Part Eight, What Lies Beyond: A Tale Told With Time

What Lies Beyond, Part Eight

At the Threshold

Joan Ann Lansberry

July 2, 1998

A white plaster statue was the model for this lady
JAL, 7-2-98

July 3, 1998

While out on my web journeys today, I came across "National Gray Day", a protest people have planned for October 1, 1998. They are opposing the abuse of copyright law on the web. That day, everyone participating will have a gray entry page on their website. While at the website promoting this, I read several pages on copyright. I thought all that was necessary was to give the name of the person who did an illustration or photo. Apparently some think this is not enough. According to these activists, I'm a thief of all those lovely nature photos I've been enjoying these past few years I've been on the web. Mea Culpa?

In the future, I will use no image that I didn't create without getting the photographer's permission. I hope this will propel me into making more of my own creations. What to do with all the previous photos I've used will be solved over time. I am suddenly provided with abundant subject matter for drawing! The first image I tackled today was a hummingbird originally found on a popular southwestern postcard I'd used twice in my journal. I'm rather pleased with my rendition!

(note from January 9, 2000 - I've since quite carefully plucked out nearly all of those stolen images I referred to here.)

July 4, 1998

We had been turning our AC off at nights to save money, but last night, at 8:30, it was still 101 degrees. We had to admit defeat and leave it running all night. It's wise for as of 5:30am, it has only cooled down to 83 degrees.

later this morning...

Last night Laura and I watched "Ma Vie En Rose", a subtitled film about a transgendered child who answers he/r identity question by declaring "I'm a girlboy!" This morning, home from her work shift, Julia saw it. This evocative movie affected each of us deeply, but in a different way. When young Ludo was tormented by he/r classmates in gym class, it brought all of Julia's childhood tormentors to mind. She declared she's glad she never had children, for even today any children remind her of the smirking, leering, taunting classmates who made her childhood hell. As a teen, thought-revenge made her hope a nuclear blast would destroy them all, utterly, the whole planet and everything in it, so deep was her hatred. Even now, she expresses a fearful pessimism towards the future. Perhaps it's why the ancient past calls to her.

Laura and I push towards the future. We think of generations to come with a hope that we can do better for them than the previous generations did for us. Laura says she fights so strongly for just causes, for herself, that she may think better of herself. I concurred, for I write for future versions of myself. They do not need to have parts of my genetic code to share a commonality. I know they are out there, will be out there. This, too, is a type of faith, but it's a life saving faith. It gives life meaning. Without it, all is hopeless. Maybe some would say I'm entirely too highminded, with puff dreams of illusion. If so, it passes the days, and maybe I need this high.

July 5, 1998

If someone asks,"Where did you go on the Fourth of July weekend?", I want to answer "White Arch Mesa". For the while I spent drawing this picture, it truly seems I've been there. The arch is huge, 84 feet high and almost 40 feet wide. While drawing the picture, I could get a sense of the vast sun clad sandstone edifice. I sat crosslegged in the spot where the photographer originally sat, and put myself there. The only thing is, time sat still. Sunrise did not evolve into the heat of day. So shadows stayed long, and the opalescent hues in the distant horizon remained.

White Arch Mesa is over a hundred miles north of Flagstaff, Arizona. I even read the accompanying article to get more of a feel of the place. I've been so lazy. It's so easy to flip open the flap of the scanner and plop a photo from some magazine down on it. No emotional involvement at all. I don't want that anymore for my journal, for it doesn't reflect MY experiences. All it says is Joan has ready access to a scanner. That, and a subscription to Arizona Highways, however fine that magazine may be.

An Afternoon Chuckle!

We were discussing how well I've taken to the initial knowledge of computers Laura has instilled into me. I mentioned how I've now begun to figure things out on my own, pleased with my progress.

Laura: The word you're looking for is genius!

Joan: I'll accept that title, the crown does not weigh heavy upon my head!

Laura: Of course, with a head that large, why should it?

She said she just couldn't resist it!

July 7, 1998

Another Picture Done!

Another picture is done! "Portal" neatly takes the clouds from the photo of a cloud-filled sky I had originally used for Part Four, and the window from the window rock I'd used in Part Six. It was an image that came to me, much as my poems come to me. Perhaps there is a muse for the art as well, and all I need to do is trust Her for the images. I used to think all I could do was slavishly imitate things already existing in nature. Laura has through out the years tried to encourage me to use my imagination. I'd demur, but Laura insisted I could and would some day. Perhaps, in this, as in many other things, Laura is right again!

July 8, 1998

Three days in a row we've had thunderstorms. I've been grateful to have 'cool' weather under 100 degrees. However the weather has made us pay with more than just humidity. Yesterday, just after I finished and scanned Cardinal, I looked outside to discover my favorite bird perch has been destroyed by the winds. So many times I'd thrill to see a bird on the branches of the tree visible from the high bathroom window. That tree was tore up out of the ground like it was a weak stemmed weed. It was probably dead already, for it to be so fragile. At least nothing else got damaged.

* * * * * I saw red again this morning. It's been twenty eight years of this monthly reminder that my spirit occupies a female body. The regularity of it never ceases to amaze me. I remember back to the first blood. It was in July, on a hot, humid day much like this one. I was shocked that afternoon after urinating to see a patch of red on the paper I used to wipe myself. I cried out to my mother, "MOM!!!!" She came running and told me to keep sitting on the toilet until she returned from the store with the necessary pads. It would be like that, so unexpected.

In fourth grade, they gathered all of the girls into the auditorium to show us a movie about the marvelous things that would soon be happening to us. Illustrations of the upside down pear shaped uterus, and the curving fallopian tubes leading to the ovaries explained our strange innards. They also illustrated male physiology and explained how babies were made.

Everyday after that movie I examined my pee papers expecting blood. When nothing out of the ordinary appeared day after day, I soon forgot about it. Perhaps I would be lucky and not have this happen to me. I returned to childhood's innocence.

Then that hot day in July, when I was only eleven years old, came. My mother kept saying how young I was, too young. She was fourteen, and her mother was eighteen when they had their first blood. Something was wrong in the world for females to be getting their menses earlier and earlier. It had to be all the hormones they put into the processed meats. I was just glad when I started junior high the following September, that vending machines of pads were thoughtfully placed in the girl's restrooms. For even though I know it will happen every month, it always seems to catch me by surprise.

July 9, 1998

raw with weariness,
the heaviness of gravity
pushes me down.
I do not fight.

JAL, 7-9-98

July 11, 1998

The Gravity of the Situation

The liberating madness
comes like a rush,
wild, unlimited regions
so yet unexplored.

The leading Lady
waits, with wild eyes,
almost demonic,
waiting
for me to fall forward
into these dizzying depths.
Does all it take is gravity?

It's so tempting.

JAL, 7-11-98

later today...

I finished another picture today! I chose this Hopi lady as a subject because she reminded me of my grandmother. But as I drew her, she took on a life of her own.

July 12, 1998

"Making art is not an act of self-indulgence. It is an act of faith."

I found this quote of Jan Phillips in my web-meanderings yesterday. She teaches workshops on "Nurturing Your Creativity" and has written a book, Marry Your Muse: Making a Lasting Commitment to Your Creativity, based on what she teaches in her workshops.

From the Kelli Dunham article about her:

Jan is the cofounder of the Syracuse Cultural Workers, a collective which distributes issues-oriented art (perhaps the most well known of which is the Syracuse Cultural Workers' yearly peace calendar).

In the interview, Phillips spoke of her goals.:

"... I thank God for our work. You might call it socially responsible art. We were addressing issues like gay and lesbian rights, environmentalism, feminism, civil rights, ageism, disability rights, and human rights around the world.
Part of what we were doing was trying to bring together a body of people that was committed to the same path, to creating a world we could believe in. We wanted to do this by inspiring people, by lifting them up with beautiful artwork rather than burdening them with depressing information."

Phillips clearly demonstrates the spiritual nature of art. These words, water to my thirsty soul, give me a clearer view of art's purpose. I had already a similar hazy concept. But refining and recognising it leads to strength. On our website, we have been doing that with the museion. Angry political words are necessary, but these images of our past may do more to educate.

Back to Phillips concept of faith. This resonates with me, for the Muse seems an aspect of the Divine Mystery. Part of what I struggle with is my fear. Learning to trust the Muse is liberating for me. It is curious that while I identify as pagan, often christian spiritual thought, (with the Diety undergoing a little 'sex change') will resonate with me. I can't, like wiccans, cast spells and force Diety to do my bidding. "Forcing" anything, out of one's sheer will, if not keeping one's ear to the universal choir, in which we sing our note, results in disharmony with All That Is. Our will, applied to the greater Good, can be an important tool. It is not evil, as some believe. It is a powerful tool. Wiccans are right about that. But attempts to force things that were never meant to be, ie "love spells" to make someone fall in love with you, are dangerous. That path can only lead to destruction.

Wisdom leads to the right path. It may seem wild, untamed, and frightening. It may seem no one has ever been there before. It may seem that I am the first to cut away the brambles. But the One who sees from above, has the Map, knows the Destination. If I plunge forward with trust, I will end up where I'm meant to be.

July 14, 1998

We are learning the art of the siesta as temperature highs have been exceeding 115 degrees for the last few days. Yesterday it was 118 in the sheltered shade of our front porch. Anything that must be done, I'm learning to do early or late. For in the afternoon, I will be too heat weary, and succumb to the horizontal, napping between two and four o'clock. How ever did the natives and pioneers survive before air-conditioning? Perhaps nap time was between twelve and five o'clock.

later today...

My relative Jim Horschler has put up the Horschler genealogy on the web. He linked to an old picture of my Grandpa Horschler from his site. Grandpa is puffing away on a cigar! I remember Gramma saying how he used to smoke a cigar and how much it stank up the house. She was so glad when he got 'born again' for one of the effects was he gave up the tobacco!

July 15, 1998

MUD MOOD

Down low,
dirty,
wallowing in it,
pigs stay cool this way.
Pigs, I tell myself,
as I wallow in laziness,
are very intelligent animals!

JAL, 7-15-98

July 17, 1998

The balance of the pendulum is maintained for every swing in one direction is followed by a swing in its opposing direction. Maybe everything in life is that way. It is only when you look at the whole picture do you see this. But we must step outside of ourselves to do this. It is a brave exploration we do when we can let loose of our own singularity long enough to see it blended with all the other singularities. Brave and rare for seldom do we do it with the intensity it requires and yet it is the only way we can gain Truth. It is not enough to know only our small world. Yes, no one can know it as we do. Also it is impossible to know the world of another as she does. But that we make the attempt, that we make the attempt, this is the sole bridge we have to understanding. It is this which opens our eyes to the long distance.

July 19, 1998

After I did the backup files for our recent web additions, I laid down with Julia for a long nap. I awakened at noon, after a particularly vivid and usual dream:

The Dream

I am leaving Arizona for a flight back to Joliet, Illinois. But it is strange. All is different. No one I know is around, except Gramma (who has long passed on.) Anyway she and I are preparing for a flight. We wait at a bus stop, with all our baggage. After we board the bus, I discover I left my yellow suitcase full of sweaters back at the bus stop. I fall asleep for a while and awaken with a start. "How long have I been on this bus? Is this Arizona or Illinois?" I ask, but no one answers, so I keep repeating my question, louder and louder. No cacti are in sight, yet all the trees seem generic. We arrive back at the bus stop and I retrieve my suitcase, crestfallen for having made such a scene.

Then we board another bus. This one takes us to the airport. Getting a ticket is a very tricky procedure. Gramma and I are in the waiting area, listening for our names to be called. The speaker booms "Esther Horschler" and we both scramble to the small metal plate we are to stand on. Something goes wrong and the intermeshing of floor levels that transports you to a different plane ends with us squished in the passage. When the interlocking releases us to the waiting room again, I rush out breathlessly. A kindly man says, "It must not be your time yet!"

We sit and wait some more. Time is stretched when you are waiting, so I have no idea how long. Then the man at the podium calls out "Esther Horschler and daughter!" "Huh? I'm her GRAND daughter, not her daughter!" Gramma doesn't reply, and we again scramble to the tiny metal plate. It is so hard to fit both of us neatly on it. This time, however, things go right, and the interlocking level transporter sends us down a long narrow passageway. We are released at a new level. "Is this where we catch the plane?" Something seems very different, though. Gramma is a young woman now, with brunette hair, and I am a young girl. I see a window, though which the planes arriving and leaving are visible. I understand a fundamental change has occurred.

Analysis:

This dream must symbolize reincarnation. First clue: Everyone I know in Arizona is gone. Second clue: Gramma came to meet me as I prepare for transition. Third clue: The ticket master calls out "Esther Horschler and daughter!" Fourth (and most obvious): Gramma is now a young brunette, (She was a redhead in this life), and I am a young girl. Also, the long, narrow passageway symbolizes the birth channel.

This dream tears at mysteries I can't really know. I recently reread my bio and realize death has always been a thing I've wondered about. The skeptic in me staunchly says there is no logical reason to support reincarnation. It is all a fairy tale of the desperately fearful, hopeful of lengthening their brief stay on the planet. Yet some part of me is drawn to dream. I will not deny the child of wonder.

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