I want things handmade. I want a life devoid of BPA-worries.
I want the holidays decorated in popcorn strings and toes of knee-high socks filled with sticky penny candy and tiny oranges.
I want to have the hot cocoa, but not the packaging the dried chocolate-flavored granules come in.
I want to make the gift bags, without needing the troll Jo-Ann in deathly fear of whatever other impulses may come.
I want the craft, but not the storage.
I want handmade — the originality, the texture and depth. The artist’s signature. But not the price.
I want beauty.
I want art.
I want tomorrow, but I am unclear about today.
–
I will to unwrap the porcelain cow again this year.
I will place him in his manger scene.
Arrange the kings and the baby Jesus.
Avert my eyes from box and its $9.98 Walmart tag.
–
I am not sure what I want.

–
This post is part of the BIG QUESTION Series in December, “If Only in My Dreams”. Click and read more.

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I told Colin last night that if I ever, actually, cracked, the cause would be: STUFF.

People — namely me and the those concerned with me — spend a ridiculous amount of time fussing over THINGS. I’ll define the limitations of what I am referring to herewith:

Stuff: Anything not attached to your naked body, or to the naked bodies of those you love and care for.

A list of stuff that is particularly bothersome to me right now would include (but is not limited to):

• socks
• hair ties
• papers from school
• tweets
• “devices”
• electrical cords
• swimsuits
• snack food
• church buildings
• car seats
• pull-ups
• facial cleansers
• winter clothes
• black sweaters
• cat claws
• car rental agencies
• Boston
• PPTs
• Mother’s Day and our Anniversary on the same day
• ticks
• plastic everything
• princess accoutrements
• Power Point
• medical forms
• “Cars” Accoutrements
• light bulbs (incandescent and CFL!)
• candy
• pop-up camper
• donation forms (online and paper)

The other day, as I was TRYING to write an email explanation to my co-walkers for the CROP Hunger Walk how they could set up their online donation page when I realized something.

All this hassle surrounding trying to RAISE money for the less fortunate — including receipts, matching gifts, packing a backpack for the walk, registration forms, carpools, thank you notes, canned food to be brought on the day of the walk, and on and on — made me wish, for a moment, that I was a hungry third-world farmer who didn’t have to check my voicemail/email/text messages/Facebook/donation page every 30 seconds for the next fruitless, meaningless, useless waste of my time.

And I was the one ASKING people for money.

Sigh.

What the hell are we doing, drowning ourselves in such material misery?

It’s all such work, just clearing an empty spot off on the counter! Then a moment later, it’s covered again by a pile of “art projects” that was fun at the time, but now what do we do with all these paintings?

Sigh.

Sigh.

I have no answer, only more organizing to do. Guess I better go out and buy more “Snapware” to put it all in.

Egads.

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I haven’t been posting as frequently lately.

I don’t consider this writer’s block, though I once did.

This is because I have been thinking.

A Little Story

Once I sign up for a pottery class. My friend, Rita, forced me. She berated me until I went.

Fine, I said. I am not writing anyway. Might as well make a fool of myself with clay.

Larry the teacher made us start with pinch pots. Make a ball, then shape it into a bowl. Old school, play-doh kinda stuff.

It didn’t matter how much I whined about wanting to get started on the wheel. I had to sit and do my pinch pots.

Then we had to master building a box.

Then, after that, we had to work with coils.

The class was mixed levels — one of those amazing Communiversity courses where the woman across from me chatted while she sculpted lilies from black clay.

Nothing happened in my brain while I coiled and pinched.

My thinking bone rested.

The psychic across the table (she worked for the police department from time to time) even said so. She glazed her plate and listened to my mutterings, enough.

“You aren’t blocked,” she said. “You are absorbing.”

I made it to the wheel, eventually. I threw a beautiful bowl and glazed it Celedon green.

Then, after awhile, I looked around in writing again.

I’ve stopped to think, now and then.

But I have never been “blocked” again.

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1. To Be of Use: Beyond Making Do

Greenwich Locksmith in the West Village

One of the great things about life, humanity, and America is INGEUNITY: the power of creative imagination.

On “Scouting New York” I found the most amazing post about the little locksmith shop, Greenwich Locksmiths. Be sure you click through and see all the photos.

I love small business like these. Shopkeepers who exude passion for their craft make me happy. This is the intersection of commerce and humanity that, to me, makes consumption palatable. I can ask a friendly, knowledgeable craftsman for a service and look forward to the work being done well, with pride and with beauty.

This is the experience of American life we lose when we shop at Wal-Mart like drones.

To me, lower prices are not worth the loss of our collective soul. A streetside shop, as Greenwich Locksmith demonstrates, is a place of real conversation– not just about the weather or the cut of the key, but about art, beauty, progress, the future, the past and their collision.

I just love this store… I want to run my hands over its facade and say thank you to the inspiration gods who helped the owner bring his vision to the Village.

“Every moment of your life is infinitely creative and the universe is endlessly bountiful. Just put forth a clear enough request, and everything your heart desires must come to you.” — Gandhi

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Larry was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease,

He’s at the beginning of the journey toward the end. Yeah, I mean, they’ve given him the magical pill, but there aren’t any guarantees.

Well, just that one guarantee.

Larry’s been making art that evolves from nature for a long time.

He’s put the essentially impermanent into a state of forever. He’s too old and dyslexic to be on Etsy. He sells a piece now and then when the spirit allows it.

What is this diagnoses all about? Does it starts a long walk into tomorrow or nothing or what? How is it changing things?

Larry doesn’t have family. His sister died from Alzheimer’s. He lives alone. All he has is a few friends, a very old dog, a house in the ‘hood, and his art.

I don’t know how I feel, other than desolate with the news of my friend. I don’t know what to think of about this. Or how to help.

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A Guest Post in Which New Haven Graphic Designer Jessica Ferguson Reveals Her “Blog Problem”

“Most people are just afraid of putting pencil to paper.” That’s how one of my favorite art teachers started his “Introduction to Drawing” course.

“When you’re a kid, you don’t care – you’ll draw anything on any surface you can get away with. You just draw. But now, I can tell you’re afraid – you’re terrified to make that first mark. You need to just do it, just draw!”

And I was afraid. Terrified actually. It sounds silly, but that first mark was so important: it was where you started. There was no going back. You could make or break a drawing with that first mark. It was a commitment, once you did it, that mark would be out there for the world to see… and what if it turned out I had no drawing skills? Putting pencil to paper felt a lot like jumping off a cliff.

Blogging into the Abyss

Blogging feels the same way to me. I love the idea of it – expressing myself out there on the web. I’m a born attention whore you see. My Facebook wall teems with updates, links, comments on my life and photos from my iPhone. I never think twice about throwing something up there – it feels so casual, so relaxed. I know people judge me from time to time (the term “morally questionable” was thrown about at one point in reference to a post), and I welcome the critiques. If you don’t like it – unfriend me. Or I’ll unfriend you. Let’s race to see who can click “unfriend” first! Facebook is easy!

But blogging is different.

Blogs aren’t just for your friends, nosy little buggers that they are. Blogs are for strangers who don’t care what your husband cooked you for dinner. They don’t care what cute thing the cat did last night or if you’ll be at the bar, “just in case anyone wants to show up.”

And blogs filled with links to cool shit better be filled to the brim with the coolest of shit, because otherwise they’re a dime a dozen.

I should know, I have several. Oh yes, I’ve done my share of blogging. Let’s see…

Stringing Them Along

There was my first blog.

Quite a few years ago when blogspot started making it easy for any Tom, Dick or Harry to toss their thoughts out onto the web. I started as many do, with a massive manifesto post – filled with tidbits about WHO I AM and IMPORTANT BELIEFS and WHAT I WILL BLOG ABOUT. It was self-important and grandiose. It was everything I wanted my blog to be. I WAS A BLOGGER!

And then the fear set in. I had the shocking realization that I don’t really have much to blog about. It was less of a venue for my important and well-thought-out views on life and more of a random journal. Sort of embarrassing really – especially since this was before the days of FB and sharing everything from how you slept last night to what you had for dinner seemed normal. Back then it just seemed silly to make those things public. My blog died a slow death over several months until I eventually shut it down for good, kicked some dirt over in and moved on as though it had never happened.

My second blog, was different. It had a point!

It was to be A CRAFT BLOG: chiefly about my own craft projects (mainly quilting) but also about a few choice crafts other people had done – and tutorials/patterns for those.

I skipped the manifesto this time and went straight to work; I’d learned my lesson about setting unachievable goals. THIS is what I was working on yesterday. And THIS is my project tonight. HERE are some amazing photos of a new fabric and HERE they are in my quilt! It was beautiful – a work of art in its own right. But then I ran out of projects – I only have so much time to craft after all. So I started sharing more and more projects from the web. I’m a craft-blog addict – so there was never any shortage of amazing things I could share from them. I used the blog as a sort of “to-do” list, blogging about all the craft projects I planned to try myself. But somehow, I never got around to them. They faded into the back of my mind and the bottom of my blog as I posted more and more. My comments became more sparse with each post as I grew tired of using the same words, “Gorgeous!” “Isn’t this beautiful?!” “I love this!”… I just didn’t have anything else to say.

And eventually the pointlessness of the project became apparent. The people reading my blog were likely the same people reading the blogs I was reading. I wasn’t creating anymore: I was simply regurgitating images with pathetic and interchangeable comments attached to them.

Third Time’s a What?

This time I didn’t kill the blog. I started a new one. I transitioned from one to another by putting up a post on the old one saying that I was starting new, starting clean. I had a new purpose & a new focus. It was no longer going to be a craft blog – but now A DESIGN BLOG.

In recent months I’d been blurring the lines anyway – posting typography links that got me excited, links to well-designed webpages & fliers. It was time to refocus.

The first post? Back to the much-loved manifesto. This one focused on the need for designers & artists to keep a journal – and this would be mine! Eleven posts later – the blog went silent. My own expectations were too high. Everything I thought to post seemed wrong, not enough, not focused enough, not enough to say about it. And there it sits gathering dust. I even still have a standard link to in my email signature – though most of the time I manually delete it before hitting send, out of embarrassment of making my failure public.

No surprise: I love blogs. My Google blog reader has me subscribed to 196 blogs, and I read through them almost daily. Mostly I look for cool links, images or projects. I share a ton of these on my Facebook page, where I have no fear. I look up to bloggers – mostly women– who find the time to put their thoughts down on the page. They make me laugh, they make me cry. They feel like friends. I want to be one of them. I want to join their club. I want people like them to be moved & inspired by MY words the page.

What Now You Ask?

So now I’m starting my own business. And I really should be blogging. Its almost a necessity, but the business aspect makes the whole thing even more stressful. Potential clients will be judging me. I need to seem professional and educated in my field. I need to find something interesting to say. I need to blog with some frequency. I need to find the courage jump again.

I think my problem is that I expect too much of my blogs. I expect them to change me. To change my life, my goals. To make me focus, when nothing in my life is focused.

In short, I want my blogs to make me the kind of person who should be blogging. But I’m not really sure what kind of person that is, and I’m even more unsure that the person is me.

As for the pencil to paper dilemma? I did it. I jumped. I think the first time I may have even done it with my eyes closed, my breath held – but I did it. I drew a bike.

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Click here for Tara!

Day 10, #Reverb10 Prompt:

Wisdom. What was the wisest decision you made this year, and how did it play out? (Thanks, Susannah Conway!)

“To create a work of art you’re proud of, step back on occasion, ask for feedback, paint over, change directions, and switch your medium.
Just don’t wait to begin to paint, don’t wait to begin to carve.
Your life’s work of art has already begun.”

– Tara Gentile

This has been a year filled with work wisdom for me.

My wisest decision this year has been to find a mentor — Tara Gentile of Scoutiegirl.com and The Creative Empire– and then to  listen to her and invest in her as I invest in myself.

Tara’s balanced and thoughtful nudges (in the form of a great e-courses and newsletters) – along with my hubby’s undying support — has made all the difference in 2010.  (FYI: If you could use some of that kind of support, you can’t have Colin, but you can click that blue box up there!)

The result has been to set of concrete goals, as she has suggested. But the real coup here was my ultimate shift in assured self-belief: my decision to commit myself to a determined vision of myself and my work.

Some of the results of this decision have looked like this:

• I am creating a website where I will offer my Demand Poetry for sale… to be completed by February.
• I’ve redesigned and tweaked my blog to make it more accessible. My Analytics tells me I’m doing good things!
• I started guest blogging for other people I adore.
• I’ve had other bloggers guest for me (you can too!)
• I took the plunge into the Tweet-osphere!
• I’m participating in great community blog-versations, like #Reverb10.
• This week I received my FIRST CHECK for blogging!

Like you, too, I’m sure, I am easily led astray by silly distractions. Flipping channels leads to Monday Night Football leads to Cheez Balls leads to hand washing leads to lotion leads to cleaning out the medicine cabinet  And the procrastinations lead thencely to a harsh hammer-fall of self-criticism which further savages my ability to work.

And, yah know, after all. It. Is. Work. (Which is its own nest of hornets to blog on another day).

2010 brought me chaotic bounty. Sometimes I YELLED at it and it unravelled. But oh well.  That just meant waking up coffee-shower and getting to it: knitting life work back again the next day.

Thanks, Tara.

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Apparently I am riffing away on Tara’s 4-part series; maybe because the content of the series–  “The Deconstruction of Ennui” — is like my own personal gospel choir Hallelujah-ing behind me while I work.

Consumption is one of those things I’ve written about before, but I don’t think I’ve ever connected it to boredom.  When I read it, however, immediately I see myself. Although I try to be an “anti-consumer” — one who makes purchases consciously, thinking about how items are made and their impact on our planet– even I fall prey to consumptive ennui.

“We consume products, food, and information without thinking as soon as we start to get any inkling of ennui. We fill ourselves with meaningless action. We disengage from real life and seek out external experiences.

We consume to feel something other than our own voice telling us to get off our ass and do something.”

– Tara Gentile

Who hasn’t found themselves soothed by a stroll through Target? I dreamt about Target when I was living in London and deprived of it.

The downside to buying things while caught in the trap of mindlessness?  We tend to acquire way more things than we need. The outcome of this is one of three things:

1. We throw things away, even if they are perfectly good.
2. We  have to go through the complex process of “un-shopping” — satisfying, but often sticky;
3. We pile it all up around us, get a few dozen cats, and become this guy.

Eating the Tree

My brother– whom I adore, love, and respect — is very laissez faire about the consumptive life. He keeps telling “don’t worry so much! It doesn’t matter. Why are you wasting so much energy on all of this?”

And I really do pause, because, really, if you stop to think about it, just for a minute:

DOES IT MATTER?

If tomorrow I get up and decide to stop at every fork and say “Easy path for me! Why bother with the hassle?” who is really going to know in the end?

I mean, isn’t it just that Protestant work ethic poking me? That “environmental” cloak I wear, making me feel guilty?

Nah. It’s more than that.

Art made me do it

The burden of being an artist is a nagging persistence of expectation: We wake each morning expecting our talent and our passion to generate MORE.

More BEAUTY. More LIFE. More MUSIC. More LOVE.

Peaks and valleys come and go. And of course our angst and dissatistfaction overcomes us. Sometimes then it will be easier to lay back into the easy chair of consumerism:

MORE PURSES. MORE SHOES. More plastic hair gels and cats.

Don’t fret. Just drive on up the next peak.

Can’t you hear that gospel choir calling?

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The fog and the mugginess this morning reminds me of London.
Previously posted on Jan 16, 2006


Everybody’s got a darkness
They’re not going to show it to you.

It’s Monday and grey again in London.

I dreamed of you last night. I sat in a cafe over cappuccinos with some friend. He told me the flat I used to live in on Randolph Avenue was going to occupied again soon. By you.

Everybody’s got a shadow
Following them around
Clinging, clinging to their footsteps
Dragging them to the ground.*

In the dream, I felt you coming here like a rocket shooting to the moon. I thought, in the dream, that suddenly you realized you could not be away from me anymore.

Darkness…
Shadow…
Secret…
Hear them rattlin’ bones

My friend, well, he didn’t know I knew you. He said your name like he was reading it off a marquee. I listened, then I blurted it out. Who you were to me.

Darkness…
Shadow…
Secret…
Hear them rattlin’ bones

There was silence over the wobbly wooden table, as we stared down into the dregs of our foam. It was strange to him — as it is to everyone — the thought that you were mine once. He stumbled a laugh, one that I mimicked. We changed the subject. But I wanted to leap up and run to 115 Randolph Avenue and sit on the step, petting Missy the cat, and wait for you to arrive.

Everybody’s got a little secret
Something they never gonna tell
Gonna take it right down to their grave
Up to heaven or maybe to …well,

I tried to go back to sleep after that dream. It was 2:53 a.m. I flipped on the blue pinlight of my booklight and tried not to wake Colin. He rolled over and reached for me but did not wake. I read for a while, then got up, and laid on the couch. There was a rumble, deep inside of me, pulling down, down.

I watched BBC. In the middle of the night, they rebroadcast shows with a sign language interpreter in the corner. I watched the face and the hands and didn’t listen. I watched until 4:15. Then I went back and read some more.

I finally slept, maybe around 5:15 or so.

There is a skeleton in your closet
Do you hear, do you hear it rattlin’ bones?
I think you better look the thing in the eye.
It’s never gonna leave you alone.

This morning, I walked from our flat on Delaware toward the shops at Maida Vale. I carried my laptop on my back, heavy and full of stories I am having trouble telling. A thin, dark man walked toward me. His coat was too big for him, his eyes looming large behind his glasses. The weight hanging from my heart swung and loomed, pulled down again. I walked by 115 Randolph Avenue under lead skies.

I wondered what that man, walking by me just then, carried inside him, the color of his darkness. “Tell me your secret,” I whispered to myself, a dirty proposition. I wondered what he dreamed last night.

Darkness…
Shadow…
Secret…
Hear them rattlin’ bones.

*Lyrics from “Darkness” by Kelley Hunt

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It’s another We Scout Wednesday! Thanks Tara!

Everyday my life is being reformed by the choice to be  “teacher of children,” big and small, at work and at home.

So I was glad Tara asked: What will you teach the new generation about creativity?

Every single one of us must embrace our inner-Madonna. The pop diva, now in her 50s, takes creativity by the neck and gives it a hickey! Her constant reinvention does not stop for age or critics. She does not pause at the door social questioning. She drives herself, without hesitation, to keep her artistic life free of cobwebs.

Reinvention allows us to breathe freely. It’s the open window, the next medium, another layer of paint on the canvas. With it we make our lives whole and meaningful. When we use it, correctly, we can see ourselves as contributors to a beautiful world.

Being Madonna is the way toward creative self-respect.

Curiously, a creative life does NOT mean “being an artist.” My sister, who crunches 401K numbers for a living, embraces a creative life. She lives free of the expectations of some set of worldly ghost ideals. She works from home, makes her own schedule, listens to new ideas from all political fronts, and is ready to make changes when she senses that internal shift.

Under that cool green visor, she scans her universe and fearlessly bounds into the next great thing.

Ironically, a creative life does not mean always bucking the system. Limitations help us test and expand our talents. Some of the most beautiful artwork of the Renaissance was commissioned by stodgy patrons. Some of most lyrical poetry is tied to strict poetic forms. Some of the most poignant acting performances are the most restrained.

I know, by nature, I am creative. So are most people I’ve met. In fact, it is  work to repress the creative human condition, yet we seem to do it everyday. We  like to call upon all kinds of theoretical blockades to stop us from our calling.

Yet, God and Mother Nature — whichever or both you may believe in — are inherently creative.

Those seem like good examples to follow.

Them. And Madonna.

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