Yo, Andy!

"I would say it's in your best interest to pack up and go," the former United Nations ambassador, Atlanta mayor and confidant of Martin Luther King Jr. said to the protestors. Young told protestors he supports them, but he said they would be more effective if they focus their message. "You have to be very clear in what you're saying, and you have to have a consensus about the changes you want in the American economy and what does it take to make those changes," Young said. 

Andy, did you change your name to Dick? WTF? You know me. As recently as ten years ago, you looked me in the eye, said "Hi, Laura." and then you said something else about the importance of civil disobedience but that suing a judge was a really dumbass idea and then I just wanted to punch your lights out so I didn't hear the rest. Right, Anj. Like marching on Selma was rocket science. You have to wear them down, Andy, one day at a time. I think you said that once. Maybe Yoki's Daddy said it. Could have been her momma. Coretta had more than a few things to say. I sure wish I could hear what she would say to you today.

Oh, wait! I can hear it. "Struggle is a never ending process. Freedom is never really won, you earn it and win it in every generation." How about this one: "If you don't like something, young lady, get you get up off your fanny and you do something about. You just take that first step and all the universe will come along to help you." That's one that isn't in the books. She said that to me. You were there, so don't deny it.

When the system became so broken, and so wrong and there were so many homeless and hopeless and without any resources, this protest was born. Your argument that the protestors need a clearer statement is the equivalent of someone in the 60s saying "what do you want Dr. King? Voting rights or to eat lunch?" We want it all. We wanting voting rights, not further unconstitutional restrictions that make it difficult for the poor and downtrodden to vote. We want a job. We want health care.

We don't want it all. We just want enough to pay the bills, have a barbecue on Sunday, go to the mall once in a while, watch a little internet porn, whatever. Whatever it is we do, we just want that. We want a cozy bed, tv, dinner and a movie once in a while, a couple a kids, a car that doesn't self destruct or cost as much as a house. We want a fair game, a level playing field, the same rights and privileges that corporations get. In other words, Andy, we want the same thing you wanted when you marched on Selma. We want them now and we want them for EVERYBODY. We want them for young, old, christian, muslim, buddhist, and gay. We want help now. We want rich people to stop acting like dicks and we want the government to stop kissing their butts. We want a little honesty, integrity and sanity in our goverment. And we want it now.

You, Andy, are not helping. You could. But you aren't.  Here's another good one from Coretta: “You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.” Right now, Andy, I hate you. Lead, follow or get the fuck out of the way.

Living Wood

I prefer to work on dead wood. A tree just felled, that's still alive, makes me wonder if it hurts. I know, strange thoughts for a non-vegetarian, but I do agree we could all go a lot further to consider the pain someone or something else might feel. Trees are alive. Vegetables are alive. Plants are alive. Animals aren't the only thing we kill for food. I don't discriminate on what I'll kill for food. But, I do worry if a piece of wood is dead enough to be carved. I know. I've been this way my whole life. I'm used to it. This wood is beautiful. I first noticed it when I moved here. 4 years ago. It was deep in the side of a hill that was very slowly eroding. I did help loosen the dirt sometimes. Whenever Webs and I went for a walk. Just a little. That's probably really environmentally treacherous, but I just live on the edge. I had to have it. It really called to me. So, this is the wood I mentioned yesterday. It still has sap. Today, the sap had been bleeding out of the right shoulder. So cool. It's almost like amber in other places. Proper polishing and it will shine like gold. I just really feel an intense connection to this wood.

I'm also examining other artists and works that exhibit great passion. And I mean passion - not the Hollywood over used kind (I have a PASSION for Facebooking) - no the real, deep down, impossible to ignore, c'mon baby light my fire passion. Like Georgia O'Keefe kind of passion. Sexual kind of passion. I mean, isn't that really the only kind of passion? There has to be a better word for all those other things. Flitting through these thoughts and feelings, it occurs to me now that I have been missing a huge part of creating art. Sensuality is expressed so often and in such depth. Where the hell have I been? Really, I knew it was there, appreciated it, even sought it out. For some reason, now that I have actually achieved it, witnessed it, art lives and breathes on a whole new level.

Question for Artists

This could be considered a touchy topic. Very touchy. O.K. I'll just ask. Artists out there: does your art ever turn you on? Do you find yourself feeling perhaps a little too passionate about your work sometimes? Has the color of your paint turning at just that point leave you breathless? Does the curve of that wood, or the silken feel of its polishedness just send you over the top? What about paper - does it ever whisper to you? Canvas could, too, you know. I had never fully experienced that until recently. I'm working on this piece of wood that threatens to be an enormous compilation of several other large and small pieces of wood. Recently, I ran my hand down an area I'd just polished and I plotzed. OMG. That wood felt good. Gave new meaning to a woody! For a woman, that's quite an achievement. But, seriously. You know that point in the relationship, when your shoulders touch and you don't pull away, you just slightly lean into each other and it feels nice. It feels almost electric. It feels real and right and warm. It feels like laughter. This wood speaks to me on levels I'm just now finding. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to be a guest on that weird show about people who are in love with inanimate objects. It just surprised me to be able to feel so much life from a piece of wood that was dead and felled so very long ago. It's really added a new level to the physical and mental aspects of creating art.

Goodbye, Norma Jean

Years of dementia. Years of wasting away. Years of slowing being erased. Her brother, sister in law, nephew left to get a bite to eat. They'd be back in just a while. The hospice nurse came in to check. Perhaps we could give her some more morphine. She'd check. This was the nice hospice nurse. Not the evil witch I cussed out two weeks ago when the turn came, when she saved Jean from a fever of 105F and seizures, when she gave me the reputation as being the kind of person who will cuss out a nurse for saving a patient's life. Yep. That's me. Yep, I know that's standard procedure. Yep, I don't care. It was an Oscar worthy moment. If life gave Oscars, I earned mine that night. I was patient at first, just trying to understand the why of it. Where in the file was the error, so I could fix that page, so no one saved her life again. The error was the nurse never looked at that page, or any page. Never looked at the file. Never even stopped to think about it. I know I was verbally on that night. I can't think right now exactly what I said, but I did thank her for making sure that Jean could now die even more slowly and painfully than she was already dying. The rest of it included lots of really bad words. For the next two weeks, I didn't have to ask twice for anything. After all is said and done, I'm sorry for whatever suffering Jean endured, but I'm grateful for those last few times Donna was able to share with her. I'm grateful I was able to be there for her. I'm grateful for all Jean did for me. Donna held one hand. I held the other. Donna was telling me about Alaska. "You should go. You should take the cruise up there and then just stay. You'd love it." A breath went in. "I promised her I'd drive the Oregon coast." I said. A breath went out. It wasn't at all labored. Just slow. "I could just drive from San Francisco to Portland, then cruise up to Alaska from there." Breathe in. "There are lot more men than women up there - you should love it." Donna added. Breathe out. "Yeah, but it's cold." Breathe in. "Do you think you could handle the darkness all winter?" Breathe out. "No. But I could totally love the sunshine all summer." Nothing. Norma Jean Tyson strolled the golden road home. She called it that. - the path the full moon makes on water. That's the path you walk to home at the end of your days.

re-post - Rich Girl, Poor Girl

A highly financially solvent woman once asked me "why do poor people think rich people should give them money?" Huh???? It was said in a particularly snotty tone of voice. I wasn't even sure if she was including me as one of the rich who had found the answer to the pesky little problem, or one of the poor who was trying to suck money out of her. Given that I was working with her on a home improvement project for which she was paying me, because I needed work and had no money, I knee jerked to the latter. I was initially tempted to rip her a new one but there were just too many things being undersaid in her question that I just couldn't leave it not bitched about:

1. Rich people - would you define that for me, please? Who's rich? You? If you had a brain, you would hire somebody else to use it for you! You got yourself some money, don't you? Good for you. Why do you think that makes you better than me? How'd you get that money? Your daddy and granddaddy and great granddaddy died and gave it to you! And when your Momma dies, God rest her soul, you will get even more! Weehaw! That sho nuff makes you waaaaaay better person than me and so much better off than I can imagine. I once sat with a friend and wistfully said "I sure do wish I was rich." To which friend responded "Why do you think you aren't?" I have friends who love me, a good educations, the enthusiasm for good work and the ability to laugh loudly and with all my heart. Turns out, I'm pretty rich.

2. Poor people - would you define that for me, please? Jesus said there would always be the poor among us. Yes, we know there are those who have no home, no food, no education, no hope. Of all those things, we can easily provide for all but hope. Hope comes hard. It takes real effort. It takes time, imagination, and some days it takes absolutely everything you got. Sometimes, every thing you got isn't close to enough. I got money today, but I can't buy $50 worth of propane to get me through to next month when I'll have $100 more to toss at it, but they won't shot up for less than $200. Who knew it would be this cold in October. I thought for sure I could make it until December 1st with just a little faith. November 29, and I get the propane. November 30, a tree falls and smashes the house. No such thing as a propane refund. So, you who daily calls 1-800-DO-IT-FOR-ME to have your toilet paper changed, would it really hurt you to actually give a little money to a genuine, bona fide person who has none? I can live all year just on what you spend in one month at Walmart. Without even being thrifty. Who's poor? Within 2 hours I have a place to live with heat, thanks to a friend who just happens to have a house. Thank you God for your plans for me. Thank you God for friends. I will need another place to live next year, and as I walk into church full of faith that You will lead me to where I need to be, a friend needs help, would I, could I, please, live in her basement? We all provide.

3. Why is giving money to poor people so wrong? There's this attitude that if you have no money, there must be some lingering, underlying, nefarious moral issue at work in your life. Somehow, you just aren't good enough. For me, it worked like this: I got out of college and began to meticulously, carefully, deliberately plan my life. Of course, life happened other wise, and I rolled with the punches, got back up, went back to planning, got better and better jobs, better and better educations, better and better homes and better and better stuff. Then, one day, out of the blue, it all came tumbling down. Blindsided on a Tuesday. I hit a big, fat, hard brick wall. Family health problems and my own personal issues collided into a spiral of reality checking like I never imagined. In a world where what goes around comes around, I had to face up to a whole lot of mean, angry bad shit.

I got therapy. I got God. I was born of Jesus in a dream, and summoned to a conference with the Prophet (not profit) Muhammad (peace be upon him, praise to him, peace, love, and whatever it is that is said - and why don't I know this yet?). Buddha laughed. When the dust had finally settled, I emerged happier, wiser, and with a greater ability to laugh at myself and the world in general. I had no plan. I gave up. God wants me to do something, God knows how to get it done. God knows I don't. That was my plan. That is still my plan. I don't have any money, because God don't want me to have no money. God has her reasons. I have no idea what they are, but I have a roof over my head, I have food to eat, I have heat, beauty, laughter and the best friends anyone could ever want or hope or pray for. I'm still not poor.

As for the friend, I still like her. I disagree with her on a lot. I don't see her much anymore, but that's another issue for another day. So, when she asks me why poor people think rich people should give them money, I just tell her what she really already knows: Because Jesus said so.

Dry Spells

I've been going through a long, difficult dry spell. Oh, sure, I've done some work this year, but not as much as prior years. And I've done a lot more the last few months, so I think I'm gearing up over all. The last three years, in fact, have been slow. I keep finding other things I need to do. I'm there today as well. I really, really, really want to paint. It's raining and it's the perfect storm for color and brush to dance over some available surface. But, I can't paint the way things are right now. I have no choice but to deal with the clutter in my environment.

It's a mess. I cleaned my closet and now I find myself going back there and just standing there looking at it, admiring the tidiness, cherishing the orderliness of it all. My sock drawer - I can't even open it, lest I disturb all the matched companions nestled there so snugly. I confess I love, admire, envy tidy people. But, the truth is, I'm just not one of them. Oh, yeah, I make a big deal out of OCD being a disorder, just as bad as messy hoarding, but I'm just jealous.

I want to do what I did to my closet to the rest of my living area, but I just can't figure out where to start. I tried starting on the porch, but I needed to clean things, which meant doing the dishes first. Dishes are now done, but they need to dry and be put away to make room for the next load. It's always something. I'm not naturally tidy, or neat. What my bff doesn't know (or hasn't shared with me that she ever suspected) is that I am currently about the tidiest I have ever been in my life. I feel like I've come so far for so long, that I just need to rest on my laurels a while. But, I can't. The clutter really does crawl right up my last nerve and admonish me to do better.

That's the thing with self improvement. You are just never quite done. Small success begs for a bigger victory. A tidy sock drawer double dog dares for a clean, uncluttered desk. A human's work is never done.

one-ness

I was asked an interesting question yesterday: "what does your life falling apart look like?" There are just infinite numbers of ways to answer that question. Life exploding and falling apart is an experience on the mental, emotional, spiritual, physical levels and so much more. And it's messy. Take everything in your refrigerator and shoot it out of a cannon into your living room. What my life exploding looked like, felt like, at the time.

Before you get all ready to help me, this happened many years ago. I weathered that storm, and many more since then. But, I like an interesting question. It was someone showing an interest in me, who I was, am, where I came from, where I'm going. Artists are like that. And, usually, an artist will share with you what they think, feel, perceive, pray about a particular thing, topic, whatever. Non artists seem to hold those opinions to themselves. I think it's because non artists don't think their own particular perspective on a thing is sacred. Ah, but that's where I think non artists are incorrect. Note, I don't think they're "wrong" - too judgmental. Wrong isn't possible in a oneness world. Which brings me back around to my initial point.

Oneness. An artist said, in part and parcel of the above mentioned conversation, "I am a non dualist." This is a term of art, I know, among spiritual seekers. And it's a nice thought with a nice meaning. Judgment, I know, but it seems not judgment to like something, even if it really is. Since that statement, and its explanation and discussion and elaboration, I changed my perspective. Being a non dualist feels to me like a judgment against dualists and a defining by the not rather than the is. But?

I do often paint a subject as much by painting what it is not as painting what it is. A face recently only took shape when I painted in the sky where the face was not. Much as I struggled to paint the actual face, it didn't happen alone. I painted the not face. Then I saw the face. There's a duality there. There's something more that exists than I can define in line, color, shade and form. The face against the sky is as much the face as it is not the sky. In that space, that energy between face/not face, sky/not sky, right there is aGod. God is not just in all of us. God is all of us. God is sky, God is not sky. You are Me, You are not Me.