In fact I love them like crazy and I don’t even bother wondering why — I just look up in awe every day, gasp a little, and snap. Honestly, there’s not a day that I arrive home without some new cloud photo stashed in my computer.
This one was snapped at dusk near my daughter’s house, and I can’t help wondering when the fire will capture her too.
And it’s an interesting thing about clouds — I almost always miss the grand finale. I suppose it’s because I tend to come home at 5 or 6 and stay there. And even though the clouds are everywhere around me, my house is secluded, the trees abundant and tall, and to be honest, I forget.
Yes, I forget what isn’t in front of my eyes at a given moment. We’re all like that to some extent, but you know what? It’s a huge flaw in our day to day. Too often, the magic is exactly where we don’t look.
But then … on the days that I have a bit more leeway, I might walk out of the grocery store or bookstore or starbucks and BAM — I’m gobsmacked by the pulsing light that streaks the sky with gusto, almost as if the sky accidentally broke and, in the time it took to fit the pieces back together, we’ve almost, almost, forgotten that moment of magic.
Because we humans — we really need to learn to SEE.
“You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocket ship underpants don’t help.” (Quote by Bill Watterson)
Today I was totally prepped for a great day. My husband has been on the other side of the continent for a week, and he flies home tonight. I’m wearing my Happy Clothes, saved for special days. The house is clean. Ish. I’ve amassed a neatly folded give-away pile with oooooooodles of my favorite (too small) outfits, we’re deep in the dregs of summer, which means we’ll soon be cooler (right?), I’m on break from cleaning the attic (self-imposed), and the garden flowers are joyously blooming despite daily basking in the bowels of hell.
But then — who knows, but something clicked — or unclicked, and hell threw open that door. And I’d say I haven’t been able to shake this Very Bad Day, but the truth is that I’m just not ready. Because you have to be real. You have to walk through these things rather than around. Otherwise they never go away, and just bury themselves in your psyche instead.
So I looked up Bad Day quotes. And honestly, they totally sucked except for Hobbes and Bill, so I made my own.
Snark: an attitude or expression of mocking irreverence and sarcasm.
Blech. I really, really don’t like snarky people. We all have so much goodness deep in our hearts — why waste it on the opportunity to hurt someone?
And I guess that’s the extent of it. I haven’t been shot or robbed or suffered a great loss. I have endless happy choices at my fingertips. But today, I guess what I really am is sad.
And I am. I’m really, really sad.
Footnote: Hobbes, named for philosopher Thomas Hobbes, is Calvin’s stuffed tiger and best friend.
In truth, I’ve never happened upon a day in Ireland that hasn’t been magic, but the point is that Yesterday was MAGIC. And not only was it MAGIC, but it was MAGIC over and over again.
“What would you like to see?”, asked Olive. “Stripey Rocks and Cows, Please!”, I said all atwitter. There was a slight pause and a bit of a smile and then, “Well okay!”.
It started with the rocks — a mystical evening just beginning to turn, but bright enough to see a glow everywhere (because … IRELAND!”) And suddenly they were everywhere.
Plus a boot.
And then of course, the rest of the story ….
(Press to Play)
Well hello there lovelies!!!!! You made my day!
Becoming, Friday, April 28, 5:00 – 7:00 PM at Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland, Day 27
Is that long? Not so long, considering that I’ve taken plenty of breaks. I don’t remember why, but I doubt it was for a lack of words. More likely it was simply business — family, jobs, travel, the basic what-we-do that seems to determine every morsel of our daily dailies.
But even from the start, there was such a beauty to the practice of writing. I wrote much, much more than I blogged, keeping most of it private until I found my comfort zone, which primarily means that I simply stopped worrying about what other people thought.
Boring? Often, no doubt. Redundant? Oh yeah. We all have our passions, and they’re not a one-and-done deal. Self-centered? Sure, but … as writers, we pull from within ourselves. That’s not a bad thing — we all need to pay more attention to what we have to offer instead of just sitting on it for no good reason.
My major focus has always been watching, listening, and working to understand life — the joys, generosity, foibles, kindness, hatred, simplicity, and so much more. I’m drawn again and again to grasp the tiny moments — the ones we often don’t notice or think we’re too busy to for.
And that’s not true. So not true.
The image at the top of my blog is me — my mind, my joy — grabbing moments and jotting them down as quickly and legibly as I can, particularly on walks — a phone in one hand and a scrappy piece of paper full of scribbles in the other. Like everyone else on the planet, I usually think I’m “too busy” with this or that, which sometimes includes staring into space and letting my mind follow its will without judgment.
What I’ve learned:
Listen more than you talk.
Be free with support for others.
Share when asked.
Write without worrying if it’s good or bad. The more you write, the better it gets.
Say Yes when it’s a healthy response.
And most importantly, Let That Shit Go.
Really.
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland, Day 14
“I have found it easier to identify with the characters who verge upon hysteria, who were frightened of life, who were desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really.” ― Tennessee Williams
And although the images above could very easily work to convey a group of hysterics, they are, in fact, regular people competing in a “Stella” Screaming Contest. And though I’m not a suitable Stella-Screaming prospect, I’d show up to watch in a heartbeat.
To be honest, I’m not exactly sure why. Though I’ve seen much of his work, I’m not really a Tennessee Williams fan.
Is it the full-throaters? The constant comics? The attention grabbers? Not so much. I’m just ever and always an admirer of those who can jump in and give it all they’ve got.
Are you an avid Tennessee Williams lover? Mildly interested? Begrudgingly tolerant? Trying to find the up side? Or pretty put off?
There are so many people walking in my neighborhood. They walk for relief, to exercise their pups, to grab at the sun, for a bit of human contact, to fill and empty and refill their lungs, to live, to be life, to embrace the simple and push aside the rest.
It seems so lovely, and yet …. sometimes I wonder at this other life we live.
I wonder why we can’t halt the world at its simplest and most pure — even for a moment — and revel in it enough to get us through until the next human-made catastrophe.
I don’t understand why some have the desire to overpower. Why the rush to war … or even the acceptance of war? I don’t understand how to turn a blind eye to madness just because it’s not on my turf.
I don’t understand why or how we move from “different” to “hate.”
I don’t understand the need to control, to subjugate. I don’t understand the ego boost of physically overpowering another human being just because you can.
We’re all capable of self control, even when some part of us struggles with it.
When I was young, I believed that if I looked closely at all the horror and pain that I saw around me and really felt it, then karma would be served and I wouldn’t have to live the horror myself. I’ve been lucky there.
And yet it isn’t unusual to see horror bestowed on the gentlest and most generous.
I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
Why can’t we all look at a human being and see a human being?
I’ve always loathed being on the lens end of a camera. Maybe that pre-teen awkwardness was something I never grew out of, or maybe I just hated having people stare at me, even for the two seconds it took to focus and push the button. But mostly, I think, it’s that I can’t find the Me in photographs. Shortish with dark hair and a penchant for bare feet, self recognition seemed to end there. Whose face is that? Are her dreams my dreams? Why doesn’t she smile? There’s a disconnect there and I don’t know how to piece it together. I suppose I just don’t want to be noticed, sometimes even by myself. I do wonder if I write to leave bits of me here and there — a picture in scribbled words where there are no images.
I’m not the only one. My mom hated having her picture taken, and solved the issue by grimacing or sticking her tongue out for every click of the camera. It was a pretty effective way to erase the possibility that maybe this was her real face, or worse, her real soul, being shown. Me, I just duck and turn my focus elsewhere.
I don’t know why. I think it started as shyness and morphed into reticence over the vast array of personalities out there, particularly in the early school years. How anyone gets through them is a mystery.
Of course the older I get, the less often someone asks for a photo, and that’s okay with me. As the decades have floated by and I’ve had to learn (or fake) adult interaction, it’s gotten easier — but I’ve also learned to turn off interaction when necessary. Life is filled with a zillion different kinds of people; the wise ones know this and celebrate diversity with careful choices. And on the days when all the crazies are out, there’s always the choice of an innocuous mask. Or a donkey. Donkeys are great attention grabbers, and they never, ever ask to take pictures of you.
It’s a cloudy, drizzly Sunday, and there are 30 people in the check-out line at Barnes and Noble. There are 12 in the cafe/caffeine line. I head for the second, mostly because I perused (and occasionally bought) everything in the first line a few weeks ago.
One of those heavy gray days with crows flying about, and the sky so wet that dribbles of moisture keep sliding down the sides of me like a cold bath. It’s dreary, and no one looks quite normal as they hunch this way or that trying to ward off discomfort.
The young girl across from me sits in the cafe section by way of the cash register section, and the belongings that cover her small table and quite a bit of the floor include giftwrap (a roll of gold and a roll of white with gold stars), a furry stuffed cat (orange), a science kit on Climate Control, nine record albums whose titles are sadly just beyond my view, a black purse, Monopoly (with Hello Kitty gracing the box), and two hefty hardcover books. The girl is midway through an even heftier paperback. I like her.
Every person in the cafe is wearing black on at least half of their body, with the exception of one girl wearing pajamas.
I got here just before the crowd. I get here every day just before the crowd, no matter what time I arrive. I’m lucky that way. I love bookstores, probably because they’re filled with minimally comfortable humans making their way in a world that generally includes few and excludes many, most of whom love to read.
I used to read. I pulled back when so many novels suddenly became harder to handle, and indeed happy books seem not to be in style these days. There were decades when I could handle the murders and loss, mostly because there was always a happy enough ending, and of course the good girl or good guy in charge of it all always saved the day. Now just as often, the good guy dies. Realism, they call it. It’s the third Saturday before Christmas. I’m in no mood for murders. Or much realism, for that matter. When I started writing, I devoured books until they began to hurt — when books came too close to reality.
So now I write. Growing up, I had no use for fiction and was all about truth and evolution, or as close as you can get from a carefully selected book chosen at least partially because you liked the cover. I still tiptoe around fiction a bit, but I love the process and the character creation. Those girls live with me always.
I envy the girl with the hefty book and the orange cat. I miss the days when I could read a slightly disturbing book, find the silver lining, and move on with a bit of new understanding enlightening my brain.
Pam Goode Writes 