Obligation occupation

Part of the challenge I have made to myself by starting this virtual... whatever (someday I will have to own up and call it what it is, but that day still resides in future tense), was to actually sit down and think about what I was thinking about. To carve some sliver to time out of the few 'happy hours' afforded to us at-home moms. But as I have mentioned before, it can be near impossible to dull the din of instinct that reverberates in my brain. Even when the wee one is sleeping, I am still 90% tuned to her channel, listing for a whimper, watching the clock, evaluating the temperature.

And that is when we are at home. Somehow our days have become filled with activities. A good thing, for certain, as I do not wish to rear cave child, and I alone am certainly not a full course of infant stimulation. However, as busy days inevitably link together in the magnetism of warmer weather, those calming moments of reflection remain at arm's length.

It is no longer a question of priority-- I have given up that ghost. The priority is to stay home and raise Eve, and all that it entails. In my personal arm wrestling match the mommy defeats the artist every time. It is something I am learning to live with and hope to use as a source of future pride. If not priority, perhaps dexterity. To be the artist mommy all the time. Sketchbook and pen in the diaper bag, camera always on hand. To weave identities together and hope fibers flush in a braid. This is what I have been attempting as of late. I'll let this banter sooth my ruffled, worrisome and temporarily idle feathers. Finally, add to dexterity a degree of grace. Clemency. A hope to loosen the bounds in which I construct my identity. A remembrance of this moment, and the haste of time. A disposal of the yard stick upon which I stretch my head. To let my obligation occupation dissolve into what it is, fits of laughter. And I will try to keep my camera on hand, and an eye out for beautiful light.

Digi Digi Digi

Greetings internet community! It is kind of a farce to call me and my lonely ramblings a community, but maybe one day I will pass word along and be able to say it with a straight face.
In the past year I feel like I have been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the digital age. I joined facebook, for example, after a through shaming from my friends. Just yesterday I joined 'flicker' in the hopes that one day some images might grace this mess. It is a strange thing to accept - the revolution of out modes of communication and documentation.

Part of my hesitation was that analog felt eternal while digital, ephemeral. I should clarify that I am a hoarder of historic proportions. If my age were to be determined by volume of stuff I would definitely be 17. The fact that my stuff has not increased exponentially with age is only due to the fact that my husband brandishes a firm trash can. But I can go into my basement, unearth a box, search inside for a bag containing a book that harbors a note on which one can gleam incite in a way no memory alone would allow. Can you say that?

My recent acceptance (some might say embrace?!) of these flicking bits of light, of the interplay of ones and zeros, is due mainly to the feeling that light might linger. I realized that I have been sending some files and photos on a journey of circular email in the hopes of ensuring their longevity. Sent and received to reside in, not one but two, of my email boxes for eternity. Or until Google goes the way of the banks. I know many fear the locktrap part of the internet's personality, but I love it. Somewhere, someone with a diligent sensibility and modest search engine will be able to find fossilized files of yesteryear. And while they will not smell like basement they will be vestiges of different lives that were lived, that could have been lived, that faded. They will remind us of who we were.

Here we are

It could be argued that bringing a child into the world is the ultimate act of artistry. It could be argued that parenting resides in the Work in Progress chapter of the artistic process book. It could be argued that every choice we make, as well as the unconscious ones, every dream we share, every kiss, every battle, every game and every cuddle-- every word we utter to our children echo the painter's brush.

It could be argued that the artist's voice is like a shiny pea, warm and radiating, within the brain. It could be argued that this pea is responsible for the noticing, connecting, reflecting and generating that are the hallmarks of the artistic mind. It could be argued that this pea needs a mere moment of quiet to exert its influence-- pulling and weaving thoughts and images like a loom, plopping conceptual products down upon nerves that stretch down to the hands.

Finally, it could be argued that at the moment of birth or arrival a mother's brain begins to hum a tune of ancient instincts. Full of vibrations of love and wonder, of fear and longing, the brain repositions itself as a keeper, a guardian, a parent. One is left to wonder what has happened to the pea? Has it temporarily silenced itself for the greater good? Has it turned its back to cower, red-faced and crumpled like a spurned sibling? Has it shriveled to a tenth of its size for lack of nutrition as the faucet of heady introspection is spilling its nectar elsewhere? Will it ever comeback?

These are my questions and fears. Someone told me that the sooner after welcoming a child you can accept that you will never be the same the better off you are. I do not doubt that. I was hoping pieces of me would grow, not whither. On this vibrant screen of digital paper I will attempt to sort through some of this mess, and perhaps a drop or two of heady introspection might trickle down to a certain parched sesame seed the color of moldy toast so that it might awaken, so that it might shine.

Here we are...