Not So Grounded

Why Not?

I've resumed writing a novel.  I started it couple of years ago during a brief romantic debacle during which I figured I'd better find something else to do or I'd make us both permanently crazy.  Somehow it involves mythological goddesses and 40'somthing women on motorcycles, although I haven't yet figured out how.  It's a challenge 'cause I'm a terrible storyteller in that traditional fiction kinda way.  Heck, I don't even read much fiction 'cause all that Plot kind of confuses me.

But I feel compelled to complete something I've always wanted to try.  Interestingly, I'm increasingly surrounded by people with the same growing compulsion, to pick-up threads long-abandoned, circle back to an old desire but this time free from youth's doubt & fear & defiant ego.  I have a newfound sense of "Why not?  What the hell?"  Perhaps it's sensing a dooming apocalypse; I prefer to hope it marks an awakening. 

Five Languages of Love ...?

At a dinner party Saturday night, inbetween laughing at the horrors of raising our teenage daughters (all seated at the next table, certainly not talking about us since we don't really exist unless forking over cash, car keys, and useless advice ...) we talked about Gary Chapman's Five Love Languages. 

Chapman's website is a bit schmaltzy, but I always liked his ideas.  He suggests each of us feels & expresses love differently, 5 primary styles:  Quality Time; Words of Affirmation; Gifts: Acts of Service; or Physical Touch.  Fortunately my daughter, stepson, and nephew are all heavily Quality Timers (especially games of all types) so on the increasingly rare occasion when they're all home at once they're playing monopoly ... Darling Daughter's best friend is also a Quality Timer, but that means good ol fabulous girl talking.  I have a few Gifty friends, several Words of Affirmation types.  Took John & I about a second to agree we're both Physical Touchers.  (I'm thankful we're the same, makes it so efficient -- I know I know terribly unromantic, but ...)

Anyway, a bit goofy, and I actually think there are a heck of a lot more than 5 ways to love, but it's a simple typology that I keep in mind.

I guess I like Ike, too ...

Been stumbling over different odd references to Dwight Eisenhower lately, so doing a little research.  Thought this passage seemed fitting for a Thanksgiving intention.

We pray that peoples of all faiths, all races, all nations, may have their great human needs satisfied; that those now denied opportunity shall come to enjoy it to the full; that all who yearn for freedom may experience its spiritual blessings; that those who have freedom will understand, also, its heavy responsibilities; that all who are insensitive to the needs of others will learn charity; that the scourges of poverty, disease and ignorance will be made to disappear from the earth, and that, in the goodness of time, all peoples will come to live together in a peace guaranteed by the binding force of mutual respect and love.   

Dwight D. Eisenhower,  final Presidential speech, January 17, 1961

Jo Ann Fleischhauer Did It

My cousin Jo is a visual artist.  When I ponder my awe for those who create such beauty, I always start with her. Childhood Easters, while I plopped my carton full of hard-boileds sloppily into the green or blue vat, she painstakingly drew intricate black filigree on her single, delicately blown egg's fragile surface.  She later introduced me to contemporary art, from San Francisco to New Zealand, reverently visiting some of the world's greatest museum and traipsing through seedy warehouse districts en route to some opening.

"I really want to go to Watts," she once said while visiting me in Southern California.  A political scientist, I only knew about the city's 1965 riots, the racism, poverty, and gangs ravaging that part of LA.  She only knew about the Towers, seventeen interconnecting structures passionately built over thirty-three years by Simon Rodia, using throwaway metal, ceramic, glass, and other paraphernalia.

She found the mesmerizing National Historic Landmark in a place I mistook as a ghetto.  Ever since, I remain conscious not to make that mistake again.

Here's Jo's Parasol Project.

Joan Meixell's Other Eyes

I recently wrote a piece for All About Women on the visual artist's creative process (due out December 2007).  Typically, space prevents adding everything from all the cool interviews, so thought I'd do it here. 

Joan Meixell silk screens lovely images, often inspired by her outdoor excursions, sometimes gleaned from emotional experiences.  As member of a chorus she could see colors and shapes when she felt truly engaged with the music.  She describes getting another set of eyes, able to see & experience things much more closely. 

"I first saw that with my Mom.  I sketched her, and I noticed things about my mother I never noticed before.  The features of her face ... Turned out to be a week before she died.  I encourage everyone to sketch someone they care for so they get the opportunity to see them better."  Advice to live by.

Joan's work can be seen at Hands Gallery in downtown Boone, North Carolina.

I am a pain in the ass

I've driven my dear sweet husband -- who's a wonderful graphic artist -- to utter frustration trying to get this design right.  He's hiding upstairs somewhere; I don't blame him in the least.  We were joking about living on other planets & he said I could visit his but should not bring any clothes or furniture with me.  My visa could be renewed without limits, but each duration could only last a few hours.  Poor poor guy.

I Must Be Dreaming ...

I had the weirdest dream early Tuesday morning.  I won't blather on about the content -- the content isn't the point I'm trying to understand and, really, there's only so much self-disclosure I can muster ... But in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, sometime between the first moments of a very gray dawn and the typical routine of my alarm going off, I had a dream that felt every bit as conscious as the rest of my day.  I swear it was just plain Real.  Kept having to shake my head to knock the images from my eyes while I was trying later to do things as complicated as, let's see, brushing my teeth or answering the phone ...

Okay, I'm not particularly dream-obsessed.  I did my requisite (and incredibly valuable, don't get me wrong) two years of therapy with a Jungian-oriented psychologist back in my 20's and dreams were big.  In general I tend to rely on my own loose memory of what I think the Gestaltist and sort of Jung suggested about dreams -- that (a) essentially everyone in our dreams is playing out some aspect of ourselves and (b) rather than assume universal symbolic meaning of dream imagery, go with the feelings attached to the dream image in the moment.  The Eiffel Tower can can engender a myriad of different emotions so go with the specific feeling instead of assuming it's Freud's Phallus. 

But mostly now I don't pay my dreams much mind.  Unless they require my immediate attention, I prefer to let my dreams do their own thing and leave me to a good night's sleep.

Last few weeks I've noticed a change, or, more precisely, trying hard not to notice a change.  I'm increasingly having some parallel life after I fall asleep.  Maybe that's what's always happened after I fell asleep, but last few weeks that parallel life's been encroaching on my consciousness this side of that double line.  And Tuesday the veil just dropped altogether.  I was having one real conversation in one real life while I just happened to be asleep; the alarm went off playing a song that related directly to that conversation yet ushering me by the hand to another real life (actually the one I technically consider Real real, ya know all that teeth brushing & phone answering life ...) 

Two dear friends matter-of-factly suggested it's dimension-travel, just having experiences on two different dimensions, something that many (more people than I care to admit knowing & reading, matter of fact) say is exponentially increasing in frequency these days.  However, I'm not exactly a person who has a long history of "dimension-travel."  Hasn't really been a typical part of my day up 'till now.

I didn't mind it particularly.  I find it sort of bizarre, but not really upsetting.  In fact, it's kinda convenient to be able to have a great conversation with someone I care about without the hassle of sqeezing real face-to-face time into otherwise busy, divergent schedules.  But it's definately a different kind of trip.

Who Let Her Go On This Ride?

Many many many thanks to Marie & Susan for commiserating about the fire.  It's now just a faded bad dream ... (but, Marie, I still may take you up on your offer to help sift through the ashes!)

I keep waiting to feel more grounded to write, despite the blog title.  But I just don't.   Two days after the fire I suggested to John that he close the bulk of his business and be a full-time artist.  Took him about 46 seconds to agree, so effective January 1 it's official.  Something he's wanted to do for probably two decades.

The whole idea makes me vascillate wildly between absolute certainty in this course of action and abject terror that it marks our financial ruin.  Not an ounce of thought or energy falls inbetween those two extremes.  I'm either Certain or Destitute. 

Just so we're clear, up until the last year I have lived the temperate's dream -- never impulsive or excessive.  Always ploddingly cautious, planful, deliberate, measured.  While I suspect others may have viewed my life as a bit more interesting -- I've travelled, had interesting & varied careers, made a point of taking most opportunities that present themselves -- internally I've almost always felt under control.  Not rigid, but everything I've done fit nicely within a certain comforting zeitgiest.  I could keep track of it all.

No more.  I feel out of control, the sheer volume, speed, and degree of changes in my life are just too complex to keep pace with cognitively.  I'm breathlessly dizzy, from the inside out.  I can't keep track of anything.  Some of it's making me crazy:  the accumulating piles of stuff, my wallet which went missing half of last week...  Some of it's predictable, like the unceasing inevitable growth of my daughter & stepson.  Some of it makes me exceedingly happy and freaked at the same time: one year & two days ago I went on a blind date with the man who's now my husband, sharing my life, and now closing his business to pursue the vocation & lifestyle that fits him perfectly;  I write articles that spill from my fingers without much brain-assistance and people seem to love them; I have no idea what on earth we're doing except that it feels right ....   

I know it's better whenever I just let go & enjoy the ride, but, that, too, requires a degree of awareness I can't muster.  Every time I open my eyes I feel like I'm on a tilt-a-whirl, a really fun one, full to capacity with people laughing & joyfully shrieking ... But somehow I bypassed the guy at the gate who was supposed to take my ticket & strap me safely into the seat.  I was supposed to have stood by that silly painted yard stick so someone rational could determine if I was big enough for this ride ...

Burning Down the House

Last week John's house burned to the ground.  While I was busy calling my California friends to check on their safety, somebody or many bodies accidently or intentionally set fire to my husband's vacant house in Foscoe.  Morning of my birthday I returned home from yoga class to a message from a very worried fire chief, desperately trying to find John, give him the horrible news, hoping John wasn't among the ashes.  He wasn't, of course, but that explained the phone call we received, but didn't answer, at 4:30 in the morning.  He hadn't been to the house in ages.  Very sketchy tenants, nefarious activities, they left months ago but stuff had been stolen since, the house needed lots of repairs & cleaning.  Just the day before John had arranged for some guys to patch the roof for winter.  It was 2nd or 3rd on our priority list, just this poor house languishing from temporary neglect.

I shook for 48 hours.  I couldn't do anything else.  No one was hurt, no treasured photographs or heirlooms were lost.  But I shook nonetheless.  Felt like it was somehow a warning against ambiguity.  We weren't sure what to do with the house, felt a bit burdened by nasty tenants and neglectful disrepair.  So, boom, the universe resolved the weight & indecision.  I keeping thinking about the fire chakra, located in the solar plexis and all about Action, in this case no-turning-back blunt end of an ax kind of Action. Vedic principles of human energy vortexes notwithstanding, Action that made me feel like I'd been punched in the stomache.