Meg Sefton's Blog, page 38

early post modern, Alice Neel

In watching a documentary about the English 20th century artist Francis Bacon, I couldn’t help but think of Alice Neel. Though Bacon’s figures were often disfigured, more approaching Picasso sometimes, the lines of some of his more figurative bodies reminds me of the wavering lines of Neel’s haunting portraits. In Neel, the figures often look at you directly or just off to the side but there is always a vulnerability. It is hard to describe the effect. I didn’t know much about Bacon until I’ve learned a tiny bit just now. Neel was someone whose work I had in a large art book. It made me feel like I knew her. I had to sell it to get by at a previous time in my life. This was something I imagined Neel would relate to, having been someone who scrambled a bit early on. I mourned the sale as well as the sale of a Cy Twombly book I had bought at the Tate Modern. Alice Neel is a formidable artist and an example of someone who practiced her art constantly, whether anyone made note of her or not, whether she had money or not. To me, it is an incredible story of resilience, struggle, and triumph.

early post modern, part 2, Alice Neel

early post modern

In watching a documentary about the English 20th century artist Francis Bacon, I couldn’t help but think of Alice Neel. Though Bacon’s figures were often disfigured, more approaching Picasso sometimes, the lines of some of his more figurative bodies reminds me of the wavering lines of Neel’s haunting portraits. In Neel, the figures often look at you directly or just off to the side but there is always a vulnerability. It is hard to describe the effect. I didn’t know much about Bacon until I’ve learned a tiny bit just now. Neel was someone whose work I had in a large art book. It made me feel like I knew her. I had to sell it to get by at a previous time in my life. This was something I imagined Neel would relate to, having been someone who scrambled a bit early on. I mourned the sale as well as the sale of a Cy Twombly book I had bought at the Tate Modern.

Celtic prayer

Celtic Cross by Bob Glennan, flickr (Clare, Ireland)

I appreciate the thoughtfulness and beauty of Jessica Brown’s writing and blog. She was an MFA colleague at Seattle Pacific University and thankfully, due to the efforts and talents of friends, our cohort has remained in contact. I wanted to share her thoughts about Celtic prayer with a link to her blog. In reading this, I am reminded of Kathleen Norris’ The Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy and “Women’s Work” (Madeleva Lecture in Spirituality). I feel inspired to revisit this and other works by Norris. Please add beauty, quiet, and spirituality to your day with the wonder of “small prayers for small tasks.”

certifiable

Crumbling Building 1660 C by Jim Choate, flickr

Lyla wanted to be called manic depressive – by her therapist, by everyone. And not bipolar. So clinical. So politically correct and so, well, inaccurate. It felt dishonest. And Lyla lived in Florida. It was hot. She considered herself hot-headed and a tropical gal, perfect for the environment, well-suited. Mentally ill people flocked here for the warmth especially if they found themselves without a home. She often felt herself to be very close to this circumstance.

In response to Lyla’s demand that she be called manic depressive, her therapist put on her analytical face, a kind of receding expression Lyla had come to know well in person though in a zoom meeting, it lost some of its power. “I would like to understand why you want to be labeled manic depressive,” she said. “I am worried you are not being fair to yourself.”

This one used her “I” statements, thought Lyla. This was Lyla’s fifth therapist in ten years. She didn’t welcome the chaos and emotional upheaval of therapy shopping during a pandemic.

“I like it,” Lyla said, wanting to be impulsive and draw others into reacting impulsively. She didn’t feel like she should have to provide an explanation for what she wanted. She expected to get what she wanted, especially from someone she was paying.

Her last therapist told her, since she was divorced and in the throes of midlife, she could do whatever she wanted, come up with a new identity, dye her hair purple if she chose, dress how she pleased, pursue new hobbies, a whole new lifestyle. She missed that therapist, but during their last session, the therapist had hinted Lyla might be unfit for motherhood. Lyla had stormed out of the therapist’s office. That was back when treatments were in person, back before her son successfully went to college and began his own life. The drama of such confrontations and exits from therapy were gone, part of a former era in mental healthcare it seems. So much for in-person tantrums.

These attempts to meet on a computer screen reminded Lyla of her early days on lithium. There had been so little she seemed to experience directly. It was like she was swathed in cotton batting. That was before she switched meds, temporarily lost her hair, and started to puff out. But she was more herself again once she got used to it.

“I think crazy people who are acknowledged as such are seriously missing in our world. Everything is so politically correct. Everything is so bland. It’s boring.”

More gazing from cool blue eyes. Had she actually spaced while Lyla was talking? Blue eyes then wrote something down in her notebook. “Well, ok,” she said, looking back up into the tiny eye of the camera. “How are your meds?”

And that was about it. About ten minutes total. There was no lively debate, no storming, no confrontation. Lyla had been looking at her own face half the time on the screen, which was distracting. And the spaces of time between their exchanges were even longer with the technology.

Once they had set a date for the next appointment, Lyla signed off and slammed down her laptop. It was draining. And now, so quiet.

Lyla had developed a fascination for a west coast youtuber who was a makeup artist.* The youtuber applied fabulous and meticulous faces to herself. Each episode was different. While she transformed her whole face, from kinda cute to a magnificent beauty, she told true crime stories. Lyla could not get enough of these videos. They were mesmerizing, hypnotic. She sometimes fell asleep to the young woman’s gossipy but confident style as the stories stories scrolled from one to the other. She occasionally woke to the laptop almost overheating.

Had Lyla been better at makeup, this could be a fun hobby to try. And well, she just didn’t have the kind of bank it would take to get tools, paints and powders together. Another woman on youtube, a much older and not quite as cute but kindly looking, read lesser known fairy tales in a gentle voice. That was wonderful too. And she spun her own web.

Why couldn’t she transform herself into a youtube star? She didn’t know. What was she going to do? She had drowned a couple of plants from overwatering, had sent multiple texts and emails to friends and family, walked the neighborhood a couple of times when she felt inspired.

But without the friction of the presence and annoyances of others, there was no motivation to be quirky, there was no identity, only endless self, whatever that was on any given day. She knew of bipolars and unipolars as they are all called now, who had suicided or slid into substance abuse during the pandemic. Those days were over for her, pandemic or no. Besides, it was only fun when there was someone to perform for.

She looked into her closet as if for an answer. On a shelf, she spotted a paintbrush and a pot of green paint the color of a sweet pea. It was leftover from when she revamped a small table to go beside her old wicker lounge chair on the porch. Over the headboard in her bedroom, she painted a little minimalistic flower with a petal falling down like a tear.

She wasn’t really supposed to paint on her walls, but who was coming by to see? Repairmen for the complex only entered apartments in cases of extreme emergency. And it felt good, what she had done. Like, someone would eventually see and know she had done something wrong. There would be a reaction! She fell asleep that night, satisfied. That night, she dreamt of Chagall paintings, of slightly abstract and surreal images – flowers, people, animals, buildings, designs. When she awakened, she ordered paints and brushes, much cheaper than women’s makeup.

Over the course of the week, she started with the little area around the flower. She began to expand the space with a profusion of flowers she loved – bougainvillea, Don Juans, clematis. She realized she had forgotten something and painted over them with an azure blue. She then painted her room with the color of the sky. Then she filled in the sky with deep green vines, fuchsia blooms, white and purple flowers, red roses. In the dining room, she painted the walls blue and painted people and chickens and angels and the Eiffel tower and planets floating off into space. She painted her bathroom a burnt orange and painted huge white and green paisleys. She ordered a special acrylic paint and drew tiny figurines and sayings on the tile of the backsplash in the kitchen.

When she was finished, she painted her arm like the tattooed west coast youtube makeup artist. She painted vines and flowers, and she made a vine look like it was going up her neck. She painted flowers coming out of her hair along her forehead. She made a huge drink of punch and rum with lots of cherries and canned pineapple. She sat on her screened-in garden porch and sipped her drink until she felt numb. She watched the light change as the golden hour approached. She watched the children and dogs go by. She watched a squirrel scampering on a nearby tree, a green lizard suspended on her porch screen, a palm branch falling to the ground.

I am perfectly manic depressive, she thought, sipping the cool, sweet drink. Hells yeah, this was it. But ok, I’ll take my meds as per. But being crazy is the one thing I got, the one thing with an edge.

A jay squawked from high up in an oak, as if he agreed her and would call a crazy person out if that was the reality. She lifted her drink in a toast to the little dingbat.

*Bailey Sarian

Classical Saturday, part 2

Classical Saturday

Velveteen Rabbit played the numbers

The Beloved Toy Rabbit | Russ. I love you every second of ev… | Flickr

Yesterday, the beginning of my blog piece was only a number: What time it was when I saw the sun rise. And thankfully from there, thoughts flowed. I learned yesterday that sometimes all it takes to ground a piece of writing is a number. In fact, numbers constantly ground us, literally and metaphorically. We would sometimes like to escape certain realities of life that define us and delimit our existence. We sometimes wish to be disembodied beings who don’t need grounding elements like numbers. But like the Velveteen Rabbit worn down by the numbers – number of times loved, number of times played with, number of griefs – numbers make us real. But dear Velveteen played the numbers for that very chance to be real. He took the risk, the plunge, the acceptance of the price of pain, for the actual hope he may be “real” one day to a child who needed him.

Here are some examples of the ways numbers play into our thoughts and decisions: I wonder if I have enough money. I wonder how much I weigh. I wonder if my blood sugar is ok, or if not, exactly how bad it is. I wonder how I scored on that test. I wonder if I improved my social capital with that interaction. I wonder how many actual friends I have and if I am lacking, how can I increase that number. I wonder if I could really be this old. I’m thinking it must be a miracle I have lived to be this old. I wonder what the temperature is. I wonder how much precipitation is in the air, and whether a wind or fire or blizzard will destroy us. I wonder if the government is finally going to decide what money it can part with to save its citizens. I wonder how much time a person will spend in prison for the level of their offense. I wonder if there are hospital beds, enough shots, if I have a fever, if someone else does, how likely I will get the virus with two masks, a total of five filters. I wonder what to do when my loved one dies. Numbers, facts, probabilities, statistics. Hard realities.

Some of us would like to perform “pure” art devoid of numbers – devoid of our need to make money, but a lot of us simply can’t. The numbers are real. They remind us of who we are, they tether us to our humanity. If we are lucky enough to practice art without having to worry about money, great. But for many of us, the numbers aren’t in our favor in that way, and yet that makes us no less artistic people, it simply makes us experience more immediate bumps and bruises. Some might feel more creative because of the bumps and bruises, though some may not feel this way. Unfortunately, our physical needs and the needs of our families, “the numbers,” don’t care. Art will come to the watchful, even late into the night. Art will gift the mind and fingers with energy, with leftover energy and will to survive the day. Those who do not seem to need the numbers, I simply ask: Who does not face what confronted the Velveteen Rabbit: The tradeoff of love? No one can avoid it.

I am playing a sort of numbers game on you by stacking my argument. I hope I have come to it honestly, but only the Lord knows. I hope I have helped in some small way, even if you don’t agree. You have a right to your opinion.

Yesterday I found online interactions with longtime friends and a support group, many hours after some pensive thoughts animated my fingers to write what I wrote in the morning hours for the blog. I was so grateful for that chance to engage my humanity, to give and receive, as I engaged in various activities. I feel remarkably better. I have given myself health points and improved the numbers.

For Easter, I am considering a riff on this blog post. Last year and the year before, I hosted a micro fiction challenge “darkEaster.” The first year, I put prompts on twitter. Last year, I posted prompts on WordPress and wrote 50 word fiction pieces, roughly one micro fiction each day. I may get less dark this year. Haven’t we already had enough total darkness? Maybe the challenge will be 50 word micro fictions on becoming “real,” with a nod to the Velveteen Rabbit. It is yet another chance to consciously and artistically play the numbers, counting our words, and making every word count, in the hopes of better seeing, living, loving, a chance to become real: “#Velveteen50”

Blessings to all the Velveteen Rabbits out there. May you stay in good health: worn, yet alive. —- Meg

sunroom

Sunroom: Sunlight streaming through vertical blinds by Steve Garner, flickr

At exactly 7:44 a.m. the sun rises above the line of covered garages across the lot from my garden apartment. Until today, I had not opened the vertical blinds in my living room at precisely this time. Before the rising of the sun, I was already awake and had learned the wind will blow 30 to 40 miles per hour today, that the temperature was 45 degrees. I sit on my sofa with the sun stabbing my eyes, spotting my vision but I do not close the blinds. I like it I have greeted the sun. And I like the way the 30 to 40 mile per hour wind is blowing the tall pines beyond the garage, dappling the sunlight, causing it to shift and dance.

I am sad a neighbor is moving out. With the rising of the sun, I see him working to move his belongings to his garage in preparation for other neighbors to help him move. He and his wife were a part of welcoming me to this new place. He and his dog were friends to me and my dog, my dog who has moved to greener pastures, relieved of suffering. My friend is a war vet. His dog is trained to help him. My friend says he will be getting another Labrador to keep his dog Major happy. He says I should get a Labrador too. They are great dogs. They are easy to train. Major does everything, even picking up his own leash in his mouth and walking himself when it’s time to walk. That was the first trick I saw Major do. The war vet and Major are a great team.

I like it that the instant the sun rises every morning, I hear the creaking of the floor above me, the sounds of a young family, a mother and father and little girl. Before the pandemic began crushing us like a vise, I used to be irritated with some of their sounds. Yes, I loved the sounds the child made, ok, but sometimes I became irritated. Now mostly I love the sound of the child running from one end of the apartment to the other. Now I love the sound of the child and her mother playing on their balcony overhead, and sometimes the father joining in, sometimes the mother and the father clapping together and singing songs, and always the baby laughing. I do love it mostly now, whereas before I was mostly selfish.

When the father goes on a bike ride with the child or when the mother goes on a bike ride with the child, they always say I love you to each other. Whoever is not going on the bike ride – the father or the mother – will stand on the balcony and say I love you to the one going on the bike ride with the child – the father or the mother. I sit in my office and listen to them say this to each other. This is usually later in the day, in the afternoon, when I am doing my schoolwork. It is funny that I am happy to hear this because maybe I used to be a little more selfish. Maybe I used to feel a little more envious about this kind of thing. But they are young. And the child needs to hear this, to feel it. I am only happy that they love each other. I am only happy the child sees this. I like to give the child things when I can. Sometimes it is only a cookie. Sometimes it is only the good thoughts of my better angel.

Still, I have habits of the past. I have worries. I have darkness. The worry and darkness feel like fresh incarnations of newly minted worry and dark thoughts but maybe they are just worries transmogrified from old worries. I worry about my son getting a job in this economic climate. I worry about getting cancer again. I worry about getting depressed and daily, I fight against it. I worry about my aging parents. I worry about my sister, my niece, my nephew. I worry about my ex and his new wife. I worry about our country. I worry about our president. I worry about our world.

I think what happened was that when my dog was alive, all of my worries went into thinking about her. Now that she has gone, I worry so much I feel like I might cry. Every day I want to cry. At least one time a day I think: I really want to cry right now. I don’t always have one specific thing in mind I want to cry about. In fact, sometimes I wrack my brain hoping to find one thing that will really just slay me and make me want to cry so I can get it over with. But: nothing. And everyone else is worried. There aren’t many people I could talk to who aren’t also burdened with worry. Why would I tell them about my worry? What good would that do? It’s like being locked into a meat freezer or a sauna. The lock is on the outside. There isn’t anything anyone can do. The temperature remains the same. And everyone is suffering in the same way.

But the sun has come up. I have been here to say hello. That is all I have left to say.

Baby angels

photag_at 20150322 112 flickr

It was not true there were no baby angels watching the towers fall in lower Manhattan. Their acute awareness of what had befallen them in life brought them to this moment as witnesses, as if their experiences had brought them to some prescient knowledge, though they couldn’t have put it into words. Perhaps the years of comforting others who die tragically, senselessly, in fear and alone had sharpened their senses.

Many of their number had congregated at St Raymond Cemetery in the Bronx to hear the testimony of Baby Hope. It had gone on for hours, and as is the experience of many within the Realm of the Comforters, she was beginning to float with the lightness of telling how she died young. That horrible morning, she floated over her grave.

And then it hit, a massive airplane careened into one tower, a skyscraper, and then another airplane speed into the other tower, propelling flames through its center. The sound reverberated. And then the buildings folded to the earth, a horrid cloud of gasses and dust rose. The undead babies flew with blinding speed to the scene of the aftermath, to find out what they could do to help. There was wailing and fire and confusion.

The only thing they could do was whisper comfort to those lodged under the rubble, and hold the hands of those already risen from their bodies in spirit and walking on the streets of New York.