New York Times Article on Tasmanian Art Venture

So my humble opinion is: This is great!

Museums are not churches. Reasonable quiet can be nice, so that one can think and feel, I understand that.  I often feel reverent about art, but art should not be Golden Calves!  I do not want Charlton Heston tossing around stone tablets and destroying museums; keep it real folks.

Live a little, don't let anybody  tell you what to think or feel.  Learn what others see, but form your own thoughts, and for heaven's sake, have fun. Why else would anyone go to a Museum, to brag about it???

Please cut and paste the link - -   From the The New York Times:   

 http://mobile.nytimes.com/2015/03/17/world/asia/mona-the-museum-of-old-and-new-art-proves-just-the-ticket-for-tasmania.html?referrer=&_r=0

Digital Doodles

Because I have nothing to say that is cheery, bright, funny or helpful, I give  you digital doodles.

Godzilla

I Don't Know What To Do.

Sometimes I get so mad I do not know what to do; literally.

I was about to say what I would like to do were I raised differently or were I not afraid of the consequences of my actions, but in fact that is not what truly stops me.  It is lack of knowledge of what could possibly bring satisfaction in the moment or span of rage.

Dissatisfaction is my primary source of anger, whether it is with myself or with others, I am not getting what I want need, expect, deserve....what ever thought or word comes to mind.  Often rage comes from several of these ideas, piled like wobbly blocks atop one another, until the Yertle the Turtle of my zen ego comes tumbling down from the wonderful view, to fall deeply into a muddy, blinding, abyss of rage, outrage and funk  - not the "good" kind (lots of disco on the radio today). (Yes, I still use FM radio in my car).

This evening the tipping point was an urgent order for a replacement cord for my computer science major son's laptop; I paid extra for overnight shipping. (We just replaced it in January and it broke already, returning that one was going to be tomorrow's problem).  I got an e-mail five hours after placing the order, that it was winging its' way to me in Pennsylvania.  My son is in college in TENNESSEE!

I managed to calmly use my rage to wangle a phone call out of Amazon and it will get to him two days from now.  Fab. I did everything right for him to have it tomorrow.  There is nothing I can do. There is often nothing I can do about stuff that happens.  The cycle of misplaced trust and impotence is exhausting. I will not touch upon the powerlessness that keeping up with the news imparts.

The firewood we bought in January, nice seasoned firewood, would not burn this evening; it was actually weeping water out the side of each log.  How do I know?  I could hold the sides of the log they were so water cooled, and my hands got wet, actually wet.  Perhaps though,  if I touch them right now, they would ignite.

Maybe I should settle into watching a pleasant little movie on my kindle (Fire) to help me sleep tonight like Rambo; yes that might just be the ticket.

Got My Eye On You

Facebook fascinates me.  I have many friends and they have many others and our shares and comments overlap.  Our friends get to know one another, argue, laugh, advise, sometimes without ever meeting.  I have found lost classmates from elementary school, reconnected with neighbors, cousins, old boyfriends (no dates planned and no divorce is imminent, my husband is well aware)  and it has all been grand.

I watch people post at odd hours, all sorts of odd things - like putting magnets in cows, and I am fascinated.  I have learned, thanks to my retired priest, about Snopes.com (which I needed so badly, and has made me, thankfully, more of a skeptic) - my friends are grateful as well.

I get an idea of how people spend their lives, and have been given a window into their free time. Among my friends are antique aficionados, skiers, sailors, hikers, gardeners, fisher-people, musicians, thespians, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers....it is astonishing.  Most of my friends are good photographers, some are very good.  Many shovel their own driveways.  Some have introduced me to new foods and weird cocktails.  I am delighted to see friends from hundreds, to thousand of miles away.

Facebook is voyeur's dream, especially a clean minded one.  Artists are seeing people, we look.  Nice people look away, we don't.  Artists look and remember, it is our job.  Facebook is a fascinating set of artistically chosen peeps into lives; people write their autobiographies by what they choose to post.

I am also fascinated by friends I run into who call me out on my own postings (which are many) but who never post anything.  I realize there is an algorithm to decide what I see on my feed, (I am skipping over the language we have all acquired) but if I go to their page, they have not posted anything, they are just trolling; silently.  Who knew there were so many incognito voyeurs?

I am out in the open.  I love it, just like TV; entertainment. I know so many producers!

Facebook though, also kept me from being isolated when I was ill. Through it I connected with an acquaintance, who shared some of my experiences and really helped me.  When she became ill, I hope I helped her a bit too; that's been a wonderful part of "social networking."

If you are posting, I am watching.

Darth Coffee

I love coffee.  I have been drinking it since I was very small child and I love it; no cream no sugar.

Coffee is my number one comfort food.  At one time, in graduate school, when I was young and very tired from long hours of physical and emotional work, I drank two pots, pots, of coffee a day and slept well at night.

Later in my life, a doctor wanted to put me on a statin drug, not because my cholesterol was high, but because they were supposed to be so very good for one's arteries.  I tried it.  It was VERY  painful, so I stopped it. My doctor was upset with me and implied that I would die of dementia like my mother, or of a heart attack (probably more from that conversation than from arterial hardening). I decided that I would rather live fewer years absent of agonizing pain, than live 30 years in agonizing pain; odd of me I know.  Now experts are saying that several cups of coffee a day are better for one than a statin.  Did I mention that the same sill Doc had wanted me to stop drinking coffee?

As I said, I love my coffee.  I am also very picky about my coffee maker.  I will only use a maker with a cone shaped filter.  I use Melita filters, recycled paper filters, never a brass reusable one.  I brew strong, aromatic coffee and I drink it hot, tepid or cold, usually sixteen ounces at a time.

I purchased a coffee maker for my son's dorm room which had all the features I prefer and an auto shut off, which the college required.  It got a little moldy and he refused to use it anymore, so I brought it home and I use it (it is completely clean now).  It makes great coffee and I have enjoyed it for two years.

It was only this past weekend that I realized, not unlike poor Luke Skywalker, that Darth Vader has a place in my home!

The coffee has never been a greater force in my life.

Humane Emotion

Philadelphia has been barraged with tragedy these past few days.  Two teenagers went missing, one from an very affluent family and one from a less financially fortunate situation.  One had significant social media, community local and national searches, one had a tag line in the news.  One was found safe and alive and the other was not.

I was filled with relief and joy when the 13 year old girl was found and returned to her family; it made me hopeful for the other lost child.

I was overcome with sorrow when I learned that the 13 year old boy was found dead, on his own estate, four days after he went missing; he had died the same day he was lost, buried under a foot of snowfall.

The city also had another policeman killed on Thursday night.  The father of two children, he was in a Game Stop buying a birthday present for his son, when the store was robbed, and he was shot.  The city mourns, from locals to visitors.  Unknown citizens to famous celebrities have all lined up to grieve and to donate to his family in his memory.

I went out today, on an errand and watched in horror as a small dog ran into traffic was struck a glancing blow, which knocked him down and then was fully crushed by the next passing car.  Neither driver stopped (I had in the opposite lane to avoid the little dog, it all happened too quickly to do anything).  His owner retrieved him from the street and I wept for him and for the dog.

I was also weeping for the lost boy.  I found out he had died, when I went to see if I could help find him.  The parking lot of the rally place was empty, save for one woman, who informed me that his body had been found.

Empathy and sympathy are important emotions; they make us more humane when we feel them. Abstract in concept, but so very really real in experience, they give comfort and compassion to the recipient and expand the capacity for action in those who reach out on those valuable emotions. Hundreds of people turned out to look for this child because they felt the horror of being in the parents situation, and they felt the fear and isolation of the child. Empathy and sympathy are hugely important and need to be nurtured; they bring out our best. We may not all know the feeling of the person in pain directly, but we can imagine.

The money of the affluent family will never comfort their loss; pain is universal regardless of situation.  The loss of a child is infinite, only our empathy, sympathy and care will help buoy them to go on; they will help us go on as well.

The police officer's family has the outpourings of thousands in this city and they deserve our gratitude for his diligence and devotion. I hope it helps, and perhaps helps even enough for us to "Stop shooting our cops."  The new rally cry of the city.

I hope our capacity for conceptual care expands, but I also hope that we move towards much more empathy of joy and happiness.

How Can Plain Be So Vain?

  

  

Dissapointment

We all have disappointments; things that fall short of our hopes, dreams, desires or expectations, Heartbreak, job loss, not getting into that elusive, college, competition, club...the list goes on and on. Most of us deal with them in acceptable and hopefully constructive ways.  Sometimes we rail and throw temper tantrums, but they are short lived, if thrown at all.

Sweet Briar College announced its' closing today; a huge shock and disappointment.  My friends and I wondered if they accepted applications this year for the fall of 2015?  Did they take early admission applications?  If they did and accepted people, is that fraud?

Disappointment can be elevated then, from drat to NO!  What does one do when that happens?  Is it worse for applicants, or for the families and individuals who have invested thousand of dollars and hours of work in study at Sweet Briar already?

People disappoint sometimes too.  Frequently, out of habit we disappoint consistently, that is part of the definition of being human.  When does individual failure escalate from rats, to an intolerable NO?

Perhaps intolerability leads to independence, and the change required to make an individual grow, separate and develop into the very human they were supposed to be.  This is what moves our children to leave home and live on their own.

If we can move through disappointment, even at the criminal level, and seek the rest of the human, can we find joy and satisfaction?  I am reading  a book that calls "expectations  - emotional blackmail;" a heavy accusation.  Every parent I know is guilty, but would not the world be a horrible place if we had no such expectations?  Perhaps that is an illusion of authority and grandeur (or delusions thereof). Parenting requires a certain amount of hubris mixed with courage.  We are responsible for a life and for launching a person onto the rest of the human race; error could be irresponsibly tragic. Is forgiveness in the face of disappointment ransom?

Mistakes and disappointment grease wheels of change or gears of rage, I have moved in both realms, without much effect in either, and that is fortunate.  Sometimes invisibility is a good thing.

A Little Ashtray

February twenty eighth marked the three year anniversary of my Mom's death.  I felt she had lived a long life;  since my Dad died at forty six, eighty nine seemed a really decent age, especially for a life-long smoker with dementia.  All in all, I felt accepting about the inevitable and I wasn't sad, not really.

I do wish my kids had known her longer, she was quite a character and they might have benefited from knowing her later in their lives; or not.

As I said, I was fine about it all.  Then my daughter's boyfriend, who was helping her clean up her stuff, brought down three packages of tea and a small glass dish.  I could barely speak and tears welled up (I suspect he thought I was a bit nuts); it was one of my Mom's ashtrays (I think it is actually a coaster, but she used them as ashtrays). She loved smoking.

I could see her sitting in her recliner, cigarette resting next to her blue glass of ice coffee,

head bent over the ubiquitous book.  She read, on average, one book a night.  I wish I had her aptitude for reading; my brother got that trait. I just missed her at that moment of that ashtray's appearance.

My Mom was superstitious, which is so funny for a psychiatrist.  My friend's mother is also superstitious and is amazed that I know so many of these worrisome practices.  Some are just intelligent: Don't walk under a ladder (duh).  Don't open an umbrella in the house (duh) -  I had to onstage once and it gave me such worries.  Don't put a hat on the bed (duh - think about it).

Do not whistle in a dressing room (?) - I have no idea about that one, and the whole black cat thing is just stupid. Saying "bread and butter" if you and  a friend go around opposite sides of a pole or you will have a fight(?).  Getting out the same side of the bed as you got into it (hence the right side rather than the wrong side of the bed (?).  They go on and on; guess who taught me all those.

Some I think she invented, she was very upset when some of our trees started to die, fearing that it was a bad omen. We even brought the stump of a dead tree from our old house to our new one, for good luck (?).  We put the Halloween pumpkin on it for years, until the stump finally disintegrated. Owls were not welcome near our house, she made loud noises to drive them away; in some Native American traditions owls are harbingers of death.  She was an interesting conglomeration of facts and worries. Being well read can have its' pros and cons.

She kept the "Handbook for Poisoners"  next to her cookbooks, which I always found amusing, especially since she was not fond of cooking, though she was a pretty good, if nervous, cook.


Mom introduced me to:

Charles Addams cartoons



and the engravings of Gustave Dore,
 

for which I will always be indebted.



Funny what one little ashtray can do.  I put it in the china cabinet for safe-keeping.