Ellipsism

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Entire piece

ellipsism2
Bottom right detail

Around 1/24/16

Ingredients:
8.5 x 12 inch Strathmore visual journal
Paper with a word from “The dictionary of obscure sorrows” depicting “A sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out.”
White chalk pen
Distress ink
Art paper
Glue stick.

Search party

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Full image

search party2 012416
Right side detail

search party3
Top left detail.

Created 1/24/16. Our scanner broke so there is a backlog and I’m posting a batch of them. The images were taken with my cell phone. The colors are an approximation – they are a little lighter and less intense in the original.

Thoughts that arose while making it:
Framed. Blood trail. Tracking through the woods in misty rain. Hair clues. Musical notes. Organized search party. Tracks crossing water, trail washed out. Switchbacks, doubling back, retracing steps.

Ingredients:
8.5 x 12 inch Strathmore visual journal
Card stock (Pacon watercolor)
Tissue paper
Deli paper
Matte medium
Watercolor
Loose hairs from watercolor brush
Map pieces
Glue stick.

What does it mean to be alive?

My mother-in-law refused to die. She didn’t seem to get that simply being alive and living were two separate things. Life is more than your heart beating, your blood circulating, your breath coming in and going out like the tide. Life is more than simply existing, simply enduring.

I’m not sure what she was looking for, but I know that she didn’t find it.

The doctors had done all they could, but the cancer had done more. It had won the battle, even the war, but she wasn’t pulling out, wasn’t flying the white flag. She was held hostage to it but wouldn’t admit it. In the end, she was reduced to a sort of half-life, a half existence. A life that was the opposite of full.

She was alive, barely. She had so much pride that she didn’t ask for help even when it came to getting food. After she died, we found frozen dinners in her house and nothing homemade. We found receipts for a personal shopper from Publix. She’d rather ask strangers for help then ask her family. She’d rather hobble along pretending, trying to make do for as long as possible in adverse circumstances.

For some, this was admirable, but not for me. For me it was a sad way to die, a desperate attempt to hold on – but for what? A cure, a miracle? It was as if she thought that she was going to do the healing, that she thought that if she held on just a little longer that she would outlast the disease.

Her death was the same. So much struggle. So much fight. She lasted five days when the nurses thought she would only last five hours. It was an ugly death. It brought no grace or comfort to the family to see her struggle so much.

It had been a year and a half after her diagnosis that she finally died. A year and a half of tests and experiments, a year and a half of pain and struggle. She didn’t plan well. She didn’t budget her time or her energy. She didn’t do anything on her bucket list. She hadn’t even thought about it at all until I asked.

I don’t know if she didn’t know – if she was simply ignorant of the slow decline that cancer brings, of how it steals your abilities and independence bit by bit, piece by piece. Cancer takes all your pieces off the board one by one and doesn’t give them back. Cancer doesn’t play fair. When it got down to the very end she still wouldn’t let go. She was still fighting against this adversary. But she wasn’t fighting death by living. She was just enduring.

We don’t bring ourselves into this world, and we don’t take ourselves out. It is not for us to determine the length of our days. We have some control over how well we will live in terms of taking care of our bodies, but we have little control over how long we will live. Any moment our heart can stop beating. Any moment a blood vessel can break. Any moment we can choke on something and die suddenly, quickly, quietly.

Our lives are not our own.

If God was going to provide a miracle, then God didn’t need her to fight so hard to stay alive in the middle of so much pain, so much suffering. God gave her over seventy years of life and she had little to show for it. God gave her a year and a half after her diagnosis and all she did was hold on, in some desperate appeal for more.

More of what? Life for the sake of being alive?

If someone gives you a gift, they expect you to use it. You aren’t going to get a second gift if you refuse to open and use the first one. You certainly won’t get another if you don’t say thank you for the first one.

Why would God grant more life to someone who has chosen not to live it at all?

The erasure

They finally came. After months of broadcasts on all known media (radio, television, Internet, newspaper, shortwave, telegraph, TTY, dolphins, psychics) saying it was coming, that they were coming, it had finally happened.

Nobody knew who was sending the broadcasts, or where they were from. Agencies and detectives and amateur sleuths all over the world tried to answer those questions, to no avail. Séances were held. Runes were consulted. Wires were tapped. Still the messages came, and still no one knew the source or the author. Television anchors were told to say nothing that might frighten the public more than they already were. Talk show hosts were, as usual, under no authority or ethical standard, so they said whatever they felt, regardless of truth or concern for how their prattlings would harm.

The beings, or spirits, or aliens, or whatever they were had tried to communicate with our earth for far longer than people realized. They had subtly influenced moods and desires since before 2000, like a silent alarm, like an odorless poison. They were the reason for the Y2K panic. They were the reason preppers stocked up on ammunition and canned ham. They were the reason people began to mis-trust the authorities and began to take matters into their own hands. Urban farms, homeschooling, anti-vaccine? These were their doing. Layer by layer they had painted a picture of paranoia in our brains to divide us, keep us off balance.

Everyone was affected to some degree. It was only those who didn’t consume mass media that maintained some semblance of control over their actions. All those who watched TV or movies or listened to the radio got multiple doses of the message, and it was cumulative, just like any other poison. A single bee sting is annoying, but not fatal. A thousand stings is another matter.

When they finally came it was almost a relief.

It was a cool day in August, one of those days that was not too hot or humid with a few clouds in the azure sky. The morning had gone peacefully for everyone for a change. The disturbing dreams have finally stopped. Even the news reports were calm for a change, with the latest plastic surgery of one celebrity being the lead instead of the usual threats of war from petty tyrants trying to get the world to notice them. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day, until the skies scissored open with the dimension-melting sight/sound/smell of their ships at 11:11 AM.

People started to see sounds and hear colors.
Time ran backwards and sideways and stopped.
Everything suddenly made sense
but there were no words
anymore to explain it.

And then there was nothing.

The silence was thicker than the darkest night, a crushing subterranean weight, more alienating than being trapped in the Marianas Trench in a powerless submarine.

Then, just as suddenly, there was only now. The past wasn’t even a memory. It was just a word. All mistakes, all forgotten grocery lists, all insults, all arguments, gone in a blink of the eye. Gone too were first kisses. baby’s first laugh, that perfect day in October when the sky is the blue of watery dreams and crisp like a Gala apple.

All of it.
Gone.

Somehow they knew, whoever they were. They knew that what was holding us back was our near-pathological need to catalog the past into neat (and not so neat) piles, holding onto memories and snapshots and train tickets and receipts for ice skates and ice cream. Somehow they knew that our need to separate those piles into “good” and “bad” was our secret un-doing, our un-humaning, our un-being. Somehow they knew that our “bad” pile held us down, became a pattern for our future, made us think we would always be cheated, be robbed, be abandoned. Somehow too, they knew that our “good” pile equally enslaved us, making us feel that we could never feel that exhilarated or proud or delighted ever again.

Our collective and individual past being erased was as great a blessing to us as a tornado or a house fire. It forced us to stop holding onto the dried husks of what it means to be truly alive. For too long we thought that the artificial joy of our memories was what made us human.

Overnight, the scrapbooking industry was rendered irrelevant. No one could even imagine why they had spent so much of their lives (and money) gluing memorabilia into organized books, accented with metallic rickrack and die-cut stickers. No one took photographs either, choosing to see their lives through their own eyes rather than through a viewfinder.

Why save the past anymore?
It was meaningless.
Only the present moment,
a moment eternally composed
of beginnings,
was valid.
In that moment
anything
could happen.

Turn away

I’ve seen several pictures of things that have really disturbed me recently, and rather than just turn away again, I’ve decided to meditate on exactly what I find repulsive about these pictures. This is part of my recent decision to be more mindful. It is not an easy practice, but it is necessary for being fully conscious and aware of my actions.

These images aren’t things that people normally would turn away from, such as violence or abuse for instance. Those are abhorrent as well, of course. What I’m writing about here are images of people who are in ICU, hooked up to machines and tubes. I never gave it a second thought as to why I was repulsed until I saw a video about a machine that can keep a heart alive outside of the body in preparation for transplant. That tipped the scales.

What disturbs me about it is not exactly the same as what disturbs me about the ICU pictures, but it is a good thing to start with. The donor was dead, as far as doctors could determine. The brain had ceased functioning. The heart had been removed, and rather than keep it on ice as was normally done in a transplant situation, it was hooked up to a machine that replicated the environment inside the chest. It was kept humid and warm, with blood circulating through it. This heart was beating just like a normal heart, but it was inside a plastic box. There was no person attached.

I also saw a video of two mothers who had a strange connection. Mother A had a young child who had suddenly died due to trauma. She had decided to donate his organs. Mother B’s child had received his heart. They met three years later and mother A used a stethoscope to hear the heart of her son beating inside the chest of Mother B’s daughter. It was supposed to be a touching video, but I was really disturbed. Something seemed deeply wrong about this.

I kept being triggered by these images. I decided to examine the original related triggers – images of people in ICU. I don’t seek these out – people share them sometimes on social media as part of a story.

One was about a new mother who had been in an accident and the nurse brought her child to her so she could breastfeed her child. While the person who posted it was pointing out the value of breastfeeding, it was very disturbing. The mother was not present in any form other than her body. She was not being helped to breastfeed. The nurse put the child to her breast and that was it.

I look at a sketching website every day, and today there was one of a man in ICU. The sketcher even commented about it, wondering if it was ethically correct to sketch such a thing. He did not mention if he’d thought about the ethics of sharing it online as well.

I read something recently that speaks to all of this in a useful way.

There is a Jewish belief that it is improper to have an open casket. To do so is to violate the privacy of the person. It is also putting focus and attention on the wrong thing, as the “person” is not there – their soul has left. When there is just a body and not a soul, it is not a person. It is a shell, a husk. An open casket is an insult to the person who had inhabited that body, because they have no say over how they are seen. They have no control over what happens to them. They are fully exposed for the world to see and cannot do anything about it.

I think this is at the center of it all. To show pictures of people who are not at their best (to say it lightly) is to violate their rights. It is an invasion of privacy. It is embarrassing. To focus on body parts rather than the whole is equally unethical.

The lady’s son was no longer present. His heart was just a piece of muscle, doing a job. The heart in the box for transplant was moving as if it was alive, but as it was not attached to a person, it was simply the illusion of life. There was no soul in it. It was the same as looking at a machine.

Being mindful and considerate of others’ feelings also applies to not sharing pictures of people who have passed out from being drunk or are intoxicated to the point that they are unaware of their actions.

Remember the story of Noah and his sons?

Genesis 9:18-27
18 Noah’s sons who came out of the ark were Shem, Ham, and Japheth. Ham was the father of Canaan. 19 These three were Noah’s sons, and from them the whole earth was populated. 20 Noah, a man of the soil, was the first to plant a vineyard. 21 He drank some of the wine, became drunk, and uncovered himself inside his tent. 22 Ham, the father of Canaan, saw his father naked and told his two brothers outside. 23 Then Shem and Japheth took a cloak and placed it over both their shoulders, and walking backward, they covered their father’s nakedness. Their faces were turned away, and they did not see their father naked. 24 When Noah awoke from his drinking and learned what his youngest son had done to him, 25 he said: Canaan will be cursed. He will be the lowest of slaves to his brothers. 26 He also said: Praise the LORD, the God of Shem; Canaan will be his slave. 27 God will extend Japheth; he will dwell in the tents of Shem; Canaan will be his slave.

The son who saw him in his drunken state, unable to control himself, was cursed, along with his children. The two sons who covered him and made sure not to see him exposed were blessed.

This is the core teaching. To look at someone who is dead, or like dead (in ICU, or passed out due to intoxication) is an insult to their very being as a person. It is disrespectful. It is a violation of their privacy. It is the same as stripping someone naked. One might even go so far as to say it is equivalent to rape, as the person is treated as a thing and not as a person.

Like water off a duck’s back

I know a lady who is teaching her daughter to be a battered wife.

She doesn’t think that this is what she’s doing, of course. She says she’s teaching her to let things roll off her “like water off a duck’s back”. She wants her to not get riled up by things that happen to her. This is a good idea, but how she is going about it is disturbing.

Her way of teaching this lesson is to tap her daughter repeatedly in the face. The taps aren’t quite slaps but they are close. It is at least ten at a time. The daughter will say “quit it” or try to pull away and the mother will keep doing it. The daughter is about eight. The mom can easily tap her again when she pulls away, so the abuse continues.

I knew something was disturbing about this when I saw it but I couldn’t give words to it. Now I’ve figured it out. What she’s doing is teaching her daughter that she should just accept it when anybody abuses her.

How perfect it will be for a man with low self-esteem to find this girl who has been shaped for him. She will not complain or stand up for herself because her own mother, the person who she supposed to learn from, who is supposed to teach her healthy ways of taking care of herself, has taught her that she is supposed to be abused, and that this is just part of life. Her mother, her authority figure, is teaching her that people will try to harm her and that her only acceptable response is to let it happen.

Taxidermy for amateurs (short story)

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Emma had no way of knowing how her experiment in home taxidermy would work out until she tried. She’d read up about it in a correspondence course, changing her name to Eugene on the paperwork. No self-respecting school would teach a woman how to do such work, especially if they knew how she planned to use this knowledge.

She’d started simple – a dead raccoon she found near the edge of the field. A bird who’d gotten too close to a stray cat. It was unfortunate that the possum she’d spotted just down the road from the farm was too far gone, the turkey vultures having gotten first dibs. Sure, she still could have practiced on the mangy thing, but she wanted her artwork to look natural, or as natural as the deceased can look.

It took her two and a half years to work up the courage to try on a human. This had been her plan all along, but she had to be sure of her skill before she tried something so bold. Even men wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to step into that field of work without official license.

Emma knew too many folks in the village who went into debt over having to bury their dead. There was no good reason to spend a year’s income on someone who couldn’t appreciate it. New fancy clothes for someone who could never afford better than hand-me-downs his whole life? Nonsense. Silk lined coffin to sleep in, when cotton sheets were just fine all their life? Ludicrous.

And worst of all was all those chemicals pumped into their veins to keep them fresh for whenever Jesus got around to making a return visit. When he came, he’d better have a shovel, a jackhammer, and a pair of wire cutters to help them out after he woke them from their slumber. 6 feet down stuck in a concrete vault and a locked coffin was bad enough. Their mouth wired shut (to avoid any unpleasantness during the viewing) would make life difficult for the newly reanimated. Who wanted to come back from the dead like that?

Emma had another plan, a kinder, cheaper plan. Taxidermy. Dry out Grandpa Ross or Uncle Seymour so he doesn’t develop a case of the rot, and prop him up in a chair in the living room. Much cheaper, and he’d still be around to chat with. When the second coming happened he’d be just as ready as anyone else.

Poem – Storm (predictive text)

So many times I’ve got the job
and a few weeks and months
and it will take the bus driver
just got to go out
with the best way of saying
it is the most recent version
and the first place
I have no clue who
I want you
in my room

This girl
just a bit too easy
for the rest
is history
is not an easy
to play the piano
is not an issue
that the company
is trying
not too late
now that I’m a good one
to be able
the first place
I have no clue

One day
and the rest is history
is not an issue
that the company
is not the best way
of saying
it is the most recent version
and the first half
and I love the
fact is the only way
of the best of all of them
and the rest
is the only way

Right there in my room
for a long way
in which a man
with my family
and friends of friends
with a few weeks
and the other side
is the most beautiful and amazing
I can’t believe I’m saying that

Me
to get my money
and time
consuming
but it doesn’t even work
for a long way
in which a few years
and years
in a while
and the other side
is the most beautiful

——————–

(This “poem” is the word equivalent of random paint splatter. It was “composed” using the predictive text feature on my iPad. I used the letters in the word “storm” to generate the first letters in each paragraph. Then I used only the word choice that appeared as the far right option. I did not add any words. My only input was to break up the lines of words and take out five of them.

The sad thing is that this will get more “likes” than posts I worked very hard on that say something meaningful and important. But such is the way of the world, a world of flash and glamour, of style over substance. Plastic and fake is often preferred over real. Perhaps monkeys should have written Shakespeare.)

Chattanooga things to do

This is not your usual tourist list of places to go in Chattanooga. These are my personal favorite places to go when I visit my hometown. If you like interesting places that are locally owned and full of interest, these are for you.

Hours are subject to change, and businesses may close. Call beforehand to be sure.

Bluff view arts district (This is downtown, near the river)
http://www.bluffviewartdistrict.com/
…has many fine places, but here are two I always check out.

Rembrandt’s coffee house
Cozy European café serving coffee drinks alongside fresh-baked breads, pastries and desserts. Outside and inside dining.
Address: 204 High St, Chattanooga, TN 37403
Phone:(423) 265-5033
Monday – Thurs 7am – 10pm, Friday 7am – 11:30pm, Sat. 8am-11:30pm, Sun 8am-10pm

Go to the left of it and see the little grotto with the water feature and steps.

The River Gallery
http://www.river-gallery.com
A great little art gallery that looks like a museum. Lots of beautiful things there. A little pricy for me, but I still like to look. Plus, unlike a museum, there is no admission fee.
400 E 2nd St, Chattanooga, TN 37403
(423) 265-5033
Monday through Saturday 10-5, Sunday 1-5

Not far from here is an outside sculpture garden and a glass bridge.

–Downtown Chattanooga–

The shuttle system
Downtown Chattanooga is easy to get around and pretty good at having available parking spaces, unlike many other large cities. But – why even deal with that when you can use the free shuttle system?

http://www.downtownchattanooga.org/new/getting-around/shuttles
Shuttle buses run about every 5 minutes
Monday through Friday – 6:30 a.m. until 11:00 p.m.
Saturdays – 9:30 a.m. until 11:00 p.m.
Sundays – 9:30 a.m. until 8:30 p.m.
You can park and ride CARTA’s Free Electric Shuttles in parking garages on Frazier Avenue on the Northshore and at the Chattanooga Choo Choo on the Southside. Parking fees apply.

The Pickle Barrel
1012 Market St, Chattanooga, TN 37402
(423) 266-1103
Eclectic pub/restaurant with lots of character and charm. Has a deck seating area. “The Immigrant” sandwich is superb (Polish sausage on sourdough with sauerkraut), as well as the fried pickle spears.

Not far from here is Miller Plaza and park – a good place to wander around and splash in the artificial pond. (Or at least it was 20 years ago).

Lupi’s pizza pies
http://www.lupi.com/
406 Broad St, Chattanooga, TN 37402
(423) 266-5874
Monday, closed. Tues – Thurs 11-11, Friday-Saturday 11-11, Sunday 11:30-9
Fabulous hand-made pizzas and calzones, with an amazing list of toppings. Great beer selection too.

All Books
Address: 410 Broad St, Chattanooga, TN 37402
Phone: (423) 266-0501
Call beforehand. She is open when she feels like it. Do not make eye contact until the very last minute. She will ask you if you are Christian and “Yes” is the only correct answer. Lie if necessary. Do not ask where books are – she won’t tell you, and might very well mock you for asking. Especially do not mention that you work in a library. She has no love for librarians and will tell you so. The place is a rat’s nest. Her dog is incontinent and lives there. In spite of all of this, I still love going in here because of the amazing books I can find here.

The Walnut Street bridge
This bridge is open to pedestrians only. Great views of the river and the city. You can easily walk to the North Shore of Chattanooga, where there are a lot of great shops and restaurants.

–North Chattanooga–
http://www.northshorechattanooga.com/
Lots of independent shops and restaurants all located near each other, most near Frazier Avenue. There is a carousel and park as well. It also has the best sushi in the world at Sushi Nabe.

–In Brainerd– (East of downtown, near Hamilton Place Mall)

Ankar’s hoagies

Home


5966 Brainerd Rd, Chattanooga, TN 37421
(423) 899-3074
Mon – Thurs 10-9, Fri – Sat 10-10, Sunday 10-9

Best hoagies and onion rings in the world. Do not confuse this with a restaurant with a similar name that is downtown.

McKay used books

http://www.mckaybooks.com/

7734 Lee Hwy, Chattanooga, TN 37421
(423) 892-0067

Mon – Thurs 9-9, Friday – Sat 9-10, Sun 11-7 (hours increase in the summer)

Used books, DVDs, CDs, comic books and more. Warehouse sized. Plan on spending a lot of time here. There are locations in Nashville and Knoxville as well.

Edit to add –
Also, on the drive down from Nashville I like to stop to get lunch at Shenanigans on Monteagle Mountain
Address 12595 Sollace M Freeman Hwy, Sewanee, TN 37375
Website http://www.shenanigans1974.com/

and drive through the campus (Sewanee). website https://new.sewanee.edu/

Also, a fabulously funky and small grocery/antique/new age/hippie/yarn store called Mooney’s Emporium.
address 1265 W Main St, Monteagle, TN 37356
website http://mooneysmarketandemporium.com/