Instead of an in depth analysis, I’d like to restrict my blog on Lauren Slater’s book “Lying” to my experience of reading it.
Ironically, I had submitted an essay to my memoir class last week that contained a fair amount of fiction, (the title was, in fact, "In His Words - an Honest Piece of Fiction"). In this essay I tried to further my own story, to branch off from another essay called The Breach, using a concocted monologue from a man, a stranger to me, who had betrayed my trust during our brief encounter. I used as much truth as I could – I knew about his personality from his co-workers, and I think I know his personality "type". I also knew about events that happened in his life, and, of course I knew all the parts of my own story that were told (in the essay) from his perspective.
However, I completely made up a personal history for him - one that might explain the psychological make-up of a person who behaves in a way that could hurt other humans, or one where a person may be hurting others but not really 'get it'. My classmates wanted me to be sure to define it, upfront, as fiction, (which I completely agreed with). But some wondered why I'd do it at all in a Nonfiction piece. One suggested,“We should respect the genre.”
Which brings me to Lauren Slater’s book, “Lying.” I found it very frustrating to read. I often wondered, why? Why does she tell us this only to retract it later? It began to be wearisome. Sometimes I felt manipulated and caught in her tangled web and even found myself wanting to prove her wrong. If fact, I called my librarian to request her help in finding the "Case Report" Slater placed in the middle of the book. I was also irritated towards the end when she states that, though she knows, she is not going to clarify the fact/fiction questions for us.
I’ll reserve judgment and save my final comments about the her book for Wednesday, but suffice it to say, my opinion will be effected by the fact that, through my own writing, I’ve been sensitized to the goal of telling the truth through the use of "lies".
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Scott Sanders (... and my first rejection)
I just opened my first rejection. How sweet it is to be among the ranks of writers who have experienced this right of passage. The rejection came by email, from Brevity, an online journal. I had submitted “Lessons of the Piecrust,” a version of which can be seen in 2 parts on this blog (January 30th and 31st). But then again, why would you want to go read that now that you know it’s been rejected?
I’m not daunted, though, and this is not the first time I’ve had to move forward, anyway, against the odds. When I applied to Muhlenberg College’s pre-med program their advisor, Mr. Samuels, sat me down to talk me out of it.
“You have five strikes against you,” he said earnestly, “You’re a woman; you’re older then usual - they’ll want to know what you did instead of school; you’re a transfer student; you came from a community college; and you had bad grades in high school - including needing summer school for failing US History in tenth grade. This is not going to be easy.”
And he didn’t know the other strikes. I had done poorly all through grade school, too - always in a bit of trouble, not principal’s office type trouble, well, not until high school anyway. I could count on one hand the number of books I read in high school. And I came from a family with limited education; my mother had only gone to eighth grade and the sister who raised her (their mother died young) only to third grade. My father, the lucky one, finished high school.
Naturally, Mr. Samuels was right. It wasn’t easy. Science was OK because I had built up some skills at the community college, but the language-based courses were much harder for me. I can still remember downing mug after mug of coffee at a tiny dorm room desk with my World History book and the dictionary required to read it fighting for space.
I thought about this as I read The Country of Language by Scott Sanders. He talks fondly about learning to read: “…ink marks on paper setting whole worlds moving inside (of him),” and he describes his drive to write, “the tug of language,” as something he just couldn’t resist. As a latecomer to writing, and reading, for that matter, I don’t recognize this in my life.
But I must say, Scott Sanders does talk about writing in ways I can identify with: he describes his writing career as: “making stories, small gifts in return for the great gift of life.” He talks of “writing (his) way through shadowy tangles,” and his "desire to salvage worthy moments from the river of time.” These quotes help me express why I write – I write to put in order the chaotic string of events and feelings that is my life. I see humans, all of us, as full of frailties and faults, strengths and skills. I want to understand this through a thorough and honest look at my own life, warts and all. And I want to share it with others who might enjoy, or if I do it right, maybe even benefit from it.
So rejection or not, here I come. I will print it and paste it up on my wall as I’ve learned from other writers I should do. For me the best part is that I understand this to mean I am a writer. A writer with more to learn ... a lot more, perhaps. But if there’s one thing I know about myself, it is this: if I am lucky enough to have plenty more mornings, a supply of strong coffee and a good dictionary, I'll do it.
I’m not daunted, though, and this is not the first time I’ve had to move forward, anyway, against the odds. When I applied to Muhlenberg College’s pre-med program their advisor, Mr. Samuels, sat me down to talk me out of it.
“You have five strikes against you,” he said earnestly, “You’re a woman; you’re older then usual - they’ll want to know what you did instead of school; you’re a transfer student; you came from a community college; and you had bad grades in high school - including needing summer school for failing US History in tenth grade. This is not going to be easy.”
And he didn’t know the other strikes. I had done poorly all through grade school, too - always in a bit of trouble, not principal’s office type trouble, well, not until high school anyway. I could count on one hand the number of books I read in high school. And I came from a family with limited education; my mother had only gone to eighth grade and the sister who raised her (their mother died young) only to third grade. My father, the lucky one, finished high school.
Naturally, Mr. Samuels was right. It wasn’t easy. Science was OK because I had built up some skills at the community college, but the language-based courses were much harder for me. I can still remember downing mug after mug of coffee at a tiny dorm room desk with my World History book and the dictionary required to read it fighting for space.
I thought about this as I read The Country of Language by Scott Sanders. He talks fondly about learning to read: “…ink marks on paper setting whole worlds moving inside (of him),” and he describes his drive to write, “the tug of language,” as something he just couldn’t resist. As a latecomer to writing, and reading, for that matter, I don’t recognize this in my life.
But I must say, Scott Sanders does talk about writing in ways I can identify with: he describes his writing career as: “making stories, small gifts in return for the great gift of life.” He talks of “writing (his) way through shadowy tangles,” and his "desire to salvage worthy moments from the river of time.” These quotes help me express why I write – I write to put in order the chaotic string of events and feelings that is my life. I see humans, all of us, as full of frailties and faults, strengths and skills. I want to understand this through a thorough and honest look at my own life, warts and all. And I want to share it with others who might enjoy, or if I do it right, maybe even benefit from it.
So rejection or not, here I come. I will print it and paste it up on my wall as I’ve learned from other writers I should do. For me the best part is that I understand this to mean I am a writer. A writer with more to learn ... a lot more, perhaps. But if there’s one thing I know about myself, it is this: if I am lucky enough to have plenty more mornings, a supply of strong coffee and a good dictionary, I'll do it.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Revising the End
To my memoir class:
Here is a new ending for "The Breach." your feedback suggested that a final wrap-up might be helpful to this piece if i am to submit it as a stand-alone piece. i'm a little worried about shifting the metaphor, or saying too much - you know how i am.
i included the last paragraph to get you in the mood, the the revision starts with "Two years later" -- as always, feedback welcome.
I lean on the railing and take in the horizon - a crisp line separates the cloudless sky from the water. It’s August and we are already in hurricane season. It was a September when Isabel hit the island. Hurricanes begin as simple thunderstorms that drift off of the coast of Africa and then travel for weeks in the warm waters of the tropics. Most simply die out, but others join together, gather strength and move up our coast. They cause untold damage when they make landfall. I gently thump the warm banister with the palm of my hand. The islands of the Outer Banks are really only delicate strips of sand in the sea and any part of it, including this very house, may not be here in the years to come. As I pull open the sliding glass door and head inside to shower and get into my bathing suit, I find myself wondering if there’s a storm out there now - just beginning to brew.
***
Two years later:
An eye of a hurricane can be quite small, sometimes called a pinhole, or it can be fifty miles wide. For slow moving expansive hurricanes, such as Hurricane Isabel, it can take days to pass. The eye is surrounded by what’s called the eyewall, a ring of towering thunderstorms and high winds. It’s risky to leave shelter while the eye is passing, even though it may be calm and even beautiful outside. Rather, one should stay inside and prepare for the opposite eyewall, the unavoidable second punch.
My silence was like the eye of a hurricane, many miles wide, or, in my case, many weeks long, and, naturally, there was no avoiding the second punch. The calm I invented was how I coped, how I made everything seem just fine for my family and myself. But it was temporary and had a high emotional cost. The silence, it turns out, was the hardest part for me to bear.
Ultimately, I turned Justin in to his employer and to the state licensing board for massage therapists. I went on to press charges, but lost in court. Difficult, yes, but for me, along with my writing and the support of my family and friends, doing so turned out to be the very wires and pipes, the stilts and the shingles that I needed to rebuild.
Here is a new ending for "The Breach." your feedback suggested that a final wrap-up might be helpful to this piece if i am to submit it as a stand-alone piece. i'm a little worried about shifting the metaphor, or saying too much - you know how i am.
i included the last paragraph to get you in the mood, the the revision starts with "Two years later" -- as always, feedback welcome.
I lean on the railing and take in the horizon - a crisp line separates the cloudless sky from the water. It’s August and we are already in hurricane season. It was a September when Isabel hit the island. Hurricanes begin as simple thunderstorms that drift off of the coast of Africa and then travel for weeks in the warm waters of the tropics. Most simply die out, but others join together, gather strength and move up our coast. They cause untold damage when they make landfall. I gently thump the warm banister with the palm of my hand. The islands of the Outer Banks are really only delicate strips of sand in the sea and any part of it, including this very house, may not be here in the years to come. As I pull open the sliding glass door and head inside to shower and get into my bathing suit, I find myself wondering if there’s a storm out there now - just beginning to brew.
***
Two years later:
An eye of a hurricane can be quite small, sometimes called a pinhole, or it can be fifty miles wide. For slow moving expansive hurricanes, such as Hurricane Isabel, it can take days to pass. The eye is surrounded by what’s called the eyewall, a ring of towering thunderstorms and high winds. It’s risky to leave shelter while the eye is passing, even though it may be calm and even beautiful outside. Rather, one should stay inside and prepare for the opposite eyewall, the unavoidable second punch.
My silence was like the eye of a hurricane, many miles wide, or, in my case, many weeks long, and, naturally, there was no avoiding the second punch. The calm I invented was how I coped, how I made everything seem just fine for my family and myself. But it was temporary and had a high emotional cost. The silence, it turns out, was the hardest part for me to bear.
Ultimately, I turned Justin in to his employer and to the state licensing board for massage therapists. I went on to press charges, but lost in court. Difficult, yes, but for me, along with my writing and the support of my family and friends, doing so turned out to be the very wires and pipes, the stilts and the shingles that I needed to rebuild.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Waiting Room
Birth begins simply with a sperm and an egg. They hook-up and travel together, then, once embedded, they cover themselves with myometrium so they can safely express themselves, completely and thoroughly. Elated, they double, then double again, … on and on until, miraculously, many months later, there’s a human. A person identified by their gender, weight and length; but also with spirit, personality, and an eye color no one will know for months. A wee little one, warm and delicate, happy to just curl in a ball on your chest to warm your heart and amaze you and give you hope for the future.
~~~
This is where my mind wanders as I anticipate the imminent birth of my granddaughter. My son’s in the labor room with his girlfriend, and of course her mother's there, but I feel like an outsider to the birth and, in fact, to their lives right now. In his yearning to be - and be seen as - independent, my son only allows me into the periphery of his life.
This is ironic given that I’ve had a long and successful career dedicated to making pregnancy, labor, and birth better for women and families. And that's not the only irony - I’ve never been pregnant. Never labored. Never given birth. The sperm and egg were both problematic in my case … you see, after years of birth control pills I fell for a double breasted person, then another, and stayed there, on unfertile ground, ever since. Of course, I tried donated sperm. It was delivered on dry ice, which was much more fun than the sperm it protected, but even then, endometriosis had spoiled the landscape.
No birth for you, some all-powerful being must have said early on. Inseminations, fertility doctors, ultrasounds, surgery; OK, there were no shots, but still. It all led to nothing but the fatal swipe heralding the washout of hope. A monthly miscarriage. The bloody blues.
One chance at adoption, admittedly on the edge of ethical what with being my own patient and all, fell through, and then hopelessness gathered strength and nearly won. Solace could be taken, perhaps, in having a lifetime of pediatric patients?
Then came the phone call from my brother, which, believe me, to understand completely requires a fair amount of back-story, (another blog, no doubt) but suffice it to say, he called to say his daughter, let’s call her Betsy, who he had adopted five years before, was pregnant. At fifteen. I listened as he talked about his disappointment in himself and his fears for her. I supported him as any sister would, but, by the middle of the conversation I couldn’t stop the latent baby fairies in my stomach from rising. When he said Betsy was firm on her plan for adoption, the fairies jumped and danced and, by the end of the conversation, clapped.
Three months later, I was a grateful bystander at my son’s birth. After weeks of deep and emotional talks with Betsy, the long drive from my home in West Virginia to hers in New Jersey, and the final of many epiduralized pushes, it seemed sudden when a baby appeared. The birth was attended by some nondescript old doc who arrived at the last minute, held the boy by his feet, and if I remember correctly, smacked a cry out of him. I stood by – tense and unsure I belonged. Still, I saw him – eyes intent, skin glistening, curly black hair and a good strong cry. I stood there for ten minutes or so, soaking it in, I even held him for a few of those minutes.
Then I left the delivery room and waited ... no, paced, in the waiting room, trying to give Betsy time – time to be sure; time to, god forbid, change her mind.
~~~
It is this waiting room I think about when I am, again, nearly eighteen years later, cordoned off to a waiting room while this same son is witnessing the birth of his daughter.
Waiting. I have room to wait. I know how to wait. And I’ll keep waiting 'till he has room to invite me in again.
...
~~~
This is where my mind wanders as I anticipate the imminent birth of my granddaughter. My son’s in the labor room with his girlfriend, and of course her mother's there, but I feel like an outsider to the birth and, in fact, to their lives right now. In his yearning to be - and be seen as - independent, my son only allows me into the periphery of his life.
This is ironic given that I’ve had a long and successful career dedicated to making pregnancy, labor, and birth better for women and families. And that's not the only irony - I’ve never been pregnant. Never labored. Never given birth. The sperm and egg were both problematic in my case … you see, after years of birth control pills I fell for a double breasted person, then another, and stayed there, on unfertile ground, ever since. Of course, I tried donated sperm. It was delivered on dry ice, which was much more fun than the sperm it protected, but even then, endometriosis had spoiled the landscape.
No birth for you, some all-powerful being must have said early on. Inseminations, fertility doctors, ultrasounds, surgery; OK, there were no shots, but still. It all led to nothing but the fatal swipe heralding the washout of hope. A monthly miscarriage. The bloody blues.
One chance at adoption, admittedly on the edge of ethical what with being my own patient and all, fell through, and then hopelessness gathered strength and nearly won. Solace could be taken, perhaps, in having a lifetime of pediatric patients?
Then came the phone call from my brother, which, believe me, to understand completely requires a fair amount of back-story, (another blog, no doubt) but suffice it to say, he called to say his daughter, let’s call her Betsy, who he had adopted five years before, was pregnant. At fifteen. I listened as he talked about his disappointment in himself and his fears for her. I supported him as any sister would, but, by the middle of the conversation I couldn’t stop the latent baby fairies in my stomach from rising. When he said Betsy was firm on her plan for adoption, the fairies jumped and danced and, by the end of the conversation, clapped.
Three months later, I was a grateful bystander at my son’s birth. After weeks of deep and emotional talks with Betsy, the long drive from my home in West Virginia to hers in New Jersey, and the final of many epiduralized pushes, it seemed sudden when a baby appeared. The birth was attended by some nondescript old doc who arrived at the last minute, held the boy by his feet, and if I remember correctly, smacked a cry out of him. I stood by – tense and unsure I belonged. Still, I saw him – eyes intent, skin glistening, curly black hair and a good strong cry. I stood there for ten minutes or so, soaking it in, I even held him for a few of those minutes.
Then I left the delivery room and waited ... no, paced, in the waiting room, trying to give Betsy time – time to be sure; time to, god forbid, change her mind.
~~~
It is this waiting room I think about when I am, again, nearly eighteen years later, cordoned off to a waiting room while this same son is witnessing the birth of his daughter.
Waiting. I have room to wait. I know how to wait. And I’ll keep waiting 'till he has room to invite me in again.
...
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Persepolis: The Film
The film Persepolis, based on two books of the same name by Marjane Satrapi, was an interesting exploration of freedom as well as a powerful reminder of its cost. The second half of the movie (based on Persepolis 2) was darker, sadder than the first, in part due to the scenes of homelessness and grief/depression, which were really well done. It was hard to watch her lose that spark she had throughout the first part of the movie and I was stunned to find out she was only twenty-one when she married because it seemed that she had lived so much life by then. She matured right in front of our eyes, which was part of the magic of the story, I thought.
I noticed the animation throughout the film, which may have distracted me from the storyline a little. I appreciated the cinematography - the darks and lights coming and going, mixing and matching, and having the color added in tastefully, and only for the present tense (I think). The graphic approach was innovative and interesting, and allowed for visual- and auditory-based insights without words, (emotional affect and gestures, sound effects like bombs or sighs, ages/genders, veil positions, flowers falling from bras etc). As a writer the graphic style memoir reminds me to paint the picture for my reader and that dialog and gestures can carry much of the story. One downside of the animation technique is that as a reader/viewer I am left with a stark 2-D memory of it instead of a fully imagined scene with humans and space, color and warmth.
That said, it was still a moving film. One of the most memorable parts of the movie for me was her insight following her deep dark depression. It was something like: after surviving an oppressive regime, bomb threats and bombs, and the deaths of family and friends, it was the let down, the betrayal, the personal loss of her relationship that brought her to her knees. To me, this reflected back on the solid family life Marjane had growing up. Her parents and her grandmother consistently loved and respected Marjane, and one another, and it is this that allowed her to survive all the other horrors emotionally intact.
But despite her upbringing, and her precocious and outspoken nature, it took Marjane a good long time for her to find her own internal strength, to become whole within herself, so to speak. She seemed to discover by the end of the film that she was free to choose, in fact, must choose, how to be a person, be that in a restrictive fundamentalist or a no-holds-barred country. And that her soul (if that’s not overstating it too much) isn’t determined by what she wears, or whom she hangs out with, or even what she believes, instead, how she dresses, who she chooses to have in her life, and how she manifests her own beliefs are determined by her soul, her real self. This is something her father tries to tell her whenever he leaves her at an airport and says, “Remember who you are.”
One doesn’t know, for sure, by the end of the movie whether she’ll keep in touch with that or not, although, of course, we suspect she will. But by leaving that a bit open, the viewers can look within themselves and try to answer some of these same questions.
I noticed the animation throughout the film, which may have distracted me from the storyline a little. I appreciated the cinematography - the darks and lights coming and going, mixing and matching, and having the color added in tastefully, and only for the present tense (I think). The graphic approach was innovative and interesting, and allowed for visual- and auditory-based insights without words, (emotional affect and gestures, sound effects like bombs or sighs, ages/genders, veil positions, flowers falling from bras etc). As a writer the graphic style memoir reminds me to paint the picture for my reader and that dialog and gestures can carry much of the story. One downside of the animation technique is that as a reader/viewer I am left with a stark 2-D memory of it instead of a fully imagined scene with humans and space, color and warmth.
That said, it was still a moving film. One of the most memorable parts of the movie for me was her insight following her deep dark depression. It was something like: after surviving an oppressive regime, bomb threats and bombs, and the deaths of family and friends, it was the let down, the betrayal, the personal loss of her relationship that brought her to her knees. To me, this reflected back on the solid family life Marjane had growing up. Her parents and her grandmother consistently loved and respected Marjane, and one another, and it is this that allowed her to survive all the other horrors emotionally intact.
But despite her upbringing, and her precocious and outspoken nature, it took Marjane a good long time for her to find her own internal strength, to become whole within herself, so to speak. She seemed to discover by the end of the film that she was free to choose, in fact, must choose, how to be a person, be that in a restrictive fundamentalist or a no-holds-barred country. And that her soul (if that’s not overstating it too much) isn’t determined by what she wears, or whom she hangs out with, or even what she believes, instead, how she dresses, who she chooses to have in her life, and how she manifests her own beliefs are determined by her soul, her real self. This is something her father tries to tell her whenever he leaves her at an airport and says, “Remember who you are.”
One doesn’t know, for sure, by the end of the movie whether she’ll keep in touch with that or not, although, of course, we suspect she will. But by leaving that a bit open, the viewers can look within themselves and try to answer some of these same questions.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Lighten up…
Yesterday I set out to put a better spin on my life, to reframe it so to speak. I tend to be a perfectionist and so, of course, I wanted to figure out why I wasn’t feeling the joy I thought I should feel at being a new grandmother. My son is 17 and his girlfriend only 16, and this is not how I wanted his life to start. And yet, there’s a sweet new grandbaby to be enjoyed…
I started out by walking the labyrinth in front of Berry Hall at Chatham University. This is a stone path embedded in the lawn, a sort of walking meditation. After I slowed my racing thoughts with a bit of deep breathing, I simply put one foot in front of the other under the blue sky and kind breeze. I noticed that most of the stones were gently squared off but others were cut in severe triangles and wedged in to create the circular path.
I tried to dump the nagging negatives about my past, present and future, or more specifically: regret, shame and fear. I actually tried to drop them right in the middle of the labyrinth and leave them there. I redirected my mind to the competent part of my seventeen years of parenting. Then I began to focus on the deep pleasure of a holding this healthy and pleasant child of my child. This allowed me to appreciate that I get along well with my son and he is, in fact, being responsible and fatherly. As the birds sang their way through the branches of trees, and the trees stood steady and strong, I began to have more confidence that the values I've instilled, mixed with the love and good intention he and his young girlfriend have for their daughter, will bode well for their future. Fears calmed.
Oh, and here’s the funny part (the first of two for the day): I vowed to be less of a perfectionist. I thought I’d be happier that way - maybe I’d feel more centered or peaceful if I cut myself a break, and, maybe I’d be a better parent if I didn’t always notice what was wrong, but focused instead on what was right. In short, it would help me to move towards having everything just a little more ... perfect. Ha - it was a gotcha of sorts - I broke my vow before I even stepped out of the labyrinth.
After the labyrinth I went to the Mattress Factory. I highly recommend this unique and interactive museum on Pittsburgh’s northside, especially the permanent exhibit showing variations on light in a dark room. As I sat near the entrance (fielding a phone call from my sister about whether, and if so, how, to remind our mother, our mighty oak, that her cancer has recurred) I noticed something interesting in a little corner of the lobby - it was a booth with a computer and a bright light shining on an empty chair. A giant photo of the rainforest papered the wall behind the chair. I thought it was somewhere visitors could listen to, or leave messages about, how we’re wrecking our wilderness. I went in to explore it. It’s art, after all; I was open for whatever might move me.
And it did move me - not the way it’s creator intended I’m sure, but that’s the way with art …
The following link is 59 seconds of me being me - on YouTube. I don't know if it's vanity, idiocy, or just because we don't get to see our own selves that often, but when I went home I watched the clip a dozen times and laughed, out loud, each time. Embarrassment can do that, I guess, but somehow for me, on this particular day, it reminded me to lighten up in a way that even realizing that I was trying to be more perfect by trying not to try to be more perfect didn’t. Life is not, after all, a constructed circular path - it juts this way and that, unpredictably, and sometimes you just have to step in and feel your way around. And, maybe, just maybe, there will be some good fun along the way.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBRM8RZRDUY
..
I started out by walking the labyrinth in front of Berry Hall at Chatham University. This is a stone path embedded in the lawn, a sort of walking meditation. After I slowed my racing thoughts with a bit of deep breathing, I simply put one foot in front of the other under the blue sky and kind breeze. I noticed that most of the stones were gently squared off but others were cut in severe triangles and wedged in to create the circular path.
I tried to dump the nagging negatives about my past, present and future, or more specifically: regret, shame and fear. I actually tried to drop them right in the middle of the labyrinth and leave them there. I redirected my mind to the competent part of my seventeen years of parenting. Then I began to focus on the deep pleasure of a holding this healthy and pleasant child of my child. This allowed me to appreciate that I get along well with my son and he is, in fact, being responsible and fatherly. As the birds sang their way through the branches of trees, and the trees stood steady and strong, I began to have more confidence that the values I've instilled, mixed with the love and good intention he and his young girlfriend have for their daughter, will bode well for their future. Fears calmed.
Oh, and here’s the funny part (the first of two for the day): I vowed to be less of a perfectionist. I thought I’d be happier that way - maybe I’d feel more centered or peaceful if I cut myself a break, and, maybe I’d be a better parent if I didn’t always notice what was wrong, but focused instead on what was right. In short, it would help me to move towards having everything just a little more ... perfect. Ha - it was a gotcha of sorts - I broke my vow before I even stepped out of the labyrinth.
After the labyrinth I went to the Mattress Factory. I highly recommend this unique and interactive museum on Pittsburgh’s northside, especially the permanent exhibit showing variations on light in a dark room. As I sat near the entrance (fielding a phone call from my sister about whether, and if so, how, to remind our mother, our mighty oak, that her cancer has recurred) I noticed something interesting in a little corner of the lobby - it was a booth with a computer and a bright light shining on an empty chair. A giant photo of the rainforest papered the wall behind the chair. I thought it was somewhere visitors could listen to, or leave messages about, how we’re wrecking our wilderness. I went in to explore it. It’s art, after all; I was open for whatever might move me.
And it did move me - not the way it’s creator intended I’m sure, but that’s the way with art …
The following link is 59 seconds of me being me - on YouTube. I don't know if it's vanity, idiocy, or just because we don't get to see our own selves that often, but when I went home I watched the clip a dozen times and laughed, out loud, each time. Embarrassment can do that, I guess, but somehow for me, on this particular day, it reminded me to lighten up in a way that even realizing that I was trying to be more perfect by trying not to try to be more perfect didn’t. Life is not, after all, a constructed circular path - it juts this way and that, unpredictably, and sometimes you just have to step in and feel your way around. And, maybe, just maybe, there will be some good fun along the way.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBRM8RZRDUY
..
Monday, March 2, 2009
"Persepolis- the Story of a Childhood" by Marjane Satrapi
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