Only the Lonely

Recently, I have found myself in quite a pickle.  I don't have a social life, and I can count the number of friends that I have on one hand.  I sit in my cave under the covers waiting, wanting, wishing for someone, anyone to call.  How did I get to this point?  Where did it all go wrong?

Usually, once a day or so, I get that coveted phone call.  My sole experience with living, breathing, emoting people.  Mind you, I really enjoy blogging and doing all of my art projects, but it doesn't get the job done anymore.  Lately I have noticed that my one communication with the outside world always involves doing something for someone else with all the trappings that come with friends and family.  Babysit my kid, shop for groceries, do the dishes, give me money, help my kid, run an errand, pick the kid up from school, shop for more groceries, etc. seem to be the only things that I hear.  I am tired of playing the doormat, but I don't have the testicles to actually do something about it.

My situation often reminds me of a song in the musical Chicago that sums up my situation perfectly.  It is called "Mr. Cellophane."  I often feel that I am made up of a transparent material that only comes out of the kitchen drawer when you can't find the lid to your favorite piece of Tupperware.  Nobody really wants to use cellophane; it is just convenient.  And when the piece of crumpled plastic no longer serves its purpose, it goes directly in the trash.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect $200. 

The saddest part about being virtually invisible is the constant ruminating that keep the brain running in circles, the constant hope that someone will call because they want to and not because they have to, and the constant heartache that comes when I realize that the situation is never going to change.  I am tired of playing the role of doormat in my own production of my life.  I am ready for change but my world may not be ready for it.  I think that the world will be greatly surprised when I gather my strength and shake off the cellophane garb that renders me virtually invisible.  All I can do is pray that I am seen for exactly what I am instead of what I can do for others.

Chicago -"Mr. Cellophane"

Seizing the Day

Over the past eight years, much of my life has been spent in a 10'x12' box/ bedroom of some sort.  I don't know if this is because my body is physically sick or rather because my spirit has been wounded.  Sometimes, I felt like a bird whose wings had been clipped, with mind intact but body completely broken.  I was meant to soar on the wings of eagles, not to be afraid to drive my car, face my friends, or go to the park alone.  However, someone or something decided that I was not able to live my life as a regular human being, partaking in all the little details that make life worth living.  In retrospect, I think that it was I who made that decision.

Now that I have two little ones in my life, I realized how unhealthy I had truly become, not just in body but in spirit as well.  I had to get outside.  I had to breathe fresh air.  I had to socialize.  And perhaps most of all, I had to seize the day.  "Carpe Diem" is a Latin phrase that has been thrown around in so many circumstances over time that it has almost become trite.  But that is exactly what I needed to do.  I needed to take as much care of my spirit, emotion, and mental well-being as I had my physical well-being.  I, indeed, needed a rebirth or renaissance of sorts.  The major question was where to start.

Just like with anything lost, the best place to find ones'  self is where you left it last.  Where was I last happy?  When was I last happy?  When was the last time I had actually lived life?  My mind immediately took me to the year I taught Latin.  I knew that teaching would make a difference in my life and hopefully in the lives that I touched.  I laughed, cried, played, danced, and lived as much life as my failing body would let me.  That is where I needed to start life again.  So, after weighing the pros and cons of my situation, the pros certainly outweighed the cons and I applied for a teaching position at a local middle school.  As of now, I don't know if I have the job, but I have realized that that doesn't matter much at all.  I have taken the first major step in seizing the day, or rather life by the horns.  If I get the job, then I will be elated.  If not, then I will be in no worse shape than when I started.  However, I have recognized the importance of living life to the fullest.   I seriously doubt that my life will ever be ordinary, so as I see it now, my only other option is extraordinary.

Dead Poet's Society - "Carpe Diem" scene

Life is a Cabaret!

Last week, my family and friends suffered a great tragedy.  A 14 year old relative of my sister died in the woods after being shot with a BB gun in the head by his best friend.  At first we were shocked, then we were steeped in sorrow, and now, we celebrate the life that was lived and mourn the life that could have been.  Many people cried aloud, some let the tears slowly trickle down their faces and mourned in silence.  I have yet to do either.  Many may think that I am heartless, others say I feel nothing, and I quietly sit in the corner observing the passers-by and their reactions.

The truth is that I don't know what I am supposed to feel.  I am angry at the parents who bought a gun for their child yet failed to teach him the responsibility and danger that comes with owning any type of gun.  I am shocked that such a freak accident could have occurred while celebrating at a birthday party.  I am bewildered that the Maker would take such an innocent life that had not yet lived.  I am frightened that the same could happen to me at any moment.  So many emotions have flowed through this weak body during the period of a week that I can hardly begin to enumerate all of them.

I am reminded of my own mortality at times like these which try men's souls.  However, I find solace in the fact that death came rather quickly for our little one.  He lived life like tomorrow was not given.  He loved hard, he played hard, he laughed hard, and with every breath he took he learned hard and lived hard.  Little ones understand a language that we, as adults, have long forgotten: "Life is a cabaret."  Sure, we all know the lyrics of the Broadway show-stopper, but how often do we really live it.  I know that I spend more time than I care to nit-picking over the little things in life and less time than I need sucking the marrow out of life.

We need to learn that living is an active word while being is a passive word.  I tend to sit alone in my room without music, without nourishment, without joy, without love, without laughter.  But that will very shortly come to an end.  Maybe I will adopt the Epicurean philosophy of "Eat, Drink, and Be Merry."  Maybe I will make more of an effort to celebrate the little things in life.  Maybe I will try harder to show the ones I love how much they mean to me.  But I will definitely remember that Life is a Cabaret and that you have to show up in order to enjoy the experience.

"Cabaret" by Liza Minnelli

 

Dancing Your Troubles Away

I used to dance.  I used to dance very well.  Then I became too sick to dance.  I think that is the part of life that I miss most out of everything that has changed since I became sick 9 years ago.  If I had a hard week at school, then I would simply dance the night away with a dear friend or two at a local club in New Orleans.  If I was filled with too many emotions to experience aloud, then I would dance on the outside and cry or scream on the inside.  I would plan my classes around dancing, join dance clubs, teach dance, compete in dance, practice new dance moves, and even had a regular dance partner or 3 over my years in New Orleans.  There was always one more move to learn, one more aerial to land, or one more step to master.  This was not only my exercise, it was my passion and my therapy rolled up into one little black polka dot dress, saddle Swing dance shoes, pearls, and Big Band music.

I never found a scene that would capture the vast array of emotions I felt while dancing until I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part I.  In the midst of despair, confusion, and anger, Harry lends a hand to Hermione and begins to dance.  Dancing is raw, sensual, primordial, and anyone can do it.  You don't have to be graceful, you just have to keep moving.  Sometimes in life, all we need to do is keep moving.  Otherwise, we will fall into the trappings of the world and our own consciousness.  So for now, until I can get back on my feet figuratively, then I will get on my feet literally.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part I - Harry and Hermione Dancing Scene

 

A Thing of Beauty

Out of all the hats I wear, "The Artist" is one that I am constantly trying to cultivate.  In my quest to capture this title, I have been driven to create inspiration journals, a pictionary journal of myself, Artist Trading Cards, and even join a community of women artists called Milliande after its founder.  I cross-stitch, paint, sketch, create mixed media, create folkart furniture, and am constantly snapping pictures with my camera, possibly the best purchase I have ever bought for myself.

Even though I have more than enough time to spare, I find myself lacking in inspiration.  How does one create without inspiration?  I have read books, searched through Bing and Google Images, and listened to music all in a vain attempt to ignite that creative spark.  I can only assume that this is an "artist's block" since I experience that same nauseating malaise I felt in college the week before a research paper or essay was due.  This artistic constipation is almost as bad as the real thing since I am constantly putting in effort, yet nothing ever comes out.  My inspiration journal has all but stopped.  My pictionary is stuck on the letter "N".  I am only producing about 2 ATC's per month, and I have completely stopped receiving Random Acts of Art Kindness.

So, what does one do in order to stop being "stuck"?  This is where I turn to the lovely group of ladies at Milliande Art Communtiy for Women (http://milliande.ning.com).  Here I find advice ranging from topics to art supplies and encouragement from ladies who feel the same way I do about art.  These women create art for the sake of art...simply to beautify the world around them and find the window to their soul through the pages of a sketchbook.  I have been inspired in more ways than one by these ladies.  Right now, I am working on a Symbolic Matchbox Shrine based upon my favorite symbol at the moment, the Hamsa, and I am trying to capture the essence of Mother Earth for a series of Artist Trading Cards due by the end of the month.  So, with these extremely feminine concepts, I have found myself perusing the pages of the Internet for inspiration that never seems to come.  That is, until today.

The lovely founder of Milliande posted a slideshow from YouTube of my favorite artist, John William Waterhouse.  Waterhouse appeals to my senses and sensibilities in many ways.  He lovingly honored women of history, mythology, and literature in every stroke of his paintbrush.  He captured all four embodiments of woman: the virgin, the witch, the martyr, and the saint.  (I always like to add the mother, the child, the teacher, and the whore.)  And although Waterhouse does not necessarily portray Mother Earth, I would prefer to think that she exists in each of his paintings.

Here I have embedded a little bit of lagniappe for your inspiration as well as mine.  Enjoy!

Tribute to John William Waterhouse

Homecoming Hullabaloo

Tomorrow I set out for my excursion to New Orleans for the first time in 4 years.  I have to admit that I am very excited about venturing once more to The City Beneath the Sea.  You, see, although I was not raised there, I am a New Orleanian through and through.  I dream in purple, green, and gold.  I bathe in the Mississippi.  I crave bread pudding and king cake.  I dance to the zydeco music playing in my head.  You get the picture...  The fact is that I wanted to get away from North Carolina (where I never really belonged) for college, and I landed in the City that Care Forgot.  Home, sweet home, at last.

I lived in New Orleans throughout college, and when I got sick, I returned there hoping that the hot, humid weather of the city I loved would heal me.  My adopted Jewish family took me in with wide arms once again (no longer referring to me as a Shabbos Goy) and I was steeped in love, wisdom, spirit, and the laissez faire attitude that one can find only in New Orleans.  Unfortunately, my little dream ended with a hurricane named Katrina.  Although I had ventured back to North Carolina only to finish my education, my home was in New Orleans.  However, it both burned and flooded in the hurricane to end all hurricanes.  My family was displaced for a year, and I have only been back a handful of times since.

Tomorrow will be the first time back in 4, count them four, years.  And it is not to see the remains of my devastated home, but a rather jubilant affair: the Bar Mitzvah of the younger boy of my adopted Jewish family.  So, my homecoming will be in the form of tears and revelry.  It is weird (and eye opening!) to know that a child whom you are old enough to have had yourself is now becoming an adult!

Although I will only be there for about 3 days, I plan to suck the marrow out of that city.  I will take tons of pictures, baptize myself in the splendor of the occasion, shop until my feet are sore, kiss my family until my lips hurt, eat until I have had my fill (soul and stomach), and basque in the glory of the city I love.  I will take every bit of lagniappe that I can get and make it into a collage that only an artist can truly appreciate.

Home is calling, and I am coming... if only for a little while.  Sometimes you need to go home again, just to feel that you are connected to something greater than yourself.  And New Orleans...she is certainly great.

Evergreen Glance

Evergreen Glance, a set on Flickr.

Photos (taken by myself) which inspire me to stay "green".