ANATOMICAL POETRY

I am starting a new painting tomorrow and plan to do some studying tonight on the anatomy of the facial musculature.

The painting below is not the one I set out to paint (as previously discussed in my blog a few days ago).  But sometimes I just can't plan what is going to happen on a canvas.  The face is composed (pun intended) of the poetry of Ackerman.  It is as yet untitled.  Perhaps I will just scan the text and choose a line that seems meaningful.  I am always fascinated by the interesting and surprising juxtapositions that result from joining text pieces together with this collage technique.

WHAT HAPPENS TO POETRY?

I spent a lot of time with Diane Ackerman today.  Okay, not actually with her, but with her poetry.  I can honestly say that over the course of the last two weeks I examined each line of each poem in her book Jaguar of Sweet Laughter. This is because I have been cutting the book, line by line of poetry, into strips, which I will use in my next art project.  Ackerman says, “A poem records emotions and moods that lie beyond normal language, that can only be patched together and hinted at metaphorically.”  I wondered today what she would think of me dismantling her book this way.  Would she understand that my deconstruction, the tearing apart of her patchwork of words, is a sort of ekphrasis? 

I am fascinated by the idea of the ways in which a painting may resemble a sculpture, or how a poem may portray a painting.  I have written at least two poems related to the paintings of Van Gogh, and I am currently working on a mixed media piece inspired by a statue of Cupid and Psyche that I photographed in Paris.

But would Ackerman appreciate my dissection of her work?  Perhaps she would.  She is, after all, the author of a book titled Deep Play, which according to her website, “considers play, creativity and our need for transcendence.”  So maybe she would understand why I feel the need to play with her words. 

You see, I don’t just shred her work and glue it to a panel.  I cut it apart one line at a time and put it in a box.  But not before reading it.  And because of the way I cut the stanzas and then the lines apart, I don’t usually read the poetry in the order the poet intended it to be read.  Instead, I perceive it bit by bit as I trim the now unnecessary white space away from phrases such as “to where he loves being a hermit,” “of night blooming orchids,” and “with a salmon’s purpose.”  I almost never glimpse entire clauses, so when I do, they become as memorable as these bits: “he sees the world through a small tube,”  “the new biography makes me a fortuneteller,” “he will be less than an inkling,” and, “we live in the outback of our art.” Sometimes my favorite bits are mere subtle images, such as, “the vicarious agony,” “an orient of light,” and “hypnotic tantrums of the surf.”

I love the absorption and shift that occurs repeatedly as I cut the poem to pieces, as I consider the variety of line lengths I encounter and the way the before unnoticed ascenders and descenders of the alphabet attempt in their tiny ways to impede my progress in the creation of what will become the equivalent of brush strokes in my new piece.  (This is not the first time I have played with text.  The photo at the top of this blog is a bit of background from a previous piece.)

But for this to be a true attempt at ekphrasis, my work must contain some consideration of the sentiment of the artist, or in this case, poet, when she created her work.  What then will be the subject of my art piece?  Perhaps part tribute.  Not overtly stated, but implied.  I admire the bits of Ackerman’s poems, but also the cohesive creation of each poem and the way they come together to create a volume.

Perhaps part imitation.  But only in the sense that I admire her powers of observation and the way she tints her words with a naturalistic view of the world.  When I started this project, I had planned to create a portrait of a pair of lovers.  I have not turned away from that idea, but more and more images of trees, snakes, oceans and clouds have crept into the background as though threatening to overtake the couple. 

I am feeling some sense of urgency.  This is always a good thing for me as an artist when I put brush to canvas, or in this case, when I apply gel medium and paper to panel.  It means that my thoughts and observations have begun to swirl into a vision that will be shared at some point in the near future.   This sharing, whether through word or image, is for me what gives my life order and meaning.   I agree wholeheartedly with Ackerman when she says, “I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just the length of it.  I want to have lived the width of it as well.”  And so the shape of the collage is decided--a perfect square.

 

 

CONTEMPLATING THE EIGHT BALL’S NAVEL

Sometimes when I have nothing more productive to do, I ponder the seemingly incomprehensible complexity of the universe.  It is mindboggling how everything is tied together--everything from the lifecycle of the tiniest organism to the endless space that surrounds us as it stretches into infinity.   It is certain that there are those who worship at the altar of that which is random, and their beliefs are most likely based on observations that appear valid to them.  Without a doubt they maneuver through the day without applying the idea of cause and effect to their surroundings.

I personally thrive on small discoveries, those serendipitous links that knit together the fabric of society in unexpected ways. It is decidedly so.  For example, the subject of the Magic Eight Ball recently popped up during a discussion in one of my AP English classes, so I posted a link to a virtual Eight Ball.  Most of my students admitted that they could not totally place their faith in the random predictions of the sphere.  At least, they acknowledged that they didn’t believe the answers when they were negative.  They all said that when they asked the orb questions for which they hoped to glean a positive response, if they got a negative answer, such as “very doubtful” or “don’t count on it,” they would concentrate and try again.  On the other hand, if the icosahedral die popped up in the murky blue liquid to reveal a positive answer such as “you may rely on it,” or “outlook good,” they felt a certain small relief and a twinge of optimism that at least for the moment, all was right in their tiny universe.  In other words, my students admitted feeling an emotional response to a system in which they had no real belief.  Sometimes it just takes diligence to get to the answer you seek. Sometimes you just have to ask again later.  You see, it takes an average of 72 questions being posed to the Magic Eight Ball for all 20 of its answers to appear at least once.  Of course, the outlook is not so good for the future of those who have so much time on their hands to be able to sit around shaking an Eight Ball indefinitely, or writing a blog that includes all of the possible responses in italics….  As I see it, yes, it is somewhat reassuring to know that of the twenty possible responses, ten are affirmative, five are negative and five are neutral. 

Some people believe that devices such as this black orb are merely an outlet for the answers that reside within each of us.  If they shake the ball knowing the answer is yes, then theoretically, the ball will stop on one of the positive messages such as, yes, definitely.   

But not even the Eight Ball can always respond with confidence.  It must be ultimately disappointing for those seeking truth to end up with one of the noncommital answers such as reply hazy, try again, or cannot predict now.  And really, even though it is in the category with the “maybe” answers, how much more ominous could an answer be than better not tell you now!?!?

Some people need to believe that there is nothing random in the universe. I ask them: is nothing truly left to chance?   My reply is no.  But maybe if I shake that ball one more time…

If you feel the need to shake the Eight Ball and don’t happen to have one handy, just go to the official web site and shake it virtually: http://www.mattelgamefinder.com/demos.asp?demo=mb

 

What this all comes down to is my hunger for seemingly useless information.  Just knowing that the Eight Ball was invented in 1946 by Albert Carter, and that Carter was the son of a clairvoyant gives me a modicum of pleasure.  As does knowing that modicum, in this sense, is synonymous with atom, and that atom comes from the Greek atomos, meaning uncut or indivisible.  Can a universe in which even the language is so interconnected be random?  My sources say no!

The whole idea of things being random has recently been gnawing at me.  This year in our high school yearbook, we attempted to provide each senior with a portion of a page on which to represent themselves for posterity.  They were asked to list four words that described them.  At least half of them responded with “random.”  What does that even mean?  Are they just attempting to appear mysterious and cool?  At a time in their lives when they should be focused on their future, do they realize that they are proceeding, according to their own self-evaluation, without definite aim, reason or pattern? 

This notion reminded me of something I stumbled upon recently—the idea of a mathematical trajectory that consists of taking successive random steps.  It is called a Random Walk.  Now those who have read my blog consistently know that I often walk to my studio and that I almost never walk the same path twice.  I like to shake things up and take note of the unexpected.  So, I came up with the idea that I could possibly take a truly random walk.  In mathematics, a one-dimensional random walk moves as follows:  You flip a coin and if it lands on tails, you move left.  If it lands on heads, you move right.   Suppose then that I start at the end of my driveway and flip a coin to decide in which direction I will start my walk today.  And then every time I come to a corner, I flip and turn accordingly.  Where would I end up?  In theory—it could be anywhere!  So then I started thinking that a random walk would be a very interesting way to raise money for the Image Warehouse nonprofit and simultaneously map the city of Athens.  We could have a Random Walk-a-Thon!  Participants could pair up or get together in small groups.  Everyone could leave from the Image Warehouse at the same time, flipping and turning and walking, until they had executed a certain number of flips.  It would be crazy interesting to see where the walkers ended up and what they saw along the way.  Just an idea…

Today I am going to my studio, not exactly random because strangely enough if I turn right, left, right, left, right, left…that’s where I end up.  Sometimes I wonder if there isn’t an underlying plan that made me chose that location as my workspace.  As the Eight Ball says, signs point to yes…

 

 

 

 

Just Rambling

Okay, so it has been well over a month since I have blogged.  Why?  I am not sure.  My husband likes to fall back on his military training and say that when asked a non-generative question, there are only a few appropriate responses: Yes, sir!  No, sir!  No excuse, sir!  So let’s just go with response number three.

It is funny the things that get caught in one’s brain.  Just now as I typed the word “just,” I was reminded of a former professor who once did a study on women praying aloud in Southern churches.  Basically her study consisted of her counting the number of times these ladies inserted the word “just” into their prayers.  Such a strange, self-effacing habit, repeatedly prefacing one’s petitions to a higher power with this mere recursive monosyllabic diminutive hint of doubt…

A couple of years ago I was sprawled on the sofa on a summer day, almost mindlessly watching a cooking show, “Semi-Homemade” starring Sandra Lee, and I noticed that she used the word “just” in just about every third sentence.  When something like that catches your attention, it becomes hard to rid yourself of it.  It is like putting on a black velvet shirt and finding it covered with fuzz because you accidently tossed it in the dryer with the white towels you used to mop up spilled Tequila...  (But that is a story best left for another blog.)  So anyway, Sandra used the word “just” 36 times in an episode lasting just under 30 minutes.  My daughter pointed out to me that this would just not be good as the basis for a drinking game (you know, where you would down your drink every time you hear the word “just”) because the players would be incapacitated within minutes, and possibly exhausted from jumping up to go get another drink… Now, the last thing I need in my life is something else on which to fixate… And so I will diverge here with some degree of deliberation.  (Note the alliteration.  And see what I mean about fixating?)

Needing a break this afternoon, David and I decided to go to Jalapeno Tree for nachos and drinks (between that last paragraph and this one.)  While eating and drinking, I noticed a familiar song in the mix of background noise, music and conversation.  “Good Morning Starshine, the earth says hello…”  And I was reminded that when I was in sixth grade, I sang a solo during a choral production of this number.  I have always said that the one thing I would change about myself is that I would be a singer, but alas, I am too timid.  I will, however, never forget the lyrics of that song.  “All the way from “Gliddy glup gloopy” to “tooby ooby walla nooby abba naba,” those nonsense syllables have remained firmly fixed in my mind for over three decades.  I don’t have a bad voice, but I have always known that the only reason I was chosen to sing that solo was because I was the only one in the class who could remember the words; and I use the word “words” loosely here.

Sometimes I fixate on the origins of language, on the whole driving force of words.  So strong was the human’s need to communicate, we developed language so we could connect to each other on a level somewhat elevated above the physical.  Just think about it!  How did that one grunt become the first understood and repeated word?  What series of misinterpretations must surely have followed closely behind.  How much are these memes that jump from mind to mouth a function of our consciousness and how fast must they pass across synapses that I can translate them from my thoughts to this page, which does not even exist as real paper, at a rate exceeding 90 words per minute free of errors where they will be read at a rate far exceeding that by who knows how much by who knows how many…

And I am reminded of how I learned to speed read.  When I was in sixth grade (yes, this was the same year I made my solo singing debut) it was discovered by a savvy reading instructor that I was having difficulty making my way from the end of one line of text to the start of the next.  So, it was arranged that I would be hooked to a computer that would trace with a virtual highlighter each word as I visually made my way across the line, and then it would guide my eye from the end of the line at the right to the start of the next line back at the far left.  And since this was a progressive school and they had an abundance of unused electrodes, they hooked a few up to my head and a few to my chest just to see what my reaction to these electronic nudges would be.

Because my eyes naturally followed the yellow cursor, I was soon cured of my tendency to get lost on the way back to home base.   Of course, it only made sense to speed up the cursor at that point, to see just how fast it could drag my eye across the page.  What we discovered is that I could follow as fast as the yellow light pulsed.  I don’t know if I finally hit some kind of reading wall or if the teacher was afraid my mind would eventually explode, but they unplugged me at some point.  And somewhere along the way, my reading eyes learned to gracefully make U turns and to skate with controlled abandon across the page between the turns.  Even now when I read, I sometimes imagine the blinking yellow highlight and I deliberately read faster and faster and faster, bouncing relentlessly from margin to margin to margin, just to see how long I can sustain the pace before the race from whitespace to whitespace blurs the logic in the middle…

My daughter visited this weekend.  She had told me that she has a job reading books into a recording device for a woman who is blind.  She told me that the woman then speeds up the tapes when she listens to them.  What she didn’t tell me, however, is that she reads the books at a sprint to begin with.  I don’t think I would have really understood until I heard her reading.  Speed reading orally.  And I was reminded that we seldom push our minds to accomplish even a fraction of what we might be capable of doing.

So all afternoon, I have been pondering speed reading, speed listening, speed typing, speed thinking… allowing myself to just change the pace of my Sunday afternoon, slowing it down to make it last longer.  I am reminded that time itself is a manmade construct.  And it is just like the words to the song, “Just,” by Radiohead, “You do it to yourself, yourself, yourself…”

 

 

 

 

The Art of Connecting

Several years ago I read about a woman who solved her writer’s block by directing all of her journal entries to Vincent Van Gogh.  This strategy worked so well for her that she eventually published a book based on the journal and titled it Dear Vincent.    About that same time I also read Dear Theo: The Autobiography of Vincent Van Gogh, and Lust for Life by Irving Stone, each in their own way an insightful biography of Van Gogh.  I have always been drawn to the work of this particular artist, perhaps because of the depth of his mental suffering and the way it was evident in his work.  For example, when the Barnes Exhibit was at the Kimball Museum a decade or so ago, I went to view this amazing collection of paintings with the primary purpose of seeing the Van Goghs.  It was the last day of the exhibit and the crowd was lined up around the building and up the sidewalk all the way to the street, hours before the doors opened.  When my daughter and I finally made our way inside, it was shoulder to shoulder and we pretty much just had to go where the other art viewers carried us.  About an hour into the tour, I found myself directly in front of Van Gogh’s Portrait of the Postman Joseph Roulin and I refused to be budged from the spot. 

I was drawn to this painting in a way I had never been drawn to a work of art before or since.  It was as though the painterly strokes of the portrait had come not from the hands of the tormented artist, but from his soul.  I know, this sounds corny.  But I will never forget standing there, a little more than arm’s distance from the small portrait with tears streaming down my face.  This had nothing to do with fanaticism.  It was simply my reaction to the gut wrenching emotion that came from the art.  And the best part is that I looked over at my daughter beside me only to find her in the same state of rapt appreciation. I am reminded every time I think of the experience that it is the connection between artist and audience that allows a work to live forever.

I guess it is because I am a writer and an artist that I am drawn repeatedly to the similarities between the two crafts.  Today I have been thinking about the art of blogging.  It is a strange thing, electronically putting one’s thoughts out there for the world to read, never knowing who is in the audience.  A few people follow, but you don’t know if they are really readers or have merely agreed to post their support because you have threatened to write about them if they don’t…

Unlike a poem, a story, or an essay, which may go through substantial revision before being published, a blog, while not entirely without focus, is usually not edited much before it is posted.  This seems to be the way with our society now.  Because permanence is not a priority, there seems to be a certain lack of regard for audience and therefore for the historical impact, no matter how small or how fleeting one’s contribution may be.

Maybe I am uptight, but I prefer to think of the material that emanates from writers and artists as having a lasting impact.  For example, when I was trying to find the name of the author of the "Dear Vincent" book, I came across this website: http://www.vangoghsblog.com/  Initiated by the Van Gogh Museum, this blog is a celebration of the completion of the Van Gogh Letters Project.   As one of the accompanying comments said, “Even the dead can blog!”

Of course, I would definitely hesitate to compare myself to Van Gogh as either an artist, a writer, or a blogger, except in one way, and that is the compulsion that drives me to connect with others by way of words and images.  I once wrote a poem about my Van Gogh viewing experience (my one attempt at ekphrasis), and I would post it here, but I couldn’t find it.  It isn’t like me to lose poems, and I think I didn’t bother to keep up with this one because it was a failed attempt to relate my reaction to that particular artist’s work.  I guess that is why I sometimes turn to art instead of writing.  As Van Gogh said, “One can speak poetry just by arranging colours well.”

Perhaps today’s attempt at blogging is a failure, too.  But it doesn’t really matter, because I have learned to appreciate and nurture that thing inside me that drives me to share myself with others. 

Check out the website of the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.  http://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/vgm/index.jsp?page=98&lang=nl&section=sectie_vincent  There are several slideshows featuring the work of this amazing artist.  Admittedly it is not as satisfying as standing a few feet from the real thing, but you won’t have to wait in line for hours.  The descriptions are all in Dutch, but words are not necessary as the paintings speak for themselves.  And you probably won’t bust out in tears, but whether the recipient/viewer/reader of a work of art or writing experiences it electronically or in close physical proximity, I like to think he or she experiences it personally, and that there remains at the core of the process that spark of creativity that when successfully executed, can live forever.

 

 

Okay! So I'm a Control Freak and I Will Gladly Tell You Where to Go!

I can’t stop thinking today about how many forms of control impact our lives every second of every day.  Bladder control, mind control, weight control, impulsivity control… just think about it; even when we are asleep at night, we control things like the temperature and the light and the firmness of our mattresses.

This train of thought began heading down my mental set of tracks this morning when I was straightening up the living room.  As usual, when I picked up the remote control to fluff the sofa cushions, I placed it beside the TV so it would be easy for anyone to find later in the day.  My husband once pointed out to me that this is a rather ridiculous place to leave the remote control because the whole purpose of the device is to be able to use it at a distance from the TV…  The next time he says this, I may have to give him a brief history of the device.  The first remote intended to control the TV was developed over 50 years ago.  It was connected to the set by a wire and was called “Lazy Bones.”  (The invention and development of the remote control actually changed television programming since viewers no longer stayed tuned in to programs simply because they didn’t want to get up to change the channel.) 

It drives me crazy when David changes the channel right in the middle of a sentence!  And I find it gratifying to discover that I am not alone in finding this to be an irritant.  The Center for Media Literacy recently published an article titled “Home, Home on the Remote: Why Do Men Control the Clicker?” which thoroughly discusses sexual positioning and dominance within the typical American household.  While this sounds admittedly tittilating, it actually deals with who decides which channel is watched and when.  Anyway, it seems that the viewing dynamics of our family are pretty typical.  David usually controls the remote because I watch TV while doing other things such as reading, blogging, cleaning… while he usually gives it his full attention and has little tolerance for things like commercials or down time of any sort.  If the person speaking onscreen even looks like he or she is about to so much as take a breath, we are off to another channel, usually one that has been chosen for its value as a backup program.  And though I may feel something akin to an infinitesimal cosmic shift each time I am unexpectedly carried along, I don’t care enough to do anything about it.  For me TV is background noise.

This made me think about the degree of willingness with which I relinquish control in other areas of my life.  In other words, am I a control freak?  And I could honestly not find a definitive pattern. For example, I like to make my toast in the oven using the broiler setting instead of blindly trusting it to the electric toaster because it allows me to see what is going on during the cooking process and lets me jerk the perfectly browned bread out at just the right moment  On the other hand, I don’t mind letting someone else scramble my eggs.  (Again, this is not a euphemism for anything sexual…) I simply find it much more enjoyable to eat eggs when I don’t have to first examine them in their partly clear and partly yellow and totally slimy state.  I also admit that I have an aversion to pain medication, preferring to think that I have the ability to mentally control my own level of discomfort.  A little research in this direction lead me to a whole arena of gaming of which I was entirely unaware—brainwave toys.  If you are curious, just go to:  http://www.boingboing.net/2009/10/30/brainwave-toys-are-b.html  and you will surely be astounded that there exists a game in which the player trains his or her thoughts to increase power to a fan which blows a ball through a course of hoops.  (And see, I know I can’t trust you to go to this site on your own, so I have to go ahead and tell you about it.!)

About now you are probably starting to examine your own controlling tendencies.  Do you use moisturizer each day to control dryness and wrinkles?  Do you regularly try to control the curliness or straightness of your hair?  Do you use eye drops to control redness?  Or  do you similarly try to control red eye in an electronic manner when taking photos?

If you, like I, are not certain where your own locus of control resides, there is a quiz online that will guide you toward the answer.  Just go to:  http://stress.about.com/od/selfknowledgeselftests/a/locus.htm  and click on “Take this quiz.”  I did.  And discovered that I am a 90% control freak.  (For those of you who already know you must always be in control, you will be delighted to find that you can even control the number of questions you are asked!)

Of course I was not really convinced that someone else could tell me I was controlling, and having to decide this on my own, I considered some of the other things we control on a daily basis.

As a teacher my life and my bladder are dependably guided by a schedule and a bell.  Sometimes on the weekend I find myself forgetting that I can go to the bathroom any time I want to!  If you, too, find yourself considering such matters, just go to: http://www.fairview.org/staywell/quiz_load.aspx?ContentTypeId=40&ContentId=UrinaryIncontinenceQuiz where you can take the urinary incontinence quiz.  And don’t be deceived, the questions look easy, but I missed three!  And if your New Years resolutions include a desire to lose weight, you will probably want to go to: http://www.afunzone.com/ATopic/Take_The_Weight_Loss_Quiz.htm so you can accurately determine how prepared you are to be successful.   My female followers should also check out: http://www.blisstree.com/healthbolt/a-short-history-of-the-ideal-female-body/   In fact, if it doesn’t seem too controlling, I would like to suggest that my male readers also proceed to this website…  And just so you won’t be disappointed that there is not a quiz associated with this page, go to: http://www.channelone.com/news/body_image/ to find out if you have a skewed view of yourself.

If you have made another common resolution, to control spending, you should go to: http://moneycentral.msn.com/quiz/savvy-spending-quiz/home.aspx , and if you are concerned about other forms of impulsivity control, go to: http://www.psych-net.com/test/impulse-test.html . 

 

I will conclude my blog today with a poem, an apology, and one final link.  The poem is titled “Manipulation Theory.”  It was inspired by a toy I had as a young child that consisted of a plastic figure on a plastic base that could be controlled by pressing your thumb on the underside of the plastic pedestal.  (It is admittedly filled with euphemism and innuendo…)

 

MANIPULATION THEORY

 

it would be easier

to induce hunkering if

just once, I were the giant, knowing

from having been shown

that magic thumb-button

and the most effective

syringe-like motion

 

if just once, I were

able to understand the relationship

between easy to operate elastic bands

and a breakable plastic housing

 

no prior knowledge of physics needed

perhaps a little field work

on falling bodies, because

buckling knees I know

and that automatic loss

of tension in the neck

 

that almost thrill

almost recovery

inevitable shift of weight

and loss of solids

as the oval earth beneath my feet

rocks without reason

 

The apology is for allowing this blog to go on so long today.  Once I got started on this topic I just couldn’t control myself.

And finally, I want to share with you a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lutUDZ7Dq0s   Don’t ask, just go there!

The Charm of the Unfamiliar

I was recently on a thrifting adventure and found myself at the local Goodwill store.  And since it was cold outside, I was vaguely shopping for something warm.  (A quick aside here—it is surely a known law of thrifting that you can’t actually go in search of a specific item when thrift shopping; you must merely scan the day’s offerings and be open to a serendipitous discovery.)  Anyway, I happened upon a pair of leggings that were black and covered in a polka dot pattern of gray skulls.  Since I am around young people daily, I am aware of the fashion industry’s recent trend toward “death fashion.”  And as I am not totally out of touch with my own generation, I had a moment of self-questioning, about whether it would be appropriate to wear the skull pants.  And then I bought them.  And, yes, I do wear them.  They are warm.  And they do have a dot pattern, of sorts.  And I don’t generally base my decisions, fashion or otherwise, on what is or isn’t appropriate.

So I started thinking about why the fashion industry would choose to decorate clothing with skulls.  I discovered that some people take the skull motif very seriously.  One blog I came across said in very plain language that any article of clothing that sports death imagery is straight from the devil and is cursed.  I was not sure if this meant I was going to hell or if my ass was going to grow astronomically, you know, because of its proximity to such evil.  Either way, the situation contains just enough ambiguity to allow me to continue to wear the leggings. 

One of the articles I read claimed that our culture’s attraction to the skull bones, as opposed to other human bones, is based partially on the idea of neoteny, or juvenilization, the notion that the large eye sockets give it a kind of puppy-like visual appeal.  In other words, on some level, we somehow find skulls to be cute!  Ironically, this idea of cuteness was almost enough to make me stop wearing the pants.  Anyone who knows me well at all knows I can’t stand to be called cute and have always dreamt of being thought of as… well, I admit it, exotic.  Of course, I made the mistake of sharing this with my friend Lisa a few years ago.  She taught in the room next to me at the time and seemed to delight in trying to brighten up my day with small surprises.  She thought it would be fun to have one of our mutual students comment on my appearance one day and tell me how absolutely exotic I looked.  Unfortunately, the young man she chose to recruit for this task was either somewhat hard of hearing or possessed a limited vocabulary, because later that day, he saw me walking down the crowded hall during the passing period between classes and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Mrs. Hicks!  You look so… erotic today!”  Oh well, at least he didn’t call me cute…

It’s funny, really, how caught up in ourselves we can be with regard to self-image and the ways other perceive us.  When I was on vacation last week, a cocktail waitress gave me a hearty compliment on my patchouli scent.  A few days later, however, a woman walked into the library where I was searching for the perfect beach novel, flopped down in a chair, and said dramatically, and quite loudly, to her nearby friend, “Oh, someone is wearing that nasty ass patchouli!  I hate that smell!”  And, okay, if I were quicker on the uptake, I could have pointed out to her that patchouli has been used for centuries as an insect repellent.  You know, subtly implying that she was being a pest of sorts…  But I am neither quick nor the type to say such a thing to a stranger.  Instead, I spent the remainder of the morning pondering my reaction to both the compliment and the perceived insult.  Why was it okay to revel in the warmth of one and not to become prickly in the wake of the other?  And what is it about some scents, such as patchouli, that is so polarizing, appealing to some people and repulsing others?

This member of the mint family has long been simultaneously prized and despised.  Evidently it was once used to let buyers of India ink know that their purchase genuinely came from India.  It has been used to treat ailments ranging from bad breath to snake bites, and is usually described as sweet, woodsy, pungent, rich, herbaceous, and yes, exotic.  It is also considered to be an aphrodisiac and known to get better with age, with its scent becoming deeper and fuller over time, its harshness mellowing with age.  On a darker note, patchouli is associated with death and is commonly nicknamed “graveyard dirt."  So what does it really say about my personality that I go about sporting my skull patterned pants while smelling of sex and cemeteries?  Maybe my own personal curse is my inability to reconcile all of the various aspects of my self, ranging from childlike, to seductive, to downright dark.  And maybe I just think too much and need to take a break, maybe do a little thrift shopping… and perhaps it is appropriate to end with a poem about the strange places a mind can drift.

TOO FAR GONE BY TUESDAY

colors can push over the 

edge, but I really like the sketchiness

of pencil sound, the way the round

undefined housing shelters me 

from the lead

I prefer the promise

of erasability, so ironically decisive

yet I cross things out

out of habit

even this writing

is not without some danger

the friction can become tiresome,

can become needy,

can become devisive,

and I might get caught up

in the reflection

of that shiny metal piece

that ties eraser to wood,

that little connector

so needless intricate 

and cold.