Such a stupid title, or just a stupid, redundant stated observation - "The night can be dark." But I'm amazed, yes, amazed, at the darkness of the night the last 4 nights outside, as I sit with my partner out back after hours. After bedtime hours that is, which ideally are 9 for the boys and 10 for the teenage thing occupying my daughter's body temporarily for a few years. Last night 'after hours' was 11 because of the youngest. I read, do a meditation, a gratitude, then we pray (along with giving thanks for the gratitudes). Every night. Every night. The child rearing experts all agree with a schedule. I keep getting told by professionals that a schedule works. But not with this guy. F the schedule, his over-sized amygdala always screams night after night as he shows up in my doorway, or the kitchen, or the bathroom - wherever I may be. . .
"I can't sleep"
But that's another post. Another night that I'll be procrastinating.
The moon has been getting the hell out of dodge early every night. I missed the last full moon and I feel like this is my penance for forgetting - I'm way off on what is going on with our little friend up there in the gravitational pull of all our shit. The moon is most definitely shunning me.
So as a result, I've revisited a kinda spotty fear of the dark I've always had. I've been experiencing the panic when I close my computer screen outside and can't see to make sure I still have both hands. . .I've re-discovered my nervousness with the blankness when Tom goes inside for another drink or some food or whatever. It's weird.
A few weeks ago Tom and I broke our year and half booze-fast with a little wine as a pre-celebration to my graduate degree commencement. Not too much by all means, but a doorway, more into the wonderment and mystery of laziness and more so, procrastination. A trap we lay daily, and a good one at that.
The night can be dark when you are looking for the night to be light. You know why? Because the night IS f'n dark. It's there for us to rest. I'm pretty certain that science has proven long ago that humans rest best in the dark. That's just the way it is. But me? NO. I stay up now until 4 am - not out of any other reason but self-sabotage. I want a valid excuse to be too tired to do anything tomorrow. I need to catch up on my sleep, and hell, that's not selfish, is it? I mean, I was up until 4am. Doing what you ask? Watching 80's videos and Louie on Netflix. I mean, that's just me making the most of this life, right?
It seems that the night can be very dark, indeed. And sometimes it's nice to experience that darkness is full consciousness, to be certain that it really is there, ensuring you are resting, and you - you are making sure there is nothing else going on, that there's no scheme abroad that calls for Sabrina to not participate. . .I want to be sure, maybe, that the world doesn't explode in fireworks and endless Indian food buffets and foot massages and slip-n-slide parties every night while I sleep, and everyone is playing dumb because they really don't want me to spoil the party with my emptiness and procrastination. Whatever procrastination does to a party, I'm not sure. . .
I'm reassured tonight that the night is indeed just dark, and my dreams assure me that I really didn't miss much.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Thursday, April 16, 2015
This is still alive
I can't sleep. Well, I was sleeping, then Samson, now 9, wakes me. 3:30am
"I wet the bed"
"ok, what do you do when you wet the bed? You've been having accidents every night for awhile now. . .?"
"I take a shower"
"Yes, then come lay with me"
Samson has been peeing the bed ever since he was 6 months out from being fully potty trained at 2. At 2 and a half, he began wetting the bed. There have been good stretches lasting weeks, then there has been now, where 5 of 7 nights he's wet. He took a shower for about 25 minutes (forgetting to use the soap, I could smell when he snuggled into my bed). I laid there, in-between my partner and my youngest son, held in a limbo of subconscious rest and restlessness that are the opposites these two males represent. Tom with his zen outlook, a Way of complete peace, a real testament to calm. Samson, who went to bed after a fit of rage over a cartoon he was apparently coerced into watching, and as it came to a close, he began his protest, screaming and stomping about, arguing that his older brother gets to pick everything. It ended abruptly as I gave him the Very Dramatic Lecture (abbreviated for time) that each day is a day closer to death, that we have one less day to love each other and have fun. Isn't it a shame he wasted tonight on anger over a cartoon he enjoyed until he realized he didn't actually chose it.
Seems like a lot could be gathered together about Samson's emotional status from this opening bit.
So I'm awake, the consciousness of Samson's angst and anxiety and all the general irrationalities and realities that come with being 9 in our family, in this age, in this space - all this toppled the reptilian need for the coveted 8 hours, the rare, the legendary, the un-real 8 hours of sleep.
So I decide to write, and instead of beginning a new blog, why not just write here?
An update is called for. I'll keep it simple for now, and tell you about the bus.
It's sitting beside a very old garage about 20 minutes from where I sit in my dark living room right now, under this slow fan. Twenty minutes into New Jersey countryside most people don't think exists. Twenty minutes from me, a bit closer to the sunrise and the shoreline, overlooking a soy field and keeping neighbors with a wild peacock. Flanked by the garage, then my friend's house - a rambling mash-up of a late 1700 brick house and modern additions added by his father for their 6 children, completely dated by the appearance and materials, a strange but comforting home for two people now - once for 8, it is divided into 2 homes. My bus's other neighbor is a house set back from the gravel road, a dark and moss-engulfed home that I imagine looks from a Grimm's forest, but my imagination is wild, and I bet next time I look, it's just a wooden house. I don't know the people that sleep inside that house, but I'd like to think we have much in common, if only our shared frustration at that bus. . .
That bus, it almost surprises me to see the photo on the front of this blog, so white, with the lights draped carefully and carelessly, with Ezekiel not prophesizing like he did in the Old Testament, but plying the role of angel, announcing the birth of a bus I should name Sirius because of the constellation - Sirius B namely, because it exists but we can't see it without a telescope. We can't, but in a book by Tom Robbins - Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas, I read 17 years ago - in this story there are Africans who know about this star before it was 'properly' discovered. I like to think Sirius exists, and even that a group of Aboriginal people may know the details of Sirius even now, even as they are a day ahead.
The bus sits and rots, molds, sinks, peels, changes chemistry in undesired ways for one who (last I checked on this blog) was making a moving gallery out of the decomposing shell. Like everything, Chernobyl included, nature is taking over. Stinging creatures have build nests in the last two years, and I have removed them in the winter. I currently represent 49 spiders in the gallery, showcasing unimaginable masterpieces of utilitarian design and working conceptual pieces that are not only bottomless metaphors, but boast as many uses as a Thneed.
So it sits, and I visit it about once a month, and sometimes take a couple photos. As it gets warmer, I think about completing it. I remember the passion I had just 2 years ago, driving up from North Carolina, driving on restricted roadways (well worth it) in New York state, thankfully not taking out any overpasses. . .I remember this and I luckily have this, these writings, which are embarrassingly honest, terribly young and optimistic, and painfully naive. I moved up north and I feel with that geographical and cultural move, I have been shown the truth in that last sentence. I also realize that the truth in that sentence is why the people who did not support my efforts years ago did not support my efforts. If someone told me today that they were putting all their extra money into a project they knew nothing about, while having three kids and little to no support and no Plan B, I'd tell them in a less eloquent and more unapologetic delivery, of the idiot choices they were making.
I don't regret a thing.
I'm glad Sirius is seeing the sky ripen into morphing shades of ripening plum right now.
"I wet the bed"
"ok, what do you do when you wet the bed? You've been having accidents every night for awhile now. . .?"
"I take a shower"
"Yes, then come lay with me"
Samson has been peeing the bed ever since he was 6 months out from being fully potty trained at 2. At 2 and a half, he began wetting the bed. There have been good stretches lasting weeks, then there has been now, where 5 of 7 nights he's wet. He took a shower for about 25 minutes (forgetting to use the soap, I could smell when he snuggled into my bed). I laid there, in-between my partner and my youngest son, held in a limbo of subconscious rest and restlessness that are the opposites these two males represent. Tom with his zen outlook, a Way of complete peace, a real testament to calm. Samson, who went to bed after a fit of rage over a cartoon he was apparently coerced into watching, and as it came to a close, he began his protest, screaming and stomping about, arguing that his older brother gets to pick everything. It ended abruptly as I gave him the Very Dramatic Lecture (abbreviated for time) that each day is a day closer to death, that we have one less day to love each other and have fun. Isn't it a shame he wasted tonight on anger over a cartoon he enjoyed until he realized he didn't actually chose it.
Seems like a lot could be gathered together about Samson's emotional status from this opening bit.
So I'm awake, the consciousness of Samson's angst and anxiety and all the general irrationalities and realities that come with being 9 in our family, in this age, in this space - all this toppled the reptilian need for the coveted 8 hours, the rare, the legendary, the un-real 8 hours of sleep.
So I decide to write, and instead of beginning a new blog, why not just write here?
An update is called for. I'll keep it simple for now, and tell you about the bus.
It's sitting beside a very old garage about 20 minutes from where I sit in my dark living room right now, under this slow fan. Twenty minutes into New Jersey countryside most people don't think exists. Twenty minutes from me, a bit closer to the sunrise and the shoreline, overlooking a soy field and keeping neighbors with a wild peacock. Flanked by the garage, then my friend's house - a rambling mash-up of a late 1700 brick house and modern additions added by his father for their 6 children, completely dated by the appearance and materials, a strange but comforting home for two people now - once for 8, it is divided into 2 homes. My bus's other neighbor is a house set back from the gravel road, a dark and moss-engulfed home that I imagine looks from a Grimm's forest, but my imagination is wild, and I bet next time I look, it's just a wooden house. I don't know the people that sleep inside that house, but I'd like to think we have much in common, if only our shared frustration at that bus. . .
That bus, it almost surprises me to see the photo on the front of this blog, so white, with the lights draped carefully and carelessly, with Ezekiel not prophesizing like he did in the Old Testament, but plying the role of angel, announcing the birth of a bus I should name Sirius because of the constellation - Sirius B namely, because it exists but we can't see it without a telescope. We can't, but in a book by Tom Robbins - Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas, I read 17 years ago - in this story there are Africans who know about this star before it was 'properly' discovered. I like to think Sirius exists, and even that a group of Aboriginal people may know the details of Sirius even now, even as they are a day ahead.
The bus sits and rots, molds, sinks, peels, changes chemistry in undesired ways for one who (last I checked on this blog) was making a moving gallery out of the decomposing shell. Like everything, Chernobyl included, nature is taking over. Stinging creatures have build nests in the last two years, and I have removed them in the winter. I currently represent 49 spiders in the gallery, showcasing unimaginable masterpieces of utilitarian design and working conceptual pieces that are not only bottomless metaphors, but boast as many uses as a Thneed.
So it sits, and I visit it about once a month, and sometimes take a couple photos. As it gets warmer, I think about completing it. I remember the passion I had just 2 years ago, driving up from North Carolina, driving on restricted roadways (well worth it) in New York state, thankfully not taking out any overpasses. . .I remember this and I luckily have this, these writings, which are embarrassingly honest, terribly young and optimistic, and painfully naive. I moved up north and I feel with that geographical and cultural move, I have been shown the truth in that last sentence. I also realize that the truth in that sentence is why the people who did not support my efforts years ago did not support my efforts. If someone told me today that they were putting all their extra money into a project they knew nothing about, while having three kids and little to no support and no Plan B, I'd tell them in a less eloquent and more unapologetic delivery, of the idiot choices they were making.
I don't regret a thing.
I'm glad Sirius is seeing the sky ripen into morphing shades of ripening plum right now.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
The laundry list
My hair (and yours) is getting longer, the days are getting shorter, September is just around the bend. Always ambitious in my mind and sometimes not as much with my actions, Moving Pictures gallery wont' be ready until October, for a premiere in Philadelphia's art district. September will be a busy month, and by busy, picture this - managing three kids in three different schools, taking online courses, working a new job (or two), training for a half-marathon when the first mile you've ever run in your entire life was two months ago (just had to throw that in there), and completing construction, advertisement, and media coverage for a school bus gallery. . .all tastefully done zen-like.
But I've got a lot of help. My good college pal, Ryan, has taken it upon himself, on behalf of his new lighting company, to design and install a sweet lighting system that'll work better than flashlights handed out at the entrance (hey - it was Plan A). I've also had a generous donation from my friend Harry Hutchinson that paid for skylights (to be installed, still), and not to mention he completed the remainder (and surplus) of curtains, enabling me and others to sometimes catch some sleep out here. . . Also, my ex-boss (yes, haters - I WORK) Peter Daley, has provided the missing link to the electric system - a powerful inverter that will provide all the electrons needed to power lights so you can see when the earth is tilted in a position not so good for seeing, naturally. After the electric is wired up real nice, we'll cut up some better walls, get these daggum skylights installed, and be showcasing the first show - Daniel Jones. I'll write about him in a little post right after this one. . .
Also, a talented artist in Queens has shown interest in painting the exterior of Sirius. I'm very excited about this. We haven't worked out details, so I won't post any (since they don't exist) but you'll be seeing his work either outside or inside these walls soon.
The list is getting smaller, like the days, and I'm working up a momentum that ebbs and flows like the days on Mercury (look it up - it's epic). Life is grand. See you on the streets.
But I've got a lot of help. My good college pal, Ryan, has taken it upon himself, on behalf of his new lighting company, to design and install a sweet lighting system that'll work better than flashlights handed out at the entrance (hey - it was Plan A). I've also had a generous donation from my friend Harry Hutchinson that paid for skylights (to be installed, still), and not to mention he completed the remainder (and surplus) of curtains, enabling me and others to sometimes catch some sleep out here. . . Also, my ex-boss (yes, haters - I WORK) Peter Daley, has provided the missing link to the electric system - a powerful inverter that will provide all the electrons needed to power lights so you can see when the earth is tilted in a position not so good for seeing, naturally. After the electric is wired up real nice, we'll cut up some better walls, get these daggum skylights installed, and be showcasing the first show - Daniel Jones. I'll write about him in a little post right after this one. . .
Also, a talented artist in Queens has shown interest in painting the exterior of Sirius. I'm very excited about this. We haven't worked out details, so I won't post any (since they don't exist) but you'll be seeing his work either outside or inside these walls soon.
The list is getting smaller, like the days, and I'm working up a momentum that ebbs and flows like the days on Mercury (look it up - it's epic). Life is grand. See you on the streets.
Friday, August 9, 2013
RE: RE-awakening
A good parent teaches what is right. A great parent brainwashes. Ok, now that I have your attention, I have been dabbling A LOT in philosophy. . .came recently down a looonnggg tunnel of seemingly endless imputations and considerations and just plain thoughts to this ugly mess - nothing is wrong. Brainwashing, leeching, becoming a vegetable or letting others do the same. . .yeah, well, now that I REALLY have your attention. . .
It's time to completely reconstruct this blog. I have realized that my initial endeavor was, in most part, selfish. I was so wrapped up in borderline brainwashing my kids and forcing epiphanies it took decades for me to meet, that I over-rode their needs. Well, at least one of them - my boys are total gypsies and thrive out-of-place. Mercury is a stubborn one, but in the last almost-two-years, I've set aside my dream of touring intentional communities and showing them that this is the way to live. . .instead I've been attending graduate school for a year and a half, working jobs while they are in school or with their dad every other weekend (now that we live close), but still spending too much time philosophizing. I've been trying (and taking breaks from trying, and just crying) to live the life I want to show them, and myself, and the world, that is right. That brings me back to what is right? Digression - this blog is about a bus, and I will strive to keep it at such, tho' it is impossible to compartmentalize facets of your life, my life, that are so richly embedded in your soul, your very nature and presence. . .
The bus is coming along. The trip to Massachusetts was amazing. It was a week of record highs in the Northeast, as we ambled up through New York City, getting lost in Harlem with some wrong turns. Four kids took turns waving out the windows and securing and re-securing all the stuff we had packed into the now-empty-save-for-the-loft bus. We ambled up to a most beautiful road, the Taconic Parkway. The 36' dirty white bus was having a great go at the ride, loving the open road and magnificent views, the stone bridges, the minimal traffic. . .hey, come to think of the traffic, there were no buses, trucks, big-rigs - nothing - just us and a handful of passenger vehicles. Guess those truckers didn't know about this gem of a road. . .then we pulled off on a ramp so I could pee, getting back onto the highway, a sign politely informed us "passenger vehicles only." I said, hmm. Well, turns out the sign was being truthful. We exited soon after sans ticket and a little wiser to the regulations of the Taconic Parkway, got directions from several friendly folks, and took a truckers advice for the secondary highway that led straight into Great Barrington, the address of Alice's church (Guthrie Center). The further north we traveled the nicer and more relaxed people and the land seemed. A big ugly bus full of people and empty of seats wasn't such an anomaly. Oh, did I mention the George Washington Bridge? No.
Toll Booth Collector: "Is this a bus?"
me: "yes"
TBC: "how many seats does it have?"
me: "one"
TBC: "then it's $30"
me: "well, technically it's an RV"
TBC: "It's $30"
me: "actually, it is a bus, and we have folding chairs and some oak school desks"
TBC: "that doesn't count - if it has seats it's a bus. That's $30."
Ended up we never needed to cross that bridge, but no, I didn't burn it - it's still there ready and willing to be crossed. . .
SO! We arrived and I was shocked - I thought Great Barrington was as small as Stockbridge, our true destination. Not so - a bustling little artsy and organic town with the right balance of posh and expensive and the higher end of hippie living with a super great co-op. We spent lunch outside an abandoned middle school by the river and walking around. Samson found a perfect dobson fly body, I materialized a perfect hat, and all was well. We found a campground on a nearby mountain that could accomodate us and pursued that spot only to find ourselves on top of a mountain, running out of fuel, with night on our heels. We made camp in a field and built a fire, happily lost in the hills of western Mass. Woke with the dawn, and rolled out in first gear downhill. We toured the sights - trespassing onto the old train station with Sirius, trespassing at Stockbridge Bowl lake, and driving north to Springfield to sell lemonade and play music in the Wal-mart parking lot. With Tennessee tags still on the bus, we initiated some great conversations. We made it back for dinner at the former Alice's Restaurant where Samson busted his face pretty good leaving, then with blood everywhere, we marathoned it back to the church for an open mic through a massive storm complete with hail. Although I have skylights to replace the roof hatches, I have not yet done so, and we were all stumbling around trying to catch the leaking water in buckets with every turn or bump, Ezekiel nursing Samson's wounds and me taking roll as official defroster for the windshield. As we came upon the church, a woman at the mansion across the street from the church flagged us down - the railroad crossing had been struck by lightning and was stuck in the down position - she offered us to park in her amazingly accomodating driveway. We collected ourselves and as we exited the bus to walk across the tracks, the sun appeared and it was all so clearly perfect. Because of the storm, there was only a handful of people, and the sound guy didn't make it out, so we all performed acoustic. The nice folks there let the kids pick out some percussion items and my friend Tom sang one song solo, then I sang Lynyrd Skynyrd's Simple Man with him, then all the kids and us (sans wounded Samson) sang and played a song. My first open mic. In the church that for whatever reason has become to mean so much to me. . .
At the end, we had inspired another visitor to sing about New Jersey, and then a couple regulars invited us all to sing This Land is Your Land on stage together. Writing about it now, two weeks later, it was so much more perfect than I can explain. Through the storm we gained such beauty.
All this was initially a trip for networking with artists, visual in particular. But it really was an experience in a life where everything has implicit meaning, deep joy, and unbearable significance. I didn't meet any artist, or even anyone wildly curious about who we were. It seemed home.
We took the long way back in the middle of the night. Samson healed quickly without stitches, only a scar on his knee - an initiation into the 7th year as a boy. We ran out of fuel 5 miles from the house, but that, too, was perfect. I didn't come out of the two day trip with followers, or admirers - I came back knowing a little more of what I think is right. And no one can tell me a life like that is wrong.
And just to bring this around full circle, the bus is prepping to become a gallery for artists, new and old and young and bold. A place that is open to all, that is mobile enough (and has now more experienced drivers in turning around in small spaces) for all, willing to show and share, and most importantly, give. For all of you who are a little confused, it's ok, I am, too. But I do know that this is not my life, but my life is this. I have a somewhat conventional life for now - school, work, parenting to the best of my abilities, relaxing, being a cub scout leader and supporting my kids in ballet and baseball and church. . .and meditation and yoga and union songs and fermenting food and being weird. . .the bus, though. . .the bus. . .seems to echo and reflect. . .my friend Marcia Wickam named the gallery officially - "Moving Pictures". . . so forward we go, now looking at October to drive into Philly's art district with a show from my good friend in Tennessee - maybe no real walls, absolutely no wine at the opening, but a show - a real show - in a shell that has housed many a dream, selfish, selfless, or just neutral. I'll be there, changing inside it's casing, and outside as well. . .
It's time to completely reconstruct this blog. I have realized that my initial endeavor was, in most part, selfish. I was so wrapped up in borderline brainwashing my kids and forcing epiphanies it took decades for me to meet, that I over-rode their needs. Well, at least one of them - my boys are total gypsies and thrive out-of-place. Mercury is a stubborn one, but in the last almost-two-years, I've set aside my dream of touring intentional communities and showing them that this is the way to live. . .instead I've been attending graduate school for a year and a half, working jobs while they are in school or with their dad every other weekend (now that we live close), but still spending too much time philosophizing. I've been trying (and taking breaks from trying, and just crying) to live the life I want to show them, and myself, and the world, that is right. That brings me back to what is right? Digression - this blog is about a bus, and I will strive to keep it at such, tho' it is impossible to compartmentalize facets of your life, my life, that are so richly embedded in your soul, your very nature and presence. . .
The bus is coming along. The trip to Massachusetts was amazing. It was a week of record highs in the Northeast, as we ambled up through New York City, getting lost in Harlem with some wrong turns. Four kids took turns waving out the windows and securing and re-securing all the stuff we had packed into the now-empty-save-for-the-loft bus. We ambled up to a most beautiful road, the Taconic Parkway. The 36' dirty white bus was having a great go at the ride, loving the open road and magnificent views, the stone bridges, the minimal traffic. . .hey, come to think of the traffic, there were no buses, trucks, big-rigs - nothing - just us and a handful of passenger vehicles. Guess those truckers didn't know about this gem of a road. . .then we pulled off on a ramp so I could pee, getting back onto the highway, a sign politely informed us "passenger vehicles only." I said, hmm. Well, turns out the sign was being truthful. We exited soon after sans ticket and a little wiser to the regulations of the Taconic Parkway, got directions from several friendly folks, and took a truckers advice for the secondary highway that led straight into Great Barrington, the address of Alice's church (Guthrie Center). The further north we traveled the nicer and more relaxed people and the land seemed. A big ugly bus full of people and empty of seats wasn't such an anomaly. Oh, did I mention the George Washington Bridge? No.
Toll Booth Collector: "Is this a bus?"
me: "yes"
TBC: "how many seats does it have?"
me: "one"
TBC: "then it's $30"
me: "well, technically it's an RV"
TBC: "It's $30"
me: "actually, it is a bus, and we have folding chairs and some oak school desks"
TBC: "that doesn't count - if it has seats it's a bus. That's $30."
Ended up we never needed to cross that bridge, but no, I didn't burn it - it's still there ready and willing to be crossed. . .
SO! We arrived and I was shocked - I thought Great Barrington was as small as Stockbridge, our true destination. Not so - a bustling little artsy and organic town with the right balance of posh and expensive and the higher end of hippie living with a super great co-op. We spent lunch outside an abandoned middle school by the river and walking around. Samson found a perfect dobson fly body, I materialized a perfect hat, and all was well. We found a campground on a nearby mountain that could accomodate us and pursued that spot only to find ourselves on top of a mountain, running out of fuel, with night on our heels. We made camp in a field and built a fire, happily lost in the hills of western Mass. Woke with the dawn, and rolled out in first gear downhill. We toured the sights - trespassing onto the old train station with Sirius, trespassing at Stockbridge Bowl lake, and driving north to Springfield to sell lemonade and play music in the Wal-mart parking lot. With Tennessee tags still on the bus, we initiated some great conversations. We made it back for dinner at the former Alice's Restaurant where Samson busted his face pretty good leaving, then with blood everywhere, we marathoned it back to the church for an open mic through a massive storm complete with hail. Although I have skylights to replace the roof hatches, I have not yet done so, and we were all stumbling around trying to catch the leaking water in buckets with every turn or bump, Ezekiel nursing Samson's wounds and me taking roll as official defroster for the windshield. As we came upon the church, a woman at the mansion across the street from the church flagged us down - the railroad crossing had been struck by lightning and was stuck in the down position - she offered us to park in her amazingly accomodating driveway. We collected ourselves and as we exited the bus to walk across the tracks, the sun appeared and it was all so clearly perfect. Because of the storm, there was only a handful of people, and the sound guy didn't make it out, so we all performed acoustic. The nice folks there let the kids pick out some percussion items and my friend Tom sang one song solo, then I sang Lynyrd Skynyrd's Simple Man with him, then all the kids and us (sans wounded Samson) sang and played a song. My first open mic. In the church that for whatever reason has become to mean so much to me. . .
At the end, we had inspired another visitor to sing about New Jersey, and then a couple regulars invited us all to sing This Land is Your Land on stage together. Writing about it now, two weeks later, it was so much more perfect than I can explain. Through the storm we gained such beauty.
All this was initially a trip for networking with artists, visual in particular. But it really was an experience in a life where everything has implicit meaning, deep joy, and unbearable significance. I didn't meet any artist, or even anyone wildly curious about who we were. It seemed home.
We took the long way back in the middle of the night. Samson healed quickly without stitches, only a scar on his knee - an initiation into the 7th year as a boy. We ran out of fuel 5 miles from the house, but that, too, was perfect. I didn't come out of the two day trip with followers, or admirers - I came back knowing a little more of what I think is right. And no one can tell me a life like that is wrong.
And just to bring this around full circle, the bus is prepping to become a gallery for artists, new and old and young and bold. A place that is open to all, that is mobile enough (and has now more experienced drivers in turning around in small spaces) for all, willing to show and share, and most importantly, give. For all of you who are a little confused, it's ok, I am, too. But I do know that this is not my life, but my life is this. I have a somewhat conventional life for now - school, work, parenting to the best of my abilities, relaxing, being a cub scout leader and supporting my kids in ballet and baseball and church. . .and meditation and yoga and union songs and fermenting food and being weird. . .the bus, though. . .the bus. . .seems to echo and reflect. . .my friend Marcia Wickam named the gallery officially - "Moving Pictures". . . so forward we go, now looking at October to drive into Philly's art district with a show from my good friend in Tennessee - maybe no real walls, absolutely no wine at the opening, but a show - a real show - in a shell that has housed many a dream, selfish, selfless, or just neutral. I'll be there, changing inside it's casing, and outside as well. . .
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Looking for a way out of war via Arlo Guthrie storytelling trip
I know I've heard Arlo when I was a kid, and my mom sang us the likes of Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and her fav - Peter, Paul, and Mary, who sang many a well-repeated song with pacifist substance and immediate, calming yet raw sway for change. . .you know, the Gandhi-King-Lennon (John) approach. . .
But as I have written, never was I so borderline obsessed over any song since the Cure in 9th grade, Robert Smith's neon cherry painted lips mouthing Love Cats, and no war protest about it. . .
It all began with Alice's Restaurant, as it seemed to have begun with Arlo Guthrie himself. The son of Woody Guthrie, of This Land is Your Land fame - a song I believed was akin, equal, even more fitting than our national anthem when I was in elementary school - I believed we had to memorize it, and yes, had the concrete realization that such a lovely and catchy tune about sharing and being proud and honored to live in such a place that valued freedom and gratitude as our country - well, had the actual thought that it was a much more appropriate anthem then relating our entire existence solely on battle, on bombs, on icons like the flag. It seems to me that we are founded on good principles, but just like not seeing the forest for the trees, we lose track of them and focus instead on big bangs and big bucks. . .enough! This is by no means a political commentary space, I'm too far removed to make intelligent observations or opinions. . .
So, it all began outside Stockbridge, MA. A sudden realization of the power to answer most questions or interests that pop into my head at any moment, I remembered the mystical and omnipotent powers of the internet and, in a moment of curiosity looked up the church from the song. Sure enough, by Jove - it stands, it lives, it breaths! They're even added to it. It's now a non-profit called the Guthrie Center, and tomorrow at 6am, we are taking the bus up for a visit to the legendary church, sleeping on the bus, talking with some friends we haven't seen yet.
This may not be anything to anyone, but it's terribly significant for me. Life is in a constant motion of change - you may think you are stable and even have a routine, most of us have jobs that have corralling effect, money that keeps our imagination in check, our spontaneity in a dusty lock-box at the bank, only available with apt notice and planning. . .some of us are impulsive in a positive way, of being un-scared, honest, epic, and completely optimistic. Don Quixotes of the world, let us never stop.
Even though the original plan for the bus is a plan of either the past or the distant future, another plan is formed. Alice's Restaurant, the song, is mainly re-telling the happenstance manner in which Guthrie avoided the Vietnam draft because of littering. . .the movie is about a time when being yourself was hard. Sound familiar? That's because it can always be difficult to be yourself, or rather, to recognize that others may be ok with you being yourself. And peaceful, and perhaps - diplomatically and respectfully - disagreeing with a stance of war that is, for some people. . .seen as needlessly violent or wasteful, negative, deleterious, fatalistic, self-defeating, and/or antipathetic. Seems like Guthrie, and an entire generation, got a whole lotta difficulties for exercising things like First Amendment rights and humanitarianism. Sometimes I feel like a bubble of glue-energy (that's static energy that just glues me stiller than a bowl of fruit in an oil painting from the black and white days), unable to let things move, to see the significance of things like pickles. . .uhoh, here I go again with references. Let's just say, that it can be easy to get stuck on an idea, let's say the idea of how things aren't working out. OR we can say, "I'll just step back a few paces to give myself, my ego, and my fear some breathing room" and wallah! we can see the significances, the connections, the why's. Not always mind you. Sometimes it's all such a reach it feels like you're lying to yourself.
"Yeah, Sabrina, I'm stoked on the bus concept completing morphing into something less adventurous and more local geographically, looking forward to art openings and acting cool." Um, no. I'm looking forward to introducing artists and concepts that may not be welcomed in the sleek and sterile environs of the galleries of So-Ho, Olde City, and geez, whatever Boston and Baltimore have, and G_d knows I'm taking Sirius down to Austin and Albuquerque and San Diego.
So. . .looking for a way out of patterns, holes, or repetitious thoughts that consume us, actions that form us without our full consent, lifestyles that are created through a false sense of urgency, of lack, of need for more. . .Guthrie wasn't particularly looking for a way out (the movie suggests he was, kinda) but look what happened. Well, listen to what happened. If you have no idea who or what I'm talking about, that's an opportunity for you to check out this.
So tomorrow, with 4 children and two adults, we will make our way to visit the church that held an infamous Thanksgiving Dinner, the cafe that sorta inspired the name of the song, and a nice place in the woods to park the bus, morphing into a gallery for all those incredible humans out there who I know would enjoy a nice, renegade showing of mobile art, versatile and slightly disruptive, passively awesome, rolling on wheels of imaginative solutions, and somehow - I'm working on this one - somehow making the world a better place. Sharing, acknowledging the beginning, middle, and now, and, allowing growth and directions to open up my mind.
See you in Massachusetts!
But as I have written, never was I so borderline obsessed over any song since the Cure in 9th grade, Robert Smith's neon cherry painted lips mouthing Love Cats, and no war protest about it. . .
It all began with Alice's Restaurant, as it seemed to have begun with Arlo Guthrie himself. The son of Woody Guthrie, of This Land is Your Land fame - a song I believed was akin, equal, even more fitting than our national anthem when I was in elementary school - I believed we had to memorize it, and yes, had the concrete realization that such a lovely and catchy tune about sharing and being proud and honored to live in such a place that valued freedom and gratitude as our country - well, had the actual thought that it was a much more appropriate anthem then relating our entire existence solely on battle, on bombs, on icons like the flag. It seems to me that we are founded on good principles, but just like not seeing the forest for the trees, we lose track of them and focus instead on big bangs and big bucks. . .enough! This is by no means a political commentary space, I'm too far removed to make intelligent observations or opinions. . .
So, it all began outside Stockbridge, MA. A sudden realization of the power to answer most questions or interests that pop into my head at any moment, I remembered the mystical and omnipotent powers of the internet and, in a moment of curiosity looked up the church from the song. Sure enough, by Jove - it stands, it lives, it breaths! They're even added to it. It's now a non-profit called the Guthrie Center, and tomorrow at 6am, we are taking the bus up for a visit to the legendary church, sleeping on the bus, talking with some friends we haven't seen yet.
This may not be anything to anyone, but it's terribly significant for me. Life is in a constant motion of change - you may think you are stable and even have a routine, most of us have jobs that have corralling effect, money that keeps our imagination in check, our spontaneity in a dusty lock-box at the bank, only available with apt notice and planning. . .some of us are impulsive in a positive way, of being un-scared, honest, epic, and completely optimistic. Don Quixotes of the world, let us never stop.
Even though the original plan for the bus is a plan of either the past or the distant future, another plan is formed. Alice's Restaurant, the song, is mainly re-telling the happenstance manner in which Guthrie avoided the Vietnam draft because of littering. . .the movie is about a time when being yourself was hard. Sound familiar? That's because it can always be difficult to be yourself, or rather, to recognize that others may be ok with you being yourself. And peaceful, and perhaps - diplomatically and respectfully - disagreeing with a stance of war that is, for some people. . .seen as needlessly violent or wasteful, negative, deleterious, fatalistic, self-defeating, and/or antipathetic. Seems like Guthrie, and an entire generation, got a whole lotta difficulties for exercising things like First Amendment rights and humanitarianism. Sometimes I feel like a bubble of glue-energy (that's static energy that just glues me stiller than a bowl of fruit in an oil painting from the black and white days), unable to let things move, to see the significance of things like pickles. . .uhoh, here I go again with references. Let's just say, that it can be easy to get stuck on an idea, let's say the idea of how things aren't working out. OR we can say, "I'll just step back a few paces to give myself, my ego, and my fear some breathing room" and wallah! we can see the significances, the connections, the why's. Not always mind you. Sometimes it's all such a reach it feels like you're lying to yourself.
"Yeah, Sabrina, I'm stoked on the bus concept completing morphing into something less adventurous and more local geographically, looking forward to art openings and acting cool." Um, no. I'm looking forward to introducing artists and concepts that may not be welcomed in the sleek and sterile environs of the galleries of So-Ho, Olde City, and geez, whatever Boston and Baltimore have, and G_d knows I'm taking Sirius down to Austin and Albuquerque and San Diego.
So. . .looking for a way out of patterns, holes, or repetitious thoughts that consume us, actions that form us without our full consent, lifestyles that are created through a false sense of urgency, of lack, of need for more. . .Guthrie wasn't particularly looking for a way out (the movie suggests he was, kinda) but look what happened. Well, listen to what happened. If you have no idea who or what I'm talking about, that's an opportunity for you to check out this.
So tomorrow, with 4 children and two adults, we will make our way to visit the church that held an infamous Thanksgiving Dinner, the cafe that sorta inspired the name of the song, and a nice place in the woods to park the bus, morphing into a gallery for all those incredible humans out there who I know would enjoy a nice, renegade showing of mobile art, versatile and slightly disruptive, passively awesome, rolling on wheels of imaginative solutions, and somehow - I'm working on this one - somehow making the world a better place. Sharing, acknowledging the beginning, middle, and now, and, allowing growth and directions to open up my mind.
See you in Massachusetts!
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
To everything there is a time. . .
What have I been doing?
Tie-dyeing
Driving the bus up from North Carolina and touring New Jersey
Holding Chickens
Picking up cowboy hitch-hikers
Shameless blog advertising
Jawbones
Tearing out bunks and walls
Deconstructing
Riding Samson on my handlebars to get the bus
Letting children spray paint, power-wash, and cover up spray paint
In no particular order. . .
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
A New Twist for a Summer Drink
I like a good twist. A good twist in a story, a good twist of lime, a good twist from the chiropractor, a good twist on the dance floor, and most recently, Samson's good twist that took out his front tooth, giving him that adorable *lithsp* we all had when we lost our front teeth.
I guess this bus idea and the bus itself has gone through (is going through) a twist in its life. . .from a proposed documentary film and taking my kids on the road, to sitting in North Carolina for a year in a half and being home to at least three people up there (!) to becoming the proposed newest twist in the arts world (though not the first -Stunning bus gallery in the UK, an art bus that reaches children, a pretty interesting idea to bring art to the people, for free, and St Louis gave this project $50,000. . .).
A MOBILE ART GALLERY!
that supports community, sharing, creativity, social justice, human rights, and yes. . .art. . .
So. . .this is all in conjunction with the art gallery I've been managing in New Jersey since last year. I had originally asked the owner, who has a large enough space on his property, if I could park my bus there. I had all but given up on The Parting Family - knowing now I'm almost done with graduate school to be a teacher, and well, I need to use that degree to pay back my loans! Yikes! So, no traipsing around the world of intentional communities and monasteries and national parks. . .yet. . .
So. . .the owner says 'sure' to parking the bus there. I only knew if I didn't move it the 700 miles up here, it was just going to die, and with it, my dreams and ideals and visions of whatever I've written and spoken of in the last 4 or 5 or 6 years. It was in bad shape (visually). I'm not sure where the idea came from, but I believe it must have begun back in 1999 when I first moved to Philadelphia from a small Southern town, and thought I could just walk my portfolio into any old gallery and have them swooning. An acquaintance of mine, had been dealing with the same crap of cliques and select, tony, and mostly pretentious curators, artists, and art wizards closing doors in his face and generally making art into a popularity contest in which was reminscient of our presidential elections. It made no sense. I imagined a less 'cool' arts scene, or day-dreamed a room full of highly talented artists sharing cocktails, but all of them uber-introverted and ugly and dorky. Some of them may not even know the newest classifications of the genres of the newest music, or know what a fixie is, or eat the same bologna and mustard sandwich everyday for the last 23 years. I dunno. . .
So why not have a renegade art gallery, on wheels? Level the playing grounds. Why not an impetuous and genuine opening on the street, where perhaps everyone will have a chance. . .well, everyone without bumptiousness and conceit. . .those who want to support what I envision as pretty important electrons around an equally important nucleus (can't think of anything for the nucleus to represent right now). . .and we, the people, are exchanging electrons, making energy and explosions and stuff - in a good way.
Don't take me for a negative thinker - I love art galleries, and I may have it all wrong. But, you can't deny a 36' school bus rolling into a gallery district in Philly, NY, Baltimore, or DC isn't pretty interesting. . .
So right now, I'm working on a Kickstarted video to raise funds to complete the process, contacting potential sponsors - like the good folks and AS Hanging Systems that I contacted this morning about helping us out with a cable system to hang the work, and putting out the word for a collection of artists to be involved. I am also beginning to compile causes and projects in which I would like to sponsor from exhibit and sales proceeds. . .
Here's the transitioning interior. I'll be painting the walls a nice, calm grey, finish the curtains, and work on finding a good electrician to complete the circuits to the marine batteries I have.
Let the twisting commence!!
I guess this bus idea and the bus itself has gone through (is going through) a twist in its life. . .from a proposed documentary film and taking my kids on the road, to sitting in North Carolina for a year in a half and being home to at least three people up there (!) to becoming the proposed newest twist in the arts world (though not the first -Stunning bus gallery in the UK, an art bus that reaches children, a pretty interesting idea to bring art to the people, for free, and St Louis gave this project $50,000. . .).
A MOBILE ART GALLERY!
that supports community, sharing, creativity, social justice, human rights, and yes. . .art. . .
So. . .this is all in conjunction with the art gallery I've been managing in New Jersey since last year. I had originally asked the owner, who has a large enough space on his property, if I could park my bus there. I had all but given up on The Parting Family - knowing now I'm almost done with graduate school to be a teacher, and well, I need to use that degree to pay back my loans! Yikes! So, no traipsing around the world of intentional communities and monasteries and national parks. . .yet. . .
So. . .the owner says 'sure' to parking the bus there. I only knew if I didn't move it the 700 miles up here, it was just going to die, and with it, my dreams and ideals and visions of whatever I've written and spoken of in the last 4 or 5 or 6 years. It was in bad shape (visually). I'm not sure where the idea came from, but I believe it must have begun back in 1999 when I first moved to Philadelphia from a small Southern town, and thought I could just walk my portfolio into any old gallery and have them swooning. An acquaintance of mine, had been dealing with the same crap of cliques and select, tony, and mostly pretentious curators, artists, and art wizards closing doors in his face and generally making art into a popularity contest in which was reminscient of our presidential elections. It made no sense. I imagined a less 'cool' arts scene, or day-dreamed a room full of highly talented artists sharing cocktails, but all of them uber-introverted and ugly and dorky. Some of them may not even know the newest classifications of the genres of the newest music, or know what a fixie is, or eat the same bologna and mustard sandwich everyday for the last 23 years. I dunno. . .
So why not have a renegade art gallery, on wheels? Level the playing grounds. Why not an impetuous and genuine opening on the street, where perhaps everyone will have a chance. . .well, everyone without bumptiousness and conceit. . .those who want to support what I envision as pretty important electrons around an equally important nucleus (can't think of anything for the nucleus to represent right now). . .and we, the people, are exchanging electrons, making energy and explosions and stuff - in a good way.
Don't take me for a negative thinker - I love art galleries, and I may have it all wrong. But, you can't deny a 36' school bus rolling into a gallery district in Philly, NY, Baltimore, or DC isn't pretty interesting. . .
So right now, I'm working on a Kickstarted video to raise funds to complete the process, contacting potential sponsors - like the good folks and AS Hanging Systems that I contacted this morning about helping us out with a cable system to hang the work, and putting out the word for a collection of artists to be involved. I am also beginning to compile causes and projects in which I would like to sponsor from exhibit and sales proceeds. . .
Here's the transitioning interior. I'll be painting the walls a nice, calm grey, finish the curtains, and work on finding a good electrician to complete the circuits to the marine batteries I have.
Let the twisting commence!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)