in their way.  The “poem” ends:

and i can’t help but consider
sea turtles

You know, sea turtles.  Because the mothers abandon their children, as eggs, on the beach.  (tap, tap.  is this thing on?)  I mean, no.  I’m not planning on deserting my babies.  But, really.  Those little hatchlings are perfectly capable.  The species still survives, right?  (Okay.  I just looked this up.  And there are a few different species of sea turtles.  And most of them are endangered.  So nevermind.  Forget the sea turtle thing.  Just forget it.)

And so guess what.  Now Dimples is really sick.  And he needs me.  Go figure.  All lies, these epiphanies.  All lies!

This is the photo that started all of this “independent children” thinking in the first place:

independent shortcake in bath, digital.
independent shortcake in bath, digital.

and another, for good measure:

TAF_1722x

particularly myself

March 5, 2010

There is no escape.  You can’t be a vagabond and an artist and still be a solid citizen, a wholesome, upstanding man.  You want to get drunk, so you have to accept the hangover.  You say yes to the sunlight and your pure fantasies, so you have to say yes to the filth and the nausea.  Everything is within you, gold and mud, happiness and pain, the laughter of childhood and the apprehension of death.  Say yes to everything, shirk nothing, don’t try to lie to yourself.  You are not a solid citizen, you are not a Greek, you are not harmonious, or the master of yourself, you are a bird in the storm.  Let it storm!  Let it drive you!  How much you have lied!  A thousand times, even in your poems and books, you have played the harmonious man, the wise man, the happy, the enlightened man.  In the same way, men attacking in war have played heroes, while their bowels twitched.  My God, what a poor ape, what a fencer in the mirror, man is -particularly the artist – particularly the poet – particularly myself!

Herman Hesse, from Wandering

 

mowgli, appropriately wild.  tri-x pushed in mamiya c330
mowgli, appropriately wild. tri-x pushed in mamiya c330
35mm delta 3200 scan

35mm delta 3200 scan

While editing my steaming pile of NaNoWriMo the other night, I came across this sentence: “I hovered in the silent tension between my prayer and the hope for an answer.” 

I applauded myself for one good sentence (thank heavens) in a sea of trash.  Then I read something a friend had written, a similar sentiment of waiting and of prayer.

It is an interesting place to be suspended.  And it is not actually comfortable.  It is the place between winter and spring.  March 3rd.  It is the place before abadoning hope, the place before you realize what you’ve known all along, the place before the un-answer.  And I’m not entirely sure what to do here.

So I’m just waiting, hands crossed in my lap, feet swinging.  And I don’t even know for what.

My Experience

March 1, 2010

There are those who would misteach us that to stick in a rut is consistency – and a virtue; and that to climb out of the rut is inconsistency – and a vice. (Mark Twain)

tri-x 400 mf film in mamiya c330, shortcake
tri-x 400 mf film in mamiya c330, shortcake

I often chastise myself for my inconsistency, despite my apparent tendency to praise it.  Or maybe it’s the other way around?  And I don’t, in self-pity, mean inconsistency in skills, but in interests.  

This is not yet another defense or justification of my fickle-ness.  (There are far too many of those on this blog.)  I’m just sharing my thoughts.  I won’t even quote Emerson.  I promise.  But I might quote William Blake.  Yes.  I believe I shall.

Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained. (William Blake)

I do not have weak desires.  And I have many—some yet restrained, some not.  Here is where I am, regarding a few of the unrestrained ones:  1) in love with this film, and with putting bits of light and shadow on it.  2) in love with my novel again, and with fixing and strengthening it.  3) in love with this new guitar, and with building up these finger calluses.  (not only can i sort of play and sing my funny little nonsense song, but i can also sing and play “blowin’ in the wind,” and so how sexy is that?)  4) in love with pencils and ink and watercolor paper, and working on a new drawing.  5) moonlighting, obviously.

When I think about it, there is this annoying grown-up in me that wags a finger and says things like, “Stop this frivolous nonsense!”  and “Do the dishes!”  and “Go to bed before 1:30 AM!”  and “What is the point?”  and “If you would just focus, maybe you’d finish something.” and “Be responsible.  Make money.”  But when they are quiet, which is most of the time, there is myth and art and music.  And I can’t quite remember why that is a problem.  Myth and Art and Music!  I don’t want to remember why that is a problem.

So, to answer the annoying, finger-wagging, grown-up-me; there is no point, really—that is the recent epiphany.  The only purpose of all of “this” is simply to share my experience of It with a capital I.  If my whore-ish muse wants to flit and float, who am I to stop her?  This is how I experience it: an overwhelm of inspiration and emotion and passion and . . . everything.  And I do what I can to express that experience, simply because I want to.  It’s never enough, I’m never enough, it will never be enough, and yet it is.  And I am.

So there.

Creative Genius

February 26, 2010

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.  It is the source of all true art and science.  He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.

Albert Einstein, What I believe, 1930

still winter

Oh, hey!  Look!  it is still winter.  And I am still having a bit of a fling with the weather, apparently.  I am maybe even feeling nostalgic for the soon-to pass winter.  Weird. 

For some visual inspiration intermixed with some delicious science, check out this gorgeous book (but not at our library because I have it right now, ha!):

 

How full of creative genius is the air in which these are generated!  I should hardly admire them more if real stars fell and lodged on my coat.

Henry David Thoreau, Journal, 1856

stories

February 24, 2010
(tri-x 400 mamiya 645af)

(tri-x 400 mamiya 645af)

 (wrote this last night, so today actually means yesterday, and tomorrow means today, and whoa.  trippy.)

Julie.  The Louise to my Thelma.  Julie so kindly got naked for me the other day so I could mess with some ideas I’ve got regarding this little tube sock problem obsession interest.  Some stay-at-home-moms go to scheduled playgroups.  You know, whatever, to each their own.  I’ve still got some rolls to develop from this day, and some more ideas to play around with, and I wasn’t planning on sharing this right now, but . . .

the things I meant to do right now aren’t workiiiiiiing!!!  None of them.  Wonky ink in the printer and an empty bottle of developer and a guitar that won’t arrive until tomorrow and a twitchy brain.  So, here it is.

STORIES!!!!

is the word of the day (week?) on the blog.  I feel like I keep coming up with keywords.  “Threshold” and “Illusion” and now, “Stories.”  That’s so fucking annoying.  (Ooooh, hoo hoo!  I’m in one of those moo-hooods!)  But annoying or not, that’s the way of it.  (And now I’m going to picture Pee Wee Herman doing his word-of-the-day thing that he did.  Great.  Thanks a lot.)

Julie makes me think of the word “stories.”  The woman has got.  stories.  And they just keep coming!  I’ve begun to think that either she is lying about all of her adventures, or that she really is that much older than me (heh heh), or that she has clones that go out live and then come back to report to her regularly. 

Besides being wildly entertaining, it inspires me.  It makes me think about how I live this life that is presented to me, every moment raw and teeming with opportunity.  Do I devour it?  Savour both the illusion (there I go again!) and the clarity?  Drink in the true experiences, despite their threat to this farce of stability and normalcy?

Now, I don’t think that living your life as a good story means actively looking for trouble,  but it does make me reconsider my definition of “mistake.”  It seems that the Great Stories of my life (and others) have been those times when Life has presented us with something, and we’ve accepted the offer, ignoring the fear of a possible mistake.  Otherwise, it is a sad story ruled by empty routine and fear. 

Also, I think, those mundane everyday things, like the whirlwind of snow-globe-like snow blowing today, or the trip to the grocery store in which the strange happy-lovey force between everyone was palpable, or the millisecond-prolonged glance, or the star-shaped center of the apple, or the laundry, can be a Great Stories when they are lived attentively.  And then of course, there are the Great Stories told by nature—childbirth, tragedy, love, death—that sometimes give us no choice in the matter of attention.

What’s your story?

stirs in her winter sleep

February 22, 2010

 

stirring

She tells her love while half asleep,
     In the dark hours,
          With half words whispered low;

As earth stirs in her winter sleep
     And puts out grass and flowers
          Despite the snow,
          Despite the falling snow.

(Robert Graves)

 

Characteristically paradoxical, me.  I’ve changed my mind.  I’m now officially looking forward to spring, whether I like it or not.  I just read the above poem last night (in this book), and that is likely what secured it.  Yep.  I feel it stirring, despite the falling snow.  (Either that, or the extra espresso shot from this morning’s latte?)

This dead little flower is just outside my window, and I was sketching it today with the home-from-school-for-a-dentist-appointment kids, and whoops!  Hope and Mother Earth made an appearance.  Hey there, Mama.  Stir it up.

Use Your Illusion

February 19, 2010
Illusions are art, for the feeling person, and it is by art that you live, if you do.  (Elizabeth Bowen)
tri-x film in mamiya 645af.  mowgli and a girlie friend.

tri-x film in mamiya 645af. mowgli and a girlie friend.

Today I’m thinking about illusions.  The illusions of vision, of art, of social role, of relationship, of should, of connection, of separation, of possession, of acceptance, of proper, of religion, of comfort, of security, of emotion, of praise, of beauty, of insult.  Hey!  Another one of those lists.  I haven’t gone all there-is-no-spoon yet, but I do think I’ll go on a quantum physics kick, now that you mention it.

I’m thinking about how we can become so governed by those illusions, and about what would happen if we . . . weren’t.  If we accepted their function when appropriate, loved the illusions for what they were, and then gratefully let them go in due time.  “Arigato Zaisho,” if you know what I mean

I’m thinking, and letting go of a few other . . . thinkings.  Oooh, I have a lot more to say here, but I’m operating under the illusion of time, so I must go.

Have the illusion of a happy weekend!

We now interrupt our regularly scheduled upswing with . . .

everything

and 

mental

 

By the time I descended into my lair to get some crazy out last night, I fucked up an attempt to do an ink wash of yesterday’s sketch.  And so I was infuuuuuuriated with myself.  Because I could have developed film or played the guitar or painted a watercolor or worked on that terrible opening chapter.  And those thoughts made me more insane because then I decided that I am just an all-around absolute loser, of course.  Why must I (TRY to) do everything?  My muse is not just promiscuous, she is a whore.  Because she makes it so that I am not even good at anything.

(I am not looking for pity or smoke up my ass, here.  I am just spilling.  So pleeeeease, so help me, don’t.)

I’m a little thrown off by this.  And I’m kind of spinning in circles.  And I’ll do some business things when I can today, like working on the photography website and ordering shipping supplies.  Good, concrete, boring things.  And I will have a friend here for coffee, and I will screw a few hinges onto my cupboard doors.  And, of course, I will mother as a verb.  But I can’t promise that I won’t just go ahead and have a breakdown.  Which makes me feel weak and stupid and lonely, because who feels this way, really?  I mean, pull yourself together, woman!  There are real problems in this world!  Remember how you felt about your fellow college students who complained about their art woes while you studied organic chemistry and microbiology?  Where is that one chick?  Maybe she was just a sad, jealous, trapped little thing.  But maybe we could buck up and channel her today?  Huh?  You lunatic? 

 

Shoot.  I’ve just realized that there are people that blog to uplift and inspire other people, and not to talk to themselves in public.

And so I’m going to try really hard to post something normal-bloggy tomorrow.

*curtsy*

My Promiscuous Muse

February 15, 2010

I have a promiscuous muse. My muse wants to own every color, work in many media, and in numerous genre. (Mary Klotz)

drift sketch

 

And hooray for the swing of the pendulum, though broody does hold such a special place in my heart.  I’m sure I’ll see it again soon.  No sense mourning the  lack of mourning.  hmpf.  And I suppose it is a more pleasant feeling, but it is not so different from last week’s rage-y-ness.  Crazy is crazy is crazy.  Y’know?

My current task is no longer to prevent falling apart crying in public, but to stop myself from hugging everyone I see.  It’s a little ridiculous.  I mean, where is the balance?  Could we please just find a comfortable little monotonous feeling, maybe?  (Or, not.  That would be boring.) 

Also, I’m having to really work today at focusing on mundane tasks.  The voices that are singing melodies and telling me about the scenes I missed, and the images that are poised and ready for paper are all bouncing off of the walls and into one another.  I tell them to wait, but they scoff at the dishes and interrupt picture books and serenade diaper changes.  And then, when I finally sit down at the piano, for example, they are nowhere to be seen (heard).  So I love them, but I sort of hate them, too.

In this state I’ve thought up a few really cheesy ideas.  There is one, in particular, related to this gushy omnibenevolence. I’m trying to keep it under wraps, because it sort of makes me cringe, the cheesiness.  But I’m afraid I might burst soon.  So, you know.  Fair warning.

Oh, and P. S., my tube socks have arrived.  Hello.