more rain and mj

I am drawing close to the end of my time in Boston and the rain just keeps falling. Last week there were two and a half sunnyish days that got my hopes up but today the sky has returned to its customary june bunting - steel grey, dirty white and smudged.

I hate the rain and it is hard to keep up the slightest positive veneer as it continues to pour and puddle all around me. Very hard.

Also hard to keep from saying that I think Michael Jackson was a sneaky, utterly corrupt, contemptible little child abuser who should have gone to jail a long time ago and whose pop-pop easy-happy pompous, silly music cannot in any way make up for the display of deception that was his daily life or his public self-mutilation.

Even if you accept the assertion that he was innocent of any charges of child molestation, there is the fact that he made it publicly acceptable for middle aged men to have sleepovers with young boys. And if you don't think that gave an army of pedophiles the very in they craved with countless young boys who will now be scarred for life - then you deserve to listen to his sugary, self-aggrandized pablum for the rest of your life.

That's enough from me today - today, I am one bitter, rain sodden woman - tired of the pretense that everything is OK by me, it's not. The never-ending rain is not OK and middle aged pedophiles in full blown denial supported by the public - that's not OK either.

Light

Have you ever sat at a campfire and looked into the forest around you? Try it sometime and you will see just how dark a forest can really look.

An overabundance of light, especially artificial light, concentrated in one spot, blinds a person to everything that is not directly under the beam of that light. Even within the sphere of influence of the campfire, spotlight, desklamp or overhead fixture, unnatural shadows are cast. Things appear not as they are but as they might be under an artificially produced scrutiny. Vision is more obscured than assisted.

I have been in Boston for some time now and the family I am staying with, most especially my friend's ex-husband, are dependent on artificial light twenty-four hours a day.

This month has been gloomy. The sun has not shone more than three times since June began, so people make the argument that it is necessary. Still, I get up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and find dining room and living room lights blazing and more often than not, two or three different light fixtures turned on at once in the bathroom itself.

It is hurting my vision both in physical and metaphorical terms.

At home, I use artificial light only when it is necessary and as time goes on I find it to be less and less necessary. With the exception of reading and cooking, there really is nothing that requires a focused artificial light source, nothing you cannot do or see better by natural light, even when that is only moonlight, than you could with a lamp or fire of any kind.

Things show you what they really are by natural light. Not what they might be under incandescent's yellow cast or flourescent's shuddering white aura.

God please spare me from thinking the light I cast on things, the perspective I see when I look with that focus, is the real light. Let me remember the shadows and the clarity provided by sun and moon, time and movement - life lived under an honest source of illumination.

Grant me clarity and grant me just a few more days of compassion for this man who does not seem to deserve it because I know, in the long run, nobody does and so we all do.

Get me through this overlit, blinded, dark time.

Essential

Yesterday I saw one of Frank Gehry's projects up close - I'll post pictures here after this entry.
I know people see him as a major visionary in architecture and doubtless he has made great strides in helping people see that a building does not have to be a box but the whole time all I could think of was Sam Mockbee's Rural Studio project and how these two ideas need to be joined.

As a society we seem to accept the idea that art does not or need not serve a purpose. We choose up sides, those of us who believe art is important are forced into defending the indefensible while those who think the survival and care of humanity is more important than anything else feel forced to condemn "high art" as frivolous.

Your soul is not frivolous and art does not need to be useless.

I come back to the central idea, over and over again - art that is not created in the spirit of compassionate communication is weak. Art can soar, it can restore us all, art is the backbone of architecture, the impetus behind the great gardens of the world, the fuel that keeps the writer writing, the carpenter building and the rest of us tending to our daily chores.

Where would we be without music, without color? We need art but more than that - we need to stop thinking that a housing project, a school, an employment center, a farm, a social program and any of a million other things have to exist outside of art in order to be useful.

I suppose today I am praying and I suppose the substance of my prayer is that we learn to recognize that beauty does not cost us one cent extra and that everyone deserves to live in beauty.

Rich or poor, conservative or liberal, male or female, scientist, accountant, plumber, poet or artist - you deserve compassion, you deserve dignity, you deserve beauty.

We all do.

This is an article about the Rural Studio, pass it on.
http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/2008/ruralstudio/mockbee_ruralstudio.shtml

Summer

I remember when June meant that the skies would clear and the sun would shine from 6 a.m. until 9 at night. I remember the freedom of playing outside in shorts and a top or a sundress and never having to think about staying dry or deal with the glowering clouds hanging right overhead.

I remember hating Victoria for the lack of sunshine and wanting more than anything to be back in a place where I could rely on a series of sunny days, not just one or half of one every two weeks.

I am a person who requires sunlight.

The East no longer recieves it.

I have been in Boston for a month - we have had maybe 5 sunny days the whole time. For the most part I have managed to maintain a pleasant demeanor. I stay busy, make jokes, cook and clean and help pack out the house - when it dries up for a few hours I explore the city.

I have explored the city three times - no more than that.

Many of my friends say they are quite happy in the rain. I want to say emphatically, I am not.
I hate the rain. Hate it. It makes me want to slap somebody and if it doesn't bloody well stop soon I might just do that.

Grocery Addendum

I have asked the people at the grocery store what happened to that woman every time we've gone since we saw her accident.

Nobody knows.

One of the big problems with how we live right now and maybe one of the strengths in some ways, is that we have such strangely truncated communities.

That woman and her deadly accident are part of this Boston community, I know she will never be wiped from my memory. I hope she recovered or that her family was able to get to the hospital (more likely, I think) but I will never know for sure.

Part of what makes the idea of people I love travelling or taking any risk at all is that fact. The idea that someone I cherish might become an anonymous wounded person, dependant on the mercy of strangers, frightens me and makes me feel helpless and lost.

The man I love is travelling today. Very far. I am trying to have faith that he will be fine. After all, more often than not, people do travel safely.

But I am still praying and still just a little on edge.

How do we ever learn to let anyone we love do a single thing alone?

The risks are so enormous.

pray pray pray.

Still in Boston

Yesterday we had sunshine. Piles of green leaves heaped and billowed against blue sky in yellow sun. The city was happy.

I went downtown to look for sandals and for summer clothes that will likely serve me until December. I shopped at places that were only names in storybooks until this trip, Macy's among them. Discovered my first Marshall's came back outfitted and sated.

Today it is raining again and Boston feels like camp. That's a good feeling because it means the house is beginning to break down, it is becoming a temporary place and that is the purpose of this month, this trip, this adventure.

Next month - I am almost completely certain I will be in Austin and I need to say it - I will be there first and foremost for love.

Last week we were shopping at the local Stop and Shop. At the end of the ice cream aisle, a woman came careening and stumbling around the corner from behind us. She was running, doubled over with one hand crumpled into her chest. She was saying the whole time, "I'm OK, I'm OK" when clearly she was not.

She rounded the aisle, picked up speed and lunged into the magazine rack at the end of the checkout head first.

Then she fell to the floor.

Blood began to flow from her head in a thick, heavy stream, like molasses. A man took off his shirt and held it to the wound. She looked baffled, still trying to stand she kept on saying "I'm OK, I'm OK."

We all did what we could. We made sure to talk to the paramedics, I told them exactly what I saw, a few of us got our phones out to call 911. Some people broke out paper towels to staunch the wound. Nothing stopped it - nothing seemed to get through to her. On the stretcher, she was no longer struggling but still looked confused as though she thought all of this was normal.

I am pretty sure she died. I just feel it. She was in her late 60's or 70's and I think that was a stroke we saw. Whatever it was - in that store I saw life and death come careening around the corner and it made it very clear to me that life is short and unpredictable. One minute you are in the ice cream aisle and the next you are on the floor, the star of a gruesome show. The lead player in the final act.

Life matters too much to pretend you can control anything about it. That's one thing I know.

The Sky

I've been preoccupied with weather this spring. There seems to be so much of it. Hardly a day goes by when the clouds do not thicken over wherever I am and the sky give forth some form of somethingorother - heavy wind, rain, snow, seems there is always something swooping or falling from over my head.

And most of the time I don't much like it.

This fact - this immutable, impersonal, non-negotiable fact, must be dealt with by changing my response to it since, for obvious reasons it can't be fixed on the other end. The weather will do what it will do and it will not change because anyone has had far too much of it, least of all me.

I remind myself that, no matter what, above the cloud and rain and wind, hail, frogs, leaves, branches, airplanes and whatever else the sky may be dropping on us earthbound creatures, there is always clear blue sky and sun - always.

I cannot see it and cannot feel it but must know it. Sun and blue sky are the constants, the rest changes daily. I suppose it is like faith of any kind. I know there is a higher benevolent force even when things are dropping on my head and messing up my hair and generally making me miserable for weeks, months or even years on end. I just find it difficult to remember that in a way meaningful enough to help me change how I feel about being stuck under the deluge.

I suppose this is all part of climate change. Summer never used to be like this and there are records to prove it. But it is hard to accept the results of reckless human behaviour as being partly my fault when I have only owned 2 cars for a total of 10 years of my life and really, have contributed comparitively little to the whole mess that is climate change. And then I think - that is true of everyone. Our innocence and culpability are both of such insignificant measure that really, no full blame can ever be laid on anyone and no full credit given either.

Knowing this does not make me sad but it does make me think that maybe we take these things on in ways that are not useful nor accurate in their assessment. It's another of those beautiful paradoxes - we are all guilty as a collective and we are all innocent as individuals.

How do we change that to make a meaningful difference?

I think we have to do it through the expression of individuality. We must show each other our different ways, share our thoughts and our fears and try to reach out to one another and ameliorate them. You cannot be responsible for everything - hell, you cannot really be responsible for anything so you must show the people around you the small ways in which you take responsibility or fear you are to blame or think you deserve credit so that they can show you their ways and we can all adopt the better and discard the fear that creates the worse.

We must all be honest with each other. Honesty tempered with compassion is one way to walk away from continuing to make these collective messes, I'm sure of that. Now the only question is how to learn not to resent the weather in a northern June - rainy and dreary and sad with the one true thing, sun and blue sky, hidden away thanks to the collective actions of our species driven by greed, ignorance and fear. That is a bigger challenge and I am working on it today.

June Gloom

On the west coast June is seldom a pleasant month. The rain and mist roll in and seem to stick around forever. Of course, this makes it the best place to buy summer clothes - many of which go on sale in June. Summer clothes are seldom necessary on the west coast before July, the selection on sale is always very good - there are bargains to be had.

Seems that pattern has recently changed.

For the last two years BC has had stellar summer weather in June while Ottawa and other points east, (Boston apparently included) are bewildered by summer days devoid of summer weather.

People dress as though it was summer but the temperature and the clouds defy it. Bare toes look cold and unhappy in sandals and flip-flops although, I admit, having grown up on the west coast the incongruity of a sweater with shorts and sandals does not seem as jarring as it must to those who grew up depending on June to bring the warmth and sunny skies that March and April withheld.

It is strange and contradictory but I am trying to enjoy it. It could not be worse for photographs - everything is ugly to my eye in this light - but I hear the folks in Austin crave rain deeply for much of the time during the summer so I am trying to appreciate cold damp mornings, velvet-cool fogs and nights where it is easy to sleep with blankets and a window open, no air conditioning on. Wherever you are, there is someone else who craves the very thing you wish you could be free of - imagine that.

Renovation

I think, if a person pays attention, it is possible to gain a fair bit of personal insight while carrying out fairly mundane tasks.

During the clean-up/minor renovation of my friend's house, I have noticed that I make plans to deal with the worst possible outcome. In one room I decided the smartest thing to do was to try to take the carpet up in one piece just in case the floor beneath it was damaged.

This was difficult, ( but not impossible) to do. However, when it became apparent that the floor was in perfectly good shape and we would not have to re-lay the old carpet as the best choice to make the house look presentable, I realized I had created a bigger job for myself in lugging the carpet down to the back garden than was actually necessary. In fact, I wasn't sure I could manage it on my own.

It never occured to me to make a contingency plan just in case the best possible outcome was the result of my efforts. I ended up wrestling with a giant chunk of green shag carpet as big as a whole room. It also never occured to me that once the carpet was up and the floor had met my standards, I no longer had any reason to preserve its integrity. I was so focused on the negative possibilities that I couldn't let myself see any room for the positive alternatives.

I finally managed to get it down the stairs and out the door but it did give me something to think about.

I am planning to extend my trip to Boston, it's possible it will even carry over into a trip to Austin. Seems the feeling of things coming to an end in Ottawa was absolutely correct but I couldn't let myself prepare for the possibility of getting exactly what I want out of life so my apartment is still halfway there. I wanted to get rid of everything but being sensible, I planned to return, just in case. Now it looks as though returning will create more hurdles in a situation where the hurdles are rapidly clearing as long as I listen to circumstance and accept the good and stop trying to block the flow of events in my own life.

Short lessons: make plans for both the worst contingency and the best possible outcome - both are equally possible. And when it comes to being sensible, listen to your feelings, they know the score better than you think.

Boston Common and uncommon

I love Boston, every inch of it. More and better pictures later.

boomerang

The price of being judgemental, for me, is the near-instant compassion rebound. I watched my friend's ex-husband leave the house for jury duty today and thought, "how would this feel to me?"

Life is complicated. I remember times when I felt so completely demoralized I could not move. I can remember times when I unhappy enough to be destructive and truth be told I live in fear of becoming completely superfluous.

What if things go wrong? What if I suddenly lose my way and shudder to a halt? What if my What if the things that led to this house running itself down with the passage of time start to happen to me? What if I suddenly find I can't move forward?

It's terrifying.

I hope and pray I can always find a way to be useful. I suppose that means I hope always to be included, somewhere. It's not a given, people do end up alone. I've seen proof of that and it looks pretty scary.

Underlay

I am helping my friend make her house ready to sell. She's lived here for years and years, longer than I've lived anywhere in my life. She has summoned the courage to end her marriage and now is moving on to what I think will be the best part of her life.

It's interesting how many metaphors open completely when one is engaged in a process like this. Her husband was indifferent to the idea of divorce just as he is indifferent and astonishingly oblivious to the process of the move itself. He remains in place and seems not to be even thinking about packing his belongings and he does not seem to grasp the fact that he and my friend are no longer joined in anyway but through the children and this transitional proximity. There's a reality rift in this house and it teaches me things about life and work and art every day, even when I don't realize it.

At the moment I am in the house alone. I had vowed to continue the work my friend, her partner and I have been carrying out on her ex-husband's office. But the day is sunny and lovely and his office, like the other spaces he chooses to occupy here, is dark and gloomy. The windows are blocked and it is cluttered beyond belief. I cannot give up the sunshine, cannot give up the loveliness of the day to be, however efficiently, imprisoned in that nightmareish space - the space where he chooses to live. Even thinking about making such a choice, I find myself shaking my head.

Since I arrived, we have opened the blinds in several of the larger rooms for the first time in months if not years. He prefers them to be closed and prefers lights on at night. I can't get over how it feels to help my friend begin to reverse this process. To throw open the windows and let light come into this lovely old space, to clear out the piles and piles and piles of old flyers, church bulletins, frequent flyer point statements dating back to the 1980's. It's like an infected wound that cannot close until it is cleaned out.

And now the carpet.

The upstairs living room (there are two) is carpeted in green shag. It was wallpapered in heavy oppressive paper but we have torn that down and repainted. Today, I am beginning to rip the carpet up.

As I tear through the brittle old shag I encounter the crumbling underlay. In many places it has turned to powder. In other places it is cemented to the floor in some places from the pressure of wear but in others from spilled soda-pop or wine or water from the Christmas tree, spills that were absorbed into the carpet and seemed to disappear but only went deeper. The spills went deeper and glued the ugly stuff more firmly into place but one thing I know - they can't keep her here forever. We are tearing this stuff up, scraping the floor clean, filling bag after bag with the accumulated paper garbage of nearly 30 years.

We are opening the windows, lifting the shutters, watering the garden and nothing - certainly not a passive man who prefers the dark, is ever going to trap my friend in a cave again.