March 15, 2003 - A
"Bright Spot In A Gray Day"
A Saturday that has gone to waste, I am doubly glad of Wednesday night's fun. A sinus headache has claimed me, rendering me bed-ridden for most of the day.
Julia was a bright spot in my day. When the library lacked the particular Rice book I was seeking, she went out to Barnes and Noble, and came back not only with ''The Vampire Lestat'', but also a picture book of ''Sacred Celtic Places'' and a book of Rumi's poetry called ''The Soul Of Rumi''.
Before succumbing to bed, this morning I did capture the red blooms of the lovely tree we see out our windows. On this gray day, its vivid hue seemed more so by contrast:
Bottlebrushes (Callistemon)
Mostly found in warm places like Australia, California, Arizona and Texas
March 15, 2003 - B
"May Yet Awaken"
6:39pm
Vampires, if there are any, might be arising. I have slept the day, brought low by my sinuses. Such small things they are, to rule so miserably. Unanswered mail waits another day.
Shall I try to salvage what might be lost from the day? The sounds outside: the slam of a car door, a small honk, voices one to another, they are meeting and partying.
I am left to my dark thoughts at the moment. Julia's intermittent tap-tap of the keyboard tell me she is answering her neglected mail.
All around, a sea of neglect, and I am on an isle in the middle of it. Someday . . .
I have begun the tale of Lestat. Curiously, the much reviled movie QOTD takes its beginning from this book, Lestat waking up to the 20th century.
I wonder, shall I wake up, I mean really wake up? All around me are those who slumber, and don't want to waken. Maybe they know something I don't. Dreams are better than the real thing?
What vague generalizing rambles I have made here!
Onto something more concrete . . .
The neatness of my favorite author's handwriting, I marvel over that. (There is a T-shirt for sale with her handwriting on it. Perfect evenness of lines, no crossed out words, it's an utter marvel.) Was it a trick of her nun-teachers? Ah, they could work no such magic with me, I think. I'd still receive the ''F'' in penmanship and a good hand whacking besides.
(I've hear the tales of how they would whack recalcitrant students hands with a ruler.) Someone's real experience no doubt planted the first tale.
Oh well, I had 'Kolpack'. First grade teacher from hell, she ended the squabble of two students over a coat rack by dragging us out of the cloak room by our feet.
Has this scarred me? Perhaps I scar too easily. No matter now. Survival this far gives some boldness. Shy boldness, if you will, in quiet places, such as these cerebral meeting places of the web. Catch me if you can.
If you dare, if it seems worth your while, stick around, readers. I may yet awaken, may yet say something worthy, if I haven't already.
Nice surprises could always happen.
March 17, 2003
"Countdown"
Is it a countdown to horror? It is Monday, 4.59pm. An hour from now, the president will make an announcement. We were informed about it hourly on the radio today as it played at work.
I learned today of other controversies. Listeners were calling up our local country music station in droves to complain about comments the lead singer of ''Dixie Chicks'', a bluegrass singing trio, made while touring in London. I learned in a Sunday morning news show of the great disapproval the British citizens have towards Tony Blair, who is siding with President Bush.
Not only the citizenry are alarmed, it's stirred up dissent in British government. Robin Cook, the Leader of the House of Commons, resigned his post because he said he couldn't back the looming war with Iraq because it did not have international and domestic support. This won him an 'unprecedented standing ovation' according to BBC news.
Perhaps Natalie Maines wanted to sympathize with her wary British audience's war concerns when the Lubbock, Texas native said ''Just so you know, we're ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas,''. Oh, yes, her audience loved it and roared with approval. Afterwards, her comments were repeated here in the States.
Back home, people haven't been quite so approving. Maines apologized for her 'disrespectful' remark, but it's had no effect. Their songs have been pulled from radio airplay across the country. Some protesters in Bossier City, Louisiana even felt so strongly that Natalie's remarks were 'unamerican', they used a 33,000-pound tractor to obliterate compact disks and other items of the Dixie Chicks.
It is unfortunate in these particularily heated times that her unwisely chosen words may end up costing them their future fame. But people here are just that reactionary. Had she simply spoken of her wishes for peace, and not directly attacked the President, perhaps her American audiences would have stayed loyal.
But this she did not do.
Now it is 5:41pm. Twenty minutes until the great announcement.
Six o'clock, and a grave faced President Bush is giving Saddam Hussein, the Iraqi leader, forty eight hours to flee the country or face imminent war. However, it is doubtful Hussein will seek exile.
The 250,000 U.S. troops poised at the borders of Iraq may be called into action by the commander-in-chief as soon as this Wednesday night.
In addition, we are now at 'orange' security risk for terrorism here at home, the second highest level.
The mood here is rather somber. I turned off the TV, as the commentators will only be rehashing the major points repeatedly. I have a music CD on, instead, Andrea Bocelli and his Sogno, (DREAM in English). I shall instead, endeavor to think of beautiful things, in this time of growing fear.
It is up to poets and dreamers to speak of peace, now. Am I not such? But I only find myself crying. Wiser words from me will perhaps come later.
Right now, I can only think of these, written eight hundred years earlier;
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light; and
Where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive---
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
St. Francis of Assisi 1181-1226
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I cannot help what happens in far off lands, I can only choose my own actions. And may my actions be peace-bringing ones.
That is all I have to hope for.
March 18, 2003
"Morning Glumness, Sweetened With A Little Hope"
I'm drinking Irish Breakfast tea, just nicely seasoned with a bit of milk and sugar. Soft Celtic music serenades me this morning, Celtic Christmas II. It doesn't seem 'Christmasy', so it's good any time.
I'm still glum about our world's future prospects. But this quote gave me a smile:
He who knows he is a fool is not the biggest fool; he who knows he is confused in not in the worst confusion.
Chuang-Tsu
This gives me some hope, as well as a chuckle. Meanwhile, I shall be thinking of possible artistic inspiration.
That gives me some hope, too.
March 19, 2003
"Small And Large Fears"
I spoke of 'artistic inspiration' in the last entry. I report happily I do have a new picture. It is not the one I visualized yesterday morning. (Was that only yesterday MORNING?). But it pleases me none the less.
A Stranger Finds You Fascinating
I like his eyes best of all. They really do seem to be observing me when I look at him.
In case you are wondering what inspired me, go to my movie review of Queen Of The Damned and scroll down to the bottom to see the original inspirational cutie.
Yes, I am deeply satisfied with my seductive vampire. I love the personalities which each of my vampires have. Michael's thoughtful concern for his family, Sebastian's affectionate playfulness and this new one, unnamed yet, just sizzles with sensuality. I wonder if my skill at art outstrips my ability with words. Art may have an immediacy which people appreciate. Plowing through pages of verbiage, well, one must be really quite good at it before people will bother.
But making art is scary. I felt nearly out of breath the first half hour I worked on him. I'm not sure why. If I screw up, it's just a wasted sheet of paper. But it's scary anyway.
Even after I could see him gain some animated quality to him, I felt breathless. I told myself to listen to that tiny voice that says ''A patch of color here, please! Strengthen this line here! And now, here, a bit of blue at the throat, '' as it does in making the calming mandalas. It is a sense of 'being led'. I might have more faith if I trust the process.
But I get scared anyway.
Better these small fears than the large fears which I don't want to consider.
Iraqis are fleeing their country. They are taking whatever measly possessions they have and getting gone. It is them with whom I have sympathy. Whatever their leader does and our leader does is all a vicious game, and I suspect it's mostly about OIL. But the innocent people are the victims here.
In every war they always have been, and always will be.
Meanwhile, I pray that at least the war will be short, and that as few lives are lost because of it as possible.
And now I shall return to 'small fears' as soon as possible.
March 20, 2003
"Seeking Inspiration"
Frantisek Kupka, 1912- Disks of Newton
I woke this morning, trying to remember names from my college days, names of artists. All such gray fuzz, now after twenty plus years, but two emerged somewhat more distinct, an OTTO and a Frantisek. I don't know yet about the 'Otto'. I was right about the 'Frantisek'.
He was a Czech artist (1871-1957), Joan smiles demurely of her 50% Czech ancestry, who followed a path from Symbolism into pure Abstraction.
I am thinking now my own works are becoming more Expressionistic. I begin the sketch from the model, and then afterwards I look inward for inspiration, rather than making a slavish imitation of what I see before me. There is color here and there where there would not be in real color, simply because 'I felt like it'.
Well, our Frantisek was NOT an Expressionist. However, in a bio in the Tate museum website, there is this: ''In the New York Times of 1913, he stated: 'Man exteriorises his thoughts in words... Why should he not be able to do the same in painting and sculpture, independent of the forms and colours that surround him?' ''
And at a PBS website, 'Rings Of Passion' quoted him thusly: ''The ultimate goal of his art, he said, is 'to give us joy, a sense of beauty.' ''
I heartily agree with that. It's been a fun morning of possible inspiration, and now I must ready myself for work.
