Spring Galore

Last weekend I once again worked the all night drawing session I've mentioned in the past. It seemed like it might have been a smaller group, especially compared to last year, but there was still a lively energy, and people doing some beautiful work. I think many of the foundation students -who make up the bulk of the group- realize at this event just how much they've learned over the year. Their skill set has expanded and deepened, they've maybe gained greater rigor, then this event comes along at just the right point for them to rediscover the joy they feel in drawing as well. I don't know if that was the original intention of this event, but it's a nice result. As is often the case, I connected with some nice new people, including this artist. Marc spent the night in the costume room, which I was working for the first time this year; I went up in the very last session (starting at 4:30 am), right before the big nudie writhe-fest that is the grand finale. You can see many of the sketches he did that night if you go here, including the one he did of me, in my Dickensian garb. I think Marc deserves special credit for doing work of that quality at 5 o'clock in the blessed am. The sketch directly to the right is an excellent likeness of my friend Kika, who worked right before me, so, still really freakin' early in the morning. This draw-a-thon phenomenon (say that out loud, it's fun) is bizarre little undertaking, but it often has some fun results.

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Much as I regret it, I am basically monolingual. I have studied other languages though, and that has given me a tiny glimpse of how different languages can create different world views, maybe even different worlds. The first time I noticed this was with a couple of translations for the word 'enough'.


Take Italian, for example, where the word is basta. I'm sure the word gets used in all the ways we use enough, but it is seems to me basta is a word designed to be a command. Its collection of plosives and sibilants, its emphasis on the first syllable, and its matched pair of vowel sounds all make it a surprising combination of bark and hiss that stops people in their tracks, telling us the speaker has reached her limit. Basta! Try it, if you haven't already. Isn't that satisfying? Sure, yelling 'enough' is clear; we know a person means business when he does so, but the sounds just don't have the same power, if you ask me. Enough is a gentler, perhaps more objective word. Only one voiced consonant (and n's don't exactly strike fear in a heart) an iambic rhythm, no, this word doesn't really command attention in the same way. It implies a middle ground, an acceptable, Goldilocks state, neither too much nor too little, no extremes or excess. It's a comforting word, in a way I would never imagine basta could be, though maybe fluent Italian speakers would disagree.



Then there's the Irish word, which is go leor. This word has actually made it into common usage in English, as the word galore, but its meaning is hardly that of restraint or a middle ground. As used in English anyway, galore suggests opulence, extravagance, or at least an elegant sufficiency far beyond a Puritanical idea of mere adequacy. I suggest this difference of opinion of what constitutes a sufficiency illustrates a key distinction between the world views of the Saxon and the Celt.


I've had a number of experiences recently that have me using the word galore. Something about this season calls for it, I think. The explosion of growing things hasn't even reached its peak yet, and I'm already overwhelmed by a sense of exuberant life all around me. Blossoms and scents are cascading all over the city, and as usual my seasonal amnesia has me marveling, as if I'm seeing all this for the first time. A sense of rebirth is easy for me to tap into at this time of year. Guilt and regret may not entirely lose their hold on me, but their power definitely wanes as I wander about an earth getting on with the 'business of life'. Spring brings out the Celt in me, where too much is never enough.


As usual, my attempt to organize my photos according to an intended narrative was thwarted by Blogger. So in no particular order, please enjoy my photos galore.

This clump of my little friends were the first ones to tip me off that it might already be violet season. I wouldn't even have gone looking for them for another week or two if it weren't for this bunch. They're in a very protected area, and are clearly early scouts for the tribe, which just makes it all the better for me.

Having gotten the heads up, I checked in with my Central Park field, to find that while most of the blossoms haven't opened fully yet, they are definitely making a strong showing, and what's more, there is less tall stuff obscuring their presence than I'm used to seeing here. I feel like I lucked out and got tickets to an excellent preview. I'll be back many more times to see this show.

Elsewhere in the park I saw this white violet, and below, you'll find a photo of a yellow one, that grew nearby. One of the reason I love violets so much is they always feel like treasure I've come across by accident, even when I know where and when to look. I also just live their apparent enthusiasm. Galore comes up a lot when I look at violets too.

Camille and I are coming to a better understanding all the time when it comes to photos of people. Witness this shot I took of my friend Burton (in front of the Metropolitan Opera) when he was here for a visit last week. Reconnecting with old friends (Burton and I have known each other for nearly a quarter of a century) takes on an additional sense of blessing in Spring, for some reason.

Camille and I still have some work to do reaching an understanding of color. But I remain optimistic.

Easter morning I was invited to have brunch with my friends Jeff and Genna. For once I managed to snap a photo, in focus, of handsome Jeff before he noticed and made a goofy face. It was not to happen ever again that day. I am pleased nonetheless.

This was my first time seeing Chula (yes, Chula; she came with that name from the pound) after she spent a week in my apartment. I didn't get quite the cuddling I was hoping for, but she, like her roommate Jeff, allowed me a photo of her without a struggle for a change. All the photos I have from her week here are of the back of her (usually blurry) head.

A festive Spring table setting.

My beloved Genna, talking on the phone to her family in Ohio, just before her nephew, my little buddy Rhys, asked to speak to me. Getting to know and love Genna's family has been one of the many blessings of our friendship.

Here is what I hope is a better photo than the one I took last year, of a bush that puts out an intoxicating scent. It smells the way a lemon drop (the candy, not the drink) tastes, if that makes sense. I still have no idea what it is, but I've now found it in both Central Park and close to my home. Sunday I think I stood next to the CP bush for close to twenty minutes inhaling deeply. I must get back soon, I don't know how long these blossoms last. Does anyone know what it is? I want to plant huge banks of it in my yet-to-be garden.

Right or wrong, it seems to me like the daffodils are later than usual this year, and the violets earlier than usual, resulting in a combination I've never noticed before. Daffodils have never interested me much in the past, but I find myself rethinking that policy this year. They've been spectacular.

Perhaps this image more than any other will benefit from enlarging.

Because it's early spring, I'm able to enjoy the austere beauty of winter trees, and blossoms at the same time.

I caught my beloved Melissa by accident in this image, but I loved the effect, even if she's cropped more than I would have chosen. This photo reminds me of something else, and I can't quite place what it is. Is it the cover of a Duran Duran album? The one containing the song "Rio"? Well, whatever it is, I love the way even this sliver of an image shows you the way Melissa radiates light.

And look here! I'm even managing to take a photo in focus of me with Melissa! And I don't even have that "I'm concentrating really really hard to hold the camera steady" look. Camille and I are making great strides. Can anyone tell me what this flower is? I love how this tree seems to be spot-lit.

This image perhaps best epitomizes this winter-into-spring time of year.

Near Bethesda fountain there was a moment I found myself standing between skilled acrobats with an impressive show (and polished patter), and an equally skilled string ensemble playing Handel's The Entrance of the Queen of Sheba. I found the acrobats first, and one of them said "if you see something you can't do, make some noise." There followed, naturally, several good excuses to do so. As I was listening to the strings, I realized that gymnastics and chamber music were both things I had dabbled in - and loved - at some point. That dabbling gave me a greater understanding of just how often I could have been making noise while watching both groups. It was humbling, but also pleasing somehow. I was able to keep the "you're a dilettante" voice in my head largely muffled.

I hope the sap is rising for you, and the season of new beginnings is inspiring joy and optimism.

Seeing Through My Camera's Eye

I think my camera is something of a drama queen. There are a number of reasons I think this.

A fun post over at Father Tony's on the subject of synethesia has me noticing once again how strong my habits towards anthropomorphism are. While my claims to being a synesthete are slight (I don't immediately see numbers, letter, musical notes as having colors, though I understand the impulse), it was funny to rediscover that I ascribe personalities to numbers (up to the first 12, at least) and letters. They're not detailed, mostly just ages, genders and some broad characterizations, and as is the case for many synesthetes, my sense of these qualities fades if I focus too hard on them. Nonetheless I have an idea of what the #5 is like, I know she (yes, she) sees the #2 and #3 as annoying younger sisters, and she has a crush on the #7 (and older boy, who barely knows she exists). Not every digit or letter is equally vivid; my sense of the letter X's personality is probably not as strong as my sense of who the letter B is, but I see something for them each.

So it probably isn't surprising that machines, with their activities, behaviors and apparent opinions would easily become animate for me. In the case of my camera, this process has been helped by the fact that it can occasionally send me written messages. For example I will receive this note periodically.

Warning!! Mode dial is not in the proper position.

Yup, bright red letters, two exclamation points (and Birdie would suggest this makes the camera sound like a teenage girl), and seriously, 'warning'? We couldn't just say "dial is between settings?" Or "pick a mode there, Einstein"? And there are eight different settings it could be on, why not say 'a clear position' as opposed to 'the proper position'? So, getting this response tipped me off that the camera might be a bit fond of drama. It was when I first got the message,

Warning!! Batteries exhausted

that I found myself saying (out loud) "okay Camille, geez. Lighten up, cupcake." And just like that, I'd found my camera's name. (Talking out loud to myself or inanimate objects seems to be happening more as I get older. Make of that what you will.)

I wondered for a while if she was Camille as portrayed by Charles Ludlum, but more and and more I think it's Garbo. For one thing she is unwilling to get as close to people as I like. With strangers I am still very Midwestern in my body-space preferences (which can make rush hour on the subway a bit of a trial) but with people I know and like, that is, the folks I am generally wanting to take photos of, I want to get cozy. Doing so with this camera, however, doesn't work. Maybe she doesn't 'vant to be alone' per se, but if I get too close to the subject, the image comes out blurry. I've learned that arm's length at least is necessary for a clear portrait, and don't bother using the magnification button. My success is still not total, there is more to learn, but there has been an improvement in my average.

I've also been getting to know her likes and dislikes this past year, and I'd say I'm the richer for it. For one thing, Camille has taught me a greater appreciation for urban environments. Where I would see nothing but soul-less cement, she might see rhythmic patterns of light, shadow and textures, and because of her I'm developing an appreciation for them too. This past winter I also started noticing the skeletal beauty of leafless trees. Camille may not get all the credit for this one though; I think I've heard Java, Birdie, Tornwordo, the Midnight Gardener, and my mother all make a similar observation. Maybe they have influenced me, maybe we're all responding to something in the air, I don't know, but if one were to look at the photos I've taken in the past year, silhouettes of trees and branches figure more heavily than I would have predicted. Actually, Camille's fondness for silhouettes is another thing she's taught me. And while we share an appreciation for chiaroscuro and El Greco skies, she sees them far more often, or is unashamed to exaggerate for artistic effect. On her side, I think she's beginning to appreciate overcast days more than she used to. I take credit for that. When we first started going out, she couldn't photograph anything but the most brilliantly sunny days. My Celtic temperment may be rubbing off on her ever so slightly. All good relationships require give and take.

Color is one thing we still seem to disagree most of the time. Not only will she see a different shade than I do (particularly when it comes to purple), she also seems to resist focusing on the rich deep colors I love best. You'd think a she would share my interest in stained glass, jewel tones, saturated colors or at least flowers (I mean, her name is Camille), but so far we don't agree, at least not on close-ups. Landscapes tend to fare better.

All in all though, I've been enjoying getting to know her funny little ways. Camille has gotten me to take more frequent walks, especially in places I might avoided in the past. I used to be unwilling to go alone to St. Nicholas Park, two blocks from my house, for example. There are usually lots of young men standing around in ones and twos, radiating what I can only characterize as a strong sense of expectancy. It wasn't that I felt in danger particularly, more like if I lingered to examine something, I'd create the impression I was interested in buying whatever they were selling (drugs? sex? I could never tell. I accept the possibility it might have all been in my head). Dawdling long enough to snap a photo though, seems to send a universal message that I really am just here for the scenery. So now I go to St. Nicholas any time I want. Being accompanied by another person or even a dog accomplishes the same end, so maybe this is another way Camille has taken on animate qualities in my head. I see her as company, pretty good company in fact.

Before some of you decide to drop a net on me, yes, I know what is really happening here. I'm getting to understand the workings of a machine better. It just should come as no surprise that I am tempted to do so by way of character and storytelling. The actions may be simple experimentation and practice, but the result seems highly subjective, even emotional, and that conjurs personality for me. At the very least, I've been seeing things with new eyes, noticing things that might have slipped past me before, and I'm grateful to this quirky little box for it.

Brooklyn Does Brownstone Alley

Want to see what I did with my sunny Sunday afternoon? Go here. I'm in the upper corner of the square, farthest from the camera. I started to download the video to this post, but it was taking forever, I felt my life slowly slipping away from me, so I'm just linking instead. Go see it, it's fun.

Friday my friend Zoe sent out a request for people to help her with a little project. Her brother performs with a group called Freddy & Francine, and said group is about to release a new CD. They thought it would be fun to create a line dance for one of their singles, post it on the interwebs for their fanbase to see, then encourage people to do the dance at the launch party in LA. So eight of us joined her yesterday in beautiful Dumbo, Brooklyn to learn, then tape the dance. The song is about leaving California and moving to New York to make it big, so Zoe wanted the Manhattan skyline in the background.

This was a blast. Stuff like this can only happen in a city, and believe me I am taking note of that fact. I really like the song too, (called Brownstone Alley) and am eager to hear more of the band's music. So watch the video! Learn the dance! I predict it will be sweeping the country in the next few weeks, and joining the Electric Slide and the Macarena as a standard at wedding receptions for years to come! The choreographer is the lovely and talented Zoe Bowick, and she's the person closest to the camera. Her lovely and talented husband Ben Levine is running the camera; listen to his conversation with a young spectator at the end. That may be my favorite part of the whole video.

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On a related note: yesterday also reminded me of something interesting, and after much internal debate I've decided to perform a public service announcement for my straight brothers. If you are interested in any kind of dance at all, but have been too shy or nervous to take the plunge, I encourage you to gather up your courage and take a class. My reason for this advice? Not only will you be doing something fun and healthy, chances are very good you will be the only man in a room filled with some of the most intelligent, creative, athletic and funny women you could ever meet. Sure, the class may be humbling at first, if you've never done any kind of dancing at all; you have to let yourself be a beginner at something physical, which is scary for most of us. You may be asked to let your feet leave the floor. You may be asked to move your hips independently of your ribcage. You may feel at times that you're coming very close to prancing. You don't have to be good at any of those things though, you just have to commit, and give it your best. As long as you're game, you will have a good time, and meet some wonderful people.

Let me hasten to add, you must be interested in dance, or at least sincere in your desire to give it a try. If you show up at a dance class solely looking to score some tail, if in fact that phrase ever goes through your head, or passes your lips, then let me warn you, those same intelligent, creative, sexy women will smell you coming a mile away and devote their considerable powers to KICKING YOUR ASS. Don't get excited, I'm not talking about some sort of bondage thing; I mean suddenly the dance phrases you're being asked to do will get faster and more athletic. You will be asked to do turns, spins, leaps, maybe jazz hands, possibly a pelvic thrust or two. You'll be subjected to ab workouts you never knew existed. You will look and feel like a moose on skates. You will probably be in pain for the next two to three days. You'll deserve every bit of it. I hesitated in the past to make this PSA for fear I'd be subjecting my dancing sisters to a sudden influx of pigs, but I've come to realize dancers can take care of themselves. Formidable. That is part of what I love about them, actually, but that's me.

So straight boys, if you're not a pig, want to meet some new women, and are willing to shake your groove thang in some small way, go take a class. It could open up whole new worlds for you. You're welcome.

Blooming Heather

Last Friday I checked in with one of my favorite places in Manhattan, Fort Tryon Park. I try to get up there once a month, or at least once a season. It's a different place every time.

Two differences in particular caught my attention this trip. First, with all the leaves gone still, there were long-distance views I'd not fully appreciated before. I'm not sure why; I've been up there a few times this past winter, but for whatever reason, the views surprised me. I didn't really need to see or hear the Westside Highway more (I can get that two blocks from my house, if I want it), but even so the longer vistas fed my need for space nicely, and made familiar places seem new.

Second, when I walked through the garden, the heather - usually a supporting character - was taking its own star turn. This plot of land is called the Heather Garden in fact, and I've always appreciated its lush ground cover in the past, but most of the time other bigger, taller and more spectacular blooms have drawn my focus. This time though, except for some crocuses and what, to my inexpert eye, appear to be crocus relations, virtually the only thing blooming was the heather.

I'd forgotten how many colors it came in, to be honest. Seeing this earthy rainbow, I was reminded of drives through the Scottish Highlands, and Donegal in Ireland. The latter region is known for its multicolored tweed, and once you've seen their hills in springtime, you can guess where the inspiration came from.

I have a soft spot for heather for another reason; one of the best naps I ever had was lying, wrapped in my trench coat, on a bed of it, on the side of an Irish mountain, after I'd taken a long hike. As long as there is some barrier between its scratchy needles and your skin, the branches are remarkably springy. I slept like like a baby.

Mind you, my list of fondly remembered naps is not extensive, but this one was incredible. I'd be tempted to try in Fort Tryon, but there would probably be some objections.

It's fun how seasonal changes always seem brand-new, even as they're triggering fond memories.

Will ye go Lassie go,

And we'll all go together

To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the blooming heather,

We'll ye go Lassie go.

traditional Scots Song.

Favorite Books: The Songlines by Bruce Chatwin:Solvitur Ambulando: It is Solved by Walking.

The summer after I graduated from college, I drove with five friends to Seattle. There were some good reasons to go there, including the five friends, but I mostly chose it because it felt like a leap into the unknown. I'd never been there, in fact I'd never been farther west than a week in Oklahoma, so this felt like uncharted territory. For maybe the first time I knew that my life was up to me. There was no obvious next step, no roadmap for where I needed to go. Other than a general sense that I needed to support myself in some way, I had no idea what I was supposed to do. It was terrifying and thrilling.


With a detour south to Boulder so one friend could pick stuff up at her mother’s place (resulting in a blissful four day stop-over while one of the cars was repaired), we drove west. U2's Joshua Tree is the music I remember from that trip; we never got out to the places that inspired the album, but the wonder and expansion I heard in the music fit perfectly with the scenery streaming past the windows: endless stars arching over the pitch black Nebraska cornfields, the Rocky mountains painted rose and gold by the rising sun, to this day I can never hear In God's Country without picturing the buttes of Utah and a sky that just seemed bigger somehow. The whole trip was filled with a sense of space and motion unlike anything I’d ever felt before.


Then there was this book. For our shared birthday that year my mom had given me Bruce Chatwin’s memoir* The Songlines. In it she wrote "thee is obligated to love this book, because I do!" She needn’t have worried. I was instantly hooked, and the book has become one of my touchstones. People who know the it might be surprised to learn that I’ve been thinking about it recently due to my musings on home and homemaking, but I have. The premise is this; Chatwin uses his first trip to Australia - where he’s hoping to learn more about the Aboriginal beliefs known as the Songlines - as a framing story to examine some ideas he’d been playing with over his many years of travel.


I felt, before the malaise of settlement crept over me, that I should reopen those notebooks, I should set down on paper a resume of the ideas, quotations and encounters which had amused and obsessed me; and which I hoped would shed light on what is, for me, the question of questions: the nature of human restlessness...My two most recent notebooks were crammed with jottings taken in South Africa, where I had examined, at first hand, certain evidence on the origin of our species. What I learned there - together with what I now knew about the Songlines - seemed to confirm the conjecture I had toyed with for so long; that Natural Selection has designed us - from the structure of our brain-cells to the structure of our big toe - for a career of seasonal journeys on foot, through a blistering land of thorn-scrub or desert.
If this were so; if the desert were ‘home’; if our instincts were forged in the desert; to survive the rigours of the desert - then it is easier to understand why greener pastures pall on us; why possessions exhaust us, and why Pascal’s imaginary man found his comfortable lodgings a prison. (pp. 161-2)


Now don’t get me wrong; even back then I wasn't completely on board with this. Though I have yet to see a desert, and have been told its dry heat is much easier to handle than the swampy stuff I know and loathe, still, I do not think a life of wandering in one is for me. Nor am I sure I buy the idea of biological determination as he describes it. He chases his thoughts down some fascinating avenues, but I don't always agree with his conclusions. But Chatwin’s larger idea - that human beings are happiest and healthiest when nomadic - resonated deeply with me, articulating feelings that had been brewing in my brain for a while. I've returned to this book many times, and it always strikes some deep chords.


This wasn’t the Paul Gauguin move-to-paradise-and-have-lots-of-sex-with-beautiful-locals approach I was thinking about (though that fantasy had its own appeal). It wasn’t the Thoreau model of simplify-your-life-by-a-pond though it did involve sloughing off excess. It wasn’t the denunciation of the evils of civilization that many people indulge in, even if my fantasy did have me spending a lot of time in wild or rural places. I wasn’t even envisioning a true nomadic journey described by Chatwin as a consistent and traditional migration path - like the earth around the sun - where "time and space are ...dissolved around each other: a month and a stretch of road are synonymous"(p.184). (That has some appeal too, though, in a joining-the-circus sort of way). I think I was picturing something more like what Chatwin himself did, taking space and time to wander freely, physically and intellectually, as life, and his curiosity, took him where they may.


Yes, yes, I realize backpacking for a few years after college is hardly an original idea, and most of us occasionally have the fantasy of running away to see the world, my point is it was hitting me for the first time in a visceral way. I could do it if I wanted. What would stop me (certainly not Mom, I think it’s safe to say)? Maybe I would be running away from making decisions, or an adult lifestyle or some such, but Chatwin had made an interesting life from it, it wasn’t like I had any game plan right then anyway, why not give it a try for a little while? That ‘adult lifestyle’ would always be there to come back to, eventually.


Soon after setting in Seattle I heard another variation on this choice; my first boyfriend told me about friends of his who would pick apples all fall in Washington State or British Columbia, save their money, travel until it ran out, then stop wherever they were to earn more, often by selling their hand-knit sweaters. The idea of doing something like this with another person became a very appealing modification. This seemed like an experience that should be shared.


I didn’t do it though. I got to Seattle, and immediately began building a settled existence, albeit one with no long range plan. Nor do I regret that choice now, though there were times in the past I felt like I wimped out. Only recently have I begun to think that Chatwin's book was shaping my choices more than I realized. No, I didn’t want to wander the desert; green places have never "palled on" me; but the fact is, quite often, I have felt exhausted by possessions.


Probably most of us, when starting out on our adult lives, have furnished our homes in what I call the "Ya Done with That?" style. You know, the hand-me-downs, the dumpster finds, the gifts from friends upgrading their own possessions, that stuff. Well, I never stopped decorating that way. When I moved out of my first home in Seattle, I was a bit distressed to realize I now had possessions I could not move by myself (bed, couch). I lived in the same place for four years before finally getting around to painting the walls and putting up artwork. This came in handy when I decided to move to New York; two weeks after deciding to move I had tied up all strings and left Seattle for good. Lack of possessions also served me well when I arrived in New York, and moved ten times in the first three years. Once again I could carry all my possessions alone, though eventually I could no longer carry them all at once. Essentially I’ve been camping out at some level (insert gay joke here, I got nothin') my whole adult life. It’s just a little weird to realize I’ve been doing it in a single location now for ten years.


Now there are some good reasons that has happened, and many ways little decisions along the way turned into ten years of an improvised yet sedentary life in this apartment. Nor is it entirely a lack of action that has gotten me here; as I mentioned before, I’d rather look at open spaces and clean white walls then at artwork or knick-knacks I don’t like. The screaming visual and aural mayhem of city living means I like a little peace and quiet when I get home.


That said though, I have to admit my camping out (anything? I still got nothin’) might indicate a refusal to commit to this place, whether I mean this apartment, or New York in general. With the exception of the TV, bed, and computer, every other big possession is someone else’s cast-off. I’m grateful for it all, some of it is quite nice actually, but I would miss very little of it if it disappeared. And yes, there are times when it feels like some possessions own me. I have a seven foot tall oak bookcase that occasionally feels like an anchor chaining me here. Even the lease on my apartment has that effect sometimes. You have to understand, by local standards, this place is a prize. The amount I pay for the amount of space I get is a bargain, relatively speaking, and best of all, I got it without using a broker. Someone with my employment history and amount of savings would not luck out like this twice, not here. No, without a sudden windfall, new job or, I don’t know, a rich boyfriend, if I move in New York, I’m likely to be paying much more for much less, while still having roommates. So here I am, camping out in my apartment. For ten years, and counting.


So, I’m thinking about home. There’s home as state of mind (or heart, if you prefer). There’s home as location. Right now though, I’m thinking a lot about home as journey. I think it’s possible to be in motion and feel grounded. I’ve even experienced it at times. Maybe my home is relationships and life experiences more than roots. Certainly the older I get, my network of loved ones spreads farther and wider. Just visiting all of them would be pretty fantastic. I don’t think I’d want to be on permanent vacation; I like working too much, even when I’m not really sure what that work is. But motion and the bare necessities, that holds a lot of appeal.


I don’t think I’m likely to hit the open road any time soon, if ever. I’m feeling my age, for one thing. I once spent three months sleeping, and sleeping well, on a cement floor, but I’m pretty sure those days are over. Regardless though of whether I choose to make this place my home, move someplace else and make that home, or hit the open road, I know two things that can happen now, and will help. First, I need to purge some possessions, possibly even cutting a bit into the meat to be sure I've cut all the fat. Fortunately I love purging possessions. I don't even mind receiving spam email most of the time because that gives me a reason to use the delete button and the recycle bin and I love the delete button and the recycle bin.


The second step is to get moving again. My body and I are barely speaking to each other, and it's all my fault. Well, mostly my fault. I mean in a relationship there's always some give and take, right? Anyway, I'm overdue for a good long walk, and I've finally made an appointment for acupuncture, in the hopes that decades of chronic pain might finally find a solution. Movement, space and health: maybe that's where I find home.


The following is one of my favorite quotations that Chatwin shares from his notebooks.


Above all, do not lose your desire to walk: every day I walk myself into a state of well-being and walk away from every illness; I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it... but by sitting still, and the more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill... Thus if one just keeps on walking, everything will be all right.
Soren Kierkegaard, letter to Jette (1847).

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*I starred the word memoir only because a few years ago, evidence arose that Chatwin may have fictionalized parts of the Australia narrative, that is, the framing story. Since this in no way affects the deeper themes I value in the book, it doesn't bother me if it is true. I do find it funny that this was one of the two books I gave my British Columbian friend, before I learned his true story. The other book I gave him, The Last Unicorn, explores questions of seeming, reality, and how they affect each other. Life is funny.

Offending the Gospels: Thoughts on St. Patrick's Day

I've shared at least one other poem of Cathal Ó Searcaigh on this blog (last St. Patrick's Day in fact), but I'm not sure I've ever given his biography. He's a poet based in Donegal, Ireland, living at the base of Mount Errigal on a farm that has been in his family for over 300 years. It makes me glad to think there are still ties like that left in Ireland, even after a history of struggle and devastation. He writes in Irish, and is seen by many as heir to a tradition of Irish nature poetry. He also happens to be openly gay, and funnily enough this also ties him to the tradition to some extent.

I saw him read the following poem a few years ago, here in New York. In Ceann Dubh Dílís/My Darkhaired Love, Ó Searcaigh has taken a traditional song of the same title and adapted it for his own use. It's not my favorite poem of his, but when he read it here he amused us all by dedicating it to the Ancient Order of Hibernians. For those who don't know, the AOH is the organization that sponsors the New York St. Patrick's Day Parade, and refuses to allow any g/l/b/t groups to march in it under their own banners. One old sweetheart went on record as saying that allowing gay people to march in the St Patrick's Day Parade would be like having Hitler march in a parade for Israel. You might be interested to know that the first St. Patrick's Day parade ever happened here in New York. There are similar celebrations now throughout Ireland, but they're a fairly recent phenomenon, having been inspired by the bacchanals in the States. All the parades in Ireland, by the way, allow l/g/b/t groups to march openly.

I don't actually get too het up about this particular issue, to be honest. I respect people who do (there will be protests and arrests today, as in previous years), but for me it feels like being refused entry to a party I didn't want to go to in the first place. Nonetheless, in honor of St. Patrick's Day, I would like to rededicate this poem to the Ancient Order of Hibernians.

Ceann Dubh Dílís/My Blackhaired Love

My blackhaired love, my dear, dear, dear,

Our kiss re-opens Christ's wounds here;

But close your mouth, don't spread the word:

We offend the Gospels with our love.

You plague the local belles, my sweet;

They attempt to coax you with deceit

But you prefer my lonely kiss,

You hugging me to bring to bliss.

Lay your head my dear, dear, dear,

Lay your head on my breast here;

I'll close my mouth, no detail break-

I'd deny the Gospels for your sake.

translated by Gabrial Fitzmaurice

I happened to find a video of the poet at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yA0cOu_u6Uw

He was featured at the San Francisco International Poetry Festival. In the video he actually reads three poems, accompanied by a handsome fellow on fiddle, and the middle poem is this one; it should be easy to catch, because he pauses before each poem, and you should be able to catch the word 'dílís (pronounced DEE leesh). Seeing the video I was struck by two things: one, it's interesting to hear how traditional Irish music has influenced and/or been influenced by jazz improvisation: two, hearing Ó Searcaigh recite, I'm reminded of recordings of Yeats reading his own work; I wonder if I'm getting a glimpse of oratorical traditions the latter may have been drawing on.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day, my dears, dears, dears.

(Edit: for some reason, blogger is choosing not to honor the stanza breaks in the poem, despite repeated attempts to put them in. Forgive me, Mr Ó Searcaigh, I really did try.)

Drowning in Aloe

Above is my window box of aloe plants before I began the transplanting process last Sunday. These plants have been silently reproaching me for months, possibly years, I don't even remember now, as they've continued to multiply, each plant also growing in size. I was taking it on faith at this point that there was still soil down there; I certainly couldn't see or touch it. I know this is a desert plant, used to privation, and thus probably wasn't as bothered by the crowding as I was, but the sheer relentless fecundity of the damn things triggered all sorts of guilty feelings. There was the New York real estate reaction ('there is never enough SPACE FOR ANYTHING'), the bad parent reaction ('I can't even take care of HOUSEPLANTS') and the sorcerer's apprentice reaction ('by all that is holy, STOP REPRODUCING'). (Ever notice how guilty feelings use a lot of caps? Or is that just me?)

Sunday I finally couldn't take it any longer and decided I'd separate them until I ran out of pots or soil. I figured that would at least take the pressure off. Some expansion is better than none at all, right?

Here you see the result after I had pulled every plant out of the box and untangled their roots. See what I mean about being overwhelmed? There are well over fifty of them.

I think this is the original plant, the one that spawned all the others. It's the biggest and has the longest, thickest taproot, but maybe that just means it was in a really good location of the box (right near one corner). While it is the largest, many others come a close second. These babies have been living here for a long time.
I ran out of pots sooner than I expected, and felt like I had barely scratched the surface, so I cut up some plastic milk jugs and cola bottles to provide a few more places for potting soil. That ran out soon after, though. I could probably afford to buy some more soil and cheapo plastic pots to house the remaining aloes, but then real estate becomes a problem again in a new way; I don't know where the hell I will put them all. With the radiator still working, I can't leave plants sitting on it yet, even though it's right by a south-facing window. I'm a little wary of spreading out over too many window sills (not that there are many left) since presently there are two cats in temporary residence, and spiky plants would be no deterrent to sitting on a sill if a cat so desired. One of them, in fact, might actually enjoy knocking them to the floor. She likes doing that, especially if there's a audible crash at the end. I learned last week that aloe is actually one of the plants toxic to cats so it is simply sheer dumb luck that neither feline in residence happens to be a plant nibbler. In any case, even if there were no cats and the radiator was off for the season, there would still not be enough space for all of them. They need to leave my house.

In the photo immediately above you can see some of the twenty plants that made it into ten pots; almost everyone has to share a pot, but I figure it's still better than it was before. The photo below shows what I stuck back in the window box, and the pile of plants that just didn't fit anywhere anymore. I don't understand quite how that works; they all managed to cram into that space before, but when I tried to put them back (minus the twenty) it just didn't work. The window box doesn't look much better, does it, despite the fact that only about half the former residents returned here.

So. Anyone want some aloe plants? Obviously New York residents move to the head of the line, but I could possibly be talked into mailing some of them domestically. They travel well (desert plant, remember?); in fact that's how the first one arrived here, I believe. There may be laws about transporting plants across state lines, though, so maybe I can't do that, especially now that I've gone on record on the interwebs with my nefarious plans. Hell. I KNOW you're not allowed to do it across national borders, so my apologies to my international readers, both of you. If it were up to me, I'd send them to you in truckloads. These, by the way, are all descendants of my grandmother's aloe plants. They have relatives scattered all across the US, and for all I know maybe some of their kin have made it overseas - or at least across the border. If so though, I had nothing to do with it. Just to go on record.

The satisfaction from completing a long-neglected chore has yet to happen, obviously. Do you sense a tone of panic in this entry? Maybe just a bit. I do love these little guys, actually, and their sturdiness is part of their charm. That reminds me, they're really easy to care for, they get watered once a week at the most in warm months and once a MONTH in cold months; seriously, water them when you pay your rent/mortgage and you're done. SO easy. You don't even have to get anyone to watch them over Christmas if you leave town. OH, and you can use the gel to treat minor cuts and burns, I know some people drink the juice though I don't know how that works so don't ask me, but it's probably pretty easy to find out, I mean you could probably google 'juicing aloe' or something to learn all about it, and then you'd need to have LOTS of aloes so you always had a fresh supply, right? RIGHT?

All right, I'm not going to beg, it's unseemly. But seriously, if anyone in the greater tri-state area wants to meet me for an aloe hand-off, let me know.

Snow Day

Here was the view from my plant window on Monday morning. Turns out the class I was scheduled to model for that afternoon was cancelled, as were most classes throughout the city. We got somewhere between seven and twelve inches of snow, along with some bitterly cold winds. Yeah, I can hear the derisive Canadian snorts from here.

(Canadian Snorts might not be a bad rock band name, come to think of it. For now though I'm still sticking with the one I got via friend Jeff: Ungainly Paws.)

I was only scheduled for one three-hour class, at a convenient location, so it was already promising to be an easy day. Didn't matter, I still became ten years old again, thrilled to have a snow day. Adult concerns did enter the picture, of course. I'm supposed to get paid if a job is canceled with less than a week's notice, but I don't know if that includes snow days.

I repeat, it didn't matter. Thrilled.

To make the day still more special, there was a new sweet pea blossom. So far the vines have been rather coy, letting only one or two buds flower at a time, but it was fun to wake up to the odd juxtaposition of snow and spring flower. Many more buds are ripening now, so with any luck there will be a full explosion of blossoms before too long. Like I said in the first sweet pea entry, everything I get from it feels miraculous.