Posts Tagged ‘swearing is big and clever’

dancing, stillness

August 10, 2010

It happens in a pattern, becoming almost predictable.  The girls do handstands, their legs sticking out of the water in a V.  There is a large splash, then a small one, over and over again, everywhere.  Most of the mothers try to cover their feminine curves with clingy wet fabric.  There is sunscreen and waterwing-ing and squealing and running and splashing and jumping and eating and sitting and sculpting and scolding.  It is all so random and recurrent that it is balanced, and the entire place is drenched with visible, audible, palpable chaos. 

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.)

The Mad Hatter: Have I gone mad?
[Alice checks Hatter's temperature]
Alice Kingsley: I’m afraid so. You’re entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.

 

god, do i hope this is rock bottom.  have you noticed?  i mean, obviously.  i might as well admit it.  yeah.  i’m kind of going through a thing, worst ever.   and no, actually, i’m not ok.  not at all.  thanks for asking

i tend to get these “signs” of comfort or of direction when i am low or confused.  i get to a place (and it is predictable, but i always forget) where i am so lost and/or incapable of functioning that i reach out, beg really, for some sign that will tell me what to do.  these signs have been abundant, and mind-boggling, as they always are when i am in touch with my truth.  but where they have led me has pissed me off, in an ignorance is bliss (though bliss is definitely not the word.  more a flat affect stupor) sort of way.  so on a recent bike ride, i had a conversation with myself.  or, Myself, or whoever it is that gives me these signs.  i said something like so what’s that about then?  the fucking signs?  could you just stop with the fucking signs?  or could you just stop pretending that you’re seeing signs? (that’s another self-talk voice.  apparently there are many.)  ooh!  ooh!  i know!  i know!  i need a sign about signs!  a sign to tell me that i am actually seeing signs!  and that they matter!  and then i went crazy.  absolutely lost it.  i was angry at myself for being such an idiot, for having such outrageous self-talk discussions, for actually asking for such a thing.  a sign about SIGNS?!?!  my eyes were blurred with tears, so i had to steer my bike off of the road (and almost collided with a truck in the process).  i stopped at an abandoned house and threw my bike onto the overgrown grass and wildflowers.  i saw a shed, and thought it would be a lovely place to have a breakdown.

when i stood in front of the open shed, this is what i saw:

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i’ll give you a sign about signs.  how about a fucking shed full.

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and i cracked up.  out loud.  i mean, not that that is any less confusing.  but it does validate the whole . . . sign . . . thing.  i retrieved my bike, wanting to go home for my camera, and there was another very specific sign in front of my face.  but i won’t tell you about that one.  maybe eventually.

also, when i returned with my camera, i considered breaking into the house.  this was on the door, after all.  but i didn’t.  next time?

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double

July 27, 2010

i had intended something a little more obscene with this week’s illustration friday prompt, “double.”  but then the lines in her hair reminded me of a rainbow, and i couldn’t help but think of the double rainbow guy.  i lummeesum double rainbow guy.  in my current state, i would not need to be intoxicated to be so deeply moved by a double rainbow.  i can assure you, i too would sob and plead with the universe for the meaning.  what does it meeeeeean?  and i would answer myself: it means absolutely nothing and “full-on” everything at once.  it all has meaning, and then double meaning.  it all counts.  every breath, every thought, every glimmer, every shadow, every sound, every letter, every space, every single punctuation mark.

[breaks down, sobbing]

!

graphite and watercolor pencil on sketch paper.  and also maybe a little saliva.  to, uh, wet the brush.
graphite and watercolor pencil on sketch paper. and also maybe a little saliva. to, uh, wet the brush.

muchless?

July 24, 2010

I am in an elementary school parking lot. I’ve been driving for an hour, past closed coffee shops and locked libraries, busy parks and missed highway signs. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’m parked in a parking lot, surrounded by the shapes of suburbia, and crying. There is a kid skateboarding who will probably go home and tell his mom about the freak outside the school, and they will call the cops. I will plead insanity for my crime of trespassing, and then sit in a hospital bed on suicide watch at the mental institution and refuse meds and cry indefinitely.

I’ve just rolled down the windows so I can turn off the ignition (and the air conditioning). The flag pole is clanging and dogs are barking and people stand on their front lawns and talk about the pointless things that interest them. Comma? I’m supposed to be writing. I want to be writing, this story that has come to me, this culmination of stories. I even have the title.  But this is what I’m writing instead. Just a big rambling whine. I don’t ever finish anything, anyway. It doesn’t matter whether I start a new story or not.

How do I get out of here? I have to get out of here. Not this parking lot, not this sadness, but this place. This place where sidewalks matter; this place where baby tree trunks, all uniformly planted, are protected by corrugated plastic tubes; this place where someone will cut all the queen anne’s lace down with a weed-wacker. This place where somebody actually named something “weed-wacker.” How the hell do I get out of here? Why can I not find the exit? There must be one. There’s got to be one.

I feel like the only one awake at a slumber party at 2:26 AM. I feel like the only one not possessed by zombies in a horror flick. I feel like the designated driver that’s just dropped her keys down the gutter. The buzz kill, the scapegoat, the bastard heir, the mad hatter, selectively unforgiven and unheard and misunderstood and lonely and insane but insisting that I’m NOT! to a sea of blank stares.

This would be a good thing, I think, if I could identify with a blaspheming Jesus, or a stuttering Moses, or some other legendary hero down on his luck before the grand triumphant finale, destined to make some grand contribution to the world. But shit. Though I have descended to the underworld, I’ve returned without a talisman. I’ve spun my cocoon, slept in it, but emerged prematurely, my wings yet unformed. I’ve gained insight, but I don’t know how to implement it here. I’ve touched enlightenment beside the river, but upon returning to the village, I’ve forgotten it all. Or, not necessarily forgotten, but what was once this roaring fire of intuition, seems only like a faint glimmer in the darkness of this nonsensical weed-wacking reality. When I open my mouth to share, I stand there drooling and mute in the spotlight. My hands begin to shake, and heavy tears threaten the back of my wide, crazed eyes.

It’s all gibberish, anyway, isn’t it? I know there is something, something in it all—it’s like when I dig in my disastrous purse for the keys I can hear jangling, I know they’re in there, I swear. . . . But I just can’t find them. Maybe it’s only lost change. Maybe it’s a figment of my imagination.

I want to quote the “wrong” Alice (I just watched the movie the other night, while the grown-ups played Trivial Pursuit) and say, “Lost my muchness, have I?” and then proceed to kill the dragon while a cheering everyone bears witness to said muchness. But, lost my muchness? I don’t know. Maybe I have.

lomography metaphor

June 4, 2010
shortcake, holga, tri-x 400 film in t-max dev

shortcake, holga, tri-x 400 film in t-max dev

An unintended theme in my life lately has been a loss of control.  (Maybe “unintended” is a given, since intention is a form of control?)  Or, more specifically, the theme is a fucking obliteration of any semblance of control.  Control is dying a painful and twitching death here, and I’ve taken the job of holding the pillow over its face.  I’m tired of sharing its air.  I can’t really give you any insight here, because there is not any hindsight to speak of. 

But it has me feeling kindred with the ol’ holga.  I’ve got no control with the holga, which sort of kills a woman whose religion is the Church of the Light Meter.  The aperture and shutter speed simply are what they are, and there’s nothing I can do about it.  Even those settings are relatively uncertain.  All I can do is open the plastic shutter and let the light in, to fall on the film as it will.  The focus will be off, some frames will be overexposed, and some will be underexposed.  There are unintended shadows everywhere and places where the sun burns the negative completely black.  But a couple of the frames are, with ironic consistency (or is it pure statistics?), absolutely gorgeous.  Alternatively, I could leave camera at home; or worse, I could let a computer set the controls for me. 

But I think the illusion of control can be deceiving.  The only constant  is this beautiful inconsistency.  I think.  I’m not sure.  I’ll get back to you.  (But don’t count on it.)

This past weekend, Louise and I went to investigate the theory that online people are actually real people.  On a whim.  To . . . Kansas.

from deb's polaroid camera when we said goodbye at the airport.
from deb’s polaroid camera when we said goodbye at the airport.

It turns out—get this—they are!  Real people, that is.  Real-person Deb invited us into her home for the weekend, without agenda, without purpose (oh shit!  I can do things for no reason!).  Just . . . for fun.  She caffeinated us and fed us and entertained us and photographed us (oh shit!  i have a face!) and even let us borrow her super-cute real-person husband as, oh, you know, our own personal pilot (oh shit!  i can choose to fly!).  Just . . . for fun.  Real-person Aimee met us on Saturday and helped us drink a bottle of wine and splurge on a few items of over-priced clothing at Anthropologie (oh, shit!  i can buy an apple shirt! because who does not want a shirt with apples all over it?).  Just for . . . well, you get the idea.

holga fisheye, amy + me

aimee + me, holga fisheye

 It was a weekend full of frivolous nonsense.  It was not rational in the least.  And it was absolutely wonderful.

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me + deb + rock music

It was incredible to spend time with all of these three women, so full of vitality and wisdom and beauty.  One thing that struck me about them was the connection they have to their own power.  It is not an I-have-something-to-prove sort of thing, but a certain inner knowing and acceptance and manifestation of their own unique gifts.  I am so inspired by them all, by their power and joy and authenticity and the bravery to challenge the concepts of “easy” and “safe” in order to live their own fabulous truths.  Lately, I’ve been remembering:  (oh, shit!)  I am a real person with my own real talents and my own real choices and my own real place in the story.  There is the balance between 1., knowing  that you are enough, that “all you had to do was be born,” and 2., being connected to that truth and purpose that you were born with, and living.  It’s all about the mojo, y’awl.  (Oh shit!  That mojo is powerful, though.  So watch out, when it hits you.)

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julie (louise) + me (thelma) + deb (superstar)

 AND P.S., HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!  (please do sing.)

 

i could not color

between the lines, so i burned

the damn col’ring book

 
Louise the third and her ever-present bikini.  (digital)

Louise the fourth and her ever-present bikini. it was like, below zero, i swear. (digital)

number one!

April 28, 2010

 

 Make yourself necessary to someone.  Emerson

I hate quotations.  Tell me what you know.  Emerson

Actually, if this were paper, I’d be furiously scribbling all over that first quote until the ink made holes in the paper.  Then I would tear the paper into a thousand tiny pieces and then I would burn it.  And then I would dig a hole in some remote wilderness with my bare hands and bury the ashes.  That’s how much I hate that quote.

Someone posted it on facebook the other day, and I tried not to look at it.  Unfortunately, it lodged itself into my memory and I’ve been dwelling on it.  This morning, my will faltered at the strength of my curiosity, and I searched for the author.  It was like a knife in my heart (only a mild exaggeration).  EMERSON!?  My dearly beloved?  Say it ain’t so, Ralph Waldo!  Say it ain’t so!  Alas, it was him.  I am betrayed.

navel-gazing holga screw up.  'cause i SUCK!

navel-gazing holga screw up. 'cause i SUCK!

The thing is, I’ve just stubbed my toe on this little pebble of self-doubt, which made me fall and scrape my knee on a sidewalk of self-pity, and when I tried to stand, I sprained my ankle in a rut of self-loathing.  How embarrassing.  I throw my hands up in the air now, make my hands into signs of number one!* and say “I’m good!  It’s alright!  I’m all good!”  But still I feel like an idiot; it’s always worse when there’s nobody to laugh at with you.  And I walk it off, walk it off, but it still hurts a little, to tell you the truth.  All sorts of ridiculous, but honest, emotions that equate to I’m not enough.

And then Emerson tells me to make myself fucking necessary.  Which I just can’t even believe is possible.  How does one become necessary to someone else?  Especially someone who is so acutely feeling her not-enough-ness?  I mean, necessary?  This is when I’ve been necessary to someone else:  as a uterus and a birth canal.  There are a lot of uterus/birth canal combinations walking around, if you hadn’t noticed.  So even my sole case of necessary-ness is questionable.

How’s that for pathetic?  Is this working for you?  Great!  I know it’s making me feel a lot better!  I’m so awesome!  Yaaaaay me!

[stomps on a ziploc bag full of pretzels]

[pops a chocolate covered espresso bean]

Today I was shopping for sunglasses.  The muzak chick was singing something like “does anybody need you?”  I was like, the fuck?  What’s wrong with you people!

The sun was shining, though.  I took a walk in the woods with girliefriends and smelled the pines and touched the clear water and discovered some crazy mushroom thing.  Everything is fine, just fine.  Just.  Fine.  So don’t worry.  Empty flattery will earn you a middle finger, anyway.  But if you just so happened to want to give me a hug, to come up with something deep and edifying to say, and to maybe also make out with me, I’d probably be OK with that.

[curtsy]

 

* “number one!” is a great story from my sister (that you really have to see her tell), in which a drunk guy stumbled out of a club, fell head-first into a garbage can, then jumped back out with his arms raised, signaling and shouting “NUMBER ONE!”

in which i say the P word

April 15, 2010
I am giddy, expectation whirls me round.

The imaginary relish is so sweet

That it enchants my sense.

 
William Shakespeare
holga on the then-snowy shores of lk michigan.  right image with fisheye.

holga on the then-snowy shores of lk michigan. right image with fisheye. completely irrelevant to the post.

 The P word.

(No, not that, you dirty thing, you.)

And, no!  not pregnant, godsaveusfromoverpopulation.

P…

Puh…

Pub….

PUBLISHED!!!

I think I’m actually supposed to act cool about this.  Like, oh, ho-hum.  I am so very important and oh, by the way, I almost forgot about this other thing I’m published in . . .

Except I’m not a good faker.  And I’ve never actually been PUBLISHED before.  And so, I’m not acting very cool about it at all.  I mean,check out some of the other riduculously fabulous bloggers who have been featured in this magazine!  I think you’ll agree with me: my freakout is valid.

The Summer 2010 issue of Artful Blogging is available on May 1st online or in bookstores like Barnes and Noble.  (Barnes and swearing effing cussing Noble!)  This issue is bright orange; you can’t miss it.  And when you’re finished with pages 68-73 (that’s six pages of my stuff, woot), thumb through the pages of good company my words and pictures are keeping.  Here are a few from this issue that I checked out:

http://emmallamb.blogspot.com/  (crochet flowers!  it’s fate!)

http://swirlygirl.typepad.com/  (the illustrious Christine Mason Miller.)

http://lavenderlimes.blogspot.com/  (visual feast and now i’m off to make some dal or maybe move to India.)

http://www.mocking-bird.org/blog/  (can it be?  a fellow film-shooter I didn’t know about?)

http://shonastudio.blogspot.com/  (has more kids than me and is well-acquainted with the P word.)

This could get addictive, being PUBLISHED.  pub.  (the fuck)  lished.  baby.

However shall I celebrate?

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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.)