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!!
Sunday, May 12, 2013
The Great North
I think The Great North refers to places other than South Jersey, but the bus has never been north of the Mason Dixon line, so for Sirius, we'll keep it as such. We just arrived home about 30 minutes ago. Scratch that - we arrived about 6 hours ago - I just re-christened the bus with my friend Tom and a very early Mother's Day present - some good conversation and a couple tasteful beers. . .and a lesson on the gifts youtube has to give - Tom introduced me to Phillip DiFranco (I am guessing at spelling). I'm sold.
So! The bus is parked in what turns out to be a perfectly allowed space on our street, to be moved tomorrow once our things are sorted out. We stopped in Elizabethton to gather the remainder of our worldly belongings from storage. . .things such as toys and books and clothes all outgrown by the kids that haven't been seen in close to 2 years. But they traveled all the way up here - 700 miles actually - to be given to Goodwill in Jersey. That's cool. These Yankess could use some Southern flair.
It's almost dawn, the bus sits happy, tagged with red spray paint (a nice touch to accent its peeling paint and mildewed roof), awaiting the reactions of neighbors close, and probably town-wide. Good. Maybe you're a neighbor reading this because the blog address is painted on the driver's side. Maybe you're my best friend (I hope). Either way, please come back and read more about what is happening tomorrow, when I'm more lucid. . .
Thank you I-81, thank you highway 66, thank you 495, 895, 295, and I-95. Thank you Delaware memorial bridge. Thank you weather. Thank you for facilitating an awesome move. I hope by September the mobile art gallery is in place and Sirius will be treading lightly all the way to your neighborhood, with something BIG to offer.
So! The bus is parked in what turns out to be a perfectly allowed space on our street, to be moved tomorrow once our things are sorted out. We stopped in Elizabethton to gather the remainder of our worldly belongings from storage. . .things such as toys and books and clothes all outgrown by the kids that haven't been seen in close to 2 years. But they traveled all the way up here - 700 miles actually - to be given to Goodwill in Jersey. That's cool. These Yankess could use some Southern flair.
It's almost dawn, the bus sits happy, tagged with red spray paint (a nice touch to accent its peeling paint and mildewed roof), awaiting the reactions of neighbors close, and probably town-wide. Good. Maybe you're a neighbor reading this because the blog address is painted on the driver's side. Maybe you're my best friend (I hope). Either way, please come back and read more about what is happening tomorrow, when I'm more lucid. . .
Thank you I-81, thank you highway 66, thank you 495, 895, 295, and I-95. Thank you Delaware memorial bridge. Thank you weather. Thank you for facilitating an awesome move. I hope by September the mobile art gallery is in place and Sirius will be treading lightly all the way to your neighborhood, with something BIG to offer.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Highway in the Wind
One thing that has kept me from becoming, or even attempting to become, a successful artist is the discrepancy between meaning and meaningless. Sometimes it's a difficult line to see. Art can, by the cynic, be seen as petty. But then take Banksy's political and social commentaries, so in depth and thought-provoking. Take that artist in O'Henry's The Last Leaf, a story (you should read) in which a painting literally gives enough meaning to a woman that she chooses Life. Look at any artwork, and by artwork, I mean anything, because the definition of art basically encompasses everything. . .
So, thank God for Arlo Guthrie, as I've been obsessed with him lately. Thank God for these songs and voices, sounds, colors, shapes, and actions that can inspire us to get up and go. Thank God for writing that has nothing to do with anything sometimes other than looking at our own lives and deciding that if that person there can write a short story (thanks Vonnegut), that by God, I should be doing something.
And so we leave today, my ex-mother-in-law and my three children, to drive all afternoon and night to the Bus, in Marshall, North Carolina. We drive with new leaves on the trees, through DC and its cherry blossoms, through country that Pete Seeger sang to and of, past mountains that have been topped and across borders, down to the town where Amanda Barry's father lives, over and in and through Appalachia. . .
The bus is something more than steel and oak (!) and wishes. It's a movement both literally and figuratively. I will be driving it up with kids bouncing in the bunks and playing cards on the floors, back the poetic way we will ramble down. Through the thunderstorms they are forecasting, through all sorts of wonderful surprises. It will be parked somewhere in New Jersey, a location not yet disclosed to even me, arriving on Mother's Day, a significant day for me. . .and my mother. . .and against all odds, it will prevail as something good, meaningful, pertinent, positive. . .like the art I struggle with to find meaning in often.
The worst news to come of the bus, after I traveled down 3 weeks ago to clean it out and move it to a garage to prepare for the 600 mile trek, was that the veggie conversion done in 2011 is, in diesel mechanic Tim McGee's valued opinion, is "all gummed up." This translates to it is the worst attempt at a conversion he's seen in his thirty years working on diesels, buses to be specific. We're talking next door to Asheville, North Carolina - a convergence point for every type of progressive person, group, movement, and order in the nation - a place where those in San Francisco and Portland, Oregon go when they need something more progressive. . .so Tim has seen his fair share of converted buses. In his opinion, he could not let me drive at all with a clean conscious with the fuel system intact. . .not only was it installed terribly in-efficiently, but it was dangerous!! Wow, so, being the woman I am, with karma in tow, I have let any feelings of resentment or anger pass me by and have chosen to view this set-back as a learning opportunity. Not doubt or mistrust in people, but a chance for me to perhaps learn to speak with many different people, to take my time with big endeavors, and to. . .well, to enjoy some Alice's Restaurant when it all falls to pieces. . .
So, thank God for Arlo Guthrie, as I've been obsessed with him lately. Thank God for these songs and voices, sounds, colors, shapes, and actions that can inspire us to get up and go. Thank God for writing that has nothing to do with anything sometimes other than looking at our own lives and deciding that if that person there can write a short story (thanks Vonnegut), that by God, I should be doing something.
And so we leave today, my ex-mother-in-law and my three children, to drive all afternoon and night to the Bus, in Marshall, North Carolina. We drive with new leaves on the trees, through DC and its cherry blossoms, through country that Pete Seeger sang to and of, past mountains that have been topped and across borders, down to the town where Amanda Barry's father lives, over and in and through Appalachia. . .
The bus is something more than steel and oak (!) and wishes. It's a movement both literally and figuratively. I will be driving it up with kids bouncing in the bunks and playing cards on the floors, back the poetic way we will ramble down. Through the thunderstorms they are forecasting, through all sorts of wonderful surprises. It will be parked somewhere in New Jersey, a location not yet disclosed to even me, arriving on Mother's Day, a significant day for me. . .and my mother. . .and against all odds, it will prevail as something good, meaningful, pertinent, positive. . .like the art I struggle with to find meaning in often.
The worst news to come of the bus, after I traveled down 3 weeks ago to clean it out and move it to a garage to prepare for the 600 mile trek, was that the veggie conversion done in 2011 is, in diesel mechanic Tim McGee's valued opinion, is "all gummed up." This translates to it is the worst attempt at a conversion he's seen in his thirty years working on diesels, buses to be specific. We're talking next door to Asheville, North Carolina - a convergence point for every type of progressive person, group, movement, and order in the nation - a place where those in San Francisco and Portland, Oregon go when they need something more progressive. . .so Tim has seen his fair share of converted buses. In his opinion, he could not let me drive at all with a clean conscious with the fuel system intact. . .not only was it installed terribly in-efficiently, but it was dangerous!! Wow, so, being the woman I am, with karma in tow, I have let any feelings of resentment or anger pass me by and have chosen to view this set-back as a learning opportunity. Not doubt or mistrust in people, but a chance for me to perhaps learn to speak with many different people, to take my time with big endeavors, and to. . .well, to enjoy some Alice's Restaurant when it all falls to pieces. . .
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Back In Business
The business of starting over. Everyday. Like 12-steppers. . .maybe?
It's been a year since I've posted anything. Close friends can tell you the round-about journey I've taken, the road I've driven down, backed up, driven backwards, and parked on for a year, longer.
Skipping the details, the kids and I are living in New Jersey. I am managing (for the lack of a more intricate description) an art gallery/framing store. I'm having my first solo show this Friday after almost 2 years without showing any photographs anywhere. I'm nearly through a graduate degree in elementary education. . .a late-night decision I made a year ago because, well, I'm a single parent of three kids - teaching = aligned schedules with my kids and perhaps some viable income, especially up here in the northeast. But do I really want to teach? Did I ever dream of being a teacher? NO! A resounding NO! Sure, after college I thought it would be great to teach. . .college. . .not 3rd graders. And sure, I've home-schooled for a couple of years, but that was a totally lax approach, myself to answer to. But, nevertheless, here I am, with three kids in three different schools, working while they're in school, taking online courses, and, wait for it. . .driving the bus up to Jersey in April.
Yes, through a pyramid of rationalities, I will be flying into Asheville, North Carolina, to retrieve my long, long lost love and drive it to a farm around the corner from me, to re-paint, to complete, to usher the Idea long ago into a new phase, a New Testament.
As tempting as running away again is, and as much as I day-dream about taking my student loan and ditching it all for a long drive west and entertaining a story-book escape story, I have come to honor the journey, the renewal, the glory of keeping in touch with dreams, with ideals, with passions. Though they change (thank God) and morph and mature, the ones that remain must be spoken to.
Is it self-defeating to write in this space as if it's a diary, a journal for a therapist to search over, revealing weakness and confusion? I should be confident in my answer - NO - and I am. I have no idea what this bus will become. This bus as a concept, is far greater than a road-side restaurant; yet, I'm ok with that, too. . .for now.
After visiting my oldest and dearest friend in Honduras this summer, we entertained the idea of having a bus service in Central America. Why not? The ideas go on and on. The reality is simple. The reality is complex. The reality can be relieving or hindering. The process is the real Savior.
Oh yeah, and holding true to that which you believe. Which begins with, Belief.
It's been a year since I've posted anything. Close friends can tell you the round-about journey I've taken, the road I've driven down, backed up, driven backwards, and parked on for a year, longer.
Skipping the details, the kids and I are living in New Jersey. I am managing (for the lack of a more intricate description) an art gallery/framing store. I'm having my first solo show this Friday after almost 2 years without showing any photographs anywhere. I'm nearly through a graduate degree in elementary education. . .a late-night decision I made a year ago because, well, I'm a single parent of three kids - teaching = aligned schedules with my kids and perhaps some viable income, especially up here in the northeast. But do I really want to teach? Did I ever dream of being a teacher? NO! A resounding NO! Sure, after college I thought it would be great to teach. . .college. . .not 3rd graders. And sure, I've home-schooled for a couple of years, but that was a totally lax approach, myself to answer to. But, nevertheless, here I am, with three kids in three different schools, working while they're in school, taking online courses, and, wait for it. . .driving the bus up to Jersey in April.
Yes, through a pyramid of rationalities, I will be flying into Asheville, North Carolina, to retrieve my long, long lost love and drive it to a farm around the corner from me, to re-paint, to complete, to usher the Idea long ago into a new phase, a New Testament.
As tempting as running away again is, and as much as I day-dream about taking my student loan and ditching it all for a long drive west and entertaining a story-book escape story, I have come to honor the journey, the renewal, the glory of keeping in touch with dreams, with ideals, with passions. Though they change (thank God) and morph and mature, the ones that remain must be spoken to.
Is it self-defeating to write in this space as if it's a diary, a journal for a therapist to search over, revealing weakness and confusion? I should be confident in my answer - NO - and I am. I have no idea what this bus will become. This bus as a concept, is far greater than a road-side restaurant; yet, I'm ok with that, too. . .for now.
After visiting my oldest and dearest friend in Honduras this summer, we entertained the idea of having a bus service in Central America. Why not? The ideas go on and on. The reality is simple. The reality is complex. The reality can be relieving or hindering. The process is the real Savior.
Oh yeah, and holding true to that which you believe. Which begins with, Belief.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The Infinite Responsibility of the Truth
Sometimes I wanna throw it all down and get lifted. Yes, that's a quote from an enlightened rap character in a goofy drug movie from when, maybe the late 90's? But that's how I feel.
I visited the Simple Way for one of their weekly potlucks last Friday and though nothing extraordinary happened, no earth-shattering revelation made, no crazy worlds collided in the punch bowl (or coffee pot as it were) I left with a light heart, having met several people, one woman that I talked with at length and proceeded to pour out details of my life and how I ended up here, sharing my hallmark Dahl with these normal folks I think are incredible examples of humanity and God's children. . .losing more and more of that blasted self-confidence and cockiness that blew up in my face a few months, or heck, a few years ago. Everytime I get to 'tell my story' it seems more a pre-ordained disaster or perhaps an outcome that family and some friends foresaw. . .the bus parked at a friend's, no possible funding, all the belongings I sold and gave away being slowly replaced as I settle into a 'normal' and practical life of full-time employment and public (or maybe private if three kids in the same family stand a chance of all getting full scholarships) schooling and haircuts and insomnia, constantly analyzing and re-analyzing why I gave up and why I had such an idea in the first place. . .
But yeah, anyway, leaving the Simple Way, heart lightened and all that, standing outside that night watching the moon shining back at us all, I reminded myself to not forget that peace and inspiration I felt earlier within the community (which, incidentally, is not really an intentional community anymore, for all practical purposes, the folks live together, but they are temporary interns, for 20 months, but if you ask me, it's a community. But if you ask me, everything is art, also. I'm broad with definitions). Tonight I called upon those feelings, after a very tough weekend with my children adapting and learning simple things (that take us all life) like sharing (over and over and over and over and over) with Anna and her daughter, whose hearts are bigger then they can sometimes stand. Personal drama/tragedy/trauma within a certain circle I have trouble balancing tripped our little ecosystem over the edge and its force was felt emotionally tonight for sure.
These are the trails of community. But what to do? Maybe my microscopic example of community is a voice that may need to be heard. Maybe it's time to shed pride or confidence, or even ideals - certainly a time to throw out the romanticism of travel and a gypsy troupe of three beauties. . .though it's never gonna leave my blood. . .I have bigger fish to fry, It's a Wonderful Life replays in my mind on a loop - our purpose might not be glory, or more like, our purpose is never glory of self.
I was looking for a way to raise my children in an environment perfect in a way that people were at peace (at the foundation of it all) with each other and the world, respectful and loving and joyful and faithful, where the earth was treated as God's daughter and the lives of Jesus and Gandhi and that quiet kid in Pass it Forward were sought after. I was looking for good examples, for a place, for a perfect option versus welfare or spending time away from them in lieu of having money to provide a house for them. I was looking for the answer to everyone's problems of this critical society, time, place, over-stimulation.
I thought I failed in involuntarily being selfish in a selfless mode. . .
I thought the whole thing was a sham and a bust. . .hours ago. . .not the first time
I re-thought what a horribly naive process I've made known I'm engaging in for much too long without results.
Then Anna apologized for being short, which she barely was snappy, and I said it was ok, and there was an opening in the air, to allow clean breathing air to circulate between us, the adults and parents and decision-makers, then we were allowed to pass a bit down to the kids, who have had a somewhat difficult time adjusting to something of a benign life as we figure out what a meaningful life looks like after preparing for extraordinary lives. . .
But, living here is nothing short of extraordinary, and your life is nothing short of painfully pertinent and important. We are all sharing a global community that shouldn't make your thoughts jump to picture a globe and a graphic of hands being held across it - though that's endearing, we should all be more actively thinking as highly respected members of this community of earth. . .and your loving, caring, joyful tiny decisions you make before you move down the next mile, these are the sinew in the muscles that will lovingly lift up the veil of oppression that we willingly place on our lives.
And in a post I began writing a month ago, a whopping big part of the veil is lack of true communication. It begins even deeper with self-knowledge and exploration, which is, of course, a whole 'nother story. . .
All is well in the Smith-Pender-Zimmer-Bertsch household/community tonight. Think happy thoughts, think what a Simple Way we have before us
I visited the Simple Way for one of their weekly potlucks last Friday and though nothing extraordinary happened, no earth-shattering revelation made, no crazy worlds collided in the punch bowl (or coffee pot as it were) I left with a light heart, having met several people, one woman that I talked with at length and proceeded to pour out details of my life and how I ended up here, sharing my hallmark Dahl with these normal folks I think are incredible examples of humanity and God's children. . .losing more and more of that blasted self-confidence and cockiness that blew up in my face a few months, or heck, a few years ago. Everytime I get to 'tell my story' it seems more a pre-ordained disaster or perhaps an outcome that family and some friends foresaw. . .the bus parked at a friend's, no possible funding, all the belongings I sold and gave away being slowly replaced as I settle into a 'normal' and practical life of full-time employment and public (or maybe private if three kids in the same family stand a chance of all getting full scholarships) schooling and haircuts and insomnia, constantly analyzing and re-analyzing why I gave up and why I had such an idea in the first place. . .
But yeah, anyway, leaving the Simple Way, heart lightened and all that, standing outside that night watching the moon shining back at us all, I reminded myself to not forget that peace and inspiration I felt earlier within the community (which, incidentally, is not really an intentional community anymore, for all practical purposes, the folks live together, but they are temporary interns, for 20 months, but if you ask me, it's a community. But if you ask me, everything is art, also. I'm broad with definitions). Tonight I called upon those feelings, after a very tough weekend with my children adapting and learning simple things (that take us all life) like sharing (over and over and over and over and over) with Anna and her daughter, whose hearts are bigger then they can sometimes stand. Personal drama/tragedy/trauma within a certain circle I have trouble balancing tripped our little ecosystem over the edge and its force was felt emotionally tonight for sure.
These are the trails of community. But what to do? Maybe my microscopic example of community is a voice that may need to be heard. Maybe it's time to shed pride or confidence, or even ideals - certainly a time to throw out the romanticism of travel and a gypsy troupe of three beauties. . .though it's never gonna leave my blood. . .I have bigger fish to fry, It's a Wonderful Life replays in my mind on a loop - our purpose might not be glory, or more like, our purpose is never glory of self.
I was looking for a way to raise my children in an environment perfect in a way that people were at peace (at the foundation of it all) with each other and the world, respectful and loving and joyful and faithful, where the earth was treated as God's daughter and the lives of Jesus and Gandhi and that quiet kid in Pass it Forward were sought after. I was looking for good examples, for a place, for a perfect option versus welfare or spending time away from them in lieu of having money to provide a house for them. I was looking for the answer to everyone's problems of this critical society, time, place, over-stimulation.
I thought I failed in involuntarily being selfish in a selfless mode. . .
I thought the whole thing was a sham and a bust. . .hours ago. . .not the first time
I re-thought what a horribly naive process I've made known I'm engaging in for much too long without results.
Then Anna apologized for being short, which she barely was snappy, and I said it was ok, and there was an opening in the air, to allow clean breathing air to circulate between us, the adults and parents and decision-makers, then we were allowed to pass a bit down to the kids, who have had a somewhat difficult time adjusting to something of a benign life as we figure out what a meaningful life looks like after preparing for extraordinary lives. . .
But, living here is nothing short of extraordinary, and your life is nothing short of painfully pertinent and important. We are all sharing a global community that shouldn't make your thoughts jump to picture a globe and a graphic of hands being held across it - though that's endearing, we should all be more actively thinking as highly respected members of this community of earth. . .and your loving, caring, joyful tiny decisions you make before you move down the next mile, these are the sinew in the muscles that will lovingly lift up the veil of oppression that we willingly place on our lives.
And in a post I began writing a month ago, a whopping big part of the veil is lack of true communication. It begins even deeper with self-knowledge and exploration, which is, of course, a whole 'nother story. . .
All is well in the Smith-Pender-Zimmer-Bertsch household/community tonight. Think happy thoughts, think what a Simple Way we have before us
Monday, December 12, 2011
A Job to Make You Happy
Ok, for those masochistic readers that do not understand, will not understand, and label my ideals, ideas, principals, and life as generally selfish, immature, and lazy without opening up their hearts in any way to see the view from this side. . .well, here's another update - and no drama. I save the drama for my close friends who can handle it.
I am getting my Pennsylvania EMT license re-instated. This is an emergency medical technician license, a step down from paramedic. This is a license I paid for with waitress wages and completed when I was 9 months pregnant with my second child, after paying 100% for his home-birth - no mooching off of the welfare system there for an unnecessary hospital birth when I could do it all on my own and did. . .
I worked as an EMT in New Jersey until I developed a rare heart condition with pregnancy and was forced to quit, then the license lapsed because I stayed at home with the babies when my husband left. Now, that's not so dramatic, just the truth.
I also have an interview this afternoon for position of outstanding pay that would enable me to upgrade my equipment enough to seriously pursue the documentary and complete the bus.
Also, I have the need to clarify - I have worked all my life since I was 15. The only time I have not worked is right after my children were born. I paid for all of my college education. And I graduated with a bachelor's at age twenty. At the top of the class. After a full scholarship. I then worked for Americorps. That's supposed to make you feel like I gave back to the community. I have voluntarily chosen at this point in my life to physically remove those things that I am not entitled to because it's not an equal agreement -remove those and for a short while I was homeless. Now, it's an equal situation. I only say the next sentence for those whose imaginations run dry once money is not involved. . .
I could split the mortgage with my dear friend, who if you ask her, thinks I am helping her more then she is helping my family. If that is mooching, I suppose marriages are mooching, children under 12 are moochers, stay-at-home mothers are hippies and the president's kids are lazy. There have been in existence barter systems, communities, situations that are understood to be equal. I don't expect everyone to understand, I just hope they will.
In communities, we all have different jobs. Like the Christian church, Jesus Christ teaches that there are many parts to the body - you cannot have a face without a mouth and eyes, or a body with four hands and no feet. Some of us are meant to be doctors, trash collectors, teachers, artists, children, invalids, mentally retarded, raped, saved, imprisoned, addicts to give the counselors a job, photographers, dreamers, baristas, super-models (hahah), dog-catchers, preachers, homeless, and yes. . .hippies, if that's what Jesus was.
If I can bring about change without wealth, through equally sharing homes with others, without burdening the welfare system needlessly - then it won't be with getting a 9-5, leaving my kids at school for 11 hours a day - 55 hours a week. It will be from the inside, from teaching them the importance of life and love, what is necessary, what is frivolous. And so very much is frivolous.
“We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.”
- Mother Teresa
“Who, being loved, is poor?”
- Oscar Wilde
“But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.”
- William Yeats
“The mother of revolution and crime is poverty”
- Aristotle
I am getting my Pennsylvania EMT license re-instated. This is an emergency medical technician license, a step down from paramedic. This is a license I paid for with waitress wages and completed when I was 9 months pregnant with my second child, after paying 100% for his home-birth - no mooching off of the welfare system there for an unnecessary hospital birth when I could do it all on my own and did. . .
I worked as an EMT in New Jersey until I developed a rare heart condition with pregnancy and was forced to quit, then the license lapsed because I stayed at home with the babies when my husband left. Now, that's not so dramatic, just the truth.
I also have an interview this afternoon for position of outstanding pay that would enable me to upgrade my equipment enough to seriously pursue the documentary and complete the bus.
Also, I have the need to clarify - I have worked all my life since I was 15. The only time I have not worked is right after my children were born. I paid for all of my college education. And I graduated with a bachelor's at age twenty. At the top of the class. After a full scholarship. I then worked for Americorps. That's supposed to make you feel like I gave back to the community. I have voluntarily chosen at this point in my life to physically remove those things that I am not entitled to because it's not an equal agreement -remove those and for a short while I was homeless. Now, it's an equal situation. I only say the next sentence for those whose imaginations run dry once money is not involved. . .
I could split the mortgage with my dear friend, who if you ask her, thinks I am helping her more then she is helping my family. If that is mooching, I suppose marriages are mooching, children under 12 are moochers, stay-at-home mothers are hippies and the president's kids are lazy. There have been in existence barter systems, communities, situations that are understood to be equal. I don't expect everyone to understand, I just hope they will.
In communities, we all have different jobs. Like the Christian church, Jesus Christ teaches that there are many parts to the body - you cannot have a face without a mouth and eyes, or a body with four hands and no feet. Some of us are meant to be doctors, trash collectors, teachers, artists, children, invalids, mentally retarded, raped, saved, imprisoned, addicts to give the counselors a job, photographers, dreamers, baristas, super-models (hahah), dog-catchers, preachers, homeless, and yes. . .hippies, if that's what Jesus was.
If I can bring about change without wealth, through equally sharing homes with others, without burdening the welfare system needlessly - then it won't be with getting a 9-5, leaving my kids at school for 11 hours a day - 55 hours a week. It will be from the inside, from teaching them the importance of life and love, what is necessary, what is frivolous. And so very much is frivolous.
“We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.”
- Mother Teresa
“Who, being loved, is poor?”
- Oscar Wilde
“But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.”
- William Yeats
“The mother of revolution and crime is poverty”
- Aristotle
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Mysteries of the Faith
Well, the Faith has been challenged and questioned, and truthfully, I've failed completely at having any. To have a constant reminder, I had 'faith' tattooed on my wrist, believing that word in such a constantly viewed place would lend me a stronger belief, leading to that peace that no one can understand.
Here I sit in the spare room - the 'craft' room - the boys' newest room in southwest Philly suburbs, contemplating all that I've lost, or never had, or lacked, and how to start over. Again. I'm 33 and it seems like I keep on starting over. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing. Last night Anna and I talked late into the am, I - admitting my blindspots and also realizing how I am doing what I intended to do - community. It's not in-place, pre-conceived, standard-set - more like fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants and need and love-based. This is the third home we've lived in since late August, and the third home with children. First it was two children, married friends, then a single mom of three, now a single mom of one. There are chores here and I have a certain barter agreement that helps both families wonderfully. There are expectations and freedom. It is a small scale of how communities work, maybe for me it's a great exercise and model for how relationships work. I say for me, but really for everyone involved.
Since moving here, 15 minutes from Philadelphia, where Mercury was born and I met her father, our first intended stop on the proposed bus journey - I have had waves of doubt, panic, depression, excitement, motivation, exhaustion, and constant reflection. Because of needs I see now I have re-configured the entire idea of a bus. I'm not sure into what - Sirius sits in North Carolina in my friend's yard between his farmhouse and an old graveyard, snugly resting under some pines and maples, equally watching over the dearly departed, solemning gaurding over the crumbling, moss-embraced stones and my single father friend and his sweet son on the other side - a symbolic dividing wall of physical life and death. . .I accidentally left the boys' winter coats tucked away on the bus. We are truly living simply, and it does feel great, not lacking, up in the great northeast - where even my friend goes a bit overboard for Christmas. It's an increasingly material world, and being in a metropolitan area, it has really hit. I'm so proud of the kids, though - First we sell most of our possessions (toys and clothes and shoes included - how many shoes do kids need in America??), then pack our remaining things on a school bus. Then pack a much smaller amount into our Honda Civic (the old version, the antique - 1992), and you'll never guess how well they are doing and how much they appreciate and how little they want for. They play for hours with the same handful of legos. Mercury carries her doll everywhere and makes things constantly for her instead of whining about the brand name accessories available that question my ethics and values - 'American Girl' dolls all made in China and exceptionally expensive, yet neccessary if you are anyone in the public's eye. I was bought a very expensive ticket to see one of my favorite bands, The Cure, in NYC - all I had to wear were some workout pants and a plain blue t-shirt. Ten years ago I may have decided against attending if it meant no flashy wardrobe to be doned. But i was thankful I had something clean. Being surrounded by constant shopping and nicer cars and cable tv (OH NO!!!!!!) and especially the month of December has really been an interesting lesson in simplicity.
Speaking of, no - I still haven't been down to the Simple Way, because before my ideals and dreams comes my children, which I've looked over in ways since our initial fail to set sail in September, so this adjusting time has been spent on them. . .But truly, I think of Sirius and traveling the country and experiencing all the different communities on a level where we are involved. . .well, i wanted simple - we have it - I wanted community with our direct involvement and participation - we have it - I wanted travel - well, we are 500 miles from where we begun. . .
Now my focus includes auto-focus on my Nikon, documenting my journey for home and my kids' journey as a result, whatever that looks like, wherever that is, with whomever it is with. Our bouncing around isn't random, isn't failure, isn't punishment, isn't a reflection of my shortcoming - it's been a gift, it HAS been planned - just not by me (by the Universe, God) - it is and has been golden opportunity to change and grow, to be truly thankful this Thanksgiving - for beds and warmth and a working toilet, for socks and friends who care, for friends who open up everything without holding back at all. This short 3 months has seemed like a lifetime, and has been - from an engagement to single, extreme poverty, incredible people, sailboats, ICU's, hard work, tears and panic and tattoes, pretending to be normal, finding God in the most un-likey places like my tears in my car 2 hours from where I call home last night, running on empty for 96 miles through the city throbbed with optical glows in ebbs and flows down I95. . .
God and I had a nice conversation last night and I kinda got the feeling God was telling me I've not only lost focus of the point in my sites, but dropped the spy glass all together. God was very gentle about it all, though. This morning I am beginning to look for that spy glass - I think I dropped it in the car. . .
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time, there was a birth, then another, then another, then a death. Then there were closets and boxes and tables overflowing with ideas and pictures never taken and futures not fitting. There was chaos and sadness and an emptiness that was strangely filled with invisible, un-attainable things that were supposed to happen. Anniversaries and autumns and re-runs, aging with dignity, treasures, love that knew no limits, and photographs, pictures, snapshots - words.
Like misfires in an engine, there were sparks of light that appeared, sometimes only once in 3 months, and new hope and concepts and truths were lit for milliseconds, or sometimes even entire hours, days, until something physical manifested from the blinks of light - a Bus. Working with vigor, with solitude, with tears, with humans who loved the idea, or sometimes just loved me, this object we can touch was transformed into something not unlike a dwelling suitable for three small humans and one small adult human. Not unlike in that it still lacked some integral components.
Then the small larger human took too many steps forward without looking and fell down a dark, mossy, steep flight of steps into an empty cellar, breaking some steps on the way down down down. The smaller humans, having their proverbial trunks around each other's tails as the pachyderms do, tumbled down down down also. Though it was a cellar, which is built to be a constant, it was sometimes very cold, sometimes too bright, sometimes - mostly - too dark to see a way to fix those steps and climb back to that Bus, sitting in an empty parking lot, was waiting to be a freebird.
All four of those humans with big hearts and bright eyes sat in that cellar and through much sorrow and discontent, worked diligently to repair the steps, with stones dug up with tiny bare hands in the very ground that held them up and cradled them as they rested. A stone step cannot be broken. These are the lessons and blessings we all have to share and to be thankful for.
Those steps led out to somewhere unexpected, not an empty lot or a new house or a heaven or a hell. They led out to another room, empty, and filled with possibility. Like a video game where you have to escape, or a demanding nightmare, but only in a certain perception. There is no 'getting out' - there is adaptation and acceptance and seeing blessings just like some see auras and angels. There are steps, but these are also perceptions that cannot be legitimized or proven. There are windows and doors and there are also roofs above us to be thanked and floors beneath us - be it the dirt in the woods, the sand on the beach, the waters of the oceans. But there is also the space beside us, between us, and the space that needs to be taken away and the important things seen.
Because of this story I tell you, I have begun my quest and inquiry and demand of community, but in a much different way - heck, nothing I had planned - it was a run and jump down into a cellar with mice and roaches (literally), yet, I have been gaining vision of all that is beautiful and doable and real. Having love beats all. Having love hurts, as I wonder what I'm doing each night once the children are slumbering in their perfect ways, with their perfect faces releasing all their perfect beauty with light that deems it unnecessary to use a night light. What the hell am I doing? On the quest for the Great White Owl (see Hank the Cowdog) of ideals and the love and wisdom I see in my kids? On the quest for the Unbearable Lightness of Being? No no no - that was college. . . now that I'm a parent, single, poor, well - I should know something better. . .Educated, talented, tiredless - why the conflict?
Why should parents be left to struggle? Don't we as a community assist many others? Maybe that answer is no, too. Maybe I'm just not a shut-in, or disabled, or a vet, or an orphan, or a minority, or a drug addict, or a senior widow. Maybe it's just my plight, my decisions, my life that I see slipping in the cracks you walk over. Maybe it's everybody? Yes - the latter - we ALL need each other in more ways then we chose to recognize except on new year's tipsy celebrations or at weddings or funerals. Hey - let's look out for one another - not judge, not feel sorry for, not shed mercy on - but really, let's see ourselves in each other.
We're on our way to our first original destination in 11 days - Philadelphia and the Simple Way. I have decided to forfeit our time at the farm in lieu of 3 and a half months living with another dear single mother friend up north. This gives me the most time at the community I most wanted to visit. We'll see what happens from there. The bus will be residing at a friend's house in NC, just over the border, where she will be warm under the tall locusts and sleep peacefully bordered by an old graveyard - you see, whether we acknowledge or not in our lives here - most of us end up in such a peaceful community. . . (that's not a tasteless joke either, it's a lovely little ironic, thoughtful snicker)
Those stone steps are permanent fixtures now. . .
Like misfires in an engine, there were sparks of light that appeared, sometimes only once in 3 months, and new hope and concepts and truths were lit for milliseconds, or sometimes even entire hours, days, until something physical manifested from the blinks of light - a Bus. Working with vigor, with solitude, with tears, with humans who loved the idea, or sometimes just loved me, this object we can touch was transformed into something not unlike a dwelling suitable for three small humans and one small adult human. Not unlike in that it still lacked some integral components.
Then the small larger human took too many steps forward without looking and fell down a dark, mossy, steep flight of steps into an empty cellar, breaking some steps on the way down down down. The smaller humans, having their proverbial trunks around each other's tails as the pachyderms do, tumbled down down down also. Though it was a cellar, which is built to be a constant, it was sometimes very cold, sometimes too bright, sometimes - mostly - too dark to see a way to fix those steps and climb back to that Bus, sitting in an empty parking lot, was waiting to be a freebird.
All four of those humans with big hearts and bright eyes sat in that cellar and through much sorrow and discontent, worked diligently to repair the steps, with stones dug up with tiny bare hands in the very ground that held them up and cradled them as they rested. A stone step cannot be broken. These are the lessons and blessings we all have to share and to be thankful for.
Those steps led out to somewhere unexpected, not an empty lot or a new house or a heaven or a hell. They led out to another room, empty, and filled with possibility. Like a video game where you have to escape, or a demanding nightmare, but only in a certain perception. There is no 'getting out' - there is adaptation and acceptance and seeing blessings just like some see auras and angels. There are steps, but these are also perceptions that cannot be legitimized or proven. There are windows and doors and there are also roofs above us to be thanked and floors beneath us - be it the dirt in the woods, the sand on the beach, the waters of the oceans. But there is also the space beside us, between us, and the space that needs to be taken away and the important things seen.
Because of this story I tell you, I have begun my quest and inquiry and demand of community, but in a much different way - heck, nothing I had planned - it was a run and jump down into a cellar with mice and roaches (literally), yet, I have been gaining vision of all that is beautiful and doable and real. Having love beats all. Having love hurts, as I wonder what I'm doing each night once the children are slumbering in their perfect ways, with their perfect faces releasing all their perfect beauty with light that deems it unnecessary to use a night light. What the hell am I doing? On the quest for the Great White Owl (see Hank the Cowdog) of ideals and the love and wisdom I see in my kids? On the quest for the Unbearable Lightness of Being? No no no - that was college. . . now that I'm a parent, single, poor, well - I should know something better. . .Educated, talented, tiredless - why the conflict?
Why should parents be left to struggle? Don't we as a community assist many others? Maybe that answer is no, too. Maybe I'm just not a shut-in, or disabled, or a vet, or an orphan, or a minority, or a drug addict, or a senior widow. Maybe it's just my plight, my decisions, my life that I see slipping in the cracks you walk over. Maybe it's everybody? Yes - the latter - we ALL need each other in more ways then we chose to recognize except on new year's tipsy celebrations or at weddings or funerals. Hey - let's look out for one another - not judge, not feel sorry for, not shed mercy on - but really, let's see ourselves in each other.
We're on our way to our first original destination in 11 days - Philadelphia and the Simple Way. I have decided to forfeit our time at the farm in lieu of 3 and a half months living with another dear single mother friend up north. This gives me the most time at the community I most wanted to visit. We'll see what happens from there. The bus will be residing at a friend's house in NC, just over the border, where she will be warm under the tall locusts and sleep peacefully bordered by an old graveyard - you see, whether we acknowledge or not in our lives here - most of us end up in such a peaceful community. . . (that's not a tasteless joke either, it's a lovely little ironic, thoughtful snicker)
Those stone steps are permanent fixtures now. . .
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Yeah I'm doing it. I'm doing something. . .
Did I mention I've already begun my journey? Not as I pictured it, to take from my friend's documentary title (Not as I pictured It), but heck yeah, we're living in a community - another single mom with three small kids, looking forward to living on a community based farm for the winter int he bus, and STILL working on getting things together enough to travel, to take care of ourselves. Yes, we're homeschooling - a single parent, and yes, I'm still working as much as I can. See how easy this is? Shiz. . .
Monday, October 17, 2011
An Old Love Letter From August
My humility began as a humble pride with Sirius, so after the last week in Asheville with my buddy Dave Keister gently reinforcing that humility passively, I can now say I'm in stage 2 of learning to humble myself. I can't fully speak for Matthew, but he definitely feels the same way.
Ezekiel is into week 5 in New Jersey with his dad and grandparents - us thinking we'd be on the road about 2 weeks ago. . .I am in pieces about that - but of any of my three children, Ezekiel is the strongest and most independent, so it's myself that I worry about being so homesick for him. He's just fine and his time with his dad and other family is a good thing. Being pressured to make this start to Philadelphia asap has caused me to overlook many many things - the un-readiness of the bus and ourselves as far as knowledge goes - mentally we are all 5 prepared for the road - physically, the bus is basically a big steel tent. There are bunks and chairs. Here's what's not there - security, electricity, heat, water. I justified and excused all that lack of necessities in the form of seeing us as mobile campers. I mean, hikers on the AT don't have heat, electricity, running water, right? Yes, Sabrina, but the point of the bus is to be a mobile and independent home - a place where we have a self-contained and independent environment. A place where we can cook, wash, use the toilet, charge our cell phones and laptop, keep warm in this weather, eluding quickly to chilly autumn nights, and a peaceful place to rest.
Our priority still lays with the fuel system addition to include the veggie oil system. About a month ago Dave was set to come down to Tennessee from North Carolina and do the conversion, something I grasped with un-abashed naivete. The day before he was set, he gave me a call - "How much do you have set aside?" Me, "about $400 for parts". Dave respectfully let me know it would be more in the area of $1200. Ok, I said, no worries, even though I usually don't come across that sort of money unless it's refund season. I just don't have that business-set mind. But through God's patient support Matthew was able to come up with $1000 within a week through some completely un-expected situations. And no, nothing illegal! So we continue on in our blind-sighted progress, concerned with cleaning out the house and manicuring the property, focusing on bills and making sure the kids are getting enough learning experiences everyday, then onto moving out almost 2 weeks ago. I drove the bus without any problems down my friends' narrow driveway in Bristol and lined up the bus all neat. There was a week of un-spoken chaos as my friends Emily and Adam welcomed our misfit crew into their home - two kids drawn wild with summer and craving some formal lessons or any manner of schedule, my dog Sammi who we have sadly learned is not going to come with us because of socialization issues, me with my frazzled and open-ended ideas and not much follow through, and Matthew who is trying with his big heart to still just find his place with me and the kids and now my friends' home. Blessed are the crazies, for they mean well and they shall one day be sane. . .
Sunday was my last day of work. I gloated in the exit, sure to never return to the food industry, confident that my creative visions would begin to come to form. Monday my mom agreed to take Samson and Mercury for the next 4 days while we drove the bus and car to Asheville for the conversion, ordered parts and more then enough money (somehow) in hand. We were set on staying in the car a few nights as a motel room was out of the question considering our budget. Monday tropical storm Lee's afterthoughts were upon the mountainous climb to NC, but the wipers proved well. The headlights were discovered to not work, though, and the roof hatch STILL leaks and Sammi sure enough HATES the bus. I got lost. Twice. I wasn't as excited as I should have been when we pulled up, though I was very proud to have handled the driveways narrow switchback on gravel and the threat of a fence to the left. Not bad driving, Sabrina. But oh how that pride is rightfully crushed! As I should have been finding a way to update everyday as we were patiently walked through the engineering and mechanics, I will summarize - I number one, have as much knowledge of the system as I can and have explained to the kids and others - number two, I have not been able to sleep at night because I know that time is passing without me constantly filling my head with knowledge of all in that I lack - basically everything I'm wanting to do.
So the system Dave created for us is amazing. Sure he personally didn't come up with the idea - actually Rudolph Diesel did more then a hundred years ago - but he did refine it to our specific needs and the vehicle. Something Greasecar or Frybrid would charge $4000 or more for. And so the cost of parts and the very very scant wages we could afford to reimburse Dave and his welder friend Ed and our tiny 'Thanks' to Keith who apparently volunteered 4 days of labor left us with about $150 for the rest of the month. And this was after I told Dave we couldn't afford the electric system needed for the pumps. . .so as of now, we are back at Emily and Adam's in Bristol with Sirius - all converted except for the electricity and the two tanks were left in Asheville for when we return in about a month. Give or take.
Last night at the rest area high in the cloud shrouded mountains between here and there, after a chance meeting with Micheal, another engineering Christian-anti-establishment hippie genius truck driver with an amazing heart, I awoke at 3am to pounding waves of doubt and confusion and anxiety. How was I to learn even the basics of mechanics, engineering, electricity, composting, plumbing, and carpentry without even mentioning refining the whole concept of what I thought I was doing? a couple chapters from Proverbs set me straight, or rather, enlightened me to the idea of self-confidence where it's not rightly due is a fool. I am a fool.
But the beautiful thing? The perfect and reassuring fact? I have a good heart. When Dave asked me to sum up the message I want to send with all this, I said, that if I can do it - if I of all people am able to pull off this alternative to the systems we have, then anyone can. I'm not brilliant in much but love, I'm horrible at making money, I've put together a bus that has hypocritical points (non-renewable sourced wood because it was all I could afford, for instance) to my vision, I'm terribly un-prepared, and my plan to make a film has its backing in only my faith, I cannot secure any sponsors until I'm at least self-contained lest I waste other's time. . .but you know what? I am going to do this, WE are, through battles with doubt and confusion and ignorance, it only helps the concept to prove its truth - that we are all capable of change and supporting each other. . .
Sails away, kids away, finding our way
I was invited to participate in a sailboat race at the lake where I work. A windy beautiful warm autumn day with new friends, 45/50 degrees down into the water with wet sails, and a larger vocabulary that includes jib and port and halyard. The freedom I've had since the kids have been with their dad and grandparents has me yearning for experiences never tasted, which also includes me bow-hunting this week. Yes, a vegetarian of 18 years. What does this have to do with community? Well, everything. The people I've met, my new friend Paul, wow - just wow. Paul has lived on his sailboat for almost a year, taking care of Doug, a Vietnam vet who surprisingly has lived on a bus. I have seen this incredible love for one another, an amazing community at a dock no less. And let's not forget the lessons I've been learning sharing a house with Danielle and her three small children. . .more of an experiment then anything, but patience, love, respect, and communication are the mainstays of any working community, go figure. It's been nice having learned that first hand, before I threw me and the kids out into much larger, working communities with our hands up in the air and our jaws dropped - just how un-prepared for most everything from rough living to homogenizing our family with the world is shocking, but we've been BLESSED to have had this last month to work together with each other, all the friends old and new helping out, and the world at large - the Community at large.
Think about it - what would I have in common with a 60-some disabled vet whose love of Natural Light is a love affair is almost sweet at times? More then I would have guessed. I'm not tentative of accepting and loving folks. It'll be a test of my word to teach the kids all about different people, but oh how exciting. And through all this hanging out on the dock in-between work and talking philosophies and being landlocked on a gorgeous lake surrounded by mountains and the sounds of the rattling kaleidoscope canopies, the lines chiming against the masts, I have re-gained a faith in people, in God's creation, in myself. I've actually learned somethings about living on the road, how not to take advantage, but rather barter in everything, even language - someone says something nice, you reimburse them with something nice. I've enjoyed some lively discussions about karma lately. . .
So today I met with some amazing people - Amos and Kaci - these two young, balanced-idealists who own Trosly Farm in Elk Park, North Carolina. It's a working, community-based farm that they began by themselves about 2 years ago, and have managed to almost completely work the farm for their own financial sustainability. It's a beautiful example of what can be done with the right combination of faith and hard work and ideals, though obviously, ideals need to be toned down sometimes, to be realized as ideals and be varied from that point, to paraphrase Amos today this afternoon. They have agreed, in exchange for conditioned work on some buildings and chores with the animals, pre-determined hours - to allow Sirius to be parked on their property for the 4 hardest months of winter. This afternoon my head is reeling with all that needs to be done to quickly make our lives on the bus as self-sufficient as possible - namely the wood stove, a cord of wood brought up to the farm, figuring out the logistics of Internet access where it's not really accessible - for part of the winter we will be absolutely beyond a doubt snowed in. My little front wheel drive won't help out and unfortunately we rely on that instead of horses anymore. . .So there are some potential complications when it comes to updating the blog, emailing, or even telephone communications - but the bright side of all this is that we will be so remote and with things always to do that probably 60% of the time are new experiences - this is the education I've been needing. So work ends for the season October 30, and I hope to be parked in Elk Park November 2nd, learning to process poultry (again, what's up with that? a wonderful experience that I can use to help others out with in the future - you need someone to roust up the chickens for dinner? Ok, I can do that!) and keep warm. What an excellent life I am gearing up for. Actually, back last November when I had an actual producer that flew out from LA to film us a bit, we did a short interview with Amos on their farm, talking agriculture, and most importantly the silk-strong connection food and how it's grown has effect on everything everything everything. An organic community-based, small farm with a couple that is willing to stick to their beliefs and faith. It's just no question the last 2 years has brought me to this junction for a specific reason. I can see it clearly. Money would still be a nice thing, but I'm not even sure I believe that. Capability is a much 'nicer' thing, or should I say, necessary. Which bring me full circle to sailing. No more doubts that I can't learn, which was an underlying theme from an August entry that was never posted. I'll just go ahead and put that up there out-of-order, it's more of an intimate view of my views out these eyes, though the last little bit is tinged with sadness that Matthew and I just didn't work. . . sometimes sometimes isn't enough and it has to be a peaceful parting. . .
Think about it - what would I have in common with a 60-some disabled vet whose love of Natural Light is a love affair is almost sweet at times? More then I would have guessed. I'm not tentative of accepting and loving folks. It'll be a test of my word to teach the kids all about different people, but oh how exciting. And through all this hanging out on the dock in-between work and talking philosophies and being landlocked on a gorgeous lake surrounded by mountains and the sounds of the rattling kaleidoscope canopies, the lines chiming against the masts, I have re-gained a faith in people, in God's creation, in myself. I've actually learned somethings about living on the road, how not to take advantage, but rather barter in everything, even language - someone says something nice, you reimburse them with something nice. I've enjoyed some lively discussions about karma lately. . .
So today I met with some amazing people - Amos and Kaci - these two young, balanced-idealists who own Trosly Farm in Elk Park, North Carolina. It's a working, community-based farm that they began by themselves about 2 years ago, and have managed to almost completely work the farm for their own financial sustainability. It's a beautiful example of what can be done with the right combination of faith and hard work and ideals, though obviously, ideals need to be toned down sometimes, to be realized as ideals and be varied from that point, to paraphrase Amos today this afternoon. They have agreed, in exchange for conditioned work on some buildings and chores with the animals, pre-determined hours - to allow Sirius to be parked on their property for the 4 hardest months of winter. This afternoon my head is reeling with all that needs to be done to quickly make our lives on the bus as self-sufficient as possible - namely the wood stove, a cord of wood brought up to the farm, figuring out the logistics of Internet access where it's not really accessible - for part of the winter we will be absolutely beyond a doubt snowed in. My little front wheel drive won't help out and unfortunately we rely on that instead of horses anymore. . .So there are some potential complications when it comes to updating the blog, emailing, or even telephone communications - but the bright side of all this is that we will be so remote and with things always to do that probably 60% of the time are new experiences - this is the education I've been needing. So work ends for the season October 30, and I hope to be parked in Elk Park November 2nd, learning to process poultry (again, what's up with that? a wonderful experience that I can use to help others out with in the future - you need someone to roust up the chickens for dinner? Ok, I can do that!) and keep warm. What an excellent life I am gearing up for. Actually, back last November when I had an actual producer that flew out from LA to film us a bit, we did a short interview with Amos on their farm, talking agriculture, and most importantly the silk-strong connection food and how it's grown has effect on everything everything everything. An organic community-based, small farm with a couple that is willing to stick to their beliefs and faith. It's just no question the last 2 years has brought me to this junction for a specific reason. I can see it clearly. Money would still be a nice thing, but I'm not even sure I believe that. Capability is a much 'nicer' thing, or should I say, necessary. Which bring me full circle to sailing. No more doubts that I can't learn, which was an underlying theme from an August entry that was never posted. I'll just go ahead and put that up there out-of-order, it's more of an intimate view of my views out these eyes, though the last little bit is tinged with sadness that Matthew and I just didn't work. . . sometimes sometimes isn't enough and it has to be a peaceful parting. . .
Friday, October 14, 2011
Sabrina
the magic of clarity, and the journey to It
Three weeks technically homeless, the bus ran out of funds, I broke off the 8 week engagement and slept on the bus in parking lots, the car, two sailboats, many floors, blessed hotels (which slept the worst), and a handful of couches and for near a night, a sandy lake beach. I am back to work until the season ends. I am again in the same situation I wanted to avoid, but I can't be happier about it - afterall I was the one who said I learn best through first hand experience.
I have learned that I need much to learn, and I have also seen the opportunities to learn things appear out of nowhere, constantly. I guess, just like all the mauve-colored cars you only notice around you right after you purchase one yourself, that these lessons and knowledges were all around, the entire time. I was just having too much fun, and too much distraction with such things as appearances this summer and my life the 15 years prior, to pay attention. Such wasted moments, but in my present realizations, no, not really.
So this clarity of thought, clarity in explanation, this is my downfall, or rather, my newest opportunity now. As I half-way have gone back on what I feel is one of the difficult options for single-parents - to go back to school - I am finishing up my Yale application for their graduate nurse-midwifery program - as I read over the instructions for the essay questions, and the manner in which they would be evaluated, there was another gem I found in simple instructions - who would have thought - Oh! the wonder! - the essays will be evaluated on "clarity of thought". Dang! I had such cloudiness that just that description was a blessing - that's my focus - is to have clarity of thought. Not updating the blog since August and re-uniting with friends of years ago both share in that lack of clarity of thought once I try to catch up - just look how this entry was begun - what a whale of a mess.
Clarity of thought and an invariable passion, trying to make sentences make sense. If you're reading this because you saw the address of the side of my bus, you know it's parked in an empty lot. The kids don't know why we aren't sleeping there every night. Go figure, God gives them that peace we sing and preach about and then the folks at church instill fears when someone has the faith enough to put it into practice. My mom calls it testing God. I call it having faith. Society call it unstable and inappropriate, I say society is unstable and inappropriate. Did you notice I'm not doing a good job with clarity or a smooth, easy to read flow of thought? Good. That's purposeful. I watched 5 hours of the history channel the other night when I had the chance to sleep in a hotel and act 'normal'. There's no gold in Fort Knox, this world is disasterously beautiful with life and death and innumerable mysteries and wars and Gods and gods and rainbow serpents. That's just THIS world. I didn't even mention the universe. It's pretty dang confusing, but with my second long night of philosophizing on a sailboat with a new friend, we agreed it's still all pretty damn simple - there is energy, love is energy, God is love - love. There's too many people trying to complicate things.
And I'm not about to sell the bus. Just think that maybe that bus wasn't meant to travel too far. Not sure what it's meant to do. But keeping our eye on the ball, human rights, responsible and peaceful hearts, well, let's just keep it simple. I'll learn how to slaughter chickens hopefully and then I'll be in a primitive way, with a smaller, quieter vocabulary, thus - I will stumble upon my elusive clarity, I know it's there. . .
peace, love, and clarity on the road discovering my community in strings of random acts of love, kindness, and. . .clarity
I have learned that I need much to learn, and I have also seen the opportunities to learn things appear out of nowhere, constantly. I guess, just like all the mauve-colored cars you only notice around you right after you purchase one yourself, that these lessons and knowledges were all around, the entire time. I was just having too much fun, and too much distraction with such things as appearances this summer and my life the 15 years prior, to pay attention. Such wasted moments, but in my present realizations, no, not really.
So this clarity of thought, clarity in explanation, this is my downfall, or rather, my newest opportunity now. As I half-way have gone back on what I feel is one of the difficult options for single-parents - to go back to school - I am finishing up my Yale application for their graduate nurse-midwifery program - as I read over the instructions for the essay questions, and the manner in which they would be evaluated, there was another gem I found in simple instructions - who would have thought - Oh! the wonder! - the essays will be evaluated on "clarity of thought". Dang! I had such cloudiness that just that description was a blessing - that's my focus - is to have clarity of thought. Not updating the blog since August and re-uniting with friends of years ago both share in that lack of clarity of thought once I try to catch up - just look how this entry was begun - what a whale of a mess.
Clarity of thought and an invariable passion, trying to make sentences make sense. If you're reading this because you saw the address of the side of my bus, you know it's parked in an empty lot. The kids don't know why we aren't sleeping there every night. Go figure, God gives them that peace we sing and preach about and then the folks at church instill fears when someone has the faith enough to put it into practice. My mom calls it testing God. I call it having faith. Society call it unstable and inappropriate, I say society is unstable and inappropriate. Did you notice I'm not doing a good job with clarity or a smooth, easy to read flow of thought? Good. That's purposeful. I watched 5 hours of the history channel the other night when I had the chance to sleep in a hotel and act 'normal'. There's no gold in Fort Knox, this world is disasterously beautiful with life and death and innumerable mysteries and wars and Gods and gods and rainbow serpents. That's just THIS world. I didn't even mention the universe. It's pretty dang confusing, but with my second long night of philosophizing on a sailboat with a new friend, we agreed it's still all pretty damn simple - there is energy, love is energy, God is love - love. There's too many people trying to complicate things.
And I'm not about to sell the bus. Just think that maybe that bus wasn't meant to travel too far. Not sure what it's meant to do. But keeping our eye on the ball, human rights, responsible and peaceful hearts, well, let's just keep it simple. I'll learn how to slaughter chickens hopefully and then I'll be in a primitive way, with a smaller, quieter vocabulary, thus - I will stumble upon my elusive clarity, I know it's there. . .
peace, love, and clarity on the road discovering my community in strings of random acts of love, kindness, and. . .clarity
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
no need for flowery s@#%
View from bathroom to kitchen
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| Mercury painting |
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