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. 

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.