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.

and another, for good measure:

I’ve written those (first) two words into a poem—abandoned and reworked and abandoned and rediscovered and (you get the idea)—since I was sixteen.  They have new meaning for me every time I write them. 

Tonight, my newly-formed guitar string finger calluses tap-tap-tapped on the keyboard, as I began to love on my little-novel-that-could again.  I wrote: Momentarily awakened in the moonless night . . .

And on cue, Shortcake woke up, calling to me from the bed.  “Mommy?”  I ran to her, snuggled up and kissed her cheek.  “Mommy’s here,” I whispered.  Sleepily, she put her arm on mine, and said, smiling, “Oh.  There y’are.” 

Then, Dimples woke up, febrile and coughing, with a sore ear.  After ibuprofen and forehead kisses, he smiled and said, “Mom?  My number one favorite thing is drawing.”

I wrote all of the above last night, and returned to Dimples’ side, eventually falling asleep with my ass on his floor and my head on his bed.  And so I don’t actually know where I was going with this train of thought.  Which reminds me.  This weekend, traveling home from a blissful day alone on a snowy beach, I got lost in the boonies of Wisconsin.  I ended up on a windy, hilly road in a thick forest, and completely lost my sense of direction.  It was perfect.  I was so far gone, and did not want to be found.  Except that I really had to pee.  Which reminds me.  I’ve got to tell you about our lost-backpacking-in-a-blizzard-spring-break-trip sometime.  Which reminds me.  Of this, which I’ve posted before, maybe last spring:

tri-x in holga, dusty neg scan, Mowgli

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

tri-x in mamiya 645af pushed a stop. shortcake in a friend's playroom (best playroom ever!)

My brain is an absolute mess.

The kind of mess where you don’t even know where to start.  Not that I’ve ever been any good at cleaning.  Not that I intend to declutter this cranial disaster.  I’m just letting you know, in case you don’t just automatically default to that assumption.

And so besides showing you this (awesome, if I do say so myself) photo, I defer you to Shel.  No, really.  I want you to seek out The Missing Piece, even if you’ve read it a million times before.  And read it.  Aloud.  And maybe even sing the singing parts.

I like books with lots of big words.  But this truly is one of my favorites.  I get something different from it every time I read it.  Ahem.  I mean, read it to the kids.

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.

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

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.

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

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

(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?

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.

It is still February.  February somewhat sucks.  For a while there, I had decided that I was going to pump Wellbutrin into our village water system, and maybe try to transmit it electronically, as well.  Or Prozac.  Or Heroin.  The other day, a friend read a phone-text and shook her head, laughing.  “Everyone’s depressed!”  And it’s true.  There is some hard core depths of despair happening ’round here.

We are deep into the dark season here in Wisconsin.  I’ve seen other bloggers talk about the signs of returning spring, and I want to throw a chunk of ice at them.  Oh no, honey.  Not here.  Here we do not mention the S word, for fear of a collective breakdown.  Except, shit.  I just mentioned it, didn’t I?  I will now pause for my fellow Doldrum-experiencers to cry with longing for the season that lingers in the distance too far beyond hope.

*  *  *  *  *

Everyone OK?  Yes.  See, that’s the thing.  I think that everyone is OK.  (I’m OK, you’re OK, OK now I’m sounding like a self-help book.  ack.)  I just think that a turn toward darkness in winter is a healthy, natural movement.  Remember?  It is when we fight it that we cause ourselves harm.  I shouldn’t be feeling this way, it is his/her fault, how can we fix this, what is the problem . . . 

There is no problem.  There is no spoon.  These Winter Doldrums have brought me some really nasty-but-good, awful-but-helpful, raw-but-fresh stuff.  Stuff that productive spring will do great things with, surely.  (shoot!  S-word!  hope!  sorry!) 

But, oh . . . . . spring.  Spriiiiiiiiiiiiing.  Maybe it is not actually so far off?  I mean, it is currently snowing.  And everything is still deader than dead.  And the sun does still set before 6 pm.  But . . . shoot!  I’ve done it again!  Sorry!  Moment of silence.

*  *  *  *  *

And in case that pathetic little attempt at inspiration doesn’t do it for you, here are some pictures that might.  They are not spring-ish in the least, but they are happy, I think.  (?)

Do you know the joy of this? Can you hear it? Feel it under your feet? yesssssssssssssssssss. This is, perhaps, the best part of winter. (aside: I asked my husband, showed him the pictures, and he said, "that just looks sad." So maybe I am totally off on this?)

Ecstasy, I tell you. Sheer bliss. crrrrrack.

And, of course, there is the licking of a big hunk of snow. (Dimples) Who can resist that?

And a few more.  I gave up putting them into nice little black rectangles for you:

I'm just going to assume that this was not in the driveway. (Mowgli)

And I learned something last weekend. Running in the winter can be fun! Avoiding the poorly-shoveled spots was honestly fun. Like an obstacle course. I'm serious! (Shortcake)

And name-spelling in the snow. There are few things in life as thrilling as a big stretch of undisturbed snow that you are about to have your way with. (Kiki)