Seven Curtains to the Moon

After my heretoforementionednocommentspityparty, I woke up with some positives yesterday.  Firstly, a fabulous individual would like to commission a painting; secondly I sold a book on Amazon.  Now I can’t find the book but this still counts as a positive.  And it sold for more than the cost new.  Granted I have eleven dollars to my name right now.  Oh wait, I think today is February 2^nd!

Feeling a tad fierce, I decided to write down everything I did yesterday in a spiral bound notebook.  Have you ever done this?  For me I really don’t know what I do on a given day.  Now I don’t know if I am this productive every day, or if by writing it down I was guided by my version of monitoring. 

I got up at 5:30 am, a good time to work on the photographs of the Drowned Hogs swim.  Sunlight is a tough companion to the computer monitor and comes into the house from all four sides of its box.  In order to post photographs to my web site I have to watermark them and decrease their quality.  I learned the hard way when ‘someone’ in a bridal party downloaded every single photograph I shot of Bridezilla et al.

I dropped the Hull Times CD off and commenced work on Zelda, the local town mannequin whose broad red and green stripes harkened back to Hull’s carnival ambience in its roller coaster days.  Zelda and I are getting close.  She has a flexible torso but her legs are stuck together permanently.  In order to paint her innermost thighs requires artistic gynecology.  I learned that she is metal inside with some composite wood material around her, so the masking I did for her graphics became part of her skin.  Horrified, Zelda begged me not to subject her to the sander again.  I had no choice.

Facing my drawing board again, I dragged out my laminator and magnets, attempting to devise some affordable and shameless self-promotion for my images, both digital and paint.  Any prospective customer making the effort to spell out ‘wightman’ and worse – ‘photography’ only to find a down web site is poor marketing I realize.  That person will certainly not try again. And having a Verizon phone that is turned off until my next opportunity to use someone else’s phone to call Verizon makes utilizing any shred of what I have to offer impossible.  But the spiral notebook looms.

Washing all the curtains in the front room seemed likely at this juncture.  Done.  I hung the airy white curtains wet before leaving to see my friends B & G.  It just so happens that the B in B & G is Barbs who knows more than the planet about curtains and such.  I arrived late after losing an entire curtain. 

On the way back home, and before photographing the moon, I decided to call Susan (middle name seraphim) and wish her a happy birthday.  Regretfully, I fell asleep before calling later for Susan’s granddaughter, Susan’s birthday gift four years ago.

The moon and where the f-ing hell is my curtain?  Oh it probably went in the washing machine with the ‘dry clean only’ set, 4 pairs, and eight in total, used to block out the sky and the ocean and the light from my existence.

Things became strange on my way home from B & G’s house.  As I’m sure you all know, it is the Wolf Moon, and the largest full moon of the year.  It rose over the ocean and I was prepared with my tripod etc.  Ah yes, the foot for the outdoor tripod is missing, and seeing that I have eleven bucks and all the stores were closed made for some quick action.  Finding a small piece of driftwood I held my breath watching the camera not fall.  I came out of the beach brush with burs, not the imagined shards of glass I felt. 

Once home, my nagging determination to retrieve the 8^th curtain remained, but it was too cold and dark to go into the basement.  I am sure that curtain is down there anyway.  I let Winkle out for a final leg left and there was a very odd smell, but not altogether unpleasant.  It was then I noticed the neighbor’s motion light coming on repeatedly, but nothing obvious was setting it off. 

I turned the television off since The Bachelor saga was done and the rose ceremony saved my girl Vienna.  I responded to Haley’s post “pillow stain” on Facebook by posting a screen shot of Torri’s final and illegal download from Limewire.  I thought that Torri having downloaded “In Christ Alone” by Brian Littrell on May 15, 2006 could reciprocate Haley’s pillow stain cross.

Winkle was in the customary position under one arm (he prefers to be carried up the stairs) when I noticed the small rainbow maker Shirls gave me casting light on the wall.  The punched tin sconces in the living room once threw heart shapes, even though there are no heart shaped cut outs.  Last night they were throwing perfect rectangles.  The motion light kept going on in the windless dark. 

And then there was the familiar yet completely, utterly unexplainable sound at the wall….behind the set of frames, where our umbilical cord hangs in the buckskin bag.  It is a heavy display; the repose angel we photographed, the bloodied belt, the journal where on May 15^th she wrote in blood ‘it is so close to the end,’ the photograph where she is standing at the ocean’s edge and now looks so lonely, the candle holders that Gigi gave us, all the mass cards from others, the gold dish we made at camp Wyonegonic, the googley eyes I found on the beach, the rock with two perfect hearts engraved on its top, and that painting that I really didn’t paint entirely myself.

Having my phone, I try jostling Mr. Winkle to again try to record the sound.  He is annoyed.  I take him upstairs and come back with the camera in video mode.  I can hear the sound from the stairs.  When I walk closer it almost whines before fading out, and when I touch her photographed face it stops even though the sound is not that high.  No, it is behind the painting I will always keep.

You see, I painted her face without realizing it.  Almost 4 years ago, my friend pointed it out to me, and when she did, our phones collided with this sound and then turned themselves off.  I have eleven dollars.  If you were to offer me ten thousand I could not repeat the face I painted with that free stroke and use of texture. How three or four movements with paint on the end of a bunch of hairs can represent so accurately a person’s essence is way above my ability.  Faces are the most daunting for me, and often end in 120 layers of acrylic before I realize I am creating a sculpted relief.

I hear a low and kindly demanding ‘rrrr’ from upstairs.  Winkle would like to be airlifted to his sleeping area.  I retreat upstairs, and once in the bathroom notice how the motion light across the street is on again.  I stare until it turns off, and I watch it come back on, but nothing is moving.  I wanted to see up the street, and went to the other window.  I observe darkness, and the absence of human and elemental activity.

Then something small and bright comes over the top of my head in a luxurious, slow arc.  The moon is full on the other side of the house while over my head and down the middle of my nose is debris, way up there, where it met its atmospheric demise.  Its quarter circle pleased me. 

It is now Tuesday.  I have my spiral notebook.  “6 to 7 am – looked for 8^th curtain.”  I do not have that 8^th curtain. 

Afoot & Free Stuff

WARNING:  THIS POST IS LIKELY TO MAKE LITTLE SENSE

Why do I like that word?  With the landscape turning and what not, changes are afoot!  Overwhelming as they may seem, I still go to the conventional prescription, take a dose of ‘there are so many people for whom it is so much worse!’  Oh well. This self chatter does not help me with the tasks at hand. Ah but there is always another dialogue pressing its ear against the door!  ‘you have had plenty (pronounced PUH-lentee) of time, you should be much farther along, not so much farther (or is it further) back’  This diatribe isn’t packing up for me and propelling me on to a life.  Recollections take the next opportunity to march their little asses into my room. ‘oh lucy you are strong, you can get through anything.’  Hmm. Thanks, that has been WICKED helpful too.  I suppose my inability to clearly (pronounced KUH-leer-lee) express myself is the seed of the root.  Afterall, it is my mess, yes, messy me who has indeed accepted way messier individuals into my life at face value, never with thoughts of consequence.  The title dumb ass springs to mind.  Ah yes, then the deepest whisper from way back in one of those corners… your place on the earth has healed you, but (sudden loud, raucous clattering with buzzer) DING DING DING your time has RUN OUT!! You failed the testing of the emergency broadcast system.   all the floundering and yacking and puffing and idea generating and questioning and what abouts and did I not say it loudly enough before?  free stuff announcement to follow

Embrace Life

Ostracism and the Existential Luck of the Draw

No matter what, we are thrown, and there we land.  That’s just it.  Hopeful for some ‘other side’ where the experience can be reported on, once survived.  Ah yes, we love our survivors, which is why I am rallying for Vienna on The Bachelor.  She has been scapegoated!  Ostracized!  Group dynamics 101 - every working group has its scapegoat.  I was SO relieved when she got a rose. Then I remembered something I wrote about ostracism a long time ago related to my doctoral studies…

Social exclusion comes with ubiquitous effects no matter the magnitude.  As a gregarious species, much of our development is dependent on cooperation and interaction with others who share the environment.   The success of our evolution has occurred in part because of the relational skills that help us find where and how to belong.   Once a member of a group we benefit from all the levels of protection. It is reasonable then to expect detrimental effects without this belonging or identification with the “belonged.” 

Up until about twelve years ago, social psychology considered the phenomena of exclusion as something to be avoided rather than a process to also be explored (Williams, 2005).  The last decade has produced research identifying characteristics of what makes an individual more susceptible to exclusion than others, has delineated four areas of fundamental human needs damaged by rejection (belonging, control, self esteem and meaningful existence), illuminated brain processes involved and suggested possible ways to undo the damage done.

The immediate response to being shunned is a heightened physiological arousal, similar to anxiety, while the ostracized attempts to regain safety and control (Panksepp, 2003).  If their behavior cannot appease the group at large the person will often seek out another group to belong to.   Cultural implications follow in that those on the outside tend to form their own groups on the fringe where anti-social behaviors thrive.

Pain overlap theory (Eisenberger, Lieberman & Williams, 2003) proposes that the pain of ostracism and the physical pain of injury have the same underlying neurological systems.  Biological brain functions show the anterior cingulated cortex becomes highly stimulated when someone is ostracized.  This is the structure of the brain thought to detect pain and activates when one is excluded in any situation, even by enemies. 

Researchers developed a computer game of toss to elicit feeling left out called “Cyberball,” where the effects of ostracism can be dynamically observed in brain scans.   The anterior cingulate cortex activates once rejected, the same part of the brain thought to involve physical pain.  This helps explain why emotional rejection produces physiological pain.  Then once someone is excluded from getting the ball for long enough, the person eventually gives up and disengages to avoid further pain, and the activated brain areas deactivate. 

It is the prefrontal cortex that counteracts the painful feelings of being shunned (Panksepp, 2003).  Since survival depends on fitting in, our brains have powerful alarms alerting when something is wrong.  Williams (2005) and his researchers also found a protective, safety mechanism in the brains of those rejected in the right ventral prefrontal cortex.  A high level of activity here actually decreases the pain of rejection, allowing logic and reason to help prioritize the importance of the group lost, and also to mobilize towards rejoining.  What is needed for this process to occur is dialogue with a friend or trusted individual.  In the past, one could float to alternate relationships within communities, or even different communities once shunned.  Now that option is not always there in light of a changed culture where there are fewer family and peer connections and less time. 

Being cast in the role of “scapegoat” involves many intricate variables and can be a painful repetition.   If someone is repeatedly exposed to ostracism this becomes accepted or internalized that their needs are simply lost leading to feeling alienated, despondent and helpless.  Once denial of the exclusion wears off and the reality is felt, perception and response to the social environment changes.  Williams (2005) points out how attention to and the interpretation of information in this state serves to perpetuate cycles of exclusion. 

Ironically children’s play themes are often structured around exclusion as a game, like musical chairs, tag and monkey in the middle.  It is possible that as adults, we too find exclusion amusing given a perusal of the reality television shows whose audience depends on the anticipation of exclusion.  In a conversation with Kip Williams he likened interest in ostracism to riding a roller coaster where one finds a safe way to feel the sensation of falling. 

Human beings are not the only species who exhibit the phenomena of rejection. Animal groups are made stronger by ostracism when the weaker members are excluded.  In the animal kingdom, when a member of the group is not functioning properly it impairs the group at large.  That animal is then cut off, ignored and not attended to in any way.  The pack does not look back and acts as if the outsider is invisible.   Often the fringe animal gets its act together and comes back to the group, or dies.

My standing in once familiar communities of friends, family, colleagues and strangers has disappeared.   I have been ostracized and wear what is hopefully a fading scarlet letter.   There is no guarantee the damage of ostracism can be undone.  Ideally the process involves the community within which the dynamic occurred, a circumstance that rarely presents itself.  

Eisenberger, N.I, Lieberman, M.D., Williams, K.D (2003).  Does Rejection Hurt? An fMRI study of Social Exclusion. Science 302, 290

Panksepp, J. (2003).  Feeling the Pain of Social Loss.  Science 302, 237.

Williams, K. D. (2001). Ostracism: The power of silence.  New York, NY: Guilford Publications

Williams, K. D.,  Forgas, J. P., & von Hippel, W. (Eds.) (2005). The social outcast: Ostracism, social exclusion, rejection, and bullying. New York: The Psychology Press.

Attentional Variations

This means how one person’s ability to attend to internal and external curiosities differs from another’s.  Our species is more the same than it is different, but the sameness is not what excites us, right?

Have you ever thought about how your brain handles curious matters?  Unless your attention has been pathologized or someone has coined it somehow remarkable, why would you?

Here is one (and only one) example where I fall into some vortex within a vortex of leads and opportunities.  Thanks to Facebook, I have reconnected with many old friends from New Canaan, CT where I spent my latency age years.  One of them left a career in aviation for simpler things when his life became overburdened with change.  To make the point that this was a good decision, he sent me a link within this context:

I think I made the best descision to stop flying at that time for safety reasons. Some people would have continued in my place. Check out this story:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqLrsZWgV-Y&feature=related

The pilot was under pressure and because of, at least that, made a terrible descision that killed 583 people.

See if you find some inspiration from this set of videos.

My attention missed the ‘from this set of videos,’ and this morning I went to watch the video, wanting to feel some sense of completion to at least one inbox.  I watched, listened and took in the tragedy of that day, the worst aviation disaster in history. 

I read a comment, follow the link, and was taken to search a keyword and here I land, back at home, remembering something I almost remember, the long line of unlikely connections leading to the channel of a very old friend on You Tube.  Again I listen, take in, and am satisfied with the way my attention varies, most especially when I do not correct it.

Potential Reward

for anyone in the world, or within mailing distance, unbeknown to me, who owes me money for some reason, something I forgot about maybe?  you keep 50%, er, ok ok maybe 40%, or whatever it is you decide, maybe you can tithe some to Haiti too, and really I don’t even need to know who you are because you can just get it to Stephanie Creech in Hull, um on Sailsbury Street or Ave.  I have pahlenty of frozen food to eat, wonderful friends who live locally and aggressive flossing.   I am posting for a roomate, and most importantly I am focusing on the work that will sustain me.  Oh well, if not, then it is OK.  Open doors are found in strange places!

What is that MESS above me?

Goodness gracious as my mother used to say.  Once things go into folders, in my world, they tend to stay there too long, so OUT of the folders and splattered into the ethers of the internet!  It is such an empty feeling when I get down on my hands and knees to clean the floor and there is no dirt in the rinse water.

Diesel - Be Stupid

I think I was adopted and they changed my last name from Diesel.

Senseless & Preventable be it Alcohol or Insufficient Medical Response

Martha Coakley’s advertisement is making me think more about how often people

present themselves in ways that they only wish for…  Hang on to watch this one,

it is very powerful

January Mystery Photo (look left and up)

Blue Moons and High Tides Forever

It is high tide and and my friend Susan tells me it is a blue moon.  The earth’s largest mass of water feels it today in it’s slight roundness, even in the bay.  It’s like wearing fish eye glasses where the set comes close in an astonishing way and blinking it away for the moment, only to have the jelly of the sea come back where it is not supposed to be.  That is called that a FABCOM in the Rorschach – something is with something else and not supposed to be.

Down where the bay meets the open ocean is a wall with a hole in it.  This necessitates a roadblock and evacuation of the residents, although all looked to be home. 

Standing against the wind I tried to capture one of Dave’s angels with a breaking wave, then moved up high to get the police cruiser and yellow roadblock signs in the foreground.  Waves come in waves.  There are smaller waves, a time of quiet where one wonders if it is simply over.  But waiting is key, because the next installment will arrive, of this one thing we can be sure.  Surfers know this language to be sure.

I am invited into the house where the angels stand outside, outlined in snow.  Afterwards, I meet Ralph Contrado who is shoveling out with his two sons.  They invite me inside to get warm and to clean my lens.  I learn that Ralph Contrado is a fine artist as we trudge up the hill.

“Are these for fine art or do you work for somebody?” he asks.

Once inside I see his working studio to my left.  There are easels with colorful squares and rectangles of Hull color that he brings to me.  Portraits are everywhere with brad confident strokes of paint.  It is obvious that he is a trained, skilled artist with many decades behind him. 

Ralph hands me a manhole cover complete with a faded orange cross spray painted there.  It lacks the usual weight because it is made out of plastic.  Then I receive a squeezable brick with all the divots and color gradations one would expect.  Ralph tells me that he works for the union that produces movie sets, and his son is a builder for the same.  His other son, who I also meet, is working towards getting his teacher’s certificate in order to teach English in High School.  Ralph’s wife is a nurse and his daughter is a teacher.

Going back to the car parked in Dave’s driveway, I say a quick hello to the police officer seated in her SUV cruiser.  I look at the sun coming out, making the hooked waves spray with something silver.  Letting the car warm up I say to myself, in my mind, that this is why I live here, it is what I have left to call home, in spite of it all.

Rug Fringe

I need to share something.  A little levity… but of serious import!  It is about rug fringe.  First, I would like to know why there even is rug fringe.  Is it decorative?  Or would the rug fall apart without the fringe?  Is it a conspiring vacuum deterent?  Or maybe rug makers get kickbacks from vacuum makers knowing that many a new vacuum will be purchased after grinding the fringe to a burning halt.  Or is fringe supposed to trap dust, lint and other human trace elements? Many years ago when I had cleaning people(Odair and Cida, two middle aged Brazilians, just lovely) they would actually rake the rug fringe with a neon pink afro comb.  Fringe has always irritated me. Today, upon walking in the door, the fringe had an especially lively quality.  Like it was taunting me! (I know - psychotic depression!)  “I have had it!”  I firmly stated as I took two stairs at a time to my Miele vacuum and the longest pair of shears I own.  I will let you know if the rugs start to unravel. Meanwhile there was a brief moment of liberation.

post christmas

I hope Christmas times were what you wanted them to be.  I am not sure what to make of it anymore.  Things change.  The cold, the wind, early darkness, and an inability to know how to author changes has a way of eroding what is left.  In all those tatters, commercials and advertisements seep in, the family times, the generations, the joy.

But why would I even write about such things?  There must be a small dab of me somewhere that still hopes against the force of pain. 

I have a handful of people in my life who are so good, and so illuminated by the lives they live, and who include me, the sad sap that I am.  It is good to hear laughter bounce around a room, even though going ‘home’ to all the unsolvable problems overwhelms my senses.

Yeah, yeah… depressed… a fitting state given circumstance.  And no, no, I am not interested in becoming detached and indifferent via my starved receptors.  I am, however, very interested in euthanasia.  It is not available here in the United States where we are delusional and harebrained about the cycle of life.

I remember the many varieties of suicidal pain in the career I am not allowed to own.  The one I chose so selfishly over raising my only child who must have thought she was second to so much.  I never could get inside that experience until a family who had lost more than I have came in, the mother felt strongly that she should be able to go, 6 years later, every day.  And she had a husband, a job, a standing.  I understood it so rationally.  Then there was another person, who had lost every single semblance of safety and sanity, and was living in the woods in the rain.  It tore a hole in me, but I told this person that I completely understood why death was an answer to consider.

There is a little spark that annoys me.  It creates reasons to stay.  Little projects, mysteries, the promise of things completed.  Not guilt though.  Because I feel quite entitled to the choice. 

Peeking into the vat of death, while having a foot on the ground of life, could create problems.  Am I here or am I gone?  No wonder I am lonely, save for Winkle whose advancing age concerns me. Maybe I am a very irritating person to know right now! 

The real question is: Who left the envelope with no name???

there will never ever be another bean

Merry Christmas Christine - A Commercial Just For You!

I love this.  I subscribe to some Australian and New Zealand advertising newsletters.  They seem way ahead of the rest of us…

Dear Santa

In case you swing on by the quirky peninsula, I would like my websites paid for, just for like, hmm, one year. All four are through Squarespace.  Drop something by to them will you?  They are good at what they do. And then maybe a BJ’s (no not that Santa) package of that Neutrogena Body oil, you know, the HUGE bottles of sesame body oil because my body turns to bark these months.  And if you could also drop off a car dock and antennae for my Sirius S50 (the best $200 I ever spent) because I broke mine trying to fix it and so now since the car antennae is broken I listen to wads of static.  I know that seems silly Santa, but so aren’t Barbie villages.  If I DO get that car dock though, I will need to pay for my subscription to Sirius for the year. 

You see I have this pooch who is getting up in years, so every time I was looking at relief through a telescope, something like a seizure would happen, or a pancreatitus attack.  I have become better and more assertive and I do say no to the xrays and bloodwork because it is obvious what is wrong during those times.  Nonetheless, the vet visits became the pit these months.  He would do anything for me, anything at all.  And I him.  Most importantly, could you also please drop off the most unexpected, most generous gifts to all of my friends, from here and from there?  I have not been the easiest most gratifying friend. 

I tried to ask for fun things.  Maybe I should ask to have my teeth cleaned, or a new pair of eyeglasses so I can see.  Or to have my hair PROFESSIONALLY done.  Or a gym membership.  Or those no smoking patches.  Yawn. Or some bottles of New Skin.  Or a pedicure.  Or some printer cartridges for the Canon ip forty something hundred.

I will leave you some tofu then.

Curious Does Matter

It does matter, to be curious, or not.  Poking around, following pathways not known, tempting the mind with words, asking, questioning and challenging.  In my mind, the status of one’s curiosity could well be an indicator of viability. 

For me, being inquisitive by nature has colored life in dark and bright shades.  It even carried me through grief for a time.  The absence of this mainstay means there is less to draw from on a daily basis.  Reaching down yields little in the way of snoop value.  Instead it adds another notch on the fatigue measure.

It occurs to me that the majority of ‘writers’ who have the energy to think and then type after going through a child death are those that have something positive to offer, something hopeful or helpful.  That is what our breed demands after all – recovery in the face of tragedy, and then we all want to read how it is done.   Just in case it happens to us…

For every new “medium child spirit channeler,” or religious convert, or fucking dragonfly-butterfly-ladybug chaser, there are likely thousands like me who cannot find her way and feel the weight of expectation squelch reality.  The notion that my existence must take care to not “make someone feel sad” is powerful enough to silence many voices.

But count on another part of my temperament not to accept this, in spite of the backlash. 



3 AM

Yet Another Mystery Photo (LEVEL: Medium)

Chris might recognize this BUT WHAT IS IT??