A Friendly Report

I want to talk about a friend. We both work at a...hmmm...school.



Depending on what I say about her, my comments might be construed as gossip, gross exaggerations, backbiting, belittling, praising, or promoting. Some might say I am just sharing news or reporting. Others might say I am deflecting attention from those many risque rumors about myself (I wish!) or that since I'm so hopelessly boring (aw, smack!), I can only say what is going on in the lives of others. If the previous statement is a good indication (which it is), whatever it is that I have to say about my friend, I'm going to reference it to myself.



What I most enjoy about this friend is that she is not me. In many ways, we are very different and I like that about her. First, her world is larger than mine; she makes it so by reaching beyond the immediate locale and the present moment in what she says, does and how she thinks (if I can presume to get into her head.) She is more well-read than I am; this doesn't refer to an ingestion of classics, but to the fact that she reads what she likes and when she likes.



Second, she can pull off being a perfectly sane and stable rebel; this state of mind seems oxymoronic or, at least, unusual. But she pulls it off, sliding through wispy and yet sure-footed in her own way daring others to trifle with her while dodging everything that would rattle a less stable person. Like my friend, I do rebel, but usually I am slapped down for my efforts. Of course, then I get back up just to see if the same thing happens a second time...or fourth, sixth, or whatever.


Third, she is a real blogger. I am a blogger-wannabe; as with many things, I am a wannabe. I wouldn't have blogged this much if not for her encouragement. I wouldn't have known how to get started. So it's thanks to JSK that I blog (for better or worse.) You should check out her blog, in fact. Go to http://sceamingyawndog.blogspot.com/ to read what a worldly, sane rebel has to say. Tell her I sent you.

Lost July

Where did July go?

There never again will be a July, 2007 and it might be just as well.

Fortunately, there were no tragedies in my immediate family, but it did seem that we were painfully aware and often painfully empathetic towards those who did suffer.

July should have been a month during which families laugh, play, rest and re-create themselves in a good way. For too many, the families were downsized by some calamity and they were forced to re-create their existence without a child, without a brother or sister. Here I speak of local issues without even addressing the sadness in Iraq or Afghanistan or other areas of the world where calamities are a daily occurrence.

August is burning gratitude into our skin and into our hearts. The sting of mosquitoes reminds us that we are vulnerable and yet largely unaffected by our surroundings. My garden is thick with weeds but the unintended flowers on the choking vines of the Morning Glory reveal a humble beauty in the midst of neglect.

It is cliche but honest to mention that this summer will come and go with the next one to follow regardless what our intentions, oversights, and actions might yield. We believe that the space that we fill has importance and consequences and that others will remember. Yet, our impact on this world is only a whisper that blows away in the next warm breeze.

I was reminded of this when a customer in my daughter's consignment shop mentioned that she had heard that a person is remembered for no longer than three generations. The woman in a heavy Southern accent said, "I just can't believe that folks won't remember me." Then as she left the shop, she shouted to us, "Now, don't you ever forget me; don't you forget ______."

Sadly, I've forgotten her name.

July Jitterbug

Anxiety is a friendlier condition than depression...it just drops by unexpectedly, sometimes introduces shadowy friends that sit passively but unpredictably in the corner of the room.

Jest a-fusing

June is nearly over which means this year is half over. What have I accomplished in the past six months? Is there really any point to that question?

Here is another of my artsy-fartsy projects. This was one of my favorites and it sold. At least I can visit the guys while I'm here. It's fabric images and strips fused onto burlap.

This summer has become much busier than I had envisioned. There's very little time for fusing; even less time for being confused. Maybe there's just less time to realize that I'm confused.

I'll give that some more thought in the fall when I, again, have time to be confused and to know it.

Creative Channel vs. Channel Catfish

Here is where my creativity has been channeled over the last few months.

No, it's not what you are thinking. I don't personally know these guys but I wouldn't turn down the chance to know them, Biblically or otherwise. Of course, that would just be for the sake of research for something interesting to write about...remember I'm a woman writing whorishly, not a whorish woman writing. Actually, I paid for them (I would have to, wouldn't I); they arrived at my front door in a brown envelope. Then I quilted a frame around each one.

I made these and several other wall hangings for an art show to benefit the Greater Champaign AIDS Project. Before you assume I am a philantropist, I should add that I had the benefit of 50% of the proceeds and GCAP received the other half. I really appreciate my friends that introduced me to this project and saw to it that I went through with it, actually getting my contribution in on time.

The two shirtless, sexy cowboys shown above both sold! Imagine that! (Can you say Brokeback Mountain?)

I'll add a few more with future posts...especially the ones that did sell so that I have an opportunity to see them again.

As for catfish, the weather is warm and the fish are calling our names. My grandsons and I will be on the muddy banks several times, I'm sure. There is no such thing as failure in fishing which is what makes it such a pleasure.

The soil for my garden is nearly ready for planting. I'm at this much later than last year. That might be because last year was my first garden in several years so I was really anxious to get out there and dig in. This year, the memory of how much work is involved in gardening is a little fresher.

So many creative pursuits, so little time. Speaking of which, I got things to go and places to do (you know what I mean)...

Creative Crap

I am so grateful to those who remind me that I haven't done any additional work on this blog despite my declaration to write whorishly. I can see in this first sentence what the problem is...I just referred to this as work. My declaration was to write freely, lustfully even, playing with words and the joy of tapping keys. This freedom from the inner critic must be the source of all creativity. Perhaps that's why some of the most mentally deviant individuals have been the most creative.

For those of us who may not be mentally deviant (notice I'm inserting some doubt in this statement), there must be a method to this creativity (even play has some rules). Some intelligent anonymous person once said that all learning begins with play and I would add that the reverse must simultaneously occur. So play must include some method.

In the past, when involved with dream groups as a member or as a dream coach, I used a technique intended to help the dreamer let go of their mental restraints so that they could explore the meanings of their own dreams. The question I used for this technique was "If I were from Mars and had no idea what __________ (fill in the blank with something associated with the dream) is, please explain it to me."

For example, if the person had an eagle appear in their dreams, I would ask them to explain to me what an eagle is as though I had no preconceived ideas about its meanings. The person might say, "It's a bird" and I would respond with "What is a bird?" The person might tell me that a bird is something that soars from place to place enjoying an expansive view, a birdseye view, of the terrain. Or the person might respond that a bird is a filthy creature whose droppings spoil statues in town squares. The person's response always opened up further questions such as "What advantage would there be in having an expansive view?" or "What is a statue and why would someone want to keep it clean?"

This line of questioning and probing would continue until some symbolic meaning was revealed to the dreamer relevant to their own answers. As in the examples used, the dreamer might determine that they need to look at the "big picture" rather than be bogged down in worrisome details or that they felt "shit on" when, in fact, there was no personal insult intended.

The purpose of recalling this dream interpretation method is to explore my unconscious about what it means to write. Is it work? Is it play? Is it something entirely different yet to be revealed. The interpretation of creativity for the purposes of this blog is about being a writer.

Woman from Mars: What is a writer?
Me: It's someone who not only writes but finishes what she set out to write.
WFM: What does it mean to be finished?
Me: To have something ready to send to a publisher.
WFM: Why is it important to be published?
Me: That's how other people have a chance to read and critique my work.
(Uh, oh, I just shit on myself!)

What Women Really Want

March 19, 2007

Sigmund Freud was perplexed by the nature of women.

Because I'm equally perplexed, Sigmund and I might have gotten along.

However, while Siggie was entangled with theory and terminology by which he could describe and explain women, I am more bewildered by my own interest in what he might have thought about women. In fact, I am puzzled about why I am interested in what anyone else thinks about what I do and say. I'm most interested in why I become paralyzed as I ponder what others might think about what I write.

This isn't to say that I have no anti-social tendencies. Actually I do have a few which one might think would relieve me of any concern about the concerns of others.

Nevertheless, it's frustrating that I so often allow the opinions of others (Freud, my obnoxious neighbor, whomever) to influence me.

Don't think I'm a doormat, because I'm not. But, compared to men (and who else can we compare ourselves?), myself and many of the women that I know more often edit our words depending on the effect we think that they might have on others.

Editing certainly has its place especially as a product nears completion. (Some of my best friends are editors.) But I'm not nearing completion. Despite having been around for half a century (or so), I like to think that I've barely gotten started. It's too soon for editing! I have pages yet to write and shelves to fill! I should be composing, not editing!

Books about becoming a writer (and I have many of them) often suggest liberating oneself from the inner editor. That sounds easy enough, but liberation usually comes at the cost of property and casualties. I'm not certain what it is that I have, so I don't know what it is that I might lose.

You might be wondering at this point why I would worry about losing what I didn't know I had anyway. Good point.

I think the time has come to do battle, to become a warrior, to liberate myself from all the critics, both real and imagined. I not only think it! I now know it! I am a warrior of words, a warrior of will, and a warrior of whatever-the-hell-I-wanna!

Before you read any further, (and bless your heart if you got this far), this might be the time to warn you that I am going to write profusely and profundity be damned! My fingers will caress the keyboard wildly and indiscriminately! Then just as it seems I have exhausted my lust for linguistics and my creative juices have been reduced to a trickle, from the lips of this warrior a battle cry will arouse the spirit within..."Yes! Yes! I am a woman writing whorishly!" (Stick that in your Oedipus Complex, Sigmund.)