dreams

Picture This

Exhibition at the Met Breuer

Museum Day, brought to you by Mrs Fringe and Art Child. A great thing about living here in the city is that there’s no pressure when it comes to museums, not a big deal to plan, and no feeling of obligation to see it all in one day. I’ve been intending to get to this exhibit for three months. Now that it ends in a week and a half, I finally made it over there, and want to go again before it’s gone. There is The Met Breuer, a new annex? outpost? of The Met, in the building that used to house the Whitney. Anyway, I loved the idea of this exhibit, unfinished works of art, both intentional and unintentional, and there was a section of works intended to be interactive with the viewer. I’m not sure if this exhibit will be traveling, but if so, go see it!

Yes, for someone who is not a visual artist, I love art, but this whole show spoke to me. Maybe it’s that as both a reader and writer of words, I prefer when stories and characters leave some room for me to think, inject my own imagination. Not in a choose-your-own-adventure sort of way, but in terms of not needing to know every physical detail of characters, not needing (or wanting) every ending to be neatly wrapped in a perfect, glossy ribbon.

Many wonderful quotes scattered throughout, this was one of my favorites.

I, of course, took way too many photos, so even paring down will likely make two posts out of this excursion, so as not to crash everyone’s computers or put my readers into a pixellated stupor. Some of the works gave me a creative charge, exciting, while others had me tearing up.

I loved this idea, and the variety of ways artists captured it.

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I cut off her name, oops. Janine Antoni.

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This next one, on the surface, is the type of painting that might often have me squint and hurry past, because it’s so “in your face” there seems no room to think. But something in this held me for quite a while, really spoke to me, if you want to be frou-frou about it. Actually, my immediate thought was, “oh God, it’s Mrs Fringe!” If, yanno, I was blond, blue eyed, and possessed the ability to pick up a gun.

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Next we came to this series, which is where Art Child wanted to sit and sketch.

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I had no idea why, but honestly, I was ready to sit down and continue thinking about the Lassnig painting. I took a few shorts of the panels, and Art Child asked if I had gotten the face. Again, no clue what she was referring to, it all looked like drips to me, so I handed her the camera.

I’ll be damned. This is why she’s the artist. See the eyes?

While it was very interesting to be able to “see” the process of some of the works and artists, there’s also something…uncomfortably intimate about seeing some of these works in progress, from some of the greatest and most enduring artists. But that is art, no? To make you uncomfortable enough to think and feel.

Afterword

This full moon wasn’t last night, but it felt like it should have been.

What is stage fright, anyway?

So last night was that thing. The reading. I spent the day with my brain in the overdrive of heightened anxiety, changed my clothes three times, my shoes four, and slopped half a gallon of product in my hair, in a futile battle with the humidity. I was pretty sure I didn’t have to worry about how my words would be received, or how I’d sound, because surely I was going to have a stroke before it was my turn.

Husband offered to meet me down there. Down, because the bar couldn’t be further from my apartment and still be in Manhattan. No, thanks. I’m one of those people. When I’m nervous about something, I’m better off alone, because your moral support will likely be met by me biting your head off. Cranky. Bitchy, even. That and the fact that I figured the reason I was doing this was to maybe, hopefully, connect with other writers. I know myself. If Husband was with me, it would be the perfect excuse to not speak to anyone, revert to my teenaged self, sit in back and make jokes about myself. Man Child offered to go down with me. No thanks. Then he offered to just travel down with me. Umm, maybe. No, no, I’m a grown up, I don’t need an escort, I’m fine. Are you sure? Yes, thank you. Are you really sure, because I’m going to start laundry otherwise? Yes yes I’m sure.

Ten minutes before I left, I’m going to call Husband and have him meet me. Oops, look at the time, he’s already on his way home, that wouldn’t be nice. I’m good, I can do this.

Five minutes before I left, ummm, Man Child? I changed my mind. But you can’t stay. He traveled downtown with me, and then encouraged me when I spent ten minutes standing outside, bemoaning the fact that I had remembered my camera but not the battery that would allow it to work.

I really have great kids.

I’ll be honest, this sign in the window is probably what got me through the door. That and Man Child’s gentle shove.

At the entrance to the back room, where the event was being held, the producer was checking tickets. I was nervous about the whole e-ticket thing. My name was already on his list, great. I’m scoping the room behind him, happy to see empty seats in back when he says, “Oh. You’re reading.” Was I supposed to mention that? “Umm, yeah, I guess so.” Damn, I’m smooth.

It’s a funny thing. Once I was in, I felt acutely aware that I have never done this before, but not nervous. Basically I was certain I was going to fuck up, drop my pages, lose my voice, have that stroke, yanno. It wasn’t crowded, there were two featured writers and several open mic-ers. The open mic folks were mostly poets. Excellent, this way I was certain to not fit in. I liked the way it was organized, open mic readings scattered throughout the evening with the featured writers in between. (Featured meaning authors with books recently published/about to be published) I’m not sure what I expected, but it was a lively mix of “straight” poetry, spoken word, an excerpt from a graphic novel, excerpts from a flash essay collection, part of a short. The crowd was mixed in age, sex, and ethnicity, also nice.

There was a microphone! Eek. And others were introduced by the MC with a bit about them. Crap, was I supposed to tell them something other than my name and here’s-my-eight-dollars? Ah well. I considered plugging Mrs Fringe before or after I read, but therewasamicrophone. I just did it. I read the opening few pages to Astonishing (probably about half the first chapter, it’s the one up on the blog here). Everyone was quiet while I read, so either I held their attention, or they were taking the opportunity for a cat nap. Maybe they just couldn’t hear me, I didn’t get too close to that mic. I’m from south Brooklyn ferChristssake, I can be plenty loud.

I met a few people who seemed quite nice. Many of those in the audience and those who went up are apparently regulars, but everyone was welcoming. Not one pointed and snickered, or muttered, “poseur” as I went past. If they did I didn’t hear them. Success.

In any case, I felt like it went well. I was surprised I couldn’t see the audience once I was up there, all I saw was lights, and that made it much easier. More surprising, I didn’t feel intimidated while I was reading, I just…read. Scenarios like this always surprise me, no one talking about the angst and futility of trying to get published, trade or otherwise. It’s as if there’s an assumption that you and everyone else is doing it, you belong there.

I might even say I had fun.

What the Hell Did I Just Do?!

I’m two days away from my four year blog-o-versary. I love blogging, more than I ever expected to, and for more reasons than I had imagined possible. One of those reasons involves the connections with others, and the occasional, amazing notes I receive from readers–some who I know from other forums, others I don’t know at all.

As discussed ad nauseam, I’m fortunate to have a wonderfully supportive group of online friends. One of those friends sent me a lovely message after reading my last post. Not a Fringeling, she read the post after another mutual friend shared it. In her note, she asked if I had ever considered writing a novel, and I debated an appropriate response. Laugh? Cry? Slit my wrists and bleed into the keyboard? I thanked her for her support, gave a way too long response of my history of writing woes, and obsessed over her thoughts for the rest of the day. Mentioned it to one of my writing friends, who promptly told me this was a gentle nudge from the universe. It’s nice to have friends with a glass-half-full outlook, my take was this was the universe reopening wounds I’ve been trying to keep closed.

What does this have to do with anything? The following morning, I received an “invite” (one of those Facebook invite thingies) to a reading, sent by another friend. I clicked on the invite, and in addition to the published authors reading, the evening includes open mic time slots. Not to be all metaphysical and shit, but the two incidents happening so close together did seem like some type of universal body check. I considered. I could do this. Could I do this? What would I read? Is there an actual mic involved? I’m fine with speaking in front of people, but not when I have to speak into a microphone. Surely there’s a long list of items I’d be better served spending $8 on. How long is six minutes, anyway? I asked Nerd Child the last question, he’s the one with public speaking experience. Hmmm, six minutes would eliminate any of the shorts I’ve got here on the blog, which was my original thought. I think. Unless I just read an excerpt. Why would I do this? I could just go, see a friend I haven’t connected with in a long time, support my friend’s friend, have a nice grownup evening, a couple of drinks, and bemoan my lack of legitimacy.

Husband woke early today, and was sitting at the table so I mentioned it to him. He, of course, said, do it. Holy fuck, I did it. Bought a ticket including a time slot to read. I think. Maybe I clicked the wrong box. Maybe they’ll sell too many of those tickets and I’ll be bounced, since I’m not a real writer, no pub credits. But what if I clicked the right box, and I’m not bounced? What the hell am I going to read?

I’ve got three weeks to decide what to read. Three weeks to chicken out.

What did I just do, and why?

What Time Is It?

Bottle without a message

Time for Mrs Fringe to have the first beach day of the season to herself. I feel pretty lucky to have kiddos that recognize my particular brand of lunacy requires both beach time and occasional time by myself. So the other day–the day before the girl’s last day of school– I checked the weather (iffy, which made it perfect to not bring Art Child), packed my bottle of frozen water, bleach-stained oversized towel, my trusty black and white composition notebook (just in case I should be inspired to write, hah!) and got on the train.

At first it seemed like the iffy weather prediction was completely wrong. A bit of wind, but blue skies and sun all the way. A bit more wind. Eh, the sand scraping across my skin is free exfoliation. I can be freckled and have a youthful glow! Before two hours had passed, I found myself wondering how long I could lie there with sand blowing straight up my nose before I suffocated. I gave up. Took my towel and headed back toward the train. While I stood on the boardwalk shaking out my towel, I thought of the many times I had gone to the beach in my angsty teen years, shivering in out-of-season winds while sitting on the rocks writing horribly overwrought poetry. For some reason I also remembered going with my mother to the “big girl’s” shop on Coney Island Avenue, to buy housedresses for a relative in California, while my father sat in the car outside, grumbling about muumuus. Shh, it’s a secret, don’t tell anyone. For my mother, the secret was that this glamorous, beautiful cousin was a “big girl.” For me, the secret was she wore house dresses in her home that seemed like a mansion compared to our semi-detached brick two family house. For the love of God, she had gotten three thousand miles away from there, didn’t she know there was a reason they didn’t sell those polyester monstrosities in Southern California?

It’s a funny thing. When I was growing up, I couldn’t wait to “escape” South Brooklyn. Seriously, it was like living the script of Saturday Night Fever, those bridges and tunnels represented everything. I’m a cynical gal and always was, but I can and do certainly look back and realize my rose-colored glasses were firmly in place, like most other young people. If I lived in the city (people who live in the outer boroughs refer to Manhattan as “the city,” regardless of the fact that it’s all five boroughs that make up NYC), life would be different. I would be free, not trapped, living the life I always wanted. You know, in a cold dark garret, chain smoking clove cigarettes while scribbling the great American novel. Manhattan/Paris, Nineteenth Century/Twenty-First Century–it’s all the same thing, right? I’d be living the dream. Regardless, I certainly wouldn’t spend twenty years dodging PTA meetings and worrying about doctor’s appointments. Whatever happened, I would never find myself back in Brooklyn. Most of all, I would never, ever wear a housedress.

So what do I do now with every opportunity on beautiful (or iffy) summer days? Hop on the train and go over the bridge back to the Brooklyn, of course. Just the beach, but. No matter how many times I’ve gone back, no matter that it’s been a firm part of my summer routine for eons, I have to laugh at myself. The first couple of times I went back, I wondered if I would run into anyone I knew. Never have. Who knows, maybe I’ve been towel to towel with someone who graduated from high school with me and neither of us recognized the other. I quickly stopped thinking about it. The realities of living in a city so densely populated is that I have people who live on the same floor of my building that I don’t see for months, sometimes years, at a time.

This winter I reconnected with an old high school friend, through Facebook. She left Brooklyn before I did, and it turns out she too, is back in NY, living in a different borough. We briefly talked about meeting up, but it hasn’t happened. What would I say, without judiciously chosen and edited photos to represent my life? Badge of honor, I’ve never worn a housedress! Still, I found myself on Brighton Beach Avenue before I got on the train, looking at my favorite (cheapest) variety store running a going-out-of-business sale, and wondered if I had $5 on me.

A dollar short, story of my life.

American Elections 2016: The Witch Hunt Edition

Despite the fact that it’s only June, I’m already exhausted by this presidential cycle and all the nonsense that has accompanied it. Yet here I am yapping about it. Why? Because I’m confused, and sometimes writing things down helps sort it out–and maybe, hopefully, we’ll get a rich conversation going in the comments that will allow for clarity.

I’ll admit, my imagination is limited. I can’t fathom what it is that enables someone to want to be President. I’ve gone extended periods with very limited sleep while still needing to make decisions, large and small, that impacted five people. It isn’t fun. To choose to do this while making huge, impactful-for-generations-to-come for 318 million people? (Many more, really, because US decisions and policies are felt worldwide.) To believe you are the best person to be in this position? Nope, unfathomable to me. But hey, I’m someone who can spend two hours staring at the screen attempting to decide if I’ve chosen the most effective verb.

I keep saying, “How have we gotten here?” “How is it that in 2016, the GOP candidate is an openly hateful, selfish, liar?” How is it that the Democratic candidate is likely the most contentious woman in America?”

In regards to the Democratic party, I’m conflicted. I’m sorry Bernie lost, truly sorry if not surprised. I don’t care for Hillary Clinton. I want to be clear, this isn’t because of the history of bogus witch hunts targeting her, not because of what went on/goes on in her marriage, and definitely not because of her $12,000 blazer. Really people, what gives with that nonsense? First and foremost, I’ve never heard outrage or seen articles about the cost of any male candidate’s suit. Call me an old and out of touch feminist, to me that’s yet another symbol of not-so-subtle sexism. I know, I know, she wore it while talking about inequality. It is gross, represents much of what’s got people angry and frustrated in this country. But let’s be honest. If you were able to swallow her throwing a $3 million dollar wedding for her daughter while this country was in a serious recession, people losing jobs and homes daily, well then, let’s not pretend moral outrage about her jacket. I’ll be straight, you could tell me you found proof that she was in the backseat of Ted Kennedy’s car at Chappaquiddick and I’d still support her right now. Why? Because the alternative is Donald Trump.

Talk about witch hunts. Can you imagine if he was to become our President? Goodbye, First Amendment. That’s right, he’s been pretty clear. For all his lies, there are kernels of truth as to what he supports and believes, and what he believes is that he should be not just President, but Dictator, wanting to stomp on the rights of the press, freedom of religion, free speech, and the right to (peaceably) assemble. I’m pretty sure I’ll be burned at the stake along with the real journalists, because no slight or grievance is too small for him to let go. Well, maybe not burned, that leaves a horrible stench in fabric, and could drive his property values down. Hanged. Go ahead and say goodbye to the Statue of Liberty, because our liberties have been eroding–fuck, we’ve given them away in the name of “freedom”– and Trump is not interested in accepting any poor, tired, huddled masses. White, energetic, wealthy and attractive, maybe. Say goodbye to women’s rights. Women will go back to their place, at their men’s sides, lips stitched closed and legs spread wide. Only if they’re young and attractive, of course.

Many are tired of the status quo, and Hillary represents just that. I get it, I really, truly do, and that’s why I was hoping Bernie would win the nomination. But he didn’t. It’s over. He can continue to speak, I hope he will continue to work in the Senate, but he didn’t win the nomination. That he got as many votes as he did, that he got as far as he did, gives me hope for the future, but it doesn’t fill me with confidence for the present. There are too many variables, and we have too long a history of bedding down with fear, hatred, greed, and wishful thinking.

Sure, we like to talk about valuing reason, justice, intelligence, ingenuity and creativity, equality. But not really. When it comes down to it, too many of us value comfort and mediocrity above all else. Again, I’m not pretending I don’t like comfort, and God knows I’m mediocre, but I’m not trying to lead the country. We are currently enjoying the most reasonable and intelligent President we’ve ever had, Barrack Obama. In current polls, his approval rating is shockingly high at 51%. So why all the moaning about how horrible life is under him? Is it because he’s (shhhh) black? Or because he’s reasonable and intelligent? Or both? Ingenuity and creativity, these can’t possibly be valued. If they were, our education system wouldn’t be continuing to cut arts and flexibility in what and how our children are taught, valuing fill-in-the-bubble tests, grading teachers on how neat and attractive their bulletin boards are, over real teaching, thought and comprehension. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, one of the things that has stayed with me most is the pride with which I heard so many say George W Bush was a C student. Pride. For Cs. From the man who led America for 8 years. Equality? Talk about equality to people of color, trapped in the classroom to prison pipeline.

If Trump wins, I’m blaming everyone. (because for the moment, I’m still relatively free and can): the people who confuse unfiltered verbiage with integrity, the GOP that allowed Tea Partiers to take over their party, and the Democratic Party, who endorsed and backed a woman so hated that in our racist country a black man was chosen over her the last time she ran. I believed and still believe Obama was the better choice, and I’m proud and thrilled that was recognized by enough for him to become President. He can’t run again. I didn’t agree with all of his decisions and concessions, hated a few, in fact, but wow. Have we ever had a leader with such grace? I doubt we’ll see an equivalent leader; be they male, female, white or person of color, in our lifetime. Think for a second about all he’s put up with and worked through–don’t throw his hard work away. And yes, I’ll admit it, this old and out of touch feminist is pretty fucking happy to see that if it isn’t Bernie, the Democratic nominee is a woman. Here. In misogynistic America, a land filled with people still working to stuff women back in the kitchen, value the comfort and future of rapists over rape victims, and whittling away at our right to choose what to do with our bodies.

We do have a long and proud history here in the US. But we cannot take pride–we can never move forward–without acknowledging the shameful history woven in with our rights, and our history of sliding backwards before moving forward. The decisions based on fear, an inflated sense of our place in the world, that old surety that might makes right. It can’t happen here is a lie. That we naturally evolve in a positive way, progress with reason is a lie. Witch hunts, real mass witch hunts have occurred repeatedly, Salem and its twenty people killed was child’s play: Japanese Internment Camps during WWII, McCarthyism, Stop and Frisk, Muslims after 9/11. If we aren’t careful now, we could be looking at the broadest witch hunts this country has ever seen, because Trump hates and is afraid of everyone who doesn’t look like, pee like, move like, and parrot him.

I’m confused as to how anyone outside a handful of his cronies could support Donald Trump. Not wanting more of the same should not be blurred with it-couldn’t-be-worse. So yeah, I’m confused as to how anyone could say Hillary Clinton would be equally bad for our country and our rights.

Here lies reason and knowledge. Let’s not bury them again, ok?

Those Moments

Quintessential Guggenheim

The NYC public schools were closed this past week for the February break. I’m cursing this break when school is still in session at the end of June, but in the moment? Yeeees, so necessary. For the most part, the girl and I spent the week resting and ate half-priced-post-Valentine’s Day chocolate. But yesterday morning Husband needed to get new glasses, so Art Child and I went with him to help pick frames. Since we were going to be on the east side anyway, I figured it was a good day to hit a museum.

The Upper East side has been (marginally) more resistant to change than most other residential neighborhoods in Manhattan, so there are still a few old gems left to wrap me in the nostalgia of remember when. Like this one.

Almost makes me wish I liked egg creams.

Art Child and I said goodbye to Husband, I grabbed my camera, she grabbed her sketchbook, and off we went. The Guggenheim isn’t one of the museums we visit regularly, it is not one of the suggested donation institutions. Those types of museums can quickly blow a week’s budget. Eat before we go. No, we aren’t buying anything in the gift shop! No, we can’t go again before the installation leaves. The saving grace is that flat admission price doesn’t exclude any of the temporary exhibitions. If you’ve never been, the building itself is well worth a visit. All curves, you spiral your way up a continuing ramp to see what’s on display. Certain floors branch off to more permanent exhibits and/or smaller installments.

Every time I go I think of being there with Man Child when he was a little guy, an installation of motorcycles. Very cool, even if I still don’t understand why they were there. Mostly I think of it because Nerd Child was an infant. They didn’t allow strollers/carriages along the ramps, and Nerd Child was a champion puker–one of those babies where every spit up looked like an audition for The Exorcist– so Husband and I took turns carrying him while zig-zagging around the bikes.

The current primary exhibition is a retrospective, a collaborative effort from Swiss artists Peter Fischli and David Weiss that spans over thirty years, “How to Work Better.” Huge, the sheer number of sculptures, photographs, videos, and instillations left me overwhelmed at times. Art Child tells me I’m supposed to be. Some of it I really liked, some not so much. The first thing you see is the costumes the artists wore while making their films THE POINT OF LEAST RESISTANCE and THE RIGHT WAY. umm, ok. I didn’t take a ton of photos, I was busy trying to understand what I was seeing, but I’m glad we went.

Here’s where I love the tourists, they remember the views over the park are part of the intended experience.

In the Thannhauser Gallery there are an assortment of paintings by Picasso, Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Cèzanne, Toulouse-Lautrec, and others. Regardless of what else is on exhibit, whether it’s something I enjoy, understand or not, I’m moved and satisfied sitting in that gallery. I love Picasso, his paintings, his etchings, his sculptures. Not all of his work, he starts to lose me with swaths of his Cubist period. Does that mean I’m déclassé? Maybe just a peasant. That’s ok, I don’t mind.

One of my favorite paintings is there now. Sorry, I must have knocked the dial on the camera right before I took this photo, it’s way too yellow.

Woman Ironing, by Pablo Picasso. Can I say it again? I love this painting. From his Blue Period, there’s something about it that has always drawn me in. I don’t remember the where (pretty sure it wasn’t the Guggenheim) or when (I was a child, for certain) I first saw it, but I will never be tired of this woman. When I hear people refer to a work of art speaking to them, this is one of the paintings that comes to the forefront of my mind. Maybe I always knew I was destined for drudgery. And scoliosis. And shadows. Take a closer look with me, the shadow along her neck is delicious, makes me shiver.

Everything you can’t see in her eyes, but see in her curves and angles.

This was the first piece of the day that Art Child chose to sit and sketch. I can’t say what I enjoyed most, being able to sit down and enjoy the Ironing Woman, the girl sitting at the end of the bench and sketching her, or the museum visitors stopping to watch her sketch for longer than they looked at the painting in question. Perfect moment.

After we had moved on, and were back to Fischli and Weiss, I felt my phone buzz. A text from Nerd Child, frustrated and disappointed about a lost opportunity. No fault of his own, one of those life-happens things. Still, I’m a mom, which means through the life experience that enables me to understand the whys, hows, and frequencies of disappointments, my heart aches for each of my kiddos, every time they’re faced with one. In the middle of the gazillion clay sculptures I happened to be standing in front of a representation of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. I walked past the donkey to the inner wall of the museum and looked down.

Something had clicked for me, and the artists’ spent Rat and Bear costumes lying on the lobby platform made sense. Trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t, philosophical questions that don’t have a right answer–or any answer at all, dreaming about success. Yeah, these are the things we need to do, to experience, the questions we need to ask. These are the moments we need, perfect or otherwise.

Nesting

This pair has been hanging out on the water tower across from my apartment all morning.

This pair hung out on the water tower across from my apartment all morning.

The crows seem to enjoy today’s fine flurries. They stuck around, cawing and calling and circling until the flurries stopped.

It’s that time. That time of year, when I start thinking about how nice it would be to get away by myself. Still haven’t done it (not since I had children, anyway), but I think about it. A little while ago I even looked up writer’s retreats for 2016. They lose their appeal after about 3 minutes of web surfing. Wooded settings, steep price tags, set meal times, and evening conversations with strangers. Feel me shuddering through the keyboard? Creating my own retreat, though, that would be lovely. Just a few days. Coffee, tea, salad, and Cheetos should cover all the necessary meals/food groups. Maybe some salt and vinegar chips. On a beach, because if I were to be overcome by the glory of uninterrupted alone-time and therefore not get any writing done, I’d still be happy.

It’s also that time when I’m thinking about writing. A lot. I know myself, what it means when I can’t stop thinking about a poem, a photograph, a song…and I know what’s next; obsession with the next manuscript. You know when you hear women talk about nesting in the later stages of pregnancy? I never did that. I do it before getting serious about a manuscript. Why? I dunno. It isn’t like baking or being caught up on laundry and grocery shopping beforehand makes a damned bit of difference by the time I’m a month in, but I do it anyway. Feels like dropping down to a low gear in order to drive up a steep hill without stalling or getting caught at the red light at the top. Not that it works, life provides red lights with regularity, and god knows I stall out all. the. time. while I’m writing, but that’s what it feels like for the moment.

So I’ve been thinking about Emily Dickinson’s “I’m Nobody.” I always loved this one, no matter how many times I’ve heard and read it.

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one’s name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!

I’ve never been Somebody, from my vantage it seems like there’s power in it. But there’s freedom in being Nobody, do you think? Maybe not, maybe it’s just one of the not-so-little lies we tell ourselves, along the lines of poor-but-happy.

A few weeks ago I took this photo on one of the (thankfully) few bitter cold days we’ve had this winter.

Lost? Forgotten? Abandoned?

The flowers, this photo, a complete story by itself. But which one? My first thought for a caption was something like, “Screw you and your cheap-ass bodega flowers!” Such a frigid morning though, maybe they dropped from fingers so numb the person carrying them didn’t realize they lost them until they were fumbling for their Metrocard two blocks later. The neighborhood where I took this shot is a busy one, home to a large social security office, a few social service agencies, and several thrift stores. Maybe they fell from the cart of someone’s wheelchair, or the little basket that sits across the top of a walker. Maybe they were dropped as someone late for a date grabbed the first available cab they’d seen in twenty minutes, or maybe, maybe, maybe. So many possibilities, and those are just a few of the more mundane ones.

I stopped halfway through putting this post together to go pick up the girl. In Grand Central, when you walk through the tunnel connecting the tracks for the shuttle and the 4/5/6, there are several abandoned “windows.” I can’t remember if there used to be stores behind them, or what they were originally for, but now they’re lit empty boxes, good for backlighting the various street performers and religious groups that stop in front of them. Today I was walking past and saw this.

MTA worker with dreams of being a display artist?

Clandestine spy code? Pre-arranged tableau signaling the all clear for a passionate liaison between an engineer and a station inspector? I think, if I were writing this into a manuscript, I’d have to add a crow.

Honey, I’ve Got Underwear Older than You

And I’m wearing them.

Maybe the bones aren’t as strong as they once were, but it’s still standing.

Over the summer I posted about an idea I had for a novel. Not exactly a new idea, it would involve a complete revamp/rewrite of a manuscript I wrote a few years ago. I lamented in advance about all the work that would entail, the time, the energy, the damned hope. I didn’t know if I wanted to. I decided to put the idea to the side and see if both the idea and the urge faded away or took root. It’s taken root, but I still haven’t decided if I’m going to do the work. A couple of weeks ago I wrote an opening, a few hundred words. Not enough for me to call it a WIP (work in progress). The night before Thanksgiving, I decided I absolutely needed to go right then to the neighborhood where it’s set to take some photos, so I can decide exactly where my imaginary house will be in my imaginary manuscript. Just in case, you understand.

While I haven’t been working on anything, I still go on the writer’s forum. I’ve got several friends on there, I’ve been a member for a long time, and there’s a healthy amount of silliness that takes place in the off topic sections. I still read all the threads directly related to writing, though I rarely post on them. So the other morning I was having my second cup of pre-dawn espresso and surfing the writing threads in an attempt to take a break from political overload, and I saw a doozy of a post. Actually, it was a few posts, and I don’t even remember what the thread was supposed to be about in the first place. Someone referenced a sad blog post they had read, about a woman who had been trying to get published for twenty years and was giving up. No other details given, I have no idea who the blogger referenced is, or any of the details of her story.

Imagine my surprise to see a response that said something to the effect of, perhaps readers are lucky she’s giving up, if she couldn’t get anywhere with all that time. Hmmm. Someone else wanting to know what she was doing for all that time. Someone else assuming her work must be poor. And someone else referencing that she’d been failing longer than they’d been alive, and she should try something else. Well, let me just say Mrs Fringe had quite a difficult time restraining herself from sending them to their rooms. (no, I’m not a mod there and have 0 authority) Maybe the time out corner, for 7 or 12 or 17 years. Or as I like to call the time-out corner, life. Again, I have no idea what else was going on in that woman’s life over the course of those twenty years, how much time was spent actually writing, or submitting. It doesn’t matter, because one thing I’m sure of is that writing wasn’t the only thing she was doing. Because life does happen, to all of us, whether we’re creative geniuses, no talent hacks, prim and proper accountants or women of a certain age.

Even though I wasn’t actually a part of the conversation, and no one was actually speaking to me, I was annoyed. Feeling sensitive, because they’re asking the same questions and making the same deprecating comments I’ve been making about myself. Some of it has to do with the writing, yes, questioning the value of my words and stories. How do you measure the value of these things, anyway? Because that, I think, is the crux of it for me. What is the value? If there is no measurable value without success, what is my value? Being a woman of a certain age without clear markers of success, feeling the negative pressure, maybe I’m supposed to just fade out quietly; stop making a fuss, stop dreaming, move out of the way of the younger generations, and for God’s sake stop cursing so much. Well, that last part is never going to fucking happen.

I don’t know if I’m going to write that manuscript. But if I don’t, it won’t be because of how many years have or have not passed since I first said hey, I’d like to see my words in a book, on a shelf, and be paid a dollar for them. I’ve been busy.

Mama, Didn’t Mean to Make ya Cry

Empty nest or empty bed?

I think it’s just an empty bed, because the nest surrounding it is filled with the laundry that gets washed but doesn’t go in the dryer, so there’s a forest of detergent-scented shirts and undies to hack through. And of course, I still have one child at home.

But let’s go ahead and talk about the empty nest thing. The other day on Facebook, I saw a short video meant to tug at the heartstrings and tear ducts of women my age and up (all with gray or white hair, yes!!) giving individual answers to what they’d have done differently. All said some variation of they’d have slowed down, appreciated the small moments, snuggles, hugs, bedtime delays, etc more than they did. Ok, fair enough, and it was a nice little video, but my immediate thought was, I did all that. I did all that, and I wish I had done a little (not a lot, but a little) less of that.

When I was a kid I swore that when I grew up, I was going to have children, keep them, let them feel how loved they were, know they came first, devote my everything to them while encouraging independence. Check. I’m glad I’m a mom, glad I spent the time, feel somewhat confident that I’ve done and continue to do the best I can. Mistakes made? Check. Decisions I regret? Check. But I not only adore my kiddos, I like them, like spending time with them, love hearing the laughter, and feel like the most miserable, useless human being on the face of the earth when they cry. When they were little, Husband and I practiced attachment parenting; holding them until they fell asleep–in our room–, I breastfed for a combined total of 8000 years, and agonized over which toy, what rules, which foods, and on and on.

I thought, because I was aware and making a conscious choice to center my world around them, I wouldn’t lose myself. To some degree, that’s been true. I wouldn’t resent them. That’s certainly true. I remembered to maintain my friendships and get “grown-up” time. I didn’t stop listening to the music I loved, didn’t stop reading anything other than the Scholastic Book catalogue, didn’t let my life be ruled by playdates and mommy and me classes. Still, looking back, I wish I had nudged myself and my writing just a little higher on the to-do list.

During those early years, I heard a fair amount of backlash. “you’re pregnant again?” “you’re still nursing?” And of course the whispers I wasn’t meant to hear but did, “those kids are never going to be independent.” “never going to wean.” Yawn. The same whisperers who swore my kids would never be able to fall asleep without me let alone become functioning adults, murmured again when each boy left for boarding school. “I can’t believe she’s sending her kids away!” Yawn. For the 492nd time, I didn’t send them away, I allowed them to go. Not just semantics. Boarding school isn’t the best choice for every kid for many different reasons, but it was for two of mine.

So this video has stayed on my mind. This morning I saw a link and discussion about another video. I didn’t click the link, just read the discussion, about a commercial being aired (in Asia, maybe?) about a mom sitting alone, miserable because her nest is empty and the kid(s) hasn’t called, even though she devoted her every everything to this ingrate. Call your muthah. The discussion was all about how terrible it is for women to center their lives around their children, it’s their own fault, unrealistic expectations, excessive guilt trips, and a few posts about this-is-why-I-choose-not-to-have-children. Fair enough. There are many reasons to choose not to have children, and I believe all should be accepted. #1, it’s nobody else’s fucking business and #2, parenting is long and hard no matter what parenting philosophy you subscribe to, with absolutely no guarantees about anything; not whether you’ll enjoy it, feel good about it, have a good relationship when all is said and done, or whether or not those kiddos will be healthy and sound enough to grow up and become independent.

The other day was my birthday, and I have to say, it was an excellent day. I woke to flowers from Husband, Art Child made me a fantastic card, Man Child messaged me from Italy (unexpected, I figured he’d still be jet lagged and getting his legs under him), Nerd Child not only called me, but happened to be with someone I’m a big, long time fan of, and the man got on the phone and wished me a happy birthday! I stayed in my pajamas until the afternoon, got several texts and phone calls from friends, and my buddy El Fab came over for dinner. Would I have been angry if the boys hadn’t remembered and contacted me? Given them lectures, guilt trips, and slide shows about why they should have? Nope, but it sure was beautiful that each remembered me.

It seems natural, logical to me that at the other end of this parenting gig (sure, you’re a parent forever, but there is usually a point where the kiddo develops their own life, be it from the basement apartment, across state lines, or on another continent) and there’s a period of, dare I say it? Wondering what’s next. Maybe even feeling a bit of emptiness. When someone spends years building a career and then stops working, it’s the subject of good natured teasing, maybe even compassion, “(s)he doesn’t know what to do with himself.” I don’t hear a whole lot of “I told her not to make so much damned money…be such a dedicated worker…if he had put more into it, he wouldn’t be miserable now…eventually she had to retire!” I definitely haven’t seen any videos floating around chastising retirees.

We are all individuals, same as our children are. I know parents with adult children who speak to their children every single day, see them twice a week, and live within spitting distance of each other, can’t conceive of going a month without seeing each other. They’re living their lives, and happy. I know parents with adult children who speak once a week, see each other once every month or two, live a couple of hours away from each other, living their lives, and happy. Some live in different countries, speak when they can, and are thrilled if they see each other every year or two. Others live around the corner from each other, or thousands of miles away, and don’t speak at all, too many years of anger and resentment. And then there are some who have experienced the terrible, unimaginable heartbreak of losing a child to illness, drugs, or violent crime. Yes, we can (do?) all look back and see moments where we wish we had made different choices. For ourselves, for our families. I sure as hell can’t look back at someone else’s life from my living room and my perspective and tell them what they should have done. Does this make me a bad feminist as well as a bad mama?

After all these years of mama-ing, hindsight leads me to this one question: When are we going to stop with the judgmental bullshit? Call me crazy, but I don’t think there’s one right way to parent, one right way to live, one right way to be independent.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TeurBFZGNI

Washing the Dust Off

The purpose of art is washing the daily dust off of our souls~Pablo Picasso

After the fiasco of our adventures on Friday I was more than ready for a good day. So, on Sunday afternoon, Husband’s cousin, Miss Sweet Heart, met Man Child, Art Child and I at our apartment and we headed downtown to the Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibit. Yes, Art Child and I went a few months ago (the show is put on twice a year, Memorial Day weekend and Labor Day weekend) but it’s well worth revisiting. Some of the artists are the same (new work and old) and others were new to us.

Man Child and Miss Sweet Heart haven’t seen each other in a couple of years, so that alone made the day beautiful. Add in a day trip, trains that ran on time, art that is exciting and inspiring, generous artists, and it was damn near perfect. One of the things that made it so special was that several of the artists we chatted with last time remembered Art Child. Made her day, and mine. I’m continually impressed by how many in the art community are willing to take and make time for a young artist, offer ideas and encouragement.

Remember the artist with the amazing tree-woman sculpture last time? Anthony Santella was back with new work. I didn’t think anything could be more perfect than the last bust I posted photos of, but I was mistaken. Last time we saw him at the WSAOE, he gifted Art Child with a nail-studded heart he had carved, it holds a place of honor on her desk. Turns out he blogged about meeting her. Hmm, for some reason the link doesn’t take you directly to the post. From the about page, click on his blog, and then May 2015 in his archives, Sunday, May 24th, Day #144 of #MakeArt365. (Spend time checking out his site, well worth it.) Me, blabberfingers extraordinaire, can’t find the words for how beautiful it is to see my girl in this setting, with adult artists taking her and her work seriously, no one caring (in a good way) about academics, neurological status, sluggish reflexes, size, blah, blah, blah.

Isn’t she wonderful?

Out of budget for us, but oh how I wish.

Looking at the sculpture above got my mind racing, how could I write her into Wanna-Bees, change a character? add a new one? I was about to ask Mr. Santella if he would mind if I “wrote her,” but then I didn’t. I’m just not ready to write.

Besides the wood sculptures, he has paintings and smaller sculptures made from 3-D printing. Art Child purchased one of his paintings from a group he had tucked away, older works. Funny enough, she was drawn to those he made when not much older than she, and still in high school. I bought a little 3D printed woman, maybe 2 1/2 inches with the base. She’s looking down at me from the shelf over my desk now.