someone once said that the definition of insanity is taking four children on a cross-country road trip. i think maybe that someone was me, precisely one year ago, when we did such a thing. but then i forgot, because now we are doing it again. this one will be shorter than last year’s trip, only 22 hours of driving each way. last year i spent the entire time in the passenger seat puting newborn dreadlocks into my hair. this year, i plan to spend the entire time tweeting. so, follow me through the thrills of iowa and nebraska, through the joys of altitude sickness in colorado. it’ll be fun. i promise. if i can figure it out, i’ll upload an occasional shot of my journals (watercolor, ink, writing, i’m feeling ambitious). we leave tomorrow morning. i wonder if i should consider packing?
Posts Tagged ‘Dimples’
tweeting and driving
July 6, 2010cheers
June 18, 2010
Sweet Darkness
You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.
Give up all the other worlds except
the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the
sweet confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
—David Whyte
Cheers! to the weekend, and to living, as opposed to existing. And one more toast to those who know the difference.
rain is my BEST thing
June 7, 2010it all started like this, torrential rain in bursts, and the compulsion to fully experience it.
and then he said this, and i couldn’t not write it down.
and then she remembered how fun chalk is when the pavement is wet.
and so did he.
and let’s just say we were deeply moved.
and then:
and then:
Portions of Eternity
April 10, 2010The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves,
the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword,
are portions of eternity, too great for the eye of man.
William Blake, Proverbs of Hell, in The Prophetic Books
Am I perpetually unhappy, or am I perpetually inspired?
Do I have ADHD, or do I have particularly keen senses?
Am I unable to finish a project, or am I unable to deny a potentially brilliant idea my attention?
I found this article and then this, googling—I kid you not—”creativity and distractibility.” (SPARKLY!)
“Scientists have wondered for a long time why madness and creativity seem linked,” says Carson. “It appears likely that low levels of latent inhibition and exceptional flexibility in thought might predispose to mental illness under some conditions and to creative accomplishment under others.”
“This means that creative individuals remain in contact with the extra information constantly streaming in from the environment,” says co-author and U of T psychology professor Jordan Peterson. “The normal person classifies an object, and then forgets about it, even though that object is much more complex and interesting than he or she thinks. The creative person, by contrast, is always open to new possibilities.”
“We are very excited by the results of these studies,” says Peterson. “It appears that we have not only identified one of the biological bases of creativity but have moved towards cracking an age-old mystery: the relationship between genius, madness and the doors of perception.”
Regarding me, we think the jury’s still out. But until the verdict (or the next distraction), I’m happy with this explanation.
(The study in its entirety, in PDF form, here.)
have you been half asleep?
April 5, 2010
The Four. Holga, tri-x 400. Obviously.
What’s so amazing that keeps us stargazing?
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers, and me.
from The Rainbow Connection, written by Paul Williams
My Kiki is not a soft, frou-frou girl. She likes loud rock songs and music she can dance to. So, imagine my surprise when I learned that she had been listening to the Sarah McLachlan version of this song on her iPod! Whether it’s the voice or the chords or the elusive meaning, I don’t know, but it moves her. The other night, I played the youtube of Kermit rockin’ the banjo for her, and we laughed. But also, dammit, I got all choked up. What is it about this song?
She wanted to understand the meaning, and I fumbled through an explanation about journey, Mystery, self-expression, connection. Drawing from a rather entertaining fire-and-brimstone vs. Love-and-Light facebook exercise in tolerance this weekend, I told her that we can’t help but walk individual paths, as we each live and experience every moment differently. But at the same time, we are all trying our best to understand the same Thing, whatever we call It, however we respond to It. We know there is beauty and magic, and it is the collective vision of everyone’s unique Truth that . . .
I’m totally lying. This is so much better than the bullshit I gave her. I’ve gotta write this down. Or just ask her what she thinks it means, because that would all go over her head.
Anyway, is this not a fan-cussin’-tastic photo (if I do say so myself)? It is the Spring of the Holga. I’ve just decided.
(p.s. yes. i’ve heard voices.)
Signs
March 18, 2010to them . . .
March 10, 2010i 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:
and another, for good measure:
momentarily awakened (and then lost again)
March 8, 2010I’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:
![[img024.jpg]](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_y6xhGdKb01A/SUgR71OMR7I/AAAAAAAAByY/whZ522OarZA/s1600/img024.jpg)
tri-x in holga, dusty neg scan, Mowgli
doldrums schmoldrums
February 20, 2010Alternative title: February is the F-word.
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)










