Pretty ladies, boys and ice cream

Dylan Thomas, Emily Dickinson, The Black Keys, pencil and pen, sketchbook, pretty ladies, boys and ice cream - all my friends today as I tried to soothe myself after visiting my father this afternoon in the hospital. And surprisingly, I was able to make a drawing, a good one. What a sweet, small gift! Maybe my hands remember how after all. I've been so critical and discouraging of those hands. When they don't perform, I get angry - even though I know I haven't exercised my drawing muscles in ages. It's certainly a skill that must be used and used and used, in order to maintain and hopefully, improve drawing skill.

I know this blog has fallen by the way side, but I'm not feeling guilty over it. It serves its purpose when need be. And hey, who reads this stuff anyway?

i carry your heart with me

ee cummings:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world (for beautiful, you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope, or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

F Bombs Ahead

STRANGE. That is how I feel...all this existential, uncharted territory, unsure human feelings crap is all so damn strange, considering the attempt at routine lives we all make. Then again, there are stories of those trapped within their routines, struggling to get out of it, to feel passionately about something, anything...then there's me, who feels so much goddamn passion it's enough to make me want to stick my head in the sand sometimes. It seems I do nothing by the book. I am not straight forward, I am not boring, I am not bored. Fantastic, wonderful, you say. Gee, sure sounds romantic, Marsh! Well, fuck romance. This bullshit is hard.

I am empathy, incarnate. I am love, alive. I am a raw bloody heart just asking for more road burn. Please kind sir, please family, please God, drag me along the fucking diamond road of sharp pain to the gut. Fill up my capacity for human sorrow. Throw me from the tree tops in a whirlwind of joy and ecstasy. Then, make me feel small and ashamed, or, expansive and beautiful. It's all in there. I've got it all, maxed up. Mind you, I am so thankfully not of the subset that has these feelings to an unbearable degree (such as those with Bipolar disorder) but, Jesus, why did you make me this way???? Fuck.

My detail oriented, obsessive digestive digressive self seeks endlessly. For what? Meaning? My life is over crowded with meaning. If I see even a fraction of the lives around me, a part of people's love, loss, triumph, sorrow, struggle -- I am blessed. I am also overwhelmed. This job of being an empathetic, seeing-eye human, whose self proclaimed* mission it is to 'love and serve. serve and love' --this job is harrrrrrrrrrrrd. Man, the times I have just wanted to tell people to fuck off and check their bull shit at the door...but nope. I attempt grace. God must be looking at me, saying 'Aw, aint that sweet? Little kitten thinks she's a dog! Watch out kitty, you gonna be devoured.' No Marsha. He's probably more likely saying 'Aw. My baby's trying so hard. She's got it so backasswards, but she is so fuckin' sweet. I love that kid.' Thanks God. Love you too.

Fight the negativity! Fight the thought traps you lay for yourself. And for fucksakes, quit over thinking everything...just try to feel the wind in your face, unfettered, as your bike careens down York, knowing full well your brakes are a little iffy. Feel your muscles tighten when you paddle that kayak, knowing full well the current could sweep you off and you could end up in a bad way. Don't be afraid of feeling good, knowing full well you could end up sad and afraid. It's ok to love. It's good to love. It's crazy to love...it's so damn human to love imperfectly.

Up close and personal

I'm thinking about my father and why it is I am so afraid. I'm wondering why he is sad, what makes him afraid. "Because he's dying, duh." Go behind that blanket phrase and what do you find? I wish I could ask him. Our relationship is one that doesn't really encourage real questions or honest answers (although since he's been sick a lot of rules have changed).

Instead I think about our collective fear of death. It seems to be that a huge amount of money, time and effort are spent trying to fight off the one thing that is guaranteed to happen to every one of us. Rich or poor, gay or straight, young or old, no one can escape death. One Man transcended death, but as far as I know, we're stuck with a bum rap.

So is it fear of pain? Fear of what happens after we die - blackness, worm food, purgatory, Heaven, Hell, reincarnation? Is he afraid he'll miss me or that I'll miss him? Sad he will miss watching my daughter grow up, that he will only be a memory and a pretty fuzzy one too - she is only 5 after all. Sad he didn't get to do the things he always wanted to do and the things he is used to doing. The friends and family of the deceased lose so much when their loved one dies...but what I haven't thought much about is the kind of loss my dad is experiencing right now.

i'm afraid of that creeping, brainless disease that is consuming his body and life. An entity that isn't capable of thought, or compassion or reason - but knows all about motive, purpose and need. Fuck cancer and fuck the horse it rode in on. It's so fucking unfair. That's my dad you have, you godless bastard! Leave him alone, go away, let us be! What did we ever do to you!

Walls

It's a defense mechanism, a coping strategy, a shield, an out - to intellectualize, to think poetically, to turn the reality of the situation into an abstract concept so as to distance myself from it. Today at my father's side in the hospital, feeding him ice chips and watching his body shake uncontrollably from pain, it occurred to me that I have long thought I understood suffering. Political suffering in the misrepresentation of people's values in our government system; social suffering in the stigma and judgment surrounding mental illness and homosexuality; relational suffering in the countless breakups and small deaths of friendships I've mourned. But this, this physical suffering, I do not understand. In political, social and relational forms of suffering I can understand the abstract concept of growth, the linear reasoning behind the answer to the question "Why did this have to happen, goddammit?" However, all reasoning is thrown out the window in the face of my sick dad, who does not look like my well dad. I don't know how to control this at all, and that scares me to hell.

"This is very important -- to take leisure time. Pace is the essence. Without stopping entirely and doing nothing at all for great periods, you're gonna lose everything...just to do nothing at all, very, very important. And how many people do this in modern society? Very few. That's why they're all totally mad, frustrated, angry and hateful."
— Charles Bukowski

Don't Walk There At Night

I have the passing of Easter to thank, and some bad news from my father's oncologist for the latest idea forming in my head.
I've been thinking of maybe trying to let inspiration get through my 'nope, i don't wanna do a damn thing right now and that's ok' filter. I live next door to an old cemetery with some very elaborate, architectural stone markers. The place is filled with monuments and ceremony, homage and humility. I know the hardest part of anything is just to start, and my drawing abilities are deplorable now (just like a muscle - you don't use it, you gonna lose it). So, when the weather cooperates, I will go with my three legged stool and cop a squat next to some 'short dead dude' (Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure reference there...) Actually, I'd like to take some rubbings of the stones first; my hands first need to feel the thing before they can understand how to draw it. Do other artists operate this way? Hmm. Honestly the thought of drawing terrifies me, because I've tried and failed recently....but I could do it once, so I can do it again.

poet: Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Time does not bring relief..."

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year's bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!

There are a hundred places where I fear

To go,--so with his memory they brim!

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, "There is no memory of him here!"

And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

The Great Dilemma

I find myself at a turning point today.

Last year I became aware of the EMERGE group of artists' collective here in Fredericton. Through this collective, you meet once a month for discussion and encouragement, schedule group shows and the like. Most likely a step in the right direction, art career-wise. Through my own absentmindedness, I have also become aware that today is the last day for application into the collective. They hold juries once a year.

I also have a meeting with Peter Short tomorrow to discuss the non profit initiative we'd like to make in our community, through St. Paul's, via a used clothing bank/grocery store/cafe to foster fellowship and mission here at home. I don't have time to do both - today, and in the next year.

So which do I choose?
But I think I've already made a choice.
At the risk of sounding Christian - y and preachy, I think I'm deciding to follow God's call... Dang, it always surprises me when I end up being obedient! And for that reason, I know it's a good decision - that our actions will bear fruit, and that my art career won't wither and die simply because I didn't have time to apply to this one collective for this one year. Relax, Marsh. Bigger things await.

Learning about myself, my world

I find my creativity is cyclical and goes something like this (starting at a random point in the circle - since it is cyclical there is no beginning step): curiosity about the world, followed by observation of the world and the inherent beauty all around me - the buildings, the colours, the crows scrambling in their flying cities...I feel tuned in and intimate with life. I feel connected and special and energetic. I wouldn't say I'm 'channeling' the energy around me because that implies some kind of harnessing, or focusing when really I feel as if I'm caught up in a current that is flowing through me, lighting up my dim bulb perspective again. I begin to read meaningful books; books about questions, theology, philosophy and sometimes motorcycle mechanics come my way and I learn. Learning is intoxicating. Once I begin I don't want to stop, but that desire is also cyclical. And through this learning stage, ideas pop up about subject or material and usually I have several false starts and nothing feels right at the drawing table. Sometimes I give up, sometimes I persist (depends when the deadline is!) but when I hit upon something that works it is like finding the key to the treasure room and I can't get the gold out fast enough. That eureka! moment is precious. I work like crazy, the images consume my thoughts and even as I'm working on one thing I'll have another quick fire 'wonder if I do this...' and the image will take another twist. Because of this method of working, that is - being driven by the material, I can't guarantee what will happen and I can't even guarantee the subject will be as originally intended. After this intense period of creation *read: deadline has been narrowly met*, I don't want to look at that drawing table for a long time. I hibernate, watch tv, give my brain a rest. Slowly I'll come back to life to the life around me, but it's any one's guess how long that will take. Soon enough though, I become curious again, and start noticing again, and the cycle repeats itself....gratefully.

Good morning

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_HXUhShhmY&feature=player_embedded

Carny

Tonight Georgia and I attended the opening of 'Carny' - Photographs by Kyle Cunjak at Ingrid Meuller Art + Concepts. It was incredible! I am in love with this man's work! His colours are so vibrant and the black so velvety....his subject matter is intense and mysterious. The expressions he focuses on range from the bored, the tough, the wild and the sad. I wonder how his carnies are doing, where they're going, how they got to where they are. I encourage you all to go see the show, and at the very least, visit his web site: http://www.cunjak.com