writer problems

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i need to start over, perhaps. 

i need a different set of rules (or maybe no rules at all) when it comes to this place, when it comes to words on a page, when it comes to reaching out to other human beings through these electronic waves.

i've had this little sandbox of mine for so long, this blog. the last few months it's become increasingly hard to write here and i'm not sure why.  i want to write here.  i miss having a daily love affair with my blog and want to rekindle my fervor. walking home from the grocery store this evening, i agonized over why it's been so hard for me to come here, to type out the words...  and i think it's because i'm judging the whole enterprise by what this blog has been and not allowing for what it could be.  i'm not allowing for change and so it's become stagnant.

maybe i needed a break for awhile too.  maybe i needed to step away from the out-pour.  maybe i needed a bit of privacy.  everyone needs to curl up under the covers some times and just hide from life.  i'm no different.  perhaps that's all i've really been doing by not writing here: claiming a space of silence for myself, allowing myself a deep, abiding privacy and quietude.

some explorations are necessarily made under lock and key, away from the eyes and ears of the world, in total darkness, in total silence, under the sheets, without words, without record, without apology.  i've largely enjoyed my silence. still, it isn't me to not write.  it is such a huge part of who i am and how i live.  there is the diary, yes, and there always will be but the writing i do there is entirely different from what lands in public spaces.  a different impulse is responsible for bringing me to this electric square of light and a different urge is satisfied when i type.  a different demon is exorcised when i publish my thoughts here. 

i need to just let this space evolve.  evolve or die.  the strictures must be chopped away and i need to hold on to the fact that this place was always intended to be a place where i could say whatever i wanted, without fear and without judgement.  it's always been meant to be a play-space.  it's unhelpful for me to judge my life and self and writing NOW by what i wrote BEFORE.  i need to let go of the writer i used to be and nurture the writer i am now. i'm not who i once was.  the temperature of my entire world has changed and, when i look back, certain days feel like total fictions. 

how do i set myself free from what my own practice has been?  how do i stop holding up current projects to the expectations set down by previous accomplishments?  how do i write without thinking at all about what i've written before?  how do i begin again?  how do i start anew?  because that's exactly what needs to happen.


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fact

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(orphan or not, this is the case. live.)


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Time invites you. Go.

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crutch. cross.

the boxes we've been given.

the boxes we've accepted.

the boxes we've constructed.


i have constructed more than a few horrible boxes for myself, that's for sure. horrible rooms of horrible silence, horrible stillness- the evil twin of what i'm experiencing now. the hateful flip-side of solitude and graciousness. maybe the word would be "abjection"?

in my mind now i can see those horrible boxes i constructed for myself. i can see them with the label ABJECT stencilled across the front in spray-paint and Jasper Johns lettering. though that description makes it seem almost romantic. and maybe there are moments when abjection rubs shoulders with romance? maybe sometimes our pain would be too great, our loneliness too hard to bear, if we did not romanticize it a little. romance provides strength. it makes the world tolerable in intolerable moments.


but i will not climb back in to particular boxes.

i will not accept particular boxes.

i will not construct particular boxes.


i do not want to contain so much pain that i must romanticize my self, my life, my pain, in order to bear it. in order to move even the shortest of distances. i have lived too many years that way.

i am tired of bullshit pain and want the pain that finds me to be real and necessary. not made-up, not unnecessary. and in the in between times, a soft joy. pencil scratches and ink dripping and words to rummage around in. i am learning to appreciate the open air now. feathers and leaves falling. the wind cracking through tall trees. angry squirrels clawing the roots. and such a luscious moon.

need

still thinking of Kusama- her "Art Medicine". art as cure. art as protection. art as health. art as talisman, amulet, proof of life, act of sadness, act of sanity, a savior, a quest, a means of survival, a means of investigation, of knowing, of coming to terms, a reckoning, a decision, a question.

art as breath. a voice. a call. a need.

food. shelter. water.

art as a basic necessity.

humans make meaning because they need it.

food. shelter. water.

beauty? clarity? direction?

something honest. something basic. something irrefutable.






today i am making wreaths. an ouroborus made of moths. a way of making a prayer. an attempt toward understanding. maybe protection. maybe just an act of simple honesty.

humans make meaning (art) because they need it.

:)

i have given myself the pleasure of a long easy morning today. i am brewing a half-pot of coffee and cutting out moth shapes from a large beautiful sheet of shiny pewter colored paper. i am very much a crow: attracted to shiny things. :) i am planning on making a huge wreath out of them to hang in the front window. i'll let you know if it works out of not. at any rate, it's fun and joyful and simple. freeing. and the little moths... i think of them as prayers. as hymns. and so i dedicate myself to them like a child: convinced my voice is heard, that my small utterances float off to wherever small utterances float off to- a landscape where such thing plant themselves and grow in to something wild and beautiful.

and also, i am now a free agent.

it feels good to be in a moment where i can just be alone with the work. no plans for it other than to simply do my best and be as honest as possible. the work that's at the gallery now will be there for another week and a half or so before i'm able to pick it up. if there's something you want, please go grab it. i'm going to take a little break from businessy things and not put any pressure on myself to make the work do or be something it is not. financially, i'm taking a pretty big risk right now but it's the right decision to make... the honest decision to make. money shouldn't be allowed to be too big a factor when it comes to doing the right thing. and besides, i'm pretty accustomed to the starving artist lifestyle anyway. :) everything will work out. i have total faith in that. and the gallery believes in me too so i'm feeling very encouraged and hopeful today.

again, the e.e. cummings quote comes in to my head: it takes courage to grow up and be who you really are. the time for courage has most definitely come and i am at an entirely new beginning now. it is scary and exciting at the same time... but i feel very lucky to have this moment. i will enjoy my easy morning and let it morph in to an easy afternoon. there are books i want to curl up with and more moths to cut out.

life is strange and good and crazy, my friends. thank you for returning to this space and listening to me ramble, watching the struggle, and encouraging me to follow my heart. you are absolutely stunning and i appreciate you so much. <3

grace

my heart changes pace and structure quick the passed few days.
taut and then slack. taut and then slack.

full of thanks, full of longing.
full of confused desires and wants for the world to be a better place...

for people to be kind and compassionate and just.

and honest.

mostly, i wish for honesty. and the courage to be that every step of the way.

and right now, as my heart twists and becomes anxious, i go and read Ariana Reines blog, the story that is there right now and the running theme of mortality and i am overcome by her gentleness and jagged love.


and our fair liege Radish King, has here incredible poems up today at Everyday Genius. go see! go see! and get racked by her fearlessness. her true and honest and unafraid hands on the pen. she goes where few writers do and it is always tremendous, always full of the ache of the world, the ache of our hearts.

and then all the hearts that grace my path here.

the electronic hands that come and tap out beauty on my life.

i am grateful for all the good you bring. it is beyond welcome, beyond gorgeous.

thinking thinking thinking

last night, after an all-day painting session and a little bit of writing at the end, i started thinking about Sylvia Plath. actually, i had thought about her, off and on, all day. about The Bell Jar- what it is. i mean, in terms of genre. it's autobiographical. it's a novel. it is listed as "fiction".

and i started thinking about tags and terms and how every label has a drawback. and it seems like, in spite of their popularity (or because of it), the tag "memoir" or "autobiography" draws a lot of angst from the literary community. it is accused of being "easy" and "lazy". and i think that's really sad and very strange. it presumes that documenting real events, injecting the emotions and fears and anxieties of the time, is an easy task. it also assumes that a person's life has been picturesque, that the problems they faced were no big deal. it's very minimizing. and that's without saying anything about a writer's skill: the dedication required to wrap the reader up in your own history and let them live it as you lived it. the honesty that that requires. and bravery. the whole process is an act of overcoming humiliation. and doing so with beautiful words. or ugly words. whatever is necessary, craft is employed.

but nevertheless, the assumption that memoir and creative non-fiction are some how easier than other forms of writing. i say, skill is skill. and so i wonder... is that why The Bell Jar is in the fiction department? yes, names have been changed to "protect the innocent", but if that's really the only difference between your history and your story, is that a big enough change to call it fiction? i'm sure this is a question that gets wrestled with a lot.

and so i got out of bed and got my copy of The Bell Jar (it's always out on the shelf, not tucked in a row) so i could remind myself how the story begins.

first-person narrative. personal emotional response to an impending execution of criminals. and then the narrator gives us her name. that's the shift. that's what makes it fiction. the name has been changed. and i'm sure certain details have been left out... which assures that other details are (intentionally or not) magnified, brought to the fore-front, drawn more clearly. bias is embraced. and maybe that's the big difference too. The Bell Jar tells a story from one person's perspective and that perspective is embraced with totality. it is not compromised by the charge to explain the emotions or decisions of the other characters. it does not worry itself with ideas of "fair". it tells one story, not all stories, and it does not get sheepish about it.

and that brings up a question i've had for awhile. issues of fairness in art... especially writing.

it's common knowledge that writers end up angering their families. they are accused of not being "fair" to their families within the work. but our families are the first sphere in which we hear the dreadful truth, "Life isn't fair"... so why then is a work of art expected to be? religion, politics, finance, popularity, body issues, disorders of every shape and size and mode: all unfair. and so art should harness this unfairness as well. it is authentic to do so. and honest. or rather, ideas of attempting fairness should be left behind. is this what great writers know?

we know that when The Bell Jar was first published, it was published under a pseudonym. we know that this was done as an attempt to protect Sylvia Plath's mother, save her from mortification and judgement. but those are her own fears talking- the mother's. because i never felt judgemental toward the mother in the story. and granted it all took place in a different era where decorum was expected and dirty laundry was not aired and secrets, even the slightest and smallest, were kept. what a horror to end up having a writer in the family!

all this to say is i am unsure of what specifically divides fiction from creative non-fiction. because creative non-fiction is not the same thing as journalism- a mode of writing where the real names are used and the facts line up and the chronology of events is clear. and a journalist is usually recording someone else's fact and figures, not their own. they have a critical distance between them self and the life they describe. when telling one's own story, that critical distance is gone. it is obliterated. and maybe that's what makes The Bell Jar such a wonderful read- the diary quality of it.

there are so many famous, deeply loved diaries that have been published. and loved for the skill of the writing! the nuance that rises to the surface when censorship and intention fall away... when the audience is gone. some say Sylvia Plath's Journals are her best work. and they'd be just as interesting and compelling even if she wasn't also a "real" writer because the journals themselves are "real" writing. such craft and lyric and fierce desire to pin down a life in words. to make a map. to know something of the self. and diaries are totally biased. one perspective, one story, one idiosyncratic arrangement of fears and hopes and fuck-ups and achievements and struggles.

anyway. i've lost my own question. or answered it.

it's interesting though- these tags we use to describe a literary work. and when someone wants to call a spade and spade and get away with it, ANONYMOUS gets employed. or a pen-name. because we don't want to hurt our families. because we don't want to be "cruel" or "selfish". we want to be fair because the world isn't. and these are wonderful ethical concerns that i think are really important to wrestle with and so i'm glad i'm wrestling with them now, trying to clarify and expand my ideas about what are can be. and be made with. and i think there's a big difference between being honest and being a victim, and it comes down to intention. is there an intention of blame?

to my eye, there is no blame in The Bell Jar. there is the honest addition of self-blame within it - a true portrait of inner turmoil - but still not falling in to sentimentality or romanticising pain or seeking some sort of excuse. it is a crushingly beautiful example of the difference between accuracy and honesty. and i think that when a work focuses on achieving honesty, it falls outside all these useful tags (when wondering what shelf something is found on) and just swims in the big pool of Art.

the world contains such amazing people

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this little video makes me reconsider so many things about how we perceive "living well" in this country. this woman is adorable because she's smart, savvy, kind, ethical, and knows how to wield a hammer. her name is Dee Williams.

i really want to know what book she is reading.

monday monday monday

coffee coffee coffee. and it's raining. no painting outside today. but that's alright. ever since we made the decision to work toward the next phase of life, a very warm sense of relief has spread through me. just the decision itself is a great comfort. i feel relaxed. i feel like i have a direction. and so i'm not too concerned with how long it might take to accomplish the goal, i'm just happy to have a goal identified. concrete. here. in front of me.

the feeling that i'm just floating around without direction is a horrible one for me. it feels like non-movement. anti-motion. and it bothers me. it chips away, slowly slowly, at my confidence in my ability to take charge and get things done. it's just such a wonderful feeling to be on the exact same page at the exact same time with another person. it throws in a healthy dose of security... and that's great when you're gearing up to take a risk.

5 years ago, i moved to the bay area with $300 and a big ol' dream to chase. my 25th birthday was my first day of class at CCA. i sat on the bench, glad through and through, thankful, surprised, awe-struck, beside myself with happiness and wonder. and it has been a wild ride since. flipping back and forth between the extremes of life. both elation and anguish have presented themselves in equal measure, one right after the other, back and forth, back and forth. and i suppose that's life. but that drastic shift, that polarity, can be as damaging as it is educational.

the last 2 years we've spent out here in wine-country have largely been about repair. it has been good and safe and warm here. i have down-sized the amount of possessions that follow me through life, i started jogging and have kept up the practice for a year now. the iffy disk in my back is a lot less iffy as a result. i'm healthier, i sleep better, i am happier, more self-assured and confident than i was the first night i slept in this house. my old self has returned to me. fiery and eager and with a good amount of courage to draw strength from. and also, the daily practice of writing. every morning for 2 years, i practice my "waking ritual". a cup of coffee and a flying pen. i start writing before my mind really wakes up. the self-censoring mechanism still sleeping. that practice alone is responsible for so much good. so much deep, hard won, painful repair.

and since the new year began, my practice has only picked up steam. painting and drawing and writing and reading. and with so much time to spare too! i've gotten faster at making work. i've learned, all of a sudden, how to get ideas out and not get hung up by the nag of perfectionism. perfectionism is a fucking killer in the same way that stress and anxiety are killers. maybe they are all the same bad wolf dressed in a different sheep skin.

and so related to all these things (and inspired by the questions asked and wrestled with at elisabeth's blog), i've been thinking about autobiography... what it is to tell the story of one's own life.

in some ways, visual artists have a much easier time with this than writers do. and that's simply because we aren't being literal, we're creating images and images can be read in a multitude of ways much easier than words on a page. the story of my life, as presented in a collection of images, provides a bit of a cloak. i can wrap my story in metaphors. i don't have to spell things out. and the charge to "be fair" doesn't really exist. and so i started thinking about that- the fairness issue when it comes to art making, be it painting or writing. and this morning i think it's a hurdle that needs to be gotten over. a fear that needs to be overcome.

because, really, i can only tell my story.

no one else can tell it for me.

and i can't tell anyone elses.

fairness, when it comes to how others may have perceived something, isn't my responsibility as an artist or as a writer or as a human being. there's no way i can ever really know FOR SURE what another person's life has been. i am only responsible to tell my story honestly. fairness is in the listening.

i can practice fairness by being willing to listen to the stories of others. i practice fairness by allowing all the stories to be out on the same table at the same time and by giving each story equal respect. but when it comes to my story, i am simply charged to tell it the way it is, without cruelty, without ploys for sympathy, without ulterior motives of attaining forgiveness or acceptance or accolade. i am charged to be as honest as possible. flatly honest. no sentiment or excuse for myself. no self-pity and no blame.

it is a charge that is hard to meet. the normal human fears and frailties get in the way some days. it's normal i think for artists and writers to fear that they've said too much, that they said it wrong, that they didn't do a subject justice. but when it's autobiographical work, as long as i tell the truth about myself and what my experiences have been, and leave other people's experiences to them, i've done the only job i can do. it is up to other people to tell their own story... and to tell it without blame or minimization. if there has been a horror, speak of the horror. speak of what you saw. speak of it directly. this is not the same thing as unleashing an attack on someone else. describing what my experiences have been, my perception of the world and the events of my life, can be stated without judgement. i can embrace the great grey of all these things.

the only person in the entire world that i can ever truly know is myself. i can only claim to know the workings of my heart. and as long as i don't compromise in the telling of it (and self-pity is a compromise), i've done alright. i can accept the story of my life and give others the room and respect they need to try to do the same. art is a nebulous thing that way: the grey area looks different to all of us. describing the contours of it from where we each sit is an entirely compelling, worthwhile thing. i can be fair and listen to all the stories that do not make excuses for themselves. art does not need a excuse, anyway. it never has.

and then the resulting quickness...

between reading and jogging, my mind is on fire today. out in the vineyard, the most beautiful and pained thoughts came to me and, of course, me without my notebook. and of course, i lose most of those gorgeous thoughts and phrases by the time i get back home. nevertheless, my hands are flying, grabbing at words, making poems, making memoirs, telling secrets, finally, finally, and the swell and the stab and the awful aching to turn over the big jug of all the things that have gone unsaid. let them all come tumbling out. get disowned. fuck it. finally. just tell the world. don't let the monsters hide in your hair. tell it. tell it. tell on them. raise one finger and point because you're the only one who knows where they're hiding.

and so i write and write and write and there is nothing else for me to do today but go on telling.

when the work is done, i promise i'll share.
i'll let you check my hair.

book reveiw... (not for the faint of heart)

this morning,
already,
i read The Shawl by Cynthia Ozick...
my heart in pieces at the very beginning today but, like i said before, sadness is no reason to run and hide.
not from Art...

and The Holocaust must be remembered...


this little short story and the following novella is one of the most beautiful and painful things i've ever read, ever held in my hands. ever. like a baby almost. like a secret. it smothers and then it softens. the words fly out and stick in you. i tucked a little letter pressed print of a mother holding her infant child into the flap of the front cover. a mother whose face is turned away. her features hidden... and just like in this story, her features aren't the point. they aren't important. her motherhood is what is important. her desire to protect her child, to have her child kept safe... a child that is gone... to watch her daughter learn to dance and maybe paint, maybe write, commit poems to memory, to wear a blue dress with shining black buttons, to butterfly through youth and smile. smile.

it is a tall order when confronted with the past. this past. camps and electrified fences and boiling water and all the horrors devised to save on bullets. and rape.

but we have to listen. we have to remember. we have to at least try to understand. try to see what went on there. try to give rise to a new language that can actually hold these stories... find a new line that is finally strong enough to draw out the map of these grim and gross and horrible things. mussel manner. that's what's left if we don't find the right words. if we ignore the ache to find them. mussel manner. the dead walking around on the sticks of human legs. mussel manner. and all that's required of us, the ones who weren't there and who don't know, is to listen. just listen. not with pity. pity doesn't cut it.

and neither does sympathy.

it has to be deeper than that. sympathy, in the face of this, is laughable. it's a shame. there's no way to do it. you must let your heart break, wide open, be filled with black birds, and prove that you're human. give them honor. sacrifice your happy life, even just for the few hours it takes to read this work, to listen. just listen. listening is where hope grows. it's what we can do to become better than what we are.

make your life deeper.
buy this book.