Archived November Rainy Day Thoughts2

(I removed from all archives anything political and dated)

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Pet Kids

Okay, here it comes. It was inevitable. Now she pulls out the pictures of the kids...... For me, that means cats. Not because there were never any kids nor because there are no grandkids-- there are but these are the ones who live at home now. I am not one of those who prefers cats over dogs or vice versa. I just know my life situation requires some traveling and not the kind I can take a dog. Cats stay home more contentedly with someone to feed and water them than a dog. When my life gets a bit more settled, I want another dog-- probably a labrador as they tend to be my favorites.

Pets have been a part of my life from my earliest memories. I've cried over their deaths and laughed at their antics. I was not one who had a hard time understanding why some in New Orleans would stay and brave storm and flood because they couldn't bear to leave their pets. I still feel sad when I think of the little dog, Snowball, being yanked from the arms of his little owner-- regardless of how logical that decision might have been. Logic plays no role in how important our pets are to us.

The current cats all came as strays. They appeared as follows:

Persia is a petite black and white female who is so feisty that all walk around her even though she is only 7 lbs on her best day. Years ago, she came to this farm, settled in on the woodpile and waited for us to realize she belonged here. She has notched ears because of all her fights with the other cats. She takes nothing off nobody and that includes us but when she jumps onto the bed at night to sleep beside me, she starts to purr before I pet her. I am guessing she is about 17 now.

BB, probably about 10, lived wild for 5 years after his original owner moved and didn't take him. We bought a home in Tucson and began to see him various places-- not to mention beheaded rabbits. I would see him sleeping on a high shelf in the carport and when he'd see me, he'd run away. I began to put out food for him-- it was either that or the quail. When I was outside, he would lie on the sand near me but never too close. Finally I decided to try petting him. I talked soothingly to him, reminded him of the dry cat food I'd bought him and put out my hand as I moved closer. He hissed but he inched toward me. We both took the risk as he finally let me pet him, and that was the beginning of a love affair. I cannot believe someone would have deserted such a sweet cat. He is still hissy boy when someone scares him, but he's also my cuddler and loves to sleep wrapped in my arms as relaxed as though he'd never known an uncertain hour in his life. Having been a short haired cat when I first saw him, I was a bit amazed when a full coat of black hair developed.. not to mention a cat impossible to diet below 17 pounds.

When we brought BB north for the first time (as I could no longer stand to leave him for the months I'd be gone from the Tucson house), we stopped for a breakfast and papers. My husband walked in to get the paper and when he came back, he scared the cat, who I had on my lap, so much that he defecated all over my jeans and me. If you happened to be in Eloy Arizona that morning and saw a woman stripping off her jeans in the McDonald's parking lot, it was me. We have since learned any auto travel leads to the same (if less catastrophic) dumping of his load and he now rides in carriers totally.

Blackie, who is probably about a year old now arrived at the farm this summer. A few years earlier we had lost a black cat who died of old age and because I don't know whether I believe in reincarnation or not but if I do, why not pets also, I had been watching for black cats. I don't really know that Fantus came back in Blackie's form but Blackie got to stay. He is so nervous and temperamental that if I had small children still at home, I'd not have felt free to keep him. I am still working on teaching him that you don't bite. The books say treat them gently to stop this tendency. I figured their mothers treat them sharply to teach them; so he gets thumped lightly on the forehead if he starts to bite and that seems to be getting him the message. As well as that when he gets too frisky, no more petting.

Blackie loves to go out to do chores helping with hay feeding or repairs-- you name it and he's there. It does not matter what the job is out around the barn, he wants to lend a helping paw. When the cows decide to chase him, he's good at broken field running. Maybe he was a dog last lifetime (if he was a dog last time, is this a step up or down for him?).

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Sales

I have a pet peeve which always irks me some but right now more than usual-- sales. I know it sounds almost un-American, not to mention unwomanly, but maybe it's because there is no Sagittarius in my astrology chart (no I don't really believe that). I understand that a sale is all about the hunt, the feeling of snaring a bargain, walking out of the store with a shopping cart full of cheaper than usual items (not to mention a lot of unplanned purchases) but I hate sales. I wish that every store would simply mark their prices as cheaply as possible and keep them there. The idea that only one day or two hours in one morning entitles someone to the lowest price just annoys me instead of making me feel a sense of exhilaration.

Black Friday (a US coined term which means the day the stores find out if they are going to be in the black for Christmas-- or so I assume-- but for me means what it sounds like) is the ultimate proof of my belief sales are bad. The stories were on the papers the next day-- people ran each other down, waited in line hours, became uncivilized-- all to be the only one getting a sale price.

When I was first married (40 years ago now), as my husband planned to be downtown and I did not, I asked him to go to the Washington Day sale at my then favorite department store... He was a young man in full strength and vitality and came back chastened by the experience. He was ill prepared to be thrust through the door by a lot of gray haired ladies at the moment it opened-- and he said he was literally propelled. That happened to some older ladies Black Friday and some didn't stay on their feet.

There have been times I wanted to buy some new clothes, was near my favorite department store, but decided I could not afford to because I knew 'coupon day' wasn't until the next week. This just makes no sense for me or the store. Wouldn't it be better that I could spend my money the day I needed something, not feel obligated to hold out for a 20% off coupon? When I might not even return. When I was a girl, sales happened seasonally and even in grocery stores it all made sense. Today they are a gimmick to get the customer into the store more often than they would have otherwise.

I realize that for a lot of people a huge sale is fun, a challenge, a hunt, but for me, it's a worse than usual experience with shopping-- which I am not fond of at best. Maybe that's my problem with not appreciating Black Friday...

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving,
a word at once that speaks of receiving and giving.
A day set aside
for being grateful for what
has come before,
what is yet to be.
A day for forgiving and being forgiven.
A time to release and hold close.
A day to remember those who have gone
and enjoy those still here.


Family in the broadest sense
is about more than bloodkin
but also those who have come into our lives with love
and sometimes left but never to be forgotten.

The greatest gifts of life are the people
the experiences--
those that made us cry,
those that made us laugh.
All that has gone before
is what makes us who we are.

Sunday November 20, 2005

Off the Map

A few years ago, I had an inspiring trip to New Mexico. I had heard about the light, read about Georgia O'Keeffe's experiences there, loved her paintings, wanted to see Chaco Canyon, the pueblos and mostly Taos. Everything was as wonderful as I'd hoped. I had always said if I ever run away, I'll go to Taos which still seems like a good idea.

This photo is from near Abiquiu.

Then there has been my back-to-nature phase which I went through some years ago and to some degree never completely left behind. You know the can your own fruits and vegetables, live off the land, build your own home thing. I have a stack of books on how to build the home, what the interiors look like of those who did, and while I have done most of the preserving things, I don't do them regularly.

Those elements came together this week-end in watching a dvd that a friend had recommended-- Off the Map. It is one of those little films (starring Sam Elliot and Joan Allan) that nobody hears much about when they come out but sometimes get a second chance on video. I am not sure if this one will get that second chance because I had to go to two video stores to find it to rent; but I highly recommend it to those who like any of what I described above.

The story is a simple one of a couple and their 11 year old daughter, who are living the back-to-the-land life. Sam Elliot's character has drifted into a crippling depression and his wife (Joan Allan), their daughter, and their best friend cannot reach him-- although all in their own, loving ways try.

The story unfolds from the daughter's memories as an adult woman of what that summer was like when a young IRS agent comes to find out why the family has not paid any taxes and ends up staying.

It's a movie about relationships, the land, art-- a slice of life movie, full of vivid imagery, and subtly interwoven questions of what life is all about.

Living the Dream

Some years ago-- January of 2000 to be more exact-- I was reading a book on how we get what we want from life. Since I felt there were things I wanted and didn't have, I did some of the exercises. One was to write a dream day-- your ideal day. I described it from the moment I woke to the time I went to bed, and I put in all the secrets in my heart-- the things we often want but are afraid to admit. I won't go into details on what that encompassed, but years have passed and it still describes my dream day. I am also still not living it. There are assorted reasons-- okay excuses for that, but I have not given up.

Part of the 'dream' day was waking after a night of vibrant dreaming and later that day painting the dream.

Painting is something I mostly do now and then, but have picked up again recently. I set up on one end of my living room where the light was relatively good and using a wooden bench for my paints, brought in what used to be my sculpture table, set up the easel and waited for inspiration to strike. About the time I decided it wouldn't, I began to paint. I did have an idea, one that had been germinating in my head for some time-- Madonna of the Cave.

As I applied colors, built shapes, I was surprised by some of the elements that had not been in my original thinking but showed up once the work was underway. The Madonna is a young woman and perhaps the cave is a womb, the waters are those from which we are all born, certainly she is of the same material as the stalactites hanging from the roof of the cave. Perhaps she is a priestess returning to these waters with an offering. Maybe this is the soul of a baby about to be born. Interestingly to me, the shapes, from tiny to large ones kept repeating themselves as the painting took on a vision of its own.

Then one night, with the painting nearly finished, I had one of my story dreams and it stretched through the night. The kind of dream that I could write or paint from the ideas and feelings evoked. I woke that morning thinking maybe, even though I had no idea when I wrote the essay about my ideal day, for me dreams and painting are entwined.

I have long believed what you want in your life, live in it as much as possible and more will come. This is unfortunately true of the negative as well as the positive. If I want to live my dream day, I must put into the one I have right now as many of the elements as possible. I've certainly not always lived my days as I want but I'm working on it.

So what you want to be-- be it.

See yourself and live as though you are already that person.

Musical Collages

With the internet and the ease of putting together your own combinations of music from either CDs you own or those you download for a fee, the possible ways of creatively using music increased-- even for those of us who could never create a note on our own.

One of my first CD compilations was not intended to inspire creation of something. Well maybe it was-- me. I looked for songs that expressed elements of my personality. So Cher's Just Like Jesse James (a girl can dream can't she?) met up with Eagle's Take it to the Limit (my absolute one song to say who I am and what I feel as I've gotten older. When I get too old to take it to the limit one more time, I'll have to come up with something new but at 62, I am not there yet), and Unchained Melody by anybody as it never matters who sings it or even if it's instrumental for how it speaks of the eternal dream of soul mate love.

The album that is 'me' has 18 songs on it that range from spiritual feelings, to songs that resonated with me years ago and still do. A lot of them like Roll me Away are not so much about actually doing something as more about the freedom in your soul to find your own way to that moment. I didn't try to critique these songs, to say they must be noble or help me rise to a higher level. No, they were all about who I felt I was inside-- expressed and unexpressed. Yes, there are days where Bitch says it all.

After I created that musical collage, I went on to think how else I could combine music to minister to higher impulses, to help me be more than I am, and created what I have come to call Energy Albums. These are songs that might not give energy to anybody else; but when I put those CDs onto my player, i feel the vibrations inside me begin to change. Energy albums for me can encompass soundtracks (the western Red River is one of my favorites) to songs that speak of something I want from life--Amazed. They range from songs when I write their titles, a few might be familiar but most not to everybody if anybody-- Africa, I Have Never Been to Me, Legend of the Warrior, The Road less Traveled, The Secret of Life, Bang the Drum, When Will I Ever Learn, Thorn Upon the Rose, Color of the Wind, It's a Great Day to be Alive, The Gambler and on and on.

Music has helped me with writing for quite some time. Some years ago I was working on a story that was not going anywhere. I heard the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack and something in it added the passion the story had been missing. For a solid month I played that album over and over to keep the mood going.

When I talked to the medium a month ago, she suggested I should dance while I paint. I knew what she meant even if that wouldn't work well except for the most abstract paintings. What she was saying, i believe, is let the music flow through me and out of the brush and onto the canvas. Free it with joy, sorrow or whatever the painting is supposed to depict. I have done some of that and am aiming to do more.

A soundtrack is intended to enhance certain emotional responses for what is going on in the scene. It works as well for creating art as for the viewer of it. For me, such soundtracks include: Legends of the Fall; Last of the Mohicans; Open Range; Tombstone; Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon; compilations of great bits from music soundtracks of the past-- like Lonesome Dove, The Magnificent Seven, Sons of Katie Elder, and many more. The beauty of original soundtrack over music with lyrics is no words to distract from the emotions being generated. With painting or writing I want my own ideas enhanced, not changed.

When I am in the mood for love songs, I have a mix from country western to pop, from recent to long ago-- Key Largo, Almost Paradise, Smooth, Make me Lose Control, Burn, Desperado, Nights in White Satin, You Raise Me Up, The Dance, Smoke Rings in the Dark, Shenandoah, and so many more.

Music feeds the soul, strokes deep inner chords and releases to the physical world what otherwise might remain within. It is a creative and life tool, one that can be used for physical as well as emotional healing. Like so many things in life, we have to decide what we are trying to create in our lives; then find tools to help us. Music, for ill or good, can be one of those.

Photography

When thinking of things that help through the winter as well as year round with my creative life, photography is high on the list. My history with cameras has been serially monogamous. I am faithful in my way. I started out as a girl with a Brownie Hawkeye box camera. My first attempts at being creative were asking my younger brother to snap a picture of me awkwardly posed on a rock (I made him pose for one too). It was the first of many pictures of me sitting on rocks.

I can't say for sure what has led to the romance between me and the camera, but it's gone on as far back as I can remember. The perfect photograph is still illusive and a constant challenge to attain-- maybe that contributes to the fascination.

My cameras changed with my life, and I had my hands on the first 35mm when I was 22. I left it behind for the usual reason-- could afford to-- and had a big desire for a single lens reflex to compose as I shot-- enter the Minolta. That one had an easy way to adjust lighting and worked quite well for years-- until the temptation to stray once again overcame me and led to a Nikon 35mm entering my life. I could justify my lack of faithfulness by many features in that lovely Nikon, but the main one was the automatic option allowing for faster shooting. And to get that feature, I gave up some control. ( The price we pay for passion.) This lasted for years until-- yes, temptation again reared its head and the world of the digital drew me in. Instant gratification is my justification on that one.

Between digitals and photo programs on the computer, the world of the professional photographer is no longer only theirs. My working camera today is EOS Canon Rebel with an 18-55mm Canon lens-- although I do have a telephoto. For years my digital had been an Olympus which is a nice little camera but they kept improving the pixels possible and eventually I wanted something with less graininess and more potential for enlargement; so i traded small, slip into my pocket for a wide strap around the neck and a camera the weight of the Nikon.

As a tool for a painter or sculptor, cameras can't be matched-- in my opinion. Yes, I can do actual sketches on the scene but the camera saves the details I'd likely have forgotten or not taken the time to sketch in-- it provides the color grace notes. In sculptures, where I didn't have the access to live models, I could pose myself however I needed, have it photographed and get the weight of a real body to give the work more reality.

In doing photos for my art, I learned to use auto timers which was particularly good when nobody was around to take the photo but even better to avoid that dread-- no, no, don't face that way... oh that's not good, can't you just... and guess that wasn't really better.

When I took pictures for the work, I had fun and began to take them just pleasure. I found I was more natural using a timer than with another person involved. What I didn't like was tossed. I took' glamour' shots, silly shots and some that I could actually use.

This summer when I needed my passport photo renewed, I headed for a AAA and got the most horrible Polaroid photo I have ever seen... and I had paid money for it. I then went to a Kinko's and marginally improved it. I did not want to look at either picture each time I opened my passport. I could have paid even more money for a professional photographer and who knows if that would have been satisfying, but I decided to see if I could do it. The rules are for a certain definition, size, no big smiles and two identical pictures. I set up the lighting, tripod and ended up with one I was happy with; and so was the government (why they worried about how detailed it was is beyond me given they stamped an eagle right over the top of it).

With an auto timer and a digital camera, I can arrange the lighting I want, see the results instantly, play around with different angles to shoot from and laugh at the silliness of it. When it's fun, the face loosens up and the pictures come out far better. When I was young, almost every picture of me came out good; but these days, it's like maybe one in ten is what I was looking for; so I take a lot when I am fooling with it. If none come out, it's digital and who cares. I throw them away and try again another day when maybe I am less tired looking-- yeah that's it.. tired looking...

When winter comes

It had to happen eventually-- *sigh* the run up to the Winter Solstice. The coming month and a half is definitely my hardest season. Yes, the fun of holiday dinners, bright decorations, Advent wreaths, Christmas music, the giving of gifts, excited children all lie ahead; BUT there are also darker days and longer nights, no flowers in the garden, rain, mud, heavy coats, leaks in a roof to fix, muck to muck through, shopping when the last thing I want to do is go out to the mall, and the cold and flu season where I hope anybody coughing is far enough away to not infect me. After the Solstice, I try to think each day is getting minimally brighter and how somewhere ahead is summer sunshine.

When winter comes to the Pacific Northwest, it's more often in the form of wind and rain than snow although we can get a few weeks of frigid weather. There is something to be said for the beauty of freshly fallen snow, of flakes coming down. There is not much to be said for its aftermath which out here is mud and flooding. This is the season where I rise in darkness, eat dinner in it and only minimally is it brighter in between. I have had bouts of depression with winter but now I try to do things to ease that possibility.

One of these things was to have the new hay barn built and it's more or less finished. It will eventually have feeders along the west side and to the north, there will be a wall. The sheep have by the way renamed it-- the loafing shed.

Inside the house, my efforts have all been about adding light. The new fireplace screen is part of that; white candles another, as I find places all around the house to have them ready to light. A supply of DVDs ready for the nights when nothing but Ice Age, Tombstone, or Before Sunset will do; CDs piled in front of the player and Legends of the Fall soundtrack playing as I write. On the table are books I didn't get around to reading last summer. There is a new painting on the easel and an idea for a book germinating in my head. The house is spruced up and rid of anything unnecessary, the kitchen ready for Christmas baking, the garden cleaned up enough to stand even ocean fed gale winds.

I should be ready. Only I am not. I never am ready for the season of darkness.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

the other side of creativity

For me, creative expression is the wind beneath my sails. It's what I do, how I feel good, how I express me. This comes through writing, sculpting or painting, but I have tested the waters shallowly in many mediums-- made a few quilts, sewed, done some macrame, tole painting. My creative expression shows up in my home, garden and lifestyle choices. When I explain who I am, being creative is high on the list.

Lately I haven't done much sculpting but these are some of my clay sculptures. Most sit in the attic as I have not been successful in selling them, but then I haven't put the effort into selling that I did into creating.

I feel a mix of emotions about them and my other work-- a stack of paintings are up in that attic as well as 11 completed manuscripts on my hard drive (ranging from 85,000 to 140,000 words). I feel proud of what I have done-- finished works, skills learned-- but not so proud that I haven't worked harder to get them out into the world. I have done a lot of things in my years but marketing well is not one of them. It feels like a mix of failure and achievement when I think on my works. Like I let them down.

I don't have one clear reason for why I have not been better at doing what I see as the other part of creating. Some is not fitting the market. I can say that about the books at the time they were rejected-- those that ever got submitted. When we hope to trade our artistic work for someone else's dollars, we have to meet their needs. I don't blame the market when what I have done didn't succeed in that.

But that's only part of it. Part of it is I haven't tried hard enough and this goes back to another part of creativity. We create it and then we put it out for the world to judge through sales, showings or even contests. These paintings, manuscripts and sculptures are pieces of me. They are my babies and when someone else looks at them and says pedestrian work, not enough interest to them, it's like they are saying it about me.

An artist who has the whole package believes in their work, believes enough to get out there and send it again and again to publishers or to galleries. Maybe I'm not a true enough artist or maybe it goes back to the recent reading I received from the medium where she saw the negative patterns in my life. Number one was I didn't trust enough, that I felt I would lose whatever I gained; and number two was I didn't have enough belief in myself or my abilities. I would guess that's true of a lot of us and the way past it is to take the risks and keep taking them until the barrier is broken-- but the reason we don't goes back to the patterns.

Sometimes not believing in my work is not a mistake. I mean it's not wise to kid myself on what I'm doing. I am not as gifted a painter as my friend at Golden Acorn. I don't know if I never quite developed the craft side of painting or just don't have the gifts, but it doesn't stop me from enjoying painting. It does cause me to often not show it to others. What ends up on the canvas has not yet been what I had seen in my mind.

When I got online for the first time some years back, I learned how many people can write well. It was an eye-opener. The main difference between those who have published books and those who have not is at least to a degree marketing skills. I intellectually know the process, have read how-to books, talked to agents, other writers, but it is one thing to know what you should do and another to face your baby (and creative work is your baby) being rejected yet again. Wait a minute. Those characters were good. Didn't you laugh at that part? What was not to like? Sometimes an editor says you can change this or that and we'll consider again except either you can't do it or it goes against your sense of what the work was supposed to be about-- creative integrity vs marketing reality.

I am working on getting past these blocks. My problem has not been in having ideas or finishing my projects. Or maybe it is. Is it really finished stacked in a dusty, cobwebbed attic or will it only be finished when it has moved to someone else's hands?