trying

.

"I believe in the dignity of each of the different levels of the self.  I don't want to lose any of them.  To me they each exist simultaneously, not hierarchically...  One is not better than another."

-Francesco Clemente


i read this statement in an old art history book of mine a week or so ago and i've been thinking of it ever since.  i left the book open on the kitchen table to force myself to think of it.  not just think of it but deal with it.  i re-read it as i eat my late-night dinners and early-afternoon breakfasts.  i like this statement and am drawn to it in a way that one is drawn to a puzzle or a riddle or an idol, anything that puts a person in a state of uncomfortable wonder.  i'm drawn to it almost on the level of pornography...  attracted to the image but made aware of my inadequacy before it.  attracted and repelled simultaneously because i don't know how to achieve the thing i am agreeing with.

i want to be as welcoming, as accepting, as fluid and open and non-judgemental.  i want to be as wise and caring...  but i have no clue how to stop judging the individual components of my Self.  Based on Clemente's statement, one's sexuality hold an equal value as one's spirituality or intellect.  one's talent for painting is no more important than one's talent for gentleness.  one's talent for gentleness is no more important than one's ability to cut through the shit and take care of business.  if his statement is correct and all these components exist simultaneously (and are accepted, not submerged), then they operate in unison.  one's ability to be gentle or direct is also, then, a factor in one's ability to paint or write or give a good handshake.  the sensual component of one's Self snuggles up against the spiritual, like a cuddle-puddle of traits that all benefit from colliding with one another.

why can't i accept this?  or better yet, why is my acceptance of this so rocky?  is it an issue of faith?  and if so, faith in what?  or in whom?  do i lack faith in myself?

i've felt so distracted lately.  and alone within my distraction.  i've been feeling quite singular and confused.  i go back and re-read my diary from when i was in Berlin.  i go back further and read the things i wrote at the beginning of the year.  i look for some sort of crumb of insight that will set me straight and make my happiness a more solid, reliable thing rather than being so flimsy and fleeting.  i have so much to be happy about, so why aren't i?  why is it so hard to maintain happiness?

i've been guilty of submerging aspects of my personality for all the same stupid reasons anyone does such a thing-  usually for the sake of a relationship, even if that relationship is with one's family or friends.

or maybe it has nothing to do with that at all?  i'm very open about who i am and rarely feel like i need to hide who i truly am.  there are very few occasions where i feel sheepish and afraid of another person's opinion of me. maybe i simply need to accept the fact of my sadness?  is sadness the thing that i am hiding?  the thing i am refusing to see as possessing its own worth and value?  like most americans, i've been taught that sadness is something to hide.  for some odd reason, people think it means you're ungrateful for the goodness that exists in your life; as if happiness and gratitude are synonyms.  sadness is somehow lumped in with selfishness and, as we all know (especially those of us raised in any sort of judeo-christian model), "selfish" is the absolute worst thing a person can be.  especially if that person is female.  growing up, it was one of the absolute worst things to be labeled.  so much so that my siblings and i still wrestle with knowing the difference between self-love and selfishness.  it is not an easy distinction for me to make.  the line between the two is not at all clear.  perhaps that is the result of degrading certain parts of oneself...

what i DO know is that i don't want to limit myself and i don't want to shelter myself.  i've most certainly accomplished both by letting a hierarchy exist within me.  i've been trained to see one trait as "good", another as "bad", and still another as "worthless".  i've compartmentalized my own pysyche and labeled the parts rather than seeing them as having a definite worth and use.  i have not let all the parts of myself exist simultaneously.  i've squelched some and nourished others, all the while hoping to feel like a Whole human being.  but how could it be possible to feel complete when one is constantly performing some sort of on-going weeding of the Self rather than accepting the myriad components of one's being.  why can't i accept fragmentation AS SUCH and not see it as a negative?  why not see it as a fertile territory of change and opportunity?  a field of ever-changing, ever-expanding possibilities that offer a plethora of lens through which to view the world and others?  why encourage the continuation of binary thinking when i could attempt to nourish a multiplicity of outlooks and ways to think about the world?  perhaps my sadness is simply a proof of my sensitivity?  my love of the world?  and THAT is an absolute necessity to my art practice.

in 2 weeks i'll hit my 3rd anniversary of being a non-smoker.  i quit smoking after 16 years of very zealous, dedicated addiction.  i loved to smoke.  i truly did.  what helped me the most when i finally decided to give it up was a trait that is generally though of as "bad":  vanity.  i harnessed the power of my own vanity (fear of premature aging, crow's feet around my eyes, yellow teeth, etc) to conquer my addiction.  it worked amazingly well.  and so even something that is generally thought to be a negative attribute served me well.  everything has a value.  everything can be used for a positive end or toward achieving a fuller experience of the world.  i know this.  why can't my mind and heart hold on to this knowledge?  why am i so inconstant when it comes to my opinion of myself and my life? i need to find a way to abolish the hierarchies within me.


.

DAY 1

.


maybe it is true that i am less afraid of you than you are of me.


. . . . .
 


i tilt the glass between my lips and look at myself in the mirror.  i am sitting cross-legged in bed, computer on my lap, red gloves on my hands, my beloved Greyhound to my left.

this first day, this first night of this new year is achingly cold.  it began at the BART station at 7am, sleeping on a icy concrete bench, waiting for the locked gates to roll up and usher forth the first train to wisk my frozen bones home.  a bit too much whiskey maybe.  a bit too much champagne.  or maybe not enough.  never enough.  my wooden leg can definitely hold me up these days.  and as i pushed my bag beneathe my head, i thought of europe.  i fantasized about sleeping outside train stations in germany.  i thought of my mother there as a young G.I. at the age of 19.  she always wanted to return.  i have begun making my preparations.

i fell asleep easily there on that concrete slab.  the angry rumbling of the gates opening woke me an hour later.  i boarded my train and instantly fell back to sleep and missed my stop.  i woke right as we were pulling away from the station where i should've gotten off.  this made me laugh at myself and feel happy about the world, happy about my life.


. . . . .



as i walked home, you texted me. i save so many of your messages.  i wonder if you save any of mine.  you speak to the center of me on accident, it seems.  and so often.  i cannot do otherwise than hold tight the poetry that finds me.  the morning was bright and i felt safe.

with your words in my eyes, i turned my key in the lock and found an empty house.  each roommate off living a romance somewhere else or recuperating in a corner.  i hopped in the shower and scalded my body to try to rid myself of the deep cold i'd collected.   blisters on my heels and pinky toes from walking a few too many miles in the wrong pair of shoes, but i have walked my way to a new sort of freedom, a new and better life.

i have such a great, wide open hope.

welcome, welcome 2013!

.



it is a puzzle. the kind where pieces are lined up and pushed in place according to what feels right, which pieces feel at home with each other, next door to each other, the odd back and forth dance of finding where the line is. the line between this and that. that velvet, that blur. and of course every question feels inadequate. they fall so short of the mark. where are all the arrows, flung far and hitting the red heart of the target dead-on?



.

whirl

this day has moved fast fast fast. i look up and it's afternoon already. almost evening. a dizzying array of words spilled out after hours at the canvas. i am worn out but then there's the feeling of the chase still stuck in my fingers and shoulders and heart and brain. chase chase chase the thing down. and really, i have no clue what it is i'm writing. it's all locked up in my notebook and i don't have the fortitude right now to dig it up and type it out. the scribbling was so wild that i'm a bit high-strung from it all. dizzy. but hungry. that feeling of absolute need. a headache on the horizon, i'm sure. ha! but whatever it is- all these paintings and poem-type things that i have no idea what they are, feel important. they need attention and polish and patience too. patience is something i am bad at when it comes to all this. i get so excited and i just want to find a way to send it out in to the world. but these weeks of keeping so much work to myself, hanging on the wall for just me to look at, and pages open just for me to read... it makes a nest in a way i haven't had in a long time. this slowness is necessary. the baking hours. incubation and protection.

love you...

it is too cold a night to write anywhere but a notebook. and too happy. there are wonders in the world and i'm blessed to know just a few of them.

sweet dreams.

what's a poem?

today i actually slept in. i lolled around drinking hazelnut coffee and spent a good 2 hours on the phone with my mama. i talked with my new neighbor and welcomed her in to our strange little happy fold. i did a bit of painting as the light started to change and the afternoon arrived. i took an evening walk with my dog and let her off the leash to run and play and smell the smells. she gets stuck on sniffing pretty easily and it's cute. one of my favorite sights in life is watching her velvet ears bounce as she trots along. i don't know why- it's just so damn cute! i smile every time. and then back at home, i tucked a tired man in bed and kissed his forehead.

now, i'm thinking about poems and what they are and what they mean and how to build them and that all the rules are a bit lame and "relevant" to whom? it's a mysterious thing and a precious thing and i'm getting closer and closer to the point of not caring too much if the poems are any good or not, if they're "correct". i care if they fill whatever damn hole it is that i'm trying to fill. i care if they cushion the blow of the world and if they're able to rip off the old band-aid and get me moving forward again. i care that they are fearless and unapologetic and if they sing. and i do want to be good too... whatever that means. but not the kind of good that brings acceptance, the kind of good that makes a happy life. the kind of good that makes the old fears die... or at least make them mean something. the kind of good a person feels at the end of a hard day's work... glad to put down the shovel and come on home.

happiness...

i am on 10 hour painting days. something clicked in to place...

a small turn of the ribbon... a tiny whisker twitching....
whatever it is, i am in the work in a way i didn't expect.

i wake up, make the coffee, and lug my canvasses outside to work in the beautiful, true country morning light. it has made all the difference. i am seeing better than i've seen in weeks. i suppose i'm in love. :) tricks i'd forgotten or let go of have returned to rest in my hands. today, i even impressed myself. ha! i am glad, gladder, gladdest, and the day goes by too fast, far too quickly, and i ache for morning to come back.

the alarm clock has become a welcome sound.

just a thought...

do you ever sometimes think how much easier life would be if socks were like jeans and you could wear them more than once before having to wash them? this is, of course, not the case and i don't suggest it. i know because i've attempted it a few times when i was too lazy to look around for clean socks in the pile of clean clothes that i was too lazy to put away. an unfortunate and lowly decision because, should you try this at home, it will also just so happen to be the day you go to someone's house for the first time and there's a "no shoes on the carpet" policy or some other strange experience that forces you to remove your shoes. it is embarrassing and disgusting and you pity your lazy self for quite some time afterward. but you learn your lesson... but i still can't help but sometimes wonder how much easier life would be if socks were more like jeans...

:)