Whenever I try to explain the past, I find that I'm not telling the whole truth.
Jethro and I got married over the weekend. I'm now a country-fied wife. As I told friends over the weekend, now I have to go huntin' something or another to prove it.
It was a wonderful ceremony and reception afterward. Debra Jo White, former backup singer to Lynyrd Skynyrd performed during the service. She sang "Love Me Tender" which made me cry a little. Okay, I cried a whole lot. Especially when Dad gave me away.
When it comes to drawing, realism is a problem for me.
My mother and sister are brilliant representational artists. My sister can take a photo and duplicate it by hand beautifully. For a while, she did it professionally. She was that good.
But I’m an artistic dyslexic. I’ll draw my coffee mug at a different angle than what’s in front of me. Or something will be on the left when it ought to be on the right.
I can’t help it. I’d much rather draw what’s in my head instead of what’s in front of me. They say that representational drawing is a basic art skill. I suppose it is. Maybe my artistic dyslexia is a form of rebellion.
How many kids are brainwashed into thinking that they don’t belong in the arts because they don’t have “natural talent” in it?
Kids who doodled during school got the art teacher’s attention. They were labeled artistic. The rest of us were tolerated during art class. Teachers are deferential to those who have natural ability.
There’s a fallacy about art: You’re either a natural or an accountant. Because I couldn’t draw representationally, I never had the courage to pursue the visual arts in a serious manner… Despite how much I loved creating pottery and paintings.
As an eleven year old, I used to compose music on my trombone. I’d spend hours practicing my instrument because I loved music. But one of my music teachers discouraged me from learning guitar, trumpet or drums so I never got beyond trombone.
Don’t even get me started about singing…
It takes courage to go into the arts, especially if there’s no validation for it. Sometimes I think the only reason I became a writer is because I was encouraged by a special person in my life. It wasn’t solely because I loved writing. I loved music and painting as well.
There’s no point regretting the past, but it is time to embrace opportunities. Art can be practiced until it becomes natural. It just makes me sad to think how many other kids had similar experiences.
The most influential people in my life have been the ones I've had the most sporadic contact with. I didn't see my first mentor all that often, but I still contemplate everything he ever told me about writing and life.
Another friend taught me about serenity through his persistant gratitude. I've since lost touch with him. Even when we lived in the same city, I only saw him every now and then.
So it was with my Grandmother, who kept believing in my writing when no one else did. She was 95 when she died, and lived on her own until the very end. Through various moves across the country, I tried to stay in touch with her as much as I could. She encouraged me to hop on a train and move to San Francisco, despite my lack of employment or housing. I guess she had complete faith in my ability to survive on my own.
When I moved back to New York, she gave me a small amount of money so I could buy furniture. She went to Walmart and bought towels. blankets and black socks so I could stay warm in the winter.
If you asked me if I was close to her, I don't know would've said back then. Nor do I know if she was close to me. But she must have been, since she plays such a prominent role in two novels and other assorted projects. I didn't realize the extent of her involvement in my life until I thought about it. She wasn't just a grandmother; she was far more than that.
Even in death, she's taught me a tremendous amount. Far more than I could detail here.
My Grandmother saw 17 presidents take office. She lived through the Great Depression, a number of wars, two waves of feminism, and mind-boggling technological changes. The Internet thrilled and frightened her. She insisted that I had a cold everytime I called her on my cell phone. It was usually just a bad connection.
I loved her, and I told her each time I said goodbye on the phone. But I never realized the impact she had on my life until now - artistically and spiritually. It's going to take a long time to understand the things she taught me.
Phillip Paul is dressed in his finest black tuxedo while Angela dons her latest black and tan. Maybe someday Phillip Paul will learn to keep his eyes open for pictures.
(Click on the picture for a better view.)
Christopher passed away from diffuse lymphoma. It was a particularly aggressive form, with little chance for survival. The Vet said that it covered almost every organ in his body and must've developed quickly.
He was my very best friend.
A few months ago, I listened to The Year of Magical Thinking on audiobooks. The most striking part of the book is its structure. The circular motion of grief. At some points, I'm fine. And then... Right now, as I'm writing this I'm feeling immense grief.
People who knew both of us always remarked on the intensity of our relationship. He was more than a cat to me. He transcended the feline form. He was my spiritual partner, my soulmate.
I chose to be there last night during the fatal injection. Despite his weakened state, he rested his head on my hand. And then, put his paw on my other hand. He held my hand like that when we first decided to be together. It was an unusual gesture, made in a dire state. But I knew what it meant.
For the rest of the week, I'll be posting blog entries from my time with Mr. Christopher. It'll give me time to get myself together again.
I love you Christopher. Always and Forever.
