Monthly Archives: September 2003

I think it was the radio.

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Shamanic. Imaginal. Numinal. All words having something to do with experiences of the mind and body, the understanding of which is more related to creative psychological analysis than logical, empirical examination. All experiences that have little to do with external sensory adventures and more to do with the capacity of the mind to create another reality.
Back in the 1940s, when I was a severely asthmatic only child confined to bed for long periods of time, the radio offered me escape through imagination. Let

The Art of Art.

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At one point I owned a chain-sawed sculpture of a small bear (made out of a tree stump) that I bought on my way back from a women’s empowerment retreat held at a lodge in the Adironacks. The bear was standing upright, and one of his craggy paws had a notch in it that was supposed to hold a beer can. I think I ultimately put a a big crystal in it. Or maybe a bunch of flowers. It was a long time ago.
I bought it because I thought it was cool, and at the time I was into Mother Bear as one of my Totem Animals. I didn’t think the piece was really “art,” but I liked looking at it — it looked powerful and playful at the same time. And it looked great standing outside my apartment door for all of my passing neighbors to look at and wonder about. It had meaning for me on many, many levels.
I’ve admitted before that I’m pretty much an elitist about “art.” I believe that there has to be inspired craft imposed upon an artifact of creative expression before I can think of it as “art.” That’s why writing poetry, for me, takes a great deal of time and revisions. I’m not just trying to express myself creatively; I’m really trying to create a work of art.
Long before I owned the tree-stumped bear, I remember staying up half the night with a bunch of friends arguing whether the most important thing about art is the process or the product. If it’s the process, the actual act of creation, then we might as well destroy all of the old art that’s hanging around in museums. Of course, I argued the other side: great art should be shared with those who also find inspiration and delight in the product. That doesn’t diminish the value of any kind of creative act, but we can all engage in creative acts and we can enjoy the creative acts of others. But that it doesn’t mean that what has been created is necessarily good “art.”
On the other hand:
Don

Trying to stay awake.

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Party politics puts me to sleep. I’ve been trying to keep up with what the Democrats are up to, since the upcoming election is such an important one, and I’m really yawning. An op-ed piece in today’s NY Times by Matthew Miller shed some light on the inability of the Democratic effort to hold my attention:
[snip]
What American politics urgently needs, in other words, is not a new left, but a new center. Democrats need to refocus domestic debate around a handful of fundamental goals on which all Americans can agree

Imagine…

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Snipped from NY Times “Home Alone” op ed by Bob Herbert:
Imagine if we had done some things differently. If, for example, instead of squandering such staggering amounts of federal money on tax cuts and an ill-advised war, we had invested wisely in some of the nation’s pressing needs. What if we had begun to refurbish our antiquated electrical grid, or developed creative new ways to replenish the stock of affordable housing, or really tackled the job of rebuilding and rejuvenating the public schools?
What if we had called in the best minds from coast to coast to begin a crash program, in good faith and with solid federal backing, to substantially reduce our dependence on foreign oil by changing our laws and habits, and developing safer, cleaner, less-expensive alternatives? This is exactly the kind of effort that the United States, with its can-do spirit and vast commercial, technological and intellectual resources, would be great at.
Imagine if we had begun a program to rebuild our aging infrastructure

an epiphany worth sharing

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The following is a direct steal from Indigo Ocean’s post yesterday on Blog Sisters.
I had something of an epiphany today when following a link from sysrick.com that led me to a post on Italian living.
You must read the article to be able to put this post into context, but it makes me realize that 1) America does not have a monopoly on escapism; and 2) it actually could get worse here without life on Earth coming to an end.
It could just get worse, and worse, and worse, for thousands of years. We could just stay in an ever more drunken stupor, with more alcohol and heroine and crystal meth, plus think of all the new drugs we will create to soothe an ever more despairing public. We will get TV that is even more flashy, more exciting and violent, with quick cuts that only require we be able to follow a thought for 1 second instead of 3. We could …
Oh, gee. Please people, let’s not. Let’s figure out a new way to combine the tribal wisdom of community and present-centerdness with an expanded modern appreciation for planning ahead. Let’s wed peace of mind with running water. Let’s balance individual freedom with collective responsibility and its cousin self-restraint. Having done this, let’s create a revolution without guilliotines in which the regal sovreigns of the invisible global wealth “nation” are finally removed from power and the will of we common people guides our destiny.
Well said!

I step out and the book goes back.

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I did it. I read my poetry at an Open Mic night yesterday. While (a decade ago) I used to do readings where I was one of the featured readers and the listeners knew who I was, this was the first time I did an Open Mic (where I was pretty much a total stranger). Immediate stage fright when I found myself in the spotlight with an amplified voice! Thirty endless seconds of stage fright. And then the Crone rose to the occasion.
Whether I want to do it again is still in question. I’m not sure I have the energy, and maybe blogging fills a need in me for that kind of “performance.” And I’m sure that I’d rather find the time/space/solitude to write more poetry than make the time to go out and read what I’ve already written. When I lived alone, I embraced activities that brought me out into the world of people (dancing, poetry readings, workshops). Now that I have so little time alone, my preference has become to seek solitude. It’s so hard to find the right balance.
Meanwhile, I flipped to the last chapter of Boomeritis, read it carefully, and will be taking the book, mostly unread, back to the library. It’s a lengthy lecture on Wilber’s philosophy disguised as a novel and interspersed with drug-enhanced sensualities, included, I imagine, in hopes that it would grab those who are used to more Hunter S. Thompsonesque reads. It’s not that the message doesn’t have some merit. It certainly is helpful to remember that each moment is all that we have of our lives and that, hopefully, we will live each with caring, compassion, a sense of justice, and enough fun and pleasure to balance out the pain. And if not, well, someday we will, or someday we won’t.
So I’m going back to reading mystery novels with kick-ass female protagonists.
Rock on.