Words Fail

I am not sure how to explain what has happened the last couple of days. I have been struggling to write here. It's not about time. I've had time. I haven't even been willing to begin.

I would love to say, I have thought of saying, that I haven't had words, I haven't been able to coalesce my meandering into collections of letters and spaces. But that isn't really true. I've had a hundred phrases, and nearly as many opening sentences. Still, they have not found their way to this space, this screen.

I am only just beginning to figure this out. So I am being patient with myself as I write, and I hope you will be similarly patient as you read. We'll figure it out somehow.

I think what I want to say--because if there's anything I know for sure, it's that I'm not sure--is that I am beginning to understand my attraction to visual art over writing (at least in a historical sense). Because it is odd to have as your primary tool something that limits your expression by its very use. In this case, of course, I'm talking about words.

The reason I have not written down even one of those openings is that the minute that I write it down, it's wrong. Not wrong, like judgment, but wrong like not what i mean. Words, words themselves, really the sole medium of this craft, feel as if they are intrinsically limiting. Worse yet, in many cases, words are braggarts, showing off their solidity as if they know what they mean, and so should we. But I don't. Do you?

So I've been thinking about what is behind this phase, this place. And, ironically, I think it came from a comment that I got, or maybe even a couple of comments. If you are one of the people who left them, I fear that you are going to think that I took them wrong. Please trust that I didn't, I don't take them wrong. It is that I am discovering that I am uncomfortable being named, and that revelation has led me into wondering if I am uncomfortable with all naming, which, in the end, means discomfort with words themselves.

I am a writer. It was in the comments. I wrote a response asking why it is so hard to identify as such. And that was the end of words.

It came in being led, once again, to the words and writing of Mary Daly, and her insistence that words be altered to more accurately reflect a unique frame of mind. I remember listening to her read at Mama Bear's bookstore in Oakland, hearing for the first time a new language, a refusal to use words as if we all know what they mean.

It came in identifying my blog as a "women's" blog or a "feminist" blog, neither of which I doubt, but somehow once I named it as such, I felt limited and restrained, as if I can no longer write about cupcakes, which I fully intend to do. And in that restraint--you guessed it--nothing. No words.

You know the old routine. You go to a party, or you meet someone new, and they ask "What do you do?". Some of us hate that, some of us don't mind, some of us don't really care--but they ask and they will continue to ask, so there it is. I have never had an answer to that question. I notice that other people do. I am a lawyer. I am a teacher. I am a doctor. I am in retail. I am a social worker. I am a mom. I build houses. I am an accountant. People have answers. I have never had an answer. I stumble around, I try to describe what I do for my work, for my life. And in the end, after making myself and the other uncomfortable trying to fish around for words and descriptions that fit, I usually give up, and change the subject. Because, really, what do I say?

Do I say I'm an artist? When I do, people ask me what medium, and then I'm stuck again.

Do I say I'm a writer? No. I don't. I am a writer. But that's not what I "do".

Do I say I'm a consultant? Now there's a word that doesn't mean anything at all. A few weeks ago, I met a woman and we exchanged small talk. We discovered that we both work from home, we are both "consultants". She introduced herself as a computer consultant. I nodded. I introduced myself as a child development consultant. She looked confused and laughed a little and asked what that could be. See?

Do I say I don't do anything, that I prefer being to doing? Yeah, I could. But it's not exactly well suited for small talk at the PTA dinner.

And then there's the thing about what sort of blog this is. What I write about. People ask me that too (not to mention the nearly constant requirement to "label" blogs when they are submitted for inclusion in blogrolls or other sites.) People want to know what kind of blog, they ask "what kind of things do you write about?" I don't have an answer for that either. Not because I don't know--I do. But because the minute I answer, there is something lost. There is a piece of me, of my writing, of my experience, that is made invisible by that descriptor. I am reluctant to offer up a word that introduces limitations, in any form.

I suppose it is true as well for visual art, too. One is bound by the limitations and properties of oil paint, for example, or by wood, or clay. I think the difference is that, at least in my experience, there is rarely an assumption by the viewer that they know precisely the artist's ideas, their intentions, what they are "saying". In writing, people think they know. When I write the word "feminism", people think they know what I mean--or they use their own definitions as they read. If I sculpt feminism, people will gaze, they will wonder, they will circle, they will be confused, they will walk right past, they will ask me about it, ask me about my intentions, about the piece, often in an open-ended way. While the medium may limit the sculpture, the product stands on its own, subject to a potentially less arrogant interpretation. Few would tell me I used the wrong brush stroke, that that brush stroke didn't communicate clearly what I was trying to say. Not so in writing. We think we know. We all know what I mean when I write "women". No. We don't.

Let's just say I don't care for that.

And yet words are what we have.

Collections of words and spaces. Such a poor approximation of sensation.

And that, my friends, is where I've been.

Art Can't Hurt You

First off, I wanna say that there are definitely up sides--big up sides--to having a child who is, deep in her heart (as well as in the tips of her fingers) an artist. I'm pretty clear about that.

There is the vision, the "different" way of looking at things. There are the philosophical conversations about the world that appear out of nowhere, out of noticing that a bird flies at an angle that she may not have seen before. There is the way in which any afternoon, any ride in the car, any wait in a restaurant, can become an engaging and productive activity. There are the hour long conversations that can take place between a red pencil and a blue pencil about the difference in their life experiences, or about one of their sisters, a green pencil, and her recent antics. There is the amazing privilege of displaying wonderful works of art in our home. There is the absolute wonder at hearing detailed and unprompted descriptions of the color and texture of that man's socks, you know, the man we met for fifteen minutes six years ago.

And then, on the flipside, there's boobs. Yeah, breast kinda boobs, the ones of age--not stupid people kinda boobs. And weight. And proportion. And flaws. And truth. And beauty.

I have a wonderful t-shirt that I wear to art fairs and the like. It says all kinds of good stuff, like "good art doesn't match your sofa" and "Art: Break the Rules." The other thing it says is "Art Won't Hurt You". I've always loved that one. Today, I'm repeating it, like a mantra.

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter had to do a self-portrait for an end of the year picture collage for her teacher. As these things will do, the activity expanded. She drew a self-portrait. I drew a self-portrait. We photographed ourselves and printed them out and did self-portraits from the photos. And we did portraits of one another.

Some of the readers of this blog know me "in real life". But some of you don't, and maybe you've been wondering what I look like.

This is me.

The hair is dead on. The decolletage, maybe not so much.

I am honored.

Art. Sheesh, It Keeps You Busy.

I have come to the conclusion that it is both a blessing and curse to see art in everything all the time.

This, for example.

Why yes, as a matter of fact, it is the front window of my car in the rain (because what else is there in June in Boston, really?). I was waiting in the pickup line at Phoebe's school. Of course, I was there, and this is a movie, and this movie is streamed over the web, so I will understand if you don't see it, but here's what happened to me. There I was, sitting there with my engine off (it's a No Exhaust zone, I love that), with light rain falling, thinking about nothing in particular. Obviously, since my engine was off, my wipers were off, so I was getting that interesting impressionistic view of the world around me that some people spend hours in a Photoshop class trying to achieve. But what I noticed most of all is that each drop looked as if it were a drop or point of paint, like pointilism, like one shard in a very fine mosaic, like one stitch in a tapestry. It was as if an image of the car in front of me (and everything else, for that matter) was being painted on canvas, one drop at a time. It was amazing.

I know. I'm weird. This is why it's hard to drive with me.

I mean, all of us have, at one point or another, seen animals or shapes or figures in clouds. I see them in everything. Ivy. Cracks in the sidewalk. Stucco. Tree bark. I see them all the time. They are usually highly detailed and realistic, not puffy cumulus bunnies....although the other day, I did see a rabbit in my neighborhood--they're all over the place--standing up exactly like a chocolate easter bunny, with its paws up and its ears up and everything. Oh great, now I'm hungry.

I am also under some sort of illusion, every time I see them (not the rabbits, the figures), that if I only had a pencil and paper, I could draw them and suddenly be able to render a version that was as realistic and lifelike as the lion that I see, toothy jaws yawning wide, in a ripped poster that has been tacked on a telephone pole in the rain. The thing is, I do usually have a pencil and paper, and it somehow just doesn't work out that way. I draw just as badly when I am struck with the sudden appearance of images as I am any other time. Bummer. It has occurred to me that I might be able to draw those particular images better (in the moment, that is) with my eyes closed, or with my "other" hand, or with my eyes fixated on the object, but never looking at the paper, a kind of "blind" drawing. I've been thinking on that one for a long time, but have never managed to try it. Maybe that's because I'm often in traffic or otherwise in transit when I see this stuff, and getting out drawing materials and closing one's eyes is generally frowned upon while in control of a motor vehicle. I don't know why that would be. Have you ever tried that (not driving with your eyes closed, I'm talking about drawing)? I've heard of it somewhere. If you know anything about that, let me know. It's a nice illusion, in any case. I feel like a brilliant artist for a few seconds, and who could argue with that? Okay, so there's no evidence--what's it to you?

Of course, in cases where we're supposed to see shapes, like constellations, I never see them, no matter how hard I try, no matter how many people point and say, usually in increasingly exasperated tones "It's right there!". It figures, doesn't it? Maybe it's because I don't get how anyone can point into space. It seems kinda nonspecific, doesn't it? Hardly like pointing at that third pastry from the left in the glass case and saying "I'd like that one." I mean, really. "You see that star right there?" Ohhh. That star. Sure thing.

I guess what I'm saying is that it can make it hard to get things done. Where I live, for example, people throw out the most amazing things on a regular basis (no, I'm not talking about going through people's trash, though I'm not above that given the right purpose). I don't get how people can drive the streets, with all that stuff that is ripe for art, for recycling in any form, and just focus on where they're headed. I don't get that at all. Today I stopped three times. It was raining, so the cool stuff was largely ruined. Of course, rather than saying "Oh, well, I guess I'll just go home today, most stuff is wrecked", I am cursing the stupid people who put such lovely and wonderful things out on a rainy day. I ask you: Would they put the Mona Lisa out in the rain? Well then why are they putting those rusted 1950's aluminum TV trays or that broken Lite Brite out there? Tell me that, why don't you. I mean, Come On! Don't they know budding art when they see it?

In a few weeks, it will be time again for Brimfield, the largest outdoor antique market in the United States. 6000 dealers.

I love it. A lot. I love to go with other people. But it somehow just hasn't worked too well. We walk around, and they say "I'm hoping to find a period mirror that matches my dresser that I picked up at that antique store" (which, of course, they will, because it's Brimfield, and you can find damn near anything there, and they also have terrific french fries, but the Brimfield "food court" is a whole 'nother subject). And me? I'm looking under tables, to see if there's a junk box that the dealer of--well, anything--has thrown all those little spare pieces, hardware, buttons, pages, and whatever that falls off of their good stuff into. The stuff they can't sell. The stuff that they don't know what it is, what it goes to, or what to do with it. You have no idea how great some of that stuff is. Last time I went, I got a couple large ziploc bags full of antique watch parts from an estates dealer who cleaned out a watch shop. Free. Now that's my idea of a day well spent.

I make things. I see things. I pick things up. I use things. I save things. I investigate. I imagine things. I play with things. I create things. Take two, they're small. I think that's my new motto.

I've heard--no, I know--that there are people who are brave enough to live their lives seeking treasure, eschewing the "should". I'm not there yet. But I'm closer than I've ever been.

Ooh! Look!

Sorry, gotta go.

The Change of Life

Flashes.

No, not hot flashes, though I mean those, too. Flashes. All sorts.

Sleeplessness.

Leaving space not only for fatigue but for increased liminal space, the space in which ideas blossom and messages slide right in like a lover surprising you by sliding into the airplane seat next to you at the last minute.

Moods.

Moods that make us hard to live with. Moods that make us inclined to ask what is so hard about living with someone who questions what “easy to live with” means, recognizing it as a smokescreen for submission, compliance, servitude. Personal power is never easy to live with, especially for those who have never felt it.

Aches. Ailments. Anxiety.

A Trilogy of A. Reminding us that we are not here forever, that much is uncertain, that the someday is now.

They don’t call it the change of life for nothing.

I will be an artist of my own making. If not now, when?

There is art in writing.
I will not apologize for writing here when I should be “working”.
I will not accept that writing is any less valid than any other effort that we do not hesitate to call work.
I will no longer flinch in defensiveness at those who read my writing and say “You have too much time on your hands.”. No. I don’t. There isn’t enough time for all the things I want to say, write, feel, do.

There is art in caring for children.
In the strategizing necessary to maintain an emotional tenor that leaves one available, caring, and open, yet not vulnerable to the deeply personal bait that children routinely dangle as they make their way through the maze.
There is art in knowing when to approach, when to stand back, when to hold on, when to let go, when to insist, when to fold.
There is art in talking to children, in answering their questions without answering too much or diminishing their curiousity.
There is skill in this. I am not ashamed of having those skills.

There is art is offering what you know to the world.
There is art in being able to translate from one world into the next.
There is art in finding the words that make someone recognize the alien as if it has lived within them their entire lives. Because it has.

There is art in traveling, in exploration.
What is art if not freedom?
There is art in respect, in visiting new places with a minimum of the egocentrism and privilege that is implanted in us with every group sing, every state of the union address, every parade, every page 72 of our history books.

There is art in argument, in curiousity, in insistence, in analysis.
We live in a country that is not shy about its disdain for intellectuals.
I will not play along, in spite of the onion skin that has never protected me from casual meanness, intentional or otherwise.

There is art in creating
children, jewelry, vessels, rituals, solutions, things never seen before, thoughts, words written on paper or screen, classes, training, tools.

I have told the story.

When I was in my mid-20’s, I wanted to move to Maui. I believed I could do anything, I could strike out, in a classically 20-something kind of way. I packed my bags, and put my belongings into storage. I got on a plane. I rented a sublet. I sought out temporary employment, doing…well, whatever. I went to the beach in Kihei and watched the whales spout. And then I went home, as nearly everyone does who leaps into the water with a foot still on the dock. It’s an uncomfortable stretch that’s bound to cause a cramp eventually. An adventure is not the same as a life.

When I was in my 30’s, I wanted to move to Hawaii. Again. I wasn’t specific this time. I thought about where the jobs were. I researched, I interviewed by phone, I traveled for final interviews. I got a job. A good job. I said my goodbyes, packed my bags, and put my belongings into a Matson shipping container on the dock in Oakland. I drove my car up a ramp to join them. I lived at the YWCA in Honolulu for a month or two, and then rented a house nestled in lush foliage on the side of a rainy valley that was fifteen minutes from the ocean. I kept a swimsuit and goggles in my trunk so that I could stop by the beach to swim on the way home if I so desired, though often I just wanted to go home after a day of work. Even in Hawaii, living is living.

One foot on the dock is no way to leap. Diving is not so good either, as we all know a story of someone who met an unfortunate end trusting the unknown depth of water. Jump. With both feet. It’s the only way. There is no such thing as careful.

When I was in my 40’s, I found myself in a place that was alien to me in nearly every possible way, and which remains so. I set myself on a path to make the best of it, because it was for my career, not for my life. I was reminded that, in a new place, you have to adapt to cultural norms in order to get along. You have to submit. I stink at that. So I continued to speak up here and there, just to remember what my voice sounded like, to remember who I was when I stood, in boots and heavy backpack, on a log bridge across a roaring river in the Sierras, defying the elements, when that same evening I played half of a recorder duet over a desolate lake on the longest day of the year, wondering at the light sky at 9 p.m. The pressure, subtle and overt, to silence that voice was phenomenal and often remains so—people can see you remembering that, and they don’t like it much, even when they don't know it. They have their own reasons, to be sure, but there’s that flaky skin to contend with once more.

I spent my 40’s in the illusion of profession, in the false promise of letters behind a name, and then with the birth of a child. Nurturing a child is as close to the core of life as you can get. I accepted my life in the space created by the intersection of a venn diagram.

Now I am in my 50’s, with the flashes, sleeplessness, moods, and A’s that grace those that are fortunate enough to make it this far. I have devised a machine, a clever Rube Goldberg inspired contraption, designed to extract (with a loud, obnoxious, sucking sound reminiscent of a combination of nursing and the last drops of a milkshake in a large metal cup drawn unselfconsciously through a straw) the power from each of them. It's going pretty well.

And I’m working on that onion skin thing, because I’m done apologizing.

I am an artist of my own making. In the last two months, I have been called “wild” and “fierce”, always by people younger than me. I am putting those on as a cloak. I may even get that purple streak in my hair.

They don’t call it the change of life for nothing.

Trash, Pride, Art

There seems to be a theme emerging. (famous last words if I ever heard them)

Yesterday, I talked about feeling so proud of my kid I could just burst. And I'll be damned if it didn't happen again.

So let me ask you a question. If your kid came to you, excitedly said "Mommy! I have a present for you!!" and stood there, hands behind her back (clearly holding the treasured object), eyes filled with absolutely-certain-that-you-are-gonna-love-this anticipation, what would you imagine that she held behind her back? Really. Stop and think about it. What would you hope was back there? A picture that she drew? A story? A cookie? A diamond? A perfect report card? A stiff drink?

Okay, got that image in your head? Think about it, and don't show your card to anyone else.

This is what my 9-year-old daughter gave to me (I mention her age only so that you know that this isn't one of those oh-how-cute or oh-how-sweet stories that automatically go along with anything a three year old brings you, like a piece of lint or a half-drunk bottle of spring water)


Yes, they are exactly what they look like. Smashed eyeglass frames, minus the temples. "I found them in the parking lot! I think they must have gotten run over lots and lots of times because they're so flat!"

Yes, I know this might not have been what you imagined she was holding behind her back, barely able to keep it hidden, her excitement so great. Me? I swell with pride. That's my girl.

She picked them up because they had been run over a lot of times. She picked them up because they reminded her of my late father's glasses (I agree, and what a great reason whether I agree or not). She picked them up because they were "cool". But more than anything, she picked them up because I have taught her that this is a great habit. (Public Service Announcement: Purell-lovers, time to stop reading now). She picked them up because she thought I would appreciate them and include them in some future artwork in some fashion. She was right.

On my birthday, a little over two years ago, she and I took a walk to my favorite restaurant for breakfast. It was the highlight of my day. I carried a plastic ziploc bag, as I usually do, so that the odds and ends found along the way would have safe place to rest until it was their turn to become part of something new. We call it treasure. We've always done this.

"Let's look for treasure!"
"Yeah! Let's!"

When she was a toddler, I would ask if she wanted to go for a walk--with me, with her babysitter. Her answer was often a resounding "No!"--not only because she was two, but also because she is a kid who likes to "stay close" and always has. "Will you bring me back some treasures?" And she's out the door.

On my birthday, it was a long medium-short walk to the restaurant, and a longer walk back, as we had to take a different route, becuase what if there is other stuff on the other streets?

Within the first five minutes, an elaborate story had begun. I had nothing to do with it. It was a story about a spacecraft from another planet that had landed in this neighborhood and had left some broken parts scattered around, and if we could find them all, they would give us vital clues to the identity and location of the visitors. So we looked. And we looked. And we found important clues, let me tell you, from infinitesimal slips of paper with words on them to pieces of circuit boards to metal washers. I can't tell you the story. Number one, it's classified. You know how that alien stuff is. Our government is crazy about that stuff. I don't want that kind of trouble. And Number two, it's our story. Mostly hers. And it might be true. Nobody knows for sure, do they?

With every treasure found, I feel as if I have succeeded. I have succeeded in conveying the art in every object, art that might not have existed had the item not been run over so many times. I have succeeded in communicating the potential for new life and creation out of the mundane, broken, and discarded. I have succeeded in representing the world as a place where a walk can become a grand adventure to a distant planet, where a bent penny can be the first line of a story yet to be written. I have succeeded in relaying that life is filled with magic.

When she gave me these smashed eyeglasses, she was thrilled. But I am quite certain she did not think I could (or would) use them to see. Hey, no one is right about everything.

Does it get any better than this?

Songcatching

I'm big on metaphor. And all the rest, too. You know, messages, "lessons", trails of breadcrumbs. My mother used to say, mostly in jest, "It's a omen!" (like, say, when chocolate covered graham crackers, which she loved, but rarely bought, were on sale for a great price at the grocery store). Little did she know.

A couple of years back, I was reflecting on my art, discussing the types of things I am inclined to make. At the time I was a potter, spending a goodly amount of time in the studio with my hands in the mud (ah, those were the days). There, in that place, where I felt at home and had been welcomed by the community, I still struggled with "fitting in". Not in the sense that I didn't have great friends there--I worked and talked and created alongside some of the most terrific people I have met. But something nagged at me.

Quick--when you hear that I was a potter, what do you picture me making? Bowls? Mugs? Vases? Teapots? I bet you picture a wheel, don't you?

My point exactly.

Sure, I have my share of bowls. And mugs. And vases. And even a teapot or two. But I could never get how people could make those things over and over again, even in their infinite variety. I was always searching for the "thing" that I really wanted to make, the thing that I could pour my heart into, work on constructing day after day, week after week, and never get bored. And when I found the answer (occasionally), it was never a bowl. Or a mug. Or a vase. "Oh, so you did sculptural work!" No. Not really.

At the time, I had joined an advanced class in which the instructor encouraged us to "find our style", find out "what we make". The struggle continued. The jokes flew. "What's she making now?". I let them wonder. I kept working, molding, joining, imprinting clay with only my hands and a few small wood or metal tools. And in time, I had an answer.

It came to me in much the same way as the name of this blog. Not as a revelation, not as an idea that arrived fully born, an empty vessel waiting to be filled, but as an effort to weave the hair-thin threads that ran through my disjointed conclusions into a coherent theme. And as with the title of this blog, it may not always fit perfectly. Sometimes I still make a bowl, especially if I need one (or if it's for somebody else--other people like round things). Just like sometimes I write about things that have nothing to do with the theme of "what I don't get". In the end, it all seems to fit together anyway.

So, what did I come up with? When it was my turn for critique, and I introduced my work (and my threads), I said "I like to make things that appear to be other than what they are" and "I like to make things that have hidden parts or meanings or uses that people will not automatically perceive."

Like I said, I'm big on metaphor. And not so big on utility. Which begins to explain the phenomenon of "songcatching", at least for me.

(Yes, I've seen the movie. Yes, it's odd. Yes, I liked it. It surprised me. I like that. Great music, too. No, it's not quite what I'm talking about.)

I've never known what to call it. I "get" songs. All of a sudden, in the middle of nothing in particular, a song comes into my head. They come out of nowhere, and could be of any genre, and by any, I mean any. I walk around humming or singing the song the rest of the day--which, if you know me, you know is easy to make happen. Just sing a few lines or play something over the muzak in the grocery store and I'm singing it all day, even if I don't remember hearing it. We call them "earworms" in our family, thanks to a tribe of friends from way back. But the songcatching isn't like that. It isn't a song I've heard that day (at least not to my knowledge). It just comes.

And in case you're wondering...yes, of course, I am limited to songs that I have heard at one time or another in my life. But that's a lot of songs, since music of all sorts was continually played in my home as a child, I did that whole 70's and 80's radio and 45 and LP thing, and music has remained integral in one shape or another since then. It helps that I have one of those memories that has gaping holes for important things (birthdays, appointments, my childhood) but endless storage space for lyrics to a 1941 song that I'll never need. But hey, I guess you never know.

Oh, and sometimes the songs come sneaky-like, disguised as other things. Like once, at an acutely painful time, I was driving in Harvard Square, and I was behind a car with a bumper sticker that said "Be As You Are". Deep. I thought that was the message in itself. It was enough, and it gave me comfort. But then it started bothering me, like an itch that you can't reach. Be as you are. Be as you are. Isn't that a song? Be as you are. About four hours later, I "got" a visual image, this time the cover of "Flag", a James Taylor album that contains the song B.S.U.R..

So I listened. Nothing. I listened again, shaking my fist at....whatever...and saying "Okay, I got it, this is the song...what is it?" It didn't resonate. I played it again. Nothing. Okay. Just a fluke this time, just an overly suggestible mind triggered by a crunchy bumper sticker. No prob. So I gave up and went to make dinner, leaving the recording playing. The song after B.S.U.R. was Rainy Day Man. I stopped dead in my tracks. That was the one.

Up until now, there just haven't been that many people that know about this, so there have been few that I could call up to say "I got a song", if I were so inclined. Sometimes it's interesting to "figure it out" with someone else. And sometimes, though not so often, the songs are not for me, they're for someone else, and I'm obligated to call them up and give them the song, even if I don't know why (kinda like "witnessing", I figure). But now I'm taking the chance, inspired by a few bloggers who continually amaze me with their courage, so that now and again (and again), I can (if so inclined) post here about it. Let's start now.

I got a song.

Today's is a doozy. It's been awhile, maybe there's some extra energy saved up somewhere like a spring wound too tight, or maybe somebody messed with the jukebox. I don't know. The one I got today--I don't even know the lyrics. Only one line, and the tune. It often happens that way (when it does, the "message" is not usually in that line, but somewhere else in the song. It's a trail marker). When you hear it, you just might burst out laughing, and wonder what in the hell it could possibly have to do with my life--I did. Just in case you can't tell on your own, this is not one of the "duh" ones. This one is a little more convoluted. But still dead on--believe it or not.

(deep breath)

Here it is:



The conclusions, I'll leave to you.

I sometimes imagine that songcatching is, for me, what some people mean when they say that their muse speaks to them, or that Jesus speaks to them, or that they try to sit quietly and "listen", even when they can't explain what or who they're "listening" to. For me, I see it as simply the most recent manifestation of a lifelong relationship with "voices" (don't worry about me, I'm fine), in one form or another. I "get" songs. I don't know where they come from, but they're always dead on, in one way or another. Sometimes it's a hit-over-the-head obvious meaning, and sometimes it's more like scratching my head, trying to figure out what thehell the message is. Sometimes I don't find out for days. But in the end, as I say, it's always dead on.

Now you know. So when you open this blog on some future day, and find yourself listening to some long-forgotten George Michael song (ha! remember him?), you'll be slightly less confused. Or not.

And yes, I do occasionally catch for other people, either intentionally or inadvertently (and sometimes by request). So...be on the lookout for low-flying songs!  And if you're a songcatcher, tell me about it!

Gratitude and Art: Rantings of the Anti-Oprah

Today, I am a woman.

Oh. No. That's the other thing.

Today, I finished something I started. That's almost as big an accomplishment. Today is March 31st (Happy Birthday, Judy!), and it is the last day of the National Blog Posting Month challenge to post every day. I'm feelin' pretty good about it. (Yes, I re-upped for April. I'm that sort...I need a little nudge. I might be crazy for re-upping. I'll let you know. At least I get a new badge!).

But here's what I really want to say: Oprah* really ruined that whole gratitude thing for me, and I'm not afraid to say so.

Here's the thing. Some fine people in my life have suggested that I do just that--make some list, mental or otherwise--once a day, maybe before bed, of the things I am grateful for. It's a good idea. Maybe even a really good idea. It's even the kind of idea I might have suggested to people at one time. But then it was co-opted by Oprah and "keeping a gratitude journal". I don't know. It was a great idea when I wrote it down and stuck it in an envelope for future reference, but then when Oprah licked the envelope....eeuuugh. Somebody got a breath mint?

I say this with full awareness that there are some, maybe even many of you, who are somewhere on the like to love spectrum about Oprah. I may be cast out from the sisterhood, I know. I'll take that chance.

I used to like her, way back when. A little, sometimes more than a little. But that's when she was a talk show host. You know, before she was a prophet, before half of America read what she told them to read or thought what she told them to think or voted for who she told them to vote for or shushed people when she spoke or cried when her dog died or felt personally involved in her struggle with weight. Hey, I struggle with my weight. Does anybody care? No. Nor should you. Yeah, I get it that that's because I'm not a media celebrity, but as I said in a prior post, I do NOT get the cult of celebrity at all (with the possible exception of Joan Baez, since I once hyperventilated in her presence...I'm all into full disclosure here) Your neighbor struggles with her weight. Probably somebody you work with, or somebody you're related to struggles with their weight. Why is Oprah's fat so much more fascinating than anyone else's fat? You know, that's all it is, right? Fat.

I'm not even religious, but maybe it's that whole golden calf thing from way way back in my history somewhere--it just looks and smells and feels like idolatry to me (and you know what they say about ducks). My skin crawls when I see people go ga-ga over celebrities--what they say, what they do, what they buy. It nearly tops my list of things I don't get. At the risk of dating myself (hey, who else have I got to date?), I didn't even get the Bobby Sherman thing (who is a cop now, by the way). "Maybe that's because you were a lesbian," I can hear you saying. I wasn't one then. I don't think so.

There. I said it. A double whammy. Bobby Sherman AND Oprah. And just to show you how nice i am, here are some rocks to throw at me. I'm ready for ya.

But since we're on the topic anyway (not that you had a choice), people also talk about the "responsibility" that comes with fame. Giving back, building houses for people in New Orleans, giving money and name to worthy causes, donating a fabulous auction item for a certain Boston women's chorus who happens to be having a big fundraiser coming up in celebration of the 5th anniversary of equal marriage in Massachusetts.... Well, how about the responsibility of reminding your followers that celebrities are....well...people. Where is the celebrity who is promoting the Getting People-To-Think-For-Themselves Association? (If you ever hear of an episode of Oprah in which she tells everyone to stop listening to her so blindly, let me know. I'll tivo it for sure.)

Well, of course, you knew this was coming. It was in the cards. I hate to disappoint, so here it is:

So.... I don't keep a gratitude journal. I tried once. I tried to get over the Oprah-ness of it, and bought a special little notebook. I wrote in it once. Now I use it to make shopping lists. It just made me feel like I had to buy a snuggie, eat Hamburger Helper for dinner, and get my teeth whitened. Ya know?

Which is NOT to say that I'm not grateful. [Ah, she's finally getting to the point! Yeah, I hear the collective sigh of relief.]

Today was a very challenging day. Several bad things happened, any one of which had quite the potential to send me on the rapid downward spiral with which I am far too intimately acquainted. But I was saved.

Okay. Stop laughing. Right now. Stop laughing that I used those words "I was saved".

I was saved, as ever, by art (I have written every day for a month, and I have never written about art, which is incredible.) Not art in a museum. Everyday art. All kinds, including the kind that my new friend Kelly writes about in her blog. I don't know how art could be any more beautiful than that.

I am grateful to be a person who sees art (and an art project) in everything. So when I found myself needing to take a two-mile walk when I didn't expect it (don't ask), I noticed things. And I took pictures. They may not look like art to you. They look like art to me.

That last one, the now defunct and vacant Polaroid building, has hundreds of small glass windows, which made me obsess about doing a community art project where people bring their old square polaroid pictures and put one in the center of each of those glass blocks (each is probably about 5" x 5", just the right size to "frame" a photo) and take a Polaroid photo of it. You just can't get upset about the reason that you have to walk two miles when you're obsessing about an idea like that.

I came up with it. Don't be getting any ideas.

And the other thing I did (those of you who have germ issues, time to cover your eyes, plug your ears, and hum) is pick stuff up. This is an old habit. A very old habit. I pick stuff up, I make jewelry out of it. I name the jewelry (what? you didn't know jewelry had names?) after the event that resulted in my finding the stuff, or the street that it was found on. It's happened for years. Here's today's treasures:

I know, they don't look like much now. But they'll be great when they're done. I'll post a pic of the necklace when it's done. And yes, it has a name. Maybe by then, I'll be ready to post that, too.

And speaking of media celebrity, check THIS out!! Next thing you know, I'll be telling you what to read!!

*No, I didn't link to Oprah's website, even if it would bring me readers. Yeah, I'm a blogsnob. Why should this medium be different than any other medium? (See, there's that religion coming in again....must be the season) But Bobby Sherman, now THERE'S a different story.