Slight Spring in Mid Winter

I’ve sat here for four nights now trying to put into words the trouble that my most recent drawing has been. 

Trying to find the words for the way its stomach-churning howl echoed through the rafters of my mind, splintered here and there by the continual stream of voices that have gathered there to do their horrible dancing. Locusts, insatiable and restless; humming, thrumming, buzzing, consuming, eternally.

My dad would say “better out than in” but it feels like dirty laundry. Like punching yourself in the nose, then showing off the bruise - and forgetting how you got it. A bad dream, a fit, imaginary. Was this real? Was it me? I can’t touch any of it.

Reaching the shore after this one merited tangible, palpable relief. I’m making a point of not looking back at it, either. 

Today we had a warm spell and I felt alive for the first time since Thanksgiving. Muddy paws and boots alike - happiness all around. Chickadees (please please come visit us) in pines, bluejays in beeches, the eerie silence of a red-tailed hawk overhead, and the unmistakable trill of a lone kingfisher across the swollen river. Smiling in the sun, pale and ghostly from the winter, eyes squinting and stinging, the world looking washed-out in brightness, laughing with full hearts drunk on warmth and fresh air, feverishly wishing from the soles of our eight feet that it didn’t have to end. 

Mid-Winter Clearing

It took eight days. Eight long, frustrating days of battle against brambles in my chest and thistledown in my head. I feared at one point that my skull might shatter from the pressure and cast a million fluffy seeds free into the house (which would have been much to Tipper’s merriment) or that I might awaken to find myself merged with the sofa in a very Kafka’s-Samsa-meets-O’Brien’s-de Selby manner. And since I’m given to shelling myself with buckets of frustration when I’m not keeping up with things (this pleasant little passtime of mine falls under the category of ‘nice things acquired along my three-year misadventure’) I was lucky enough to top the whole charade off with a day-long stress-induced migraine. The freedom is feeling human again is most welcome.

Jack taught me today that there are no past or future tenses in Chinese. That I speak yesterday, I speak today, and I speak tomorrow. There was a program on the radio that I was sorry to have missed which talked about how language effects our perception of the world and the ways we behave it. I  vaguely remember reading something about this a few years ago when I was poking around in linguistic theory, and how my thoughts ran amok considering all the ways in which our worlds are limited by this symbolism. 

I equally remember reading vehement arguments against this idea (the details of which were far too onerous, if not downright fustian, in vocabulary for me to have truly internalized and been able to later recall). 

I can’t help but feel that there must be something to it. Language as semiotic, as symbol, as stand-in, as mirror, as at times imposter, and even simulacra; itself defining what constitutes any given thing, rather than the thing itself being the matrix. Is it possible that society understands and reacts to its world primarily through the ways in which it communicates it? Is it possible that my understanding of and relationship to the world I exist in is experienced only through my learned symbolism of it? How restricted our understanding, our ability to exist. I can’t do much but offer questions, as I haven’t enough authority on the topic to offer statements, or answers (and lest I step on the toes of those linguists who might come parading to my house with torches and pitchforks).

What a language doesn’t have words for surely says just as much about it as the things for which it does, so it seems to me. I remember learning my freshman year, in an introductory critical thinking and art theory course, that language is a failure. That it will forever shortfall the depth and bredth of the truths for which it attempts to stand in for. Made worse in efforts to translate across different tongues (and, are not our own minds, laden with their unique lived experiences, memories, associations, each their own tongue as well?). 

I don’t mean to sell language short of its absolute magnificence, or doubt my own love for it. To paraphrase David Chrystal, there is nothing more complex, nothing a greater testament to human creativity and innovation, nothing so impressive that we could possibly build with our hands or tools or technologies, as our languages, and all their incredible variations. 

I need to stop now or this post will end up thrice as long.

Mid-Winter Brambly Chests Day 03

I haven’t been sick enough to succumb to taking medicine in at least five years. The last time was when my dad and I both came down with the proper flu and were stuck on the sofa with high fevers and aches - nothing in the medicine cabinet seemed to help, and we tried it all. Typically when I feel subpar I just try rest, a boatload of greens, garlic, and turmeric, and a bunch of water and herbal tea. Usually that does the trick and prevents me from giving any money to drug companies and putting their rubbish in my body. But alas, here I am, bitterly waving my white flag with a cup of Theraflu in hand, spiting the state of myself and the chair I’ve been stuck in all day. 

I’m probably making everything worse by getting all worked up about something that’s out of my control. I did some yoga and meditation this afternoon, with hopes that at least it would at least chill me out, but it only exasperated things; I found myself thereafter curled up on the sofa with half a working nostril, a spinning feverish head, a whole new branch of thorns in my chest, and asking Jack (who was having a much better day today) if he’d run out for medicine.

It’s only been three days and I’m ready to bash my head through the wall with frustration. I love reading, and I’ve been playing plenty of zone-the-heck-out-of-life video games, but I'm way over my tolerance for both. My head protests when I start to think about doing actual work, like rebuilding my website or working on a statement, and while sitting on the porch was okay for a while there's no way I'm going out for a walk in the rain. 

My sympathy goes out to anyone who has any kind of chronic illness or pain. There’s a level of strength required there that I can’t imagine. 

Well, everyone around seems to agree that their respective bugs have lasted about seven days. So, just wake me up Friday week. 

Mid-Winter Brambly Chests

Going to try this from the app rather than the browser so that I can upload images. So this is a bit of a test. 

I woke up this morning to a thicket of brambles grown into my throat and chest. It seems that even reclusive ways of life are not enough to escape the grips of cold season. I don’t know how Jack and I picked this nonsense up but whoever is to blame owes us vegetable pho. And a pound each of turmeric and garlic. 

And a refill of mint tea. As interest. 

The worst part is just being laid up. It’s not the nightmare flu that’s going around; neither of us has a fever or chills, but the soreness in my chest and lack of energy and swimmy head are just enough to keep doing much of anything at bay and it's driving me bonkers sitting around all day. Especially since the weather is having a warm spell that would be good for taking Brógan out.

I did get some painting done throughout the day though. This current one is taking ages - in part because of the holidays, but mostly because I'm not particularly fond of it so the work is more cumbersome than usual. I have my first solo show coming up in two months, and I have to have all the work done by mid February so it can be framed. As is usual for me, the more the pressure grows, the less I am likely to do the work. Logic. 

(Tipper’s favourite thing in the universe right now is rolling around tugging at hoodie strings while I try to paint. And drinking watery paint out of the palette. And scattering all of my brushes at night so I have to hunt for each one in the morning. She outsmarts every attempt I make at preventing this.)

On the bright side, we finally had a new visitor to our feeder today; a mourning dove, come to eat the seed I spread on the cement wall of the porch. I was so excited about it that I even called Jack over to see. If this were the house I grew up in it wouldn't be noteworthy - they were daily visitors at the ground below the feeders at my family's house. Only the red-breasted gosbeaks, orioles, hummingbirds, juncos, and rare redpolls would merit a summoning of viewers. The doves, bluejays, goldfinches, chickadees, nuthatches, titmice, those lovely red-headed house finches, and robins were unremarkable - oh what I would give to see them now. 

The sparrows’ wee chirps are very sweet though, and I appreciate them anyway. 

Come to think of it, I can't recall my parents getting an outstanding amount of house sparrows at all. A few, mixed in with tree sparrows, but not at all the amount we get. In the summer we get a few grackles and starlings, but it's been exclusively house sparrows otherwise. I partially blame the tree cover; there isn't much of it at our house, no security for the shy-er birds. Then the density of our neighborhood and overall lack of woody cover and natural plant life; houses very close together with tiny barren gardens, limited natural habitat for them. We keep the feeder at the front porch where we can see it - it would make no difference in the tiny back garden anyway. Tippercat enjoys it too - her chosen spot for snoozing is atop the sofa at our big front window, with its premium view. Today she started chattering at them as well.

This is my life from the sofa: Brógan's snores, Tipper's chattering, and house sparrows. I have nothing better to talk about. Here's to hoping these brambles clear soon so we can play outside again.