Going to see them on July 4 was mandatory, or so it seemed. How could we NOT go out and watch fireworks on the night of July 4? We'd be missing out on something essential, surely. Now, when I got back to school in the fall no one inquired as to whether I had gone to see fireworks on July 4. I guess it's just that they were so rare. Like having your own orange in your Christmas stocking, fireworks came once a year and could not be missed.
But unlike the oranges, fireworks don't come from a store and don't come cheap. Village picnics and fairs which featured pyrotechnic shows tended to charge admission either in the form of an entry fee or by way of food vendors and games that dazzled children would instantly crave. Add to this the hassle of keeping track of everyone (at least one child would get in a huff and want to adventure off on their own) to the constant worry of having one's pocket picked and July 4 was no holiday for my parents. They tried all sorts of means to get around actually taking us somewhere but still sating the desire for fireworks. We drove and drove around. We parked on top of a hill in the dark and were told that we would be able to see all the fireworks shows in the different towns if we just looked real fast. This met with immediate complaint after the first few "look over there! quick! Now there's some over there!". Fireworks were supposed to be big! They should fill the sky and leave the sensation that stellar glitter would soon fall all over one's person.
Finally, my parents hit upon taking us to "Hamlin park". Hamlin Park housed a village picnic for East Aurora and every year they held fireworks. We drove down dark, deserted side streets into the parking lot of a nearby firehouse and watched the show that came up over the trees. I wondered why we were the only ones watching all these fireworks. I wondered why half the show didn't manage to come up taller than the trees. How was one supposed to view them? I sensed something was wrong but didn't realize this was a workaround for a few years. My by then high school aged oldest sisters would murmur about how it would be fun if we went "into the park". My mom began to stay home and not go at all. I couldn't understand how she would think of missing fireworks. That would be like skipping Christmas! But as an adult who has skipped a couple Christmases, I get it now. Something was slightly off. But no one really wanted to bother righting a ship so off kilter from years of habit. My mom wasn't missing fireworks at all. she and my father were routinely bickering over money and debt with sparks that rained down on all of us. I smelled the smoke early, I heard the angry percussions through the wall my bedroom shared with theirs, but didn't understand the burn. Soon enough I knew that any school activity that would require me to bring in money was instantly "no". Ski club membership? NO. Yearbook down payment? No. AFS trip? No. New cleats for field hockey? No. I didn't even ask after 10th grade.
In the summer before I left for college, I worked at the nursing home in East Aurora. I'd get off work at 3, my mom would get off at 5. So for 2 hours I would either go to the public library or walk around town to while waiting for her to ferry me home. One day, in my wanderings, I decided to follow signs to "Hamlin Park". A massive open space hedged along all sides by thick maple trees greeted my shock. Just then I realized the extent of the July 4 ruse. I saw the space full of bodies, vendors selling popcorn and cotton candy, stalls offering games of chance, and all the interpersonal shenanagens of a hot summer night. I realized that the fireworks we had seen from a parking lot were a way of not having to take us into a park where Dad might be pressed upon to spend money.
I wish he were here today to tell me that he meant for it to be better. I wish he could tell me that we didn't go into the park because I was unworthy but because of his own fear and financial insecurity. I wish I'd known how hard things were going for him and had been the kind of kid who would understand. I wish I hadn't wasted so much time twisting the repurcussions of his troubles into a mentality of un-deservedness. But I know where he is, Dad has plenty now. And today I do, too.
Like a puff the flame goes out and drifts into the summer night.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
No "one"
"Well, it all starts with a friendship. If you aren't friends first - what do you have?"
"I have you!"
He's on the other side of this mammoth bed, facing the other way. We've already been through another battery of pillow-talk questions. What do you like about me? Well, what do you like about me? I answer and ask those questions about this situation, this sex, while watching a pattern of street lights coming through venetian blinds dance across the ceiling. We've wandered into how things go with dating lives and online profiles. He's rolled away to stake out a position on the far side of the bed. The internet seems to be good for friends, but not for finding 'the one'.
"What do you mean?"
"You are here regardless of having sex or not. You are honest with me. I have a feeling that you would be there no matter what I needed."
"Well, I am your friend."
And it's true. Partly. I'm also, I suspect, his chump. I knew there was another woman he dated this spring. I knew because the few times I'd stop by there would be something different in the bathroom or two wine glasses in the kitchen sink. He says he told me, but he did not. I simply kept telling myself that my hope for him was that he'd be happy. And I hid my hand about attempts to date other men also. Now, he asks if I've been protecting him and I have to wonder, have YOU been protecting ME? I've been busy protecting myself.
"You are the only good thing to come from {that site}".
"You are the only person I've ever met on there that I'm still friends with."
"We'll do ok, just keep being honest with each other."
In the dark, no one can hear you smile. I'm not the one. I've never been anyone's "one" which is fine by me. It's never comfortable to feel the mantle of someone's myth fall over my shoulders. But it's true. He's not my myth or my solution, but my friend. I've realized that I already met "the one" right in my mirror.
At the gym I find myself dressing next to an African American woman. This could be the woman he dated. What was the dynamic of that? How did that end? Is he still talking with her? Is she in pocket, too, like I have been, at the ready for some future intimacy? I imagine him next to a dark skinned woman. So here I am, having sex with him again. Plunk, into the old rut we go, as if no time has passed between April and June.
Do I only have sex with him on the suspicion that at some point he'll come around and see me as being worth something more? Wouldn't I rather just be his friend? Part of me wants to smack him... look what you are passing up! Maybe he thinks I'm not interested in more? I know I've had too much to think, but one moment floats back into memory. One response still gives me pause.
"What do you like about me?"
"You are sweet."
"What does that mean?"
"You are accepting of what I want to do."
Suddenly sweet doesn't sound so hot. The man likes his sugar but this rots.
In the morning, after the usual 5:45 exercise of passion, he grabs my hand to keep me there. But I'm up and in the shower. Because all night one thing has forced me out of a sound sleep only to see him curled up on the opposite side of the bed. It's a cry. "Touch me."
"I have you!"
He's on the other side of this mammoth bed, facing the other way. We've already been through another battery of pillow-talk questions. What do you like about me? Well, what do you like about me? I answer and ask those questions about this situation, this sex, while watching a pattern of street lights coming through venetian blinds dance across the ceiling. We've wandered into how things go with dating lives and online profiles. He's rolled away to stake out a position on the far side of the bed. The internet seems to be good for friends, but not for finding 'the one'.
"What do you mean?"
"You are here regardless of having sex or not. You are honest with me. I have a feeling that you would be there no matter what I needed."
"Well, I am your friend."
And it's true. Partly. I'm also, I suspect, his chump. I knew there was another woman he dated this spring. I knew because the few times I'd stop by there would be something different in the bathroom or two wine glasses in the kitchen sink. He says he told me, but he did not. I simply kept telling myself that my hope for him was that he'd be happy. And I hid my hand about attempts to date other men also. Now, he asks if I've been protecting him and I have to wonder, have YOU been protecting ME? I've been busy protecting myself.
"You are the only good thing to come from {that site}".
"You are the only person I've ever met on there that I'm still friends with."
"We'll do ok, just keep being honest with each other."
In the dark, no one can hear you smile. I'm not the one. I've never been anyone's "one" which is fine by me. It's never comfortable to feel the mantle of someone's myth fall over my shoulders. But it's true. He's not my myth or my solution, but my friend. I've realized that I already met "the one" right in my mirror.
At the gym I find myself dressing next to an African American woman. This could be the woman he dated. What was the dynamic of that? How did that end? Is he still talking with her? Is she in pocket, too, like I have been, at the ready for some future intimacy? I imagine him next to a dark skinned woman. So here I am, having sex with him again. Plunk, into the old rut we go, as if no time has passed between April and June.
Do I only have sex with him on the suspicion that at some point he'll come around and see me as being worth something more? Wouldn't I rather just be his friend? Part of me wants to smack him... look what you are passing up! Maybe he thinks I'm not interested in more? I know I've had too much to think, but one moment floats back into memory. One response still gives me pause.
"What do you like about me?"
"You are sweet."
"What does that mean?"
"You are accepting of what I want to do."
Suddenly sweet doesn't sound so hot. The man likes his sugar but this rots.
In the morning, after the usual 5:45 exercise of passion, he grabs my hand to keep me there. But I'm up and in the shower. Because all night one thing has forced me out of a sound sleep only to see him curled up on the opposite side of the bed. It's a cry. "Touch me."
hot
Hot.
On the corner of Randolph and Upper Columbus I pass the artist formerly known as "purple coat lady". Her signature rolling luggage still sits at her side, but the heavy purple woolen coat has been traded down for a denim jacket. This garb also looks a bit hot for the weather. But her face is well tanned and almost looks to be happily turned toward the very bright morning sun.
For a few days i've been happily remarking on the return of the fat spider to the window outside my office. How they climb all the way up here and what they find to eat at this high perch I don't know. But she stretches her fine web across the window between the girders and grows fat and brown. today I hear the sound of thudding on the outside of the building and turn around to see the thin ropes going up the side of the building. in minutes smallish brown men with suction cups on their hands and only the smallest seat to secure thier tenuous ride up and down the outside of the building, have washed the windows clean. I look at them and marvel for a minute that they hang at such a height from such delicate threads, but to them this might be normal. Spiders of any size have learned not to look down.
Just for one more day I tell myself to look, observe, breathe and be. Not to think.
On the corner of Randolph and Upper Columbus I pass the artist formerly known as "purple coat lady". Her signature rolling luggage still sits at her side, but the heavy purple woolen coat has been traded down for a denim jacket. This garb also looks a bit hot for the weather. But her face is well tanned and almost looks to be happily turned toward the very bright morning sun.
For a few days i've been happily remarking on the return of the fat spider to the window outside my office. How they climb all the way up here and what they find to eat at this high perch I don't know. But she stretches her fine web across the window between the girders and grows fat and brown. today I hear the sound of thudding on the outside of the building and turn around to see the thin ropes going up the side of the building. in minutes smallish brown men with suction cups on their hands and only the smallest seat to secure thier tenuous ride up and down the outside of the building, have washed the windows clean. I look at them and marvel for a minute that they hang at such a height from such delicate threads, but to them this might be normal. Spiders of any size have learned not to look down.
Just for one more day I tell myself to look, observe, breathe and be. Not to think.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Monster under the skin
A long walk down the lakeshore takes me out of the isolation of my home, further from the voices of crazy selfishness, into an afternoon like a modern take on Seurat's "Sunday after noon on Grande Jatte". Although in my version the people are plumper and far less likely to cover their corpulence with Victorian decorum. Sand in my shoes can be tolerated for just so long and I move to the edge of the surf, flirting with the water while the lake breathes.
White people play volleyball on Foster beach, Black men clog the one basketball court with a game of pickup. All manner of hair flies up and down the tiny concrete court. A tall man with his long dreds tied back, lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. He's well fed.
Rounding the bend to head down the long stretch of Foster beach, I get lost in a new found throng of people. Bikes, scooters, children waddling from the water to the family blanket all criss-cross my path. I marvel at how over weight so many of the people, especially children, are. I pass families with crying babies, men nursing coal fires awaiting meat and marshmallows, women with beaded hair flipping their heads in conversation. Kids laugh. Three scabs talk about the various painkillers they've tried out. Single women read books. Volleyball nets go up, picnics are packed up. Soccer games fill every possible open lot of space. How do they do it? How do people collect families about themselves like this? And, listening to a tottler squaling, I wonder if I'm quite sure this is something that I want?
I check my phone again. Yes I have signal. No, he hasn't called. Stop it. Keep breathing. Just be present to what's around you, the canvas of human activity.
At long last I find myself on a bench 3 miles from home. Give me a sign, God. What should I do? Give up? Go home? Just then, he calls. Come on over here.
And here we are again. What do I do here? Am I being selfish? What could I possibly add to this man's life? My god, we're opening this book up again...but personally I'm on a different page of this volume called 'love'. Here I am again. It's not yet midnight and I'm sprawled on my half of the king sized bed listening to him purr en route to dream land. Tired, can't sleep yet. Roll over and watch his expression go lax, become placid. Watch his real face emerge.
He's so much easier to be around than he used to be. Maybe I've learned to translate his translation better. Maybe without the immigration stress he's able to open up more. Or, he's up to something. Hmmm.
Periodically through the night I wake up from fitful dreams of looking for a doll in London or running from one of those robots from the movie we saw tonight. I swim between the sheets and wrestle the monster. The monster masks itself as a sort of love, or maybe just adoration, during the day. But under this blanket, this blanket I curl myself in because it smells like him, the monster is loose. I know there's a body next to me, I want so badly to cuddle up next to it. But I don't. I don't interrupt his slumber. The monster's imperious urges wake me up with its continual curiosity as to weather the other body in this bed will feed it some attention.
It's 5 am and the octopus next to me wakes up.
It isn't what I want, I realize. I just want someone to enjoy being near me and to want to be close to me. Tell me that I'm worthwhile. Please, just touch me. It's so easy to walk away, to trade a casual bisou and 'good day' when the sunshine returns. But that solves nothing. For now I see that all the monster craves is to come in from the cold.
White people play volleyball on Foster beach, Black men clog the one basketball court with a game of pickup. All manner of hair flies up and down the tiny concrete court. A tall man with his long dreds tied back, lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. He's well fed.
Rounding the bend to head down the long stretch of Foster beach, I get lost in a new found throng of people. Bikes, scooters, children waddling from the water to the family blanket all criss-cross my path. I marvel at how over weight so many of the people, especially children, are. I pass families with crying babies, men nursing coal fires awaiting meat and marshmallows, women with beaded hair flipping their heads in conversation. Kids laugh. Three scabs talk about the various painkillers they've tried out. Single women read books. Volleyball nets go up, picnics are packed up. Soccer games fill every possible open lot of space. How do they do it? How do people collect families about themselves like this? And, listening to a tottler squaling, I wonder if I'm quite sure this is something that I want?
I check my phone again. Yes I have signal. No, he hasn't called. Stop it. Keep breathing. Just be present to what's around you, the canvas of human activity.
At long last I find myself on a bench 3 miles from home. Give me a sign, God. What should I do? Give up? Go home? Just then, he calls. Come on over here.
And here we are again. What do I do here? Am I being selfish? What could I possibly add to this man's life? My god, we're opening this book up again...but personally I'm on a different page of this volume called 'love'. Here I am again. It's not yet midnight and I'm sprawled on my half of the king sized bed listening to him purr en route to dream land. Tired, can't sleep yet. Roll over and watch his expression go lax, become placid. Watch his real face emerge.
He's so much easier to be around than he used to be. Maybe I've learned to translate his translation better. Maybe without the immigration stress he's able to open up more. Or, he's up to something. Hmmm.
Periodically through the night I wake up from fitful dreams of looking for a doll in London or running from one of those robots from the movie we saw tonight. I swim between the sheets and wrestle the monster. The monster masks itself as a sort of love, or maybe just adoration, during the day. But under this blanket, this blanket I curl myself in because it smells like him, the monster is loose. I know there's a body next to me, I want so badly to cuddle up next to it. But I don't. I don't interrupt his slumber. The monster's imperious urges wake me up with its continual curiosity as to weather the other body in this bed will feed it some attention.
It's 5 am and the octopus next to me wakes up.
It isn't what I want, I realize. I just want someone to enjoy being near me and to want to be close to me. Tell me that I'm worthwhile. Please, just touch me. It's so easy to walk away, to trade a casual bisou and 'good day' when the sunshine returns. But that solves nothing. For now I see that all the monster craves is to come in from the cold.
Monday, June 8, 2009
warm day
The warm air plumps with the smell of bodies lying on the grass and pollens in the air. The breeze is warm like it carries the smile of every past lover on it and for a minute I need nothing. This was such a barren place just forty days ago. barren and lonely and now its full of bodies in newly resurrected summer outfits. You'd think winter never even happened. It's all just a dim memory of the way things aren't supposed to be.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A dreamer, just like dad
That damned alarm clock.
I was talking with Dad, again, and he was younger. I saw a dad that predated me and an energy in him that had faded long before I knew him. Dad in the days of high testosterone. He was smoking. He was talking about boys to me. An he was telling me...
"Think about it Tootsie...Think about his man G~. He doesn't talk so much...sometimes a real hard read. Why do you still think about him? You know that hope for more lives on in your mind and you put it away but it rises back up, doesn't it? I'll tell you why. He's just like ME. Is that what you want? Do you want a man like your Daddio?"
And just then, 5:20am, the alarm clock cuts him off. damn.
There are so many reasons that I thought my dad was exactly the wrong type of man to be with. The music comes up in my ears as my feet pick up their trot down Sheridan toward the lake shore trail. It's that Beyonce tune what became my anthem around January 30 as I was kicking Bruce dust off my feet and thinking about meeting up with this nutty Italian for gelato. G~. "You must not know 'bout me!" Miss B snaps to the beat. I cannot see myself ever speaking this way to G~. Who knows where all this will go but he is my friend. Mostly.
He is a butterfly. The color he brings is the dream of life lived somehow differently. Gently, for a moment or a day, that dream comes to rest on my shoulder, volunteering itself as part of my life. We enjoy the moment of sunshine together but should I turn to touch or hold the butterfly - to offer it a more grounded love or attempt to define the relationship - it alights from me. Just as well. Touch to touch such gossamer wings would be death - to both of us.
I look down at the legs striding over the pavement. I see their strong shape. See my long fingers and tough shoulders. I see myself, the heap of DNA that has made me. Those reasons for not wanting a man like dad came from a mother who refused to pick up tools that might effect a working relationship. And for years her complaints filled me with guilt and shame because in truth, I look just like my dad. It's his cheekbones, dimples, limbs and shoulders echoed in my features.
Sr. G's cold is still sticking and he coughs a bit as we meet up. I must confess to being slightly happy at his convalesence as I've found him much more agreeable to deal with when ill. We listen to Dar sing as the moon comes up over the lake. I give him his birthday present. And we actually talk for a while. In that moment I feel like he could tell me anything and I would be ok with it. He could tell me he's seeing someone or done with me forever and I would accept it. Not like it, but accept it.
"I was looking at your website the other day. Everything about you, your training and experience, is 'artist'. I don't see where your job fits into this. And so why be shy about being artist more and getting art out there more?"
My gosh, he's right.
Almost four years ago we buried dad. At his funeral so many of the buddies from his small town band came forward and shared how they would have never tried to make music if it weren't for Dad. They never would have known quite for sure that, in fact, they have a tin ear. But Dad loved music and dreamed of being a great trombonist. And that dream got wedged into the margins around work that payed. He pursued the dream only to the edge of town. As his family we dealt with the second life and watched it take over all of our schedules.
And here I am, taking a paying job and wedging this art habit in around it. And I let myself get tripped up by...what? People not buying in a tough economy? I too have a second life. I'm just like him; just like Dad. And I think if Daddio were here he'd tell me to seize the dream before it's too late. This is what G~ sees when he looks at me. By his lights, I am the butterfly. He knows I have a spirit that flies and so he does not attempt to grasp at the delicate wings.
I invite him in for tea. I have no TV so we go through my bookshelves. I show him my worm box. He wants to rest his head in my lap again. I rub his shoulders and then feel a hand go around my waiste. And then... well...it's different this time. This time...we laugh.
Sniffling he heads back to his own home. I cannot close my fist on the certainty of any sort of relationship. He is my friend. He is a lover. And tomorrow is another dangerous day in which my brain will try to knit meaning out of a memory.
Don't plan, don't hope, don't fear. Just breathe.
I was talking with Dad, again, and he was younger. I saw a dad that predated me and an energy in him that had faded long before I knew him. Dad in the days of high testosterone. He was smoking. He was talking about boys to me. An he was telling me...
"Think about it Tootsie...Think about his man G~. He doesn't talk so much...sometimes a real hard read. Why do you still think about him? You know that hope for more lives on in your mind and you put it away but it rises back up, doesn't it? I'll tell you why. He's just like ME. Is that what you want? Do you want a man like your Daddio?"
And just then, 5:20am, the alarm clock cuts him off. damn.
There are so many reasons that I thought my dad was exactly the wrong type of man to be with. The music comes up in my ears as my feet pick up their trot down Sheridan toward the lake shore trail. It's that Beyonce tune what became my anthem around January 30 as I was kicking Bruce dust off my feet and thinking about meeting up with this nutty Italian for gelato. G~. "You must not know 'bout me!" Miss B snaps to the beat. I cannot see myself ever speaking this way to G~. Who knows where all this will go but he is my friend. Mostly.
He is a butterfly. The color he brings is the dream of life lived somehow differently. Gently, for a moment or a day, that dream comes to rest on my shoulder, volunteering itself as part of my life. We enjoy the moment of sunshine together but should I turn to touch or hold the butterfly - to offer it a more grounded love or attempt to define the relationship - it alights from me. Just as well. Touch to touch such gossamer wings would be death - to both of us.
I look down at the legs striding over the pavement. I see their strong shape. See my long fingers and tough shoulders. I see myself, the heap of DNA that has made me. Those reasons for not wanting a man like dad came from a mother who refused to pick up tools that might effect a working relationship. And for years her complaints filled me with guilt and shame because in truth, I look just like my dad. It's his cheekbones, dimples, limbs and shoulders echoed in my features.
Sr. G's cold is still sticking and he coughs a bit as we meet up. I must confess to being slightly happy at his convalesence as I've found him much more agreeable to deal with when ill. We listen to Dar sing as the moon comes up over the lake. I give him his birthday present. And we actually talk for a while. In that moment I feel like he could tell me anything and I would be ok with it. He could tell me he's seeing someone or done with me forever and I would accept it. Not like it, but accept it.
"I was looking at your website the other day. Everything about you, your training and experience, is 'artist'. I don't see where your job fits into this. And so why be shy about being artist more and getting art out there more?"
My gosh, he's right.
Almost four years ago we buried dad. At his funeral so many of the buddies from his small town band came forward and shared how they would have never tried to make music if it weren't for Dad. They never would have known quite for sure that, in fact, they have a tin ear. But Dad loved music and dreamed of being a great trombonist. And that dream got wedged into the margins around work that payed. He pursued the dream only to the edge of town. As his family we dealt with the second life and watched it take over all of our schedules.
And here I am, taking a paying job and wedging this art habit in around it. And I let myself get tripped up by...what? People not buying in a tough economy? I too have a second life. I'm just like him; just like Dad. And I think if Daddio were here he'd tell me to seize the dream before it's too late. This is what G~ sees when he looks at me. By his lights, I am the butterfly. He knows I have a spirit that flies and so he does not attempt to grasp at the delicate wings.
I invite him in for tea. I have no TV so we go through my bookshelves. I show him my worm box. He wants to rest his head in my lap again. I rub his shoulders and then feel a hand go around my waiste. And then... well...it's different this time. This time...we laugh.
Sniffling he heads back to his own home. I cannot close my fist on the certainty of any sort of relationship. He is my friend. He is a lover. And tomorrow is another dangerous day in which my brain will try to knit meaning out of a memory.
Don't plan, don't hope, don't fear. Just breathe.
My Improbable Friend
A funny light in the morning sky, reflecting in different ways off the storm clouds, makes it seem as if the sun were rising in the north. It's an illusion, I know, but it gives the city a sense of being someplace different. Perhaps this morning I'm really running through Helsinki, not Chicago. Just the sense of being somewhere ELSE is refreshing.
Sometimes I wish I knew what his deal is. Is he seeing someone else, now? Do I finally get to be that female friend who is the underlying threat instead of being the nervously possessive girlfriend? He's sick, but he comes to meet me at the tennis courts and then wants to see a movie. A walk. Says we'll go for a walk. Right. We sit on the lakeshore, watching boats and chatting. And you know, the chat is good. We talk about siblings and parent and how I came out of mom's womb last and wrecked the joint. Maybe whatever cold medicine he's on has disarmed the system a bit - but I finally got a sense of him. What is up with this man who still wants to do things together but still does not want to date? It's been over five months.
He falls asleep with his head on my lap. Asks permission first, but puts his head on my lap. Out of instinct I rub his head and shoulders. I feel a hand go between my legs in familiar acknowledgement. There is the last vestige of our affection in one bizarre moment of physical ease. Sometimes we're just silent. And silent is ok. I hugged him goodbye at the end of the day, genuinely grateful for the time together.
Part of me wants to know, to squeeze some sense of the future out of this. But there's no sense. It was just one day in the sunshine. And for today, he is my friend. Funny, I don't think I ever really knew what that was like. Ghosts of affairs past drift through my mind and while I wish them well, I do wonder where they are. But for today, he has survived and he's here. My improbable friend.
Sometimes I wish I knew what his deal is. Is he seeing someone else, now? Do I finally get to be that female friend who is the underlying threat instead of being the nervously possessive girlfriend? He's sick, but he comes to meet me at the tennis courts and then wants to see a movie. A walk. Says we'll go for a walk. Right. We sit on the lakeshore, watching boats and chatting. And you know, the chat is good. We talk about siblings and parent and how I came out of mom's womb last and wrecked the joint. Maybe whatever cold medicine he's on has disarmed the system a bit - but I finally got a sense of him. What is up with this man who still wants to do things together but still does not want to date? It's been over five months.
He falls asleep with his head on my lap. Asks permission first, but puts his head on my lap. Out of instinct I rub his head and shoulders. I feel a hand go between my legs in familiar acknowledgement. There is the last vestige of our affection in one bizarre moment of physical ease. Sometimes we're just silent. And silent is ok. I hugged him goodbye at the end of the day, genuinely grateful for the time together.
Part of me wants to know, to squeeze some sense of the future out of this. But there's no sense. It was just one day in the sunshine. And for today, he is my friend. Funny, I don't think I ever really knew what that was like. Ghosts of affairs past drift through my mind and while I wish them well, I do wonder where they are. But for today, he has survived and he's here. My improbable friend.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Artist statement for June - July show
Holon: and entity that is at once a whole and simultaneously part of some other whole entity
I've long enjoyed observing how the geometry of such tiny structures as molecules or delicate sea creatures is mirrored on the macroscopic scale of geological and cosmic formations. Exploring the relationship between geometry, discreet parts and the "wholes" has consumed my artistic efforts for quite some time. For while a great whole is comprised of many parts, that whole is itself present within each of the parts. And what is a "part" but merely where I decide to draw the line? I find myself making art which is really a map of relationships & influence between characters both tiny and great; primitive and sophisticated; matter and spirit; deductive and intuitive. Yet, the more I map, the more frontier appears just beyond the scope of my latest work.
A friend once asked me "why don't you just paint things as they really are...just as they look?". The truth is, I do just that all of the time. I simply stopped trusting my eyes a long time ago. My work re-presents discussions, humor, flavors, interesting shapes & textures all nabbed from unsuspecting donors. I have found that everything I re-present mirrors an evolving interior relationship with something bigger.
For some reason I'm always drawn to art media which force me to release control of the outcome. I always enter my studio with a head full of technicolor dreams intending to push pigment, water, or epoxy around. For an hour or most of a day I do my part. Then, I wait. I have to step back to allow the inherent nature of the material to take over to and dry, bleed, ooze, contract, cure, heat up or cool down. I get to shape the experience, but I don't get to force things. On a good day, this is a beautiful partnership. The finished product contains pleasant surprises I could not have planned and serves the medium much better than sitting in a can on my shelf would have done. While painting in watercolor and casting in plastic may seem like an improbable combination of media for one artist, this invitation to creative partnership is the common denominator for all of my work. The real medium is "self".
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