Last night i was screamed at by an Argentinian in Montevideo, Uruguay. He was so beside himself that he placed his hands on my throat screaming “pinche puta” - I had knocked on his door asking him to turn down his television sound - he is not a bad guy, but I now have trouble considering him a friend - my defect, not his. The blowback of this unfortunate event is that I am no longer seeking immigration to this nation of wonderfully determined individuals, for I do not feel welcomed - my problem. What I face from my decision, is returning in shame to my own country and those in my family who are barely able to acknowledge my existence, much less sympathize with my confusion for having yet again angered someone. In solidarity with self-care I sought consolation from one of my friends here; I went seeking compassion, but learned instead that his estranged father had died days earlier. In the process of trying to understand what he was facing, I learned that his loyalty to those dying had been severely taxed after he visited a fellow émigré dying horribly disfigured from a burn accident. I’m at a loss as to how to comfort someone I know only by instinct, much less understand. He is brilliant, sensitive and besotted; he says it is from wine; my sense is it is from grief - a deep profound unresolved hurt. It is his bravery and generosity of spirit which attracted me to him as friend, and it is my dearth of compassion which prevents me from plumbing my own misery such that I might understand his. So I reach out to you, the countless many facing your own tragedies and pain seeking ways to relieve your own suffering, or for the luckiest of you, the suffering of others. You are not alone, nor do I believe this essay to be the end of our shared misery, after all we are on the “information super highway to hell.” I feel barely capable of, as Bob Dylan aptly described, “grinding my life out steady and sure,” so how would i deflect the shame my people would make of my return to a land I had once been willing to give my life for, but now will only pledge allegiance to The Water Protector heroes of Standing Rock. The country of my youth no longer exists, much like the family of my memory. But this essay is about a drawing which does exist; it does so because I created it. It is not computer generated, but drawn freehand, though the photo it was drawn from sits on a computer. Nor did I take the photo; it had been retrieved and drawn with permission from someone else’s story line - a story line I’d like to have become a part of, but must instead accept as the end limits of an unrequited love; the drawing merely a bookend for a story never to be.
Is the act of drawing enough? Can determined creativity supplant the rapidly evolving reality that interpersonal skills, so desperately necessary for the survival of our species, are being supplanted by a narrow spectrum of self reference such that I could delude myself into believing a woman might understand my heart from drawings found on a computer, or that another could see it as his right to place his hands on my person because I had asked him to turn down his noise? I don’t have any answers; guessing has become so convoluted by unknowns and distortions, I’m barely able to discern the pale outlines of my own being - much less know how I might, in a foreign nation, comfort an émigré from a different culture who I imagine is in denial about grief. I am imagining, or projecting my own suffering, but with concern. That effort to understand is for me the charm of drawing the human portrait, particularly women. It is as though in order to accurately depict the nuance in a woman’s face, I must find feelings within myself which understand, or correspond to what I see; I do not seek congruence which would presume knowledge about another that is impossible to know without intimate communication. As much as I seek that level of communication, it is rare for me; nor am I sure why. I do know that to clearly see someone other than myself is among the keys to compassion of which there is precious little left in the supercharged assertions of our mighty leaders hell-bent for the destruction of our planet. If I am able through patience and determination to process ever closer to the expression and demeanor of relative strangers, I may grow to see myself as one with all - to become more than an aging artist facing his demise, but one in solidarity with the completely unnecessary extinction of his kind. Pema Chodron says to face the pain of existential emptiness. I feel this condition of solitude is prevalent in our current material culture - to find a way to embrace and hold “just a second longer” the grief that consumes our lives is a welcome ability
I don’t understand entirely why, but drawing and writing give me happiness - a feeling of belonging that I’ve yet to find in any material object, social construct or spiritual adherence. It is the absence of self i am drawn to, the absorption found in consciousness outside of the shrill “I” which haunts so much of our physical existence - “I” don’t understand, “I” love you, Can “I” help you? - the seemingly endless ego one instinctively knows - just like a bad friend - means you no good. Is it possible to sever ties with that self-serving little puke, or would we become emotional eunuchs without the sea-anchor of love in a love hungry world? The drawing i’ve just finished, or think i’ve finished and about which i’m attempting to describe, is not my first visit to this subject. It is not possible to describe why her features seem to me a universe, indecipherable, but obvious in her majesty. My previous efforts were hampered more by ego, and its incessant scrutiny. But with enough distance, and despair, it became possible to be merely the point of the pencil seeking an appropriate place to better describe beauty. Is that how all wholesome activity manifests - the instant where potential and awareness join in service of depicting a beauty we all intrinsically feel, or at least those not subsumed by delusions of permanence - the fiction that enough gold will buy you, or your bloodline, any spot other than the one foretold by your birth into this mortal merry go round. When i finally understood that no matter how lovingly, or accurately i depicted the face of my presumed obsession, our fates would be forever divergent, i was freed from romantic delusion, or more accurately - my ambition was transfigured, and i became a witness to others for the simple joy of beauty - if it is possible for beauty to be understood any more than love.
If we don’t find a way back to a deep and abiding appreciation for both love and beauty free of the coerced commercialization which corporate consumer pandering has foisted on our lesser appetites, we shall be removed from existence by our own emptiness and greed. I find this tragically sad, for we are born in wonder, with an innate capacity for love, and easy appreciation for beauty, both traits we possess in abundance. Am i recommending all who read this take up pencil and paper and become absorbed by some expression which cannot be found by any other voice? I would say not, unless you’re crazy, or determined or both. Will it help you? Meditation and prayer are likely more suitable vehicles for personal growth, especially if you find comfort in hordes. Our world knows, like a dying person, “something” is about to change very drastically; but once again the profiteers are one step ahead, so rather than serve the worker on the line giving her/his all in mind-numbing contribution to a system never intended for benefit to anyone but the owners, our spiritual leaders are charging prohibitive prices for services rendered and opening boutique yoga centers in Bali, training corporate executives in mindfulness, and cavorting with celebrities driven by some delusion if they pray hard enough, their narcissistic quest for pelf will be construed as offerings by whatever omniscient entity sent to sweep up the remnants of humanity. Then again, i may be just another hater venting my spleen rather than doing the hard work necessary to remain open-hearted; i don’t know. I know that by writing of my fears and concerns with some hope of creating a cogent thread of love, there is a chance what i say may be of some service to someone. Prose, like a bad drawing, readily shows flaws at a glance, so a reader will know whether what i say has personal correspondence and is of value, or gibberish. It matters not to me, for it is in the act of creating without attachment to an outcome in which i find salvation.
Michelangelo had said of carving “every stone has a statue inside of it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it; ” Lao Tzu - “To attain knowledge, add things every day. To attain wisdom, subtract things every day.” I have seen “The Dying Slave” by Michelangelo, and clearly he was a very wise man; he was wise to see the relationship of death to slavery and express it such that anyone could ponder the meaning of freedom, perhaps to see it as more than a jingo for football half-time spectacles paid for with your tax dollar. Freedom for Michelangelo, i imagine, came from the discipline of creativity. Carving is a reductive process. However, the act of drawing, painting and writing are born of a “Tabula Rasa” - blank slate. I’m not sure which is the more challenging, having done both. It may be i’ll never understand Lao Tzu, or be wise, which may have been his intention. However, i am fascinated by the creative process of accretion which somehow miraculously coalesces into a character or a train of thought recognizable and made whole out of aether. Lao Tzu also said “Do you have the patience to wait ’til your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving ’till the right action arises by itself?” Writing and drawing provide me a platform on which to wait patiently for “my mud to clear”. It is not uncommon for me to pick up a particular pencil to make a particular mark, only to find it was not at all the right color or even the mark i wanted. By this example, a final drawing might be considered clear water; in which case i am learning to be patient and to not make lines simply from a desire to move forward, but waiting for the right action. Writing is very similar in so far as the next thought can only be written once the previously developed logic dictates further meaning - if that makes sense. For example there was a time i relied on outlines for both processes, drawing as well as writing. I needed the security of some sense of foresight about the work. I imagine it is residue from a socialization which advocates optimum outcome leading to success. Is it the same with life? If by acting from a predetermined vision - a structure within which we restrict our innate curiosity and awareness, are we not robbing ourselves of the freedom and joy found from simply being in the moment?
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i’m writing this without electricity - the sonnet
I'm writing this without electricity
And not, for it has just now returned
I liked lacking accessibility-
Writing in the same light Shakespeare burned-
A separate syllable for each "e d"
Is not the only anachronism.
For a blink in time, i wrote as free-
a word yoked to interpretism.
Now the day wanes with a light unreal,
All electronic toys back online
Minus the joy of sharing a cold meal
Supplanted with computer toy whine.
I feel better about where we're going
Knowing an instant of our shared feeling.
its 092116
http://stonearist.com
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