Thursday, October 25, 2012

mommy group

4 young mothers work hard to find time to meet for "a quick cuppa joe."

3 hours later, half-eaten croissants, empty packets of sugar, attendant sprinkles littered onto etched-glass tabletops, mommies reluctantly gather selves, children in attendance, myriad toy pieces, board books, uncapped & (miraculously) capped markers, shove items (less children) into overflowing bags, and walk out into the fresh mid-day autumn air. reluctant to part, good-byes last longer than is comfortable - litany of to-do lists give an unpleasant push from behind - and they resolve (a bit too forcefully) to ... reconvene again.

thank God for small pleasures and warm hearts.

what's next on your to-do list, says one?

which of the multitude of to-do lists are you referring to, replies the chorus?

the one entitled ways to stay sane, says she, punctuating with a laugh?

Monday, October 22, 2012

i am (back where i started)

funny thing about unresolved things; they ... return. humbling, this.

we scramble around, at times more elegantly so, but we still scramble so as to shirk the past, or to engulf the past, or to "do away" with the past. but the past ... is present. (thanks barbara!)

and so, if the past is present, does the present present nothing ... new? except a re-manifestation, albeit changed over the course of time, of the past?

the past is now "memory." memory colors the "present."

i try to taste newness in my mouth or to feel newness enter my body through minuscule pores. but my crepuscular body matter (cells, plasma, networks, energy channels, organic ephemera) enfolds the newness in its comforting, all-too-knowing cotton wool, transforms it into new+old.

recognize this: it is "old stuff."

and, in spite of this: (re)connect.

a strongly research-backed therapeutic modality (emdr) i trained in over the weekend took me back. but ... there is a way forward. the way forward is this: the memory is ... malleable perception.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

i want this, none other

... simple

... clean

... well-made

... well-cut

... well-tailored

... timeless

... open

... subtle

... mysterious

... good movement

... solid closure

... consonant melody

... old and new

... honest

... human-made

(why) is it so hard to find simple? why must we "settle" for "new and improved?"

i think we are being "sold" a falsehood. old and simple is still (mostly) clean and honest; i have a suspicion that new and improved is (almost always) a trojan horse.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

some things you can't take back

first post with an in-your-face mistake: discord between days and dates.

the first page, marked by this. this, a humbling experience for a perfectionist who veers toward obsessive-compulsive behaviors when the stars misalign.



and ... "doing it over." how many chances does life give us to ... do things over? depends, right? i have found that life and time are kind. often kinder than we are to ourselves. in time, over the span of our lives, our mistakes become a part of our lived life; they become as indicative of us - our quirks and journeys and musings and adventures - as our non-mistakes, aka successes.

do we discard something because it is ill-fitting? or do we reconstruct it? do we put it in a special box for to-be-done/addressed-later projects? i do not think we discard mistakes made along the way. i think we live into them, we extract their essence so that we may transform the ill-fitting experience, maybe adorn it with bells and baubles (to make it less jarring, less ... conspicuous, in a i-meant-to-that kind of way).

was it friday, january 22nd or friday, january 23rd? does it truly matter, in retrospect?

not really.

however, all could be else wise. in an anal-retentive, perfectionistic, obsessive-compulsive-tendencies way, it does matter. it matters because it's a piece of cognitive dissonance committed to "paper;" (wish i could take it back!).

the playful, loving part of me says, "quelle domage. i am human, after all." the memory and the feelings are what matters. these will be remembered. but one more important piece will be remembered by me: i have truly made one of my mistakes public! success in owning this, says she with a broad smile!

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

looking back as a way of beginning

the apprehension of the blank page.

unencountered since art school, many many years ago.

today, i supposedly help people surmount this predicament.

today, i start something new with something (reassuringly old). my first post on this my blog will be a looking-back at something in the not-too-distant past that may be said to be a bread crumb to today's typed letters you're reading here.

my first missive from far-flung alaska, to loved ones back home. "posted," in a different format then, on friday, january 23, 2010.


friday, january 22, 10am, alaska. rambling impressions. in small 9-seat plane, on way to homer from anchorage. 30degF in homer, with a 45-min flight. besides nicholas, me and the cat, one more passenger, a woman who moved to homer from michigan 8 years ago, and the pilot (young, maybe mid-20s, wears glasses) with his lime green backpack. plane dashboard with 30+ gauges, buttons plainly visible to an itchy nicholas.

mountains on either side. frozen ocean.

"mami, can this plane fly on the water?" "no, not this one either, nicholas." since we landed in anchorage thursday night, nicholas' interest in the ocean has increased manifold since he made the connection that whales and seals live in the water. so, to achieve his end of getting closer to these creatures, it seems to me he wished we were on sea planes. some day.

stretches of dark brown land, forested. thick thick forest. pockets of lakes here and there. sun rising slowly between mountain peaks on left. on the right, the reflection of the sun covering the mountain peaks in a pale rose, accentuating craters and ridges. plane flying low. cannot believe mountains all around. magnificent and solid and beautiful. mountains mountains mountains covered in snow. the rosy glow on the mountains. nicholas finally stopped fidgeting, his nose pressed to the window. looking at the singular peak rising among the mountain chain (mt. mckinley?  have to look at map). amazing and beautiful and ....

flying over a long stretch of land where there is just snow covering the hills, the evergreens - smaller, larger - visible as dots on the snow - smaller, larger.

clouds are low. the sun is rising metallic yellow and cold.

i can see snowmobile tracks below.

plane leaning into landing, thin strip of homer spit visible, here and there small wooden houses scattered on the hills, among the snow and spruce. on the anchorage-homer route, no houses. just wilderness.

in homer, driving to final destination, we make a few errand stops. we see a pheasant slowly crossing the road, tail feathers sticking up a mile long, a young eagle flying low over our car toward the library and, as we climb the hill toward the house, we surprise / are surprised by a young moose feeding on spruce. it stops chewing, looks at us looking at it, turns sround slowly and circles to the other side of the large tree.

by the time we both get dressed to go outside, the sun has gone down almost all the way. lots of snow. lots and lots of snow. beautiful, all of it, so far.

sun rises at about 9am and starts descent at about 4pm. the colors are unbelievable. all i can do is just look with my mouth open. on one side pronounced violet leaning toward purple, while on the other side, where the sun's light still hasn't reached fully, the sky is still a pale, clear, turquoise. the sun sets even more and the colors change again to milky velvety bleu marin, a streak of a demented shade of yellow, fingerlets of saturated rose, and the moon is oh-so-bright. and the snow sparkles.

"if you think the snow sparkles now, wait till the full moon," i'm told.

so much beauty. a friend from here, magnus frangipani, says, "so what do you think of our not-so-subtle beauty?"

end of first day.

wish i could send pictures, but the camera cables are packed in the car, with the important stuff, which will arrive first week in february.

carmen, nicholas, and the cat