Some days
I am roundly pleased
to fancy my
self
a poet.
Other days
I open my
eyes
and see
that I am
only
the
typist.
Philosophical Ramblings
The Hard is What Makes it Good
A young man came into the gallery one day and, like many, stood with his mouth agape staring at the art on the walls. “What is this?” he asked. “It’s a mosaic,” I answered with a smile. “Well, how do you make it? Where do you get all these little pieces of glass?” “We cut them,” I said with a little glow.” “Cut them? You mean you have to cut every one of these pieces?” “Yes,” I said. “Every piece.” “Oh man,” he said,” he said. “Why would anyone do this? There’s got to be a way to streamline this process. Somebody needs to sell the glass already cut. Doesn’t anyone sell pre-cut glass?” “Well, possibly,” I said, ‘but then I wouldn’t be interested.”
And there you have the answer in a nutshell. I make art because it’s hard.
During the classes I teach, new students will often take on a familiar stricken look when they first start cutting. I tell them to relax and cut for the pleasure of exploration — that making mosaics means learning to love the process. And the process is hard.
Some might say I like a hard life in general. I’m a good one for trudging through the minutiae of a situation, considering every possibility, and then selecting the most time- and soul-consuming avenue. To me, this simply equates to actually living my life rather than just going through the motions. It’s the same way with cooking, planning, selecting (and decorating) a Christmas tree, traveling, thinking, loving, and art. Either I do it to the max, or I don’t do it at all. Otherwise, what have I gained? What have I given?
One of my favorite quotes is from the movie “A League of Their Own,” when Gina Davis admits that something is hard. Tom Hanks says “Of course it’s hard. If it was easy, everyone would do it. The Hard is what makes it Good.”
He’s so right.
It’s a funny thing about “easy.” There are many things I do because they’re “easy” for me, like sorting or folding laundry or unloading the dishwasher or writing a press release — I can have them done in the time it takes to think “oh — I should do this.” Accomplishment is a powerful feed-good, and we can rack up way more of the easies than the hards. But does that make them good? Well, no. None of my easies will ever make it to my Very Favorite Things list.
But give me something hard: determining and creating the ideal ratio of perfect cuts to “human touch” in art, cooking the (very) occasional meal that takes alllllll day, raising a child, or growing the balls to be my fullest self, and I’m all over it.
So yeah. I love mosaic because it’s damn hard. I think we all need to love and engage in something that tests us, that pushes us flat up against the wall and says, “Do your best. Now.”
It’s my favorite part of life.
The Fine Line Between Crazy
We all have a slightly quirky side, don’t we? For some, it’s counting (steps, minutes, peas), for others it’s repetitive motions (touching door handles or hair, checking and rechecking door locks), or any simple act that calms us. Whatever it is, we do it — some blatantly, some surreptitiously, some in the dark of night while sitting in a rocking chair on the roof of your house. Or someone else’s. (Um….) Sometimes it’s small things that just make us happy (I love to pick up bits of glitter — it’s everywhere!), a sudden memory of glorious times spent with friends, or a hidden pleasure that we don’t want revealed. And mostly, they’re all okay.
Life isn’t always a piece of cake, and sometimes we slip. But what makes us label someone as crazy? Is it the clothes they wear? A 24/7 Jack Nicholson grin? Silence? Staring? Loners?
Some of us are very blunt about our idiosyncrasies. I think bluntness generally helps us all unless there’s ill intent involved. Others are still figuring it out, which is fine, or dealing with psychoses, which is rough. I had an unsettling run-in with a very sweet person lately who changed personalities in a quick minute. Not her fault. Not my fault. Really messy day.
I’m a quiet girl. Always have been. Does that make me crazy? Idiosyncratic? Odd? Surprisingly knowledgeable about others?
I can’t say that I’m any smarter than most, but I can say that, generally speaking, I’m more aware than many, and that’s pretty much a good thing. But what would it take to move from awareness to stalking? Hiding? Fear? It gives me pause.
I pick up glitter because it was dropped by someone who revels in happy moments, and it delights me to carry that torch. Happy moments I can carry in my pocket, or spread across a new spot.
Life isn’t always a piece of cake. Keep the people and moments that make you happy.
Image: Pablo Picasso, one of my very favorite artists!
Are Old Barbies New Again?
I once bought a passel of Barbies. Not whole Barbies, mind you, but just the heads. They were for sale on a friend’s website, and though I rarely (never, ever) spend money on dolls, I snatched these up like a woman possessed and gleefully began arranging them. It was a Very Good Day.
Lately I’ve been purging, and although your first thought is surely “OH NO! NOT THE BARBIES!!!!, you’ll be pleased to know that in no way shape form or teeny tiny inkling of a thought did I ever consider turning them over to a new Barbie family. Those barbie heads are mine for life.
Mind you, this large jar shows about 1/3, or a bit less, of the heads.
But OH! Surprise! While cleaning out my (grown) daughter’s closet this morning, I pulled out a box and — you guessed it — Barbies! And not just body-less Barbies this time, but fully grown and totally intact Barbies. (I may amend this statement when I more carefully examine my haul).
Interestingly, only one of the “intact” barbies is naked, and yes, it’s Ken. I’m uncertain whether he’s showing off his manliness or or was stripped to the bones by the entire box of girls. I figure it’s a tossup.
Oops, two more have stripped. It’s a party!
I guess it’s about time to watch the movie. Sometimes the oddity IS the story.
Kodachrome: The Power of a Photograph
As a girl with a mirror, I never saw myself as ugly, despite my stubbornly cow-licked hair. I was short-ish and thin, with dark hair and darker eyes that could see to China and back. Out with my mother as a child or with friends in high school, I could feel eyes on me despite my shyness and disdain for beauty products. I had only a handful of photographs from those days, but it was enough. I knew my mirror well then, not because I was vain, but because I needed to see who was behind those eyes — where she came from, what she thought, where she would go. She didn’t spill any of the answers, but I had a passable understanding of her from year to year.
Coming to know who you are is a very personal journey. I’ve never been comfortable on the lens end of a camera, and early photos illustrate that all too well. So while I pulled at non-compliant hair and did my best to fit in, I was invariably the awkward girl in any photograph. And a photograph, no matter how random, how good, how bad, how bland or how earth shattering, changes the way you see yourself, does it not? Even if I could have convinced my brain that I don’t really look like that, or at least not all the time, it’s quite clear that this is the face I show to the world more often than not. But we are never just an awkward face.
My mom hated having her picture taken, and solved the issue by grimacing garishly and sticking her tongue out for every click of the button. It was a pretty effective way to erase the possibility that maybe this was her real face, her real soul, being shown. And why? She was beautiful.
It made me sad.
Thirty years later, I received an unexpected package from a very-long-ago boyfriend that held a cd filled with images he had captured in college. Back in the 70’s when few of us had cameras and even fewer had good ones, he was rarely without his Ricoh. To this day, he remains the only person, outside of my children, who could capture an image that showed my soul, simply because somewhere among those 1,095 days we spent together, I finally relaxed in front of the ever-present lens and let it see me.
And in a flash I was given the ability to see the girl I was, the girl I am, rather than the girl I’d been carrying around for decades. It made me happy.
Imagination / Perception / Memory: They live on in us regardless of how closely they match the actuality, don’t they?
Waiting
Is there a purpose in waiting? I feel a bit like it’s a vigil, which makes sense. I know it will mean a bevy of time, a tsunami of pain, a gasping of fear.
I can do that.
What it doesn’t require is my personal presence, but most definitely my spiritual presence.
And I can do that.
What it doesn’t promise is a requested outcome, allowing only my prayers.
What is does promise is waiting. I don’t mind waiting, and yet I hate it. Or maybe I don’t hate waiting, but I hate the reason.
Some reasons are joyous. Some, uncertain. Others, life changing.
And the time it takes to receive an answer of “yes, it’s this, and it will be okay. Probably” is both momentary and lifelong.
And the time it takes to receive an answer of “yes, it’s this, and I’m sorry,” is also both momentary and a lifetime.
Lifetime. Lifelong.
I’m not sure I like those words anymore.
I like the word forever. And ever and ever and evermore.
“The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.”
― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot
Love to All
Food Frenzy, Episode 1
Some of us do it on the sly in minuscule morsels. Some do it once a day; some can’t stop. Some do it at night, which is okay. In fact, you can’t not do it, no matter your choice. Some of us gulp it down, while others are persnickety and indulge only in small morsels at pre-established times. Fortunately you can find it in shops, theaters, at home, on the road, really most anywhere. The only thing you can’t do it stop, because each new day requires that you suck it up and do it again.
But that’s okay, because I have this thing for photographing food. And since it’s everywhere, it’s a pretty accessible gig.
The photos below show different eats in different countries.
Row 1, Left to Right: Artichoke with Herbed Butter, Bonnieux, Provence; Garlic, Piazza del Popolo Market, Orvieto, Italy; Jack Fruit, Costa Rica; Brie on Crackers with Mixed Greens and Pine Nuts, Bonnieux, Provence
Row 2: Chicken with Lemon, Olives and Herbs, Pawleys Island, SC, US; Market Lemons, Orvieto, Italy; Black Beans, Zucchini, Salad, Dragon Fruit, Salad, Costa Rica; Fruity Drinks, Barcelona
Enjoy!
Photos by Pam Goode
Paris: Beyond the Croissants
Sure, they melt in your mouth. Sure, every layer is laced with butter. Sure, it’s really, really, really GOOD butter. Sure, it’s a three-day process with 27 layers. But no matter how delicious the authentic Parisian croissant may be (and trust me, it is), you might be surprised at how much more — so much more — there is to do in Paris.
Why does a long, dark rain in North Carolina make me feel like I might as well take a pass on the day — lolling about in a giant white cotton sleep shirt, sipping tea, and considering dreams in the grayness passing by my window just a bit too slowly. Is this punishment for a day wasted last week? A gift of possibility following too many days of work? A Dream Machine that fell out of that last cloud and into my lap? Let’s go with Dream Machine. Today I’ve decided to do something rather impractical and guaranteed to cure the blahs.
Don’t laugh, but I’m going to plan my dream day.
I’ll wake with the sunrise (again, no laughing) in Paris, stretching like a cat who hasn’t yet caught a whiff of the mouse, rustle around for some French yogurt, and sip a cup of tea at my windowsill facing Rue du Pré aux Clercs. After a quick shower, I’ll stroll over to Rue de Raspail, a delightful market so crammed with gorgeous edibles that you could walk through and fill your basket blindfolded and still return home with with the makings of a fabulously fresh, flavorful and delicately presented feast. But let’s pass on the blindfold because you’ll want to see it all, including the French babies. French babies rock. The jury’s split on French dogs.
Veggies grabbed and stashed in my flat, I’m off across the Seine to the Right Bank in search of the Marais Dance School, nestled into the upper floors of a 17th century building on a delightful square. And co-ed changing rooms, because of course it’s France and the bodies are beautiful and no one feels the need to hide them. Since my toes last eased into ballet slippers a few decades ago, I’ll choose the beginner class and have at it with the gusto of a spring robin, hitting every plié, relevé, and glissé with a smile on my face bigger than my wealth of accrued blisters. Who cares about blisters?
I’ll still leave feeling as if I’ve conquered the world — in Paris — wearing tights — Ka-Ching!.
I’ll be hyped, heady and ready for Act 2, and the walk to my next adventure feels great. Here I’m trading movement for a more tactile eroticism — clay. My tutor, a graduate in both fine arts and Beaux-Arts, will take the reins and delightfully overwhelm me with more types of clay than I ever knew existed. That’s a good thing, right? I’ve tried clay in the past, with rather grisly results, but this time, right????? Because it’s Paris! I work it like nobody’s business, but at the end of the day, I still suck at clay (and that’s okay). I’ve met new friends, laughed more than most, and shaken off a lot of new-student anxiety. I’m calling it a win.
After a couple of hours strolling The Seine and my favorite Gothic gorgeousness Sainte-Chapelle, and my hunger for all things French points me back toward the Left Bank. No one has ever tacked a Best Cook Ever sign to my forehead, but neither am I the worst, and surely a late afternoon dedicated to faire la cuisine is just what I need, crave, hunger for. Drooling with lust, I haul it over to LeFoodist, where I’ll learn to make the most perfect, most exquisite, most shockingly life-changing baguette known to woman. But first I need an address and, no surprise, it’s smack between two of my favorite Paris haunts, Île Saint Louis and Le Jardin du Luxembourg — a very good sign indeed.
How does it go?
Okay, so it turns out that a true French croissant is no easy roll in the hay, but it really does change your life, not only because it’s a previously un-imagined wonder, but because it’s literally possible to make it yourself … if you really love baking, layering, experimenting, buttering, perfect measurements, and starting over. All part of the fun, right? When you’re in Paris, absolutely.
My imaginary day is one I’ll visit again and again when I’m feeling a little dreamy. Every moment teaches. Every moment inspires. And no matter the magnificence of my French experiences, the best of them will always, always, include the croissant.
———-
Disclaimer: The locations listed are accurate and currently operating as of this post and are well-respected businesses I look forward to visiting. At this writing, I haven’t yet had the pleasure, so no, they’re not yet legitimate recommendations. Emphasis on Yet. But I can promise you I’m headed that way.
Lost and Found: Moments in Time
You know how when you’re gone for a time, and possibly only for a week, and still you come home to the place you’ve known forever but then for a moment, that brief flash, you can’t immediately locate even the possessions that you use most often and that have been been kept in the same place for years (!!!)?
At first it’s a little disorienting and maybe fleetingly irritating, but in the end, isn’t it really pretty cool to know that only a few days of new input can shift your view, your rote, your same-old so quickly and so completely as to momentarily obliterate even what you know best?
It all comes back of course. But suppose we make the conscious decision not to rush back to what we know, but instead to embrace the shake-up and simply reinvent, quite spontaneously? I’m not talking drastic life changes, but where’s the harm in trying on a new hat now and then?
I’m quick to claim that I’m very much my own person — who I am is who I am, and re-invention seems — well, why? But the truth is that, like most of us, I’ve reinvented many, many times — often quite spontaneously and totally without prior consideration. Each time it was a seamless transition to a place I was meant to be.
I found a good hearing aid and started having conversations. With people. A lot. I was 49, and after 49 years of smiling and trying to fit into various boxes, I was suddenly and rather effortlessly a part of the world. I walked past a trashed little space on a good street with a “for rent” sign and immediately knew it was waiting for me to reinvent as an art studio. I had no experience setting up or running an art studio, but it worked and I did it with joy for 13 years. On a whim. I just knew.
We all know. We don’t all act.
Marcel Proust (otherwise known as Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust) wrote a monumental seven volume novel over a period of 14 years with the distinction of having written the longest novel in the world. If you’re wondering, it’s À la Recherche du Temps Perdu (In Search of Lost Time), filled with a whopping 1,267,069 words and twice as robust as War and Peace. But maybe that’s to be expected in a man with six flowery names, the first of which is Valentin. Considered one of the most influential writers of the 20th century, I’m not about to question his judgement.
But I wonder … did he plan this abrupt life alteration, or did it just appear to him and he grabbed it?
I’m beginning to believe that the life we meticulously plan is rarely our true life. I’m beginning to believe that we don’t give ourselves enough credit — we don’t aspire past what we consider our limits; we don’t reach as far as our arms were meant to. We barely know ourselves.
So take the trip, physically or metaphorically but preferably alone, and see where it leads you. Pretty sure you’ll be surprised. And you’ll be home. (Maybe in Paris)
At the Bookstore, Dreaming
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 