Art of Seeking

time vs. me

Anyone who knows me well can tell you that, after  many flailing attempts at routine, I have given up and settled comfortably into an unsettled state of chaos.

If it weren’t for constantly setting reminders for myself, some fairly important things would be forgotten and left festering to screw up untold future conditions. Kind of like the past 20  years of my life, before the incorporation of cell phones and their portable tiny calendars with their pleasant little alarms that gently shock me back into the present when I’d been enjoying watching the wind in the grass or something.

Still, there is no set bedtime, waking time, meal time, or any designated space on the clock in my life. Things happen when they happen. I generally wake up between 5 and 7. I eat when I’m hungry. I sleep when I’m tired. I study when I pick up a book. I make phone calls and such when my phone plays a pleasant little “DING!” and a message pops up that says “Call the damn (whatever).”

Few people in our society could tolerate this lackadaisical response to daily life, I know. I got lucky with Matt, who is pretty much the same way. Work depends on how much work there is at work. Band practice happens when everyone can get together. Everything else…. meh. Of course, having little time- conceived structure in our lives hasn’t made life any less demanding. We just choose not to stress it, as much as we can. Stress causes bad things to happen.

Our friends truly envy our relationship- hell, we’ve been together five years (married three as of next month) and we still cuddle like turtle- doves and enjoy every moment. That isn’t to say we haven’t endured our rough patches, a couple of which I wondered if we would survive. But once we understand what’s really causing the problem- usually stress from outside sources- it’s pretty easy to find each other again in spite of our differences.

Matt has been keeping my foot wrapped in an ancient ace bandage that appears to be doing the trick. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore, as long as I avoid certain yoga poses and remember to take my supplements, and as long as he kisses it every time he re- wraps it. I know, I’m a sentimental nut. But I think it does make a difference…

Back to my Pablo Neruda and berry smoothie and Spanish grammar. I’ve got five days left of this term, and time is catching up with me…

One Last Day

I’m almost finished with my last paper, and I hope it’s a good one. I just took on too much at once this term. It doesn’t help that I completely failed in creating or finding a workable study environment.

I can’t be the only one with these types of learning disabilities- I have to have complete silence to study, for the most part, and any distraction at all- light through a window, people talking, ANYthing- throws me out of my groove. Sometimes I can listen to music and block people out to an extent, but if I want to really absorb anything, I have to be in a sterile environment with muted lighting and no noise. Which is obviously practically unobtainable.

You know what sounds awesome? One of those sensory stimulation blocker/ isolation tank things. I think I could stand to live in one at least part of the time. I’m just so over- sensitive to everything, to the point that it takes on a kind of blurry heaviness that settles behind my eyes and I just space. It’s most notable when different elements are demanding my attention at the same time, like when two people start talking to me at once. It all turns to gibberish and I can’t understand a word either of them are saying. This is NOT good for concentration.

It got to me the most one day when I actively sought out- and FOUND!- an isolated corner of the school library with a computer. I started doing my reading, and found myself getting very excited. “Holy shit!” went my brain.  “I’m reading, AND absorbing it! I can THINK about this now! Maybe I’ll even pass that quiz on Tuesday!” But, the ecstasy was short lived, for no more than ten minutes later, a couple of kids sat down three seats away from me and began having a loud, annoying conversation (that was probably relatively normal but sounded very loud and annoying to ME). It all fell away. I got aggravated and left the previously- single- actually- very- quiet corner of the library.

I’ve turned into a bitch in class a couple of times and snapped at people who were talking when I was trying to listen to the professor.

I’m beginning to suspect hypokalemic sensory overstimulation might be the culprit, especially since I’m prone to potassium deficiency (as well as others, such as iron). Time to stock up on lentils again- as soon as there’s anything with which to fill the cupboards. I don’t know if it’s enough, though. I think I need a supplement. That, I can’t afford.

Yeah, I’m poor. It’s socially unacceptable so I don’t generally broadcast it. Thankfully, at least lentils are cheap.

I’m very upset that I’ve let my very patient, wonderful teachers down. They deserved much better from me. It makes me feel like shit.

Today, the kids are arguing, Matt’s annoyed that someone has eaten all his pretzels, and I really need to finish this paper…

Then I start classes again later this week.

signs of spring

It’s been a little more exciting. I can finally see the clouds break and sense that the doldrums of winter might soon be over. Signs of a new season are everywhere- little flower buds, a few blooming bulbs, rain more often than snow…

zits… lots of zits. My skin never knows what the hell to do when the weather starts changing, so it gives up and breaks out. Ick.

And it seems I have some opportunities. First, Matt and I are taking our annual not- exactly- valentines trip over spring break. Then, of course, there’s my belly dance concert the week after next. I’ll be attending the Paleopathology Association Annual meeting next month, which just happens to be in the town where my parents, sister, nieces, nephew, and some aunts and uncles and cousins live.

This summer, if the Peace and Justice Studies (one of my minors) folks get funding, I might go to Haiti.

Next year, if I’m very good and keep my grades up, it looks like I’ll get to do some excavating at an archeological site in Peru.

Yes, it sounds like fun and interesting and exciting, etc. I just hope I can handle all this.

I’d better get ready to go- we’re drilling our dance routine like crazy tonight. I’m a little under the weather so I hope all the spins and such don’t make me too dizzy, and I’ll try not to breathe on the other girls…

Smoky Blue

“I can’t believe how strong she is.” I hope I’m not being too solicitous. It’s been at least a year since we’ve had an opportunity to sit down and have a real conversation, and I’ve been a little worried.

The smoky blue eyes are distant as she takes a long breath and says softly, “She blows me away.”

Her tiny daughter has endured the umpteenth surgery with the usual aplomb and gentle strength not betrayed by her fragile body. I don’t mention how difficult it must be- it’s obvious enough that it would be condescending to say.

She doesn’t talk for long about the trials and tragedies. She focuses more on the her daughter’s personality and intelligence and little eccentricities. Her smile has a lonely beauty, but the distance in her eyes remains.

I worry about the coffee cake I ordered for us even though she said it was fine. I’m not sure how the sugar effects her particular form of diabetes. We’ve been talking over coffee, usually among friends, for almost a decade and I still haven’t asked her about it.

At least there’s some relief. She and her family are going to Disneyland- though the financial windfall that created the opportunity soon collapsed into ruin, with a vulturous collection agency swooping down on all her assets and freezing them. “I’m getting a wheelchair this time,” she tells me. “Last time was a nightmare.” The ruined cartilage in her hips makes it impossible to walk for long. “She’ll be sitting in my lap. You get weird looks from people, though, when you get pushed to the front of the line, and you’re young and in a wheelchair.

“I need a sign that says, ‘yes, we really are disabled, we’re not faking it for special privileges.’”

We talk about more menial things- our friends, our husbands, day- to- day issues and amusing little stories, her recent performance with a band when she was able to sing onstage for the first time in a long while. Her voice is amazing. She’s used to the compliment, so I don’t reiterate.

Then the recent financial nightmare, fueled by astronomical medical bills. Apparently not being able to pay to be disabled is horrifyingly sinful enough that one can face homelessness or jail.

And another looming crisis.

Her ophthalmologist has just informed her that, without the expensive (only in America) insulin her body requires, she will soon go blind.

“At least they were kind enough to leave me alone with a box of tissues and let me bawl my eyes out for a while.”

One can’t expect the creditors to sympathize, but one can wonder what circle of hell they’re running the front desk for when they’re told, “That money was supposed to keep me from going blind” and they reply,
“That’s none of my concern. You owe this money.” Mostly lawyer’s fees for the credit agency.

I don’t pretend to be able to fathom what she is facing when she asks, desperation in her face, if I can.

It’s crushing me just to imagine her deep, smoky blue eyes as sightless.

between now and nowhere

Coffee with a friend helped.

Virtual coffee with a friend and mentor half a world away helped.

A snuggle with my husband helped.

Keeping myself occupied with the possible psychological effects of iconography on an ancient society helped.

My new wearable Ecuadoran alpacha blanket is definitely helping.

The weather still isn’t helping. I have little energy and even less motivation to do simple things like make dinner or clean off my desk.

the cold isn’t helping. I should really do laundry, but the basement is freezing. Maybe I’ll recruit the girls… no, they always lose my clothes.

A bath might help, with some Epsom salts and essential oils and sweet almond oil. I think my toenails are overdue for a paint job- the green is losing its luster.

I’m trying to surround myself with brightness and color, as it seems to help. But the lighting in my house sucks, and everything outside, after the morning snow melts, is a dull grayish brown with hints of withered ocher.

I want to paint again. I’m trying to figure out where to set up my easel and what to clip my lights to. And I’m messy, so I’ll need a drop cloth.

I tried to start making jewelry again but I keep forgetting how to tie the knots.

Maybe I just need glue…

I’m worried about my desperate clinging to snippets of fantasies floating through my mind. It’s the only color that seems to stay, and I don’t want to get too lost in them.

I’d better usurp the bathing facilities before someone else does. Inevitably, the second I start thinking of bathing, three other people announce their intentions toward usurping the bathroom as well.

Hopefully the world will seem slightly brighter when I’m scrubbed and polished.

seasonal affective blah

The gray sky and monochrome environment have really been getting to me. I’ve been anxious and listless and desperate all at the same time.

Usually when it gets this dull, I get homesick for the desert where I grew up. At this point I could hug a palm tree- even one of those short, spiky ones with the fan- shaped leaves, though I’d prefer to hug one of those gorgeous 200- foot graceful palms that line Palm Canyon Drive in Palm Springs.

It’s the perfect temperature there right now: mid- 70’s during the day. If only my hometown hadn’t been overrun by gangs to the point that the neighborhood grocery store is dangerous to traverse alone. The last time I went there to visit- as my parents were permanently moving out- we were almost carjacked.

Palm Springs- at least parts of it- are still relatively safe. I’d like to visit again one day and hike  Taquitz and the other canyons again, maybe even go up Mt San Jacinto on the tram. At least I know to stay out of Gateway (Northern Palm Springs, but not North Palm Springs, which is another town entirely and kinda scary. One of my friends was shot to death there when I was 17) and the Dream Homes (East Palm Springs, where a developer in the 60’s or 70’s started building a housing plot and ran out of cash, so it crashed and is now one of the area’s most affordable and most dangerous neighborhoods). Gateway and the Dream Homes were the area’s most notorious rival gangs when I left. While visiting Palm Springs, CA, stay as far south as possible, and don’t carry all your cash or any credit cards in your wallet. Anything north of Vista Chino is not safe, at least the last time I was there.

The area of Indian and Palm Canyon Dr. (parallel streets in the downtown area) around where Peabody’s Cafe and See’s Candies are is still pretty and peaceful and safe and fun. It’s where I got addicted to coffee and chocolate and blues guitar.

So here I am in the drudgery of the last great expressive BLAH of winter, but at least it’s a peaceful drudgery. Nobody is playing guitar for me currently, but when Cody is done burning his old ones in our backyard fire… er… fire box, maybe I can get him to play me some blues while I break open a whiskey bottle.

I can’t wait for our tax return to get here. We’re already planning on putting some flag stones down and cutting some Kokopelli shapes into the fire box, but I really want our yard to look pretty. My dear husband, for the life of him, can’t figure out what I see wrong with this picture:

-sigh-

Hopefully I’ll have some “after” pictures up for you soon in a blog titled “landscaping on a food stamp budget” or something. Until then, I’m going to make some s’mores with the family. Gooey chocolately marshmallow stuff generally cheers me up as long as I don’t think about where the chocolate probably came from.

Imbolc’s promise

I’ve hit the point when it becomes evident that I can either take a break, or allow my brain to gracelessly implode.

I remember when I was just a little space cadet. I loved scenic paintings. I would find places in them- a rolling green hillside, a pine- strewn mountaintop, a sandy tropical shore- and imagine myself there.

I could smell the fresh dew in the air, the ocean spray- I could feel the sand under my bare feet, I could hear the wind in the grass, listen to the birds in the trees.

I could waste a whole afternoon like that.

Whenever I would get a chance, I would wander off in the desert for hours. I could lose myself collecting rocks and cactus skeletons, finding the highest point from which to admire the sunset, listen to the wind, feel it on my face.

I went to the beach with a church group once. I wandered off for so long, they called a search party on me.

I wandered back just as sunset became dusk, with handfuls of stones and shells and bits of driftwood tucked into my towel. People were irate, but I barely noticed. I was still soaking in the beauty of the ocean and sky, and I wasn’t coming down for a while.

These days I do my best to get myself to the woods, to the grassy hills, to anything even slightly resembling a beach in the tropics even if it’s muddier and the meditative effects of the vast expanse of the water are marred by the sounds of four- wheelers and vacationers reveling in destroying the silence.

But the winter… it gets old. It’s beautiful at first, but I miss the greenness. I miss the woods, the bugs, the leaves… not having to stack six layers of clothing on to go outside…

Basically I’m pining for Spring.

Imbolc was last week. I’ve noticed the tiny buds on the trees and the slow thawing of the ground, but everything is still pale and gray.

I have to get back to my writing. But I had to take a mini mental vacation and look at the pretty pictures I took last Spring and remember that it’s just around the corner.

And I’ll be wandering around in the woods again, with my camera and my pack, maybe my husband and some friends that I might wander from…

But usually, it’s just me, anyway. Just the way I like it.

How to Study While Insane

Notes to Self:  How to Study While Insane

MAKE COFFEE. Medium latte with a spoon of honey. Eat a waffle and an orange or something.

Get online. Check email and facebook crap, read the news. Close all but two tabs.

Go to dictionary.com on one tab, Pandora Radio with the other. Click on the Paris Combo list on Pandora.

Open reading in separate window, open Word in another for note- taking. Refer to dictionary.com whenever a word comes up that you haven’t heard in use since Gross Anatomy eight years ago, as Dictionary.com is counterintuitively better than www.medical-dictionary-online.com.

Click (control)+ a few times so you can lean back in a comfortable, if chiropractically ill- advised, position in your chair (usually in a half- fetal position wrapped in a blanket or four) and still read the font.

Ocassionaly get up to add ginger and orange peel or whatever to beef stir fry stuff in the crock pot, make small talk with wanderers stopping in to use the wi- fi or game with Matt, answer munchkin questions, usurp the bathroom.

Combination of caffiene, smooth jazz, and brain occupaion help create perfect intercranial atmosphere for the ignoring of vaccuuming, arguing, three- way discussions in the other room, people borrowing and replacing and tossing things onto my desk, company roaming in and out, people asking questions.

WARNING: COFFEE BEGINS TO WEAR OFF AFTER 2-3 HOURS. Mood gradually changes from floaty- comfortable concentration to hungry- and- need- and- creative- outlet distractability. People begin to flee perfect boring environment, causing changes in overall ambiance.

Solution: lukewarm Mango Ceylon tea. Too hot and your brain goes fuzzy, too cold and the effects are nullified.

Eat something. Chips and salsa. Tabbouleh. Squash. Pozole. SOMEthing.

Change Pandora playlist from Paris Combo to Solace.

Open Irfanview and edit photos in another window if brain wanders.

If it wanders too much, take a shower or a bath and do spa stuff and go over belly dance routine.

Caveat: IF IT IS SUNNY, YOU CANNOT STAY INSIDE. If you try, you’ll just end up staring longingly out the window. Take a walk somewhere and take pictures, or you will NOT be able to concentrate for shit. If it is not sunny out close the study off, clear the floor, and dance.

Late afternoon is too exhausting and distracting to study. Usually. Eat something and listen to Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me! on NPR or watch the Flogging Molly “Float” video again. Once refreshed, study can begin anew.

As a general rule, sensing that you are relaxed brings everyone back into the sphere to ruin the mood. Return to reading. Go to Pandora, click on Trivium playlist.

People flee. Continue enjoying Trivium, Slayer, et al., or click Type O and Tool playlist depending on mood. Return to reading and note- taking. If attention is still wandering, switch to other reading assignments.

Practice Arabic. Go over phrases and words six or seven times, write each version of each character five times while repeating sound. Practice writing your name.

Eat a meal of some sort. Drink a giant glass of water or ice tea and take vitamins.

Play some Loreena McKennit to relax while reviewing notes. Check the time. If it’s after 10 p.m. on a school night, close out of everything and begin tooth- brushing, face- cleansing, tracking- down- person(s)- responsible- for- disappearance- of- dental- floss ritual.

Get shit ready for morning. Load backpack. Find some kind of food that can travel and doesn’t mind being smashed. Make sure phone is charged. Double- check assignments due. DON’T FORGET THE YOGA MAT.

Grab Palaeoepidepiology book and headphones and get in bed. Doze off trying to make sense of tables.

This SHOULD get you ready for tomorrow’s discussions, notes, etc. Unless you forgot to do laundry, eat, stay hydrated, take your B vitamins and calcium, or shower. Then you’ll be too distracted to think straight and possibly make an ass of yourself. Best thing to do under these circumstances is keep your damn mouth shut.

This concludes today’s episode of Notes to Self. Stay tuned for How to Deal with Whiny Bitches Without Screaming. If you remember to write it.

I hate it when I’m right

Welcome to the sporadic attempted documentation of the random acts of insanity by and around me that seem to permeate my life on pretty much every level. This time I have tales of “art” gone awry, some rather public humiliation, a panic attack or three, and…. um… well, fuck. Just stuff. I have no patience today.

So. The big (-sigh-) night was last night. Matt has joined a band of musicians who rarely use traditional instruments associated with popular bands. This is not popular music. And in the case of the one guy who was going to do ‘effects,’ and who took the stage first, few regard what that guy does as music at all. He thinks it’s music. But after ten minutes of horrendous feedback and distortion, the world’s most irritating old keyboard drum machine, and occasionally beating on a frying pan with drum sticks,among other things– few were inclined to let him think it was music, either.

I saw it coming like an out of control train down a steep mountain a mile away. You see, City Limits is a bar for the old- school partying crowd. Think 80’s music, blue eyeshadow and hair spray… Cheech & Chong fans and Alice Cooper groupies… folks with leather jackets, mixed drinks, and the occasional mullet who all know each other.

Enter the alternative 20- something crowd.

Sagging jeans hanging on to boxers for dear life. Rumpled t- shirts and gritty hairstyles to match gritty attitudes. There’s a protest going on here, and it’s debatable if they care if you know exactly what they’re protesting. Everything and anything, really. They like chaos and beer and whatever you don’t.

So this guy gets up there with a couple of drums, a skillet on a drum stand, some effects pedals (notably a loop) and a mic, and within five minutes there’s a palpable change in the atmosphere. He gets more and more annoying- the ear- bleeding feedback and brain- crushing distortion that drown out whatever the hell else he was trying to do are intentional. He holds up a child’s see- and- say toy that he’s pray painted and modified the circuitry in and plays with the buttons in front of the mic.

It doesn’t take a trained anthropologist to observe the moment when a bunch of barflies are about to kick someone’s ass, so I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who noticed, even from the other side of the room. By then half the customers, hands over their ears, had fled the bar. I was tempted to join them but had obligations.

Pretty soon some tough- looking biker- ish types were standing front and center. “Fucking ignorant, man!” “What the hell are you doing?” etc. Finally a man who was taken to be an authority of some sort told him he had to shut down.

He said he thought it was “awesome,” and so did his fans, who I overheard saying that getting shut down makes him “even more awesomer to me, because he was too extreme.” But he also looked upset, and his fan base (all six of them) thought it was bullshit.

“Extreme” is not the most fitting word for what that was. Intentionally causing irreparable damage to my eardrums is supposed to be art? That’s “extreme,” but stupid. It’s symptomatic passive(ish) aggressive behavior and self- abasement. IMHO. I personally only admire extremism when it takes actual SKILL.

So he wasn’t able to “help” (and I’m personally SO grateful) with the effects on Matt’s didgeridoo and his own weird vocals, etc. I drummed for about three minutes with Matt and Tirsa and Glen, then Glen (as our cue to quit) picked up his banjo and proceeded to play it enthusiastically and- intentionally- badly. But, of course “badly” is a relative term, depending on your style and taste and all that politically correct horseshit.

So if you’re wondering why I wasn’t out there for the past couple of weeks telling everyone “Hey, I’m drumming in a show on Friday night, wanna come see me play?” Well, there’s your answer.

I hate to dis on my friend’s music, but you know what I hate even more? Pretending I’m someone I’m not. So I don’t. Matt likes weird music. He can’t wait to get a theremin. I hope he has fun with it, and I’ll support him, but I’m not going to pretend I enjoy extreme oddness in music. He said he didn’t care for the one guy’s style, so at least that’s something.
Am I being too judgmental? Maybe. But I’ve known most of these guys for years, and I gotta say, I just don’t care if I ain’t perfect all the damn time.

Aaaaanywhoo, despite some morning mayhem and not being able to make it to acupuncture for the second week in a row, I still had a good day. I stopped at a park with Ana and took a couple dozen pictures (that I’ve been scattering through this post):

I took about 155 pictures in all today. Not as much as a normal shoot, but it’s too cold out to really go nuts. We suffered for our art a bit as usual:

I wish I’d had more time for creativity, but sleep dep is getting to me and I still have a lot of reading to do…

full days and late nights

Lisa* and her gin. Photo by me, tattoo by Oak Adams, Painted Temple Tattoo, Provo

So there’s never a dull moment, of course. Last night, I ended up hanging out with a bunch of Hare Krishnas. It was fun. They’re great people- even if I don’t buy their doctrine, I don’t mind hanging out for their Kirtans. Besides, I can get henna tattoos, and the food is great. Best of all, I get to drum.

I’d had a photo shoot planned for today for the past two weeks. Seven models wanted to come. Then Blue had to cancel, then no one else got back to me- then I heard back from Lisa and Tirsa. We had a great shoot, though Tirsa was a little buzzed and Lisa… well, I worry about Lisa. She’s one of the most unique, talented, beautiful people I know- and lately every time I see her, she’s smashed. She killed nearly the entire bottle of gin by herself. I love this girl. I wish there was more I could do. But, she still has a good time:

Lisa was toast by the time we got back. TOAST. We could have buttered her and she never would have noticed. Tirsa and her husband, who had kindly brought some Dos Equis, had some trouble getting her into the car, but didn’t seem to mind much that it took half an hour to get from the porch to the car as they didn’t have to carry her this time.

I’ve had two shots of the gin she left (there’s maybe an inch of liquor in the bottle).
It’s pretty damn good.