Just like the song we're addicted to the L word

(Brief nudity. Not safe for work, children or the repressed.)

 

You think you're one of a special breed, Part one

I know that I'm best taken in small doses so this long post is divided into three parts.

Art, in itself, is an attempt to bring order out of chaos. - Stephen Sondheim

I've known artists who sought chaos first so they could eventually create their way out of it. Through the pinhole of judgment, I viewed the habit as an excuse to drink or get high or sleep around. To be an asshole was as much a part of the creative process as was anything else.

Even though I'm aces at being an insufferable asshole, I'd rather chew glass than claim my churlishness is due to my artistic nature.  When I'm being an ass, it's because I'm Scotch-Irish, my father's daughter, a product of my environment, because I never learned to deal appropriately with my anger, because I enjoy being that way on some level, because I am. I am simply and most-assuredly an asshole. I want to keep it to a minimum, but don't always reach that goal.

But being difficult because I'm creative? Please. I don't see myself an artist. I write to process things, not to create. Sure, I like to tell a story, to share something, to make people feel, to allow myself to feel through the words, but that's therapy not art.

When I wrote my now fallow novel, I attempted to transition from word self-medication to trying to create a new world, a new reality, a new order. I wasn't ready. That story evolved from one thing to another to another until it was unrecognizable. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I don't think that's how cogent, well-written novels are formed.

Later, I began taking anti-depressants and found a job with a very long commute. Writing to process things became less necessary and time became more precious. My already struggling habit of writing suffered an immediate blow.

Now instead of immediately turning to the act of writing through my emotions, I pause and rest with them. What I've noticed is that they're blunted. There's a buffer between me and passion for the things that had once consumed my imagination. Even the sadness I feel about the death of Morris is smooth around the edges. I leaked tears when I counted out the food bowls - four instead of five - but there's no pain in my chest, no unstoppable keening, no hurt that translates to the physical. I wipe the tears with the back of my hand and move on.

Other emotions have cooled. No longer mercurial. I'm almost glacial.

My rages lack vigor to the point that they don't even qualify as rages anymore. They're more like yawn inspiring rambles about things that kind of annoy me. Nate provided some parental disappointment recently and I didn't even raise my voice. Instead I opted for disappointed looks and conversation about the practicalities of his boneheaded activities.

My passive aggression is about 5% aggression. How disappointing for someone who has truly enjoyed that label in the past. Now I'm the dreaded passive sentence.

My once well-honed ability to spread the misery lacks its former expertise. My loved ones are grateful.

Is this what contentment feels like?

Continued.

Lisa Sing the Blues

Yesterday I tweeted that I was breaking up with TV because I can't take the bad news anymore. Why, in the span of twenty minutes, I was subjected to the news that Atlanta Mayor Kasim Reed had ordered the rousting of Occupy Atlanta, I ground my teeth while I listened to Senator Pat Toomey (R - PA) try to explain how Supply Side Economics would solve our problems by bringing down prices (which would be awesome if he means everything will be free because that's the only way people without jobs will be able to become consumers again), and then Arne Duncan came on the air to talk about how we need longer school days and more extracurricular activities for kids because all the activities the working classes can no longer afford to enroll their kids in aren't nearly enough.

At the end of that I was no longer grinding my teeth, I was stomping to the basement in search of ammunition.

The internet isn't much better, except for a few places that serve as doors into other worlds.

In a fit of pique, I hit my Tweetdeck with a hammer and threw eggs at the television. The cats were pleased. Their eyes gleamed as they lined up for a taste of that chirping Twitter bird and a couple of them went after the raw eggs. Not all of these cats are of the discerning taste variety. We have a couple with rather indiscriminate palates. If I don't keep the trash well sorted and the toilet lids shut, they think they're at a saloon with a buffet.

Alas, I wasn't finished. I also shot Facebook in the face because I'm so sick of the constant scroll of recycled photos with pithy sayings, the visual aids demonstrating just how fucking bad the economy is, and the links to the ever-increasing bad news.

I feel myself tumbling into the enormous chasm between the Haves and the Have Nots and wishing that we'd reach the place where violence becomes inevitable because I'm anxious to know the outcome of these dark times. I want to be through them already.

I hope you could follow that. You should see the size of the coffee cup I'm using.

Anyway, as an antidote, I'm spending more and more of my time escaping. While tugging clothes from the dryer and folding them into origami underwear swans is a great way to both stay away from the TV and to get make myself useful, I'd much rather disappear into new and different worlds - my own manuscript, books I'm reading, and especially into the labyrinth of online entertainment. Except for a few minutes of necessary relaxation to help me release my anxieties enough to get some work done, I'm actually talking about wholesome entertainment.

For example, short stories (follow the links to the story Paper Lanterns), and short films by new friends and then this by Nina Paley. In the Nina Paley film, my favorite parts are the cross talk between the narrators. (Click those links, people. I'm not kidding.)

Music is a must on my little island of I'm Ignoring You and You and You!. I bring with me all genres, but right now, I'm awash in jazz and the old standards and especially the old sappy love songs. A friend recently  sent me the 1929 CD by Annette Hanshaw who provides the soundtrack for Sita Sings the Blues.

I had an inkling of her work when I stumbled upon some of Hanshaw's music as I searched for a version Am I Blue to use in this post. It all fits so nicely since we seem to be enjoying economic good times just like in 1929.

Another friend and I were talking about how having certain survival skills might become necessity as things worsen. She pointed out that I might be glad I know how to grow food. I agreed, but I'd like better to be able to know how to grow trees that sprout Benjamins instead of leaves then I could start my own SuperPac. Talk about killing two legislative priorities with one big donation.

I think the thing that most irritates me about the state of the world is --- you know what, no. I can't even put my finger on the thing or even the things that most irritate me. We're in such a mess.

Enough with the gloom. I'm going to go round up the cats. We're working on our version of this. You know, just in case...

How are you escaping these days?

It's not a message written in the dark or some truth that no one sees

This is the book I'm reading right now and the description from the author's website:

Crippled by lupus at twenty-five, celebrated author Flannery O’Connor was forced to leave New York City and return home to Andalusia, her family farm in Milledgeville, Georgia.  Years later, as Flannery is finishing a novel and tending to her menagerie of peacocks, her mother drags her to the wedding of a family friend.

Cookie Himmel embodies every facet of Southern womanhood that Flannery lacks: she is revered for her beauty and grace; she is at the helm of every ladies’ organization in town; and she has returned from her time in Manhattan with a rich fiancée, Melvin Whiteson. 

Melvin has come to Milledgeville to begin a new chapter in his life, but it is not until he meets Flannery that he starts to take a good, hard look at the choices he has made.  Despite the limitations of her disease, Flannery seems to be more alive than other people, and Melvin is drawn to her like a moth to a candle flame.

Melvin is not the only person in Milledgeville who starts to feel that life is passing him by.  Lona Waters, the dutiful wife of a local policeman, is hired by Cookie to help create a perfect home.  As Lona spends her days sewing curtains, she is given an opportunity to remember what it feels like to truly live, and she seizes it with both hands

Heartbreakingly beautiful and inescapably human, these ordinary and extraordinary people chart their own courses in life. In the aftermath of one tragic afternoon, they are all forced to look at themselves and face up to Flannery’s observation that the truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.

Some lines that I would highlight were this not a library book:

 Melvin liked the idea that something he told Flannery might appear in a book. His life was a messy compilation of moments that didn't fit together. If Flannery wove them into a narrative, they would have cohesion and significance. He would be able to read about himself and all that was inexplicable in real life would be explained.

The music that has my attention this morning.

 

What does one have to do with the other?

Please feel free to discuss. There are no right or wrong answers.

30 Day Photography Challenge: Green

Today.

Lunatique. My friend Cindy is so talented. Go look.

I love seeing her and her husband Ken. And Michele. I'm so lucky to have such delightful people in my life.

So cool. Made from recycled bottles. Especially wine bottles. I should donate my empties to them.

The grounds of Rose Lawn are so lush and beautiful.

The birdhouses are a labor of love, each a memorial to a son gone too soon. They're built to last, the man who creates this told me. The idea came about after the death of the couple's son. He used to love to come and sit with his mama in the backyard and watch the birds. Then one day three years ago, this man in his forties was on a business trip and died, just dropped dead in the bathroom of the B&B where he was staying. Tears came to his mother's eyes as she shared the story.

After he died, she'd go and sit in the backyard and remember. She'd talk to God. She asked for a sign and while she sat there in the porch swing, a flock of birds descended onto the lawn until it was covered up in them hopping around and making a quiet racket.

Birdhouses. Built to last.

 It's not a festival without food, y'all.

Alan Young can paint. This is just a sampling because I was sticking the green for this post, but when you see his website, you'll see the rainbow. Congratulations, Alan, on your upcoming exhibit at Fernbank!

Steampunk. The stuff some of my favorite dreams are made of. 

And the young woman who makes these rocked her goggles and corset.

 My favorite drive home.

 Geoffrey has his own take on green. Universal and true.

Before I Die

Jen at Jen's Realia shared this on Facebook and I was struck by the brilliant simplicity of it. It's the perfect illustration of creating a space to let people express themselves.

From the webpage. Who is Candy Chang? Candy Chang likes ot make cities more comfortable for people. She is a public installation artist, designer, urban planner, TED Fellow, and co-founder of Civic Center in New Orleans.

It's people like Candy Chang who lift us up. She's using her creativity to spread something intangible. Hope? Direction? Light? Whatever it is, people responded. Go read the piece and look at the responses. And when you're done, let me know how you would fill in the blank.

Before I die I want to_________________________.

xoxo,

Lisa

Queen of Fakes and Imitators

Source: flickr.com via Lisa on Pinterest

Shoooeeeee. You guys. I went to Craigslist searching for a job working on a phone sex line and ended up applying for several freelance writing jobs. Yeah, I can see how the two are related. We'll see what happens with that. At this point my job search is pretty much in the spaghetti category. Fling it against the wall and hope something sticks.

Everything else gets scooped up and covered in sauce.

Anyway. Today's a day for some other kinds of research and for fulfilling promises made. Before I go, I must ask - Did you watch the comedy on MSNBC last night? Such a hot mess. More hair! Less brains! Execution applause lines!  Fuck y'all. What have we devolved back into? I didn't even watch the debate. MathMan was watching the Phillies play somebody and I was reading my Twitter feed and screaming with laughter. At one point Nate popped into the room to make sure I was okay.

And tonight? I'm fully prepared to be underwhelmed. It seems we're a nation incapable of big ideas, bold plans. Unless, of course, big ideas and bold plans include blowing the holy fuck out of brown people. Then we're aces.

Maybe if the phone sex thing doesn't work out, I'll consider the military. Specifically and more lucrative, a job with a military contractor. They need housekeepers, yes?

Oy, let's shift gears. The real world brings me down. Today is a day for art. You know, when everything else seems like it's sliding into the fuckpile (mmm fuckpile), at least we still have art. Thank somebody's god for that saving grace.

Right then. Here's where I will be when I'm not working on my own manuscript.

Book by Kevin Edwards
Poetry by Hafiz
Visuals for inspiration

This song by Gillian Welch (hell, her whole discography if I'm being straight with you) with David Rawlings who appears to be an  underappreciated guitar god. I know. I'm late to this one. Yow - Za.

You're welcome.

Where are you escaping to these days?

Illustrated

Recently, Sophia received two packages in the mail. With great anticipation and just a little bit of twelve year old girl squealing, she opened the packages and found the Gift of Art.

One of my favorite things about blogging is that I've become part of a community of artists, writers, thinkers, creators. I would have never imagined, when I first pressed publish all those years ago, how important blogging and the connections I made through it would become to not just me, but to my family. You guys have provided support - both material and emotional - and for that I'm grateful.

And now Sophie has the gift of a mentor. See, the package included the pens, the moleskine and An Illustrated Life, an amazing book about illustrating and illustrators, and more - it included an offer to mentor our artist in residence. A friend in art. I love that.

Thank you, Steve Emery, for passing on the imagination, the color, the dreams, the medium., the love of art...

Sophie Golden

Where I Begin What I Hope Is a Nice Collection of Steven Emery Originals

About a year ago, I began reading Steve Emery's blog of art, music and life and became an instant fan of his paintings. Now, for those of you still not aware of Steve and his equally brilliant wife Moomin Light, all I can say is that you are missing some very cool, very interesting blogs. When I read either of them, I am instantly whisked away to somewhere magical.

So when earlier this spring, Steve did a giveaway of some of his original paintings in the form of CD covers, I was incredibly honored to be chosen to receive first dibs on a painting. And this is what I chose.




I love the colors and haunting quality of this painting. In person, it is even more striking, so if any of you are so inclined, come on over and see it. You think I'm kidding? Think again.

Thank you, Steve, for giving me this gift of beauty. I will treasure it always.

*****************************************************

On a side note, I'm launching a new career, going in to business for myself as a.........well, you'll have to wait a couple more days for that detail, but as I've been going through the training materials to prepare myself, I've noticed that one recommendation to help you build your success is to have a Dream Board where you post photos representing what you want from your hard work. I puzzled over this at first because what I really want - freedom to have time to write - seemed intangible, something hard to visualize (there's that word again). I know what I want, but most of what I want isn't in the physical or material realm, it's more abstract.

But.

Tonight, as I was preparing this post, I realized that there is one very tangible thing I know I want. Ever since I first laid eyes on a particular painting Steve showed us on his blog (in progress, I might add), I knew I wanted it. And so there is one thing I can point to and say "That will be my reward." When I have made my first profit, I will pay myself, do the business investment that's needed and then take the proceeds and build them until I can purchase Glee 1 (if it hasn't already been sold, in which case I will find another Steve Emery painting that I must have and okay, I admit it, I have some ideas already).

So maybe I can't visualize freedom from my 9 to 5 because it's just too painful to picture myself dancing around singing "Take This Job and Shove It," but I can certainly visualize exactly how I would feel by giving myself the gift of Glee.