Lighthouses

I've been thinking of Heath Ledger; well, not Heath Ledger, not really [there is an endless topic obviously available in the beacon signifiers of greek god/ess-ness we make our celebrities be in our culture], but of the way I imagine he probably passed on. Either one pill too many, while sick, or he ploughed an ill-suited row too hard over a short period and even his 28 years caught up with him, and stopped him cold, maybe even catching him between breaths that were lonely. I can see how this could happen. Sometimes, in the midst of a migraine, trying yet one more small round solution to make it back off, even just a tiny bit, I wonder ... too many? Sometimes, between happinesses, when it still feels too significant a task to get up out of bed, and reinvent the wheel yet one more day, I think ... too many? Some would say this is depression, wrought by one too many days gone by without a solution to transition, to ennui, to ... what it occasionally is to be human and traverse this distance. Et cetera.

But even through funkiness bright sparks-- of inspiration, of exaltation, of "aha!"-- eke themselves out. I was falling asleep the other night and suddenly I was lit up flashing back to a moment in a rehearsal of a choreographed piece-- when an arm went here, a flick of a finger there, the knee ... such serenity when it came together. Such fulfillment when it all came off before the senses it was meant for and the connection was made. There may yet be a place for me there, not in 'The Business,' the chintzy defined game I went running from, but back in the smaller dark spaces where the smallest gestures can be unfolded, exploded, and where there is never ... too much. Now I'm thinking of Pina Bausch:



Mmmm, closer.

Gravity

Been watching and reading some Martin Luther King, Jr. speeches, which have been all over TV and the internet in honor of the national holiday the anniversary of his birth now is. They are of course eloquent, stirring, occasionally beautiful, and almost shocking in how relevant (even prophetic) their more political content still is, more than ever. It is right that his greatness, and his humanity, be celebrated.

Listening to him, though, the crux of the matter concerning myself and my lately inner arguments reflects some of the light shed on it by paying attention. As King intoned often about particular laws of justice, dignity and rightness governing what he termed the moral universe, I am reminded that the task at hand for myself is illuminated by other, but similarly immutable, laws -- a lot of which I'm also hearing about in the ongoing Obama vs. Clinton debate -- those governing transformation vs. restoration, and measuring each intention's respective value. Except that I feel none of the unalienable certainty King gave such shape-shifting voice to.

I've this week found myself replaying the past 5 years over and over again in my mind (events, interactions, choices made), from the time I left New York until now. So much so, I cannot for the life of me see what I even want for the future anymore, the past looms so large. An interminable loop that tethers me completely and keeps me, of course, immobile. Sometimes the loop extends as far back as 17 years ago, when I came to New York for the very first time, and sought what I sought, finding what I found. I see now that as much as my moving back here 9 months ago and starting over yet again was designed to bring me closer to the many things I said I wanted for the future (that I noted I didn't have where I was), it was a slightly disingenuous rationale I whispered to myself. In fact, it was every bit as much about wanting to recreate and regain what I DID have at a past moment, before I left the first time.

And so I find myself taking a step in one direction concerning my career transition, for instance (saying nothing about many other areas strewn indecisively around me), only to shortly thereafter imagine myself onstage once again happily doing what I did for so long, and stopping short before taking a 1/2 step backwards from where I just was, to a familiar-if-creaky spot. The layers of my own personal Status Quo seem endless and I don't know how to negotiate them, let alone rip them up to truly move forward. What am I up to: transforming my life or restoring a prior interface, something ... formerly good, or at least good 'enough,' and yet not quite, else I'd just choose it. Both? Neither? Whatever, my head is down and my sense of direction is compromised. I am loitering, grounded, stuck-- but I take comfort that this is an affliction (among other personal weaknesses) even the greatest figures were and are not immune to. Even better, we have wide access to their lessons, and all there is to do is keep our eyes open, up and moving. In which case, happy birthday to us all...

Middle Distance

I am what still feels like a stone's throw from my last relationship; I seem to see the person nearly everywhere in some way in what seems like nearly everyone. Part of this is due to the lingering lines of a sketch gone wrong, but it was so 'long ago' it is odd to still be reminded of the person at least once a day at this point. By a particular eye color or lines around a mouth, by a particular dialect or distinct quality of a laugh, or a piece of music or a dog on a leash that we mutually liked-- and *blam*-- it's as if we just had our last words six minutes ago. Then I'm back to wistfulness, or feeling the fool, or a flash of anger, or a bemused 'glad-I-knew-ye' smile to myself.

And yet I'm also paradoxically feeling just a stone's throw away from the next stab at companionship. Yes, an old-fashioned 'itch' is part of it, but also...I seem to see my dream of what is possible again in that arena everywhere, too. In hands being held, in those sharing a laugh, in a comforting embrace, a setting out of a plan...

Though emotional, hormonal (read: chemical) urges continue to often be mistaken as eyes-on-the-prize conviction, and the track record is strewn with a few bodies behind me intertwined with the hurdles ... here we are again, me and dreams of past and future, converging.

Heavy Lifting

I've always been 'into' politics. I loved studying history growing up, pouring over encyclopedias, role playing power struggles with my Star Wars figures (no lie!)-- a nerd about it then, a wonky news junkie about the trivia and trends of it all now-- national, international, even local. And so election years always light a spark under my tush.

I could use a spark. I won't lie-- I've lately, especially coming off the holidays (as well as off a couple of years of tumult I've allowed distract me), had the occurring experience of dangling from the rock face of life. Comfortable grip, but just ... dangling there. I'm now single, between careers, financially just comfortable enough but just not satisfied and far from the life of my dreams, at an age when friends and family are scattering not only geographically but psychologically. We're all swinging between different plateaus, peaks and valleys ... having babies, breakdowns, breakups, role changes, status changes, losses, gains. Plates are shifting, and it becomes apparent some people and things have to be let go of through the rumbling. I've spent recent weeks doing that, with one solid grip left on some jutting rocks that happen to be there.

So it's funny that the latest in national politics should grab me. On paper, no talking head is speaking for me (or most of my closest friends)-- unmarried, mid-30's, child-free, but not quite qualifying for the middle class. Any discussion of "family values" starts my eyes glazing over and I look for the movie listings. For the sake of competing campaigns and media pissing contests, pundits parse the psychology of the "American people," of "men," "African-Americans," "whites," and "married women [who fear divorce only if they make less than $50,000, according to one]," and I wonder where my Gang is-- those other-oriented folks paying taxes, serving communities and living lives of 'freedom' that our Constitution provides.

I think that this election year the hook I hang my hat on are the narratives of those with the ambition to run for the nuttiest office in the land, and the relative efforts to create a transcendence of the given moment. I've always been fascinated by whatever drives them to see it through to wherever they do, and this year in particular probably because I've momentarily faltered for myself, in my mind. I am all for Obama for all of the reasons there are to be for someone willing to represent the projected hopes of anyone coming from a lacking world into the possibility of a better one that our national ideals allow. McCain is an admirable character who has been repeatedly punctured in more ways than one and remains the calmest, most rational, one in the proverbial room. I feel tremendous pangs for Hillary, who on the one hand I wish was better at the public game of being "likable," but who, whatever her flaws, I still want to see produce some surprises and kick some ass anyway, as sexism remains the elephant in the room while racism's slow symbolic death in the Obama narrative trumps it. But it's also true she's made her own bed with her chosen alignments, and it is instructional (and tragic, as she could well have regrets Shakespearean in dimension) to watch her thrash about in it. Then there's an entire subject available within Romney's ... hair. And so on and on--

Needless to say, I'm paying attention. Perhaps I'll discover something useful in being engaged again in this particularly important election year, but my intention is to pull myself up out of my personal malaise and find my footing along the rocks long before November, when one of these individuals will have heaved themselves into impacting what rocks go where. Maybe racing the race itself will cause me to make my own mountain, let alone have climbed one.

A Turkey In The Sun

Thanks to all for their concern during my ... illness. I'm going to Miami Beach for a moment, but hope to be back with words in my pocket soon. Happy Thanks!

Cash: A Love Story

Halloween is a 'holiday' I typically loathe, as it is not a holiday, not in the US. It is an occasion for adults to behave like children, and not in the good ways. There is nothing particularly joyful about it; it has become an almost corporate conspiracy to play upon the worst of human instincts, and an encouragement to indulge them.

But I'm not a total party pooper. Halloween does, in fact, have one saving grace. Today I attended the 17th Annual Tompkins Square Dog Run Halloween Parade in the East Village. Adorable, of course, and artfully conceptual: the dachshunds strapped between two hot dog buns, beagles as airplanes, pugs as rock stars, chihuahuas as naughty schoolgirls, poodles as bloodletting vampires, shepherds as poodles (see above). Most of the owners are appropriately frightening, controlling their pets like prison wardens, and conveniently disregarding that Spot's continually shaking his head like he's hearing voices telling him to kill indicates that he doesn't really love having sunglasses on underneath his afro wig as much as you dig seeing him in it. But never mind: imagination does get to run rampant, and somehow our furry counterparts help make our baser inclinations at their expense ... cute!

The event had me revisit a recurring mental conversation I've had in recent months, about Value. What it is that has us value this over that, how an animal can be more significant to us than our human friends, certainly our co-workers who we may have known even longer, how a job can be valued over a marriage or children, or vice versa; etc. How each of us has a different flowchart we typically follow in our allegiances, again and again.

I do some work with an art dealer here in town, and from time to time, we meet for dinner and a chat. He is a self-made man, was a high-school drop-out, but his entire life has been spent doing everything his heart desires, so I listen. Usually, we'll talk about politics, sports, food, and of course, art and Value (and how it is fiction, particularly in the art world). He also regales me with tales of his exploits and adventures through the years, but just the other night, he dropped that as a younger man he poured over the the texts of Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged" and "The Fountainhead." For those who don't know, these are books that encompass positions on epistemology, ethics, politics, aesthetics and the like-- primarily arguing the belief that knowledge and values are neither wholly subjective nor intrinsically extant, but rather as the factual identification by the human mind of what exists. To some, these are opuses that are filled merely with hundreds of pages of philosophical speechifying espousing the moral rightness and inevitability of laissez-faire capitalism (with its author having grown up under communism), coupled with the fulfillment of personal responsibility, but either way she dubbed her philosophy Objectivism. They are also books constructed around sweeping storylines and landscapes, indelibly steely, driven, black-and-white prototypes that I adored and emulated (I even cast the panoramic movies of them that I would make) when I read them as a teenager, but ultimately outgrew ... more than less.

I was thunderstruck that a man who self-admittedly hated school and eschewed reading could be drawn to these blowhardy 500+ page tomes. But I was fascinated that what was unforgettable for him were the philosophical constructs, which he used to his benefit and from which he operates to this day. He could even quote passages from them. Where for me I would skim over a character's 60-page speech echoing Nietzsche's reverence for human potential to get to the next obscurely mysterious love scene and endlessly dramatic gesture, this man built his life on the positions taken. Our value-flowcharts took more shape. He: money, fulfilled potential, pleasure-seeking would be his quest. Me: relationships, worth, significant gestures ... drama.

So I've been thinking about why I've been hesitating to get the dog I say I want so much. For a couple of years, it was simply that I'd grown up having dogs and many of those narratives did not come to happy ends from my perspective. I didn't want to get attached again and experience ... loss. Then the excuse was simply the practical matters of space and schedule; my professional ambitions made anything else seem like a sacrifice or a compromise; etc. But now ... why not? I'm thinking it involves 'knowing' that my allegiance to my pet will usurp all else, as other relationships have. Any ambition I ever had in life will fly the coop, and now at this transitional moment, that occurs for me as dangerous. I will only want to rush home to walk, feed, do the right thing by my companion, any productive potential will be forever banished and I'll at last have the excuse to lay around and play and give baths, I'll never leave town again, and I will again have a relationship and heart pull me in one direction while my wishful mind and mouth full-of-shoulds tear me weakly in another. I have, after all, in my lately years begun to really love having dollars and the easeful, expressive perks that come it, and the doing-for-others that it allows, too. Artistically working to starve, also known as crafting scarcity, is no longer where it's at. But neither is having something to prove.

But perhaps that is what there is to do according to my flowchart, be simply for Another, and be satisfied. Maybe that is my calling, where my potential now lies (or always did), and I should accept it and things will fall into place. Let the dog walk me. Perhaps it would simply be an opportunity to at last find balance, and have it All.

This all will be moot, of course, if my dog can be able to sniff money out and manifest it all over town, giving new meaning to digging up 'bones.' That would be his superpower, it would produce our crop, and will render my considerations moot. And he would then be dubbed Cash (and anyway, I did have a crush on Johnny growing up, but that's part of another flowchart), and will be decked out as such come the next costume parade, where I will join the ranks of scary mommies living vicariously through their babies. Flights of fancy-- Halloween is good for something after all; ah.

October Surprise

Although it is not an election year, October can still hold the unanticipated, gifts unforeseen. Some time off from working appeared, and in short order I took the opportunity to drive up to Maine, where I'd never been. (An incentive to move back East was to make all of the trips I'd wanted-to-but-never-did when I lived here before.) And so a friend and I drove up to Owls Head, where another friend from the West Coast rents a house on the water each year ... and invites friends to bring other friends to come enjoy it with her. And enjoy it we did (stories, laughs, wine, fire in the fireplace, bright stars, smooth harbor, and all).

Not 50 yards from the house was the ocean, with little tree covered islands in the distance. I could sit out on the rocks and in the corner of my eye a fox could amble up only feet away, only to dart off across the rocks into the trees when I turned my head to look at him. He stopped and looked back once to be sure I wasn't following (or maybe he wished I would?). Alas, I turned out to be human!

I was using my vacation as an occasion to not only chill out and recharge my batteries, but reflect upon the machine that those batteries are going to be running in the time ahead. Putting past months in their proper prespective, and reimagining the coming ones. It is fitting then that right by the water there were bushes covered in rose hips, the fruit left behind when deciduous roses have died, made into jams, jellies, herbal remedies; etc. Never mind the odd poetry in the name, rose hips singlehandedly signified to me there is honor to be paid to what gets left behind.

The people I encountered up north were quite warm (your existence is ackowledged as you enter their presence, even in passing-- what??), and open to talking about anything, the more substantive the better. At length. There may be a patina of repression about, but it seems to serve a calm and grounded purpose. While on a sail, I had some momentary thoughts of having made an error: why did I move back to New York City, afforded quite possibly the most trying lifestyle for a woman of my age and station in American society, when I could be raking leaves off a front porch or living on a boat, combing the ocean for lobster. It certainly put thoughts for my future in a new-ish light. Nothing surprising: it reinforced my appreciation and preference for East Coast culture, but it reinvigorated my desire for a quiet option to stimulating city life, or rather, an alternate kind of stimulation. I've always known I want a dual existence, but there is an urgency to my desire to make it happen sooner than I'd have imagined as a result of this latest trip.

At one point, we were stuck in a long traffic backup on the road heading back home, and nestled in miles of multicolored trees and wispy clouds in the sunshine, and recalling that we are the only known planetary body with such an environment, there was no better place in the universe to be trapped. This sensation of peace and gratitude sustained itself purely as long as 3 rush-hour subway rides in Manhattan upon returning, before becoming a rose hip in my mind, a taste of which I will enjoy and honor, in the weeks of action to come.