Fragmented Nonsensical Frustrations

Tolerance is nonsense.
Praying, good vibes, good thoughts, and silences are not going to cut it.

The more hate society builds, the more lines it draws, people it sections into categories labeled with stereotypes that allow those on one side to point fingers and jump to conclusions and lump the "others" all into one neat little bubble of blame, the more and more this is going to happen.
This goes for conservatives pointing fingers at liberals, liberals pointing fingers at conservatives, whites pointing fingers at non-whites, non-whites pointing fingers at whites, christians pointing fingers at muslims, muslims pointing fingers at christians, coffee drinkers pointing fingers at tea drinkers, red heads pointing fingers at brunettes, so on and so on.

Big-endians and little-endians everywhere I look.

All of these false dichotomies, just so we can point fingers and say "YOU! YOU'RE THE PROBLEM!"
It's everyone. It's all around. It's the lines themselves. It's the refusal to believe that there is space enough in the world for all the tastes and tunes of humanity. It's refusal to believe that it is okay for people to be different from oneself, and for oneself to be different from others.

I am less and less able to "tolerate" being here, being a(n unwilling) part of this big, sloppy, sad mass of chaos. And yet I feel, maybe, as though I am needed - because I understand, because I refuse to put up lines, because I practice compassion and kindness toward every living soul I meet at every chance I can to the very very best of my ability, every day. Because I love and relish and delight in the unbelievable and beautiful variegation of the human species, even when I don't agree with it.

What else can I do?
If being kind, compassionate, understanding, and open is what I can do - if stuffing down my personal opinions and tastes and beliefs and putting aside my ego to just be a nice person is what I can do to make a difference - then that's what I'm going to fucking do. If my kindness makes even a small mark in the day of one person, if I am never, ever acknowledged or thanked for it, I have done good.

If my kindness makes one person feel like they matter, like they are not pushed away or unwanted or that they don't belong or have value or are deserving, then I have fully served my purpose.

And there are so many who don't, who won't, who refuse to do this.
There are so many who would homogenize the entire world if they could, who would do away with biodiversity altogether. Who would suffocate difference with hate and fear and greed - who would be glad to make others feel unvalued. Who would have every human being in every corner of the globe as a carbon copy of every other human being.

But selfless kindness is one of the most incredible feelings.
I come face to face with this challenge daily. I face people whose opinions, beliefs, manners, actions, words, tastes I cannot stand. I come face to face with bitter, crotchety, grumpy, bigoted, angry people every day.
But it's an amazing thing what one simple, small act of sincere kindness, without expectation, without egoic attachment - something as simple as listening to someone with full attention and willingness to be open and learn, not dismissing or jumping to conclusions - can do.

I often wonder if we are losing this ability as we communicate more and more with phones and texts and symbols and screens. That we are losing our compassion-ability beyond sharing "#support-this-thing" "#pray-for-this-thing." That we are losing our ability to look into the eyes of another person and be fully present with them for that moment and understand the humanity in them, without letting our own ego, stereotypes, judgements, or preconceptions (as well as distractions) get in the way - to just fully listen and value their presence and the miracle that for a moment you're sharing it.

Now that I've completed this nonsensical emotionally-driven circle rant, I'll just exit with one of my favorites:

"Nature hath given man one tongue but two ears - so we may hear from others twice as much as we speak." - Epictetus

The Mean Grey Horse

I'm remembering my dreams again lately. It's been a long time since I've consistently been able to recall them - a few years at least. When I took a Jungian Theory course, I trained myself into remembering them daily - the very first moments of waking each morning were spent consciously re-narrating and recalling them to myself. That's the most important part, and all it takes is a bit of practice until one daily remembers the adventures they had that night. Unfortunately, it's a practice I let go of for a while (whether that was a conscious neglect or not is up for debate.)

Horses have been in most of them recently. Horses that rebel against my sincere and desperate want of their friendship, that seek my destruction, that lay waste to my relationships, bring guilt and shame with their presence. They kick at me, bite and threaten my life, break out of their stalls, destroy their paddocks, terrorize my family, tear their leads from my hands, run wild and out of my control.

Against natural fear for my life, I stood up to one the other night. A giant, a dappled, dark-grey wild monstrosity with black feather'd pasterns, hateful eyes, and blood of raging fire. I sought his companionship, believing him to be not so bad as he put on, but he always proved me wrong; I'd spent the entire week running from his violent kicks, his snorting and screaming, the way he'd throw every ounce of his unfathomable weight at me and threaten my throat with his granite hooves. But after night in and night out of running and hiding, I'd had enough, and there was nowhere to go; he'd angered my father, got me fired from my job, resurfaced past regrets and failures, depleted my bank account,  refused all attempts at kindness, and chased me into a corner. So I did what any sensible human would do: I stood there and screamed at the top of my lungs for him to just kill me already.

But he didn't. He stilled. He silenced. The storm of dust around him started to settle. Heaving a deep breath, he walked to me and set his nose to my shoulder, letting the weight of his giant head down onto it. This war monger that tormented me for seven nights turned instantly into a lamb, and all I could do was release an admittedly half-disappointed sigh.

I remember learning in that course that the things that threaten our lives in our dreams, the things we want (or feel the need to) desperately to run from, whose threats seem to be inescapable guarantors of our ruin, or at least pain, are the things we need most to stop running from. Every time we stop running from them - a building collapsing on us, a beast on our heels, a serial killer chasing us - every time we let the bad thing simply happen, or make the conscious decision to let it happen, everything changes - and it never leads, despite all previous certainty, to one's destruction.

The real task, however, is figuring out what, in my waking life, this creature who features in all my dreams, has disguised himself as.

I've committed to spending the remainder of the year devoted to fairly Stoic practices. I've reverted my smart phone to a dumb one that does nothing more than text, call, show me a map, and allow me dictionary access; deactivated all social media accounts; cancelled the cable television service; asked my brother to turn off Netflix and Hulu sharing; set a $35/week grocery budget (complete with a list of unnecessary or indulgent foods to let go of, mainly sugars and animals); set limits on internet time; and a whole bunch of other small things that are all geared toward reestablishing appreciation, values, and getting rid of all the distracting rubbish that seems to have built up around me over the last two years.

Since I am no longer spending my days in a state either at the mercy of my own frantic emotions or utterly distracted by the mind-numbing baubles that contemporary society dangles here and there to keep us all obedient to its agenda, the inclination to do more reflecting, or at least narrating, in here, like an old friend, has found its way back to me.

Lilliput

What a mess this country is in.

It seems to me that it's nothing more than an endless tirade of citizen against citizen. White against Black against White against Mexican against Mexican against Black against Black against White against White. That their need to 'bear arms' is in self-defense against each other; against their fellow citizens, their own community, their neighbors. It seems every One is in fear of every Other.

I find myself living in a place where my fellow humans are so mistrustful of each other than they must carry deadly weapons on their person at all times.

I find the compulsive drive for social hierarchy one of the most heart-breaking and ignorant practices facing this landscape; the need to elevate oneself against another; the need for an Other in order to validate the Self, the non-Other. The need to point out, attack, and degrade the superficial differences of fellow human beings, out of nothing more than pure ignorance and bigoted Opinion, with no Reason or Fact, with the sole purpose of establishing one's own Superiority.

Gulliver's Travels is on the forefront of my mind.
The Little-Endians and Big-Endians are as prominent as ever, the divide as wide as ever, and the absurdity of this utterly trivial division is just as potent and noxious as it were in this 1726 world - yet they remain blind to those qualities of it and continue to uphold it with great urge and ferocity.

I have found myself surrounded by more insidious and blatant, wide-open bigotry, ignorance, prejudice than ever before. The first Amendment seems to be to be little more than 'Asshole Rights' in the community immediately around me; the right to remain bigoted, the right to believe 'that niggers are a problem' the right to believe that 'whites are supreme' the right to believe that 'women are inferior to men' and the right to express and perpetuate all of this madness.

It breaks my heart that the words on these peoples' iconic statue of liberty, which they behold like a god and celebrate so highly and profoundly in their images and words, are overlooked entirely, as if, at some point, someone erased them entirely.

This year has been an awful one in many respects.
The only American thing I have left in me, in this world, is my passport, and sometimes even that seems like a disgrace.

If it were up to me, I'd be back on Inis Oírr with Jack and Brógan living a minimal life in ignorant bliss with a garden of sweet potatoes and speaking in tongues.

Orioles in Late Spring

I'm sitting on the patio having my morning coffee and cigarette and trying to be as still as I can while the house sparrows and grackles eat from the feeder next to me. Within the past few days we've had the appearance of about four Boston Orioles, I can hear them singing  now- such a rich voice! There's great depth to their song. They're not as common around here as one might think, and it seems its rare for them to stick around unless they have good reason to. Yesterday I took a break from painting for lunch and decided I'd sit on the patio and do a bit of reading. I accomplished very little of what I set out to. A few days ago I heard a new song join our bird chorus and I wasn't sure what it was.  I sat with my computer listening to samples of things, and it sounded somewhere between a rose-breasted grosbeak and an oriole - I so badly wanted it to be an oriole but the actual song itself was different from all the clips I'd heard online. I thought maybe each set of birds came up with their own unique song, but wasn't sure.
To my great excitement yesterday during lunch, I discovered that indeed the song belonged to the Orioles, as I spotted the female picking around our firewood and singing away. Each time I heard the song I couldn't keep my eyes on the book. Eventually I gave up on reading and went into the garage to dig around for our oriole feeder after putting out a few oranges (supposedly they like oranges, but I have yet to see success in this, I always find the oranges still in tact and shriveled up from the sun a few days later). It seems our feeder was thrown out sometime in the midst of one of our seasonal garage cleanings, so I'll be making a trip to the store today to get a new one and see if they'll take to it and stick around for the summer.

I've diligently kept our feeder full all winter. Sometime in January I moved it next to the kitchen window so I could watch the birds as they fed. February was so cold that visits were few and far between to it, but come April they were making up for it. Mostly house sparrows and grackles come to it, I'm sad the chickadees don't seem to care much for it as they're one of my favourites and often very bold little birds. There may not be enough black sunflower in it for them so maybe I'll pick some of that up.

At any rate, I'm having a nice time hanging out with the birds in the back and the neighbours might think I'm a little strange sitting here with my binoculars but they're just a joy to watch and listen to. Brógan and Jake don't mind, they're enjoying sunbathing before the heat gets too unbearable.

Where did I leave off?
Things got strange and stressful fast at the stable, with managers and coworkers coming and going on what seemed like a weekly basis. I enjoyed it while it lasted but to be honest I'm glad I left. I still stand by that barn and what they do for the community but it seems its a miracle they can keep the place afloat with the way things are done and it's a shame that the management don't value good employees - and I don't mean myself, I mean the people I worked with who'd been there for three years and worked their asses off daily out of love for the horses and program, but were never given anything more than minimum wage, not allowed any breaks, or even coffee. I couldn't believe the coffee thing. I was pretty good about keeping my coffee-drinking hidden, and I went two months without the head manager noticing, but eventually she spotted me sipping out of my thermos as I walked from one section of stalls finished stalls to the next section of dirty ones and I got the second degree for it; "Coffee is for Starbucks, not stables. I don't ever want to see coffee here again." I was half ashamed of myself for drinking it and half in stitches over how absurd I found it. It was near the end of my time there,  I'd already put in my two weeks, so I kept bringing my coffee in anyway. No coffee, no work.

After that I spent a few weeks doing nothing but trying to learn code, working on development projects, and applying to every-other-job-under-the-sun here; tech companies, startups, galleries, museums, coffee shops, grocery stores, both in cleveland and abroad, but without any luck. I swear there must be a mark on my forehead that says "DO NOT HIRE." The closest I came was a skype-interview with a tech company in Sacramento, and they were very encouraging but said that they needed someone with more experience - they left off to say "come back in about a year and we'll be really interested to see what you've been doing." That was about the closest.

Out of frustration, a little bit of bitterness, and realizing I had the rare urge to paint, I declared myself on an at-home-residency indefinitely to get my shit together. I know better than to ignore the urge to paint because nothing good comes of it, ever. I threw everything else aside: all the things I "should be" doing, the job I "should be" finding, the career I "should be" pursuing, the need for money, the worrying about my car, about moving out, the pressure to do certain things, pursue certain things, act certain ways. I dropped it all. I dropped it all and did what I wanted to do - paint - and an unexpected thing happened within the very first week; I felt good.

I really didn't think it worked that way.

It sounds simple and silly but - I feel good. I feel good. I haven't felt this good in a year. I haven't felt this myself in what feels like a long time. The binge eating stopped. The inability to sleep has stopped. The anxiety has calmed significantly. I feel like I can see, and breathe. I expected to be anxious the whole time - worried about the work I'm not doing, about the job I don't have, the money I'm not making, the bills I'm not paying. But it's not turning out that way.

I wake up each morning with eagerness and excitement to start the day, no more fear, no more reluctance. I go to bed each night looking forward to the next day.

I'm doing simple things. I'm painting. Sketching. Brushing up on art history and theory. Chores around the house. The garden is in. For the first time in two years I have ideas starting to form in my head - all sorts of projects and experiments to work on, and desire to do it. My mind feels clearer.

I know this won't go on for long until something pushes me back into the usual flow of 'responsible, normal adult life.' But I'm going to enjoy the hell out of it while I can, and count my blessings that Im able to do this, no matter for how short.

The good:

I have the pleasure of spending every morning toiling away rubbing shoulders with some truly wonderful creatures (some grumpy, however, would rather me not be in the stall with them), listening to the birds, and feeling my muscles ache.

I have a tonne more free time and energy. We are usually done with mucking and bedding around 11:30 in the morning, and I'm home by noon with enough spark left to get a good deal of things done and let ideas flow. It feels fantastic.

The weather is turning better. On Saturday as I let the dogs out around 6am, I heard the birds for the first time in what must be months. I know they've been around, but they've been so quiet. I can't remember for certain, but I may have done a little jump of joy at that moment. Amazing what a bit of sunlight and warmth can do this time of year.

I've a few cold weather crop seedlings (mainly lettuce) starting in the studio now. If they get too big before we're out of our frost season, they'll do okay as microgreens in a container I have. I'm looking forward to gardening. Last year I wasn't able to put much time or energy into it, and my plants failed fairly bad, so I won't let that happen again this year.


The Bad:

I received my final school rejection letter today. No grad school, at least this year.

Our boss fell off a horse while riding drunk and bruised his kidney, gallbladder, and hip. Considering the slim pickings of our little crew, the barn manager has thusly placed me in charge. This means a much longer shift for me for the time being, and at least twice the work, which results in me coming home utterly wrecked. I'm hoping this won't last too long. As much as I do adore the horses.



So that's all for now. It feels like my legs are still crunched under me and there's a good bit of grime left to work off, but it's loosening, and there's more relief in that than I can describe.

Doors

Open and close so quickly.

I received my first grad school rejection letter today.
On one hand, I wasn't surprised, nor nearly as upset as I expected to be - there's that ever-present and very strong voice of self-doubt that follows me everywhere and comforts me in the event that it was correct.
On the other hand, it was the school I was hoping for the most and thus it was by far the most well put-together application I'd done and I had a fair bit of optimism for it.

So the question goes through my mind: What do I do if I don't go to grad school? How do I make my work better - whether to apply again next year, or just for the sake of pushing it? How do I keep up with it?
I feel so estranged from my studio practice and art community. The days of being absorbed in it seem like a far away dream that I can barely remember anymore.

I can't deny that my ego feels a little sore as a result. Between undergrad and now it feels like I've put so much work , intent, and sincerity into everything I've done - trying to maintain a job I loathed despite my ill feelings for it, fitting in painting time, over two dozen hopeful job applications, and few things seem to work out. I don't feel defeated so much as I feel confounded - what do I keep doing wrong? Am I aiming too high? What is my work lacking? What is my language lacking?  What is my personality lacking?

And then the big question: where do I go from here?

On the bright side, the barn called back and scheduled an interview with me for tomorrow. I am holding my breath now.

Out of the frying pan

....and into the ice bucket.

Brógan does a funny thing whenever someone tickles me, picks me up, or tries to dance with me (of course, this is 99% of the time Jack). He stands up boldly, defiantly, hair subtly rising on his hackles, begins to whine and whimper, then gingerly jumps up on the "assailant" and begins to push and paw at them, and shove his nose in their side repeatedly.
If said assailant doesn't listen, the force of his pushing goes from 'ginger' to 'frantic' and includes jumping and scratching, and the whining turns into a desperate half-whine-half-woof.
But it never goes beyond that.

When the assailant retreats, Brógan wiggles and wags his tail and whimpers and climbs on me and 'smiles' in submission (one of the unique traits of a Chesapeake is their grin - a literal turning-up of the lips to show teeth, done either when extremely excited/happy or submissive), I assume because he thinks I will yell at him for misbehaving - but in this instance I never do. I usually laugh, shrug him off, and when he settles I hug him. His heart was in the right place, anyway, he's a good boy.

I have to laugh when this happens because it's such a good illustration of internal conflict. Poor Brógan suffers from tension between the desire to get the assailant to back off (his nature means he wants to bite, he wants to bark, scratch, do what dogs do to 'defend' what is theirs), and the knowledge that biting/scratching/aggression is bad (based on previous experiences). Pushing with a nose is one step away from a bite - a type of warning. The hackles indicates aggression, along with the affirmative stance - he's trying to make himself big and scary. All indicators that he's not a fan of the situation and is ready to fight it. The whining, the gentile pushing, that's pleading - that's the evidence that he wants one thing, badly, but knows its wrong, that he shouldn't/can't do it, and so he whines instead.


This is, essentially, how I've felt for a long time now regarding work.

After talking with numerous people at work and my dad, I've decided to take a withdrawal. This means I'm still a union member, but I'm no longer 'active'; I can't work, collect unemployment, benefits, go to meetings, classes, or anything else, but I'm still in the union, pay yearly dues, and can return my withdrawal card and go back to work at any time. Withdrawal has no timeline, and it remains valid unless I stop paying dues or decide to leave entirely.

Cue an enormous sense of relief.
Also cue a bit of anxiety and fear.

When I told Jack this, he was thrilled. A big smile crossed his face and he hugged me with support - his work permit was activated a few weeks ago and he's been working from home doing full-time freelancing and trying his best to convince me to let him take over the financial burden for a while and regain my composure. I'm too stubborn to let him do that because I know what it's like to work and not be able to enjoy or even dictate what you do with the money you worked hard to earn, and as well as that it's his first job (bar working at a Chinese restaurant in his teens) so I didn't want to put any more stress on him than he'd already have getting adjusted to the routine.

At any rate, I've applied for about 7 jobs in the last 36 hours because I'm neurotic and realize that I need some sort of reliable income, however little it might be. Last night it came to my attention that the stable I grew up riding at and haunting throughout my childhood (I dreamed for years and years of working at this place - it was my dream job) was hiring part-time morning stall-muckers. No sooner was this brought to my attention than I was flying out the door to grab an application form - a simple, one-page fill-in-the-blanks form. Being neurotic, of course, I came home and typed up the best cover letter and relevant CV that I could muster, printed them on nice paper, folded them up, and returned them to the barn bright and early this morning. It so happened that your man in charge of this work was there and was thrilled when I returned them to him, asking (jokingly) if I could start tomorrow. He asked a few questions about my experience with horses, machinery, and manual labor, and then said, with a lot of enthusiasm and relief, that it was the best application he'd received and he'd be looking to start the work next week, checked about five times to make sure my phone number was in there, and that he'd be in touch within a few days.

So my fingers are really double triple quadruple crossed for that. I'd probably bring home about a third of what I was bringing home from the trade, but the tradeoff for work I enjoy, in a place that I enjoy, and more time to pursue larger goals would be well worth it.

In the meantime, my head is slowly wrapping itself around the idea that I have some time right now, and not so much pressure. It'll take a while for me to shed the layers of junk that have built up over the course of the last two years, but it feels possible right now.

The breathing room I'm afforded for the time being feels too good to be true. There's a part of me resisting sitting down and relaxing, big time, but I'll get there.