clarity

I have always loved this time of day, when the setting sun throws much of the world into shadow relief, and the loss of distracting detail shows up in stark, black, definite lines against the jewel of the sky.

This, from Elizabeth Perry's woolgathering site, where she has posted a sketch a day for several years now. . . .

viva minus 9

so, have you checked out the Viva Viagra commercial yet?

No?

Well - here it is for you. Or one of them, anyway. . . .

The band is pretty good.

You can tell I'm of a flippant disposition today. I haven't been doing the countdown and I discovered today that I'm already in the speed-up 10, 9, 8, 7 mode. . . . I still haven't made it through the dissertation all the way. May God have mercy on my poor. . . . [man! I can't even think of the word! What do you call it when you put things off? Right. That word] _________ing . . . . soul.

Today, via the Happiness Project, I came across an article about not adding value to other's ideas. I'd never heard it expressed this way, but I know exactly what they mean. I've always called people like that "dream cuckoos". They're people who try to deposit their own, unformed yet overgrown, awkward fledglings into the little dream nest you have labored over, to then crowd out or even devour your own little dreamlets. . . .

I've known quite a few of these people - there's one in my family (and it's not the king. . . .) - and I tend to give them a wide berth. Actually, I learned some time ago not to air early ideas at all. You've got to give them time to gestate first, or else they can get so mangled up that they'll never draw breath even if they do manage to see the light of day.

Do I try to "add value" to others' ideas?

I often want to. Sometimes I'm tempted to. But I usually default back to a cheerleading role fast enough, with an apology for trying to put my own oar in. I just remember how I feel when others start to try and hijack one of my dreamlets. Although sometimes people can come up with some good ideas! It's such a balance.

This was a difficulty I had with the whole academic process, by the way - as I realize just now, talking through it. I am of an artistic temperament, and tend to 'create' alone. The academic, however, also relies on community by which to work out ideas, sort through objections, and come up with consensus on solutions. This really is pretty antithetical to the artistic process, although - granted - artists also interact not only with one another, but also perhaps to an audience.

All this to say that I am not really looking forward to the viva insofar as it approaches an "adding value" process by which I must suffer the "good ideas" of others who have not spent 5 years on this. Even as I write this, I am very well aware of how unfair the suspected charge is. I know the internal examiner, and he's just great. He gives you lots of room for your own ideas, and with him it's always about the student and never about himself. He's one of the most generous people I know that way. His attitude also tends to rub off on others, so that before you know it, a room full of "Look at me!" students has become a very affirming exploration group.

I'm just not used to group explorations. They tend to go places I'm not that interested in. Or maybe it's just that I am boring, and they won't go there with me! In any event, I'm used to solo jaunts. . . .

Off now, to find something to munch on while I do some reading.

PS - the missing word, above, is "procrastinating". Right.

another view

I have linked to this lady (Elizabeth Perry) before. She posts a sketch every day - and has been doing so now for a couple of years.

Today's sketch really helped pull my expectations of travel out of the gutter. How strange that a little pen, ink and colour wash could renew my excitement of the adventure and glamour of going overseas - my word! Here I've been, dreading it.

The crowds. The lines. The squalling children. The dirty seats, trays, tables and sticky armrests. The floors that don't bear close examination. The smells. The obnoxious people. More lines. Travel documents. Heavy burdens (why does paper weigh so much?!) Personal space invasions. Sleep deprivation. General anxiety about missing one's plane, or connection, or losing luggage or money or just in general. . . . general anxiety.

I used to travel very well. Elizabeth Perry's sketch has pointed me back towards what I used to know. I can still travel light, and expectantly.

I leave on Sunday.

protection. . . .

I need someone to protect me from all the measures they take in order to protect me.

-Banksy, street artist (b. 1974)

The quote reference is from Word-A-Day, which I've written about before. Ok, referred to - anyway - before. . . .

I don't know who vets their quotes - all I can tell you is that they say that this is something Banksy said. . . . Then again, having done a bit of research on this guy (I'd never heard of him - sorry!) it appears that he keeps his identity a closely guarded secret so how could one put quotes around anything he has supposedly said?

Said as "Banksy", anyway.

As usual, I digress.

I was interested in "protection" from the political perspective, as we enter the ramped-up campaign heading to the elections this fall. Just what is the government reasonably expected to do to protect individuals, and from whom and from what.

Your assignment today: think about that.

Do I need, want, or expect "protection" from my family? My neighbor? My elected official? The nearby-living different-than-me group? Here's another "Banksy" streetscape (the one above, by the way, is called "Ratapult". . . . The one below, if you can't read the text, says: "How do we solve the crisis of youth crime? How do we get these kids to kill the right people?"

Here's another interesting observation: check out just how many products and companies advertise that they protect us - or that we need their protection. The one that particularly galls me is the life insurance company that says their insurance will "protect" me.

Protect me?!

I don't think so.

Not unless that word means a whole new thing these days.

But hey - I've met a pretty cool thinker and image maker today already through this flight of fancy. I figure it's a good day, even if that's all that happens today. . . . But it's not even 10 yet. I've got some time, Lord willing. Maybe I should go eat some "protective" cereal and put on my "protection" face cream. Then I'll go read up on how the politicos now leaving New Hampshire are planning to "protect" me if I will vote for them in November.

This is serious business. I think it calls for one more Banksy. Somebody get me outta here!

my new word

It's: excursive.

It's splendid! Here's the definition, courtesy of Wordsmith's A.Word.A.Day:

excursive (ik-SKUR-siv) adjective:
Tending to wander off; rambling.

My thoughts are excursive. Elsewhere, other definitional sources emphasized the excursional aspects of "excursive" - the going on a trip, making an excursion. And that's what I find intriguing not only in thoughts, but also in writing.

Other people - I am told - can find it merely annoying; not to the point. (Those are the same people who manage to draw up an outline before the fact, and then write to fill out the outline. I'm always surprised at where I end up. I do outlines at the end, to figure out how I got there. . . . )

By the way, you can subscribe to get a new word every day by email - NY Times called Word.A.Day "The most welcomed, most enduring piece of daily mass e-mail in cyberspace." I've been getting it for years. It's also a major source of the quotations I collect. . . .<

And the painting above, by another way, is by William Bradford, an American painter, 1823-92, who was related to the wife of a rather wealthy man I know, who apparently has several original Bradfords in his home. . . . This is not one of them, but it's one of my favorites of the ones I could find online. Their Bradford - the one I saw, anyway - was more cloud-ey; very somber and ominous. Right up my alley, in other words. I liked it well enough that I managed to remember the name long enough to do some internet research.

And there you have it! Excursive thought and writing. Voilà.

five - countdown resumed

"Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think ..." "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter.

Good one.

Reminds me of something I read (and wrote about here) that

It's a mistake to think that writing is about putting words on paper. Writing is about thinking.

So I've been showing a lot of evidence of thinking lately, insofar as putting words on paper is concerned. . . . Meaning: there's more and more words on paper. Even though I've been also cutting a lot of words I had formerly put on paper. After thinking about it.

Not doing too much talking, though. There are not too many people ready to engage on the issue of morality as a system of rules, or as a matter of identity, or is it, instead, an issue of character a la in a virtue ethic system? And is Kant's morality of duty and obligation really as bad a thing as it sounds these days? (and my answer there would be "no" - after many, many years of a knee-jerk "Get him away from me! reaction).

Basically, Kant is pretty tough to get a handle on. If you think he's about a simple dry "duty" to be gutted out, you've probably misunderstood him. There's a whole lot more to him than that.

But that's the other problem with Kant: he's so complicated, no one really does understand him - so what's the use? You can have the best solution in the world, but if it's incomprehensible, it's not doing anybody any good.

But enough of that.

I read an interesting post at 60MinuteArtist's place yesterday, catchy title: "Improve Your Tonal Control". (Sorry, Six-oh. . . . grin.)

What got me thinking is how his thoughts on tone applies to so much of life beyond questions of art. We can focus so much on colour that we lose all sense of the light and dark. And one of the first things I learned playing with colours is that if you put too many of them together, they turn into a horrid sort of gloomy putrid brownish gray.

Value judgments are needed. White/black decisions. Shadows noted: because not all is white and black. There's a whole lot of gray out there, too. Different shades of gray. Some almost black; some almost white. Some pink! (but you might want to get a handle first on the value issues because a little colour goes a long way. . . .)

Our lives take on the putrid brown tone of too much colour (and not enough tonal control) when we don't make those kinds of value judgments. My paper was taking on that dreadful colour because I'd tried to put too much in, without discrimination.

It can be a little scary to discriminate, though. To realize that in the saying - or chosing - of this, I must say "no" to that. That life is about choosing - and I must choose well, because the colour, form, and definition of my life is at stake.

That "You can have it all" IS A LIE.

It's an invitation to turn your life putrid brown.

(Thanks Six-oh, for the art lesson!)

I never met a happy artist

Maybe "art" is all about putting clothes on the otherwise unmentionable - or incomprehensible.

1000 pictures

Today's is Elizabeth Perry's 1000th consequtive posting of sketches and musings over at Woolgathering and as part of her online celebration, I am posting my own sketch.

I lost my wedding band this spring. I was out in the garden, preparing urns for a new batch of annuals to be nestled in with the evergreen ivy. It wasn't until hours later - washing my hands - that I realized it was gone.

"Where were you?" he asked, when I came back in an hour later, still crying, still without it (meaning 'where had I been where I could have lost it'). I shrugged, helplessly. I'd been everywhere. We looked everywhere. We dug up everything I'd planted. We sieved the dirt. Over the next week we bought and read the manual for a metal detector and struggled manfully with said detector. We dug up the plants again. I cried some more.

I wrote about it; dreamed about it; prayed about it; pondered the why's and wherefore's of it. Not to mention the where-the-hell-is-it?!!'s. I couldn't find it and it didn't turn up. We still look for it, walking in the garden. My empty left ring finger was a mute accusation of my carelessness. How could I not have felt it slip off?! Strangely, I felt like I had failed as a wife. This was the symbol of our marriage - our treasure - and I had proven untrustworthy in guarding it. I lost it! Way to go. . . .

No, I didn't tell the king that. But neither did I press to get another one made. I started feeling unreliable with respect to my engagement ring and rarely put that on. . . . Fine. I didn't wear rings before I got married - just a few years ago - so what's the big deal? I won't wear rings now. Clearly, I'm not to be trusted with them.

Still, when I least expected it, a wave of loss would wash over me and I would finger my married ring finger, feeling the missing ring like I hear people who've lost limbs still feel them. How silly to feel such desolation over a ring. A piece of metal. OK - platinum metal, and have you checked the prices on platinum lately?! But still. I just missed my ring.

Last week, in the middle of dissertation hell, the king and I went out onto the porch for a happy hour glass of wine before dinner. The squirrels have been at work in my garden and urns, busily burying and unburying nuts and such. I scolded one of them who came within earshot: "I better not catch you in my urns! I'll whup your butt!" The king and I laughed. "Unless, of course, you find and return my ring," I added. "Then you can dig in the urns all you want!"

"You really think you're going to get it back, don't you?" the king asked.

"Well, I hope I will." I said. "I'd kind of lost hope there, for a while, but now I find myself looking again, quite expectantly. Almost as if it will be brought to me and left on the front steps. . . . But I haven't found it yet." I smiled. So did he. He went inside a moment and came back out.

"I didn't know when to give this to you." he said. "Now seems the best time." He placed a little box on the concrete bench we use as our coffee table on the porch. I started crying. (and I've started crying again, thinking about it. . . .)

I can't believe he had another ring made for me. Just like the first one. The one that's lost in our garden. The one that matches his.

This one is just a little different, though - I can't quite put my finger on it. But it's growing on me. Like a second chance.

another all-nighter

I'm getting too old for this.

There's something rather nice about the focused state I finally move into after the yawns have broken off my usual day face. The yawns finally stop and there's a quiet that is really quite lovely.

That was me, night before last, after the foray into further legal posturings and attempts of the law to pass for morality and guide to good living. [sorry - you'd have to be there]. It's what drives me crazy about laws to make people water lawns, that force people out of homes, to prevent people from driving while tired, and that try to make people act nice to people that they don't like, or aren't like them, or a different colour than them - or for whatever reason - and 'play nicely' with one another.

All good things, maybe, but not something you can - or should - try to enforce at law. So, whenever you say There oughta be a law! try to imagine a police officer forcing you to do it. Or your 70 year-old grandmother. Or your ne'er-do-well buddy, Zak.

And putting them in prison if they get it wrong.

If that doesn't work, imagine the tax level it will take to hire more bureaucrats to make our lives yet more miserable by policing our now-watered grass for doggie-do, for example, and monitoring the levels of acceptable processed bovine-do (otherwise known as Scott's Grass-B-Green). Or hiring other people to do it for us.

That's the choice we have, I guess: the golden rule, or the economic cost-benefit analysis.

picture, above, is from Elizabeth Perry's site, Woolgathering. She's just about to celebrate her 1000th consecutive day of drawing and posting! Wow. . . .