Lifetime Debris

Today I helped to clean out another house of an elderly person no longer able to inhabit her space.  It is usually a her whose life is being boxed and removed, as women typically outlive their spouses; she is no exception.

Like most of the people whose lives are being boxed, we cannot quite figure out why they have the things they do.  Embroidered linens, several sets of bone china, some intact, others so chipped as to be unsafe, but still on the shelves.  Mismatched glasses, crab dishes, multiple salad sets, opera gloves; detritus of another era, another life and better health.

I always come to the same nagging, terrifying question:  when they come for my stuff what will they think?  Madwoman, followed by the repetitious "Why did she save this?"  and coupled with "What in the hell did she need this for?"

When I die I want to be cremated and I want my childhood stuffed toy to be burned with me. He must never be thrown into the trash (he is bound with stitches all over, duct tape to hold his battered fibers in place and carefully stowed for that moment, too cherished to be loved anymore).  The rest of my stuff will be up to those after me. In the meantime I should lessen the burden of junk.  I hope they can sell or give away my artwork, but again, it will not be my problem then.

What in your closet?

Time, Distance and Rest

I spent the morning in Utrecht/Dick Blick getting art supplies.  Then I lugged them up all 63 stairs to my studio; five yards of CD12  (i.e. 12 ounces per square yard) canvas and twelve double weight stretcher bars ranging in size from 36" to 72" - yikes!  Then I descended to the press room to pull monotypes, (one of a kind prints) on the restored etching press, for three hours.

When making monotypes I mix ink and roll it out over an entire plate surface and then take it away to reveal white parts of the image.  I did this several times and then several times more over the same print.  I netted six prints, most of which still need work.

Cleaning up took 45 minutes.

I packed up and went home to watch some idiot box and to try to recover from the treachery of realizing that the day was likely a complete waste of time, effort and materials.  As I did not want anybody to see the mess I made, I had brought the prints home, wrapped in a special sort of waxed paper called glasseine, which keeps the inky parts intact.

After dinner, I unpacked the prints to be sure they could dry.

They are not so bad, I may even like a couple. Tomorrow I may make some tiny ones after I finish teaching.

Time, distance and rest can change perspective so quickly.

HAPPY HAPPY

Today is my daughter's birthday so we have been out celebrating at an amazing restaurant in Philadelphia  here is the web site:

http://sushi.madamesaito.com/

A delightful place, where the owner is the outstanding chef and she made our dinner!  Her personal story is fascinating, including earning an honorary EDd from Temple.  Not too often have I been served hand made sushi by a Dr. of Education.  Thank you Mme Saito.

Tomorrow I teach, substituting for a very good art teacher, which is tough, because her students really miss her when she is out.  I will do my best, but will go to bed early to prepare my stamina for their teenage energy!

Happy Birthday, Happy Sushi, happy Friday!

Progress

Really? I Said "Yes," To This?

Yesterday I once again submitted myself to the hands of another skilled professional.  I do this, every time, with great trepidation; I hate this part of my life.  I often berate myself for allowing these people to do with my flesh as they will; I hate the loss of control.  I hate the barbarity, while admiring the deftness, training and courage of the people to whom I so willingly (and unwillingly) give my body. They are surgeons.

I had a basal cell carcinoma, first biopsied by a blade and then later removed.  The biopsy was a "shave biopsy."  When I shave, I glide a razor over the very surface of the skin, when a Dermatologist shaves, a hole is created; then the pathology report arrives.  Cancer, but the very best kind; basal cell is very curable and is to be expected in transplant recipients.  I am at forty times greater risk of skin cancer; I bathe in sunscreen.  Nevertheless, I had a small lesion. I would be awake for the removal performed under a local; I would so much rather be asleep. You may now start clucking like a chicken to mock me, for I am a chicken.

My husband went with me, though the nurse said I would be able to drive (it would have been an interesting ride).  I am so glad he went with me. I do not react well to epinephrine which is added to the lidocaine.  When I start out scared and then add a stimulant, the result is not pretty; sweaty hands, racing heart, shaking - pathetic.  My husband held my hand and also watched the procedure, he's pretty amazing that way.  I was glad he watched, I certainly did not; I am not amazing that way. Having done so, he could give me information afterwards.  It is not my imagination, that is a bigger incision than I expected. I hope I am safe from the basal cell nonsense now.

I am delighted to report that my surgeon used glue to close the three inch wound.  There will be no stitch removal, I have almost no pain, and it will, eventually be a nice line of a scar, rather than Frankenstein's sutures. Still in all, while I am very grateful to be relieved (fingers crossed) of this illness, I am still amazed that I walked into a room, with a slop bucket on the floor for my body's spillage, and said "Please cut me open and tear away part of my arm."  I know that part had cancer, but it still sits uneasily in my mind. I thanked the doctor, his nurses and assistants, they did an amazing job. They have my loyalty and my admiration, I do not have their courage, only a patient's courage (such as it was, trembling and sweating, rather like my dog at the vet).

The long and the short of it all: I hate what happens in surgery, but the people who practice their skill on me have saved my life, several times.  I just wish it would get easier and less frightful. Advice: wear sunscreen, and try to accept (better than I, tremble, tremble) what comes your way.

OH NO! Tell Me it Still Works!

I dropped my phone the other day.  I was trying to read a text in the garage and I dropped it on the concrete floor.  I have done this before, many times; the skin of the phone is dinged, scratched and marred.  It has lost all of its' port covers and will not accept a memory card, but it is a terrific phone.

People laugh at me whe I show them my phone.  It can get the internet, I can watch TV on it, it texts, accepts voice commands, takes photos and video.  It is a marvel of engineering and extremely durable; until this recent drop.

There is a bat-wing shaped black blob at the top of my screen followed by a fascinating series of arcing cracks in the glass.  The cracks are on the interior of the screen; the exterior glass of the screen is smooth as ever.  I can still do everything, but once in a while, something seems to go amiss.

I need a new battery, which fortunately, I can get for a couple of dollars on Amazon (yes you sad Smart Phone users I can replace the battery).  I know a need a new one because the charge only lasts a few hours instead of a few days.

By now you are beginning to realize that I have a special phone.  It makes me feel like I am in Star Trek, because it flips open and I can almost talk to Scotty on it.  One day I am sure to answer it "Beam me up Scotty."  I do no have to enter a code or slide an imaginary bar to receive a call, I open it, as I do to dial.  I do not pay for data use because I opt to not pay for data,; I can do that.  I do not pay for insurance because I do not need insurance and I do not have a contract, haven't for years.

My phone is a 2006 LGVX8300 and it still woks beautifully, except for that bat, those cracks and half a text message the other day - but that may have been a glitch in the system. One day however, I know that I will have to replace my phone and I dread that day.

https://www.cellularcountry.com/manufacturers-lg-c-60_134_136_199/lg-vx8300-camera-phone-bluetooth-for-verizon-p-10165

I do not want to learn a new phone, or lose the history I have with this one.  I got it just before our first trip to Disney.  I carried everywhere while I waited for the call from the Transplant Center at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I received at least eight of the calls from the transplant center on it (it took twelve tries and several years to finally get the transplant so my  phone and I were very close for a long time).  I received endless support from friends and family over the same phone. It went with me on all our college visits and delivery trips to the chosen schools.  It is a part of my life and it is old. In phone years it is Methuselah; I respect that.

New phones come and go and are built to expire.  Mine was built to last.  My children's phones, which I bought at the same time, were both stolen; they were worth stealing at the time.  By today's standards it is no longer valuable, but loyalty and experience tell me otherwise.

May my little flip live on with its' resident bat, lest I line up to purchase a brick with no soul, but lots of toys.  I know that new flip phones are still available, but if I have to buy new, I will get a phone with a much better camera, even I have some technological lust.

A Ghost Part Deux

A success never realized, a brilliance never polished, a  passion never peaked; are these the motivations for a ghost?

Early last week, I wrote a post about a ghost (and now I write like Dr. Seuss).  The ghost was the host of tired woman's roast; for none have left me to ponder my woes.  My son thinks I'm crazy, my colleagues fear lazy, my daughter immune, my friend's son quite hazy.  Many long nights have I much tossed and turned, to think of the reason they so dryly spurn, belief in my senses; they laugh rear my stern.

Seriously, I do not believe in ghosts, but my experience last week was palpable.  I realize that the conversations of others implant ideas which are then more easily realized, but, I have never been influenced in that direction.

I have spent the last few days wondering not only, what did I feel and why, but also why did I write about it so rapidly?  I wrote because what I felt was real and because I did not want to wriggle out of facing the sensation; no back-pedaling in the light of day nonsense.

I went to the studio the next day and went into the other rooms, adjacent to my studio, to tell the ghost that it need not worry, that the rooms were to be a place to honor and remember history, therefore it would become the perfect place for a ghost to reside in peace; that was weird.  Speaking to myself is not an uncommon thing for me to do, it helps me think ideas through because it engages more than one sense, and more than one area of the brain; talking to the air, that was weird.

It was the air, of course.  In considering why, all of a sudden, I should feel something ghostly, it did not take too long to determine, that the ghost I was sensing, was myself. I have been in the building since I was five years old; fifty years.  Parts of me are certainly ghosts in that structure. In the archives are old white Victorian dresses worn for graduation, not unlike the dress I wore to my own graduation; my daughter also wore it, to hers.  The dress is still in my closet upstairs.  It has ghostly memories of a tragically awkward girl in a costume remarkably unlike her, in every possible way.  I even wore it to a charity cotillion to honor a debutante; absurd.  A flying rhinoceros would be more logical, and likely more attractive.

It was in that place that I learned art as well.  Last year, I spent time with a teacher I had not seen in over thirty years, she was important to me at a terrible time of my life.  It was wonderful to see her; she is as special as I had remembered her to be.  Next week I am having dinner with the teacher who taught me to paint and to etch. The history of the place and of myself is intertwined.

As I re-enter the world of art, I must ask: "Am I up to the task?  Am I just a ghost of myself?"  It is a terrible question and one I must answer in the next couple of months.  As I paint, day after day and eventually face the etching press on which I learned my trade, I must find out: Did I kill the skill or does it love me still?

The work I did this week, have silenced any ghosts in my mind.  I am alive and can get to the place I once knew with my work; we are in stride and I am so calm and happy to be in the presence of the muse, whom I feared had become a wraith.  There are no ghosts in my studio, nor anywhere else in my life.