WALNUTS

Philosophers have said that we love music
because it resembles the sphere-sounds

of union. We’ve been part of a harmony
before, so these moments of treble and bass

keep our remembering fresh.

. . .

The waterhole is deep. A thirsty man climbs
a walnut tree growing next to the pool

and drops walnuts one by one into
the beautiful place. He listens carefully

to the sound as they hit and watches
the bubbles. A more rational man gives advice,

“You’ll regret doing this. You’re so far
from the water that by the time you get down

to gather walnuts, the water will have
carried them away.” He replies, “I’m not

here for walnuts, I want the music
they make when they hit.”

~

You that come to birth and bring the mysteries,
your voice-thunder makes us very happy.

Roar, lion of the heart,
and tear me open!

(Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks)

I’m burning a smudge stick and bringing bags to Goodwill.  Clearing, bag by bag, everything.  EVERYTHING!  This space is being cleared out, too.  Renewed.  So until it is, or at least until I can’t stand it anymore (no pictures?!), I’ll be posting a Rumi poem every day to fill the space of my own silence.

AAAaaaAaaand, I want to do some giveaways to celebrate the impending new-ness.  I totally bombed on my first and last “giveaway,” because I promised things to everyone (isn’t that a metaphor!).  But this one will have only one winner.  And after I have re-earned your giveaway trust, we’ll have a few more in the “new” space.

MUSIC! The PRIZE will be a CD OR two or three, a collection of all of the songs suggested in the comments (if the numbers get out of control, I’ll just pick my favorites of the bunch). HOW TO ENTER: Leave a favorite song in the comments (1 entry).  Include a link to the youtube or alternative way for us to hear it (1 additional entry).   Link to this post via twitter or facebook (1 additional entry).  Be sure to include your email when you comment so I can notify the winner, who I will chose via the handy-dandy Cute Kid Pulls Numbers Out Of Hat Method (on September 1st)!

Surrounding the man-made lake, mirroring the vibration, the leaves tremble in the wind, and the clouds above them, and the stars above them.  I notice the pockets of space between swimmers.  I listen for pockets of space between sounds.  I consider the imperceptible space between molecules.  I breathe and feel the same stillness within me, despite the warring emotions and thoughts, despite the trembling atoms and all the chaotic processes that keep me blinking.  I laugh when suddenly the loud speakers begin to play “The Space Between.”

I think of meditation, of stillness, of how it remains among the chaos and the noise, this pervasive stillness, this infinite silence.  And then I think of the following song, because of the lyrics: “we are all notes in this eternal song / god plays his flute, we all dance along,” and its overall reference to meditation.  The dance and the stillness, all superimposed, it makes me feel crazy (CRAZY!), in a good way.

(This also embarrasses me to think about because dammit, now every time I think of Trevor Hall, I will think of the concert on Friday night.  The crowd was awful and really small, the music was wonderful, but I was so moved beyond reason that I offered Trevor a dread bead as he passed me in the hall on his way out.  I mean, what?  Why is that OK?  From my nappy dread to yours?  Because I feel the words you sing, and we have matching hair?  This is when maybe the ego could have stepped in and helped me save face?  But no.  It did not.  And Trevor looked at me, raised a finger dismissively, and said “one second…” and then did not come back.  And so now I am going to stop talking about Trevor Hall, for goodness’ sake.  Right after this blog post.)

one pre-snow, two post-thaw magnolia blossoms. (digi)

Pour the wine and raise a cup
Drink up, brothers, you know how
And spill a drop for Orpheus
Wherever he is now

Some birds sing when the sun shines bright
My praise is not for them
But the one who sings in the dead of night
I raise my cup to him

Wherever he is wandering
Alone upon the earth
Let all our singing follow him
And bring him comfort

Some flowers bloom when the green grass grows
My praise is not for them
But the one who blooms in the bitter snow
I raise my cup to him

I raise my cup and drink it up

I raise it high and drink it dry

To Orpheus and all of us
Goodnight, brothers, goodnight

 ~Anais Mitchell, from Hadestown (for which, by the way, I’m in need of either babysitting or a date or both:  Chicago, Sept. 11)

the one who bloomed in the bitter snow. . .

It is different for me to remain objective during the dark of the moon.  But for whatever reason (serotonin receptors saturated with chocolate?  all other receptors saturated with coffee?  extra sunny vitamin D doses?), I am relatively . . . happy.  Receptive, new-moon-ish, but . . . happy.  And in this strange state, I’m noticing that a lot of people aren’t.  I don’t mean un-grateful, un-zen, what’s wrong with all of you pathetic, un-happy people.  I mean tragedy-induced grief, crisis-induced overwhelm, hormones and cycles and hermitage and clinical depression.  Valid shit.

If you’re one of them, I give you a virtual pat on the shoulder and an “I’ve been there.”  Because I have been there; I visit relatively often, actually.  I offer you virtual sympathy, but I don’t do pity (who wants pity, anyway?).  I raise my cup to you, if, like Orpheus, you’re singing in the dead of night.  And I site Rilke as my excuse to virtually slap you in the face if you are faking it, and/or hoping for something better, you “spendthrift of sorrows,” you. 

May I, one day, emerging from this grim vision,
sing jubilation and praise to assenting angels.
May no clearly struck hammer of my heart
fail to sound from slack, doubting, or
breaking strings.  May my tear-filled face
make me more shining; may my simple tears
flower.  how dear will you be to me then,
you nights of affliction.  Why couldn’t I kneel more deeply
     and accept you,
inconsolable sisters, or loosen myself
freely into your loosened hair.  We spendthrifts of sorrows.
How we keep peering beyond them ahead into sad duration,
to see if perhaps they might have an end.  But they are truly
our winter-enduring foliage, the dark green of our life’s meaning,
one season of our secret year—, not only
time—, but also place, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Tenth Elegy, (trans. Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebmann)

Apache

 My future little women and I had such fun playing with colors and shutter speeds the other night.  Lately, every time I put on a skirt, Shortcake stops what she’s doing, and commands me:  “Dance!”  And so I dance, swishing the skirt and spinning.  She stands back, watching me with a critical eye, then says things like, “Yes.  Mm-hmm.  Good, good.”

I don’t know if it is Spring, or these photos, or the new moon, or what.  But I am craving ritual and fires and drumming and dance and lying awake in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.  And such.

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:

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.

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.

watercolor on arches hot press paper

 This may be redundant, but listen.  The last couple days have plunged me into some ridiculous, epic journey of self-loathing and rage-y despair.  It was not so much a passive state of depression, but an active fury.  When I said I wanted to throw a temper tantrum, I totally meant it.  I was hard-core craving broken dishes on the driveway and screaming and kicking and throwing.  The desire was really just for the sake of the feeling of it, but more subtly, I suppose, it was the if-i-can’t-have-EVERYTHING!-exactly-how-I!!-want-it-and-NOW!-then-i-will-throw-a-fit . . . thing.  And not being able to throw fits all day long was like being told by the obstetrician to not push.

And, oh!  Look at the moon.  It is a little waning thing.  How predictable.  I hate myself for being so fucking predictable! 

(Just kidding.  But if I would’ve said that yesterday, I probably would’ve meant it.) 

 And so it was in this state that I did this painting.  I’m borrowing this guitar, if you remember, and although I’ve previously never learned anything beyond the first three chords in Harvest Moon or a Nirvana riff or two, I’m trying to get my rock on.  I really am quite terrible at it thus far, and my fingertips are red and swollen and sore, and hooray for a very easy E minor chord, but still, it just feels sooooo damn good to play it really loud.  It is also a good thing to have around when one is craving a temper tantrum.

A part of my self-loathing was regarding my inability to just be calm and sweet and nice.  I mentally noted one failed attempt at Zen, F minor, housewifery, and altogether goodness . . . after another.  I did try to wrangle it in, the crazy.  I was bringing my attention to that which is, but it turns out that that which was was the ridiculous desire to scream and swear and maybe even to bite.  Sometimes what presents itself is the painfully beautiful glitter of snow, and other times it is just, you know, biting. 

Considering the honesty of the emotion made me think (with a little help from my friend), waitaminutehere.  Maybe this is OK, simply feeling what there is to feel, as opposed to denying, or worse, becoming completely out of touch with, extreme emotion.  (And also, she told me that someone called a picture of me cute.  Ah, flattery.)  Fiery is a part of me, and trying to be “good” and “nice” is sometimes especially exhausting.  I woke up thinking about archetypes, and trying to remember some of the goddess myths that would point to the fierce aspect of the divine feminine.  And, so hooray for facebook, where Chameli mentioned Durga.  I cued up Ragani‘s “Durga” on my iPod, and I named my painting after her.

 I’m putting the original up on my Etsy, as well as a few prints of both this rocking Durga and The Selkie.  The prints have not yet arrived from the printer, and so I’m listing them at a discount until they do (I am such the terrible businesswoman!).  You’ll get them cheaper for being a little risky and patient.  Apropos.

***EDITED TO ADD: the 8×10 prints have sold, already!  I’ve just listed the 5×7.***

crumpet on tri-x film pushed, in mamiya tlr

What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?  The world would split open.

~Muriel Rukeyser   (found on this blog, upon which I am currently crushing.)

I often consider the concept of threshold, perhaps because I am drawn to dance alongside it.  I wonder about the paradox of a thing, and about the point beyond which the pendulum swings the other way.  Things like . . .

breaking point breakdown conception suicide insanity orgasm death critical mass critical condition trigger release love affair hibernation hope for salvation loss of balance fucked up childhood one or the other friendly or flirty funny or crude aloof enlightened condescending wise light dark fear pain belief ecstasy lithium saturation

the level of calcium in a cell of cardiac tissue that, when reached, causes the heart to contract.

the crescendo of a feeling or desire that is secret or repressed or denied or ignored and the little thing that breaks the shell, allowing it to wreak havoc on any pathetic attempt at pretense.

. . . and such.

(ahem)

It is this bottom of the stairwell, head in hands, on the threshold of insanity feeling that inspired this following little ditty a few months ago, and in turn, I decided to write Motherhood, The Musical.  (I’m totally kidding, of course, but it has a certain ring, doesn’t it?)  It seems the depths of winter are inspiring quite a few of these moments in quite a few of my friends.  I wish I could sing this for you, because I crack myself up, but I can’t figure out how to effectively upload music files.  Anyway.  It’s a waltz:

I’m deep in the bowels of / Motherhood / I’m fertile and sexed and it / Doesn’t feel good / I’ll take all these children / And feed them to wolves / Or I’ll eat them myself / If the damned dogs are full.

Tell me that doesn’t just scream Broadway hit. 

Ohmigod.  Please don’t call Social Services.  I’m just kidding.  About the wolves.  Thing.

This is a photo of my great aunt Grace on the beach in 1914.

How gorgeous is this?  I could stare at it all day.

Except instead of stare at it, I’m going to develop a roll of film and print out staff paper. *

Because I’ve got my music back. 

I don’t know what happened, but some dam burst in my head.  And suddenly, it is all MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!

Actually, it’s rather annoying.  I mean, seriously.  I must have ADD.  Just do one thing already, right?

But the damn . . . dam.  It’s as if it was always there, the MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC! building and building and building, and it just reached this threshold, and fwooooosh.  I can’t really stop obsessing about music right now.  It’s quite obnoxious.

I do tend to be fickle, of course.  And so, surely this too shall pass.  But for now, there is nothing more pressing in my life than to learn to play the electric guitar, and more specifically, to play this one song on it.  And maybe one or two more.  Luckily, I know a guy.**

It was impossible to not be musical growing up in my family.  For as long as I can remember, up until I left the house, it was always MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!  For the rest of them, it still is.  But it hasn’t been, for me, for whatever reason.  I mean, I’ve got a piano sitting in my living room.  And I play it sometimes.  And I’ve even played this one song on it.  But the full moon, and the thought of an electric guitar, these were the last two straws.  Or water molecules.  Or whatever.

fwoooooooooooshhh.

I’m not predicting future mother-of-four rockstardom or anything.  Just, MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!  until I’m bored.

* You should know that I forgot to pick up Mowgli from school while searching for this.  Doesn’t the red flag for clinical psychosis have something to do with being unable to perform daily tasks?  shit.

**I’ve known these people for a couple years, and never took the time to listen to their music.  Don’t make the same mistake, go listen right now.  Scroll down and find Hello, Hospital.  RRRRRRRRRRRROCK!