Those Days

Some days one wishes the sun had never raised its sleepy head and awakened the world. Sometimes it seems maybe those things that lurked in the darkness and shadows might have worked themselves out had they not felt the pressure to rush into hasty decisions. Maybe if they were not blinded by something so powerful so quickly.

Islands

How wonderful are islands! Islands in time, like a short vacation. The past and the future are cut off; only the present remains. Existence in the present gives island living an extreme vividness and purity. One lives like a child or a saint in the immediacy of here and now. Every day, every act, is an island, washed by time and space, and has an island's completion. People, too, become like islands in such an atmosphere, self-contained, whole and serene; respecting other people's solitude, not intruding on their shores, standing back in reverence before the miracle of another individual. "No man is an island," said John Donne. I feel we are all islands--in a common sea.

We are all, in the last analysis, alone. And this basic state of solitude is not something we have any choice about. It is, as the poet Rilke says, "not something that one can take or leave. We are solitary. We may delude ourselves and act as though this were not so. That is all. But how much better it is to realize that we are so, yes, even to begin by assuming it. Naturally," he goes on to say, "we will turn giddy."

Naturally. How one hates to think of oneself as alone. How one avoids it. It seems to imply rejection or unpopularity. An early wallflower panic still clings to the word. One will be left one fears sitting in a straight-backed chair alone, while all the others are chosen and spinning around with their hot-palmed partners. Some are so frightened today of being alone that they never let it happen. Even if family, friends, and movies should fail, there will still be the radio, or television, or internet to fill the void. Those who used to complain of loneliness, need never be alone any more. Even while cleaning house, one can have soap-opera heroes by one's side. Even daydreaming was more creative than this; it demanded something of oneself and it fed the inner life. Now, instead of planting our solitude with our own dream blossoms, we choke the space with continuous music, chatter, and companionship to which we never listen. It is simply there to fill the vacuum. When the noise stops there is no inner music to take its place. One must re-learn to be alone.

It is a difficult lesson to learn today--to leave one's friends and family and deliberately practice the art of solitude for an hour, or a day, or a week. For most, the break is the most difficult. Parting is inevitably painful, even for a short time. It is like an amputation, some feel. A limb is being torn off, without which one shall be unable to function. And yet, once it is done, one finds there is a quality to being alone that is incredibly precious. Life rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before. It is as if in parting one did actually lose an arm. And then, like a starfish, one grows it anew; one is whole again, complete and round--more whole, even, than before, when one's companions had pieces of one.

It seems to me, when I separate from my own species, that I am nearer to others. Beauty of earth and sea and air mean more to me. I am in harmony with it, melted into the universe, lost in it. For it is not physical solitude that actually separates one from others, but spiritual isolation. It is not the desert island nor the stony wilderness that cuts one off from the people one loves. It is the wilderness in the mind, the desert wastes in the heart through which one wanders lost and a stranger. When one is a stranger to oneself then one is estranged from others too. If one is out of touch with oneself, then one cannot touch others. How often, shaking hands or sharing hugs with friends, I have felt the wilderness stretching between us. Both of us wandering in arid wastes, having lost the springs that nourished us--or having found them dry. Only when one is connected to one's own core is one connected to others, I am beginning to discover. For me, the core, the inner spring, can best be found again through solitude.

As far as the search for solitude is concerned, we live in a negative atmosphere as invisible, as all-pervasive, and as enervating as high humidity on an August afternoon. The wold today does not understand, in either man or woman, the need to be alone. How inexplicable it seems. Anything else will be accepted as a better excuse. If one sets aside time for a business appointment, a trip to the hairdresser, a social engagement, or a shopping expedition, that time is accepted as inviolable. But if one were to say: I cannot come because that is my hour to be alone, one is considered rude, egotistical or strange. What a commentary on our civilization, when being alone is considered suspect; when one has to apologize for it, make excuses, hide the fact that one practices it--like a secret vice!

Few realize how important these times when one is alone are. Certain springs are tapped only when one is alone. The artist knows she must be alone to create; the writer, to work out thoughts; the musician, to compose; the saint, to pray. One needs this time to find the true essence of one's self: that firm strand which will be the indispensable center of a whole web of human relationships. One must find that inner stillness which Charles Morgan describes as "the stilling of the soul within the activities of the mind and body, so that it might be still as the axis of a revolving wheel is still." This wonderful image is to my mind one we could hold before our eyes. This is an end toward which we could strive.

Curious About Curiosity

If one was asked to explain the phrase "curiosity killed the cat" one would most likely respond without hesitation: "Inquisitiveness can lead one into dangerous situations." Who, however, is to say that this is correct?

Many would be surprised to know that this proverb oringinated as "care killed the cat." By "care" the coiner of the phrase, Ben Jonson, meant "worry." Knowing something like this I would expect one would question the true meaning of the phrase.

Does the phrase mean that because the cat acts on curiosity, then that makes the cat foolish, and the foolishness of the cat’s actions will lead to its demise?

Could the phrase possibly mean that because the cat was curious, but too careful to act on it, then the cat will die because it lacks that knowledge or that experience?

Could it not be true that curiosity could kill if not acted on?

Is it not true that the sheer pain and confusion that comes from not knowing is, at times, enough to kill?

Jigsaw

It seems Life

Could be compared to a giant jigsaw puzzle

With each person like each piece,

Having a place where they fit perfectly.

Yet so many in there need to belong,

Grab the first place they come to,

Then try to make it fit

And because of this

They are never quite in harmony

With their adjoining pieces.

Thus they never get to know

The way it was truly

Meant to be.

Mismatch

Feast of lust,
Libidinous and lavender,
Lusciousness and lovelies,
The lonely banquet.

Emptiness dines alone,
In unequivocal bliss,
Alchemical perfection.

Strike me well.
Strike me right.
Strike me stubborn.

Mail Art

When an acquaintance of mine asked if I would consider donating a piece of mail art in honor and memory of Judith A. Hoffberg (1934-2009), illustrating my feelings toward traditional mail, I was sort of lost as to what I should do. I've never made mail art before. To be honest, I don't send or receive much personal mail, so it was difficult to really think about how I personally feel about "snail mail."

I started out with numerous complex ideas. I originally intended to incorporate plastic umbrella (symbolizing the technological advances that hang over our heads, blocking us from traditional forms of communication) that flew through the air, leaving trails of binary code behind them and swooped down to take a stab at a fruit (representing the traditional/more natural forms of communication). As I sat down to construct this, however, I found myself stuck repeatedly. I realized as good as this idea seemed, it wasn't really inspired by anything personal, just what I presently assumed I would feel if I happened to be someone who at one point received personal mail regularly.

Sooo... Rifling through old things I went. After quite a lot of searching, (I've never unpacked.) I found a box of letters, notes, and such that I had kept, from various people who I might have been close with at some seemingly distant point in time. As I read through these, I began to realize even though I speak to none of these people anymore, I have no idea where they are in their lives, and some of them haven't even crossed my mind for so long, their WORDS still meant something to me. The simple fact that this person felt compelled to sit down and write these words, their thoughts and feelings, for me. I, as the recipient, hold something in my hands that no one else has laid eyes on. This handwritten piece of soul is the only one. No one else will ever be given this exact sequence of words, and certainly not in this exact handwriting.

With this in mind, I sat down to create an INSPIRED piece of mail art. While it may not be as complex or as technically advanced as one might like, it is the only one. It will stand unique in the Caldwell Gallery at the Armory Center for the Arts in Pasadena, CA from June 27-August 22, 2010 (opening reception is Saturday, June 26 7-9 PM). After the exhibit it will go to the Judith A. Hoffberg Archive at the library of the University of California, Santa Barbara.

(the back)

(the front)

Judith A. Hoffberg was an avid and active promoter of mail art and artists’ books. Judith was editor and publisher of Umbrella, a newsletter devoted to all manner of art publishing and art exhibitions. In addition to Judith’s work as a librarian, archivist, lecturer and curator, she gave unstintingly of her time and energy to promote artists through her encouragement and connections in the art world.

Kind Thoughts

Everyone knows a kind word can move mountains and change lives. There are times when such words escape, when the right thing wasn't said, and the time wasn't right to say it. For those times, kind thoughts can do the same, sometimes better. Thoughts have a way of lingering, seeking, and finding their intended beneficiary. Unfettered by time and space, it's never too late to think these thoughts, nor can one be too far away.

Thinking of you... Always.

Channeled Whelk

The shell in my hand is deserted. It once housed a whelk, a snail-like creature; after the death of the first occupant, a little hermit crab, who has run away, leaving tracks behind like a delicate vine on the sand. He ran away and left me this shell. This was once his protection. Turning the shell in my hand, I gaze into the wide open door from which he made his exit. Had it become an encumbrance? Why did he run away? Did he hope to find a better home, a better mode of living? I too have run away, I realize. I shed the shell of my life when I made the small move from my home town to my current residence, and I have hopes of shedding this shell again in the near future.

But his shell -- it is simple; it is bare, it is beautiful. Small, only the size of my thumb, its architecture is perfect, down to the finest detail. Its shape, swelling like a pear in the center winds in a gentle spiral to the pointed apex. Its color, dull gold, is whitened by a wash of salt from the sea. Each whorl, each faint knob, each vein in its egg-shell texture is as clearly defined as on the day of creation. My eye follows with delight the outer circumference of that diminutive winding staircase up which the tenant used to travel.

My shell is not like this, I think. Blurred with moss, knobby with barnacles, its shape is hardly recognizable anymore. Surely there was a definite shape once. It has a shape in my mind. The shape of my life today starts with myself as the only person consistently present, I have things which I am in pursuit of. The shape is, of course, determined by other things, childhood and such. I want to give to those I care for, to share with friends, to carry out my obligations to the world as a woman, as an artist, as a citizen.

I want most of all, as an end to these other desires, to be at peace with myself. I want singleness of eye, a purity of intention, a central core to my life that will enable me to carry out these obligations and activities as well as I can. I want, to live "in grace" as much of the time as possible. I am not using this term in a strictly theological sense. By grace I mean inner harmony, essentially spiritual, which can be translated into outward harmony. I would like to achieve a state of inner spiritual grace from which I could function and give.

I mean to lead a simple life, to choose a simple shell I can carry easily. But I do not. I find that the frame of my life does not foster simplicity. It involves a shelter that requires most of my paycheck to maintain, planning, marketing, bills, and making the ends meet in a thousand ways. It involves clothes, shopping, laundry, cleaning, mending, letting skirts down, sewing buttons on. It involves friends, and endless arrangements to meet; letters invitations, telephone calls, and transportation.

Life today in America is based on the premise of ever-widening circles of contact and communication. This is not the life of simplicity but the life of multiplicity. It leads not to unification but to fragmentation. To be human is to have interests and duties, raying out in all directions from the central core, like spokes from the hub of a wheel. The pattern of our lives is essentially circular. We must be open to all points of the compass, stretched out, exposed, sensitive like a spider's web to each breeze that blows, to each call that comes.

There is no obvious answer, only clues for shedding distractions. Shells of channeled whelks from a sea I've never seen, suggest a simplification of life, cutting out distractions. I can't shed all responsibilities, permanently inhabit a desert island. The solution for me is neither a total renunciation of the world, nor complete acceptance. There must be something between the extremes; a swinging of the pendulum between solitude and communication, between retreat and return. During my periods of retreat, perhaps I can learn something to carry back to into my worldly life. I ask into my shell only those with whom I can be completely honest. The most exhausting thing in life, I believe, is being insincere. That is much of the reason social life is so exhausting.

Simplification of outward life is not enough. It is merely the outside. The final answer, I know is always inside, but the outside can give a clue. Channeled whelk, you have set my mind on a journey, up an inwardly winding spiral staircase of thought.

Rooms of the Mind

It seems there are countless rooms in the mansion of your mind. Some are lavishly appointed and others quite spartan. Some rooms burst with their own creative energies that draw you into action, and others make you feel frightened, angry, or resentful the moment you enter them. There are rooms that inspire hope and foster new relationships. And there are others filled with memories of what has already come to pass and of dreams that never did.

The more time you spend in any given room, gazing from its windows, the more the outside world begins to justify, reinforce, and in every case, resemble it.

And it's like most people just think they find themselves, at any given point in a day, in one room or another without ever realizing that every second of every day, they consciously choose which room to hang out in.

Really, dear, it's your house... but just a fig leaf?

Parts

The sad part is that one has been told it's wrong to be selfish, tacky to be vain, vulgar to be sexy, and wasteful to be wealthy.

The happy part is 'they' were just making all that up.

Probably just jealous of all one might do, be, and have...
and afraid of all they might not.