A Night at the Museum

A lovely evening was spent at the Columbus Museum of Art with my psychiatric colleagues.  To start, a staff member from the CMA ran us through a 3-minute creative exercise where we were given random materials to be combined in whatever way we saw fit.  These materials included some tin foil, wooden stir sticks, coffee filters, and garbage bag ties.  When the time was up each of us were asked to explain what we’d made.  Some went the abstract route with underlying meanings and forms while some, like me, went the concrete route which was more on the surface.  The beautiful evening and warm temperatures outside had me thinking of dancing ladies in skirts with floppy sun hats.

From there we were led into the museum proper to two different paintings - one quite large and one much smaller with very different looks and tones.  Time was given to take them in before the staff member asked us questions about what stood out to us, what we were feeling, and what certain things might mean.  Standing in a half-circle around each we offered our answers drawn from our different life experiences and emotional makeup.  On some level it seemed to be a group Rorschach test that provided us an opportunity to plumb the depths of our minds and emotions a bit.

We then moved on to a larger gallery and each of us were given a word and asked to answer the question “what does it look like?” in regards to any particular piece we might choose.  She encouraged us to pick something that would not be obviously connected to the word to force us to really dig deep and fully exercise our creative muscles and imaginations.

My word was “Listening” and my eye was drawn to a collage of seemingly random objects affixed in a circle that included several sets of protruding eyes pushed outwards towards the observer.  The impression I had was that they were straining in some creepy way trying to “listen” to me.  As I am wont to do, I started writing down this impression in a poem to process the experience:

Straining eyes want to hear,

but struggle and fracture in doing so.

They see my lips moving and

want to know what I am saying.

They anticipate self-incrimination

to draw me into their present nightmare…

a love of shiny things affixed to the surface.

As part of this process we were advised not to look at the placard next to the art that gives information about it.  I glimpsed mine after the fact and simply saw the title: Halcyon.  What a strange name for this work!  The extreme contrast between the art piece and its name would have likely unduly influenced what I thought I was seeing, but maybe not.  Chaos, trauma, denial, and inhumanity all seemed to be in the mix (dare I say “demonic”).

All of us had a go at explaining how we found our word in the art piece we chose - more Rorschachy stuff it would seem.  I hope I didn’t reveal too much of my deeper self.  Some of that can be disquieting - yet to be fully dealt with.  Thank goodness we are psychiatrists and have a category for that kind of necessary work.

***

The Trauma Clown

 

Retained trauma 

is like a Jack-in-the-Box,

the music of life

in the cranking of a handle

until BOOM!

the trauma clown explodes 

from the box,

a jump scare of unexpected

terror and pain,

the response disproportional

to the situation.

___________________

John & Paul

 

Three songs in succession.

John-John-John

then 

Paul-Paul-Paul

then 

a glorious ringing John-Paul

echoes of individuals

leading to sublimation

Strawberry Fields

then 

Penny Lane

then 

A Day in the Life

Within a matter of months!

The whole greater than

the sum of its significant parts.

***

The Transcendent Train

 

The traditional Orthodox prayer rope consists of black wool knots tied and fashioned into a circle.  The larger ropes typically have 100 knots and the smaller ones have 33 knots to signify the number of years Jesus spent walking the earth from his birth to his “death”.

I am most interested in this smaller one because it is easily carried around by way of your wrist.  It is unobtrusive in size and color which matches the proper spiritual tone of humility and modesty.

What does one do with a prayer rope you may ask?  It is for saying The Jesus Prayer which in its most common form is “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner” repeated at each knot in succession to engender said humility.

In my mind it is like the circular railroad track that I had as a child.  The railroad ties are evenly spaced and provide the “beat” of the prayer.  When I am riding on this train I imagine the interior of the track encircles a beautiful garden with all that entails: fragrant flowers, singing birds, welling springs, and shading trees in full sun.  The outside of the track is dark, desolate, and dry.

When I am on the train I can take in the sight of the garden and breathe it in through the slightly cracked windows, but frequently by my own poor choices I am thrown from the train into that outer darkness.  I find myself in the dirt and a bit bloodied by the fall.  The train sits still and expectant as I stand up and brush myself off.  Do I walk in this outer world or get back on the train?  Lost in disordered thoughts and passions I start walking - nay limping - and the train follows apace ready for re-boarding.

Today it was a consolation of sorts to think of it in this way; that the prayer rope remains accessible and can bring my mind back onto the right track when utilized; that it can connect me to something beautiful; that paradise can be glimpsed even now in the whispering of words.

***

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 use 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”.

***