That's the title of this drawing—I made it last year at this time—its contortions and swirls, soft curves and jagged edges says it all (well to me it does, I still love this drawing)—here I am in this time of my life still exploring the possibilities, reaching higher in spite of feeling tired—putting my foot down and saying
"Damn it, I want this—
" whatever
this is—this
"more".
What is it? If you're a writer, an artist, a musician—anyone creative, you know what I'm talking about—shit, if you have a pulse, you know what I'm talking about. Who doesn't want more out of life?
Before I knew what I wanted to do with it—I wanted more out of life, even when I was a kid—I was one of "those kids", the odd one who didn't fit in, preferred to be alone, running around outside looking at things, noticing stuff—reading books too grown up for my age—questioning
"how come". For no reason at all, I would run into the wind, through fields and woods, looking for that something out there to satisfy the urge for that elusive
“more”. It wasn’t about having something tangible, possessions, because very often I’d find something to do to occupy my mind, my hands, drawing, painting, writing—I went through phases collecting things—picking flowers or stones at the beach (which includes searching for those worn bits of glass—washed glass, beach glass, sea glass, everyone has their name for it). I blew a lot of baby-sitting money on vinyl records and books. The
“I gotta have it or I’ll just die” urge comes about when one feels most hopeless I think (shopaholics know this feeling quite well)—as I recall, we’re more dramatically disposed to be like that when we’re much younger. I discovered quite some time ago that having a bunch of
“stuff” wasn’t what I wanted out of life—it was the wrong
“more”.
I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to be a painter. So I went to college—academically, I hated nearly every minute of it because I was always being told what to write, what to paint—I wasn't being taught the nuts and bolts, the meaty stuff, not just the
"how to" but the
"how"—how to make the words in my head sing on the paper, how to make the shapes and colors that I envision become tangible on the canvas. I didn't want to be molded by someone with a big ego into something I wasn't meant to be. College frustrated me—it was the wrong
"more". Maybe I didn't connect with the right people—maybe I just expect too much, my bar is too high.
And of course—my mother's voice in my head
"Why can't you do something nice?" (Translation get married and have babies.)
I wanted more out of life beyond going home at night exhausted from working all day, feeling unappreciated, cooking and eating dinner, dreading the mail, and sitting in front of the television hoping to be entertained or enlightened by someone else’s creativity—much of which is flashy eye-candy with typical plots—I guess some folks are comforted by something familiar. Then going to bed and getting up to do it all again—living weekend to weekend to do—what? More.
I want more out of life, damn it. I wanted to write books and I wanted to make art. Sometimes I think I’m a glutton for punishment, but I wouldn’t want to have it any other way because I want more out of life than punching a clock five days a week—living hand to mouth—pay check to pay check—just getting by to pay the bills, and maybe have a little bit left over to buy something nice to make life a little more bearable like the latest Ani DiFranco CD or the next Donna Tartt book—new reading glasses—a case of Guinness is always good. I went through a transformation a little over ten years ago—I finally listened to my heart and started to write the stories, muddling along through a very cumbersome first novel that evolved and became more, and soon enough—the drawings evolved into paintings—and my vision became clearer, I hit a sweet spot in my creativity and I was overwhelmed by it, but I knew
this is it.
I want to do something that matters—something that matters to me, something that matters to the world—something that might matter to someone else who needs that bit of
“more” too. If I paint a painting that someone buys to hang on their wall—it is my hope that they will look at it every day and love it just as much as the day they plunked their money down to buy it. I want them to tingle with joy when they allow their eyes to wander through it, following the rhythm of marks that I made or getting lost in texture. If I write a book that someone plucks off the library shelf one day (or buys at a yard sale for a dime) because there was something about it that stirred their curiosity about what I have to say between the covers. If they read it once and it haunts them later—if they read it again and find something more there—if it changes them in some small way, even if it encourages them to read more books (not just mine) I’ve done something more.
I want more out of life. I paint and write to satisfy that need—I do it for myself more or less—if I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t have the happiness that I feel—that high that I feel when I start something new, work on a work in progress, or finish something, finally. There is so much joy in the act of creating that manuscript—that drawing—it’s something so deeply personal for me—it’s selfish at the same time it is generous. It’s what I must do. I always wanted more out of life—it isn’t about fame and fortune—I’m not into the glamor, that's ridiculous. I have very simple needs, simple wants—but I still want more out of life.
That's my story—I'm stickin' to it.
The boys were snoozing by the woodstove on a blue blanket...I went outside with my camera leaving my kitty boys inside...last week our leaves were in full gold and the sky blue...
...in a weeks time we now have bare trees...
The morning sky framed by sumac and grape vine...
Milkweed set free on the wind!
I've been studying the goldenrod along my fence...and played around with a few, this photo turned out to be my favorite...it reminds me of one of my favorite paintings, Charles Burchfield's watercolor, Goldenrod in December, 1948...(Whitney Museum of American Art, 74.62, follow link for photo and a complete entry: http://www.davidrumsey.com/amica/amico266784-125220.html)
A wee pink stripe in the sky...
More looking north, northwest...I'm glad I wasn't over there, it looks a bit scary...
I have a head cold, and have been at home in bed doctoring myself for the last two days...I sort of feel like how this pitiful flower looks...
Ah, but this one wore it's snow so prettily!
As did this snow-capped bunch!
Yes, it's cold...but not too terrible...the snow was gone before noon, like it was never there...
In a field of stones there are big ones and little ones...and here I am, the little stone wedged in between the big ones...I am an independent author, independently published. Field Stone Press got its name from those beautiful old bones of the earth, their composition an amalgam of the ages, we find them strewn about our Upstate New York acre, they are collected, piled, lined up, weathered by the elements, and revered as precious. Life is too precious.
Looking out my window, I'm finally seeing the sunshine after a week of rain and scattered peeks of sun. It's so beautiful. Although I do complain about it, I do believe there is something special about the weather in Upstate New York that generates great writers. So many have hailed from here, or just passed through underneath the prevalent gray sky. I wonder. The profusion of overcast days certainly can make one gritty around the edges; some places have trouble with the Dog Days of summer bringing out the worst in folks, but in Upstate New York, the sun comes out and that spectacular blue sky that can make the most surly character giddy. I think the lull of gray skies keeps writers inside writing since there is no temptation to go outside and play — ah, but writers will write no matter the weather. At least I can feel that I’m in good company when I sit at my computer patiently contemplating one paragraph at a time during those precious hours I maintain in my studio. Often I’m bemoaning the fact that it’s already eleven o’clock at night and I have to get up and go to work the next day. So, I walk my dog before bed to decompress, looking for the stars, hoping to see a sign of a clear sky—sometimes it is this upward glance that provides a resolution for that one elusive character quirk or just the right name. I’ve pulled many ideas out of the sky; I live on a rather large hill seven miles outside of Syracuse, so there’s nothing but sky out here.
There are many times that suffusion of gray comes down as fog, and my world takes on a different quality—isolated; it is a rich atmosphere for a writer’s garden of thoughts. How many plot knots have I worked the kinks out of while my hands have been immersed in the soil of my garden on a fine sunny day, having the soft, sweet tail of a cat brush my arm as it passes through, its paws relishing in the freshly tilled dirt. Happily, there have not been many kinks for me to work out, it’s more likely that new stories are found amongst the weeds, stones, and cat leavings. Sometimes I forgo the garden to just sun myself in my favorite chair on the front porch while hummingbirds buzz at the bee balm; my dog resting his head on my barefoot, as the latest red pen sits poised, ready to stab at a manuscript lying in my lap. You see I have a good life on my hill, so pastoral — this is how I want you to picture me — this is how you will know me.
With a sky like that behind my barn...why not aim high? I believe, I've rambled enough for one day...and that's the news from the windswept hilltop in Upstate New York...
Yes, it's official...I'm a nerd...I'm awkward to begin with...being small, light weight, sickly, juggling myself, my belongings that consisted of my purse, long flowing raincoat, oversize scarf, my funky hat, my mocha cappuccino, and I had extra big hair today because of the weather...reading glasses, then add a precious book to the equation and stick me in front of a woman who I have admired since I was 14 when I read Wonderland (during that impressionable time when I found out that I can write about ANYTHING I wanted to...I didn't have to write something "nice"...) Okay, you get the picture...so she asked for my name, I sputtered it out...and she asked, "What do you do?" Ummm...I'm a writer, an artist, and I work here in the art collection. She signed the book, handed it back..."Well, looks like you really got the artist thing going with what you've got on..." I think that's what she said, and she kind of laughed...maybe she smirked just a teeny bit. Ugh..thanks...thank you for Bellefleur, it's my favorite book. I don't think she replied, I left the line, nearly running, trying to find my way out of the building, to familiar ground, back in the bowels of the art collection, back to my office that I fondly refer to as "the cave", back to my work that I abandoned to go dallying on Homecoming/Reunion weekend...25 years ago I graduated from SU (JCO graduated in 1960, two years before I was born.) Then I started to laugh at myself...You nerd. It occurred to me that I kept crouching down while I stood in front of her...she was sitting, and it made me feel odd being so excessively taller (I'm almost never taller than anyone, except wee children)...so it must've looked like I was bowing and scraping...I wasn't, I just felt the physical need to be at her level...
That's the title of this drawing—I made it last year at this time—its contortions and swirls, soft curves and jagged edges says it all (well to me it does, I still love this drawing)—here I am in this time of my life still exploring the possibilities, reaching higher in spite of feeling tired—putting my foot down and saying "Damn it, I want this—" whatever this is—this "more".
I ordered a book through the Amazon Marketplace last week (Anil's Ghost by Michael Ondaatje) and I received it yesterday like this (it was in a padded envelope just like this)...and being the good Registrar that I am (my day job at the art gallery/art collection where I work), I photographed how I received it...
A bit daring...orange and turquoise...love them! They're sturdy, so I think they'll survive "me".
And I treated myself to some new lace-up granny boots to replace the ones that I killed (tho' I continued to wear in spite of their leaky tendencies)...I wore them to work yesterday for the very first time...they are like a dream on my feet...I love them!
The sunshine outside is begging me to pick my butt up from this comfy chair to go outside to "play"...the blue jay family is at the bird feeder enjoying peanuts, the chipmunks are hoovering sunflower seeds into their pouches and scurrying off to fill their winter larders...
Chantepleure by Linda Robinson
Edie: American Girl by Jean Stein
The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates: 1973-1982 by Joyce Carol Oates
THE WILD FREE-ROAMING HORSES AND BURROS ACT OF 1971 (PUBLIC LAW 92-195)
§1331. Congressional findings and declaration of policy
Congress finds and declares that wild free-roaming horses and burros are living symbols of the historic and pioneer spirit of the West; that they contribute to the diversity of life forms within the Nation and enrich the lives of the American people; and that these horses and burros are fast disappearing from the American scene. It is the policy of Congress that wild free-roaming horses and burros shall be protected from capture, branding, harassment, or death; and to accomplish this they are to be considered in the area where presently found, as an integral part of the natural system of the public lands.
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Faces in the Water by Janet Frame
