So today the wee one and me had the pleasure of spending the day with some old friends. Not old as in "I haven't talked to you in three years and we're getting together to find out what your life is like now" old, but old as in "you were my best friends when I began the process of becoming me" old. I can't say enough about these wonderful, wonderful, yes, also sometimes sick and twisted, but truly fantastic people.
The really fun part was being there with my daughter... somehow it summed up how much things change and how much things stay the same. A truly cheesy statement, I know, but also plain old true.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Etsy Etsy Etsy
Hi friends!
So... recently I have been using all those precious solo minutes to build a shop on Etsy.com. Hopefully my technologically incompetent self will figure out how to put a window into the shop up here. We shall see...
Oh, p.s. Here is a link ;)
http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=7279268
So... recently I have been using all those precious solo minutes to build a shop on Etsy.com. Hopefully my technologically incompetent self will figure out how to put a window into the shop up here. We shall see...
Oh, p.s. Here is a link ;)
http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=7279268
Friday, June 19, 2009
Commitment
Hello. I realize that this is is a bit of an anemic web log. It is okay with me. So many things that I am not doing make me feel pressure... and guilt. These two combine to form a sort of el nino effect that rains misery down on my parade. I refuse to instigate.
I do want to keep and nurture this little web loglet (web blogchen aug deutsch). But for me to do that I need to keep it in a box that is happily opened from time to time and does not resent a little dust. I like dust - it is nice to see the accumulation of fingerprints within the layers.
So, here is my commitment to be non-committed. Within the confines of non-commitment, who knows what we might find...
I do want to keep and nurture this little web loglet (web blogchen aug deutsch). But for me to do that I need to keep it in a box that is happily opened from time to time and does not resent a little dust. I like dust - it is nice to see the accumulation of fingerprints within the layers.
So, here is my commitment to be non-committed. Within the confines of non-commitment, who knows what we might find...
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
slowly the shutter moves
Hello imaginary friends. As you may have noticed I put up a couple pictures of our cats on this web log. I am hoping to add photos more and more, and more artwork as it arises. This should, after all, attempt to be a complete portrait.
But before future endeavors, photos first. I have a special place in my heart for photographs. I love old ones, treasure new ones, and find them incredibly hard to part with. The picture of my mother in her communion dress, the day we all met Weired Al (and I knew I had the best friends one could ask for), the picture of my sister and I when our 'real lives' were just beginning, my fella and I on our first trip, the slow dying, and the instant of birth. The thousands of pictures of the little one that I stop to pour over.
So it is though photographs that I am currently easing into my artist shoes. For me these days taking pictures is quiet and slow. Moments during naps when I can actually see what I am looking at, or moments when I look at something so wonderful that I am forced to see it.
The pictures that I have been taking remind me of how lucky I am to be here at home. How there are such few times in our lives when we can feel quiet and still. Life with a toddler, I must add, is by no means quiet and quite the opposite of still, but there is a feeling that comes out of days that stretch together when I look at her little face and say, 'what would you like to do today?'. Inside the walls of the house that is becoming our home there is sometimes a peace so great it has a presence . Outside the daffodils bob, the birds gather and scatter, and everything moves so fast.
But before future endeavors, photos first. I have a special place in my heart for photographs. I love old ones, treasure new ones, and find them incredibly hard to part with. The picture of my mother in her communion dress, the day we all met Weired Al (and I knew I had the best friends one could ask for), the picture of my sister and I when our 'real lives' were just beginning, my fella and I on our first trip, the slow dying, and the instant of birth. The thousands of pictures of the little one that I stop to pour over.
So it is though photographs that I am currently easing into my artist shoes. For me these days taking pictures is quiet and slow. Moments during naps when I can actually see what I am looking at, or moments when I look at something so wonderful that I am forced to see it.
The pictures that I have been taking remind me of how lucky I am to be here at home. How there are such few times in our lives when we can feel quiet and still. Life with a toddler, I must add, is by no means quiet and quite the opposite of still, but there is a feeling that comes out of days that stretch together when I look at her little face and say, 'what would you like to do today?'. Inside the walls of the house that is becoming our home there is sometimes a peace so great it has a presence . Outside the daffodils bob, the birds gather and scatter, and everything moves so fast.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The task at hand: Mealtime
Ok, so here is a post from the mommy side of things.
We just came into the living room, after another aborted breakfast, and I swear if I have to feed my child another meal I am going to jump of off the roof. I realize that I will, in fact, have to feed her another meal (within 4 hours no less), and that if I am face down in the dirt there will be no one to clean her and the quarter of the kitchen that she destroys, but it was nice to imagine. To preserve our relationship it was mutually decided to abandon breakfast in favor of Elmo. The icing on the cake was that the Word of the Day on Sesame Street was 'lazy'. "Lazy is just lounging around, when you don't want to do anything." Oh brother.
We just came into the living room, after another aborted breakfast, and I swear if I have to feed my child another meal I am going to jump of off the roof. I realize that I will, in fact, have to feed her another meal (within 4 hours no less), and that if I am face down in the dirt there will be no one to clean her and the quarter of the kitchen that she destroys, but it was nice to imagine. To preserve our relationship it was mutually decided to abandon breakfast in favor of Elmo. The icing on the cake was that the Word of the Day on Sesame Street was 'lazy'. "Lazy is just lounging around, when you don't want to do anything." Oh brother.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
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...
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...
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