Strange Little Room

 

Strange little room 

where I can store 

the things most essential to me.  

It is much bigger inside than outside

though who would know?

A cold and indifferent world

seeks entrance for the sake of destruction.

The door used to stand ajar

until indiscriminate intruders 

chose to trample precious objects

with boots dirtied by selfish concerns.

Time has fashioned a lock. 

It has transformed me into 

a more discerning curator of

these things of fragile beauty.

Strange little room 

where I can store 

the things most essential to me.

***

Waiting for Faith

Waiting, waiting, waiting 

for things to make sense. 

I’m trying to do the right 

things, to be patient, but 

it seems like I’m always 

waiting with answers or 

resolutions somewhere 

out there but not anywhere 

in my realm of knowing 

to the point I have to laugh 

at myself, at how absurd 

yet how essential faith is.

***

2000 Souls in a Fishbowl

 

“2000 Souls” is a reminiscence written in the depths of that first year of the pandemic about my childhood spent in a small town in Southern Indiana.  Reading it now even just five years later I’ve picked up on some interesting nuances.

For example, I realize now why I have been mostly immune to the whole “Make American Great Again” phenomenon.  As a curious and sensitive kid I felt the cultural vibrations of America in the 70’s in my bones as a dreadful dissonance.  I wasn’t a woman or a minority, yet I could sense something was profoundly wrong with the world around me.  

To deal with that I became steeped in denial as a way to try and avoid what was most unpleasant about growing up here.  It was during the 80’s when I learned how to ignore those things that revealed my complicity with evil in and around me, showed my lack of integrity, or frustrated my position of entitlement.   

And then in the 90’s some major life changes and circumstances opened my eyes to the person I was becoming and I started to regain some of that sensitivity and perceptiveness of my childhood.  I learned to battle those insecurities that wanted to keep me hoodwinked and justifying the unjustifiable.  

So, I was one of those “2000 Souls” in a fishbowl with colorful rocks, a mysterious castle, and a treasure chest that provided some distraction and enjoyment to a little boy, but the water I swam in was brackish and polluted, and I knew it.

***

Reading & Writing, Writing & Reading

Man, this writing thing is so weird.  I feel like I have so much to say but when I sit to write my attention oftentimes shatters into numerous pieces like a dropped glass with the number of shards overwhelming me.  So, when the writing process becomes too difficult I pivot to reading.  I *want* to read more because I keep reading that writers read a lot.  I used to love it and spend hours at it, but that is not so much the case anymore.  I suspect my deep involvement with electronic devices is to blame.

These two books came onto my radar this past week.  The one by Ishiguro has been in my awareness for at least a few years which was intensified by seeing the movie it was based on starring Andrew Garfield.  I was talking to a social worker in the ER here at the hospital where I work when I noticed she had this book with her.  It sparked a conversation about its premise.  She said she thought it was very well written but much of the time she did not know *exactly* what was going on in the overall picture.  This disorientation is part and parcel of the story it is telling.  It’s what you might call “literary science fiction” as a very well written dystopian novel.  This is the kind of writing I aspire to, but my late start and its hobby status provides some serious impediments to me developing this level of skill.  

The second one caught my eye at a local independent bookstore on an end cap.  My daughter and I were on a mission that included dropping in at our local library but we discovered it was closed.  This provided some redirection to explore a nearby bookstore instead and this wolfman on the cover seemed to be looking me in the eye and daring me to pick it up.  It is a collection of essays and the titles of these essays in and of themselves had me intrigued.  Things like “The Night Prince Walked on Water” and “Nina Simone Was Very Black”.  The blurbs on the back mention his “lyrical writing” and the “insight and tenderness” he brings to writing about music and culture from a predominantly black perspective.  I imagine this perspective provides a deep well of understanding drawn up through suffering and the challenges faced by that community.  I would love to have a blurb on a book of mine that would describe me in this way!

So I just started reading “They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us” sitting here in our public library, but then the desire to write overwhelmed me and I put it down to type out these rough and tumble words.  Maybe I am a case study for ADHD with my attention flitting about like a fly, landing for only a brief moment before moving on.  Maybe it’s that I am getting old and the time to explore and create feels like it is running out for me and I’m frantically grasping for what I can when I can?

***

All Hat, No Horse

 

Yesterday I came across this art work by Scott Sheldon entitled “All Hat, No Horse” and thought it was brilliant visual commentary.

I was thinking about how DJT in his first administration was new to the job and kept putting qualified people in cabinet positions because that is all he knew to do at the time, but they kept resigning when the realization hit them that he was not a serious leader and was making ludicrous if not seriously dangerous requests of them.

Fast forward to this second administration and he just said “screw it, I’m putting in loyalists” even though they have no qualifications or expertise to function in those roles.  As a result the most qualified and experienced people in these departments are either quitting or being fired, basically gutting our government’s ability to function effectively or at all.

Then I saw this photo of our current Secretary of Homeland Security who has turned this department’s purpose on its head, ie, working diligently to spread fear and insecurity in areas not governed by their loyalists.

The metaphor that came to mind today is that our present government is functioning like the WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment).  They posture and pose to portray strength and purpose, but it isn’t real.  They brazenly lie and expect us to cheer them on and accept what they are saying as not obviously fake or false.  It is the thrilling pile driver or the flying suplex that is all for show for a certain segment of the population that is naive: easily deceived, distracted, and manipulated.  

It is the big hat and big belt buckle that wants to be taken seriously but is all external show with no internal substance.

Les Bosquets

 

I don’t remember how this video came into my awareness several years ago now but I do know it haunts me to this day.

It is about the filming of a short called “Les Bosquets” which was preceded by a ballet for the New York City Ballet of the same name.  It is a story inspired by the 2005 Paris riots and the film returns to ground zero, as it were, to tell the story in music and dance.

Behind and surrounding the dance sequences you have the very real backdrops of poverty and yearning… real people with real struggles finding some joy and transcendence in music, in dance, in art.  

I love the brief scenes of curious children from that neighborhood smiling for the camera and hamming it up as the filming crew documents some of the surroundings between takes.

About three quarters of the way through this video the “sad remix” of Pharrell’s song “Happy” kicks in and emotionally destroys me in the best possible way.  It perfectly captures that profound mix of joy and sadness of the human condition in a way that the original pop version cannot.  It has been slowed and a minor key utilized with wistful orchestration added.  A powerful feeling of longing bypasses my defenses and hits me in some deep and neglected space that brings tears to my eyes.

And speaking of eyes, if you watch carefully there is a point when all of the dancers in the varied black and white body suits form one long line and you can see a giant pair of eyes looking back at you (see photo at the top).  It helps to not look at them directly, but focus somewhere just behind the line to see the patterned effect.

I have not been able to find the entire film online and I have not seen the NYCB performance, but somehow this 7 minute clip has been enough to give me the feel of what the filmmaker was trying to convey.  I’m not sure why it came back to mind today though as I write this it suddenly seems obvious that my subconscious brought it back to my awareness in light of this being an immigrant story and the challenges they face here and elsewhere.

It is a Privilege to Co-suffer

 

As a Christian 

it is a privilege 

to co-suffer.

The symbol

sine qua non

of the Faith 

is not a flower.

It is not a heart

or a smiley face.

It is a cross

on which our 

disordered passions

are crucified.

It is a distillation 

of love and a hope

for healing.

It recognizes 

we are deepened

and purified 

through suffering

due to soul sickness.

May we hold 

each other up 

in whatever way

and whichever way

we can, “for He is 

good and the lover 

of mankind”.

***

New Year’s Resolution

 

In the new year I plan to continue to pursue creative outlets to help ease the stress of a bewildering world.  I am willing to take whatever is at hand and wield it in a way that provides a path to some self-understanding.  

These things may include strumming my guitar or taking photos that tell stories and trigger writing possibilities.  These are the things most readily available to me via a 12-string guitar that is now down to 9 strings and a phone that captures images in the very moment they present themselves to my awareness.

Maybe I can revisit Saturday morning art projects anew with my daughter that used to be something I did with my son before she came into the world, though she is more drawn to music.  Little Elias and I used whatever was at hand: colored markers, play-doh, water color paints, construction paper cutouts, and of course taking photographs.  Those times are some of my warmest memories of his childhood.

I think it is important to develop a “creative radar” that recognizes what amount to gifts given to us by creatures and creation where the deep mysteries of our interconnectedness become manifest.  

Case in point, this blue water color image posted by a friend, Laura L.  She has been exercising her creative muscles and in a serendipitous mistake (“Happy Accident” per Bob Ross?) some leaking water “ruined” the page.  When she posted it I immediately perceived a fantastical creature I dubbed “The Throom”.  By adding two eyes and a mouth it became a creature that wonders at the world as it wanders around its room.  I tried to work out a poem about it but only got as far as two rhyming lines.  It has a children’s book vibe but could go darker depending on the mood of the moment.  It is now an image in the iCloud that I may one day revisit with renewed inspiration as to what a “Throom” is and what it does.

So in the new year let us consider the healing aspects of creative pursuits.  If you don’t want to take my word for it then maybe Kurt Vonnegut can convince you in this excerpt from a letter sent to a high school class at their behest:

“Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.”

***

Bliss of the Abyss

 

  Stepping into the abyss

  of “ignorance is bliss”.

       (it hasn’t happened to me

       so I can ignore their plea)

          Going over the edge

          with my empty pledge:

             “In God we trust”

              yet support the unjust.

Christmas Eve in Columbus

 

A quiet and cold morning here in Columbus, Ohio.  There is frost on the grass where Nala is nosing around looking for a place to potty.  I forgot to unplug our Christmas lights on the bushes and front porch so they are still glowing softly in the darkness.

The drive to work is unhurried and the roads are mostly empty.  There are no challenging merges to be negotiated with so few cars on 315.  It’s like the explosive growth in this city has been dialed back to some earlier less hectic time.

Pulling into the parking garage across from Grant Medical Center I wave to the parking attendant and find a prime parking spot that is typically gone by now.  It is quiet downtown.  It’s like the world is anticipating something… a birth maybe.

***

Attack on Titan

 

For eight years my son and I followed the saga of Erin Yeager in the Japanese anime series “Attack on Titan”.  It is a strange title in that it appears it was either mistranslated or something was lost in translation as there are “attacks” and there are “titans” but there is no “attack on titan” as such.  Before watching it I thought “titan” might be a planet or something.

When we started watching it together my son was 11 and when we finished it he was 19.  With some degree of verisimilitude he was aging at the same rate as the protagonist-turned-antagonist.  I first showed him a scene of an “abnormal” titan running through what looks like an old European city flopping its arms and bouncing off of buildings.  This titan was 45 feet tall and intent on eating any humans it could catch.  It looked like a “normal” adult male but had no clothes and no genitalia, strangely enough.

It confused and fascinated him at the same time, but he was hooked.  The themes running through it are profound and play out in intense relationships, politics, and the horrors of war.  The depth of imagination necessary to create a world this complex is awe-inspiring and has been the topic of many conversations between my son and I over the years.  

[At present this process is repeating via the TV series “Severance” though on a smaller scale.]

The image I created is a combination of the series poster and a picture I took of the Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. mural in Indianapolis that is titan-size.  I found it today going through some photos from 2021 and just realized the young figure of Erin Yeager could represent my son and KVJ looming over the wall is me as an elderly male.  From a developmental perspective it is like a metaphor of my son needing to grow and overcome my dominance/control in order to eventually take his place as an adult in society.

***

Morning Fog from the Fifth Floor

 

Yesterday morning the fog sat full on the head

like a bowler pulled down to ears and eyebrows.

I experienced it from the fifth floor of our building

looking out over roofs and treetops... a tower.

The clouds, unable to fly high, rested on the earth

where I breathed in their cool air and water vapor.

It was womb-like in the lack of light, enveloped by 

moisture, and hearing the heart beat of Our Mother.

I am a fish out of water in so many ways, having 

lost the routine of moon cycles and predictable waves.

I am too dry, not sure why, wanting to cry and water

the earth with repentance, to regain reconciliation.

Yesterday morning the fog sat full on my heart,

heavy hands rhythmically pumping up and down,

like a code had been called in this hospital on the 

fifth floor to try and bring me back to life.

***