Tuesday, February 16, 2010
A Word, A Pause.
A word about the hiatus and, by extension, the Art/Life Project:
This blog is honest. I don’t tell stories that aren’t true and I try not to front. But there are some areas of my life that I don’t think ought to be blogged about, so it’s not completely transparent. The private topics include—because I’m itemizing right now, remember:
- my husband’s evolving work in the military
- our sex life
- the intimate details of our marriage
- my menstrual cycle
- my sobriety, for the most part
I’d love to say that I don’t talk about bowel movements, but of course that went out the window when my intestines turned into paper and I became a gimp. But seriously: the topics I listed just seem to be private in a way that other topics don’t necessarily need to be. Some would balk at sharing any details of their lives in a public way, though this is less true than it used to be. To me, it’s all pretty fair game; I will even make exceptions to the above rules from time to time. Why not? It’s not like I’m fundamentally different from any other human on the planet. Mi experience, su experience.
This is all meant to help explain why I took a PaperGirl hiatus, why I canceled several poetry gigs, and why I must pause the Art/Life Project. I’m going to explain, briefly, because I fear people think I had a nervous breakdown. That’s not really what happened. There was a bit of a breaking down around Christmas, but there are usually institutions involved in nervous breakdowns and it wasn’t like that.
Listen: It was revealed to me that I was running aground. In recovery, we talk about self will vs. God’s will (or, if you prefer, the Universe’s will.) When you’re operating on self will, you’re insisting on running The Show yourself. Your plans are the only plans, the people in your life are characters in your little production, and all of your needs are achievable only by the sheer force of your actions and decisions. This may work for awhile, but in time it all falls apart because you can’t force your will on the Universe forever. The Universe is not amused by your squeaking and other people will eventually shoot you. Try it, if you want.
I had been running on self will for a long time and it was not good. And it was pointed out to me that my Art/Life Project, while it’s intentions were good and its object was cool, was really just a way for me to control the Universe while I was sitting there breathing. I insisted on being living art, not just because I thought it was groovy, but because it wasn’t good enough to just sit there and be Mary. Does that make sense? As I realized that I needed to let go and stop struggling so much to run The Show, it became clear that I needed to simply get dressed in the morning. Not get dressed just in pink or blue or orange, but just get dressed. Just put one foot in front of the other, just be Mary from moment to moment, not some living art object. The project was exactly halfway done at that point and, though it was incredibly painful for me, halfway was where it needed to rest. It’s so unlike me to not finish something, so in fact it was much more challenging to stop doing the project than it would have been for me to finish it.
And as I was realizing all this, as all my snow globes were crashing to the ground, there was no way I could blog. Because you can’t have a revelation about your life and write about the weather—not if you value honesty. And you can’t write about a revelation in your life if it involves topics that you’ve deemed unfit for the public sphere. The only thing to do was to take a break. I’d like to think it was the decision with the most class, but it was also the only decision. When it came to Mary in late December, there wasn’t much class to be found, honestly.
So that’s what happened. I know it’s still oblique, but I’m still following my rules, here. The good news is that when snow globes crash, if you’re willing to find a solution, there is one. You have to stop running The Show. You have to give it over, turn it over, let it go. That’s what I chose. I could’ve chosen to keep going the way I was, but I wasn’t interested in seeing more hurt in the eyes of people I love. It’ll get you every time.
That’s all.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.
So. Flannery O’Connor.
Reading one of Flannery O’Connor’s stories is like sitting in the glow of a fire. Maybe it’s a campfire, maybe it’s a fire in a fireplace; you find yourself stretching your legs out to feel the heat and your senses are alive with all those deep pops and crackles. The fire dances and licks itself because it was born to do just that. It’s a raw, perfect animal: there’s no extra, and there’s nothing lacking. It’s just fire, and you’re glad you’re there.
O’Connor died too young; she was in her forties, I believe, when she succumbed to lupus. It’s a tragedy. If she had been around longer she would’ve written more and if she had written more, the world would be a better place. Flannery O’Connor’s untimely death makes a good case for doctors.
Her stories aren’t feel-good. They’re not going to cheer you up and they might actually make you a little queasy. But her voice and her power are so strong, you come away from them feeling like the world might not be so hopeless after all. Her voice and her ability are so incredible and so present, you feel like there is, most definitely, a God. And God might be Flannery O’Connor, or vice versa.
We had a great show tonight and Jasper and I walked home instead of going out. I’m headed to bed with Wise Blood, one of only two full-length novels she wrote.
It’ll keep me as warm as my blankets, I reckon.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Uh-Oh: Part Deux
Forget what I said before. White ees veddy veddy goot.
Just a few short days ago, I was hollering and despairing about it. But life is predictable, as usual. One second you’re neck-deep in pig vomit and the next second you’re spinning around in a fab all-white outfit put together during an intense couple of hours of self-styling, during which you tried on every possible combination of the white pieces of clothing in your closet and dresser. I mean, doesn’t that just say everything there is to say about life? Pig vomit and spinning?
Anyway, the look that I’ve arrived at is interesting. The various get-ups I eventually created involve a lot of layers. This is partly because it’s cold. This is also because when you wear white, you often need to wear something underneath the white, which, in my case, is white. Since the shade of my white clothes run the gamut from ecru to ivory to snow, etc., what I’m ending up with is a fashionable (if slightly theatrical) “surgeon-on-the-prairie” look. I should take off the neckerchief.
The bone-colored corduroy pants I finally found are a little big, but they’ll do. I’m realizing that this project is about mixing art and life, sure, but it’s also very much about fashion. I’m getting pretty good at the whole “make something out of nothing” thing. Watch out: next year I’ll swear to wear nothing but bubble wrap and packing tape and I’ll look fabulous!
In other news, we leave for D.C. on Sunday. I’m going to match the Capitol!
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Thursday, December 3, 2009
Uh-Oh.
Guess what’s difficult? Dressing in all white.
I knew it would feel different. I figured it might be, like orange was, conspicuous (especially in December) but I didn’t think it would be this hard.
This is partly because I figured I had an ace in the hole in terms of pants. Last year, when I went to New York to see Liza Minnelli, Nan took me to experience the wonder and joy that is the Barney’s Warehouse Sale. It’s a glorious madhouse mess, with rack upon crammed rack of designer clothing marked down to prices that make you reflexively drop your jaw. To wit: I found a pair of white Balenciaga pants for—wait for it—just over twenty dollars. Twenty. They were crisp and clean and retailed somewhere around $600, apparently part of the label’s less-expensive “we’re roughin’ it” cruise wear line. Balenciaga. Twenty bucks.
So when I was separating all my clothes into their respective bins at the start of this project, I came across my Balenciaga white pants and thought, “Oh hell yes. White! I’m comin’ baby!”
Yeah, well, the pants look horrible on me. They don’t fit. I’m surprised they ever fit. They’re too big. Too big in the waist, too long in the crotch, way too long in the leg. These are pants for a tall woman. I am not a tall woman. Not tall enough for these pants. So now the only pants option I have is a pair of capris that, aside from being totally wrong for the weather situation, don’t fit me too well in the other direction. They’re a little tight. And tight pants are one thing, but tight white pants are something else altogether, especially if you’re wearing them in December. I need pants real bad, people. This is a problem.
Outside of the pants problem, the shirts and skirts that I have put together are all okay on their own, I guess, but together, nothing is working. I’m starting to wonder if white isn’t the most flattering color on a person who weighs more than about 100 pounds. I looked fabulous in my wedding dress, but I don’t think I could pull that off on, say, any old Tuesday. Plus, it’s in storage in Iowa.
Tomorrow, I will hit the thrift stores. I must find clothes. I must find clothes quickly, because I leave for D.C. on Sunday and there will be way too much to do to be fretting or shopping. If I were okay wearing any old thing, I’d be fine. But I’m not okay with that. I have to feel good in my clothes or I’m no good to anyone.
White, you are being difficult. I may have to call your mother.