Itchy Fingers

I was at an event recently, in which it occurred to me, I did not belong there. I hardly knew anyone, and after a long day, I fell into my usual introverted self, and realized that just having to make the effort to 'chat' was exhausting me in advance. Not only that but I was getting itchy fingers. I needed to make something. I needed to create. This has been happening more and more: while shopping for groceries, while watching a less-than-inspiring movie, while pondering whether or not to vacuum the house (which I need to do right now were it not for itchy blog fingers). I look forward to my afternoons, my 'me' time, when I can go into my tiny studio and just lose myself for a few hours. I'm not even creating great art, although I hope one day it will accidentally happen when I am not paying attention. Most of the time I am doing something artsy fartsy, as opposed to what my daughter calls artsy snooty.  She ONLY does artsy snooty (see an earlier blog on 'cuteness' and how Naomi is missing that gene). Artsy fartsy doesn't require much forethought or planning. At least my version of it. It's goofing around, it's improvising, it's making a mess and then watching the dust, or paint, or thread, settle, to see what I have.

This week it was all about the colour, and the fabric, and the thread, and the texture, and the domestic Victorian girl skills. So I quilted and embroidered/beaded a strip of stripey Kaffe Fassett  fabric, and then I turned it into a cuff. It might possibly make an appearance at the next event I attend. Those itchy fingers are good for something.

Haboob Hub Bub

We all make chit chat about the weather. "Nice day we're having". "We sure need some rain". "Think it will freeze tonight?" But sometimes our weather gives us something so spectacular, so over-the-top that it becomes more than a topic, it becomes an actual experience that fixes us in time.
Our family moved to Lubbock in Fall of 1969 and was then greeted in the following Spring by the big tornado of May 11, 1970. After that I became nervous and edgy every time I saw clouds building in the sky, or sudden, high gusts of wind, so that I was ready to strip my mattress from the bed and roll it around me in the hallway in the blink of an eye. I had experienced a fierce storm at sea on a ship as a child (too young to think I could die), an earthquake in Utah, a hurricane in Florida, and an occasional shut-the-world-down blizzard, but tornadoes made me the most nervous. For years when I was anxious or stressed in my life my dreams would find me fleeing from one of those dark funnels. However I never feared the dust storms. They were just a major irritant of living in West Texas, especially as an art major, struggling from my car, walking across campus with an armload of paintings and drawings that threatened to become airborne at any moment. The dust storms back then were not quite dust bowl caliber but they definitely packed a punch. None so much as when the dust AND the rain arrived at the same time and, as if in some biblical plague, we were pelted with mudballs.

   For a few decades after that the dust died down. An occasional cold front would whip up some grit, some haze on the horizon, but nothing to comment on besides muttering that we had just washed our car. Then last Monday, after a summer of drought and dead lawns, and unplanted fields, the great Haboob rolled in, the wall of dust 8000 feet high that made jaws drop and cell phones whip out. The sky went from sunny blue, to firey orange, to deepest twilight grey within seconds. I had to step outside and view this mighty force of nature as it descended on us, and then retreat before I got a faceful of sand. We lost power shortly afterwards, so in the candle lit darkness we heard the wind howling around us, rushing the dirt of other states and countries on their journey south. I wasn't frightened or nervous, oddly enough, I just found it fascinating.
 Later there were endless posts on Facebook, photos, videos, articles, about the mighty wall of dust. One such article, from someone in another state, described it as terrifying. A bit hyperbolic. Even in the many cell phone video accounts, you can hear people saying things like "Holy smoke, here it comes" in a less than frantic voice as they gleefully watch themselves absorbed into the orange wall. Other posts from out of state people who used to live here repeated comments like: "This is why I am glad I don't live there anymore." Well, I wouldn't say this is the garden spot of the universe, but seeing that magnificent sight was, for me, a memorable event I was glad I experienced. Nature unleashed without the fear and the death and the major destruction. Just an incredible show. But as for sweeping up all the dirt in the aftermath? Not so incredible.

Looking With Fresh Eyes

After living in Lubbock since 1969 it's sometimes hard to see something new in the scenery. The common impression is that we are surrounded by unrelenting flatness, but even a ten minute trip north or east of the city will show you the canyon lakes area, a small dip down below the horizon, weaving in a long ribbon east to west. A little further out, a 40 minute drive east, and you come to the edge of the Caprock and realize why we are called "the high plains". Two hours north of here, after one of the country's most monotonous views, you are confronted with the beautiful Palo Duro Canyon, sometimes called 'the little grand canyon', which opens before you with enough suddenness to make you say something profound like: "Holy Crap!" And then you reach for your camera.
  Last week I trailed after my daughter, who was taking photographs on her fancy pro camera for an upcoming competition "High and Dry", looking for images reflecting semi-arid lands. (maybe we qualified as arid lands after the summer drought). We drove north and east of Lubbock looking for those interesting dips in the topography and also for that trademark flat emptiness. In our ramblings we discovered an old wooden railroad bridge after glimpsing it from the road. We had to park near the railroad crossing over the road then walk about 1/4 mile down the tracks. And then we were in high grasses, near murky green water, looking up at the wooden tressle bridge, a lonely outpost of the past, seemingly frozen in time but a mere half mile from the interstate. The water under the bridge was clogged with plastic cups and beer bottles, reminding us that if it wasn't a place to dump an inconvenient body, it was at least a place that wasn't so lonely after all.

I had my own camera along and just enjoyed the pleasure of photography: framing a scene, looking for detail and texture, sensing light and shadow, and recording a particular moment on a warm October day.

(photos by me)

XYZ and done!

Since it's the end of summer, time to clear my head and time to finish up loose ends. I started this blog to go through the alphabet with words and images, and I got a bit lax in my enthusiasm. I will blame it on our record-breaking heat and drought. Or maybe my bumble bee mind buzzed on to another flower. In any case, that lovely blast of cooler air this weekend sent my spirits sailing into Fall and it was time to move forward. The seemingly random group of words I strung together, from A-Z, these past few weeks can also form a poem. (OK, I cheated on the letter X) So in the style of e.e. cummings I give you the complete work:

                                                 Absolutely be-dazzled,                                                                                
                                                       caring deeply,
                                                 every feeling greatly hopeful
                                                        in just karma
                                                        leaves........
                                                  meaning nothing only
                                                                   passionate questions,
                                                     sweet
                                                           tantalizing
                                                                  utter
                                                                      voluptuous
                                                                           wonder.
                                                  X-actly your Zen.

Words Fail Me

Vanitas

Well, here I am at the letter V. A proud letter, a sign of victory, a sign of peace, the beginning of my name...... and since it is summer I have "Vacation" on my mind but that's not till next month. And I would have written sooner but I got a new toy, a handy new sewing machine, and I have been playing with it, discovering its little secrets, its bells and whistles, its unique sounds and rhythms, getting to know it like my new friend. But I digress.....the one word that kept coming into my head this past week was Vanity. (I've obviously been watching too many posturing politicians, preening celebrities, and big business tax dodgers on the news). We all have a bit of it, even if we haven't shaved our legs in three months and have just devoured a pint of Ben and Jerry's New York Chocolate Fudge Chunk ice cream. A little vanity is good. It keeps us looking presentable in the grocery store in case we run into someone we know from Facebook, who remembers what we looked like 15 years ago. It keeps us brushing our teeth and combing our hair and wanting to be thought well of by others, even if we say we don't care what other people think, because most of us do, or we'd be picking our noses in public and skipping baths on a regular basis. Most of us respond to praise, even awkwardly, in a positive way, and most of us are wounded when we hear someone say something unkind. So a bit of vanity keeps us confident, keeps us young at heart, keeps our egos healthy, and our fingernails clean. Too much vanity and we are on that slippery slope to narcissism and bad plastic surgery decisions.
The word vanity comes from the Latin, Vanitas, meaning "emptiness". In the 16th and 17th century there was a trend in Northern Europe to create Vanitas paintings. These were usually symbolic still lifes depicting the transitory nature of existence, and the cheerful reminder that all ends in death and decay. Since life was a great deal shorter back then, less comfortable, more dangerous, subject to wars and plagues and general, wide-spread poverty and frequent famines, the proximity of imminent death was a given. In our modern, comfortable First World societies we tend to shy away from these ominous reminders. Advertizing appeals to our vanity on a daily basis, offering to cheat wrinkles and death with creams and lotions, with diets and vitamins, with pharmaceuticals and surgery. Ka-ching $$$$$. Sorry, but most of it is futile. Age will happen, anyway.
 The best way to stay young? Have a purpose, have a passion, stay involved, keep your brain busy, keep MOVING, be kind and get over your anger and resentments. Oh and brush your teeth. Be vain about that smile.

Unsaid

Yes, it's been awhile since I have blogged. This is why I am not a commercial artist. I cannot produce art on command. I can't produce verbage on demand. Although functioning as a dance teacher and choreographer for 24 years, I was basically doing that on a daily basis, but I hated having fear as a motivation. But, come to think of it, most artists may only work under that fear deadline, otherwise they would be watching re-runs on cable TV in sweatpants and eating chocolate in self-loathing. I set myself a goal with this blog, to go through the alphabet on creativity from A-Z, and dammitt, I got stuck at the letter U. Well, part of it was because I thought the word "Utter" was spelled "Uttur", like some Norse medieval god, so I was arguing with the internet about that. You can't win in a competition with the internet. Sad but true. The other problem was......I had nothing to say. That happens. It's my main problem with creating art. Do I have something to say and is it interesting enough to say? Because here's the thing....there's a LOT of crap art out there. And because of the internet there are a lot of people blabbing on and on, in a totally self-indulgent and annoying way, about things that nobody, other than their BFFs, really need to know about. There is too much information and not enough knowledge or wisdom being shared. And the young, sadly, seem to have no sense of boundaries anymore. Let me clarify: the young, and male politicians, seem to have no sense of boundaries anymore. I, myself, in moments of depression and anxiety, have tried a couple of sessions of psychotherapy  and let me say this: some things are better left unsaid. (Disclaimer: this is only me and my personality. Others have benefited greatly from therapy and/or wine and chocolate) It's that whole confessional approach of sharing with strangers, even strangers with college degrees, who don't know the real you, that leaves me feeling fraudulent and evasive. Which is why I am an advocate of cultivating long-term friendships. I went to my monthly Girls' Night Out last night, and was asked when my next blog would be coming out. Wow, that was 50% of my fan base right there, actually reading my brain farts online.  I almost felt bad for being such a summer-lethargic, web-surfing slacker. And when my college roommates showed up for our second annual reunion this month, I  breathed a sigh of relief and knew I could sit in my pajamas, sans make-up, sans bullshit, and careful phrasing of opinions, and just relax and let loose with them. Friendship is the key to leading a sane life. But friendship takes time and effort, like marriage, like parenthood. Those people who post online to complete strangers, all their deepest feelings, all their romantic faux pas, all their nude photos, their nude emotions, their naked, desperate thoughts, are just whistling in the dark, begging to be noticed. And the only ones who notice are the predators and equally desperate prey. Sometimes it's best to shut up and keep it to yourself. It's OK to have secrets, things that no one else will ever know. Not everyone is a spill-the-beans personality. Some have that still point at the center of their heart, the point vierge, that is theirs' alone.