Posts
I had been feeling weird throughout Friday, and decided to go to bed early because of it. However, little did I know as I sank into sleep, that in a few short hours (3:30 a.m. to be exact) I would be awakened by a monumental pain not unlike a power drill being held to my innards.
I have never thrown up because of pain, but someone let loose the hounds that night. There was no decorum left as I writhed on the bathroom floor wondering what sort of devilry had sunk it’s claws into me. It was so much worse than that time when I fell on the center bar of my brother’s 10-speed bike. And it was WAY worse than the time my uncle mowed over my legs on an old fashioned runner-sled. Even worse than the time I flew off my bike and skidded 15 feet down the gravel road on my face. Yes, until now…those had been the pinnacle moments of pain. But no more. Now I had The Stone to contend with, though I didn’t know it yet. There on the floor in the bathroom I merely thought I was dying by being pulled through a razor-lined knothole backwards.
This, of course, had to happen during the first major snowstorm of the year! So my darling hubby rushed me (i.e. drove at a moderately safe speed, which was slower than if I had a snap craving for rhubarb and decided to mosey to the store on a sunny day) in the wee hours of the morning, trying to keep calm while his wife was a shrieking banshee of agony and weeping in the passenger seat. I tried my best to sink into a meditative state. I rolled the window down part way to hear the slushing sound of snow and ice, but my mind was a blur. Instead of a calming sussuration of thoughts, it was screaming “ICESNOWPAINOWICESNOWSLUSHOWOWOWOWWWWICESNOWDRIVEFASSSSSSSTEROWWWWWWWWW”. So tranquil.
I, of course, then had to endure the “Checking In” procedure at the emergency desk. Sure. Hand me a bunch of papers to sign when my body has literally formed a figure-8 from the wretched muscle tensing and desperate futile quest for relief. I could barely uncurl my fingers from the Fists of Agony in order to sign my name…which I am pretty sure came out as “AimeeOUCHOUCHOUCH”. I managed to choke on a laugh when she handed me the urine sample cup. But of course, I had to be a good cowboy and buck up for the cause. So I did, with much sobbing, yelping, and wishing sweet unconciousness would visit me…with a bottle of whiskey and a hammer.
Fortunately, once I got on a gurney the Angel of Mercy arrived in pale blue Crocs. She propped my arm up, thwapped a vein, and had the IV in like she’d just broke the record at the county cow roping contest. Considering I hate needles and going to the doctor, the fact that I had my arm out there like a willing heroin junkie should tell you something. GIVE ME THE BIG GAUGE NEEDLE!! Pump that sweet sunshine IN, NOWWWW!!!!!
I remember hearing something about narcotics and lightheadedness, but ohhhhhhhhh sweet jam, it was bliss. In the blink of an eye, a woosh of tingly, numbing delight flew through my circulatory system and banished the pain away like that old lady in the Clapper commercials. I melted like butter onto the gurney, and proclaimed undying love for Nurse Wonderful. She smiled, and smooshwalked her Crocs out of the room while I giggled and hubby rubbed my feet. After two solid hours of the most excruciating, frightening, unrelenting pain I could ever imagine… to have it suddenly and swiftly lifted from me was life altering. I could practically see into the future. Everything was golden and good, and I wanted to run around and give everyone in the ER hugs and cupcakes. Of course, exactly 25 minutes later it wore off and I was ready to dropkick fluffy bunnies if that’s what it took to score more drugs. (Public Service Announcement: No fluffy bunnies were harmed in the making of this post, or in the banishing of my kidney stone! I love them, and cuddle them, and wish them all rapturous lives in fields of fresh clover.)
So that is how Aimee was introduced to her first ever CT scan. First ever IV! First ever official hospital gown. Egad. Those are hideous drapes of mortification and humiliation aren’t they? AND – the BEST moment ever – the hospital is undergoing construction on a new wing. That means the CT Scanner was outside in the cold and snow, in a glorified medical trailer park. So my aching, drug-dizzy self was pushed in a wheelchair, hospital gown flapping in ALL the wrong places, out into the snowstorm, down a bumpy parking lot driveway, onto a lift where the whole parking lot could get a glimpse of the fabulousness of my 3:00 a.m. hairdo (which looked quite like I was breakdancing on my head, on a burlap carpet). HELLO, WORLD! BUY MY ART! WEE!
Ultimately, after many refills on the IV, and reassurances by the doctors that I did NOT want to have this stone removed physically by them…. I was sent to continue this whole lovely process in the privacy of my own home. Which I did. And hence, the shockingly tiny ‘Gomer’ was born into the world, promptly greeted by my tongue sticking out at it. Rudely. And deservedly. TAKE THAT, ugly jabby thingy. Your reign of terror is OVER! Clap off!
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
There's no place like home...
A Rally Cry for Artists!
During that bleak time in U.S. history known as The Great Depression, there was something called The Works Progress Administration, or the New Deal. In short, the government created an opportunity for artists, writers and musicians to put their collective muses to work in bolstering up the minds and hearts of people who had little inspiration left in their lives, while at the same time creating an opportunity for artists to put a little money back into their ragged pockets.
At the heart of the WPA was a need to capture the moment on film, in writing, on canvas, and in melody. They were to take what was happening, and document it in a way that served both as a historic record and a celebration to the determination and grit that kept people alive and the tiny coals of hope aglow.
Even beyond the government sponsored program, artists of all kinds heard the call of need and desperation. People needed escape. They wanted something that could transport them in that dark hour, to a place where their mind's could take flight, their hearts could mend, and they could forget the growling in their stomachs and the tears that stained their children's cheeks.
It was during this time, in 1939, that The Wizard of Oz came to the silver screen. With it's opening of a black and white life for Dorothy in the dustbowl of Kansas to the sudden sensory tsunami of color as she was whisked away to Oz, it was an epic journey that would make people's hearts burst open with possibility if only they would believe in it.
The message behind all of this is a poignant one. In a time when Big Business grinds to a halt and the hands of hard working individuals wring in worry and despair, it is a rallying cry for artists everywhere. The gift of muse and creativity that comes to us freely can be the glimpse of color through sepia tinted glasses, and the melody that lifts tear stained eyes. It can be the crazy cartoon that still makes children laugh despite the worn threads of their clothes and the worries that are beyond their years.
Art knows no limits. It does not need Wall Street to buy and sell it's heart. It does not need oil barons to back it's worth. It is oblivious to the deception of mortgage companies, credit card telemarketers, and gas titans. It exists, because it is the very essence of the world we live in. It is the rose that continues to bloom in drought. It is the blazing sunset that paints the sky over a closed factory. It is the dance of mist and sparkle of frost over homes in foreclosure. It is the diamond sky and pearl moon above a war torn city. Art exists, because our world exists. Our universe exists. We exist. And to those of us whose lifeblood runs in rainbows through our veins and our every breath is a technicolor sigh, it is our turn to be the infusion of hope in these anemic times. We don't have to wait for a government to set up a program. We don't have to wait to see our neighbor in tears. We know what to do. It is in our very nature to be empathetic to the shift in global consciousness. Now is the time to grab our paint brushes, our pens, our trumpets and blast away the tornado twisting at our back door with a rush of color, light, and song.
The tornado is not here to take us to Oz. We are here to bring Oz to the tornado, banishing it away with a click of our ruby red shoes, singing and dancing all the way home.
~Aimee
During that bleak time in U.S. history known as The Great Depression, there was something called The Works Progress Administration, or the New Deal. In short, the government created an opportunity for artists, writers and musicians to put their collective muses to work in bolstering up the minds and hearts of people who had little inspiration left in their lives, while at the same time creating an opportunity for artists to put a little money back into their ragged pockets.
At the heart of the WPA was a need to capture the moment on film, in writing, on canvas, and in melody. They were to take what was happening, and document it in a way that served both as a historic record and a celebration to the determination and grit that kept people alive and the tiny coals of hope aglow.
Even beyond the government sponsored program, artists of all kinds heard the call of need and desperation. People needed escape. They wanted something that could transport them in that dark hour, to a place where their mind's could take flight, their hearts could mend, and they could forget the growling in their stomachs and the tears that stained their children's cheeks.
It was during this time, in 1939, that The Wizard of Oz came to the silver screen. With it's opening of a black and white life for Dorothy in the dustbowl of Kansas to the sudden sensory tsunami of color as she was whisked away to Oz, it was an epic journey that would make people's hearts burst open with possibility if only they would believe in it.
The message behind all of this is a poignant one. In a time when Big Business grinds to a halt and the hands of hard working individuals wring in worry and despair, it is a rallying cry for artists everywhere. The gift of muse and creativity that comes to us freely can be the glimpse of color through sepia tinted glasses, and the melody that lifts tear stained eyes. It can be the crazy cartoon that still makes children laugh despite the worn threads of their clothes and the worries that are beyond their years.
Art knows no limits. It does not need Wall Street to buy and sell it's heart. It does not need oil barons to back it's worth. It is oblivious to the deception of mortgage companies, credit card telemarketers, and gas titans. It exists, because it is the very essence of the world we live in. It is the rose that continues to bloom in drought. It is the blazing sunset that paints the sky over a closed factory. It is the dance of mist and sparkle of frost over homes in foreclosure. It is the diamond sky and pearl moon above a war torn city. Art exists, because our world exists. Our universe exists. We exist. And to those of us whose lifeblood runs in rainbows through our veins and our every breath is a technicolor sigh, it is our turn to be the infusion of hope in these anemic times. We don't have to wait for a government to set up a program. We don't have to wait to see our neighbor in tears. We know what to do. It is in our very nature to be empathetic to the shift in global consciousness. Now is the time to grab our paint brushes, our pens, our trumpets and blast away the tornado twisting at our back door with a rush of color, light, and song.
The tornado is not here to take us to Oz. We are here to bring Oz to the tornado, banishing it away with a click of our ruby red shoes, singing and dancing all the way home.
~Aimee
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Mooncow
Why did the cow jump over the moon?
Why did she end her fun so soon?
She could have aimed for a much better place,
right on the Man in the Moon's bright face
For don't you think, if given the chance
a cow on the face of the moon would dance
with all four hooves stomping the ground
sending rainbows of moondust and starlight around?
And don't you think she'd want to see
if the moon was really made of cheese?
For if it was true, it would have to be
from the grandest cow in eternity!
A gigantic, celestial bovine Queen
making vats of skymilk so pristine
That many a song would praise it's glory
and authors would include it in all their stories.
But no, instead, the cow...she just jumped
right over the moon, and back down with a thump
in a field in a place far away from the moon
where cows are just cows, and sunrise is soon
and the farmer will come to fetch milk for the day
in a simple, absolute, ordinary way
not noticing the glimmer and glint of proof
of stardust shimmering on his cow's hoof
And the cow, for now, will just have to wait
To head back to the moon and investigate
Whether Mooncow is there, making moonmilk sublime
for that magnificent, luminous cheesewheel divine
in a field full of comets and shooting stars
where she chews on Venus and nibbles on Mars
And maybe then Earthcow will stay
and dance out her days in the great Milky Way.
Aimee - Sept. 24, '08 (Morning writing exercise)
Why did she end her fun so soon?
She could have aimed for a much better place,
right on the Man in the Moon's bright face
For don't you think, if given the chance
a cow on the face of the moon would dance
with all four hooves stomping the ground
sending rainbows of moondust and starlight around?
And don't you think she'd want to see
if the moon was really made of cheese?
For if it was true, it would have to be
from the grandest cow in eternity!
A gigantic, celestial bovine Queen
making vats of skymilk so pristine
That many a song would praise it's glory
and authors would include it in all their stories.
But no, instead, the cow...she just jumped
right over the moon, and back down with a thump
in a field in a place far away from the moon
where cows are just cows, and sunrise is soon
and the farmer will come to fetch milk for the day
in a simple, absolute, ordinary way
not noticing the glimmer and glint of proof
of stardust shimmering on his cow's hoof
And the cow, for now, will just have to wait
To head back to the moon and investigate
Whether Mooncow is there, making moonmilk sublime
for that magnificent, luminous cheesewheel divine
in a field full of comets and shooting stars
where she chews on Venus and nibbles on Mars
And maybe then Earthcow will stay
and dance out her days in the great Milky Way.
Aimee - Sept. 24, '08 (Morning writing exercise)
Monday, September 22, 2008
Happy Dance Freeflow
Sassy, frassy, happy dance. Magic springing forth in heel-toe, heel-toe. Quickstep across the boardwalk, springkick to the air, landing in sand with one fell swoop. Pause, tiny grains flicked from freckled arm... then moving once again. One-two-three-four, foxtrot over shoreline, deftly circling sanddollars and polished pebbles. Sparkling smile flashed at chubby cheeked children digging moats around makeshift sandcastles, frayed seagull feathers standing in for regal flags. And the dance continues, toward the tidepool... where barnacle speckled crabs scuttle sideways to avoid shuffling feet. Shoes kicked off with ease, toes sink in, water droplets flying as footwork meets water. Sunsparks glance on the water, drawn to happy feet highstepping to a tune of their own across mirrored pools soon shattered with glee.
Smooth sand churns beneath the thump of dancing soles. Swish-STOMP-swish-swish-STOMP! Elderly couple pauses a few strides away, trapped in the spectacle of it all. Buttoned down in matching sweatsuits, wrinkled faces shift with amused confusion at the dervish skiffing along the shoreline. Dancer spots oglers, and leaps to the air - highKICK! - before falling into zootsuit prance, fingers snapping, body swaying to thumping inner drums. Couple moves on, husband craning neck before tugged onward to the promise of clinking teaspoons and T.S. Elliot.
Patrons at seaside diner peer out floor to ceiling windows, spoons hovering above breadbowls of clam chowder. Laughter ripples. Fingers point. Check that one out! Pinwheel color prancing in seafoam. Music trickles in to collective consciousness. Young man taps out rhythm with fork to waterglass. Waiter's fingers drum over menus on the front desk. Telephone rings, front door cowbells chime, cellphones erupt, baby shrieks, seagulls squak on rooftop. And the dancer boogieoogieoogies, throwing in a two-step cowboy stomp for good measure. Redneck from Alabama yeehaws with approval. Quiets down when onion rings arrive.
And then in the roar of wildoceanwhitewatertumblewaves...cartwheels, pirouettes, jiveboogie sashay times eleven. Fancyshmancy Rockette finale in the breakwater, highkicks galore, droplets flashing sunlight like paparazzi bulbs on opening night. Arms thrown wide, ready for the closeup, jazzhands matched with a Broadway smile. They love me, they REALLY love me.
Two people applaud unheard in the restaurant. Kids jump up and squeel with joy as they mimic the dancer, on top of their fifteenth massacred castle. Dogs race by, chasing a green blur of tennis ball.
Shoes scooped up from the sand, a little Charlie Chaplin shuffle as dancer heads back towards town... following the trail of happydancetracks in sand.
Smooth sand churns beneath the thump of dancing soles. Swish-STOMP-swish-swish-STOMP! Elderly couple pauses a few strides away, trapped in the spectacle of it all. Buttoned down in matching sweatsuits, wrinkled faces shift with amused confusion at the dervish skiffing along the shoreline. Dancer spots oglers, and leaps to the air - highKICK! - before falling into zootsuit prance, fingers snapping, body swaying to thumping inner drums. Couple moves on, husband craning neck before tugged onward to the promise of clinking teaspoons and T.S. Elliot.
Patrons at seaside diner peer out floor to ceiling windows, spoons hovering above breadbowls of clam chowder. Laughter ripples. Fingers point. Check that one out! Pinwheel color prancing in seafoam. Music trickles in to collective consciousness. Young man taps out rhythm with fork to waterglass. Waiter's fingers drum over menus on the front desk. Telephone rings, front door cowbells chime, cellphones erupt, baby shrieks, seagulls squak on rooftop. And the dancer boogieoogieoogies, throwing in a two-step cowboy stomp for good measure. Redneck from Alabama yeehaws with approval. Quiets down when onion rings arrive.
And then in the roar of wildoceanwhitewatertumblewaves...cartwheels, pirouettes, jiveboogie sashay times eleven. Fancyshmancy Rockette finale in the breakwater, highkicks galore, droplets flashing sunlight like paparazzi bulbs on opening night. Arms thrown wide, ready for the closeup, jazzhands matched with a Broadway smile. They love me, they REALLY love me.
Two people applaud unheard in the restaurant. Kids jump up and squeel with joy as they mimic the dancer, on top of their fifteenth massacred castle. Dogs race by, chasing a green blur of tennis ball.
Shoes scooped up from the sand, a little Charlie Chaplin shuffle as dancer heads back towards town... following the trail of happydancetracks in sand.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Anything Is Possible, Just Ask My Dog
Last night while I was making dinner (barbequed burgers, mm!) I dropped a couple of Scoops tortilla chips on the floor. Of course the automatic instinct is to sweep them up and dispose of them, but my aussie shepherd Griffin is usually there hoovering up anything that falls to the ground in a methodic and obsessive manner. However, this time he was outside, and missed this golden opportunity. On a whim, I decided to leave the chips there (we don't have an ant problem...or else I'd be insane to do that!), to see how long it would take him to find them.
So, this morning - 5:50 a.m., I'm in the kitchen making my husband's lunch, when a grand and enthusiastic crunching breaks the silence. I glance across the kitchen, and there's Griffin...savoring his delayed prize. I chuckle and point it out to my husband who is putting on his shoes. And then I notice Griffin turning, and making a thorough sweep of the area.
Me - "Ah yes, just look at that dedication. It paid off this morning, with two chips found. Now he must sniff every inch of the floor becasue... you never know! There might be something else there!"
Hubby - "It's true. He's a total optimist. There could be all kinds of things hidden around here worth looking for!"
Me - "Yeah. For all he knows, there could be a steak dinner under the table..."
Hubby - "Salisbury steak!"
Me - "...all on a plate, with mashed potatoes and gravy. Pre-cut so he doesn't even have to work very hard. Really, it could be there. For him, it's worth looking for."
Hubby - "I guess that's how we should look at life. Don't think of the odds, just trust that anything is possible. The Salisbury steak dinner is there, somewhere."
Me - "Keep hoovering. Eventually it'll pay off!"
Hubby - Turning to Griffin... "Ya teachin' us life lessons today, boy?"
Heh! And, then...Griffin got his two non-wheat apple treats that he always gets in the morning, and hubby went to work. The house is quiet again. Griffin's already back asleep behind me on the floor, and I'm still laughing to myself. And then I remember the Carrot Cake incident. Years ago, we purchased a gigantic carrot cake
from Costco. They are massive sheet cakes, almost two feet long it seems, and so thick one slice could be a meal in itself! We bought it because we had company over, but we only ate a fraction of what was there. So, it was wrapped up on a big cake plate, set on the kitchen table, and left for the next day.
Hubby had to leave for work early that day, so it was one of those rare mornings that I slept in. When I finally came down the stairs and into the kitchen, I was greeted by the site of a clean plate, the plastic peeled back and on the table. 'Hmmm - Lar must have taken it to work with him for the guys but... he could have used that plate, I wouldn't have cared!' And so the morning went on.
Later in the day, hubby calls for a chat while he's taking a break. 'Hey hon, did the guys like the cake?' I said.
'What cake?'
'The carrot cake you took this morning! I bet they were stoked!'
'I didn't take the cake - I thought you guys ate it after I went to bed or something.'
'THAT much cake? Holy cow, who do you think we are? We didn't touch it!'
'Well then what happened to it?'
'I have no idea! The plate's clean...although the plastic looks kinda weird. I mean, it's not in the fridge, it's...' - and right about then, Griffin comes sauntering in. I hadn't really paid attention, but he hadn't been frequenting the kitchen like he was accustomed to. Now, he slunk by the table with a little sidelong glance to me, and I stopped in my tracks.
'Ooooo....nooo.'
'What?'
'I think I know what happened to the cake...'
'What?!'
'Griffin....'
'No way!! No way!'
At this point, I was starting to laugh, hard. I went over and inspected the cake plate. Licked so clean, you'd thought it was washed and jet dried. The plastic had been neatly pulled back to expose the bounty, and not a crumb was spared.
I put the phone to the side and called for my dog. "Griffin... c'mere boy! Did you eat the cake?"
His eyelids drooped in that guilty-but-gawd-it-was-fun look.
I burst out laughing. "Our dog... scored the biggest score of his life. I'm amazed he's not sick!!"
"I can't even blame him. If I were a dog, and walked around the corner to find a giant carrot cake sitting there... I'd do the same thing."
...and so, I washed the plate, put it away, and didn't run our furry guy as hard during his afternoon play time. After all, a gut full of sugar doesn't exactly make you want to run right out and play frisbee!
So, after remembering that, and then thinking of him diligently surfing the floor on the notion that something good might turn up at any moment... I figured there was a lesson to be learned. Yes, why question the odds of a carrot cake showing up on the table just for you, or plate of steak dinner just sitting on the floor, waiting to be snarfed up by a hungry pooch? Just believe. Just hoover like there's no tomorrow, and believe.
So, this morning - 5:50 a.m., I'm in the kitchen making my husband's lunch, when a grand and enthusiastic crunching breaks the silence. I glance across the kitchen, and there's Griffin...savoring his delayed prize. I chuckle and point it out to my husband who is putting on his shoes. And then I notice Griffin turning, and making a thorough sweep of the area.
Me - "Ah yes, just look at that dedication. It paid off this morning, with two chips found. Now he must sniff every inch of the floor becasue... you never know! There might be something else there!"
Hubby - "It's true. He's a total optimist. There could be all kinds of things hidden around here worth looking for!"
Me - "Yeah. For all he knows, there could be a steak dinner under the table..."
Hubby - "Salisbury steak!"
Me - "...all on a plate, with mashed potatoes and gravy. Pre-cut so he doesn't even have to work very hard. Really, it could be there. For him, it's worth looking for."
Hubby - "I guess that's how we should look at life. Don't think of the odds, just trust that anything is possible. The Salisbury steak dinner is there, somewhere."
Me - "Keep hoovering. Eventually it'll pay off!"
Hubby - Turning to Griffin... "Ya teachin' us life lessons today, boy?"
Heh! And, then...Griffin got his two non-wheat apple treats that he always gets in the morning, and hubby went to work. The house is quiet again. Griffin's already back asleep behind me on the floor, and I'm still laughing to myself. And then I remember the Carrot Cake incident. Years ago, we purchased a gigantic carrot cake
from Costco. They are massive sheet cakes, almost two feet long it seems, and so thick one slice could be a meal in itself! We bought it because we had company over, but we only ate a fraction of what was there. So, it was wrapped up on a big cake plate, set on the kitchen table, and left for the next day.
Hubby had to leave for work early that day, so it was one of those rare mornings that I slept in. When I finally came down the stairs and into the kitchen, I was greeted by the site of a clean plate, the plastic peeled back and on the table. 'Hmmm - Lar must have taken it to work with him for the guys but... he could have used that plate, I wouldn't have cared!' And so the morning went on.
Later in the day, hubby calls for a chat while he's taking a break. 'Hey hon, did the guys like the cake?' I said.
'What cake?'
'The carrot cake you took this morning! I bet they were stoked!'
'I didn't take the cake - I thought you guys ate it after I went to bed or something.'
'THAT much cake? Holy cow, who do you think we are? We didn't touch it!'
'Well then what happened to it?'
'I have no idea! The plate's clean...although the plastic looks kinda weird. I mean, it's not in the fridge, it's...' - and right about then, Griffin comes sauntering in. I hadn't really paid attention, but he hadn't been frequenting the kitchen like he was accustomed to. Now, he slunk by the table with a little sidelong glance to me, and I stopped in my tracks.
'Ooooo....nooo.'
'What?'
'I think I know what happened to the cake...'
'What?!'
'Griffin....'
'No way!! No way!'
At this point, I was starting to laugh, hard. I went over and inspected the cake plate. Licked so clean, you'd thought it was washed and jet dried. The plastic had been neatly pulled back to expose the bounty, and not a crumb was spared.
I put the phone to the side and called for my dog. "Griffin... c'mere boy! Did you eat the cake?"
His eyelids drooped in that guilty-but-gawd-it-was-fun look.
I burst out laughing. "Our dog... scored the biggest score of his life. I'm amazed he's not sick!!"
"I can't even blame him. If I were a dog, and walked around the corner to find a giant carrot cake sitting there... I'd do the same thing."
...and so, I washed the plate, put it away, and didn't run our furry guy as hard during his afternoon play time. After all, a gut full of sugar doesn't exactly make you want to run right out and play frisbee!
So, after remembering that, and then thinking of him diligently surfing the floor on the notion that something good might turn up at any moment... I figured there was a lesson to be learned. Yes, why question the odds of a carrot cake showing up on the table just for you, or plate of steak dinner just sitting on the floor, waiting to be snarfed up by a hungry pooch? Just believe. Just hoover like there's no tomorrow, and believe.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Eclectic
I've always liked the word 'eclectic'. There used to be an art gallery in an old farmhouse near where I live called "Arts Eclectia". It was filled to the rafters with an assorment of odds and ends that would make a pirate jealous. All kinds of sparkling baubles, flowing scarves, richly painted canvasses, and a woman behind the counter that wore so many rings on her fingers that you couldn't see the flesh on them.... only the long burgandy nails sticking out from the tips.
I used to love wandering through that shop. It gave me a sense of being a well travelled place where the collections were plucked from every corner of the earth to create a jumbled story told from the floor to the ceiling, and every nook in between. Peek around a corner, and you'd find a new twist to the plot in the form of an old teacup from London, or a scarf from Rome. Open the door to one of the many antique armoirs that were there, and you'd find the heroine of the story in the form of a delicately beaded clutch from the 1800's, or a shock of yellow silk from China. Look up at the ceiling, and there would be the splash of color in an abstract painting. Nothing matched, and yet it all flowed together beautifully; a feast for the eyes, and the imagination.
My life has pretty much always ran that same course. Little bits and pieces of inspiration have come from all areas. A veritable gypsy's skirt woven from fabrics of all kinds. And the older I get, the more varied my taste becomes. I've stopped being defined by specific genres a long time ago. I've realized the wonderful freedom of simply letting my mind, heart, and imagination do the choosing for me. Music, books, artwork, creativity of any kind... all of it is free game to me now. The only steady prerequisite that is woven through everything I collect into my life...is that it needs to somehow inspire, resonate, and move me. There is a great lyric in a song by one of my favorite bands that says "it'll either move me, or move right through me...", and how true that is. There are fantastic resources of inspiration, fun, joy, depth, passion, empathy....all over the world, in every manner of unexpected places. You just have to be an open receptacle to the wonder of it all. If you automatically judge something because it falls outside your preset genres of appreciation... you stand to lose out on the amazing gift of simply enjoying something for what it is.
But make no mistake... not everything has to be anchored by deep meaning. Sometimes, I cherish something because it is just plain fun. Whimsy can be such a precious possession. I love frivolity as much as I treasure the echoing moments of life when something bittersweet taps into the core of my soul, and brings tears to my eyes because of a melody heard, or a poem read. I think it is a huge gift to enjoy the range of all these emotions, and even better still...sharing them in my artwork.
I used to worry that my portfolio was too varied. I worried that since I jumped from subject to subject in such wide degrees of seperation, people might get confused. I would hold back in going too far one way or another, afraid of isolating people who watched me because they liked a certain look... a certain style. And then I woke up and laughed at myself for having completely missed the whole point of being me. I am eclectic! I am that girl who listens to improvisational jazz one moment, and ABBA the next. I am the one who equally loves the plastic Hello Kitty on the shelf, and the antique carved elephant from India that stands next to her. I am that treasure packed farmhouse. How could I possibly be afraid to let it all out? Why not just throw the doors open, and let people decide what they will come in to see. Some might wander to the first thing they see. Others might walk right past the pretty baubles, and head straight for the shadowy closet. Others will see a sparkle of color by the stairs, and see how many other sparkly things they can find on their way there. And some might peek in the window, and decide to come back another day. And that's okay! That's what being eclectic is all about. Something for everyone.... right?
So these days, I create whatever comes pouring out of my carousel mind at that moment. Could be fanciful... could be romantic... could be poignant. It is as much of a journey for me, as being in a foreign country and deciding which road to walk down. One thing for sure... is that I can't hold it back. And I have never loved being creative as much as I love doing it now. It is thrilling to see what new jewel I can pluck from my imagination, or what well-loved treasure I decide to bring out for a polish. Either way... it's bound to attract some curious onlookers, who will either stick around to see what comes next, or who will head on down the road to find their own eclectic collection. All I hope is that I can at least tuck a little inspiration in their pocket before they go.
I used to love wandering through that shop. It gave me a sense of being a well travelled place where the collections were plucked from every corner of the earth to create a jumbled story told from the floor to the ceiling, and every nook in between. Peek around a corner, and you'd find a new twist to the plot in the form of an old teacup from London, or a scarf from Rome. Open the door to one of the many antique armoirs that were there, and you'd find the heroine of the story in the form of a delicately beaded clutch from the 1800's, or a shock of yellow silk from China. Look up at the ceiling, and there would be the splash of color in an abstract painting. Nothing matched, and yet it all flowed together beautifully; a feast for the eyes, and the imagination.
My life has pretty much always ran that same course. Little bits and pieces of inspiration have come from all areas. A veritable gypsy's skirt woven from fabrics of all kinds. And the older I get, the more varied my taste becomes. I've stopped being defined by specific genres a long time ago. I've realized the wonderful freedom of simply letting my mind, heart, and imagination do the choosing for me. Music, books, artwork, creativity of any kind... all of it is free game to me now. The only steady prerequisite that is woven through everything I collect into my life...is that it needs to somehow inspire, resonate, and move me. There is a great lyric in a song by one of my favorite bands that says "it'll either move me, or move right through me...", and how true that is. There are fantastic resources of inspiration, fun, joy, depth, passion, empathy....all over the world, in every manner of unexpected places. You just have to be an open receptacle to the wonder of it all. If you automatically judge something because it falls outside your preset genres of appreciation... you stand to lose out on the amazing gift of simply enjoying something for what it is.
But make no mistake... not everything has to be anchored by deep meaning. Sometimes, I cherish something because it is just plain fun. Whimsy can be such a precious possession. I love frivolity as much as I treasure the echoing moments of life when something bittersweet taps into the core of my soul, and brings tears to my eyes because of a melody heard, or a poem read. I think it is a huge gift to enjoy the range of all these emotions, and even better still...sharing them in my artwork.
I used to worry that my portfolio was too varied. I worried that since I jumped from subject to subject in such wide degrees of seperation, people might get confused. I would hold back in going too far one way or another, afraid of isolating people who watched me because they liked a certain look... a certain style. And then I woke up and laughed at myself for having completely missed the whole point of being me. I am eclectic! I am that girl who listens to improvisational jazz one moment, and ABBA the next. I am the one who equally loves the plastic Hello Kitty on the shelf, and the antique carved elephant from India that stands next to her. I am that treasure packed farmhouse. How could I possibly be afraid to let it all out? Why not just throw the doors open, and let people decide what they will come in to see. Some might wander to the first thing they see. Others might walk right past the pretty baubles, and head straight for the shadowy closet. Others will see a sparkle of color by the stairs, and see how many other sparkly things they can find on their way there. And some might peek in the window, and decide to come back another day. And that's okay! That's what being eclectic is all about. Something for everyone.... right?
So these days, I create whatever comes pouring out of my carousel mind at that moment. Could be fanciful... could be romantic... could be poignant. It is as much of a journey for me, as being in a foreign country and deciding which road to walk down. One thing for sure... is that I can't hold it back. And I have never loved being creative as much as I love doing it now. It is thrilling to see what new jewel I can pluck from my imagination, or what well-loved treasure I decide to bring out for a polish. Either way... it's bound to attract some curious onlookers, who will either stick around to see what comes next, or who will head on down the road to find their own eclectic collection. All I hope is that I can at least tuck a little inspiration in their pocket before they go.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
January
While the allure of winter sports eludes me, I confess to having a real fondness for sledding. Nothing like grabbing a $5.99 saucer sled, and careening down an icy slope...shrieks of laughter freezing in mid air as the inevitable crash-and-burn happens at the bottom of the sled run.
Not that I've done this recently. I think the last time I actually went sledding was about six years ago. Fun stuff, though I felt a little bit like I was cheating, because they had a snowmobile ready to go, to come fetch those of us who ventured down the hillside.
Part of the great adventure of sledding when I was a kid, was having to haul your sorry, sore patoot back up the hill step by slogging step. Moon boots, puffy ski jacket, snow pants, gloves, itchy knit hat.. it's amazing I could even walk a step in all that confining gear. And boy, was it sweaty in there. No chance of getting too cold. While I might've looked like a Yeti, what with all the snow clinging to every nook and cranny... it was all Bahamas up in my snow suit. I'd yank that itchy hat off and toss it on the nearest snowbank, and let my stringy brown hair fly free.
Endless energy to burn. I wonder what that would feel like now?? I could slide/climb/slide/climb/slide/climb for hours on end, until the light started to fade, and the glow of the lights in our house started to beckon me. Then it was the slow trek back across the empty field, past the neighbor's house and across the road, letting my dog lead the way. It was such a snail's trudge... I never really wanted to go back inside, but snow pants can only hold back the wet snow so long.
Then there was the whole routine of climbing out of all that gear out on the porch. Moon boot liners always pulled out, making the boots look like exhausted dogs with tongues hanging out. And one by one, everything went into the dryer, leaving me standing there in my turtleneck and jeans - feeling about fifty pounds lighter. The warmth of the house drew me in, and the smell of mom's cooking reminded me that I was actually famished. She was a great cook, but of course...being a kid, what's the fun of homemade dinners? I danced in delight if I found out I could have a TV Dinner, with the peel-back foil. Salisbury steak, with corn, and chocolate cake. The thought of it makes me cringe now, but back then... that was a fun feast.
Makes me laugh to think about it all now. I wonder, when was the last time I went sledding on that hill? The last time my German Shepherd went running ahead of me across the snowy field? The last time I shrieked with my best friend down the icy slope? I'm sure it was a fun, exhausting day... enjoyed in a way only complete obliviousness to the finality of it could provide.
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