What I Want for 2011

We're entering the final hour of 2010 here, and I'm listening to Chris Thile and Punch Brothers (I have his solo efforts and the band together all in one delicious shuffling iTunes playlist; I do know they're all one mighty entity...) as I do the expected and think about the year that is fading and the one that is waiting just outside the doorway waiting to come in.

2010 was, in many ways, a good year for me.  I did some things I have wanted to do for a long time. I went to Italy and saw the Colosseum. I was an AP reader.  I took the first of what I hope will be many pottery classes.  I survived.

In other ways, though, I have come to realize that I set few goals, have been living in a form of stasis.  Therefore, what I want out of 2011 is a breaking-loose of the ice inside, movement instead of stillness.  In no particular order, these are the things I'd like to have, do, or gain by the end of 2011.  I usually hesitate to make this sort of list because I usually find that when people (myself included) do, they just have to look back at the end and shake their heads at all the things they didn't get done.  However, I also have come to believe that there is a danger in having no goals at all, no ambitions or aims.  That leads to the list.  I am going to....

• Have more roses in my life. -- I don't care if they are sterling silver rings, duct tape ones from that maker on Etsy, painted ones on bone china tea cups, great felt brooches on coats and hats, embroidered ones on handkerchiefs, a few buds bought for me by me in a grocery store florist, or the hardy few grown in my front yard.  I don't care that some people will sneer at their old-fashioned-ness and call them a cliche.  They are beautiful to me.  They make me happy.  They remind me of my Nana.  I'm going to have them. 
• Seek wisdom. -- I try to do this diligently anyway, but there is particular type I am pursuing right now, the wisdom of when to let a thing go.  Additionally, I am seeking the wisdom of what to do when letting go is not allowed, not the right thing to do at all, when holding on to the living coal is what, against all odds and sanity, you're called to do.
• Accept less crap as my responsibility/fault. -- I could have also labeled this as "Not be God/Queen of the Universe," I suppose.  I had dinner with a very wise person not too long ago who sort of changed the way I looked at some of my situations.  If I am doing the very best I can, and I know that I am, then I'm going to have peace with that and not tear myself apart mentally and physically through stress and worry over aspects that I cannot control.  (Wait.  Isn't that a part of the Serenity Prayer?  I'm not systematically rewriting it here, am I?  No....probably not.  I think I'm safe in saying there are no roses in the Serenity Prayer...)
• Make sure I make time for home.  -- It is so easy for me to make home last.  Work consumes everything so easily, and I come home to a house that never quite gets tidy, to chores that never quite get done, to tasks that never quite get finished.  I've watched my mother do it for years.  Part of it is that I'm single and the house is empty except of the furries when I come home, but that is an excuse, too, in its way.  If I don't start making a life outside that building, I will wake up one day to go to my retirement, be handed a triviality, and wonder where all my time went.  I don't want that life to be mine.
• Care for myself more.  -- And that means that it does matter that there is nothing in the refrigerator sometimes but Diet Mountain Dew and yogurt.  And that means that it does matter that I need to take the time to do something "unnecessary" for myself like painting my toenails some ridiculous color nobody but me will ever see.  And that does mean that I need to find some form of regular exercise and stick with it, something that will help me vent the stress.  Yoga and I, as much as I love it, are not going to be friends.  My knee, even after the rebuild, will not bear weight with motion if I'm kneeling for extended periods of time, so anything on my knees, especially the poses that bear all my weight on one knee are painful.  With regret, I need to quit waiting for it to strengthen.  There is too much of the meniscus gone.  Back to the gym for me.... 
• Write. -- Take focused time to sit down, cut off the TV (no matter which of my smart, tempting imaginary men is on at the time), and produce.  I have three storylines stranded right now and I haven't written any good poetry in a very long time.  Writing is a discipline, and I am out of it.  Writing can be an escape, and I'm not taking it.
• Go on one fabulous trip somewhere.  -- I want to go somewhere, and it doesn't even HAVE to be out of this state if there is anywhere here I can squeeze fabulosity out of, that I can look back on and say, "Freakin' awesome."  And yes.  For me, Graceland would qualify....
• (And last, the one least likely to come true) Find someone to be sitting with next New Year's Eve. -- Because, not that I don't love you, gentle reader, but I really would like to be reflecting on what the year has wrought and looking into what the new one will bring with someone.  I would really like to be sort of semi-nervously (or, perhaps not nervously at all) waiting for midnight to come so I could press my lips to his in celebration, in relief, in defiance, in promise, in all the things that a New Year's kiss is supposed to symbolize if it's not made with some stranger you snog in a darkened corner at a party.

It's an ambitious list, to be certain.  And I'm certain that at this time next year, we can all have a hearty laugh over my lack of  completing it.  Again, though, I'm forced to say that reaching for nothing gains nothing.  Perhaps if I reach my hands out wide to grasp all these stars, a few of them might fall into my lap by accident if nothing else.

Happy New Year to you wherever you are.  May all that you want come to you in the year to come.

So Be Careful What You Read, Bebes....

Recently seen in a tweet:

"Other people will seduce you in person. An #Aquarius will seduce you via text."

It's true.  Words are and have always been weapons and tools, the sword in my hand or the hammer, but they are also jewels and delicacies, and they absolutely have the power to entice, to seduce, to snare like a thousand silken ribbons winding around the soul....  Words capture me constantly.  They move me, make me cry, make me laugh.  God knows I spend enough time with my head in a book or reading poetry online, bugging friends and acquaintances alike with a phrase that struck fire in my soul.  It seems only natural that words, then, would be a part of love, too.

I don't know that I've ever tried to use my words this way on anybody, not on purpose, anyway; I've got some poetry that might qualify, but it's not exactly written to a specific person, and it's definitely not the stuff that I read aloud when I do open mic nights. Wonder what would happen if I did take my words, rattled them around a bit, and applied them for that end, though?

Fear not, gentle reader.  You are perfectly safe.   Nothing blue coming through the interwebs to discomfit you.  I'll try to keep all the words here as innocuous and harmless as possible, okay? (laughs wickedly to self)

Why Small Towns Are Sometimes Scary

In my sojurns today, I wound up in two small towns.  One of them was just more or less an empty blank.  This was the one closest to the main roads.  The other one, the one waaaay back in the woods, was actually frightening. 

Now this comes from someone who lives in a place that cannot be found on most maps.  I think even Google Maps will ask you, "What, are you SERIOUS?" when you enter the name of my town as your destination.  That being said, I don't think my humble hometown has quite the feel to it that the one I wound up in today does.

As I cruised through looking for a gas station, the creep factor started with streets full of elaborate and immaculately kept old homes.  This would not have been eerie except for the fact that they were sort of...out there in the middle of nowhere.  It was all trees, trees, trees, then, voila!  High Victoriana. Odd.  There was no transition.  It was just...Sudden History Village emerges from the underbrush.

I could have gotten over that, too, had not the middle of town been like something out of a Stephen King novel.  Everything was very well taken care of, draped with holiday bunting, painted, trimmed, cared for.....and empty.  As I cruised through, I kept waiting for the alien zombies to come out and stare at me, the interloper, for being on their turf. 

The third big reason it was scary was the gigantic closed mill that dominates the middle of town.  It was a mishmash of modern and very old architecture, and it even has its own historic marker.  Old factories always have that spooky atmosphere, anyway, and this thing just screams Halloween Nightmare.  If I were a teenager in that town, I would deliberately route all my driving as far away as I possibly could  from that building because it looks like every edifice in every horror movie ever made.  It absolutely looms.

I got gas at a station right down the street from Horror Mfg., Ltd., and got the hell out of that tiny back pocket of the woods.  Some time when I am in the right frame of mind, I might go back and see if the aliens got the stores filled up so their cover story is more convincing, but I don't really want to tip them off that I noticed.

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been....

(with apologies to The Dead)

I started my day sort of enraptured with the quality of the light and feeling much better after two days of general weakness and ick.  It was a perfect day for going out with the Nikon and trying to get some pictures.  I tried to figure out a local place I could go, and I settled on a park nearby where an old-fashioned waterpowered mill has been reconstructed.  I dressed myself for climbing over rocks and rills and scuffing around in dirty unheated locations and got in the car.

Driving in photo weather is wonderful, and I needed a road trip today if for no other reason than to knock all the bits and pieces around in my head some.  Sometimes I think best in the car with the music on with the highway unfurling before me.  Today was one of those days.  I have been feeling stagnant lately, and even though I didn't wind up anywhere revolutionary today, just getting some motion helped stir things up.

When I arrived at the park, I found its gates securely locked.  Apparently, it's open Wednesday through Sunday, thank you very much.  Of course.  I sat looking at the rusty padlock a few minutes, gauging my chances of just going over the chain link and getting caught by the people who apparently are the caretakers of the property in their trailer nearby, and I decided to go somewhere else.

I drove aimlessly through a couple of nearby small towns (more on this in a separate blog) before deciding to go to Plan B.  I intended to go to West Point at some point to shoot some of the signs and so forth that I'd seen during Prairie Arts.  As I was driving away from the last of the disappointing tiny scary towns, I headed north. 

Even though it was an hour and a half drive, I enjoyed the time I spent when I got there.  I even got to do a little junkin' at a great place I've only been able to sort of peek in when I've been up there for Prairie Arts.
I worked on the photos when I got home, and of course, I wish I'd taken one or two more, gotten a different angle on this or that, but taking them was fun.  I feel refreshed.  It was worth it.

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] by cummings

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

by E. E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

 

This is the purest expression of love to me.  The last line is what I want inscribed on my wedding band if ever 

I find someone to marry.  As always, Cummings has taken something complex and impossible to describe and

has found a way to clothe it in images that are flawless.  Just reading this makes me feel hopeful about love, no mean task, especially just now in the midst of my winter sadness.  This, this is what I want.  This is what I'm looking for, the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.  I hope I can keep the strength up to continue believing it's possible.

Visit

We went to see my uncle today.  He wasn't well.  He was drifting, unable to stay awake for more than a few minutes.  His pupils were tiny.  I don't know what kind of or how much medicine they have him on, but based on what I saw today, I think he's getting too much of it.  Of course, since we are not his guardians, there is no way for us to do anything about it.  My father has complained, both politely and not, to the facility administrators and to his doctor numerous, numerous times, but the situation persists. 

I know his health is complicated, and maybe this is as good as it can be.  It just bothers me.  I don't like the thought of him staying so detached from everything. 

I have no way of knowing if he's that way all the time.  We are simply not there often enough to know.  I can only hope that they are doing what they are supposed to be.  It's incredibly frustrating and not nearly enough.

Christmas

Christmas was low-key this year, but good.  I got the house cleaned up, made a brunch casserole, and Mom and Dad came in.  I never, ever got ornaments on the tree or unpacked a single piece of either of my two Christmas collections this year.  Part of me wants to run to the back and grab one nativity and put it out, but I think it's probably really too late for that....

Mom and Dad were pleased with what they got.  That made me happy.  The thing I was gladdest of was one of the smallest gifts.  I had gotten my Dad a bubble light nightlight from Vermont Country Store because he and I had talked about how much he liked the old bubble lights when he was little.  Mom won't really get them for their tree at their house because she doesn't really like them.  Therefore, I got him his own "individual bubble light" that he can put in his bathroom.  He really seemed to like it.  Shopping for him is super-hard, so that I was able to get him something that he liked that much was a big deal for me.

I got mostly DVDs this year....the Doctor Who Key to Time set I've been trying to save up enough money for for about three years now, Notorious with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman, and the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers 4 movie set TCM just put out.  I won't be worth much over the next week or so.

I also got a wonderful pop-up book of mythology.  It's endlessly fascinating.  The very first page is Anubis, and since he's been a figure of wonder for me since I was about 6, seeing him unfold himself to extend his hands toward me when I opened the first page was delightful.  It covers all the major pantheons with even a Hawaiian fire goddess included.  I love pop-up stuff anyway, have ever since I was a kid and I used to look at my Mom's old Jolly-Jump-Up book from when she was a child.  This one is labeled 5 and up, but the "and up" portion of the world can certainly enjoy it.

I had to laugh at one point during our "gifting."  I had gone to the back to drag Mom's little garden tractor/scoot/cart from out of hiding in my office, and she had run out to their car to bring in a little red table they'd secretly gotten me from my favorite juntique, Hwy 45 Antique Mall.  We were both coming in the door at the same time.  Nothing like stealth....

All in all, we had a good, peaceful day, and we're blessed.  Blessed to have each other and to be able to give things to each other.  I'm glad we had this kind of Christmas instead of the kind we've had in some of the years past where one or more of us were waiting on this operation or that.  Even if I never got enough Spirit up to decorate, at least we are all well and together.  Maybe next year, I'll be in a different place mentally, and the mighty festive household will resurrect itself from the ashes.

Tumblr

After a long time ignoring it or just not having time to play with it, I started an account on Tumblr.  I really like it.  I can post things there fast, the little pictures and snippets that I normally like to share on FaceBook.  I have decided to stop putting those things up on FB so much.  I feel as though I am probably bothering people with them on FB, know for a fact that some people have "unfriended" me because I am an avid sharer of the silliness and sublimity that I find in the world around me. 

It's okay.  I am...an acquired taste, I suppose.  That's probably the most polite way to say it.  Here, I can create my own bizarre little corner of the universe, and it will offend no one.  If people want to see the things I've been putting up, they can look in on my Tumblr page when it suits them.  My FB account is going to be getting much quieter, though.  I will be picking up with Twitter more, Tumblr more.  Just lately, I've come to feel very odd about FB for some reason.  Maybe I'm just going through a burnout phase with it.

Anyway, if you're one of the folks who does enjoy the random nonsense I indulge in on FB and you'd like my Tumblr address, let me know.  I'm not posting it here.  It was already on FB, and I think I tweeted it, perhaps. I will be happy to send it to you privately, as well.

Vegas Toy Story

Took this today while I was playing around with my camera after reading a LifeHacker article on controlling DSLRs more effectively. I think I'm finally starting to get the hang of some of my Nikon now. I processed the whole pic through Picnik when I was done. It's simple, integrates with Picasa, and I love the effects. Picasa and Picnik are about all I need, really. As for the Elvis Mr. Potato Head, he's a new acquisition. Isn't he wonderful?

So Be It

Epiphanies come in weird places. I had two today, one standing in my own living room and one crossing a night-cold street outside a local restaurant.  Actually, I suppose they could more rightly be called two stages of the same thing, or a proclamation and an affirmation, perhaps...  I wonder if anybody ever has them in light-bathed aisles of religious institutions or places where choruses of angels sing.  My moments of startling clarity always seem to come when I'm driving in construction traffic or while I'm pushing a cart around Wal-Mart.  I have to pause, laugh or cry, take whatever new knowledge comes, and go on.

Today's little revelation was liberating.  It was a little bitter, too, and maybe, just maybe a little bit of something that was still malleable inside me was finally hammered into its final shape.  Overall, though, I'm surprisingly fine, or at least I will be, I think. I'm just going to lay aside something that is useless to me, a hope I have been keeping shiny and well-hidden.  I'm not going to polish it up any more.  I think the thought of laying it down at last, of not trying to use my cuffs and hankies to keep it clean and shiny is actually a relief.  I am not made for this thing.  That's going to be okay.

It's amazing that I'm still becoming.  Every time I think I know what I am and who I am, something shifts, something changes, and I realize that I am changing, too.  And, maybe that's just the way it's supposed to be.  Maybe we should worry if we don't change, if we don't have sudden moments of unease, if the way grows to smooth and predictable.

Therefore, so be it.  This new truth isn't particularly comfortable, but then again, truth rarely promises to be.  That doesn't mean I don't need to look it in the eye, extend my hand, and give it welcome. 

An Unexpectedly Busy Day

I got up this morning feeling well-rested with no particular plans other than going to Wal-Mart to get some groceries.  Everything in the world other than groceries happened.

I got caught up in a Law and Order: CI marathon, and I found the morning melting away until I got a call from my mother saying Dad was on his way to my house with some person who was going to redo my driveway.  Before I could even get up and pull on a sweater, they were here. 

The guy climbed out of the truck, and the first thing I noticed was that he had a gold chain and bracelet on.  The second was that his fly wasn't quite zipped. (And no, I wasn't looking, but sometimes you can't help but see...) These things, especially taken in combination, do not inspire confidence in a contractor.  He had a certain slickness to him that bothered me.  I had taken Roux out on the leash so she wouldn't be freaking out inside, and she didn't seem to like him very much either.  This was not a good sign since she likes everybody except for the UPS man's truck, which, it seems she has decided is the living brown incarnation of Satan himself. 

Once he left, I came back in, got online, and started trying to look him and his business up.  I also started looking up the hallmarks of the driveway paving scam.  Lo and behold.  Dude didn't seem to exist.  And.  Everything he said and did was like he was moving down the checklist of "How to Do a Paving Scam."  I called Mom and Dad, told them about it, and they said they'd felt weird about him, too. 

The guy was supposed to come back tomorrow at some point with his crew, but he came whipping into my driveway with two dumptrucks around dusk.  I told him to go see my parents (since they were the ones who were planning to foot this bill and who he'd talked to before) before he did anything and kept an eye on his crew who looked to be getting ready to start work.  About ten minutes later, he came zooming back down the road, pulled back through my yard, had one of the trucks pull back into my yard, and when I came off the porch with Roux, finally drove off.  I don't know what they were going to do.  I'm just glad they're gone.  The equipment they had was ludicrous, their behavior was shady, and my loser alarm was going off like crazy.

After they left, it was too late to go to the store, so I started cleaning.  I got the vacuuming done, always a massive effort in a house this big, and put things away.  I put the millions of scarves and hats that seem to be everywhere away.  I did laundry,  I baked cookies.  I am slowly bringing order back to this chaos here.  I estimate that I will have it ready about the time I have to go back to school...  Sigh.

In a couple of hours, it will be time to do the last thing in this busy day.  I plan to go see the Solstice Eclipse.  I hope the clouds clear to let me see it.  It is supposed to be amazing, and since it is also a historical one, I would like to be able to enjoy it.  It would be nicer with a friend to geek out with, but even alone, if it's visible, it should still be a wonderful end to an unusual day.

The Nutcracker

I hate it when they don't do Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker right.   I hate it when they leave out characters, delete scenes, add new music, take portions away, and get "clever" with it in general.  He knew better than you.  He wrote it.  Dance the thing the way he told you to.  Not all the dances belong to Clara.  Not all the dances belong to the Prince.  COME ON.  There is actually a storyline to this ballet....

The music of The Nutcracker is some of my favorite.  I wait until the holidays to listen to it, but parts of it are in my head all year long.  I don't go see amateur versions of it put on by Mrs. So-and-So's ballet school because they pain me.  I am not a ballet snob, and although I took dance for 9 years, I do not pretend to be able to tell you what most of the moves on the stage are, so this isn't the reason I avoid grade-schoolers putting on The Nutcracker.  There's just something about a whole herd of toddlers in tutus bumping into each other that I don't find endearing, at least not in this situation. 

The best version I ever saw of it was done at IU.  It was a co-production of the School of Music and the ballet folk (I can't remember what school they fit under or if they have their own school...I think they do).  The sets and costumes were all made in-house as well by students, and so you really got to see fantastic stuff.  There was none of this holding back that I'm seeing in the version I'm currently watching that is irritating me so.  It was lovely, opulent, and everything that a ballet that is supposed to take place in a dream should be.  It followed the storyline.  There was imagination, but nobody felt the need to say, "Hey, there's this story that's a classic, but I'm going to throw it out the window, do my own thing, and just keep the name, ok? Thanks."

Don't think that I don't like variations.  One of my favorite adaptations is The Hard Nut.  It is as far from "tradition" as you can get, and yet, the story is preserved.  Here, there IS no storyline.  Anything could be happening except for the slightly scary-looking Chinese dancers.  They've lost the best thing about The Nutcracker: the rich fairy tale.  I don't like it.  Call me grumpy.  Call me narrowminded.  That's fine.  Just give me back a version that, at least in its most basic parts, follows the story!

Now.  I know you care deeply and are moved.  If you are still reading this at all, that is.  /rant

Lights

I just got back from going to see a drive-through lights display with some friends.  We loaded up in their minivan after church was over and went. I think we adults were more excited than the two children the trip was ostensibly for since the three of us chatted animatedly and the two little ones napped soundly until we actually got to the lights themselves. 

As we drove through the property, we oohed and aahed the "Vegas Nativity," at a Loch Ness monster with a Santa hat, at flashing Christmas trees in a rainbow of colors, and we pointed out things we liked.  The whole trip through took us only a fraction of the time it had taken us to drive out to the location itself, but it was worth every minute.  We laughed and talked, and everyone was smiling as we turned the vehicle homeward again.  We'd somehow taken a portion of that holiday glow away from that little property with us.  What a nice feeling.

Well, I Feel Better Now...

"If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, what is the significance of a clean desk?" ~ Laurence J. Peter

Normalcy

Today, I got up and read for hours.  I filled all my birdfeeders for the first time in months.  I took my fancy Japanese pruning shears and attacked the rose bed in front of the house, cutting away a pile of debris almost knee-high.  I made a pitcher of sweet tea, the simplest of Southern beverages, something I haven't done in probably six months.  Later tonight, if I can pry myself away from books and the computer, I am going to take the last glittering remnants of old gold polish from my toenails and apply a fresh coat of something bright and colorful. 

It's time.  It's time to reclaim the little things because life is made of them.  When the little things go wanting, when I walk outside and see empty birdfeeders, gnarled and wild roses, when I open the refrigerator and there is nothing there but soda and an empty milk carton, when I look down in the shower and see those sad tatters of gilt among the suds, I feel worse about everything.  They remind me that once again, I haven't taken care of my home, the things I care for, myself.  They slap me again with the knowledge that I haven't taken even the tiny brief moments out of my hectic schedule to do those little things, have put them off "for another day" which never seems to come.

Doing them now feels good.  It feels, ironically enough, like spring coming now in the middle of winter.  It feels like waking up after a long sleep.  I cannot keep putting myself and all the little things I love last. I won't last if I do. Everybody, including my doctor, tells me this all the time.  Maybe I am starting to listen.  Maybe we all should because if a small good thing can make the large difficult things less onerous, let's all have more of them, right?

You Can Let Go Now...

A friend of mine I rarely see anymore sent a word of greeting through another mutual friend the other day.  This friend is familiar with a certain very challenging situation I find myself in, and so she sent me a message.  She told our other friend to tell me that she'd said hello and "you can let go now." 

It struck me forcefully.  That's the kind of thing whispered into the ear of someone critically ill, clinging to life in the face of agony because of some obligation unmet, some last purpose unfulfilled, to let that person know s/he doesn't have to keep enduring.  They're words of release.

Is that what I've become?  And if so, why can't I feel some clear sense of being released?  Of being allowed to go?  What is the reason I can't let it go?  I have prayed for guidance on this, but each time I've seriously considered some other choice, I have had the strongest sense that the time was not right. 

So is she right now?  Can I let go now?  Should I?  I wish I knew. 

Even a Sick Dragon...

When I was in Japan, I went to an artists' show in Nara.  A painter there, Sakaguchi-san, did these tremendous paintings of ogres (oni) and dragons.  The first year I went, she had one that had a thin, sickly looking dragon, a rather short, non-threatening oni, and a dead koi, the expensive ornamental carp that is prized for its fighting spirit and beauty.  The calligraphy around the three figures said, "Even a dead koi is still a koi.  Even a small oni is still an oni.  Even a sick dragon is still a dragon."  The colors were primary, a stark contrast with the bold black lettering.  It was gorgeous.

I wanted desperately to buy that painting, because it struck me so powerfully. I wanted it to remind me of something important.  I was then, and am frequently now, a sick dragon.  Migraines attack; my body betrays me with weakness; I have to deal with situations that make my heart and soul revolt. The painting reminded me that I am however, always and ever, even at my most deeply wounded and in my darkest day, still a dragon.

My Chinese zodiac sign is the dragon, the fire dragon to be specific, and I've always felt an affinity to the creature.  I think I'm probably a fairly typical dragon: full of both luck and arrogance, holding both creativity and a non-conformist nature, with a tendency to be tactless at times, having both temper and passion.   Sometimes, though, especially with everything that's been going on lately, I feel so horribly run-down.  At the end of long days full of disappointments, frustrations, and questions I cannot answer, that perhaps have NO answer, I find myself unable to do more than just sit and stare at my desktop, idly tracing my fingertips over the little doodads I keep there.

One of my favorites is this little green pottery dragon.  I call him Phinneas.  He sits just behind my mousepad.  He's one of Sam Clark's little dragons and one of the only pieces of my pottery collection I have at school.  When I'm stretched past the point of snap-back, when I'm waiting for the Maxalt to catch the pain, when I've  once again received an email that discomfits me, I look down and see this diminutive creature and his clever grin and I feel better.  I'm reminded of who I am at my core even though I'm not currently at my best.  I'm reminded to pick myself up, AGAIN, dust off my battered scales and rekindle my inner fires for another round.  

Even a sick dragon is still a dragon.  That's got to be worth something.

When They Grow Up

One of mine came to see me yesterday in his uniform.  He had completed basic training the summer before his senior year, and so he was already all about the Army when I had him.  He always had a curiously old-fashioned nature to him.  I would almost have called it chivalry if such things existed any more or can. He's bright, logical, and driven.  Yesterday, he told me he's done with all his training and that he's volunteered for deployment as soon as his orders can be cut.

That, of course, means Afghanistan.  He's got the patch on his sleeve already.  He's military police, and so they can put him with any unit, anywhere.  That, of course, means that this bright, chivalrous, logical, driven young man who wants to serve his country is now going to be in with all the rabid dogs and that he might come home in a flag-draped box.  Praying that he doesn't, whatever he is now will be substantially altered after three years in a place where hell has very much been dragged up and given free rein on earth. 

I know they're not really mine when they sit in those desks.  I know they will grow up and go on to destinies that will sometimes involve danger.  Some of them will end up draped in glory, some in chains.  There are hints of those futures in them when they are with me.  Even though I know in my head that they are only on loan to me, it doesn't stop my heart from worrying, from wanting to wrap them all in happiness and keep them safe.  I know it's not realistic or possible, or even, ultimately right since every person needs to experience both the good and the bad of the world to find his own way, but when I think about how very bad some of the bad is....

He was proud and tall in his desert camo, his baton on his hip.  As he left, I told him not to get any holes poked in him.  He laughed and said he would do his best not to, or at least to make sure he poked holes in the other guy first.  And so another one grows up, goes to his place in the broader world, and I worry.....

No Patience

I need a holiday.  Another one, I guess I should say, since I just got done with Thanksgiving.  I have no patience left for the foibles of mankind.  Today I just wanted to smack people around.

I had to wait on this that or the other, it seemed, all day today.  I need a vacation so I can have that grand luxury again:  total independence.  So my schedule doesn't have to jive, mesh, or gel with any-freakin'-body else's.  So I can stay up until 3, sleep until 11, and feel no guilt at all.  So I can stroll through the dollar store for an hour, or dash through Wal-Mart in 5-minute super-shopper-all-other-humans-avoidance mode.  So I can throw my camera and my adventure-girl hat in my car and get out of this town for a day, go study other things through the lens until the cramp in my soul loosens up a little bit and I can roll my shoulders and sigh again in relief.

I get this way every year about this time.  To be honest, last year, I was probably more actively stressed, more frantic.  I suspect this year, I am worse off, though.  I am actually starting to hit a point of hopelessness with my level of "behindness."  I just sort of think of being caught up as a totally unreachable goal now.  The more motion I make, the less progress I see.  It's terribly frustrating. 

I try very hard to keep my philosophies for living appropriately in front of me, and thereby keep my mouth shut whenever the savage mood takes me.  I know I don't have the right to take out this vitriol on anybody else; it's not their fault I have no patience left.  If I can just make it two more weeks, I can restore my supply and be more like the person I want to be again.

Well, Sometimes....

"Sanity calms, but madness is more interesting." ~ John Russell

Feasting

I went to the Chimneyville Crafts Festival yesterday, my annual indulgence in handmade wonder, with my best friend.  I think this was my fifth or sixth year to go now.  I never cease to be amazed at what people can do with their hands. 

There is something for everyone there, really, something at every possible price point.  All of it, though, is so incredibly well-crafted.  And I need that beauty to feed my soul.  Going there is like a giant feast for me, edibles for the eyes, the hands, the heart.  Even though I actually buy very little since the great and mighty state of Mississippi has decreed that I am going to live a life of genteel poverty if I continue to teach here, I can look, touch, and marvel, run my fingertips over glazes, finishes, fabrics and be fiercly glad that someone, somewhere can create these things.

Every year, I bring home one big piece.  This year, I was torn between two:  a Sam Clark dragon that caught my heart or one of the Peter Rose crows that I collect.  Both potters are favorites of mine, wonderful artists who make distinctive pieces with character and skill.  I've been trying to work up to three of the Peter Rose ravens/crows for a long time now, collecting one every other show or so.  Last year, as you may remember if you read here very often, after a couple of years of casting longing looks at Sam Clark's dragons, I got my first piece by him. 

The tough thing about loving good pottery and being a teacher is this:  good pottery is expensive.  As it totally should be.  That is not a complaint about the price of the pieces.  God knows that every one of those dragons Sam Clark makes has enough detail on it to more than justify what he charges.  They absolutely fascinate me.....  I can sit and look at them for days.  When you consider that Peter Rose is firing his pieces in a noburigama, or well, at least a wood-fired kiln anyway since I'm not sure he actually has a stepping kiln, and that he usually has tremendous loss to get those fantastic glaze colors, his prices are exceptionally reasonable.  It's just that I get paid so very, very, frustratingly little...

I decided to do something a little different this year.  I started talking to Sam Clark, and I think he might make me a baku.  I am extremely excited about this.  I've been turning that idea over in my head since I bought my dragon from him last year, but I never emailed him about it because...well....I don't know why exactly....  I just didn't.  It felt presumptuous to ask in an email, I suppose.  But yesterday, I was an inch away from buying that wonderful,big blue dragon he had, the one reading the book, and devil-take-the-hindmost (and OH, I shouldn't have done....it would have broken the credit card and the bank and my budget for the next two months, but it would have be gorgeous...for that kind of piece, I need to save and plan), and I just found the question sort of tumbling out of my mouth about the baku. 

It may be summer or later before he has a chance to think about it, but I hope he's going to do it.  I got to see some of his sketches for other things, and they were gorgeous.  I love his style, so I can't imagine not loving his baku, too.  He's a very interesting person to talk to, as well, so I think working with him will be easy.

Of course, that's one of the best things about Chimneyville or Prairie Arts to me, really.  You get to talk to the people who make the pieces.  Almost everyone is always so kind, so friendly, always so ready to tell you about their art.  I love talking to the potters, especially now that I'm starting to learn a little something about their craft.  I can look at some pieces now and understand how basic things were done, and it makes me appreciate those pieces even more.  (How it makes me feel about my own work we'll just leave alone....)  I love that the gentleman who made the wooden rocking animals for little kids actually got on one to show me that adults could ride them, too, when I told him they were a little small for me.  I love that the lady who had the hand-dyed wool flowers gave away one that wasn't perfect to a lady who was buying two others just because she knew it would make her happy.   I love that the whole atmosphere is that of something community, and not slick, glossy, and big-business.

And then, of course, there's the staggering loveliness of it.  I saw things yesterday that fed my little beauty-loving soul, will keep it going for a long time.  My best friend had finally had to guide me away, babbling stupidly, from a $12,000 carving of a deer taller than I, made from one giant trunk of black walnut.  The lines of it, the detail of it, everything was elegant and graceful, and if I'd had $12,000 about me, it would have gone to that artisan just for the pleasure of having that sculpture in my home. 

My best friend cut through the haze as we were walking away, dragging my feet back down to earth.  "Uh-huh.  A $12,000 scratching-post."  I laughed.  She was absolutely right.  I'd wake up in the middle of some night to the sound of Yoda being exceptionally grateful for that sculpture.  Some pieces belong in my house.  Some pieces don't.  Nevertheless, I am grateful for all the beauty I saw, for the break from my regular, sometimes crushing routine, and for getting a little art to feast on for awhile with the promise of a special treat to look forward to down the road.