wave of modulation

happy birthday to me

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear meee-eee, happy birthday to me.

Today I'm 40.

I woke up surrounded by M and our cats. The family that spoons together...

It was a warm sunny morning and no one wanted to be the first to leave the blissful bed.

Now I'm spending the day in Cambridge.

Massage, pedicure, Indian food, independent movies in Harvard Square. One after another.

(Because I so seldom go to the movie theatre even though I want to)

Later on, cookout with my man. It's sunny and gorgeous in Beantown.

And I'm fine with turning 40.

My life is better and better the older I get.

- - - -

So, life is good.

How is life good for you today?

Interview

The Interview, Part One My dear friend, Susie, interviewed me. Here are the first two questions of five. More soon. If you had the time and resources, what kind of volunteer work would you like to do? If I could do anything I wanted, I would work with young folks and older folks - gathering their photographs, drawings, oral histories based on different themes, like their ideas on memory, dreams, emotions, spirituality, imagining the future, the significance of art or music. And then I would work with others to create multimedia installations and exhibit them in a public place. Studs Terkel is my hero. You are a gifted artist, with both words and images, and you inspire others to create.  What makes something "art?" Well, that is a good question. I don't know what makes something "art". What do you think? I could start by figuring out what isn't art. But I don't know if I can do that either. I don't believe that folks must agree on the value and significance of something for it to be art. And I definitely don't think people have to agree on the aesthetics of something for it to be art. Aesthetics itself is a big ball of wax. Our values, our work, our education, language, current events, the tools we use, the shape and light and colors in the landscapes we live in all feed personal as well as shared aesthetic tastes and sensibilities. Sometimes I get interested in all of the above, and how our brain functions affect our aesthetics. But I don't believe aesthetics = art. Pretty does not equal art. Years ago when I was in college, I flip-flopped between a School of Fine Art and Craft School. There was contention that if something was made to be used by people it couldn't be art. Something was art if it was created as a concept for thought, or as beauty for appreciation, or as a performance to be experienced. Something was craft if it was about a physical skill employed to make things intended for people to use. Design could cross the boundaries between craft and art. But I don't believe that craft is not art, or design is not art. The word craft, loosely meaning handmade, comes from the word "kraft" which meant magic and also strength. I just love that. A very long time ago, some of the things most revered were made by people; tools, cups, cave drawings, churches.  Sometimes it was the things we made to reproduce or magnify or imitate the power of nature that were awe-inspiring; like fire, or electric light bulbs, or batteries, or airplanes. There is something important, deep and primal about transforming a thing into a different kind of thing. How is a blanket made? The wool is cleaned and dyed and spun into yarn, and yarn is wound into spools and the spools are unraveled and drawn through thousands of recursive paths, until there is a warm blanket to sleep under on a cold night. When before you had no warm blanket. The blanket is magical and strong. But so is the process, because the process of making something transforms the maker. How do sounds make music? How does music envelop us and transport us to another place, a place we can't reach without the music? How do words and pictures and ideas that float inside our minds become something greater than words and pictures and ideas? How do we suddenly see things as like which were not like, or as parts of a whole when before they were only fragments? How do we feel when we look upon the face of another on a painting or piece of paper or computer screen? How do we instantly recognize another being on a parallel journey, how do we recognize emotion, history, memory? How do we imagine what it might be like to be that being, a unique bundle of awarenesses among millions, billions of beings? How do we acknowledge a single captured moment out of billions and billions of intersecting, ricocheting moments - and how does that moment belonging to another being inform and change us? How can even a memory of a blanket, or music, or a concept, or a portrait transform us all over again? That's powerful, magical stuff. What makes something art? I don't know. I think art could be described by the same qualities that defined this old word, kraft. Strength and magic... emergent from creation. It's what we exerience, or what we make of something - whether we make it with our hands or our minds or our eyes. Art is an expression of creativity, whether spoken or kept within, whether creator or participant or silent observer. Art encourages us to imagine, think, speak, sing, dance, listen, mourn, rage, thrill, wonder, understand. Sometimes all of the above. Art transforms us, whether we're aware of it or not, whether it is the first time or the six billionth time. - - - - Why do people feel art is separate from life? Art is not separate from life, art is born from human life, not despite it. I have seen many people make references to their work as my "art" or my "photography" on these internets. I challenge folks to not to refer to art as "art". Especially not when referring to your own work. That's like rolling your eyes at yourself. That's contempt. Art is not perfection and art is not sterile and art is not pure. Please don't put art in quotes. That's like saying it is elusive or imaginary or questionable or something to be parodied. That's the way you would say "UFO" if you didn't beliebe in extra terrestrial life. That's like equating the term "politically correct" with treating someone the way they would like to be treated. They are two different things. Art is just a word to describe something...that is impossible to describe. Something larger and more wonderful than any one of us, but within each of us exists the desire for art, and the ability to create. Art exists because we do. So use the word for art, or don't. It will not affect its strength or magic either way.

stretching

The ironic thing about my last post is that I don't. I mean, I love Rumi's writing, but I don't yearn. The title was supposed to be a play on words. (y) earn. I was thinking that I have to earn the ability to yearn. I think having the ability to yearn is important. I know some people yearn too much. I don't want to yearn too much. I just want to yearn. To me, having the ability to yearn is not just the ability to imagine or desire. It's about being present, listening to myself, and imagining what I might need or want. - - - - Very recently I was poking around the internet, for the first time in months. I came across a blog I haven't visited in at least a year. Someone I never really knew very well. On the author's 'about' page they listed unresolved childhood issues as a 'turn off'. I chuckled a little at myself, and our collective human condition. I also know the only reason I've had the ability to consider my issues is because I have been safe and fortunate enough. It can seem self indulgent at times when you're looking backward, whether you do it by choice or just seem to find yourself there. At the same time, I feel that issues are issues are issues. Whether a one considers their source or not. Sure some issues don't come from formative years, but I think adult issues come as a response to how we've dealt with childhood issues. They're like questions asking for... something. Interpretation, growth. And yes, heh, issues can be a 'turn off'. Even to the folks who admit to having 'em. I stopped going to therapy a couple of years ago for a variety of reasons. One reason was because I felt I was ready. But there was another reason. I felt that I wasn't truly able to trust my therapist. I felt that if I did trust her, I would be able to hear her messages more clearly. I would be able to be intimate with her. I would be able to look her in the eye while I told her how I was feeling. Or feel something more when I told her how I was feeling. Something would be different... Maybe I would be different. Several months ago I was tested for Attention Deficit Disorder. And yeah, they confirmed I have some strong ADD characteristics. But they discovered something about me that I had sort of known previously and had forgotten, something I didn't have a name for. They said I have Asperger Syndrome. After they told me, I remembered. When I was a kid in foster care, when my life was fragmented and unsafe, I had taken some "tests". Afterward, I remember hearing one of the adults saying that I had several "autistic features". I had no idea what they were talking about. I mostly remembered the part where they said I had a freakish ability to read, spell and pronounce words. Anxiety, focus, repetition, relaxation, anxiety, focus, repetition, relaxation. I've learned that this is my cycle. This is why I have trouble feeling my feelings in front of other people. This is why I was different even before my mom became mentally ill. This is why I felt like I had to learn how to emote by watching other people, and felt like I was faking it all this time. This is why I enjoy work and focus so much. This is why I avoid certain kinds of interaction.  This is why I am oblivious to some things and attentive to others, this is why I am so often overwhelmed. This explains why I see myself as a separate being whenever I imagine myself. I can't express how many mysteries this has solved for me. One of the surprises: I believe my ability to empathize was greatly enhanced by my mother's mental illness. If she had been well, I may not have been motivated to learn about the subtleties of the feelings of others or motivated to learn how to respond to them. - - - - A couple of days ago, I suddenly became ill in the middle of the night. I woke up sweating and sick to my stomach. After a couple of hours spent in the bathroom, I took a bath and lay on the couch trying to go back to sleep. I flipped through a few channels on the tv trying to find something uninteresting to lull me to sleep. I stopped on the movie, Honey. The one with Jessica Alba as the do-gooder / hip hop dancer. At one point, someone in the movie said, "I found something that I truly love, something that truly makes me happy." And then Honey realizes that she should find out what will make her happy. That struck me as important. To really know how to yearn, I have to seek happiness. I have to practice yearning. I must be able to speak what I need, and at the very least I must be able to hear it. I would also like learn to act on it. I don't believe happiness is a permanent state. I believe I must be open to happiness, and I am. I also know now I have to imagine it, to envision it. I can't just be happy with whatever happens, which is my tendency; it's what I have taught myself to do. I want my yearning to have weight and strength, and I want that weight to be balance of imagination and purpose. I will have to stretch. I will learn to reach for it.

y earn

We can’t help being thirsty, moving toward the voice of water. - Rumi

as old as the world

Feeling: Emerging from a pool of grief, loved

Listening:

Regarding the End by Willard Grant Conspiracy

Comments of the Inner Chorus by Tunng

white

where is my love

 

february morning

These are some of my recent collages. I feel a little sad today. It’s a fleeting, superficial kind of sad. A little bit because the Bears lost yesterday, a little because our vacuum cleaner died. It’s very cold out, not as cold as Chicago, but still too icy to go for long walks. I miss being outside. - - - - I hate to button or zip coats, jackets, etc. I almost never do. I didn’t today. - - - - Listening: City Heart by One Trick Pony, Triggering Back by Benoit Pioulard, Golden Star by My Brightest Diamond, Bewley in Grey by Bibio, A River Could Be Loved by Brightblack Morning, This Lamb Sells Condos by Final Fantasy Playlist on repeat (since Christmas): Transparent Things by Fujiya & Miyagi

patterns of presence

This picture was taken the first day we had cold enough weather to form ice. The windows that face our sunrises are terribly leaky and drafty. But the beauty and surprise each morning, the light shining through the water droplets and the icy patterns, makes the cold and damp worth it. The windows have always been this way, all eight years I've lived here. This is by far the longest time in my life I have lived in one place. This is the room I used to sleep in when I first moved to Boston. When I had only sparse furnishings in my apartment. Before I knew M. That was when I was so afraid all the time that I used to pretend that there was no future. Only I didn't know I was afraid. I thought I was brave. The room is all windows, with a spectacular view of the city. The sun rises and fills this room with incredible light. I've been told that the leaks in the window are bad for the house. Our landlord doesn't seem concerned. I know nothing about house care. I only know apartment care. Temporary care. Maybe we should look into longer term options. I need to expand my knowledge, my confidence in structures. That's not completely true. Maybe I just need to develop confidence in the care and feeding of structures. Maybe the beauty of the ice isn't worth the cost of watching the slow decay of this beautiful room. - - - - This morning when my plane took off it was eighteen degrees in Boston. When I arrived in Florida, the sun was just beginning to set. The air was so warm and fragrant that it took me by surprise. I knew I would need a change of clothes, but the other changes I felt were unexpected. This is the first time I started missing M before I even got to my destination. He started getting a cold yesterday and today he wasn't feeling well at all. I got off the plane, and while I was looking for the baggage claim, this feeling that I wanted to hug him overwhelmed me. - - - - Last week was a hardcore work and deadlines week featuring two all-nighters, proof that I "still have it" and proof that I am still at least slightly unbalanced. The whole week was amped up just a touch more because of a neck strain I received from slipping on a sheet of ice on Monday. I can't hate the cold and ice, though, when it creates patterns this beautiful. I can't hate work, either, when things are going as well as they are. And I realize that during the worst times outside of work, my love of work has made me feel competent and capable, and safe, and engaged. During the best times, like right now, I actually feel creative, trusted, like I belong to something. That doesn't stop me from wanting to change careers to something even more creative someday. A job where I can get my camera out whenever the mood strikes, a job where I can wear jeans, or maybe silky loungy pants with sandals and a soft lacy t shirt. Or a bathing suit under my clothes. That's what I have on right now. I've been sent away for a week to a tropical paradise for technical training. I'm actually enough of a dork that I am really looking forward to getting this training, because it means I will see clearly when I begin to imagine building cool new worlds for information and new ways of searching for, and finding, that information. I've been getting ready for this. I've been reading articles and blogs and big fat resource books. I'm excited about doing the work we'll need to do in the coming months, and this new learning will help us do the work well. I'm looking forward to the challenges. What happened to me? Technical books used to put me out cold. These technical books don't make me sleepy at all, so they don't make good bedtime reading. I wonder if I will wake up from these years of work and look back on the puzzles that occupy and sometimes thrill me now, and wonder why... I brought Kafka On The Shore by Haruki Murakami. It is one of my favorite books in the world, one that changes the way I think, the way I see, every time I read it. It does make good bedtime reading. His imagination helps me feel more at home in the world, opens the bounds I put on my own imagination. It fills me up and cleans my slate, and it makes me want to dream. - - - - Later as I walked from the lobby to my bungalow, I was surrounded by the sound of the fountains and the palms murmuring. The scent of fading warmth rising from the stone path. I had this feeling that maybe I was getting away with something. And maybe I am.

unit(y)

Years ago, I read a book written in the first person point of view. It was fiction. I felt very angry that the authors of this grand book would create and overtake the voices of other people. I felt they had taken ownership of the words and the voices of others. And it made me furious for months. My professor at the time wisely looked on, read my papers with interest, asked me questions about the root of my feelings. But she never disagreed with me. Later she told me a story about anger, which I will tell you tomorrow. - - - - In group therapy, I learned to roleplay - speaking as though I was someone else in the group, I expressed the feelings she had shared with us. These were the feelings she was too angry and hurt and confused to say to someone in her life. These were the feelings she felt there wasn't enough room to say. I found that speaking in the first person can be a powerful exercise in empathy. It can also be a powerful way to practice hearing your own voice. Owning your voice, owning your heart. Now I'm finding that I crave hearing that voice more and more as I grow older. I want to hear people speaking in the first person, openly, honestly. Speaking about themselves. Not blaming or poking fun at or trying to define other people. I want to hear their real voices. Now I'm finding that I don't mind when people respectfully "try on" the experience of another living being. It doesn't sound the same way to me anymore. Those voices, those words don't feel like theft to me anymore. Now that I own mine.