lucky girl

 I am in the process of moving again. This will be my sixth address in as many years, plus the time in hotels. {sigh} Throughout the process, I've learned:
* Home is where the heart is. If you are not happy, it is not home. If you are, you will find peace. Even in a hostile realm, one can always find a corner, a nook, a room to love.
* I hate packing. I used to always leave it until the day before - keep everything as it was until the last minute. I still procrastinate. It's tearing everything up, unnatural and awful.
* I hate moving. It's stressful, complicated, requires imposing on others, and always takes too long. Things break. Things go missing. I seem to lose 10% of my stuff, minimum. This go round, it might be just my keys, but they count for more due to their essential nature.
* On the other hand, I love unpacking. It's like nesting. You organize things and create nice, peaceful bits of home out of boxed disarray.
* I love cleaning. It's simple, it's easy. You wash it and voila! It looked awful before and now it is nice. Payoff far exceeds effort. You exist: if you had not been there, the room would still be a mess. It spares others having to do it. You can think while you're at it - it's not brain surgery after all - you can even listen to music.
* Hatchbacks are awesome.

And now for something completely different: I had a fresh raspberry for the first time yesterday. I had never had one before! I was silly. I was so surprised it tasted like a raspberry. I felt like I was eating one of those jellybeans that taste like popcorn - my brain was bemused. It takes so little to amuse me.

Isaac Hayes died today, Bernie Mac yesterday... {sad} Very different, but both have given me enjoyment. May they rest in peace.

As background: I am opposed to some of the things our military and our commander in chief have chosen to do. I would never join the Marines, as I am not a "warrior". I joined the army as a patriot, but not a soldier.
---
On the other hand, I do appreciate and try to understand other people. I am very grateful for those who have given for my country, even if I rail against some US policies. There is a special on PBS this morning on the Marines, and I decided to watch it as this is not something to which I would usually relate easily. 
A quote stands out: "A marine is proud to serve his country, although not always proud for what he has had to do to serve his country."
---
Think about the implications of this.
(The special was good - it *did* help me understand why someone would be a Marine and how they could stay one, even if it is not me.)

at least once...

I haven't seen the end yet, but I am intrigued... it's definitely worth at least one watch. I found it on my Netflix Instant options - and started it this afternoon. Unfortunately it was about 4:00 when I started and my dad is home now - I'll finish it later.
Briefly, an art student breaks up with his girlfriend. She quickly finds someone. He finds he has insomnia; after becoming horribly bored with this new eight hours of time, he connects the extra time with his need for cash. He "trades his time" as a night clerk at a supermarket. 
I won't give it all away, but it is like being inside the type of odd person I usually am, and relate to easily. I will warn you some areas are pretty explicit - in a Playboy style. If you're not comfortable with flipping through Playboy, you don't want to see this. (It is a college student's daydreams, after all.) It's not overtly sexual, you're not seeing people get it on - that's not the point at all. I can't say more w/o giving it away but I wanted to warn anyone who might be sensitive. 
It's British, it's humorous, it's surreal - watch it if you get a chance. (I say this w/ 20 minutes to go - so if the ending sucks, I'm sorry!!!) 

   I am actually getting into this movie, as an illustration of how silly I am:  The Road to Galveston . It deals with Alzheimer's, and with my grandmother, I decided to try to watch it. It has ended up having some interesting observations on family, race, economy as well as the obvious compassionate eye towards Alzheimer's. 
   The main character -Jordan - is an older lady losing her home: she can't pay for it. Her son wants her to sell it and move in with his family. She chooses instead to "get a job" by taking in boarders: caretaking for Alzheimer's patients. She ends up with three - perhaps unrealistic - who are at different stages of the disease. All these women are from a different time; the clashes between them show the frustration of "losing your mind" and the challenges life throws at us. One of the women is brought by her son who tells Jordan he will never visit: the next time he will see his mother will be for the funeral. He can't handle it; he loves her too much. Another is early onset, flying into the bottle as she watches her esteemed mind slip from her control. 
   In the end, they are all just chasing dreams. They find them. It's a silly movie: it's not going to kill everyone off like Shakespeare. (Although a shed does go up in flames.) But: it made me think of a family dinner of my own some day, with family and/or friends, family food, and summer sun through the windows.
   Ok, back to letter writing before wrists die...

 One day I want to explore this ... it would be a halfway step between my *love* of films and my playing with drawing/painting...

Today is the first day in weeks where my wrists don't hurt, under the influence of ibuprofen, while typing. Maybe getting the chest plate off helped, maybe it's the part-time work schedule, maybe God took pity on me. {grin} Perhaps next week, I will be able to have no pain, even without two Motrin! 

   Several times I have had gardens of a small sort. I am not so good with flowers, I specialize in fruits, vegetables and herbs. On a small scale. I used to pick blackberries as a kid, and a few of the bushes still grow here. In 2002 I kept a garden out at my dad's. About 15 square feet, I grew roma tomatoes, strawberries, squash, and an obscene amount of peppers. The garden survived a tree falling on it - literally! - and a rabbit attack, with only a loss of the squash and strawberries. In other words: salsa. While I was married, I grew some tomatoes and squash in a big planter, about 6' x 2'.  People forget that gardens are ever so adaptable - I've done a good deal of research about container gardening as well, to comply with various space requirements.  
   My sister's boyfriend is a house husband: he keeps the house spotless, laundry done, and takes care of his mom who lives nearby. (His father passed on.) And I mean he does take care of her: this weekend he waxed and cleaned her truck, fried up home grown zucchini, as well as they have a nicely kept apartment. If you met my sister, who once asked how to bake a potato, you would understand this is priceless if not necessary. Anyway, he has a huge garden out at his mom's. Way beyond my scope, but talking with him yesterday as he drove me to the doctor's office made me miss it. Hopefully I'll have a chance for a small plot one day again.
   When it comes to flowers, I have moderate success with bulb plants. Past that, well, maybe my future soulmate or friends can help decorate the yard. It's a great thing for kids to see, also. They get a kick out of it. Though if they're anything like I was, you better watch the berries to make sure they make it inside for pie rather than become spontaneous snacks. {grin}

Tom's squaring worked! 

   First I did soldier sketch based on a bdu photo of Molly. I've tried to sketch the picture before, but I meant to draw Molly. I could not render well then, at all, w/o a good deal of frustration. (For those who don't understand, if you've seen my michelepics art site, look back at the 2006 drawings. I ended up finally drawing a series of my own head to figure out how to do it - I felt awful about making others look like weird flat trolls.) This time, however, I had another idea in mind. I wanted a soldier, I wanted a normal person, it's a second meditation on What Have I Done. At the moment she has no face, and I'll probably keep it that way. The form came along, although the hands are off and I haven't finished the arms. But you can tell the position, I knew decisions, a picture started to come through.
   In other words, I am actually able to draw without thinking - move the pencil around and feel - not nearly like paint but it's a start!
She is resting now. I bring pictures to a certain level and then let them stay, I look at them from time to time and think. A day or three later I come back into them. I then finish.
   I had to take a break for my back, so I worked through a couple hundred pages of light reading whilst on my back. (This morning I had watched The Namesake again, and I am not ready for another movie yet. I am still holding that one in my mind.)
   I began flipping through images again. I pulled up France, Chicago. (My snapshots of the trips.) I looked at the Chicago statue and regretted I did not photograph the painting I did (inspired by it) before selling it. I looked at my Saint again. I thought of drawing the statue again. I returned to the Italy pictures to pull her up. Rather than the edited "sights" folder, I went straight to my dad's photo's - she's in a section of one of his St. Peter's Basilica shots. On the way to her I happened on a picture he took that is blurred, from the Vatican. It's a severe looking marble, the lady with a book in her hand looking as if she is about to speak or rise. I thought "pity the picture was ruined"... the blur is unfortunately not artistic, just accidental. She was not really the mood I was looking for, either. But then I wanted to save the picture. There is enough here to draw from, I thought. I can try. Her head at least is very easy to see. The fabric will be fun. (I love painting folds, and some of that bleeds through even with pencil. Molly may remember a work I did of a WWII baby, Dr. Francisco bought it. Ink & gesso, I slowly "undeveloped" the picture in a series of four, from stark black and white to mere echoes on white. Lovely blanket folds.)
   I decided to try. I got the form in, the book and some of the major fabric. Hands and arms worry me, leave them to last. My hair in the Molly photo was surprising, so I began on her head a little. As I look I see her frown. Her nose is sharp, Roman. Ok. I start on it, mess up the eyebrows and fix them. I go into the hair. The outline of the head is blurred, I can't quite make out the shape in the back but I should have practice with this. The hair comes along. The nose. I begin a little on the mouth and return to an easier task, the eyes. Of course, they are unseeing statue eyes, classically aloof. Hmm. Start anyway. But then: she's my muse now, this is my drawing. I close the eyes. I give her lon hair, pulling it back in a bun. Nose I still need to do, I move it back a little and tilt her head, give her a slightly pensive, half smiling pout. 
   Catch that. I tilted the head, I made up a mouth, I closed the eyes. I have a head now who is someone. True, she's someone with a Roman eyebrow drawn on. {grin} But she's someone from my world, and of all things, she's prettier than the statue. I don't know what the drawing will be. I'm fascinated. Hopefully I won't ruin her finishing. Now - she's not going to be "art" - sketching is a learning exercise after all. But this has potential. Makes me wish to paint. {grin} 

Sidebar - It makes absolutely no sense that I've managed to type all I have had today and the wrist pain is still getting better. Three hours working yesterday and I was sliding; the pain was still bothersome as I shopped with my sister. I had to take the prescription in the afternoon. Today I've had nothing but Tylenol when I first got up. My back is sore, I still feel the right wrist, but it is not nearly the levels previously. What gives? Actually, hopefully it is the new position is working. Yesterday was probably still too soon after the major inflammation. But it makes me feel guilty for not working today.  

I am copying and pasting things to the journal, from emails to myself (my previous journal of this kind - I emailed myself and saved them). This one is from November of last year, another movie ramble. It applies a little to all this Love and soulmate babbling of late...

> Subject: Iris
> Date: Tue, 27 Nov 2007 08:26:34 -0500
> From: Michele.Olson
> To: michele_olson@hotmail.com
>
> I watched a movie called Iris about a woman who gets Alzheimer's. The
> character is a brilliant writer who marries a sweet, rather geeky
> intellectual. Throughout the movie it flashes back through their courtship
> and marriage with counterpoints of current life, as he struggles to take care
> of her. Some of the scenes were sweet: as she sits, staring at the ocean and
> moving shells, dreaming in her mind; as she dances in light from a hallway
> window, gracefully in slippers; their youthful glee as she knocks the socks
> off him with her impulsive enthusiasm. In other moments it was heart
> wrenching: as many patients do, she "wanders off". He is driving, looking for
> her in the rain; the fear in his eyes was very well acted. She'd been awful
> and frustrating but he so did not want to lose her. He returns home,
> unsuccessful, and finally a friend of theirs who lives nearby brings her
> home. He happened upon her in the store. The husband is so relieved; thanking
> the man profusely, he says, "I thought I'd never see her again."
> It made you think about who we are, and how we love.

btw, everyone, lemon juice or lime juice with ice water and a bit of generic Splenda is cheap plus wonderful. Thank God for small pleasures. Yeah, it's not fancy pop or something from France. But it's cheap, easy, and still good when you're hot.  

I was thinking of someone else when I wrote this: I wanted to give the ability to see the wonder to a friend who is struggling with the bitter. From my court, Monday is a mishmash. I did work 6+ hours today, and I think my wrists will survive. It was stressful and not terribly comfortable. I am exhausted. But, I survived. Arts out for the day but Thu-Fri gave me some excitement; I am learning to draw with just this devoted amount of time I've given it.  I really feel like I could make so many paintings; one year as a painter and I would be five thousand miles beyond where I am today. And not simply in the technical bit: in college and previously my works are questions. I am exploring identity, how we see each other, how we see ourselves. Now I have ideas, also: beliefs, expressions. 
It's getting painful to type now but honestly, this is good. Half of having a voice is the mark - this is easy for me. My "technically" good drawings will never be my best works: instead, they will give me the confidence for my own. The other half is having something to say - a person behind the paint. I am here now, in three dimensional form, scarred but solid.
If I had the time and space, I would start three paintings now. I would continue rotating through them, bringing the ideas along. While resting/thinking one I would turn to another. This is my idea of heaven... but it would also create something I could bash into a porfolio, with a statement to support it.
To the theme of this entry: I'll not have time for this, likely, ever.  It would need time and space. But: even so, I am blasted lucky that I can feel something like this. Maybe I'll be retired by the time I get to it. Or maybe something else could happen. Can't type all the options here/now. I'm just lucky to feel it.

Today is music day. No TV. Counting Crows and Indigo Girls thus far. (Working from home, one needs *something* to fill the space between phone calls and dog barks.)
I am working slowly; I've set the task I will complete but I am keeping one foot out of code. 
I want dreams alive; I want to draw today. 
 

But something close... the silence of these pages can be blamed on my wrists. I fear the return to work has caused some unfortunate strain. I have pulled out a USB mouse and I am pursuing a keyboard solution. I will return to my usual verbose self when it no longer causes pain...
Meanwhile, happy post-Independence-week!!

   When I was in basic training I planned to engrave my army ring with Freedom Isn't Free. This, I felt, was some of the sacrifice of our troops; perhaps it is idealistic, but in theory they stand guard for our freedom. I am not going to get into politics here: I've had plenty of occasion to disagree with our conflicts. As a citizen, it is my responsibility to consider such things critically and form involved opinions. However, our soldiers follow their commanders, up to the commander-in-chief. 
   With this in mind, I want to send my gratitude and carewishes to those in uniform, especially those separated from loved ones this holiday. I, like most Americans, have relatives and friends serving. To those we know and those we don't: THANK YOU.
   Here is a MSNBC article on festivities on overseas bases: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25532538/

   I was very frustrated yesterday because I tried to sketch and it did not go well.  My back was bothering me; I quit working after six hours. After laying down for awhile, I decided to try to work on teaching myself to draw. (I have started a brief sketch of the back picture.) I was forced to stop after less than an hour because of my blasted back.
   I was upset. I've done all this art chatter but it looked like my ability to actually make any art was going to be nil. I have sketchbooks and pencils here, but all my sitting time was going to be taken by work. I could push it on the back, but then again that might have a cost I prefer to avoid. <sigh>    Last night, however, I remembered Frida drawing her feet while in the hospital bed. Duh! So today I tried it: I can lay down and sketch. There are things I can see in the room, plus I should be able to set the laptop where I can see my digital photos also.) I am thrilled...
   I am rather awful at drawing, painting is more natural for me. But I do need the practice. And heaven knows: I might learn something. I might discover something. My dad has a drawer full of markers, pens, and colored pencils that have accumulated from my sister and I as kids. Most of them are probably dead, but ... color. 
   So next week: after work I shall lay down and work through some paper. <grin>

Need to be better about taking pain meds and laying flat on workdays... 

   Yesterday I had my dad take a picture of me, without the brace, for a painting idea I had. It fascinates me that the "broken back" appears untouched. My injury is when my spine *snapped* together: imagine the vertebra as they are when you are sitting, vertically. The top of the L3 was crushed under the impact; a chip fell in towards the canal; the vertebral body itself is *smushed*. The outside was perhaps pushed out a bit, but there was no impact from the skin inwards. I like the vulnerability of the pose; I will paint it with the mystery. On either side will be two more paintings, speaking to the bones. (You know my weakness for panels. One picture never says it all.) 
   I have a tattoo on my back, a prominent feature between my shoulderblades. A friend, one seeing the picture, asked me about it. Here is my answer:

   The story behind the tattoo: in the summer of 2003 my dad and I went up to Chicago. He wanted to go to Buddy Guy's Legends (a restaurant/nightclub) and I wanted to go to the Art Institute of Chicago. We both wanted to see Chicago. As it happened, the AIC had an excellent curator; the Picasso works were arranged in such a way that I actually *got* Picasso for the first time. ( http://www.artic.edu/aic/collections/search/citi/artist%3Apicasso-category%3A10 ) The progression and context made sense; you were able to see the ideas he was working with. Despite not "getting" him previously, I feel like there is definitely a Picasso-esque expression in some of my works; I'm distorted, just not quite so much.
   When I returned, I decided I knew what my next tattoo would be. I made a drawing based on his Dove of Peace ( http://artfiles.art.com/images/-/Pablo-Picasso/Dove-of-Peace-Print-C10287704.jpeg ) , adding the blue background, etc.. If it is going to be permanently on my body, it is going to be something already in me (i.e. my idea).
   My other tattoos are small infinity signs, one on the inside of each wrist. I got them a year after the split from Jamie. (They were my first.) My theory here is a little odd. People cut their wrists in the classic suicide image. Instead, I sealed my arteries with the symbol for eternity; thus, eternal life. Since life is not perfect, I went through great lengths - as the artist engraved my skin - to explain that each symbol should be a little rough and the two are not identical. Nothing ever is...

   I talk?-write-think about this frequently: so why do I want so much *time* for painting? My mind is full of ideas, and unfortunately I don't hold a chance on them without the time to burn. It is like this: with Netflix, I add movies that are only a 30% likelihood of interest to my queue. After all, it's not charged per movie; if it is awful, I am not obligated to finish watching it. If, however, I am selecting movies at Blockbuster and paying for each rental, I will hold the movies to a 80% or better standard.
    Ever-so-often a real treasure arrives out of those 30%, usually one that I would not have considered if picking "safely". I have a million ideas: I want to paint about the accident, bones, Iraq, gay rights, Alzheimer's, online dating, architecture, IT, the peace of outside. I have the pictures in my head: I can see it like books on a shelf. Some are essays, philosophical reflections; others are current events, sci-fi, biography; throw in a bit of humor and history. I want a *studio* room: I could go in and just work at these ideas and see what happened. I want to master skills like murals - I want to create a technique where I can make a mural like effect that is still movable. (The wish of a nomad.) I want to use my interest in words and collage *somehow*. So despite my complete lack of interest in learning to draw an egg - although I know I need to - I have no shortage of things to paint.
   Yet when I am working with two to four hours three or four days of week of "art energy", max, I will choose the safe bets. Something I *know* someone will be able to relate to. (Exceptions, for things like the Monday abstract, which was saved by using mostly free materials and done in "non-art" time - I was tired and not feeling like anything productive.) The works I've done are vaguely creative and still expressive - I guess, one can tell I did them - but they are still carefully presented. Heck, I don't have the time to make s***... more accurately, I don't have the time/energy to embark on one of these ideas I do not already know yet. 
   --- AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT ---
   I did horribly on emails yesterday; I tend not to write about people here. I wander on and on about myself because I know I own the rights to my life. And most of the time I skip my real life, actually: I chatter on about the life of the mind, the gnomes inside. Yet this is all typed by a flesh-and-blood redhead. So what is happening in the *real world*? I worked 7+ hours on a day without prescription meds; I am running low and did not want to impose on my dad for a trip to the pharmacy for my refill. (I mentioned it last night; he feels I should have spoke up.) I have been working with a legal friend to get a copy of the accident report and interviewing lawyers for August. I have been trying to finalize the check for my totalled car - it's been fun hassle to handle remotely. I began to read Faust (Goethe) and I am enthralled. My dad is hot and fears he suffered some heat exhaustion working out in 90+ yesterday. Tom is navigating friend waters quietly: while addressing his own issues he watches with concern several from a step off, trying to help as he can. Michelle is redefining, wishing she knew the path that would be *the one* for happiness. Molly is hoping she has found it, missing Thomas, wanting *life* and wondering how to get there. Sarah has sent me some wonderful histories: *hard to kill* and upbeat she is continuing on optimistically. Vickie continues to struggle with a mother-in-law going into the nursing home, a neice with a brain tumor, a husband recovering from dual knee replacement, three kids on the cusp of adulthood, and dramatically understaffed team. Steve is trying to write again and watching his grandchild grow older. Karen is looking for a new job and hoping that after five hours of interviews (for one) that she got it, and that she won't regret it. Steve (another Steve) is telling his wife that Andrew didn't just skip town, he really will get paid. No word from Scott; I hope he is safe, well. My grandmother wants to see her new great-grandchild; we're all hoping the new baby and her dad - my cousin Chris - come back from Korea where he is serving, soon. All of these people are in my heart today: all of them I wish I could write pages to, and yet I waste time babbling here. (Note - some are coworkers, some are friends, some are friends/relatives of friends/relatives. Apologies to anyone I've miss-summarized above: I am trying to just sketch a sensation, the lines might change dramatically when redefined down to your actual situations but time typing is scarce.)
   No wonder I want to paint. I am so incredibly lucky to be able to *feel* like this. For now: back to rabies labels and DST results...
Love,
Michele