Winter: Cormorants and Dickens

Today is one of those days that feels like it's made up of five different days, courtesy of too little sleep. The Tippercat leapt up and scared the sleep right out of me long before the sun came up and I wasn't able to catch it again. Thus, a sort of grumbling discontent and nagging anxiety was humming away within me for most of the day - I suppose there wasn't enough sleep in the night to fully snuff its yawping from the previous day. Amazing how starting the day off on the wrong foot has such an abiding sourness.

My dad follows the video blog of a group of adventurers aboard their ship Delos as they travel the world. In one particular episode they happened across an island loaded with seabirds off the coast of Africa. Knowing my love of birds, particularly cormorants (who are right up there with the wrens, chickadees, magpies, and ravens) he was excited to share the episode when he'd seen it a few weeks back. The crew remarked on the incredible density of the birds and the overwhelming guano smell radiating in the air in the seas around the island - which really was more of a very large and jagged rock that you could only see parts of, where the birds weren't covering it. They weren't able to dock because it's protected by Namibia's government and requires a permit due to the status of the wildlife there, but they managed to get the researcher residing there off for a few drinks and songs at the pub on the mainland. When I left the house that evening I had an overwhelming urge to try and reach out to that researcher and thank him - twenty years spent on a guano-soaked rock doing the, sadly, thankless job of monitoring 80% of the populations of particular sea birds. Twenty years surrounded by naught but sea and stench and squawking! That's some bit of sacrifice.

So it took me a great deal of rummaging through the internet and searching for any bit of information until I happened across a blog (here on blogspot of all places) that even mentioned his name - and from there another while of digging around until I could find any contact information, but the search was successful and so I took a huge step out of my comfort zone. I sent the penguin-man a long reaching-out message to let him know that a small someone on the other side of the earth appreciates what he does. I didn't expect a reply back (and had half expected him to be a cynical grump of a man after all that time, more resembling an attitude akin to the likes of that harsh rock than a biologist devoted to his life's cause at that point) but a series of conversations have since ensued that have proven my fears wrong and been a real treat. The cormorants and penguins and gannets are very lucky to have someone who cares so deeply for them as to devote their life to them.

I'm also glad I'm not the only human in existence who doesn't loathe the fiach mara, and finds them charming and striking in their own way (thank you, cormorants of Inis Oírr, for bringing your unappreciated character to my attention.)

It could be because Ive neglected a lot of relationships over the past four years - unanswered emails, unreturned phone calls, nothing but regrets for plans - living on my own version of this penguin island - and the guilt is onerous, so the warm feeling that comes from helping someone out, reaching out, letting someone know you care, feels stronger than it previously would have. Who knows. But making a difference in a living being's day - any positive impact at all - must be one of the purest forms of joy there is, however small.

Speaking of warm, I'm looking forward to curling up with a blanket and making a further dent in the library's copy of David Copperfield tonight. It occurred to me at some point this afternoon that I've officially lumped Charles Dickens in with winter-only activities, alongside listening to Simon and Garfunkel (snowy weather only), hikes in the park after noon (too busy for free-ranging Brógans any other time of the year), hot bowls of Flahavans, hunting for snowy owls and shed antlers, block-printing, blueberry tea, and anything remotely clove-scented. I only just read Dickens for the first time at exactly this time last year - A Christmas Carol, surprise surprise, followed by A Tale of Two Cities - and I liked both of them far more than I expected to. Yet I couldn't bring myself to read anything further once March hit. The warm air of spring came around and I feared that something in his language, or the stories, would be lost if I tried to read them without the frigid winter's night surrounding me. Alas, he'll remain on the list of many things that make me look forward to and enjoy the dark and bitter parts of the year, and I'll enjoy it while I can.

Early Winter Starlings and Merry-Go-Rounds

Jack and I adopted a kitten two weeks ago. I've never been particularly keen of cats, though I love all creatures, but Jack is fond of them. Knowing that we have a warm and loving home that the poor thing was in need of, how could I say no, particularly at this time of year - bitter cold, Christmas cheer and all that.

It's been interesting. I think we got quite lucky with her - she's endlessly affectionate, relatively fearless, well-mannered, curious of all things, playful, not at all fussy, and very tidy. So far anyway. By no means can I claim even a beginner's level of cat expertise and knowledge, but I do know they can be fickle, and are far more independent and prone to sticking with their own agenda than my familiar Brógan's human-oriented constitution might be. I suppose we will enjoy the affection and sweetness for however long it lasts.

Speaking of loving all creatures, I've been invested in our local bird-watching community for the past few months. There's much ado about starlings and house sparrows lately. It breaks my heart that these self-proclaimed bird-lovers have such an astounding venomous hate for them. While I'd love to see more than just house sparrows at our feeders (sincerely, this is all we get, ever - I adore chickadees and wrens, and seeing just one of either would make my heart dance), I do like them, their little chirps, their chestnut coloring, the way they roll around in the dust below the neighbor's pine tree and fluff up their feathers, and I have admiration for their ability to persevere in and adapt to nearly any situation - how else would they be so numerous? As for the starlings, I find their speckled iridescent feathers very pleasing, and their vocal ranges, though sometimes raspy, and ability to mimic are just incredible. I heard somewhere that Mozart kept a starling and that she inspired him with a handful of compositions. Sure, they are both invasive species here that have caused our native birds to suffer, but that anyone should blame and hate the birds themselves for that frustrates the living hell out of me.


Not much else is news.
Drawing away. Thinking about the complete indifference of the universe. Frantic attempts to imbue order and meaning and significance and value hierarchies on everything; the curious dance of absurdity and mythology. Trying not to let my own anger and opinions and political or moral beliefs get too overtly woven into the fabric.

Riddled with desire to often flee this place - to head to some uninhabited rocky shoreline to plant things and tend animals and allow the current madness to be drowned out by the sea winds. Frustration is too weak a word. Equally riddled with guilt - the feeling that I ought to do something to change the situation (but what? how?) - that if I am not actively working toward a solution then I am part of the problem - mixed with recognizing that it's all a complete and total wild goose chase either way. It often feels like a merry go round that will never, ever end, and the only place to stay sane and really understand things is, well, not on the ride.

Small attempts at respite include shutting off the news and media entirely and recoiling into my cosy corner of the world, with Brógan, Jack, the kitten, birdfeeders, books and paint. It works. I feel guilty, but it works; I also feel more myself, balanced or even-keeled or solidified in some way. Hard to describe. As though I realize I exist in the real world for the first time in a while. It's not cathartic, but it gives fresh air and perspective. So here I am, again, introspective for the first time in months, sitting here typing away for the first time in ages. Curious.

There's so much I don't understand. So much I hope I never understand, and so much that I wish I could.


Brógan and I are at my parents for the afternoon because the bathroom at our place is being re-drywalled after the landlord's upstairs drain leaked into the ceiling lath and soaked the plaster. The reason for leaving was, admittedly, more to avoid having to have conversation than to avoid being in the way. So I'm baking cookies for my family to keep my hands busy and whittle down some anxiety since I can't paint.

The feelings and lists of questions and fears in my head is extremely sisyphean. The more I try to answer or quell them, the more pop up.

I could go on and on about my parents' white, upper-middle-class neighbours who drive their gigantic brand-new gas-guzzling pick-up trucks to cozy office jobs, blaring songs about digging in the dirt while drinking beer written by some rich fucker on a jet plane sponsored by Miller Lite who's never touched soil in his life, who bitch about how "their" jobs were taken by immigrants and how they feel "offended" by the "sand-niggers" down the street, about how they are so upset that Christian-Centric activities were removed from public schools and how climate change is a myth (supported by their Heroic And Noble Leader who says the Chinese invented it.)

My blood is boiling.

I'm reminded of Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation, about McLuhan's The Medium Is The Message; society cares very little for the realness of things - it is the image, the representation of the thing, that is most important.

America has officially legitimized racism, hate, xenophobia, misogyny, Islamophobia, homophobia, bullying, anti-intellectualism, and cultural warfare. It has officially said "this is all good." This is the most terrifying part of all.
It seemed supporting Trump was somewhat of a faux-pas for a while. Particularly around our neck of the woods - a lot of blue-collar, old-school union workers and second-generation Irish and Italian immigrants mixed with young liberals, college students, and new families - our city voted in overwhelming favor of Bernie back in the primaries. I think I saw maybe two Trump stickers / signs the entire time.
But boy, now that their Heroic And Noble Leader is Everyone's Leader, have they come out of the woodwork.

On an overpass of the highway about two streets down from where Jack, Brógan and I live, there were a bunch of Sanders signs once upon a time. After Hillary was officially elected as the Democratic candidate, those signs slowly came down, and weren't replaced with pro-Hillary ones. But the day following Trump's election, as I headed to the art museum to spend the afternoon tearful in the presence of Kara Walker's current (phenomenal, powerful) exhibition, I noticed the bridge was covered in poorly handmade signs that read "TRUMP = TRUTH", "LOCK HER UP," "GOD LOVES TRUMP," and until yesterday, one that said "TRUMP" with the t fashioned as a swastika. A friend, who lives in a predominantly Mexican part of town, reported, the morning after Trump's election, that her college-age white boy neighbours had skipped school to blare country music out of their car, wave Trump flags, drink beer, and shout "fuckin' wetbacks!" at the Mexican men passing by, while demanding that the women"Show us your jugs!"

I don't want to believe that this is what's to come, but as the hours tick by, more and more stories of this sort of behaviour are surfacing. Sure, it happens on it's own - it always has, because humans can never agree, because they feel like they need, desperately, some sort of hierarchy against one another, because diversity is an integral part of us as a species and society has a real fucking hard time with it. But now this behaviour is seemingly legitimized, as people, mainly young ones, do it in increasingly in the name of their Heroic And Noble Leader.

And to be fair, I've heard a fair share of liberals acting out violently as well. Slandering, name calling, pointing fingers - it's just as bad. Unfortunately, I exist in a sort of liberal bubble, so most of what I see (and I don't watch television, so, there's that cut out as well) is from that point of view rather than the other.

You know, I never have identified with America. Never in my life. I've never owned, coveted, or sported an American flag in any way. The National Anthem has never caused me to tear up. I hated, hated standing in class every single day, pledging allegiance to the flag. It's not that I'm anti-American (though, at this rate, I'm on the road headed there), it's not that I don't like the country (although right now, it makes me feel sick), but I never felt identified with it, never felt that sort of nationalism or pride - it always left a sour taste in my mouth and made me want to run and hide.  Don't get me wrong - I never take for granted the rights and privileges and safeties that are here, that so much of the world is denied. But on a personal level...it's been hard. Maybe it's because I was raised by immigrants, taught to embrace a different part of the world. Maybe it's because I don't have roots here, no roots older than about 60 years anyway.

And now, in the midst of this country's approval of so many things that go against my very core morals, the overwhelming realization that so many people I know, people I love, silently supported those things, that everywhere I go I am undoubtedly surrounded by people who just couldn't be arsed -  I feel smaller, and more disconnected, than ever.

The hardest part is not letting my own cynicism take hold. Not letting my own anger, fear, mistrust, and antipathy fog my sight - to not sink to that level, to not further strengthen the divide by finger-pointing, spewing hatred, or closing my ears. The real battle lies not in taking anyone down, but in learning to understand, in not shutting out anyone, despite whatever I might feel. This is difficult. So difficult. As I sit at my parents and look out at those stupid pick up trucks, I see these people around me - who have helped me, my family, who have loved us, laughed with us, shared life and precious time with us, who have given selflessly to us, who I have believed to be good and kind - in a different light, holding so much hatred and utter disregard for the simple, beautiful commonality and diversity of humankind. So, what next? I don't know. But I do know that everyone is afraid of something, everyone is angry at something.


This post brought to you by the noise in Kaetlyn's head that she can't shut up.


On a lighter note though, it was Brógan's 9th birthday yesterday. 9 going on 5, I swear it. I can hardly believe it. He received a new tug-rope toy to play with Jack, and a gigantic frosted dog biscuit. And a trip to the park.

Pre-Nightmares

What's next?

Such a strange feeling, disbelief standing directly next to expectation.

I'm thinking about home. I'm thinking about the rocky landscape that swallows me up, calms me with its gentle whispers, tucks me away into the craggy layers of its history. Inhaling through the cracks in the limestone and exhaling through the orchids with their faces turned to the shy sun. Where nothing matters but the sky and the earth, the water and the air, and the winds.

I can barely keep my eyes open but I can taste the future, and the thought of waking up in it makes me afraid to go to bed.

A Status Update

Currently:

Chosen to live in unemployed and irresponsible bliss spending 80% of my waking time painting and the other 20% roaming streets and forests with Brógan and Jack.

Not total bliss, just to be clear. There's a lot of thread I've allowed to tangle up over the last three and a half years. It'll take a while to sort that out. But starting on the project feels good.

Also, a lot of uncertainty and anxiety. But I'm working on that too.

Accepting: not fitting into a box, not fitting into time slots or set hours or being complimented by a nice, descriptive, distinct label that makes me feel purposeful or important.

Accepting that I am not wired for a 9 to 5, a 40-hour week, a title, a routine.

And especially not made for doing the bidding of others.

People try to tell you otherwise.

They try to tell you it's because you're weak; you're lazy, unrealistic, irresponsible, spineless, ignorant, disrespectful, spoiled and selfish. They will tell you it's because you expect everything to be handed to you, because you didn't get enough of the belt as a kid, or got too much of what you wanted. They will tell you you don't know the meaning of work, don't have respect for work, that your head is in the clouds and you're a complete, total, utter imbecile. Birdbrain, feckless, irrational, impulsive, blind and foolish.

These are the same people that glorify busy-ness; the less time you have for family, friends, enjoyment, learning, enrichment, passtimes, or anything-other-than-responsibility, the higher you are on the social ladder - because you're that important. 

These are the same people that glorify complaining. Who gain more and more beatitude with each gripe and grumble about their jobs. Whose divine social halos glow brighter each time they use their evidently non-existant spare time for the sole purpose of collectively complaining about the office (and mad bonus points for condemning those who do enjoy the work they do.)

But you know what? When you have all the time in the world, you suddenly find you have no time for any of that.

(Or at least, that you're working on having no time for it.)

Accepting:

The only constant I have ever had in my life has been art.

Whatever else I've done, whatever else has gone on in my life, good or bad, here or there, anywhere, any frame of mind, any age, any raging tempest, any struggle, any bliss, any season, relationship, phase, flight-of-fancy, job, hobby, interest, religion, illness, weather, hour - that's it. That's the one thing that has stood against the storms and ages, and lived through it all. Whether I like it or not, that's it.

The stoics believe that humans should live according to nature. The interpretation of this takes a few forms, but I've internalized it with two main points. Humans exist for the sole purpose of other humans - we are made for each other, perfectly, irrevocably, and for better for absolutely nothing else. All of us. And so, part of living according to nature is doing our best by our fellow humans - I always assumed this meant being a good person, helping others as best as you can, being non-judgmental, and never doing harm of any sort to any other person (or - and in many ways stoicism is strikingly similar to buddhism - to any other living thing, for that matter). The other part of this is very interesting - that we must live according to our individual nature. I think it's Epictetus who raises the example of a horse - what makes a good horse? Well, a horse that is suited well to the nature of horses. I suppose, at least for the domestic horse, he will have a good physical body - he will have strong legs, solid bones, a deep barrel, bright eyes, clean movement, a powerful hind end and back. But also he must have a good disposition in the way that only a horse can. Not the disposition of a dog, or bird, or human - but only one that suits him (probably something along the lines of having good energy, focused, not spooky, sound of mind, curious and given to quick learning, sensitive to body language of other horses [and potentially humans], neither aggressive nor entirely passive, etc). 

So it goes for people. Beyond living according to nature as a human, in both temperament and physicality, according to the stoics we must live also according to our individual natures. To do otherwise would, in effect, cancel out the first point - living according to nature as a human being; by denying to live according to our individual natures (however we self-identify, find purpose or meaning or place in life), we deny the rest of humanity whatever we uniquely have to offer it. For example - a poet. It's in the poet's nature to write poetry. Should he deny himself this, he denies it also to the rest of humanity, for his poetry is his own personal contribution and gift to the wealth of human culture and complexity. Imagine if all poets were to go silent. 

The pain point for the Stoics, it seems to me, is benefit of the whole. And that even by doing personal things, by being ourselves, whatever that may be - so long as it is not harmful to others - we benefit the whole. 

I was going somewhere with this but I'm losing my train of thought.

At any rate. I'm not using stoicism as an excuse to quit my job and focus on my studio practice full time.

I don't need that. Because all I need is the fact that I'm an artist, I always have been. I don't fit into the boxes - not because I'm an artist, but because of who I am by my own nature, my own temperament, and being given to art-making is just a product of that. I accept it now, and I will no longer refuse it, put it aside for any other thing, and never again will I force myself to fit into boxes I don't fit into unless I have absolutely no other choice.

And there's always another choice.

I owe so much to Jack for knocking sense into me to help me reach this point and being unwaveringly encouraging, supportive, and, well, excited, when the rest of the world seemed so cold. I don't know why fortune favored me so much to let me share this human's life, but I'll never take it for granted.

Anyway. Now that I have all the time in the world, maybe I'll make some more time for this.

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.