Painting. A Painting. The act of painting. Painting what? A painting of what?
It used to be that my admiration for art was so great that the idea of painting, the act of doing, felt far beyond me. In many ways it still does. It does when I look at the artwork that attracts my attention. The great Dutch Masters, Leonardo DaVinci. My own preferences range widely, and over a lifetime, my tastes have changed. What I rejected as a young woman, I now find value in, much like I do with certain pieces of literature. As I grow, the works grow on me. My appreciation sees below something I didn't notice or understand earlier.
Still, to make even the smallest attempt to paint, to do the act, has been beyond me. That is until I had a grandchild. It was my great pleasure and responsibility to be with her almost daily from the time she was about a month old until she entered pre-school at 4 1/2. That made me the one who got to have all the fun...including playing around with paint. I learned at that time, that my attitude would have an impact on her, and so wanting that impact to be positive, encouraging, and devoid of my own psychological hang ups, I listened to how I talke to her about paints and painting. I painted with her, and listened to myself as I began mentally berating myself about how I was painting. I stopped myself from expressing those cruel thoughts, and instead changed my thinking. I looked for what it was I loved about the experience.
What I found was pleasure. Pure pleasure in getting paint all over myself as I used my brush to swipe the thick, viscous paint across the surface of the paper. Swirling the brush on the surface, and turning the brush handle in my hand, to use the very tip of the brush to plot raindrops on the garden path I sloshed about on with my wide edge of the brush. Using colors and mixing blues and yellows to get greens. Reds and whites to find pinks. Blues and pinks to find lavenders, and mixing it all together to make a messy soddy brown. Remembering what I'd learned as a child about the spectrum of colors. Recalling too what I'd learned about taking care of my tools, staying in the lines, and later, of breaking all the rules to find new paths.
Now painting is a pure pleasure, I combine with other parts of most days. Daringly, I have taken a class or two, and have allowed painting to enter my vernacular--as part of my vocabulary of life.
While the artists I love, whose work I most admire, include new artists who live near me like Jill McVarish, Robert Paulmenn, Noel Thomas, Erin Gafill, Cindy Kerwin-Cori, and Shirley Novack--their talent, gifts, and crafts though not mine, do not prohibit me, any longer, to avoid touching paint to canvas, brush to pad, or imagination to the paints on my canvas.
Saturday, May 6, 2017
Thursday, May 4, 2017
May Photo Challenge, Day 4 Hotel
Has there ever really been a moment in a hotel, when I felt I would rather be there than at home? Moments that stand out regarding hotels are the ones that were out of the ordinary for one reason or another.
The bed and breakfast in Pacific Grove years ago. What stood out was the bed. The fresh linens, the thick mattress toppers that made the bed feel lush, comfortable, and endlessly soft and welcoming.
Hotel in Santa Barbara on my honeymoon. Being so upset because the key to my suitcase had been left behind, and we spent our time prying the case open instead of enjoying ourselves. That was pretty much how that short marriage progressed from there.
A hotel in Amsterdam, the Romer Viche, with it's warm, delightful atmosphere. Meeting my husband on New Year's and sitting talking with him as he sat in the bath tub. Laughter, warmth, engaging, hopeful times, and of course, something to argue about. Who ever remembers what starts an argument? I don't. Usually, I think, it's some perceived slight, and now with years and distance between us and the event, I cannot imagine what was ever worth arguing about?
Hotel rooms are places where there seem to be no real distractions. They're anonymous rest stops that sometimes aren't very restful. The Twenty Mule Team Motel in the middle of the Mojave Desert looked and felt like something right out of Psycho. Only being completely exhausted made it possible for us to sleep for a while before making our escape.
A hotel in Hawai'i, on the Kona Coast. Finding a large can of insecticide in the room, wondering why, and then running screaming from the room when a giant flying bug flew at me after I tossed a pillow across the room at my husband. Being bitten by something on that same trip and having my leg swell up to twice its size. Oh yes, hotels are interesting places.
A couple of summers ago, a friend drove to my home in Oregon, and together we drove back down the coast to San Francisco. I've made this trip many times, and never reserve a room ahead. My friend had mad reservations at a motel in Crescent City, and when we arrived, her careful plan worked out to the last detail, unfolded. Unfortunately, across the street from the motel a carnival was set up. A Ferris Wheel and a bunch of rides, plus the loudspeaker systems playing music well into the late night and early morning, had us rolling with laughter and making an early escape the next day.
Speaking of carefully arranged plans, let me tell you why I am not a big believer in planning. Or at least in expecting a plan to actually work out. My husbands birthday was coming up, and I wanted it to be special for him. I made arrangements to stay at one of the nicest hotels on Santa Catalina Island, a small island off the coast of Soutern California. My family had lived there when I was young, my Mother grew up there, and it was one of my favorite places.
The Zane Gray Hotel, the former residence of the famous writer, was located atop a hill on the island. We took the boat across the channel, and were scheduled to spend 3-4 days at the hotel. We arrived at the hotel, put our bags down, and headed out for a walk and a meal. The island is relaxing and easy to get around on, and we walked out by the Casino and sat and talked and watched the boats in the harbor. Later we went back to the hotel to find our room flooded. Something was leaking and the carpet was soaking wet. When we passed through the first night and second day with no satisfactory solution, we packed our bags and went looking for another room somewhere else. We ended up at an old converted boarding house, and that was not private, pleasant, or anything close to our dream location. We walked out to the casino again, sat by the water, and decided we wanted to go home. So we did.
Hotels remind me of dreams unfulfilled. Hotels remind me of high expectations and dreams dashed. Hotels remind me of disappointment and reasons to laugh. Hotels are not my favorite places to be, primarily because I'm a homebody. I'd rather be home than almost anywhere else. So this morning as I sit here listening to the fog horn blow out at the mouth of the river, I feel great comfort that my town is a destination, it's where people want to come to vacation.
I think it's odd that when I think of hotels, I think of all the places where I've been on the road or on vacation or on some odyssey journey, with someone, and in the hotel rooms, I find myself face to face with the stark reality of what I love or hate about my life. The last hotel I stayed in was in San Francisco with my ex-husband. We'd been on a long, arduous journey together, reaqainting ourselves with one another after long time apart. There had been lots of laughter, conversations, and some clashing expectations and perspectives.
In that boutique hotel in the Tenderloin (for anyone not familiar with either term, boutique and Tenderloin is an oxymoron), I knew there would be no more stays or long trips or even conversations. Our laughing and loving days were over. Trapped in the confines of a rented room, I felt the anonymity of being where you don't belong. Feeling away from what was safe, familiar, and comfortable. Hotels are anonymous places where we may or may not have our dreams fufilled. Personally, I'd rather be home.
The bed and breakfast in Pacific Grove years ago. What stood out was the bed. The fresh linens, the thick mattress toppers that made the bed feel lush, comfortable, and endlessly soft and welcoming.
Hotel in Santa Barbara on my honeymoon. Being so upset because the key to my suitcase had been left behind, and we spent our time prying the case open instead of enjoying ourselves. That was pretty much how that short marriage progressed from there.
A hotel in Amsterdam, the Romer Viche, with it's warm, delightful atmosphere. Meeting my husband on New Year's and sitting talking with him as he sat in the bath tub. Laughter, warmth, engaging, hopeful times, and of course, something to argue about. Who ever remembers what starts an argument? I don't. Usually, I think, it's some perceived slight, and now with years and distance between us and the event, I cannot imagine what was ever worth arguing about?
Hotel rooms are places where there seem to be no real distractions. They're anonymous rest stops that sometimes aren't very restful. The Twenty Mule Team Motel in the middle of the Mojave Desert looked and felt like something right out of Psycho. Only being completely exhausted made it possible for us to sleep for a while before making our escape.
A hotel in Hawai'i, on the Kona Coast. Finding a large can of insecticide in the room, wondering why, and then running screaming from the room when a giant flying bug flew at me after I tossed a pillow across the room at my husband. Being bitten by something on that same trip and having my leg swell up to twice its size. Oh yes, hotels are interesting places.
A couple of summers ago, a friend drove to my home in Oregon, and together we drove back down the coast to San Francisco. I've made this trip many times, and never reserve a room ahead. My friend had mad reservations at a motel in Crescent City, and when we arrived, her careful plan worked out to the last detail, unfolded. Unfortunately, across the street from the motel a carnival was set up. A Ferris Wheel and a bunch of rides, plus the loudspeaker systems playing music well into the late night and early morning, had us rolling with laughter and making an early escape the next day.
Speaking of carefully arranged plans, let me tell you why I am not a big believer in planning. Or at least in expecting a plan to actually work out. My husbands birthday was coming up, and I wanted it to be special for him. I made arrangements to stay at one of the nicest hotels on Santa Catalina Island, a small island off the coast of Soutern California. My family had lived there when I was young, my Mother grew up there, and it was one of my favorite places.
The Zane Gray Hotel, the former residence of the famous writer, was located atop a hill on the island. We took the boat across the channel, and were scheduled to spend 3-4 days at the hotel. We arrived at the hotel, put our bags down, and headed out for a walk and a meal. The island is relaxing and easy to get around on, and we walked out by the Casino and sat and talked and watched the boats in the harbor. Later we went back to the hotel to find our room flooded. Something was leaking and the carpet was soaking wet. When we passed through the first night and second day with no satisfactory solution, we packed our bags and went looking for another room somewhere else. We ended up at an old converted boarding house, and that was not private, pleasant, or anything close to our dream location. We walked out to the casino again, sat by the water, and decided we wanted to go home. So we did.
Hotels remind me of dreams unfulfilled. Hotels remind me of high expectations and dreams dashed. Hotels remind me of disappointment and reasons to laugh. Hotels are not my favorite places to be, primarily because I'm a homebody. I'd rather be home than almost anywhere else. So this morning as I sit here listening to the fog horn blow out at the mouth of the river, I feel great comfort that my town is a destination, it's where people want to come to vacation.
I think it's odd that when I think of hotels, I think of all the places where I've been on the road or on vacation or on some odyssey journey, with someone, and in the hotel rooms, I find myself face to face with the stark reality of what I love or hate about my life. The last hotel I stayed in was in San Francisco with my ex-husband. We'd been on a long, arduous journey together, reaqainting ourselves with one another after long time apart. There had been lots of laughter, conversations, and some clashing expectations and perspectives.
In that boutique hotel in the Tenderloin (for anyone not familiar with either term, boutique and Tenderloin is an oxymoron), I knew there would be no more stays or long trips or even conversations. Our laughing and loving days were over. Trapped in the confines of a rented room, I felt the anonymity of being where you don't belong. Feeling away from what was safe, familiar, and comfortable. Hotels are anonymous places where we may or may not have our dreams fufilled. Personally, I'd rather be home.
May Writing Challenge, Day 3 Photographs
A photograph captures a moment in time. It tells a small piece of a narrative, it records an event, or it glimpses into a relationship. Imagine if you will, a photograph of this very moment, or this one. What would that photograph capture?
This morning a series of photographs would reveal the ritual of my daily life. A shot of the cats chasing around in the dark, just before dawn. Me stumbling into the kitchen, nearly dipping my fingers in the water bowl to check to see if the cats need to be fed. Standing at the stove, lighting the burner underneath the red metal tea pot...preparation for the morning tea ceremony.
Odd photographs depict the drudgery of a mind obssessed on organizing the closet...so much so that one snapshot depicts me standing in front of the open closet, pulling item after item out to inspect, fold, and put in an assigned position. Or lugging out the bags of dirty laundry in preparation for the weekly trek to the laundromat. Scooping out the cat box, replacing litter, and twisting the blue plastic bag into a secure knot before heading out the kitchen door to toss the bag in the bin.
Outside on the wooden porch, still in the morning air. Chilly, foggy, and damp. Standing barefoot on the wet wood, I stand, my long red print dress clinging to my legs, listening to the birds singing in the trees. The Sun has not yet risen, so the photograph is dark, illuminating only the spots that hold light. What a photograph can only hint at are the feelings and thoughts that fill the subject. An expression, a look in the eyes, a stance, the juxtaposition of one to another or to an object.
A photograph of me would show a woman propped up on a bed, one she'd already made, a small lap desk on her upper thighs. Another photograph would catch an angle of her hands dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, laying out words in neat phrases and lines. Still another would see me watching the cats playing. What it couldn't catch would be the sounds of one of my cats snoring, his head propped up against the sliding glass door window, already exhausted from his morning romp around the house, satisfied with Fancy Feast in his belly.
A photograph depicts a piece of time, a moment in space, and hints at much more. A photograph is an invitation to go deeper, look more closely, and to use imagination to dream of being somewhere. A photograph transports you through time and space, and wakes up the senses with a simple stirring of memory. A photograph invites you to dream or forget or keep exploring.
Since my first adventures in a photographic dark room many years ago, photography has held a special place in my heart and life. My Father gifted me with his beautiful 35mm camera, and invited me, without a word, to go wandering, to look deeper, and to remember. Always to remember, the special times I've recorded in a life full of rich moments and relationships. His gift of a tool and his invitation to use the tool, has given me a new vocation and a way into art that might otherwise have eluded me. It has made me aware of my own unique view, my eye for beauty and my sense of detail.
In the darkroom, I learned to look deeper. To isolate a piece of the whole in order to highlight some unique feature. Photographs can expand to include more, or shrink to leave things and people out. Photographs tell a story, a piece of the tale. Holding a photograph of an old lover in my hand today, I wonder if burning that piece of history will do anything at all to erase his memory? Photographs help us or require us to hold onto something that is in the past. Is that a good thing, or not? Ask me when I make my decision about burning this one.
This morning a series of photographs would reveal the ritual of my daily life. A shot of the cats chasing around in the dark, just before dawn. Me stumbling into the kitchen, nearly dipping my fingers in the water bowl to check to see if the cats need to be fed. Standing at the stove, lighting the burner underneath the red metal tea pot...preparation for the morning tea ceremony.
Odd photographs depict the drudgery of a mind obssessed on organizing the closet...so much so that one snapshot depicts me standing in front of the open closet, pulling item after item out to inspect, fold, and put in an assigned position. Or lugging out the bags of dirty laundry in preparation for the weekly trek to the laundromat. Scooping out the cat box, replacing litter, and twisting the blue plastic bag into a secure knot before heading out the kitchen door to toss the bag in the bin.
Outside on the wooden porch, still in the morning air. Chilly, foggy, and damp. Standing barefoot on the wet wood, I stand, my long red print dress clinging to my legs, listening to the birds singing in the trees. The Sun has not yet risen, so the photograph is dark, illuminating only the spots that hold light. What a photograph can only hint at are the feelings and thoughts that fill the subject. An expression, a look in the eyes, a stance, the juxtaposition of one to another or to an object.
A photograph of me would show a woman propped up on a bed, one she'd already made, a small lap desk on her upper thighs. Another photograph would catch an angle of her hands dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, laying out words in neat phrases and lines. Still another would see me watching the cats playing. What it couldn't catch would be the sounds of one of my cats snoring, his head propped up against the sliding glass door window, already exhausted from his morning romp around the house, satisfied with Fancy Feast in his belly.
A photograph depicts a piece of time, a moment in space, and hints at much more. A photograph is an invitation to go deeper, look more closely, and to use imagination to dream of being somewhere. A photograph transports you through time and space, and wakes up the senses with a simple stirring of memory. A photograph invites you to dream or forget or keep exploring.
Since my first adventures in a photographic dark room many years ago, photography has held a special place in my heart and life. My Father gifted me with his beautiful 35mm camera, and invited me, without a word, to go wandering, to look deeper, and to remember. Always to remember, the special times I've recorded in a life full of rich moments and relationships. His gift of a tool and his invitation to use the tool, has given me a new vocation and a way into art that might otherwise have eluded me. It has made me aware of my own unique view, my eye for beauty and my sense of detail.
In the darkroom, I learned to look deeper. To isolate a piece of the whole in order to highlight some unique feature. Photographs can expand to include more, or shrink to leave things and people out. Photographs tell a story, a piece of the tale. Holding a photograph of an old lover in my hand today, I wonder if burning that piece of history will do anything at all to erase his memory? Photographs help us or require us to hold onto something that is in the past. Is that a good thing, or not? Ask me when I make my decision about burning this one.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
May Writing Challenge, Day 2 Brunch
Brunches are lost on me. The massive display of food items, the alcohol-fueled, mid-morning weekend gorging are not my thing. And kind of ruins the whole idea of a resful weekend. The idea of a brunch, a combination of lunch and breakfast, sounds good at first. Eating at a reasonable hour, having a choice of anything to eat, and spending time with loved ones, family, or friends. Not to mention, brunch is usually served in a very nice hotel and environment. How could anyone not like that?
Easy, that is if you don't like to eat a lot. Having 16 choices of dishes, rashers of bacon, sausage, or ham, and piles and plates of pastries, fruit, side dishes and Mimosas galore is about as appealing as facing the freeway during rush hour. Love the idea of eating mid morning mind you, however too much food and too much drinking do not always lead to a good result. My personal problem, though it's not really a problem is I don't like to eat that much food. Preferring small portions, and much lighter food than is usually found at a brunch, I find it hard to face the prospects of a brunch invitation. Also, if I did drink with my meals, I wouldn't want to get sloshed at 10 or 11 on a Sunday morning. Something about that feels all wrong to me. Partly because it is traditionally Sabbath time, but more so because its' too early to drink alcohol. For me, a glass of alcohol in the morning would not go down well. And sitting at the brunch table with people who are overeating and drinking, can only end badly.
Are my opinions based on never having experienced the joys of a brunch? Not at all. Mine are based on my own experiences. When I used to go to brunch with my husband or with friends, I would initially be seduced by the aromas and artfully arranged pork products and the handsome chefs making omelettes to my exact taste. I would sip a Mimosa or two, and that would lead me into a haze of feeling bloated and woozy. Normally, I'd pile too much food on my plate, and then not be able to eat more than 3-4 bites of anything. Worse than not liking brunch is hating to waste food. Throwing out food is painful to me, because I think of all the starving people. I heard about them at my dinner table growing up (There are people in China starving who'd be grateful for what's on your plate) and I witnessed them myself on the streets and at the end of the month when my cupboards are as bare as my wallet. No, wasting food is high on my list of priorities of what not to do.
Too much food, too many choices, and too much waste. Often any alcohol is too much, especially at mid morning. That brings me to the residual fallout from brunches. The experiences that come to mind are none too pleasant. On one occasion, my husband (#1) and I were invited to play tennis with a couple who we thought were our friends. We met at their house for brunch, at which we were served Screwdrivers (the early version of Mimosas without the sugar). On the tennis court, we were beaten soundly...the result my husband declared of them "gettng us smashed before we hit the courts". Whether that was true or not, I will never know. At my 50th reunion, I didn't bring it up when I met the wife of that couple. Her husband had just died, and I didn't think it was the proper time to bring up old grievance.
Another chilling brunch event stands out in my mind. My husband (#2) and I used to enjoy driving out to the 'farmland' where a Hilton or Sheraton was on Sundays for the brunch. Normally, it had been fine. The day before he was set to leave the country for a stint in the military, we made the mistake of going to brunch. Due to the impending gloom of the separation that faced us, we both had too much to drink and probably weren't that interested in food, feeling instead the need to say everything we had to say before we ran out of time. Big mistake. All I remember is walking out on the golf course with him, taking my shoes off, and crying. I doubt I would have ended the brunch like that had alcohol not been involved. I'm such a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Two small glasses of anything is way over my limit, so I abstain from drinking most of the time now.
When the topic of brunch appeared, I had no trouble coming up with examples of what a disaster brunches have been. I love going out to breakfast however, where I can pick and choose what I want without feeling any guilt. If by brunch you mean a late breakfast, then I think some of my favorite meals have been brunch, sans the buffet, sans the alcohol. The Park Pantry by Cherry Park in Long Beach used to have the best Huevos Rancheros. I have not found a place since that beats their wonderful breakfasts. Going out to breakfast with my Daughter has always been a favorite pastime. Going out with her family now still is. Better yet, making breakfast in the kitchen together and eating around our table, is the best place for any means. Brunch may be nice for many if not most, but for me, it's just not my cup of tea. Rather fix that cup of tea at home, and enjoy the ambiance of my own table or that of my family.
Easy, that is if you don't like to eat a lot. Having 16 choices of dishes, rashers of bacon, sausage, or ham, and piles and plates of pastries, fruit, side dishes and Mimosas galore is about as appealing as facing the freeway during rush hour. Love the idea of eating mid morning mind you, however too much food and too much drinking do not always lead to a good result. My personal problem, though it's not really a problem is I don't like to eat that much food. Preferring small portions, and much lighter food than is usually found at a brunch, I find it hard to face the prospects of a brunch invitation. Also, if I did drink with my meals, I wouldn't want to get sloshed at 10 or 11 on a Sunday morning. Something about that feels all wrong to me. Partly because it is traditionally Sabbath time, but more so because its' too early to drink alcohol. For me, a glass of alcohol in the morning would not go down well. And sitting at the brunch table with people who are overeating and drinking, can only end badly.
Are my opinions based on never having experienced the joys of a brunch? Not at all. Mine are based on my own experiences. When I used to go to brunch with my husband or with friends, I would initially be seduced by the aromas and artfully arranged pork products and the handsome chefs making omelettes to my exact taste. I would sip a Mimosa or two, and that would lead me into a haze of feeling bloated and woozy. Normally, I'd pile too much food on my plate, and then not be able to eat more than 3-4 bites of anything. Worse than not liking brunch is hating to waste food. Throwing out food is painful to me, because I think of all the starving people. I heard about them at my dinner table growing up (There are people in China starving who'd be grateful for what's on your plate) and I witnessed them myself on the streets and at the end of the month when my cupboards are as bare as my wallet. No, wasting food is high on my list of priorities of what not to do.
Too much food, too many choices, and too much waste. Often any alcohol is too much, especially at mid morning. That brings me to the residual fallout from brunches. The experiences that come to mind are none too pleasant. On one occasion, my husband (#1) and I were invited to play tennis with a couple who we thought were our friends. We met at their house for brunch, at which we were served Screwdrivers (the early version of Mimosas without the sugar). On the tennis court, we were beaten soundly...the result my husband declared of them "gettng us smashed before we hit the courts". Whether that was true or not, I will never know. At my 50th reunion, I didn't bring it up when I met the wife of that couple. Her husband had just died, and I didn't think it was the proper time to bring up old grievance.
Another chilling brunch event stands out in my mind. My husband (#2) and I used to enjoy driving out to the 'farmland' where a Hilton or Sheraton was on Sundays for the brunch. Normally, it had been fine. The day before he was set to leave the country for a stint in the military, we made the mistake of going to brunch. Due to the impending gloom of the separation that faced us, we both had too much to drink and probably weren't that interested in food, feeling instead the need to say everything we had to say before we ran out of time. Big mistake. All I remember is walking out on the golf course with him, taking my shoes off, and crying. I doubt I would have ended the brunch like that had alcohol not been involved. I'm such a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Two small glasses of anything is way over my limit, so I abstain from drinking most of the time now.
When the topic of brunch appeared, I had no trouble coming up with examples of what a disaster brunches have been. I love going out to breakfast however, where I can pick and choose what I want without feeling any guilt. If by brunch you mean a late breakfast, then I think some of my favorite meals have been brunch, sans the buffet, sans the alcohol. The Park Pantry by Cherry Park in Long Beach used to have the best Huevos Rancheros. I have not found a place since that beats their wonderful breakfasts. Going out to breakfast with my Daughter has always been a favorite pastime. Going out with her family now still is. Better yet, making breakfast in the kitchen together and eating around our table, is the best place for any means. Brunch may be nice for many if not most, but for me, it's just not my cup of tea. Rather fix that cup of tea at home, and enjoy the ambiance of my own table or that of my family.
Monday, May 1, 2017
May 5-Minute a Day Writing Challenge
Today one of my writer friends, Susan Ito from the Bay Area in San Francisco, invited me and others to a May writing challenge. I love to do these challenges sometimes. They help me develop discipline that I need to keep my writing fresh and on targe. They also help me take a break from some of the bigger more serious projects. I decided to record the challenge here each day, and I invite you to join the challenge yourself.
The idea is to use the list of prompts, and to write for 5 minutes using the daily prompts. That's all there is to it. Ready? Set? Let's get started.
Day One, Writing Prompt-Pour.
Pour or poor are or were supposed to be pronounced differently. At least that's what I've been told. In particular by one very highly charged drama coach I had in high school. I met Mr. Rashkovski when I was in my first high school drama class. I took all the classes I could take from him throughout high school. In 10th grade he told us his last name was Rashkovsky. In 11th grade, he'd shortened it to Rashkow. and by 12th grade, he'd anglicized his beautiful name to Randall. He said, in passing, "I didn't want to deal with the 'are you a rash cow?' jokes for the rest of my life." He changed it to fit into his new culture. I wish he hadn't, but it was his life and his name. Who can tell another person what they should like to be called? I've changed my name often enough, so I understood.
He was a Russian Jew who had escaped the harsh conditions of Russia some time during or after WWII. By the time I met him, he was probably in his late 50s or 60s, I'm really not sure. He was grizzled though, and one of the very best teachers I have ever had.
We, the drama students, were his cast. He treated us like a director would treat his actors, and demanded our best. We all loved acting and learning from him. My favorite roles were the nasty women of Arthur Miller, Eugene O'Neill, and Chekov, of course Chekov. We did scenes from the Cherry Orchard, I recall. What I most remember though was the day I was doing a monologue. I don't recall which scene or which play, but I was in front of the class all alone on the stage. Mr. Rashkovsky, or Rashkow, or Randall or whatever he was calling himself that day, was sitting at the back of the room. He stopped me mid-scene and began asking me questions. "Say the word P-O-U-R." so I said it, in my best stage voice, modulating and projecting my voice. Then he said, "Now say P-O-O-R." So I did. This exchange went on over and over for about five minutes. Finally, frustrated, he said to me, "Can't you hear the difference in the two? Pour is Pour, not Poor." "No, sir, they both sound the same to me." He finally gave up, waving his hand in the air, "Go on with your monologue."
After that, I became more and more concerned about the pronunciation of poor and pour. I still can't hear the difference and was amazed when i read an article last week about the evolution of the pronunciation of the two words. Evidently in my own lifetime, the words went from two distinct sounds to one. Evidently, it is now considered okay to pronounce the two words as if they were homophones--words that sound alike though spelled differently.
However, for Mr. Rashkovski, that would never have flown. I, on the other hand, have accepted that I have been riding on the edge of the evolution of the language. Two other experiences highlighted the fact that my pronunciation is different from the norm in many ways. My husband, a non-native speaker, picked up the way I said "mountain" and pronounced most all his English with a British prep school kind of dialect...all but the word mountain which sounded like a twangy southern accent. Like a cowgirl. I pleaded with him not to say the word the way I did. That only insured he would say it and make it even twangier.
Recently, while visiting my Daughter and Granddaughter in San Francisco, my Granddaughter and I got into a discussion about the proper use of language. My 10-year old granddaughter informed me, "Yaya, language changes. What is polite or proper is now different. That's the way it is."
Pour might not be poor, but they're both the same to me. Life and language indeed do change, and if we can, we might learn something new by changing with both.
The idea is to use the list of prompts, and to write for 5 minutes using the daily prompts. That's all there is to it. Ready? Set? Let's get started.
Day One, Writing Prompt-Pour.
Pour or poor are or were supposed to be pronounced differently. At least that's what I've been told. In particular by one very highly charged drama coach I had in high school. I met Mr. Rashkovski when I was in my first high school drama class. I took all the classes I could take from him throughout high school. In 10th grade he told us his last name was Rashkovsky. In 11th grade, he'd shortened it to Rashkow. and by 12th grade, he'd anglicized his beautiful name to Randall. He said, in passing, "I didn't want to deal with the 'are you a rash cow?' jokes for the rest of my life." He changed it to fit into his new culture. I wish he hadn't, but it was his life and his name. Who can tell another person what they should like to be called? I've changed my name often enough, so I understood.
He was a Russian Jew who had escaped the harsh conditions of Russia some time during or after WWII. By the time I met him, he was probably in his late 50s or 60s, I'm really not sure. He was grizzled though, and one of the very best teachers I have ever had.
We, the drama students, were his cast. He treated us like a director would treat his actors, and demanded our best. We all loved acting and learning from him. My favorite roles were the nasty women of Arthur Miller, Eugene O'Neill, and Chekov, of course Chekov. We did scenes from the Cherry Orchard, I recall. What I most remember though was the day I was doing a monologue. I don't recall which scene or which play, but I was in front of the class all alone on the stage. Mr. Rashkovsky, or Rashkow, or Randall or whatever he was calling himself that day, was sitting at the back of the room. He stopped me mid-scene and began asking me questions. "Say the word P-O-U-R." so I said it, in my best stage voice, modulating and projecting my voice. Then he said, "Now say P-O-O-R." So I did. This exchange went on over and over for about five minutes. Finally, frustrated, he said to me, "Can't you hear the difference in the two? Pour is Pour, not Poor." "No, sir, they both sound the same to me." He finally gave up, waving his hand in the air, "Go on with your monologue."
After that, I became more and more concerned about the pronunciation of poor and pour. I still can't hear the difference and was amazed when i read an article last week about the evolution of the pronunciation of the two words. Evidently in my own lifetime, the words went from two distinct sounds to one. Evidently, it is now considered okay to pronounce the two words as if they were homophones--words that sound alike though spelled differently.
However, for Mr. Rashkovski, that would never have flown. I, on the other hand, have accepted that I have been riding on the edge of the evolution of the language. Two other experiences highlighted the fact that my pronunciation is different from the norm in many ways. My husband, a non-native speaker, picked up the way I said "mountain" and pronounced most all his English with a British prep school kind of dialect...all but the word mountain which sounded like a twangy southern accent. Like a cowgirl. I pleaded with him not to say the word the way I did. That only insured he would say it and make it even twangier.
Recently, while visiting my Daughter and Granddaughter in San Francisco, my Granddaughter and I got into a discussion about the proper use of language. My 10-year old granddaughter informed me, "Yaya, language changes. What is polite or proper is now different. That's the way it is."
Pour might not be poor, but they're both the same to me. Life and language indeed do change, and if we can, we might learn something new by changing with both.
Thursday, April 27, 2017
What's It All About? Stop Asking and Start Doing.
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| Fragrance of Life Catherine Al-Meten Meyers
In the 60s there was a popular British song, What's It All About Alfie?" Believe it was from the soundtrack of a movie out at the time, but the lyrics stayed with me, as lyrics tend to do. The gist of the song, for those who don't remember it, had to do with the meaning of life. There were a lot of popular songs out at the time that dealt with the meaning of life. Another one that was one of my favorites was Peggy Lee's Is That All There Is?. That was pretty depressing, but there have been moments when my expectations far outweighed my actual experience, and this song rose up from my memory. Today it wasn't the lyrics to a song that inspired me, but a line from an interview with a writer, Henry Miller.
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When I was a young girl, Henry Miller's books were infamous in the U.S.. They were said to be full of salacious, pornographic erotica, so of course, I didn't read them. I snuck a look at Peyton Place (small town cheating and sexual exploration) at my parent's friend's house, but never ventured near Miller until I was well into Grandmotherhood. About 10 years ago, I house/cat sat for a friend of my Daughter's in San Francisco. The friend, an artist, had a house full of beautiful and intriguing artwork (sculptures, paintings, collages, mobiles), and very interesting reading material. Among the books i found were some written by Henry Miller. Among those books was Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch. I picked it up, not knowing what to expect, and began reading.
It was one of those books I could not put down, nor could I forget it once I'd read it. It was a writer's voice talking about living life--a writer's life. From that book, I went on to read other works of Millers, many which gave an autobiographical glimpse into his life, his writing, who and what influenced him, and what he struggled with. This morning I was reading an excerpt from an interview in the Paris Review of Miller. The interview Miller gave in 1961 was done during the height of his 'overnight' success as a write...30 some years after the book he wrote was finally published in the U.S.. Somewhere midway through the interview, obviously tired of answering predictable and unanswerable questions, he said he following:
"I think these questions are meaningless. What does it matter how long it takes to write a book? If you were to ask that of Simenon, he’d tell you very definitely. I think it takes him from four to seven weeks. He knows that he can count on it. His books have a certain length usually. Then too, he’s one of those rare exceptions, a man who when he says, “Now I’m going to start and write this book,” gives himself to it completely. He barricades himself, he has nothing else to think about or do. Well, my life has never been that way. I’ve got everything else under the sun to do while writing."
Having everything else under the sun to do has always marked my writing career. Whether I was writing papers for some academic pursuit, researching and writing for an article, essay, journal or blog, or trying to find time to write a book I'd been wanting to write for years--life went on around me. And I, like most everyone else, had obligations, responsibilities, and people who depended on me for one thing or another. Even when a baby was sick with a high fever, and I'd been in a bathtub in the middle of the night trying to cool her down, I managed to find time to write.
It was infinitely easier to justify time for writing if I was doing it for a purpose. Purpose being for a class or degree or commitment I'd made. Writing as a way to make a living has never been the main goal I've had. Usually writing has been about satisfying some inner desire to tell a story or getting a set of poems compiled or writing on a topic I felt I needed to express an opinion or provide some kind of guidance. Very often it was putting my ideas for a lecture into written form since I was so much more comfortable with my writing voice than I was with my spoken one. All this changed about 20 years ago.
When I count back, I'm surprised, but the first steps I made toward declaring to myself my intent to write full time was made that long ago. I decided to share a job with a friend, so that I could have the extra time to write. It was a major move for me. My daughter said to me at that time, "You need to have a laptop computer so you can go outside and get out of this office to write." This was when laptops were rather foreign objects and I had no intention of ever possessing one. My response to her was, "Oh that's just not possible." But the seed had been planted. About a year or two later in my first graduate class for my doctoral program, two of the students showed up with their laptops, and annoyed the heck out of me as they click clacked away, staring at their screens as class went on. At that time, I had been using a word processor, and had moved on to a desk top computer, so I did value technology. So my mind began to open up a bit more.
Another major step in the process of admitting I was a writer came after my doctoral program. It happened on my 60th birthday. I was in Connecticut working at a small private Catholic university, and was shopping at Pier One looking for furniture to furnish my tiny little apartment in the attic of an old mansion. There was very little space in the rooms I was staying in. There was however, space for a narrow table at the window. I purchased a glass-topped desk and my friend and administrative assistant struggled together getting the wrought iron base of the desk up the narrow flight of stairs to my apartment. When I put it in my rooms, I vowed to myself that this was my commitment to live the writer's life in earnest. A year or so later, when I moved back to the West Coast, my desk came with me. It has served as a constant reminder of my vow.
In reading Henry Miller's works, I was most fascinated by his life as a young man in Paris, living on next to nothing, walking the streets of Paris, spending time with friends, and writing in his rooms. Life was a struggle, as it often seems to be for most of us. People come in and out of our lives, and we become involved in the drama that makes life what it is. People get sick or we fall ill, and have to deal with physical hardships and limitations or take care of others who do. All this life and drama takes a toll on our lives as artists or writers. Yet it nourishes our art as well. We are the kind of writer we are because of everything that we have been through, accomplished, done, or had to cope with. There is nothing in our lives that cannot feed our art.
As I write today, the dishes have gotten done, the cats have been tended to, business has been taken care of, and plans have been made to join friends later for a walk on the beach. I have yet to eat, and that's taking a toll on my energy levels, but something about writing makes it a kind of urgency that once you have the bug to get something said in writing, you just have to do it. Regardless of the costs sometimes. Irrespective of whether or not you have everyone's approval (that's rare unless you're really successful).Writing is a solo act. It cannot be done, at least I cannot do it, with company. When I was a young girl, there was no privacy in our house, so I learned to sit at the kitchen table, carry on conversations with my Mother, while tuning everything out as I read or wrote. It's a skill I only use now when in a coffee shop or other public place.
My home is my workshop, my studio, my writing place. There are multiple spots around my tiny home where I have set up centers for one kind of writing or art or another. I loved Maria Montessori's idea of space to do different things, and have pretty much my own Montessori house going on here. Today I'm sitting on my bed, my back supported by my sturdy back rest, my cat on the pillow snoring away beside me, and the scope of my life spread out all around me. I have not cut myself off from life; indeed I consider everything equally relevant. Dishes I've used to feed myself or others, have a place, need to be kept clean, and provide me with a bit of colorful joy when I eat. Food while not the center of my life, is necessary, so I try to make it colorful, tasty, healthy, and beautiful. I rarely eat out of habit or routine. Cleaning and rearranging is vital ot my emotional well being, which of course is necessary to my writing and art. So I have my habits. Sweeping, dusting, cleaning, airing out, organizing, and rearranging. All keep me in a state of balance and harmony.
And on my refrigerator on a grease-splattered page with a quotation typed on it, are the words of another writer, John Hersey:
"To be a writer is to sit down at one's desk in the chill portion of every day, and to write; not waiting for the little jet of the blue flame of genius to start from the breastbone--just plain going at it, in pain and delight. To be a writer is to throw away a great deal, not to be satisfied, to type again and then again and once more, and over and over."
Not sure that I rewrite as much as Hersey but I do sit down regardless of what's going on, how I feel, or whether I feel I have anything to write or not. And the chill of the morning, is when I usually start, but it is by no means the only time I write. I find time when I think there is none. I think of the young wife and mother, Beverly Cleary who sat at her little kitchen table in the Oakland Hills writing whenever she could. And I remember the choices I've made to have the life I now do, and I am so grateful. Sometimes I wish I'd started earlier, but then I think---everything counts. Whatever I've done or not done, has made me who I am today, and all of it feeds my work.
Recently, I finished and published my first fiction novel. A dream I'd had for year. Something I'd continued to work on in bits and pieces, until a little less than two years ago when I began focusing on it as my main project. This week the first big delivery of the book arrived, and the first reviews from those who have read it start to finish have begun to come in. They are words I'd hoped to hear (Can't put it down. Can't wait for the sequel), but they are not the words that motivated me to write it. The motivation comes from within, from the desire to let the process begin and then to trust that process, and let it flow. It's a wonderful stream I am having to be swimming in. And whatever it is that you have that longing to do, begin it, and keep working on it. Hold onto those dreams and take whatever steps you can to fulfill them. The pleasure is, for me, in the process. Find that pleasure of doing what you love and desire by doing it. Let nothing get in your way. Let your life include the desires; use life to feed them.
If you don't believe me, listen to Henry Miller's voice from his memoir, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch:
“If we are always arriving and departing, it is also
true that we are eternally anchored. One's destination
is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things.”
Let yourself be anchored in the movement of your own process, your own growth, your own life, and to that of the life that nourishes, passes through, and inspires you.
Friday, March 10, 2017
Jumping Into a New Pond
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| At the Dock Catherine Al-Meten Meyers |
All I remembered was feeling a knot in my stomach and a kind of "who do I think I am" feeling about starting the 30-day writing challenge. My first piece was entitled "Writing in the Now". Here is how I began:
"Writing, knowing that others are going to read what I write, is not unusual for me, but this type of writing is. I've enjoyed reading the pieces written about the individual writing group members’ experiences and the reflections of daily life experience--the simple and the profound. I'm not sure what I'm going to write here this month, but for today I'm going to focus on the 'now'."
From there I proceeded, and when I was done, I took a deep breath and waited. Waited for response. Unlike other kinds of writing, this was meant to be a starting point, an unfinished, unedited, uncensored piece of writing that attempted to dig up some relics of our past, some dream of the future, or some deeper sense of the now of our lives. It was meant to allow for going further with an excavation of our deeper selves, and so it did. One of the most unexpected pieces of the experience were the connections made through this experience. A connection that began when I began to receive response from what I had written.
I recall the excitement of the first feedback I got. Surprisingly, it was positive. More surprisingly, it didn't meet my expectation of being found out to be a fraud. One of the things that happens to us as writers, artists, or musicians is that kind of terror that we're just not going to measure up to some standard. I believe we all have a fear that what we feel so passionate about or what we have worked to shape, sculpt, arrange, or lay out, is somehow not quite good enough. That one fear can be the roadblock that stops many creative people from ever laying their work out to be received. It can even be what stops a writer from writing. However, on that day in early July two years ago, I took the leap, and have not been sorry.
Once other writers began respnding to what I'd written, I felt freed of fear. I also found a new voice within me...a voice that went deeper into memory, deeper into exploration, and beyond the limits and parameters that I had confined my writing to in the past. A kind of liberation happened, and at the same time, I began to develop some fairly deep communicaion with some of the other writers. People who identified with my experiences, or who found some kind of solace or humor in something I'd written. Two years out from that inital experience, I can honestly say I have some new friends, friends who are fellow writers, artists, healers, seekers, and men and women who put themselves out, who take the leap with me each time we write and share our words with one another.
The title of my book came from the vision I had each time I went to write with my group...a vision of a bunch of frogs coming to the lily pond each day. Each of us sitting on our lily pad, would sing out our songs. Soon our songs rang out across the pond and helped create a very special place to gather. This experience has been unique for me, for I am not much of a joiner. After many years of working with many people, my life as a writer has been much more solitary. The only way I can write is by making my life so. However, what feeds a writer's mind and soul, cannot be found just by being alone. After a while, we need to find those lily ponds where we can croak out our songs and find others who are singing as well.
And that brings me to where I wanted to go today. A few months ago I moved to a tiny town, only a few miles from where I'd been livng for the last 7 years. Just a few miles, but far from the energy and life of where I had been living. Usually it takes me a while to get acclimaed to a new home, a new place, and a new community. Slowly, I take my time setting up my new home, making myself at home, before getting to know the neighborhood and community around me. First venturing out to find the local places where I can shop, pick up a newspaper, or get a good cup of coffee. Or in my case, a cafe au lait made just right. For the first month after living here, I would drive back to the other town to do my grocery shopping or to get gas, or to visit my favorite coffee shop. And sometimes I'd just drive back and drive by those places to remind myself I did have a sense of community there. I could still feel at home there. However, I wanted to find out more about where I was now living. I didn't want to get stuck with a superficial impression of the place and never go deeper.
Slowly, I began developing a routine. The best of both worlds, I guess. Maintaining my yoga practice and teaching schedule, visiting the coffee shop at least once or twice a week, and going at regular intervals to pick up something I could only find in my old market. Of course I have family and friends in that town, so I go there often to be with them. And it's not like it's an hour's drive away. The difference between living in a town, for me, is the need I have to make myself at home. My new home, this little town at the end of the river on the edge of the coast, surrounded by water and forest, is my new home.
Getting to know the sights, sounds, smells, and energy of a place, can be full of surprises. The surprises here have included the quiet. My other home was very quiet. This place is even more so. My other home was full of beauty. This one is as well, but it's a different kind of beauty. Plants, animals, birds, and even the insects and bugs are different. Where I was was upstairs and surrounded by people--next door, downstairs, walking by and standing outside the windows carrying on conversations, walking dogs, occasionally erupting into midnight arguments when too much alcohol fueled some slight or rage. Here, it is quiet.Cars pass by out on the road, but they move by in a swish. My new home is ground level, and the only walking by is done by deer, elk, and the neighborhood cats. The wind howls and rages here at times. I'm out of touch with the rising and falling tides. My need to connect to those sea changes, finds me sitting by the water letting the headwinds blow my hair and sting my face with salty air.
Walking along the river, I spotted a small green and yellow snake coiled up, sunning on a rock. His diamond-shaped head perfectly still as I leaned over to get a closer look, he did not move. That is until I walked away. When I retraced my steps, he had disappeared. But we have met, and I look forward to meeting Snake again.
Squirrel, fat and bushy-tailed from a good winter, visited my deck, checking out my potted plants to see perhaps if there was anything worth chewing on. Need to remember to get some peanuts to put out for Squirrel. Wild geese have been flying in formation overhead this week, honking out at sunset as they get ready to fly into the lagoon near my old home. Now I find the geese at another point in their migration north. I know where they're headed. I will miss watching them land and take off from the river this year. The elk and deer must be somewhere else on their journey. Haven't seen them for a while.They'll be back. The old migration paths cannot be erased by houses, roads, fences, or peoples' lives.
One little building in particular has fascinated me. It looks like a little old white schoolhouse or church. White clapboard, listing slightly to one side, the sign above the door reads, Hammond Townhall. It currently houses the library. Loving libraries as I do, I've been wanting to stop in and see what is going on inside. I've heard it's going to be closed down, and the contents are to be moved to another building, a more modern one a little closer to the main highway. Before that happens, I wanted to be sure to go inside. Yesterday, instead of doing my laundry, I decided to visit the library instead.
Little did I know what a treasure awaited me inside. I was greeted by a woman wearing sparkly lapis-blue earrings and necklace. She took charge of greeting me and making me feel at home. She immediately began introducing me to everyone standing nearby, all of whom looked at me with a bit of suspicion. All that is except the library director, Nettie. Nettie walked me around the small, narrow building, showing me where to find books. She took me to each and every neatly organized bookcase, talking about authors we both loved, Anne Perry, Robert Parker. She won my instant approve when she marched me back to the compuer table where she showed me a large white notebook filled with authors' names and their works listed in chronological order of their publication date. Now maybe other libraries have this. Certainly you can look this up on Google, but here it was, printed out and put in alphabetical order. My Virgo Moon was in heaven. Chaos neatly organized!
Seated at the table in front of the computer terminals were three people. Two women and a man. All were in my age range, I think, though I'm never really sure about that. They too were friendly, and in the middle of the table was a huge cake surrounded by cupcakes, all frosted with a thick, pale orange icing flavored with fresh orange juice (this fact was shared by one of the women sitting at the table). In cursive writing someone had written on the cake in icing: For all the March Birthdays! I have a March birthday, so I was instantly in love with this little old library. One of the women, the one who had made the cake, were so kind and welcoming, offering me suggestions and tips about where to find things. There was an air of comfort, caring, and familiarity among these library people...one of those family affairs, where everyone knows your name.
After the initial sweep of the library and introductions, Nettie helped me get my new library card. I filled out the registrations, and felt compelled to tell her, "I can't remember my cousin's exact address. I always confuse the numbers." Nettie looked at the form in front of me, and said, "Oh Sandi, I used to substitute for her. She taught at the grade." Yes, it's that kind of area. Everyone knows someone you know or is related to someone you know, or was married to someone you know. It's so different from growing up and living in big cities where you could go days and weeks without ever seeing anyone you recognize. Here that's not the case. After giving me my new card, a refrigerator magnet and bookmarked, she proceeded to give me a real guided tour.
She showed me every nook and cranny. Along with showing me where things were and how they were organized, she also told me some of the stories of the little library's history. For starters, it used to be a military building on the grounds of the local army fort, Fort Stevens. The building had been cut in half (yes that happens a lot up here in the Northwest, or at least it used to), and one half had been brought to Hammond where it now resides. At first it was the local downhill, and then in the 1990's it became the town library. It has a fine collection of all types of books, many of which have been donated. The floor is sloped, as is often the case in old buildings sited on boggy land near the ocean or river. Nettie gave me her version of a "little tour" and when I finally thanked her and promised to come back to volunteer from time to time, we had spent over an hour together.
Why was this little deviation from the norm experience so important to me? Because our writing and creative lives are nourished by just some moments, such normal and unexpected twists and turns that turn out to lead us into the wardrobe and out the back door into a magic world of imagination and reality mixed up and ready to use to paint the next chapter. And so I've found such a magic land, and am sititng with a stack of books to explore. Seek out adventure in the ordinary, in the diversion or hunch that leads you astray now and then. And who knows, maybe there will be a cupcake with your name on it in the deal.
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