Blown Away

No, I don't look like that.

When I was in high school, I was introduced to art. I'd never been allowed to take what were deemed "frivolous" elective classes, but by the last two years of high school, I had taken all the classes there were to take and finally thought I'd give art a looksie. By the middle of the first semester, I'd been pulled off of the class syllabus and given a corner of the studio with an easel and all the paints I could reach from those back wall cupboards.

The first thing I ever painted in my life was a watercolor in the pointilist genre, the thematic unit of the class. We each got our 18 x 24 paper, rinsed it, stretched it, taped it, and let it dry over night. By the time I got my corner of the studio, my canvases were changing in medium as well as size. I bought large matte boards and eventually slats of plywood. My teacher finally had to put a stop to the growing trend. There was no where to store my paintings.

I honestly believe I would have continued to let my canvases grow. I would have eventually wanted a wall. But at no time did I ever make the connection with graffiti or even think of trying spray cans, even when I experimented with the air brush. Maybe it's in my genetic build. Maybe all those muralists brushed off on me in some imperceptible way.

I still want a wall. I have absolutely no idea what I'd put on it, or if it's even in me anymore. But the idea of my own wall still makes me salivate.

Anais Thought

There are two writers that I repeatedly hook together. When I think of one, I think of the other. Nin and Rand. I've not read either, so whether there's a subconscious reason for this pairing is still to be deciphered.

Yes, you read right. I've read neither. I'm not really sure why. Ok, I'm sort of theorizing about Rand, and they are reasons that are completely illogical and founded in emotive ties. We'll get to that another day. As for Nin, I've only peripherally heard of her persona more than about her writing, and I think I'm responding to the hesitation to jump on the bandwagon.

When I take on a famous writer, I want to be sure that the opinion that I eventually form is independent of others' and that I'm actually open minded enough to ensure that I'm going to absorb the writing in the spirit in which it was written. I tend to want to "side" with the writer. A certain premeditated empathy of the "benefit of the doubt" approach. I want to like the writing, but I want to like it for my own reasons.

I don't know much about Nin, but the quote:
"I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman."

...very much appeals to my thinking. Not that I have a man. So we have here a bit of a contradiction. IF I were to have a man, this is the kind of self-assuredness with which I would approach choosing him. The irony being that I'm currently about as little self assured as I've ever been, and I don't have the vaguest interest in a man.

So, really, the quote is the mother of all hypotheticals.

Poe's Enigma

I was in college when I heard a reading of The Raven on the radio. It was John Astin interpreting, and he blew me away. I'd always liked the poem, but he gave it life, suspense and an urgency I hadn't read into it before.

As I learned over the years, Poe became a sort of symbol of the unresolved. There's a frustration, a feeling of helplessness that I get from him. The Raven ends with the narrator unable to rid himself of the infamous bird. Metaphoric or not, the sense of impotence is acute.

Then there's the mystery of Poe, himself, and the questions behind his death. I'm currently reading The Poe Shadow, which addresses this, but I'm constantly aware that this is a book of fiction and that the reality is that it is likely that the circumstances behind his death will always be a riddle. Then there's the rose at his tombstone every year.

I don't do well with the unanswered. I like things resolved, wrapped up in a nice little bow. It is in my nature to believe that a methodical approach yields answers. I guess that is why I always come back to Poe. I always feel like I'm not done with him. Maybe if I read the Raven one more time, that damned bird will leave the pallid bust of Pallas once and for all. Maybe the answer to Poe's death will one day be discovered and I'll get to see a two hour documentary on the whole thing on the History Channel. Maybe the woman with the rose will make herself known.

Then, of course, there's that tiny bit of me that understands that it's good for me to not always know all the answers. And sometimes a bit of mystery is better cherished for its anticipation than for the possibility of resolution. Maybe there are some things we just shouldn't know. Maybe the mystery is what gives it the appeal that it has, so without it, it would cease to be attractive.

I guess it doesn't matter. I think of Poe every day because there are plenty of crows in our region. I like to watch them, they're quite intelligent.

Watch John Astin recite The Raven.

So seemlessly is the poem's influence on me, that I forgot to mention the obvious: the name of this blog is directly derived from the poem.

A Moment of Pause

I’m going to walk a fine line here. It’s a precarious endeavor, for me, because I usually prefer to keep the more emotive details of my life private. I’ve debated about this for days and decided that I created this blog so that I could reflect on the events of my life, be they positive or negative.


With that said, what I write is strictly to maneuver around my own thoughts. The words that get documented are reflections of how my mind is working at the time. They are not meant to appeal to the reader and garner any sort of gratuitous empathy or discomfort. In other words, what I write won’t always be cheery, but I don’t write it to get words of comfort or encouragement. I write to understand myself, to place my thoughts in some sort of space in my mind that will give them meaning, or logic.


A very close friend passed away just over a week ago. She had been suffering from leukemia for less than a year. From what I understand, the progression was more swift than usual. I won’t go into details about her because it’s not my place. My response to her death is about me and how I am dealing with it. I’m not sure, even as I write this, what, exactly, I should be writing. I’m noticing that I have a tendency to shut down. It’s not denial so much as my brain not allowing me to process it completely. I think I’m feeding myself bits and pieces of it, a little at a time so that it will be digestible.


I bring it up because it explains why I’ve been absent from much of my writing for a while. I also bring it up because it will explain much of what will be appearing here. Yes, there will be references to mourning, but it is not my way to wallow in melodramatic gestures. If you look at my margin, it is actually true that I have been reading The Poe Shadow. It just so happens that I had the image of the raven on a skull in my files, so I post it for the week because it ties to the reading that I’m currently doing. So as much as it wasn’t inspired by Julie’s death, it does reference a certain morbidity, however unintentional.


As for the Wilde quote:
Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.

I’ll admit that this one was selected to reflect my current state. But I specifically chose it because it was (in my opinion) actually a comforting view of death. Anyone who knows me can tell you that my absolute favorite writer is Wilde. I love his unapologetic wit, his cynicism and willingness to brush off anything too heavy. I read these words and thought them perfectly appropriate. If ever he finally said something sincere without being sappy, these words are it. Having a similar attitude, myself, they were perfect for me and I can’t imagine anyone being able to say anything more comforting without appealing to over-sentimentality.


So there you have it. This is what I’m currently dealing with, though, I prefer to walk through it alone, at my pace. I’ll likely start writing again, unrelated to the present situation, and will go back to my routine.


Thanks to anyone still reading.

Kings and Queens

Songs that appeal to my sense of the epic, the grand, and the layered.

Lyrics

For Julie

Been that kind of month.

Remember me?

Yep, I've been missing in action as of late. A series of real life obstacles kind of threw me. Nothing catastrophic. Just enough to hold my attention elsewhere.

I'll come back. Not sure exactly when. My brain just needs to relax, I suspect.

Stand by.

Music for Me

This week's Andrum's Conundrum:

If you could wake up tomorrow having gained one ability or quality, what would it be?

... was relatively easy again, for me. I've always wanted to be able to play either classical guitar or the piano. I think I might do well with piano since I picked up on typing quite easily in junior high [see: Bleeding Heart]. Back then, we were taught proper typing, as in exactly which finger is supposed to hit which key, and proper positions for your fingers. We got tested for accuracy as well as speed. I topped off at 50 and have been stuck there ever since. I understand that this is not particularly great, but it does the job for me.

As much as I believe I'd pick up on the piano quickly, the truth is that I'd prefer the guitar. I'm not sure why, but I'm sure its portability comes into play. Still, as much as I'd like to learn it, I suspect the learning process would be a frustrating one for me. Just as when you learn to type (in a formal setting) and start out unable to reconcile the keys to your finger positions, I'm sure that those hand positions would be the end of me. Nothing feels less natural than that. I'd like to be able to just play already, and not feel like I'm twisting my fingers into impossible contortions.

I'd like to be at a point where playing the guitar comes naturally. I don't have any kind of deep seeded need to fill stadiums or sign recording contracts. I just want to play at gatherings. Some of my favorite gatherings happened in Mexico City. Friends would show up with a variety of food and drink, and various instruments, and we'd sit around and hear everyone's latest composition, or sing some of the favorites. I always wanted to join in.

So that's my answer.

The King is Right

"If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that." --- Stephen King

Hence the addition of Books I've read so far in 2009 to my margin. I've done better about reading this year and last year. Before that, I was made to believe that such leisurely activities were marks of laziness and that time could better be employed for something constructive.

I say, "Define 'constructive'."

I've re-invited the vice of reading back into my life as of late, and have made it a habit, once again, to carry a book in my purse at all times. I used to get around to a couple of books during vacation time and the holidays, but now I'm averaging one every couple of weeks. Mostly my reading happens on breaks at work, in waiting rooms for doctors and such, and before bed.

The list of books awaiting their bond with me is staggering. I've only managed to document a fraction of them on www.goodreads.com mostly because I'm too lazy to rumage through my shelves and decipher which ones I've already input and which still need to be listed. But one day I shall sit patiently and update my list so it reflects the actual project that I have before me.

And I shall likely panic.