Art Food Soul

“We do not see things how they are, we see things how we are.”
— paraphrased from many sources but the original source I saw was the Talmud so I’ll stick with that (plus it’s easier for me to remember).

As I work on my writing, good or bad, just getting it done (think Portfolio Project), what I write does not always reflect my true feelings. Sometimes what I write is more in the interest of the flow, and how the piece will read — will it be halting and stumble over just — the — right — words, or will it flow and move over the words lightly, not worrying too much. Will the easy words be the ones that cut those who read too deeply? I hope not — in the interests of the story, I tend to write lightly, very tongue-in-cheek, and pretty much how I talk (not always good — I am the queen of foot in mouth syndrome, still learning to think before I speak) . It’s kind of like sharing our parenting “horror” stories to lighten them up a bit (considering how scared or angry or embarrassed we were at the time), or our war between the sexes stories (Nick and Nora, Spencer and Hepburn, Ralph and Alice).

That’s where the Talmud quote comes in . I could tread very softly, and measure every word or I could recognize this kind of seeing in myself, accept it in others, and not take so much to heart.

** polaroid from my hotel at UMass in September

I’d just finished writing a little thank you in my journal this morning — for my shift today. A few minutes later it was canceled. My patient died. Canceled. Needless to say I’m actually more bummed out at his loss than the loss of my shift. I was really hoping he’d rally — he was such a sweetie, an ex-Marine truck driving Korean war vet — the tattoo (smudgy dark green) always gives those vets away — a sign of seeing the South Pacific, let’s say.

So, what I’d planned on doing tomorrow I’m doing today. Haven’t written descriptions for Little Pink Dress in a long time, but if I want to get away from here this Halloween weekend I have to help my man out with his business. Gonna bite the bullet, be a trooper and write about vintage dresses.

Sophie, of the bodacious booty-luscious behind modeled for us Friday. She was great — totally down with it like I’ve never seen her before. For an actress she can be shy, but I think California’s opened her up in a good way. Now if I can ever learn photoshop beyond cropping and adjusting brightness levels, I’d love to use her pic to develop a logo for Brabarella.

Went to see Christine Rathbun’s play tonight — it was last night. I knew that, just had forgotten it. Oh well. Was disappointed but checked out this steampunk music/video/alt art sort of show that wasn’t really happening either. Is anyone inspired around here? Drawn towards light and positivity? Excited about what they’re creating? They had the right idea with this — it — just — was — not — happening.

People, few that there were, orbiting each other, no mingling. I think BC had the right idea tonight, going in the right direction, and who knows maybe by 9:30 they’ll be someplace. I know I shouldn’t knock local efforts, I must give people credit for trying. Isn’t that all any of us can really do? Try? And it’s better to try and fail than fail to try. I think I was just disappointed at having missed Christine because I do love steampunk.

He’s actually a grown man now, one I am proud of. I know this, I recognize this — the time flies and it’s hard to believe that he is no longer my sweet rockin’ boy. Is this how my parents feel about me — that I am still their girl even though I am a grown woman of 51?

I am still so smitten with my kids, their charm, their humor, their humanity, the privilege of watching them grow into adults I enjoy being around. I am letting go — slowly, finding my way back to a life beyond motherhood, but man I cherish those memories like nobody’s business.

Told my son about my mondo beyondo last noc over a lovely and leisurely dinner at Wicked. He misses the sky blue ’85 chevy celebrity that was his first car. He doesn’t believe it’s possible to find another one like it — thinks they’re rare. I think otherwise.
When we first got the battle wagon, he felt like a soccer mom — most teen boys want the flashy red sportscar that screams to cops “pull me over.” He was no exception but he grew to appreciate that car as did I. Safe, reliable, good on gas, reasonable mileage, it had been well taken care of, “a grandfather’s car.” It’s long gone and a long story, but I told him last night I am going to manifest another one for him. I told him I’m putting it out to my mondo beyondo community and whomever else is out there. I want him to always believe in the power of dreams.

Took the above photo when A was 17 and still had the battle wagon (an old print transformed though rollip into a polaroid — when he saw the pic last noc, he smiled and said “that’s an awful picture.” Love my kid’s straight shooting honesty.)…I am still so in love with my kids — and he was my first, the apple of my eye, an incredible big brother, inventive, imaginative, a subtle sense of humor, the best son, follower of dreams and a trooper always. Thank you for coming into my world to light my life, babe!

I don’t know if it’s the positivity (is that even a word? Do I care?) of Mondo Beyondo, full on Indian Summer here, connections with friends or what, but I am charged lately. Meaning the crash will come but for now I’m riding the big Kahuna and enjoying it.

I had stopped at the Giving Tree gardens last week before heading home and my cell rang…it was my chum (I like that retro sorta Nancy Drew/Dana Girls word, don’t you? chums are our adventure friends), Sophie. She’s back from California for a couple of months after two years away…we play hit or miss with contacting each other, when something reminds one of us of the other, we give a shout out. Sometimes we connect with a real voice, sometimes we just connect.
I was so surprised that she’d called me…delighted and flattered actually because she’d only been home a day, but she saw Marty out on errands, he reminded her of me, so she called. The call was also very mondo beyondo for me.

Sophie’s one of the bright spots in the Cape Cod world, she gets how small and stifling the cape can be for wild dreamers (Provincetown being an exception, thankfully). More and more I’ve been paying attention to my call to performance art. Art in time or art in space as Nerissa blogs about (couldn’t find the particular post). Maybe create a poetic mystic druid I inhabit for solo productions at festivals, or heck, just busking. Kathryn Rose introduced me to this concept when she performed on the street in Amherst a spring ago. I started researching and started seeing more about one woman performances like The Belle of Amherst.

Sophie’s been in theater now for several years and is an accomplished stage actress (as well as in a Sam Diego’s commercial locally); her call felt like the universe is listening to my whispers. Perhaps she’s my teacher, I don’t know. I feel like the bird in that Dr. Seuss story…”are you my mother? Are you my mother?” only it’s “are you my teacher, are you my teacher?” And I’m still not sure if performance is my thing, or what form it will take if it becomes so. But who cares? It’s kinda fun finding out — like the Nancy Drew mysteries I used to read.

Red Katherine Rose photo from her myspace page

You know how you look and you don’t see? Kick it up a notch into mother mode and then you will. When I’m looking for something for myself, I can miss it even if it’s in plain sight. When I’m looking for something for my kids (or Marty), I am their St. Anthony. I always find it.

Me — I’ve gotta pray to St. Anthony, but he always comes through for me.

“St. Anthony, patron Saint of the Lost and Found, please help me find what I’m looking for.”

Rainy Sunday here on Cape Cod, flood warnings keep coming on in between football games. Right now it’s the Pat’s and Titans in a snowy Foxboro. It’s been a great day, stayed in my pj’s all day, working on a flyer for my women’s group, making comfort foods and lots of tea, catching up on blogs and so on. Did a bit more decluttering (videos), read a little Mondo, and wrote a sort of poem. I was looking through my latest journal last night and saw my answers to a question:

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d try parenting. (Oh wait, did that already and it wasn’t perfect. We all survived for the most part).

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d try poetry.

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d share my work.

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d do radio.

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d launch a local cable TV show.

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d do comedy.

I kind of like the exercise, so since I didn’t have to do it perfectly I wrote a poem this morning, inspired by Mary, of course.

Gray water pouring
flowing over eaves
through gutters
flooding streets
no fair weather friend, my seasonal water view.

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to discover a meaning in what you write than to impose one?”

— Flannery O’Connor

I think the reason her words speak so eloquently to so many is because of her plain language. As she said, she likes plain language. Poetry’s no fun when it’s so lofty and literary that you can’t understand it. I think it’s similar to why Shakespeare spoke to so many in his day and still does. (“Brevity is the wit of reason”).

When listening to Mary Oliver read her poems the other night, it was like listening to a warm conversation, both wild and deep — full of meaning in its blessedly simple language. (And her sense of humor was totally unexpected and totally cool).

Reading poetry and hearing it spoken are two different experiences. Having heard her read them, her poems spoke to me more clearly. I’ve read them, of course, but I’m lazy. I’d rather listen to her say the words. Straight, real and to the heart. Unpretentious.

I believe poetry is language meant to be spoken. Perhaps that’s why the expression “poets and troubadours” moves frequently through my consciousness lately.

** photo from Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts