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.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
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. . .
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