A Night at the Planetarium

Universe.  Hubble.  Orion.  Andromeda.  Stars.  Galaxies.  Constellations.

For someone who dreams too often about being among the celestial bright bodies of our evening skies, the presentation of Universe at the Morris Planetarium last Thursday night was nothing short of extraordinary.

For a time, I shared this fascination and love of stars with a man quite special.  However, as with all beautiful things, our relationship slowly turned to stardust.  Sitting in the Planetarium that evening, in the presence of these entities he and I once talked about, I wanted very much to turn to my right and see him sitting next to me . . . quietly smiling as he always does and gently squeezing my hand ever assuredly.  And I thought (perhaps foolishly) that if I just closed my eyes and wished hard enough, somehow the Pinocchio effect--that Disney magic--could happen a second time.  I was, after all, in the midst of countless twinkling stars.  Alas, when the presentation came to an end, the possibility of that real boy came to an end, too. 

As I walked out into the night, I was greeted by a sky full of stars (or as he and I used to call it, a sky full of moles).  Though bittersweet, I was genuinely happy to be reminded of him and to think about us as we were once, instead of what we are no longer.

And for a brief moment, I stood quietly under the brilliance of those bright stars . . . reveling, appreciating, and simply remembering the feeling of being.

Still

"In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

March 2015.

Big Basin Redwoods State Park, Santa Cruz County.

These photos came on the heels of my pit bull, Nala, passing and moving onto her next life.  I would like to imagine that next life being somewhere over the rainbow, comprised of luscious green rolling hills, the bluest of skies, and an endless stream of glistening water under the oath of a golden sun that never sets further than the three o'clock mark.  For twelve years, she graced my life with affection and love, lightheartedness and mischief--not to mention laughter of a very rare kind.  It does not feel like she has left my side; instead, I would like to think she has only thrown on an invisible cape and is running wildly and freely beside me now, no longer in pain and ever happy. 

 Nala, March 2012 (film SLR)

Until I can wrap my arms around you again, run wild and free in the forever place, my love. 

Love.

Love.

People fall into it, people fall out of it.  Some find it, some search for it.  Others yearn for it, others let go of it.

Love is risk.  It is seeing beyond ourselves and into the hearts of the ones who capture ours.  It is painful.  It is beautiful.

Love involves the highest degree of selflessness.  It encourages us to give without the expectation of a return.  It makes life amusing.  It makes life worthwhile.

Sometimes, wounds emerge.  Over time, scars will replace those wounds.  And they remain with us.

I do not believe those scars should be covered; they should be embraced.

Love.

You fall into it, you fall out of it.  You find it, you search for it.  You yearn for it, you let go of it.

You take the risk.  You see beyond yourself and into the heart of the one who captures yours.  It is painful.  It is beautiful.

Love requires your highest degree of selflessness.  It encourages you to give without the expectation of a return.  It makes your life amusing.  It makes your life worthwhile.

Sometimes, wounds emerge.  Over time, scars will replace your wounds.  And they remain with you.

You do not have to cover those scars; you can embrace them.

Love.

This is how I paint it.

Thoughts

Experiences.  What are they anyway?  Singular events independent of each other, or a series of events with the purpose of an inevitable merge?  I find myself grappling with questions like this one if not for any other reason than to provide relief for a wandering mind; I could even go so far as to say for an unsatisfied existence.  There is such a deep longing--an aching actually--that perpetuates and persists within the depths of my soul . . . one that haunts my heart everyday.  To know there is something more, something better, something out there for me and [not be able to] explore it in its entirety, well, that knowledge continuously wreaks havoc on my affairs.

Decisions.  Which ones are right, which ones are wrong?  How does one avoid making the wrong decisions?  For several weeks now, the balancing act between responsibility and purpose has shifted so much toward the former end that I find myself teetering constantly, perhaps even dangerously, on a tightrope that can only bear so much unsteady footwork.  The mind is far detached from my physical being--so much so that days, dates, and times are just a cluster of confusion.  My only trepidation is that it will get worst over time if a better decision is not made.

Ideals.  Can ideals become reality?  Or must they remain emblems of hope, never to reach fruition, so not to risk losing the essence of their definition?  What is ideal is only ideal because of its fantasy nature.  The yearning for what is not, what has yet to be, everything that could be . . . 

People.  What conspires people to act a certain way and impart the things they say?  Why are humans so quick to make assumptions without first feeling the need to allocate empathy?  Narcissism and an intrinsic desire for relevance--two determining factors in the way people move about in this world.  Twenty-nine years of observation and I have come to the conclusion that those who spout criticism are the very individuals who prefer to be cruel than to be kind.  And why this is, I cannot answer.  Being genuinely kind should be at the forefront of our humanness, but alas, society has marked such a worthy attribute as one only the weak upholds.  Regression of moral function.  A pity.

Every so often, I let down my bag of thoughts and attempt to clear it of its weight.  This week called for an emptying.  Too many less-than-stellar experiences involving decisions, ideals, and people transpired over the course of one month, and more so, the last seven days.

Consider this my emptying.

Next to Each Other

I spotted this couple on a walk through the Palace of Fine Arts a few Mondays ago.  These two were even more inspiring than the surrounding architecture.  The husband was reading the newspaper, the wife was working on a crossword puzzle (or so I surmised).  It was as if they were in their own little world and the hands of time decided to stop long enough for them to enjoy the passing afternoon.  It was just him and her.  No one else.  They didn't look up once at the people walking by their bench.  They sat under the bountiful shade of those tall trees, content and assured of the very thing that so many of us seek: a romantic love that lasts a lifetime.  I found the corners of my mouth curling upward into a smile as I watched them.  In the moments that followed, I discovered how much of my own existence ached for a newspaper-reading partner.  Someone to sit by me from now until our departure into forever.  

I hope a few decades down the road, I will be that seventy-year-old woman sitting next to her husband in the park on a quiet Monday afternoon, working on the daily crossword puzzle and only looking up to catch him slowly turning the pages of his newspaper.

Man & Sea

There is a constant of which humans are unaware: the delight of solitude, of aloneness, of a condition that many mistaken for social ineptness.  Its beauty is in everything, in what is seen and in what is unseen.  Parallel to the seas and skies, man traverses this earth daily, whether it be in a crowd of ten or solely on his own.  For it is an easy goal to find one's worth in the company of lovers and strangers, but a challenge to find one's worth independent of such.  To know who you and I are as plainly as we come--without the engagement of external relationships--well, that is a feat in and of itself.

Rain's Revelry

 

It was past two o'clock in the afternoon when I got into my car.  It was raining hard--storming actually.  I had heard peals of thunder moments before stepping out of the house.  There were barely any breaks in the downpour.  Yet, I was prepared to drive eight hours down the California coast.  I had thrown my overnight bag and backpack, along with some water and mixed nuts, into the hatchback without any intention of reconsidering the trip.  It was the last day of March and spring wanted to drench the region with three coats of wetness.  I could not refuse the inescapable, so instead, I welcomed all of it.  In retrospect, the storm was the perfect touch to that day's road trip.  I cannot begin to describe or explain what it was that I felt as I moved through the storm's presence.  There was an untainted beauty in the darkened skies, strong winds, and deep puddles.  I found myself reveling, contemplating, laughing, and even crying at times as I drove further and further away from the city that bore so much heaviness, so much meaningless weight.

A lot has transpired since that day two weeks ago.  Many changes, many new thoughts.  Yet, here I am, finding myself wishing I was caught in that stormy procession once more.

Storyteller

Finally got around to completing something I've been meaning to do: storytelling through video.  It's a narration (an audio short story if you will) with minimal imagery.

Tuna Meat & Poetry

For every morning that breaks, I take a moment to say a prayer.  Daylight can oft feel insufferable.  It is as though the warmth of the sun warrants the feeling of guilt and the question of whether or not one is deserving of it.  The reassurance of eventual deliverance from the woes that beset every inch of my clay body tempers faintly the depression.  After I transition from bed to shower to a hot oatmeal breakfast, I brave the unpredictable city weather for a couple of hours and step out for some solitude and quiet time.  I roam the earth's natural delights like a nymph who roams through her forests, mountains, and meadows.  To attempt to describe the experience of gazing into the vast openness of land, sea, and sky would be to shortchange it.  The experience is beyond the limpness of mortal words.  Count it among the few unadulterated blessings with which we humans are granted during our finite time traveling through this delicate life before proceeding to eternity.

There are moments where I catch myself not moving, merely standing still, contemplating my portion in this temporary world.  I am convinced my place is somewhere in the vanishing distances--where the sun melts into the ocean and the days are met with simplicity, the nights wrapped in innocence.  

I reach for my Moleskine.  Numerous thoughts to jot, infinite feelings to process.  It can be that my days know no lengths and my nights know no mornings.  Tis the grand act of removing oneself from the realm of consciousness in return for becoming a poetic writer, a honest painter.  I wish not to be another lemming in this play of perpetual feigning.  To cave into the desires of normality would be to deny the truth of my very being.  So I cast my lot among the outsiders, refuse the temptation of thirty shekels, and continue this walk alongside the cliffs of societal treason.

---

This entry was inspired by the nineteenth-century American poet, Emily Dickinson.  Reclusive and prolific, her life and works are worth reading.  There are few individuals to whom I automatically feel a connection; she is one of them.  The themes in her writings are consistent with my own.  I came across The Gorgeous Nothings during my trip to the bookstore, and I must say, Dickinson's envelope poems are hauntingly heartfelt. 

The Forge Ahead

I woke up this morning, took a look around at my work space, and instantly felt the sun pouring into my spirit.  I ended up declaring it a writing kind of day and spent some time at Fort Funston doing what I do best.

I combed the shore from one end to the other.  I got close to the waves and stood still to watch them make their way toward me.  I thought about the weight of the water, how heavy it must be and how peaceful it could be.  I played with the dogs of a few strangers.  Apparently they liked me.  They must have liked me if they were so inclined to lean their soaking wet and muddied fur bodies against my bare legs.  (I liked them, too.)  I even took off my shoes and felt the sand underneath my feet and in between my toes.  Everything was picture perfect for a Thursday afternoon.  

Except it wasn't.  

I was present, but there was a part of me that wasn't.  All I have felt for the last six days is a gaping hole in my stomach that is sucking moments of my life into oblivion.  I have been trying to fill this void with everything I can, with whomever I can, but to no avail.  It is as if I am performing on a never-ending stage.  The lights turn on every morning and I am pushed to act as if everything is fine, as if I am some heroine in a damn play.  Yes, everything is fine if you're not counting my invisible bruises, my under-the-skin wounds, and my existential absences in everyday life.  

I am tired.  My demons are too many and my angels are too few.  I just want to fall unto sleep.  The best kind of sleep where people, places, and sounds do not have the ability to wake me before I am ready.  

---

Letting Go

(from Banksy's Wall and Piece)

To walk into a brick-and-mortar bookstore and peruse its aisles while losing all track of time is the perfect escape from a mind that is constantly running in circles.  And I'm spent on running in circles--so spent.  Instead, I rather run my fingers along the spines of Fiction and Literature as I imagine a different identity for the person who stares at me with such terrified wonder in mirrors, in rivers, in puddles that gather at my feet.  

When I stand among large volumes and quantities of books, I feel like I am being granted the opportunity to transform into somebody else--someone whose life is not a dull shadow of an overbearing human condition.  I get to become a creature whose thoughts and philosophical insight render a greater impact on those whom she will never chance to meet, than on those whom she already has met.

The need to depart from the self-infatuating routine of healing a hurting heart was beyond description today.  Quite frankly, dealing with a mind as neurotic as my own is exhausting.  How many times can a person go over the same damn questions in her mind knowing full well she won't be getting the answers for which her soul yearns?  

I decided to remedy this infliction by losing myself in rows and columns of hardcovers, paperbacks, biographies, classics, and poetry--everything that would allow me to become anything and anyone else aside from who I am actually.  

I rustled through pages of black print and absorbed stills of richly colored imagery.  Gradually, I made my way to the shelves of art books.  Thumbing through the finite selection, I came across Banksy's Wall and Piece.  I picked up the book in part because Banksy was an artist who came up in conversation with Mister Houdini.  I also picked up the book in part because I had yet to understand the intrigue surrounding the graffiti street artist.  Truth be told, I had my reservations about Banksy.  I couldn't come to terms with how a painter like Vincent van Gogh, who worked endlessly to offer this world an unparalleled passion and perspective, was so greatly under-appreciated while he was alive, and yet Banksy could be so well received while he is still breathing and living on the same earth that the former once traversed.  

After reading some of Banksy's statements and going through some of his work, I grew a new understanding of and appreciation for who he is as an artist and his choice of medium.  What really won me over was the above image and words.  Seriously, they are the perfect summation of my life in the most recent weeks.  It is as if God threw this book on my lap and said, "Open it; there's something in there for you."  

Indeed, there really was. 

Thanks Banksy.

--

Verona Iris

I've neglected her. 

veronairis.blogspot.com

She's a little morbid and raw.  

But she's the one with all the honest bones.

Cello Player

Cello Player

pen on paper, 2014

blind contour 

Art talk and a muse.  

People often ask me from where it is I draw my inspiration for art.  Because I work abstractly, it is a question that comes up in conversation most frequently.  Conceptually, I would say I take many cues from the human condition--habit, idealism, philosophy.  Physically, I would say the human form and the movement of natural elements act as points of reference for my composition and color-palette choices.  

Recently, I rediscovered my love for blind contour drawings.  Closing my eyes, I allow the visions in my mind to come to life freely, unhindered by specificities.  In one continuous line, I [blindly] draw a figure, an object, or a place by relying solely on stored imagery.  When I feel it is time to lift the pen, it is then that I open my eyes and take a look at what has been created without physical sight.  More often than not, the drawings are beyond satisfying to experience.  For this reason, I have begun using these drawings as a basis for my oil paintings.  I firmly believe art becomes that much more powerful when it feeds off of something greater. 

The Last Few Years

I'll be the first one to admit it: the sting of rejection is a painful one.  There I was, fresh out of college with my Bachelor of Fine Arts in hand, stoked on life, ready and willing to do what I had to in order to preserve my art-making, but I wasn't fetching any bones in the day-job market.  The yearning in my soul was relentless; all I wanted was to create art--to paint overwhelming, honest expressions on towering canvases.

Of course, I had to find a way to survive while painting: rent, bills, art materials, food--each had its price.  So I started a job search.  Cover letter after cover letter, resume after resume--the count was high, the return was low.  On a good day, I would get so far as the interview and then . . . poof, opportunity made itself disappear.  My heart was spent on the rejection.  It was  frustrating.  I was about as close to pulling out my hair as the next unemployed college graduate, but what good would it do me if I showed up to a prospective employer with patches of hair missing? 

The hardest part was that I knew my potential--my capabilities, my abilities.  Not being able to showcase it or convince employers of it left me questioning everything I was doing.  It wounded me to the very core.  Using the term disdain would only cheapen my feelings for that time.  

People used to tell me they could feel my passion as a painter simply from my speech.  My words were genuine and my need to express was raw.  Painting was what kept me sane.  It was the flame that brought light into a darkened space.  However, for the life of me, I couldn't catch a break to support it--I couldn't seem to get anything together.  During those last six months living in San Jose, I would go to church every Sunday, sit in the back pew, listen to the pastor speak, and let roll a sea of tears down my cheeks.  My spirit was crushed. 

I was moving back to San Francisco, back to my parents' house.  I was clenching teeth, wrestling demons.  The thoughts of flying far and free were fleeting.  As much as some people enjoy living with their parents (free rent, free food, free access to laundry machines), I was about as receptive to the thought as I was to the experience.  Plain and simple, NO.  Heck, I was moving back into my parents' place for goodness sake!  How could I be thrilled with that idea?!  I was about ready to shoot myself.  The relationship I have with my parents only works when we live apart . . . not under one roof.  I was convinced my return to San Francisco meant I couldn't secure independence from them.  More importantly, the move merely underscored the truth: I was failing miserably at life. 

From grueling to experiential, the last few years were definitely a period for the books.  I ended up finding a day job in San Francisco [to support my painting], meeting some exquisite and uplifting souls, losing my paternal grandfather to cancer, turning some birthdays, exhibiting some artwork, and resigning from the aforementioned job because it was unfulfilling. 

That came full circle, didn't it?

Settling into a life that wasn't meant for me isn't something that I want or need.  Contentment, happiness--I don't think I know the meaning to either one.  What I do know is I'm a painter.  Plain and simple.  Struggles (financial, emotional, physical) come with the territory.  The world doesn't call us starving artists without reason.

Through all the good and bad, one of the most profound lessons I learned is not to strain myself trying to figure out those things that cannot be figured out, but to come to terms with them from wherever it is I am standing at the moment.

Let's be honest here.  Innately, we want answers to the occurrence or non-occurrence of events so there isn't some gaping hole in the formation of our brains.  The desire is embedded in us.  We force-feed ourselves with the notion to gather all the answers to the Why's and How's of life so we can sleep better at night.  Life doesn't work that way though.  If the Why's and How's elude us, perhaps it is because their answers are beyond our finite realm of comprehension.  And I'm okay with that.

Quite frankly, there are many things I would like to have done differently, many things I wish I would have said in the days that are now long gone.  However, I am tired of moving around and shuffling in the past--replaying and altering situations in hopes that my efforts would yield a more favorable outcome for the present.

I'm not writing this entry to say life has miraculously changed to an unspeakable better for me.  Because it hasn't.  I am probably closer to where I was three years ago than where it is I want to be three years down the road.  I am writing this entry because it's important to see how our humanness and perspective can change by way of experience, faith, and determination to fulfill our life's purpose.  Keep at it.  It's got to be worth something.

Love & Light.

23 January 2014
Day Log No. 4