late night ramblings

My dad was a writer. Not in the traditional sense. I mean, he never published a book, never had a movie made, never came up with an amazing script for the theater. No, his writings were more about his reactions to the world he lived in. They were published, but usually by the local weekly paper that came out in our small town of 3,000 people in the northwest corner of CT. And, generally, you would only find them in the letters to the editor section.

When I was growing up, we had a set of stairs that led from the kitchen to the hallway right outside my room. A typical night for me would be to fall asleep to the smell of cigarette smoke, the sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass and the tap of typewriter keys as my father collected his inebriated but highly intelligent thoughts into some kind of coherent response to any perceived attack on reason and intelligence in the community. The subjects could be anything from local politics to the Viet Nam war to local art scene…you name it, if he felt that someone was wrong, he would try to correct them.

Dad was a guy who could do the Times crossword puzzle in ink. He loved word games…especially Scrabble. In fact, it wasn’t until he was in his late eighties that I consented to play Scrabble with him, it wasn’t until then that I was mostly able to keep up with him. Words were his life. He reveled in stringing words together to create a meaning that was hidden to most. Ironically, he never graduated from college. This did not stop him from finding wonderfully creative ways of writing scathing responses to the world.

As I sit here with a glass of wine in front of my computer, I am reminded of those nights when my sense of security meant knowing he was at the bottom of the stairs, thinking and typing. I miss his presence, the knowledge that he was going to make things right with the world. That he had a voice and wasn’t afraid to use it. His presence was always larger than life, his printed word seemed larger.

These days I wonder what that voice would be saying about our world. I wonder what words he would carefully choose to describe the insanity of the world we live in right now. How many pauses in his typing would happen while he would take a drink and  deliberate on the exact right word that would so subtly and yet so blatantly show his disregard for everything that is going on in Washington. We live in a time that lacks the creative use of words. There is no time to consult a thesaurus when tweeting. There is no time to read a more than 140 characters, to really delve into a subject. We are a nation of plain speakers, where WTF and OMG and ROFL have become the new way of speaking.

Don’t get me wrong, there are times that plain speaking is necessary. But I miss the wordsmith days, the days when you had to use your brain to decipher all the different meanings, innuendos and ideas that a sentence could contain. Because that requires critical thinking and reasoning, something that is sorely lacking these days.

My dad is still alive. He will be 96 in August. Before you say “Wonderful”, please remember this: he has lost most of his words. Dementia has stolen a good portion of his ability to construct a coherent sentence. Conversations are now a struggle, not only in terms of words but in terms of attention and focus. But when he is at loss for just the right word, his brain still can pull out a treasure that makes me smile. And he still can play a pretty mean game of Scrabble. Just don’t let him keep score.

Dad and my brother Tom on dad’s 95th birthday

 

quandary

The current political issues (dare I say crisis?) has put me in a quandary. I am not a naturally rebellious person. I don’t go looking for a cause to fight and I don’t often feel that my views are the only correct ones. I shun proselytizing and I usually honor all sides of an argument. Very rarely would I ever tell someone that they are wrong if they don’t feel or think the way I do. I am not one to join a group. And I am definitely one for keeping my opinions close to the vest…both political ones and religious ones. My goal is to not be judged by my beliefs and not to judge others for theirs.

However.

This is all being put to the test with the rise of the latest president.

Lately my days and nights have been spent having debates in my head, trying to see all sides of the issue and, quite frankly, I am exhausted. It’s time to stand my ground as to how I feel and, if necessary, fight for my beliefs. Believe me, I don’t want to do this. It is easier to agree with everyone around me, even if they don’t agree with each other. But enough is enough.

Here’s what I believe.

The president has an undiagnosed Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I’ve known it for a long time but it really blew me away when Trump needed to find a way to say that the numbers attending his inauguration were not only greater than Obama’s but the greatest EVER. How insecure do you have to be to become president and still want to have the MOST people at your inauguration. To the point where he asked for different pictures that show more people. It is this personality disorder that is causing him to declare voter fraud, even though he has already won the election and is actually president. In a way, I feel sorry for him (if I separate the man from the whole situation)…it must be pure hell to have such low self-esteem and high insecurity. No matter what he does or how many people love him, deep down he will NEVER feel like he is good enough.

That being said…it is not my job to fix him. Or to love him. Or to love anything he does. Because everything he does is not based on any political or moral ideals. They are simply based on his need for power and acceptance. Being president isn’t enough, he needs to stop the press from saying bad things about him and the park service from showing bad pictures and…

(I found the following post very helpful when writing this. https://medium.com/@nziehl/coping-with-chaos-in-the-white-house-697fa2ca3ddf#.jx4tq56du)

As for the people who voted for him and continue to support him…well, I really have no idea why. They have their reasons I am sure. I often think about what it would be like if he were the way he is but pushing a liberal agenda. Would I be more inclined to excuse his behavior and his narcissism? I don’t know. Perhaps. But the fact is, he isn’t. He is pushing an agenda that is so polar opposite to everything I believe in that I can’t separate the disorder from the agenda.

My mother-in-law once called me a bleeding heart liberal. She did not consider it a compliment. I thought it was. I believe in treating people with respect, no matter their religion, sexual preference, monetary situation, political ideals, etc. I believe that the government (or someone’s religion) has absolutely no right to tell me what I can and can’t do with my body. I believe that all women should have access to free reproductive care. (Although the notion of free is worth another blog post). I believe that no man has the right to touch my body unless I say it is okay. I believe that “community” is defined not only as local or state but as federal. I believe that this country is an ever-evolving entity and that it is against the ideals of the founders to block entry to newcomers based on fear and paranoia. I believe that walls are ridiculous, that nature abhors them and that the only thing they are good at is to show how paranoid someone is. I believe that the earth is in crisis and humans are the main reason for it. I believe that religious freedom is the essence of our country. It means no one will be persecuted for their beliefs. I believe that freedom of speech is under attack and even though I don’t always agree with what everyone has to say, they have the right to say it.

All of this is currently being challenged by one person. And I am pissed. And feeling a little helpless. But I know I am not alone.

Okay, now it is time to finish up. How this all fits in with being an artist is another issue that has been running around in my head…but that will be for another post.

When my head starts swimming too much with thoughts and debates and challenges, I go to my regular stress reliever…the iPhone and a cat…when in doubt, find a pile of sweaters and take a nap.

bottom

I just finished a piece that has been percolating for a while. When I finally began to make it, it appeared in three days. I love projects that take such little manufacturing but mean so much to me personally.

The impetus for this piece was seeing pictures of war torn cities and villages around the world. It doesn’t really matter what century, what country or what religion you choose, the destruction looks remarkably similar.Mankind can build some awesome stuff and then in moments, it can be transformed into a pile of rubble and lost lives.

I am also intrigued by the similar destruction caused by natural disasters. Earthquakes, tsunamis, tornadoes…the instantaneous metamorphosis is mind-blowing. A town that I used to live near and work in recently suffered a flash flood of biblical proportions. Watching the videos of the flood by people trapped on upper floors of the town stunned me into stillness, punctuated by an intermittent Oh. My. God. and Holy S*%t. I then was swamped with sadness for the owners, renters and families that were immediately homeless for an unknown amount of time.

Along with all of these thoughts (and forgive me if this seems like a downer of a post) were the empathic thoughts of knowing what it feels like to have the bottom drop out of your life. To wake up and go to school and by the time you get home, your mother is in the hospital in a coma after having suffered a severe stroke. Or to answer the phone to hear that your best friend died in a bicycle accident. Or to go through a life-changing bout with mental illness. Life has this way of literally crumbling so fast that your head is still spinning days and months later.

So when I began to play with handmade paper, rust and the forming of three-dimensional shapes, the following piece appeared. I call it “When the Bottom Dropped Out”. It is about my feelings of shock and helplessness when either personal or community/world events have changed my life in an instant. The size of it is somewhat misleading in these pictures, the “buildings” are only two to three inches high and the whole thing is 25″ wide. It was made from steel, handmade paper, pages from an art history book, rust and Japanese ink.

on being successful

I have always been attracted to fairytales, magic and metaphor. I relate much better to Jung than Freud, Joseph Campbell is my hero and I prefer to see myself as a greek goddess than a child of one God. I am trying to get over being a product of the 80’s and 90’s psychological mantra that says that the subconscious (and by extension and relation, the conscious) drives all the bad things that happen to you. Self sabotage, unconscious desires of failure and sickness ruled my view on life, even when I was given proof that it was a false supposition. I used it daily to castigate myself, to remind myself that even if I consciously thought I could succeed, there was a part of me that would take care of that and lead me to failure or worse. If something went wrong, I could say that I had subconsciously willed it. In a way it meant I didn’t have to take responsibility for my actions. In a weird way it meant that all negative stuff happened to me because deep down I wanted it to.

I am slowly letting go of this philosophy. I now work harder on my conscious thoughts, my conscious actions and conscious relationships with people. Ironically, this requires much more introspection and identification than I am used to. In order to succeed it is imperative to know what your limitations are and to ask for help when you need it. Not so easy for the stoic person who was taught (by my amazing mother) that showing your vulnerabilities and your weaknesses opens you up to a plethora of possible negative encounters. Hide it, take care of it yourself and you will become stronger. Make it look like you know what you are doing, don’t ask questions, learn by observing…those were my mantras. You can probably see how this led to a series of failures on my part, not to mention huge anxieties and panic attacks when I thought someone would see through my veneer. Now I can see that these thoughts, and not my subconscious, were responsible for my lack of success.

One thing I have learned from this personal transformation is that magic doesn’t work by itself. Magic works with a degree of collusion from the audience. You can only make someone believe you are better, talented, successful if they want to believe it. It is easy to create the smoke and mirrors that can make something look amazing. Ask anyone in theater about that. All you need is the set, the costumes and the lighting to transform a person into a character in a story. But if the audience member is not willing to go along with the magic, they will understand that the set is one sided, the costumes are put together with tape and stitches and the lighting is ephemeral. I grew up in the theater and was trained in how to put on the face of a happy, successful person. But I always knew better.

Now, funnily enough, I can say I am successful. I am able define my abilities, limitations and goals in a different light. I can say that, while my definition of success is much different than the traditional American one, I am successful. I am mastering the ability to create form, emotion and story using steel, fibers and (sometimes) polymer clay. I have found a way to share my talents and my stories with my community in a way that brings me pleasure. Of course I still have my mother’s voice in my head saying “tooting your own horn is vulgar” to which I would respond (if she were still here) “Tooting my own horn is a part of claiming myself as a person, a woman and an artist.”

So here I am, a middle aged woman who is finally coming into her own. It’s been painfully hard work sometimes but surprising, exhilarating and rewarding in the end. I think how different my life could have been if I had known how to stand up for myself, how to admit my lack of knowledge and how to ask for help when I was younger. But those years are over and I am grateful that I am learning these things now. I still have a ways to go, old lessons die a difficult death, but I am still young, I have time to perfect myself.

Besides, I just helped my dad celebrate his 95th birthday. That gives me 40 more years to figure out how the hell to play this game of life. And if this selfie is right, the lesson is that it is more important to be excited about chocolate cake that got put in front of you than it is to smile at the camera…

random thoughts

I have had thoughts floating through my brain this week. Thoughts on everything from my dad to politics to what is going on in the studio. Here’s a sample.

• My dad turns 95 on the 17th of this month. That is really old. He’s been old ever since I can remember (he was 41 when I was born) but now he’s REALLY old. And he is so excited about his birthday. He is planning a little party for lunch. I will be there with my brother. Some times in the last few years I have grumbled and complained about my dad and having to deal with him. But for this moment, I am grateful that I will have one more fun memory of him.
• Speaking of my dad, (not to totally take away the good feelings of the previous thought) but a certain presidential candidate reminds me of him a bit. My dad would have made a terrible president.
• Speaking of a presidential candidate, it may be true that he has a personality disorder. But mental illness is NOT a reason for not being president. Look at Lincoln. I will leave it up to you to determine what the differences are between them.
• Why do I feel the need to dress up and look my best when I go buy a car today?
• Making paper is fun, messy and time consuming.
• Rust and hand made paper…an interesting combination. The jury is still out as to whether I will continue this interesting idea or put it aside for the moment. Stay tuned.
• Curving a 15 foot 1 1/2″ diameter pipe into a circle requires two people. Thank you husband-o’-mine…
• Previously mentioned pipe is the start of a new piece. If all goes according to plan (and I don’t expect that it will) there will be a very large bowl on the property in the future.
• I am feeling really sad about the devastation of a local town here in Maryland due to a flash flood. I spent seven years working and playing in Historic Ellicott City. It breaks my heart to see how many buildings and lives were ruined in the course of a short amount of time. Disasters like this happen everyday but it is different when you know some of the main players.
• Young, male car salesmen should not tell middle-aged women “You’ll get used to it” when explaining the new safety technology of a car.
• And finally, I think I will not start autumn squashes indoors next year. This year I will be harvesting pumpkins in August. Guess I will have to buy pumpkins at Halloween. Sigh.

different

Part of the world has just celebrated Christmas, and our thoughts turn to the new year. I have always been a bit suspicious of New Years. It seems a time for people to think that a new chapter has started in their lives, one which they have more control over than the last chapter. New Year’s resolutions are made, gym memberships are bought, promises are thrown about right and left to not go through the same pain and struggle as the previous year. There really is nothing wrong in taking a moment to relive your life of the past year and revise how you want to spend your energy and your time here on earth. But time (and by extension, the calendar) is a man-made construct and January first is really just another day in your life.

Yup, you guessed it, I am in a bad mood. I have not felt Merry and I don’t feel like ringing in the New Year with joy and happiness. It seems that this is a time of grief for me, a time of letting go of loved ones, a time of wallowing and struggling and sleeping. My godfather died over Christmas and my dad is definitely crossing the space/time continuum of dementia. I’m in pain and I don’t think a New Year is going to change that.

I could go on and on, but my words seem to be painted with mud and gunk which, from experience, I know is not much fun to read. Instead I will leave you with a few recent and not-so-recent pictures. Sometimes pictures are an easier way for me to express feelings.

Mr. R. pulled out his chef’s coat to help make Christmas dinner.

The chicken tortilla soup served for Boxing Day brunch with family and friends.

Evidence of weather gone haywire…blooming miniature cotoneaster.

More evidence of warm weather…forsythia and Christmas balls

Best friends in happier times. My godfather on the left and my dad on the right.

self portrait…grief.

 

true love

communication is key

This note was written by my parents some time after my mother’s stroke in 1975. She was 49, he was 54 and I was 13. The stroke affected her right side severely, she could walk with a brace and a cane but had no fine motor skills at all. She had to learn how to do everything with her left hand. In addition, the stroke screwed up her language abilities, she had aphasia for the rest of her life. It did get better over time but if she was tired, she had such a difficult time finding the right word to say.

Life changed drastically for our family. My siblings were out of the house and living their own lives, but I was just in the throes of adolescence and all the joys that comes with fluctuating hormones. Dad had to deal with a handicapped wife and a very confused teenage daughter. Mental health was never my father’s strong suit so it must have been hellish for him. Whatever else I could say about my dad, the one thing he did was to take care of mom (and me) after her stroke. He was her rock, although sometimes he had a tendency to roll right over her in his haste to do things his way. But he was there consistently.

My mother was a fiercely independent woman, not wanting any help, not wanting anyone to take away her sense of self. I used to cringe (which I believe was my job as a teenage girl) when she would sharply tell people “No, don’t help, I CAN DO IT MYSELF”. I always felt bad for the other person who had no idea why they had just committed a faux pas.

That is why I was so amazed when I read this note recently. It is one of those little things that survived all the various levels of organizing and moving when we closed up their house and sold it. I guess one day my mother decided to explain to my father exactly why she went crazy when someone offered help. And he, in unusual fashion, responded in this wonderfully sweet way. It is so loving and so, well, communicative.

I always thought that communication between the two of them was never a thing of beauty, so this note comes as a bit of a surprise. And it shows just how much I have to learn about who my parents were, especially when they weren’t busy being “mom” and “dad”. It also shows how much I am learning about communication in my own marriage, and how much easier life is when the other person knows what is going on in your brain. I often tell my husband, “I can’t read your mind but I have an awesome imagination…chances are that whatever I come up with is going to be way worse than the reality…it’s better if you just tell me what’s going on.” And I am working on not being the stoic that my mother was and holding onto pain and anger and confusion.

Marriage is a lifelong job and each year I find more job requirements that I didn’t know were on the list. But I hope that I continue to love my husband as much as my parents loved each other.