Sideways Minds

Messy Workspace and a bit of Found Art

2007-04-11T11:17:00.000-07:00

So, lately I've been using my big ol' bed as a workspace - with this fabulous cutting board as a bit of a desk-like apparatus ... so my room is an absolute mess but I'm enjoying playing with this fusion of word and image ...

And this is an assemblage I was working on, which has since been deconstructed by my 4 year old ... oh well, I've always said deconstruction was good ...

Grants & Hermitage

2007-02-12T12:16:00.000-08:00

I know I have been a recluse recently: shutting off my email, not answering my phone, missing all your shows, but, as many of you know, I've been working on a grant application. So, to share a bit with you and break out of my reclusive pattern, I am posting a couple of the responses here.

One essay asked for a response about what your writing means to you, and another was a personal response to a quote from Virginia Woolf's, A Room of Her Own, which the award is based on. If I get the grant it would allow me time to write my book and offer some validation.

As many of you know, I am in the middle of a divorce and my "late night poetry events" and "out of town protests" are being used as examples of my cruel and intolerable treatment of my former partner and of my neglect of my children. So, this kind of validation (both in being chosen and in being funded) would be amazing.

I like to think that when one door closes another opens (to be cliche about it) or that the universe is always offering us gifts and we just need to be open to them, from the smallest to the largest things in life, everything is a gift: our very existence is a gift. But as (who was it that said this? Alexander Graham Bell? I think) said, about the door thing "we often look so long upon the door that has closed behind us that we don't see the doors that have opened in front of us," or something to that point.

I am grateful for everyone and everything in my life and I am trying to be open to all the universe has to offer me. This seems like it would be such an easy thing to do, but I have found it is actually quite hard. We have so many defenses and issues and complications that staying open to possibility is a conscious struggle. But it is worth it, after all.

I think it was Abe Lincoln who said, "I don't want to get to the end of my life and only have lived the length of it, I want to have lived the depth and breadth as well." Yeah ... me too.

Essay: What does my writing mean to me?

2007-02-12T12:14:00.000-08:00

i just write about
what i should have done
i just sing what i wish i could say
and hope somewhere some woman hears my music
and it helps her through her day
ani difranco

I have always written. Even before I believed I had anything worthwhile to say, I wrote. And I read; pulled myself through childhood on one word or another; mine or someone else’s, whatever filled the need. Initially, I wrote thinly veiled, abstracted poetry, which felt safe because it was so open to interpretation. I found in it a way for me to say what I needed to say without giving myself away, without telling any of the secrets I knew I was supposed to keep. A way to rid myself of the toxicity of experiencing reality in a world where illusion was taken to be fact, of being taught to tell the truth in a world based on lies, no one was allowed to question, and seeing the consequences involved for those who did.

Back then, I wrote for myself. And if someone else got something from it, if it meant something to them, then all the better. But I was my focus. It was all about finding ways to work things out, to get all these images, all these ideas, all these emotions and juxtapositions and paradoxes out of my mind and onto the page, where I could sort them out, where I could isolate inconsistencies, where I could pinpoint inaccuracies, where I could search for truth among the chaos. When I understood my reality was based on a series of agreements, with myself and with others, and not on anything absolute and unchanging, I became addicted to truth. At that point I didn’t recognize the possibility of truths and spent my time searching, instead, for The Truth. I found myself unable to write.

As artists, as people, we are constantly changing perspectives, making new realizations, finding new fixations. We alter our realities when alter our level of acceptance, when we let go of beliefs that limits us, that are not true for us, that are not for us. Along the way, all we can ever do is tell our own truth, how we perceive things based on our own collection of recollections, obsessions and perspectives. That is what I committed myself to: to creating, to recognizing, to sharing truth. I no longer believe truth exists as an absolute, but I do believe that there are truths to be found, to be acknowledged, to be accepted.

Toni Morrison found a way to recognize a life that was lived but not valued, a voice that was raised but not heard, a story that was made but not told. She found a way to reconstruct history in her fictionalization of the life of Margaret Garner. Took a life, depicted so crudely in history, simplified and damned by the majority, dehumanized and objectified by slavery, by an acceptance of a reality in which human beings were deemed property, and allowing us to experience the complexities of her situation, her motivation, her subjugation, and she made it into a story, into an experience, into a truth, we could internalize and feel, rather than just memorize but not recognize. This allowed me to see how using a story can have more of an effect than all the proselytizing, lecturing, protesting, boycotting, and ranting I could ever do. We open ourselves up to stories, to the characters in those stories.

It gives us a window into another life, another frame of reference, another reality. It allows us to see what goes on behind the masks we all have in place in our everyday existence, which serve to divide us even as they protect us. It takes beyond the framework of truth or lie, of us or them, of fact or fiction, and into the realm of experience, of emotion, of intention.

Part of what drives me is this disparity between our actual realities and the illusion collectively agreed upon as reality. We are collections of conversations, recollections, expectations, agreements and fears. We have learned to distinguish fantasy from reality through repetition, reinforcement, and validation of what others believe and the subjugation, mockery, and dismissal of what they do not. We make agreements with ourselves, with others, about what truth is, about what reality is, about what fact is. We can choose to disagree with the collective beliefs, but we must live in this world regardless of what we decide, and it is difficult to remain vigilant to a truth when there is so much based on its fictionalization.

Allowing ourselves to remain consciously aware that we exist in an illusion others take to be fact, to recognize the willful ignorance employed, both individually and as a whole, has never been easy. Perhaps, this is where many artists are born … on the periphery, living in two worlds, aware of the possibility of more than one truth, one reality. Needing to find some way to communicate this understanding, this idea, this burden, to others in some form. Needing to find connections, to find commonalities, to find truths, in a world that defines everything in absolutes.

We are creatures initially defined by our experience, by our environment, by our access to opportunity. We exist, physically and socially, within the narrow framework of our lives; constructed by such a random variety beliefs and assumptions and conclusions, both conscious and subconscious, that it is difficult to understand ourselves, much less another. Stories give us pieces of the puzzle we are continually missing on our lives. Gives us access to the minds of others, what they do behind closed doors, what has happened to lead them up to this moment, what is left unspoken, left unsaid. In our culture of silence, we turn to fiction as a way to play connect the dots, as a way to connect, as a way to re-connect with something essential within ourselves and to see it reflected in others, see it reflected in the “other.”

I am writing my way through my life. I am finding ways to make the personal universal, to make the truth subjective, to make reality authentic. I went from veiled, abstract, imagistic poems that left me feeling safe but uninspired, to blunt, brutal non-fiction pieces that left me feeling cathartic but unsatisfied, to a blend of fiction and fact that has bridged a gap between the two. In my attempt to deal with life honestly, to find my own truths, to trust my own judgment, to understand reality, I have found fiction often tells the truth much more effectively. The thing that brings us back, keeps us reading and re-reading, keeps our focus fixated on books and films and television shows, is our ability to see much more of the whole than we ever can in our lives.

I am inspired by everything around me, by small moments throughout the day that strike me, leave me reeling, leave me feeling like something monumental has occurred, like something inside me has shifted, and it has. A thousand times a day, my perception shifts and I find new ways to see the world around me. Every tiny occurrence, every word spoken with the range of my ears, every movement captured by my vision, has something to say. And I feel I have to find a way to capture it and share it, to recognize and remember it, to acknowledge and honor it. Writing is like breathing, in so many ways I can’t explain. It is necessary to me; I will always write. It’s how I find my focus, how I decide what is real, how I establish priority and importance and intent. Even if I never published anything, shared anything, read anything, I would still write.

But part of the magic of creation is communication, the dialogue we create both between works of art and in response to them. Writing well is finding a way to take this language, created to describe objects and communicate actions and find a way to describe emotions and communicate thoughts. It is a way to remember our shared history, a way to recognize discrepancies, a way to respect our own perceptions. It is a way to acknowledge our responsibilities to ourselves, to each other, to the truth as we see it. A way to allow others in, allow them access to possibilities, to realities, to beliefs other then their own.

It is a way to give back to the world, to the writers of the words I wrapped around my own fragile frame, to the readers searching for something they can’t even define, hoping to find it buried somewhere, in between the lines, hiding behind the subtext or out in plain sight. It is a way to contribute, to participate, to communicate, to relate; a way to play connect the dots with our thoughts, with our experiences, with our personal perspectives based on all the various aspects of this life we’ve been living, on all the connections we have made. My writing is a way, both into, and out of myself. Both the act of reading and the act of writing create bridges, create connections to others, through acknowledging our reflection in their stories, in their actions, in their intentions, and to ourselves, through recognizing our own responses and allowing ourselves to question our motivations, our beliefs, our truths.

“Poetry ought to have a mother as well as a father.”

2007-02-12T12:11:00.000-08:00

My own mother was a writer, though you’d never know it by looking at her life. She never published anything, never collected her works, never entered any competitions or received any degrees. But even now, almost a decade after her death, her writing exists. Mostly tucked away in people’s memory boxes, or wherever they keep things that mean something to them: drawers, boxes, trunks, books. With my mother it was in books, encyclopedias to be exact, in the volume that corresponded the first letter of the person’s first name. Her main form of writing was letters; she was always writing people letters and sending cards with notes inside.

Often, she wrote poems for people on special occasions. I have several such poems in my own memory box: from my sixteenth birthday, high school graduation, the birth of my daughter. Over the years, many people have told me how she helped them through difficult times in their lives, how she always knew just what to say to make you feel better about your life, about yourself, how she had sent them a letter or poem or card that changed something for them, allowed them to see things differently, gave them the hope they needed to keep going. And I like that about her.

Her poems were never something I would write. They were full of her faith in her God, her belief in the essential goodness of people, her advice on dealing with grief. Conversely, she never would have written the things I write. She used to always ask me, why I couldn’t write about happy things once in a while. I used to tell her happiness was an illusion and I wasn’t buying. The way I saw it, she used happiness as a mask: buried reality in mass graves behind her eyes, put on a smile, and called it a life. There was truth to this. Many terrible things happened in our youth, continued to happen, even after she knew, because she couldn’t or wouldn’t accept that they were true.

If a story were written about her life, one that took everything into account, it would be difficult for the reader to decide if she was a good mother. It is difficult for her own children to decide. In a family of eleven, each with our own experiences, our own individual and shared histories, our own memories, there are those who feel she did no wrong, those who feel she did everything wrong, and those who feel she did the best she could. I find myself in that last category. I recognize how she was defined by her generation, confined by expectations of what it was to be a wife, a mother, a woman, limited both by her beliefs and by her fears. I can understand her inclination to remain silent, to deny a reality she felt powerless change, to repress the truth of what was happening to her children, and to invest in a belief that removed responsibility from her shoulders and placed it in God’s hands.

But I also recognize the repercussions of her choices. I also still suffer the consequences of having had a mother who lived in denial, in willful ignorance of the reality of our lives. It is lovely that she touched so many lives within her community, that so many have fond memories of her, but it is unbearably sad that she dedicated her entire life to being a wife and a mother and in the end understood that she had failed. Failed to protect her children when they needed her protection, failed to take action when they action needed to be taken, failed to believe them when they needed to be believed.

I often wonder what would have been different if she had been encouraged to pursue her own interests, if she had found a way to consider realities outside her own experience, if she had received validation for something other than her role as wife and mother. Often wonder what it would have been like to grow up with a mother who believed in herself, who understood her own worth, who was secure enough to take action. I think it would have made all the difference: to her, to us.

It is not my mother’s generation. Many doors have been opened, or at least defined as doors, which were nothing more than brick walls in her time. There is much to be grateful for, many achievements to recognize, many women and men who have come before us, who have worked to gain ground, to create possibilities. It is up to us, it is our responsibility, our obligation, our way of validating their work, of recognizing their sacrifice, of honoring their lives, to continue. We make stepping-stones with our lives; allow future generations to find ways to cross rivers which once seemed impassible, to remove obstacles which once seemed immovable, to live lives which once seemed improbable. The way we do this is by making choices, taking action in our lives that create stepping-stones for ourselves.

I have done many things in my life I was once sure I could not do, changed many things I was once sure I could not change, forgiven many people I was once sure I could not forgive. At points, I have limited myself in many ways. I allowed my difficulties in school, my learning disability, my lack of access to money, and my belief that I was stupid to keep me from even considering going to college. I only went because my mother asked me to, asked me to try, at least, before she died. Despite fears that they wouldn’t let me in, that even if they did I wouldn’t be able to afford it, that even if I could, I was too stupid to learn anything, I got in, I got grants, and I did amazingly well. If you had told me ten years ago, however, that I would graduate summa cum laude, with honors, from college, I would have thought you were on crack. That is, I would have been incapable of believing that could ever be true.

I limited myself by accepting the message that being a fat girl meant no man would ever love you. That a women’s value, a woman’s worth, was in direct correlation to her attractiveness to the opposite sex. Latched onto the first man who ever said he loved me and stayed with him for years. Because I was afraid that he was right, that they were right, that no one else would ever love me. Ironically, being with him was what exposed me to a culture in which the traits that had garnered such negative attention, in the white, rural community where I grew up, were suddenly seen as strengths. My sarcasm, my stubbornness, my issues with authority, my propensity for “back talk,” even my weight, was no longer met with negativity. Being with him exposed me to the existence of a whole other reality, made me question beliefs I had accepted as fact. Being with him exposed me a mother unlike any mother I had known: Mama Lena.

Mama Lena was all about action, was all about truth, was all about reckoning. It is her voice I hear, even now, in moments of doubt, in moments of fear. It is her that I see: standing at the stove in her church dress and slippers, telling me, “Ya got it in ya’, girl. Ya got it in ya’.” Even then, when I didn’t really understand what “it” was, I believed her. She made you feel like everything she said was nothing, if not truth. She didn’t care what anybody thought of her and didn’t hesitate to stand up for anyone she loved, no matter what the cost. I never saw her write a word, never saw her read a word, but the way she lived her life, the way she spoke and what she chose to say, was poetry to me. Lifted away veils of confusion and denial and belief. Woke me up to the reality of life, to what was happening before my eyes that I had failed to see because I had chosen to be blind. Healed something in me.

There are not enough mothers in poetry, in fiction, in reality, who are the writers of their own lives. We all need mother who believe in us, who believe in themselves, who are courageous enough to take action, to deal with reality, to seek out the truth: no matter how terrible it may be; no matter what demands it makes of us, once it is known; no matter what action we may have to take by accepting it. We need to see mothers, we need to value mothers, we need to be mothers who accept responsibility for their own actions, for their choices, for their lives. It is good, essential even, that so many women are writing stories of their survival, are writing stories of their experiences with being victimized by people in their lives, by societal expectations, by institutionalized sexism, by our devaluing, objectifying culture, are refusing to be silenced by fears and taboos.

It has been a source of validation and unification for all women, especially for women who felt they were alone in their reality, who had been convinced that they were the only ones. It has been a stepping-stone, without which we would be unable to cross. But we are ready to move on, to take the next step, to fill our pages and our lives with strong, honest, complex women: women who write their own stories; women who are object of their own lives, not the subject of someone else’s; women who are, first and foremost, human beings, whatever roles they may play. We all need these women: in our lives, in our literature, in our shared history. And the only way to fill that need is to create them, to encourage them, to validate them, and, perhaps, most essentially, to be them.

Slide Show

2007-01-08T05:40:00.001-08:00

Virtual Tour

2006-12-18T14:52:00.000-08:00

Here's a pic of my my Art Show at Blue Dahlia Coffee in Canandaigua.

The paintings are new (well, one of them is a do-over which was augmented from a previous painting) and the other is new.

The red & black & white one is called Ready to Take Flight and was the one augmented from an abstract portrait I did of my (soon-to-be-ex) husband; which basically looked like a big red & black vortex ... All the hopeful, added, bird-like looking part is new ...

This is what it originally looked like:

The other one, the woman in the lotus-like-looking flame with the VanGoghish-looking sky, is called From Assent to Ascension.

The other new pieces are Submission, Goddess of Strength, & Armor ... well Submission is new, Goddess of Strength is an older drawing I stumbled upon in one of my sketchbooks I just found, and Armor is a piece I drew during World Poetry Days at Saint John Fisher and recently altered.

Submission

Goddess of Strength

Armor

The photos included in the show are 4 altered photographs from the Native American Dance & Music Festival, featured in my first art show and Haz Mat Literary Review, and 4 unaltered photos: 2 of which were included in the Pathways & Doors Exhibit I was part of for the Rochester Ink Festival.

The altered photos from the Dance & Music Festival are titled: Wind Song, Shadow Dancing, Stolen Lands, and Edges of Invisisibility.

The unaltered photos from Pathways and Doors are titled Concrete Meditations (which appeared in Pathways and Doors as Ayden) and Post & Barn.

The two other unaltered photos are photos I took of rocks (which I do quite often since rocks are one of my odd obsessions).

One - Zen Rock - is a large rock with long grass plastered across it which reminded me of a yin-yang. The other are two rocks embedded in a drive in Naples, which reminded me of a mother & child, and is therefore titled Mother & Child.

(The concept of Mother & Child is another one of those obsessions I have which repeats itself in my work quite frequently.)

The final piece is an oil pastel drawing of a mother & child I drew for my sister-in-law for mother's day while she was pregnant. It reads: Hold Close with Open Arms.

So, for those of you who could not make it ... here is your virtual tour ... All that's missing is the bio & the cup of coffee ... The bio I can add, the cup of coffee ... well ... meet me at Blue Dahlia some week and I'll tell you which is my favorite!

That Rusty Orange Kinda Lovin'

2006-07-22T20:50:00.000-07:00

Profiles

2006-07-22T20:46:00.000-07:00

Sista' Serendipity

2006-07-22T20:42:00.000-07:00

Pregnant Pause

2006-07-22T20:41:00.000-07:00

Sharpie Warrior Woman

2006-07-22T20:39:00.000-07:00

Cubist Ani

2006-07-22T20:38:00.000-07:00

Armor

2006-07-22T20:37:00.000-07:00

Submit

2006-07-22T20:35:00.000-07:00

Tricksta'

2006-07-22T20:34:00.000-07:00

Giving in

2006-07-22T20:28:00.000-07:00

Fitting In

2006-07-22T18:36:00.000-07:00

Variations on the Self

2006-06-23T23:33:00.000-07:00

In response to the question: What do you believe?

2006-06-23T22:25:00.000-07:00

I believe everything happens for a reason. I believe in synchronicity and serendipity as major forces in all our lives. I believe I have a purpose: multiple purposes and that the universe requires my existence exactly as I am. That even the aspects of myself I don’t like are there for a reason. That whoever and however I am at this moment is precisely who and how I am supposed to be at this moment. And while I maintain a belief in free will, I also recognize how my free will is constantly influenced by whatever the universe throws my way: by coincidences and synchronicity and serendipity, by circumstances and opportunities and obstacles, by people and information and ideas coming into or going out of my life.

There is the constant debate over free will versus determinism, yet I believe in both. I believe the universe (god, your higher power, fate, destiny, call it what you will) presents you with coincidences, with opportunities, with obstacles all as a means to an end: as teachers, as guides, as breathes of fresh air to help to define your perspective, alter your perception, clarify your purpose, delineate your dream and you possess the free will to acknowledge or ignore these messages, to learn from or repeat these events, to define your perspective or remain willfully ignorant, to alter your perception or to re-affirm beliefs that may or may not be blocking you from realizing your purpose, from being your authentic self, from existing in a state of saturated bliss. And the reason that things seem so predestined is because the universe is persistent and will continually showering you with blessings in whatever form they may take: will continue giving you what you need until you realize it’s what you need.

May every moment be your greatest treasure, every opportunity your greatest adventure, and every obstacle your greatest teacher.

Epiphany on Anality

2006-05-01T14:45:00.000-07:00

I spent a whole year being on time
and all I ever ended up doing
was waiting.

Downsizing: from Utterly Shameless blog

2006-05-01T14:38:00.000-07:00

Utterly Shameless

I have decided to live my life in such a way
that I can honestly feel utterly shameless and unapologetic.

I am so tired of "I'm sorry."
Everyone says it, no one means it.

If they were truly sorry, they wouldn't have done
whatever they did in the first place.

And if they were truly sorry, they wouldn't keep doing
this very same thing over and over.

So, I have decided never to do
anything I would be ashamed to admit to having done,
never to do anything I would feel the need to lie about having done,
never to do anything that keeps me from sleeping peacefully,
and never do anything that causes me to worry (excessively) about what I did.

The trick here, for me, is to distuinguish clearly
between what I personally think is right/wrong, good/bad, etc.
which I would be ashamed of and what society says
I shouldn't do, say, feel, believe, write, etc.

This is the critical distinction.
If I can't do this, none of this will work.

The other thing I must be willing to do is be honest with myself,
not only about my wants, needs, desires, goals, and feelings
but also about my motivations.

I cannot hide from myself the reasons for doing the things I chose to do,
anymore than I can hide from myself their actual manifestation.

I have decided thatI will not be a woman who apologizes for my existence.
I will not be a woman who is ashamed of my own strength.
I will not be a woman who wastes my energy trying to make myself
attractive to others rather than making myself essentail to myself.

I want to be free from shame and guilt again.

I want to never care what my mother-in-law thinks of me again.

I want to go to bed at night and close my eyes with the knowledge
that I have done the best I can in everything I have chosen to do.

I want to be comfortable in my own flesh, in my own mind, in my own being.

I want to be shameless in all that I do and unapologetic for all all that I am.

Who is this?

2006-01-29T21:37:00.000-08:00

I am sitting here writing on a computer that cost me so much I could pay my rent with it twice over. But it seemed like such a good idea at the time. I had my tax money and I didn’t need to use all of it to pay off bills, so I splurged. I got a computer and my husband got a flat screen tv.

For years I didn’t have a computer or a tv, but look at me now, surrounded by technology: fancy computers & 8 color printers, specialized art scanners and an lcd monitor, digital camera and dvd player, Playstation, Sega and Nintentendo 64. . . how did this happen?

When did my life get away from me? My son is fascinated with guns and my husband doesn’t seem to understand that he’s the reason why. He thinks watching Transformers and Star Wars, he thinks playing video games that are toddlerized versions of shoot-em-up cowboys doesn’t have an effect on him: but it does.

I remember thinking that the one thing I really liked about being a single parent was that I didn’t have to get someone else to agree with me on how to raise my kid. I’m missing that now. Sure, there are lots of drawbacks to being a single parent but the advantages are often downplayed in sentimental fury about the nuclear family.

There’s none of this mommy said no I’ll go ask daddy. There’s none of this mommy said no and daddy said yes so now the adults are arguing once again about what’s important in child-rearing and what are we trying to teach them here anyway.

And it’s not as simple as mating with someone who shares the same ideals as you. That’s all abstract. It’s the everyday concreteness of living that really plays a part in shaping your children’s psyches. I thought I had married someone who shared my ideals, but it turns out he’s just a yes-man who agrees with everything but doesn’t believe half of what he says.

For the most part, this is just frustrating, but when it comes to the kids it is a serious problem. I take being a parent very seriously. I feel very honored to have been allowed two such fabulous individuals to raise and I feel like it’s my job, from the moment they are born to help them learn about themselves and about the world they live in.

I believe we are meant to help our children become strong, healthy, independent people. And I believe that it takes the whole eighteen years (and more) to do this. Although my husband agreed with my philosophy, I’ve found he’s a little more stuck on the obedience factor than he would like to admit.

I’m not into having my kids be terrors but I do believe in letting them be human. And like every other human they have good and bad days, foul moods, hyper moments, cross words, screw-ups, attitudes, tempers, and feelings. But he’s very stuck on his parent’s version of children as little adults, who should be expected to act properly at all times, never talk back, and always obey.

I look around sometimes and think, where did this guy come from? I didn’t actually marry this man, did I? And the truth is, I did and I didn’t. The truth is he didn’t know who he was when we got married and now he’s trying to figure that out. Now he’s trying to deal with his past and his present and figure out his future because most of what he’s done up until now has been an echo of someone else.

And I am waiting to see who this is. This person he’s finding, this one he’s developing or discovering or uncovering. And I am wondering if this person will be a person I can love.

Missing It

2006-01-29T21:19:00.000-08:00

Something’s missing in my life, what is it? I know there’s money missing and that causes a lot of stress but it’s not about money, money is two-dimensional flat and pathetic. Having money in my life might make it easier but not necessarily more fulfilling.

Is it opportunity? The opportunity to do the things I know I want to do, the things I need to do? Is it energy to keep on trying even though it seems that everything is working against me sometimes. Maybe it is just a new perspective, unclouded by all of this negative thinking.

Maybe it is the belief that I will get a job so we won’t be completely broke anymore, that I will get the opportunities I desire. Maybe it is the belief in myself, in the universe. If I actually believed in myself, like I say I do, why haven’t I sent out the book proposal I wrote anywhere? Why haven’t I tried to get any of the books I have written published?

I need to believe. Believe I am worthy. Believe I am ready. Believe I am unafraid. And the worst thing is, I’m not only afraid of failure, I am equally afraid of success . . . and commitment and trusting or loving or believing in anyone.

I can’t invest in other people anymore, not really. It just ends up hurting too much when I allow myself to depend on others. I need a friend I can call in my darkest hour who will respond. I have been that person to so many, yet I am unable to find that person in my own life.

And maybe I expect too much of people, like I’ve often been told. But how is it expecting too much when I don’t expect more than what I would do for them? But I am getting off the point. Maybe it is this loneliness, this very absence, which allows me to be who I am. And I like who I am.

Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow that talent to the dark place where it leads. Erica Jong

Passion is much more significant than talent. Maybe that’s what is missing: passion. Not with my writing. I am passionate about what I do, artistically at least, but passion in my interior life doesn’t seem to reflect into my external life. I am missing the passion in people, in relationships, in interaction. I am not present for my life as it is happening, right now.

I am always working on something, working toward something. I am not just being, just enjoying life as it is. But how do I get that back without losing the intensity of my writing, my art, my work? How do I balance the two? I must find a balance.

I need to write an article on passion as defined this way. Not the steamy romance passion, but the wholehearted immersion in whatever you’re doing: the juiciness of life.

Upon Julias Breast

2006-01-29T20:42:00.000-08:00

Upon Julia’s Breast

His eyes did rest upon Julia’s breast
as she spoke or questioned or sighed,
until she shaved her head one day
to spite his wandering eye;
now when she speaks or quests or sighs
his eyes rest on her barren brow,
on the memory of her hairline
and the fate that awaits him now.

Subjective Genocide

2006-01-29T20:34:00.000-08:00

Subjective Genocide

Why is it
you can walk into any open Wal Mart
and buy your children
buckets of Cowboys & Indians
to play with

when you could never – would never
even if you could – buy them
buckets of Jews & Nazis, of Serbs
& Croatians, of Tutsi & Hutu

Marie Starr (2005)

Sideways Mind

2006-01-26T10:45:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine coined this term one night as we sat in her kitchen drinking frighteningly strong margaritas and talking trash till 5 am and I immediately recognized myself in it. She was talking about the sideways stilted mind. You know the one: that mind we just can't understand no matter how hard we try, the one that continually eludes us as we try to comprehend why other people do the things they do, the one that slips away every time we try to grasp it.

Now, I don't know for sure of I recognize myself in the sideways stilted mind, though I am sure many who have tried to figure out why I do the things I do would recognize me, but I do recognize myself in the sideways mind. The one that just doesn't go about things the way others think it should. The one that can figure out the answer to the math problem but can't show the work. The one that reaches it's goals through a hundred thousand mini-steps rather than an orderly progression. The one that gets distracted for hours by the way a subtle slant of light changes the look of the rocks on the living room table.

Never having been a linear thinker, I have found ways to work with my mind instead of against it. I have convinced myself that it is okay to start in the middle, or even at the end, and work my way back or around or through the problem. It is even okay to skip steps I was taught were essential, that sometimes I just don't need them. I have finally convinced myself that there is no right way to do things. While this took up several years of my adult life, I have found since then that I enjoy my sideways mind. In fact, I don't know what I'd do without it.

The very fact that my mind works the way it does is what makes me who I am. I wouldn't see the things I do if I were a straightforward thinker. My mind would be on getting to my destination rather than on stopping to take pictures of this amazing rock along the side of the road: the one with wild grasses growing alongside it, which has been blown down by the wind and now seem to form the grass and rock into nature's rendition of the ying-yang: browngreen grass as one half/grayblack rock the other. I wouldn't become so absorbed in my writing or drawing that time became irrelevant, that sleep became secondary.

I have learned to appreciate my sideways mind. And while it is true that there are many people in my life who just cannot fathom why I do the things I do, it's also true that I don't get them either. I guess without personal dictionaries which we can carry with us detailing all our hang ups and defining all our abstractions, we will have to keep communicating with each other as best we can: the sideways and the stilted mind, the orderly and structured, the erratic and sublime. And that's half the fun of it (and half the horror).