"...there is something wrong with us."

Bill Wilson, "12 Steps and 12 Traditions".

The above quote seems to be a tall order, but as I grow older I begin to see the essential truths hidden underneath what seems like an impossible state of mind. As I grow older and I try to search for what wisdom I can find, certain truths do become evident.

When I turned 50 I felt the desire to gain Wisdom. I searched books, prayed and hoped that like Percible I would be granted a vision of the Holy Grail and like Percible I would drink from it and become the "fool that became wise." Alas, I found it didn’t work that way. There is no instant transition just progression. Like Bill Wilson also wrote "it isn’t spiritual perfection, but spiritual progress."  Besides the Grail is a just a metaphor for Life and to gain Wisdom one has to drink from life, or in my case, sip it from it time to time.

When I was in my 30’s I watched an illusion I held dear shatter and came out the other side a tad wiser. During that period, which was a bleak time for me, I found out that actually many illusions died, and I don’t need to tell you, illusions often die hard and their death throes often seem to flail about affecting others in their wake. I found that you could not make someone love you no matter how hard you sacrifice for them and no matter how hard you try to pull them out of the flames of their own self imposed hell. The greatest deceit was the self deceit that I could play God, let alone think that I knew what was best for that individual and in truth all I was doing was trying to rob her of her power of choice. Of course the illusion of control died.

I knew then I could no more control another person nor what they thought about me than I could control the rotation of the earth. All that energy and time spent was nothing more than a futile exercise in self delusion. When I came out the other side, though scarred, I was wiser. I also found myself.

Which brings me back to the original quote about being disturbed. It shouldn’t matter to me what opinions or idealology one holds on to, nor should I be disturbed if someone believes different from me. Yet I find myself in a society that often labels those who disagree with them as being an "idiot" or "stupid". Arguments no longer are debates but either shouting matches or who can insult with the most wit. Whether it be religion, politics or even one’s outlook on life these are individual quests down one’s personal path of their chosing, yet today we see idealologies, which for the most part are masqueraded opinions dressed in superlatives, becoming mandates.  We can no more make people into our own image than try to split an atom with our own thought. It is time better spent either creating or doing or even being. The idea of tolerance seems to have died with the phrase "live and let live."   No one side is immune from this type of thinking, both sides are guilty of "we are right and you are wrong." 

Which brings me to another one of Bill Wilson’s famous quotes, "acceptance is the answer to all my problems".  This isn’t a blanket inditement that one should accept things like injustice, cruelty or malice, but just accept the differences among us. What works for me has been proven to me,  whether it is evident to someone else is really nothing for me to become concerned with, nor is it my job to promote it. It is simply my lot in life to be me and let those things that have worked for me become evident in my daily life and also knowing that I too am not perfect, that I am still growing in whatever halting way I can.

In doing so, I have to cast aside my own person judgements and avoid the beast of self righteousness, you know that sticky perverse feeling of being right and therefore superior. Such thinking is usually a trap. You can still be true to your belief and not feel the need to blungeon with it. After all didn’t someone say " a kind word turns away wrath"?

The world is full of intelligent people and intelligent fools, I am reminded of the Book of Proverbs and how the author described Wisdom as a lady calling out in the street for anyone that would listen to her. Hopefully I won’t become so self absorbed that I no longer try to listen. If I do, please remind me. I will need it. If  I ever consider myself wise, remind me that I am walking in a fog of self delusion, I will need the humility.

It isn't often that I run across something on the internet that makes me pause and reflect. For the most part I am a tad cynical about human nature as well as being a tad jaded about the net as a whole. When I do find something that wakes up some part of me that has been asleep for sometime, I feel the tingling sensation of some numb part of me awaken and emotions that are usually sometimes dulled, surface. The following is a link to the  last blog from a soldier in Iraq that died during a mission is one of those small slices of the information freeway that accomplished that.

The first thing that became apparent to me was how articulate he was in conveying his last statement. Obviously this blog was written on in case of the event of his death and posted by a comrade on his blog posthumously. He was an apparent creative thinker and used J. Michael Straczynski quotes from Babylon 5 to punctuate his thoughts. In his writing I felt the faceless mask of the soldier lift and I was able to peer into the eyes of a very sharp man who was not only principled, but a philosopher.

The last part of the blog is the hardest to read. He dedicated it to his wife with such affection and also sorrow over her loss and even guilt at having to leave her with a journey of solitude. It is something I believe everyone should read no matter what their political stance is over the war. It is also something out of respect one should not use to further an agenda pro or con over the war. He states this clearly in the letter. I am posting the link in this blog to his blog, but I ask if you respond you keep the rhetoric of war, either pro or con out of it to honor his last request. If anyone posts such rhetoric on my blog concerning the letter, it will be deleted.

Here is the link:

http://www.andrewolmsted.com/

The past never really leaves you.  It may recede for a time, like the tide, but then, like the tide, it can come rushing back in bringing all sorts of recollections in its wake.  It happens mostly with me in the Fall.  I love Autumn, when Nature casts off everything in fiery colors just before she sleeps, but it can also be a solemn time, a time when the tide drifts in carrying with it a fog of images, voices and memories as well as regrets. I guess I think of her at this time because for me, she was Fall.

The memory of her is like a pale iridescent flame that is both cold and hot, her slender fingers weaving intricate patterns that have created a tapestry that now hangs in the deep long corridors of the  halls of my recollections.  Like a ghost she still ambles down those corridors carrying a candle that cast an amber glow, throwing long shadow that dance and play against the stone walls forming an intricate ballet of pain and loss.

Sad shadows they are, in pantomime they render a story of defiled innocence, of cruel hands and guardian eyes corrupted by perversity. It is a tale punctuated by razor blades and hypodermic needles and written on the pages of torn skin, a story of neglect and survival, of a sibling's cancerous death and childhood pacts that were broken.

The story is far from over I found out a few months ago. She continues to exist outside my memories, after all she is real and though her chapter here ended long ago, she has written new ones. I just hope that this previous chapter and my phone call were integral to the plot. I can only guess the Author had some hidden plot device or sub plot that He had to continue.

I will probably never know until I reach the last chapter.

Get well soon Lisha, you have too much to offer to fade into the ether.

Ever get tired of being alone?

Well I don't. I am starting to think maybe there is something psychologically wrong with me, well not really, I am just used to my solitude. I think that is the way it is with most creative types. I used to dread it when I was younger. Social anxiety would attack me and I would have to find a crowd and play, but that isn't the way it has been with me for over 15 years or so. I kind of consider it a blessing being hermetic and wished I had discovered this secret earlier in my youth. I would have allot more artwork that is for certain.

Don't get me wrong, I get the occasional need to crawl into bed with a warm body or spend a quiet evening in reflection and conversation, but it isn't an overwhelming anxiety that I will only feel complete unless I have some feminine kindred spirit lingering about. I guess middle age does that, puts things in perspective that is. I would rather stay at home and work on a drawing or play with my new router or even play fetch with my cat than romp about doing the club life trying to prove myself by doing the proverbial scoring that most males feel that they have to prove as an initiation to maleness. Naw, I would rather stay home and work on something. You see, to me, that is living, creating. But I do confess to a sense of comradeship to Neal Young when I play "A Man Needs a Maid" and experience a slight twinge when at the end the haunting lyric drifts out, "When will I see you again?"  But for the most part I am pretty content. I am not saying that I have shut my life off from external contact, which I still need, but that anxiousness doesn't haunt me as much as it used to.

Allot of people think that I must be into some sort of Death cult or have some sinister Death fetish going on due to the subject matter of my artwork. In fact some seem surprised and even down right shocked when they find out that my spiritual inclination is Christian. Note I said spiritual, not religious. Some people don't even grasp the difference between the two and I no longer try to explain it. I also don't try to explain the difference between "Gothic" and "Goth", I just let them alone with their preconceived ideas. I am not out to enlighten mankind, I am just here to draw pictures.

Back to the Death cult thing, I simply believe you cannot live unless you accept your own mortality. Once one does, one is really free to do or expend his energy towards what goal he or she really wants to achieve. You cannot really celebrate life until you celebrate your own mortality. In a sense my drawings are celebrations of Death in a sense and as a paradox, my celebration of Creativity.

Celebration might be different things to different people, some it means life should be a party and you should go for all the gusto. Kudos to those people. If that is how you see a full life I am not going to criticize, in fact I say go for it. It just isn't mine. Which makes me a tad different I guess. I get more enjoyment out of a composition falling into place than I ever would at a beach party. I have also known people who get the fullness out of life by adventure. I knew one, who was a true adventurer, the real deal. Not some boastful party fly, but a solid rock rat of a man, rock rat being slang for mountain climber,  who had the most benign spirit even though he studied ways of rendering a human being powerless he never used his knowledge of martial arts to hurt anyone or intimidate.

That was Newt Wheatley. Even in High School Newt transcended boundaries and stereotypes and was friends with everyone. I mean that. Newt had no enemies. He was friends with the jocks, the agg students and the freaks, what we call ourselves that partook of the chemical seduction of Mary Jane. He was unpretentious and always learning. He also was one of the most focused people I have ever met so when he told us he was going into mountain climbing, we were not surprised. When he left for Colorado after High School we also weren't surprised. When he became an ice climbing instructor we still weren't surprised. Nor were we surprised when he died in the avalanche some ten years or so ago. In fact to a man we all said that Newt would not have wanted to go out any other way. We knew that he lived the way he wanted and did what he wanted, no one could ask for a more fuller life. We didn't mourn his death, we mourned the loss of his presence.

Newt's death taught me something, in his short span he accomplished so much and lived so intensely that I can only emulate it in my own way, by creating. That way when the Gentleman Grim cast his shadow at my door I will know that it is time to go and I have done what I set out to do. Not that I made any grand statement, nor set any critics on edge or even became the next Edward Gorey, but I simply did drawings and enjoyed doing them. To me, that would be a celebration of life.

Now either I have waxed completely profound or heh, I have totally deluded myself

You know once you think you have plowed through the data stream and feel that you have digested most of what has been offered, you run across a site that you never heard of before and actually adds to the internet's pleasure once again.

http://cabinet-of-wonders.blogspot.com/

Here is an excerpt from the author of the website:

Creativity comes from trust. Trust your instincts. And never hope more than you work.~

Rita Mae Brown

As an artist, and I know many other aspiring artist feel, that we get so wrapped up in self promotion hoping our art will be noticed, accepted and even purchased, that we forget about what we are or get so anxious that we fall into a depression feeling that the fruit of our labors will go into oblivion without so much as a footnote.

Instead of plodding along the creative path we get lost in the brambles of self doubt and mistrust. In this morass we can lose our creative vision as well as our own passion to take whatever inspiration that flashes into our cinematic subconscious. No matter how mundance we might perceive the public's reaction to our work not yet created, is really second guessing ourselves and our talent. Like Blake said, "I will not reason nor compare, my business is to create."

An artist's hope lies in being either recognised for his work or his work finding favor in kindred spirits. But it is about the work itself, the creative process, trusting your creative instincts to keep on creating . Hope for later, creating is for now.

Lately I have been doing allot to get my work out to the public. It might even have irritated a few of my, myspace friends. It seems to have even irritated Myspace itself, I noticed that they have disabled cafepress site links in profiles and postings. I thought it amusing that they do their best to disable cafepress but porn site links are still functional. A victory for porn to say the least.

But all of that aside, cafepress is the best some of us part time aspiring artists that still have to hold a "day job" to be able to advertise our work.  At first I was mad, now I am just amused.  But aside of all this, it brings me back to what Rita Mae Brown said, just create and never hope more than you work.

A long time ago at some obscure bookstore in Oklahoma City I picked up an odd little book called "Meditations" by Thomas Moore, not to be confused with the Irish poet.  I read pieces of it at the time, Moore is a Jungian psychologist whom in his early life studied for the priesthood and entered the monastic life, then shelved it and forgot about it.  It was an early time in my sobriety and I was constantly buying "spiritual" books, in fact it was almost an obsession with me. Somehow I thought that buying many books I would find some secret key that would be able to transcend the emotional roller coaster of recovery I didn't know at the time that I just wasn't ready to receive any special knowledge, I just had to let my emotional growth run its course.

Recovering addicts and alcoholics will understand what I mean when I speak of the emotional roller coaster.  The addict or alcoholic has numbed himself for years against his emotions.  I remember many nights succumbing to the embrace of alcoholic stupor so I could divorce myself from my feelings while listening to Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb."

Recently I have been going through an artistic self renaissance and turning out more art than I have for years, until lately when I hit a wall creatively.  I began to realize that much of it was due to personal feelings I had, clinging feelings of doubt, frustration of not being recognized as I thought I need to be and even laziness.  The last is the worst of all for an artist, trust me.

During my meager attempts at "Spring Cleaning" I rediscovered Moore's book.  I opened it and read a few passages and suddenly felt myself slip back into a nurturing sensation. It has been a long time since I sit down and tried to feed my soul or even listen to that small voice inside of me. For too long I have lately let outside forces dictate my feelings and reactions.  I was falling back into old behavior, what alcoholics describe as a "dry drunk".  I was becoming much more irritable and less productive.  

I decided to find out more about Moore and found his website. There was a quote from him that gave me the validation I felt that I needed. 

According to Moore,

"Suffering and times of deep confusion are not necessarily bad. They may lead us toward new insights and stronger psyches.
"We live in a world where we really feel the best way is to be normal and purring along without any trouble and then when bad things happen, these things are taken as aberrations, anomalies, failure. (But) they are a part of life and we do gain something from having to deal with them. So many people say they are better for them. ... They find out what's important."
They also discover that they can be themselves, rather than conforming to society's idea of idea of normal.
"They become more individual, even more eccentric. When they are in a creative state, in work that keeps them energized, they don't look normal, and they're considered unusual by people around them.

"But if people can't be creative, that's one way they become depressed."

That quote opened a door for me to start trusting my creative process.  Also gave validation to something I already knew…it is ok to be eccentric. 

Most everyone that knows me knows I have a strange affection for cats. It is something about the feline mystic that enamors me. Maybe I have some ancient Egyptian DNA. The Egyptian's actually held cats in high regard, almost on a deity status. In reality the truth is the Pharaoh was smart enough to know that cats kept the rat population down and protected the grain. So in giving them almost royal status, if you harmed a cat you could be executed, put cats in a very masterful situation. Perhaps one they haven't forgotten and continue to remind us of in their feline ways. Cat owners will understand.

Now I have two cats, Poe and Fritzy. Poe is a black bundle of fur with green eyes. I have accepted the fact that I am his favorite toy. I am his servant as well. He has taught me to play fetch, to open doors for him, that my lap is not my own but his and that when he drops a dry piece of feackle matter from his litter box in my shoe that it is time for me to do my duties and clean it out.

Fritzy on the other hand is a Calico. She is devious, cunning and filled with retribution. She has learned to say "neeooooowwwww!!!" when it is time to feed her. If I am on the PC she will glare at me repeating the command until I get up and feed her. She can glare too. Fritzy has been with me for years. She has outlived two cats. Katt and Morticha. She knows this too. It gives her a feeling of ownership I suppose. But she also knows that I pour my attention out on Poe...which leaves her usually glaring at me from the corner.

Fritzy had come down with a cold. She has had bouts with colds before and would be alright a couple of days later. She is over 13 years of age and this time, it seriously kicked her feline tail. She began to get so congested that the mucus began to crust about her nostrils and Friday night she quit eating and drinking. I tried to get water into her and both Vets were closed on the weekend plus, due to huge energy bills as well as catching up on other financial obligations, I knew I didn't have enough cash on hand to take her to the vet emergency room in Oklahoma City. So I rode out the weekend, giving her water as I could. By Sunday, I seriously doubted she would make it. I didn't like seeing her suffer; even though she never got the attention she needed from me the least I could do was give her a decent death. I went to work Sunday Night, graveyard shift, fearing I would find her dead in the morning when I came home. If she was still alive, I was going to take her to the vet and try to make arrangements.

Monday morning, Fritzy had hid herself under the bed. She of course was dehydrated and breathing really hard. I wrapped her in a blanket and put her into a carrier and got her the vet closest to me. Why I chose this vet was due to his closeness to my home. I took Morticha to him when she died of diabetes so I knew he had a record on me and that I had paid my bill when I picked up her body. I really didn't care much for him, he rather was rough with Morticha when I took her in ignoring her cries of pain. But he said he would do what he could and then hours later I got a call from him informing me she had died.

Signs of a Bad Vet:

First sign was that there was only one other car waiting in the lot for him to open. Second sign, no animals in the lobby.

I walk in, the receptionist is busy talking to the other person that had been waiting. Apparently about a dog appointment. He is dressed like he has a lot of money, wearing I believe a gold watch and he obviously reads GQ. I am standing with a sick cat in a cardboard carrier, wearing black, a dew rag and no socks. I probably needed a shave to. I can tell she has taken all the above about my appearance into account.

"May I help, you?" she asked, almost like it was an inconvenience.

I tell her I have a sick cat, that she might need to be put asleep but I couldn't pay until Wed. when I get paid. She acts at first like she doesn't understand what I want her to do; whether I want her put to sleep or have the cat looked at. At this point I don't care either way, as long as they let me pay on Wed. I basically state this. I just don't want to see her continue to suffer. I also inform her that she should have me on file due to having treated Morticha. She tells me just a moment, goes back to talk to the vet, and then returns and says "I cannot help you I am sorry."

I reply that I am too, that I will take her to the other vet in town I know she will help me.

I notice as I leave not only the lack of animals in the lobby, but also the dimness of the building and a sense of impartial aloofness.

The Sign of a Good Vet:

I pull into the other Vet here in Yukon, Oklahoma. First sign of a good vet, the lot is full. I bring Fritzy in, she is really trying to figure out what is going on by now, and the lobby is full. Labs and cats. I think I also heard a parrot in the background. There isn't the same silence that lingered in the other lobby of the previous vet, but actually laughter and women vets talking to dogs that are as huge as them as they try to get them on the weight scale. There are a couple of cats walking in the back hall ways peaking in examination rooms as if they were on inspection. A Doberman, a handsome one too is being led by a late middle aged, sharp eyed looking woman. She is leading the dog who also has a muzzle and the woman is talking to the Doberman calling by name as if she has always known it. The Doberman, and I really don't care for the breed, is wagging its tail with ears perked in her direction. I could tell this woman knew how to handle animals.

Second Sign of a Good Vet:

There is a line too. I dread that. Fritzy needs looking at now. Then an older woman with the softest eyes looks at me from behind the partial door that separates the lobby from the examining rooms.

"Can I help you?"

I walk up to her and with no hesitation she takes the cardboard carrier out of my hands. She rushes me and Fritzy into the examination room. I explain the situation as another younger girl comes in and takes her temp which isn't registering.

I say "Before you start, I have to warn you I cannot pay until Wed."

She tells me not to worry about it and preps Fritzy for an IV.

3rd Sign of a Good Vet:

I am involved. She has me hold onto Fritzy as she preps her for an IV and get a warmer under her. She is talking to Fritzy as well as me, the women that work there are in and out of the room, either leading another Lab to the weight scale, which is quite comical, the woman is laughing as she is scolding the Lab for resisting and the Lab just wags its tail at her. Soon another cat walks in to the room making sure everyone is doing their job. He is spotted with a moustache face. I think he might be a General.

I talk to her a bit about fees and she says that you really should dwell on that. Another lady, the head vet, a kinder older lady looks at Fritzy making sure everything is going as it should and I tell her that she is over 13 years of age and she smiles and says "That is only middle age in cat years" and smiles at Fritzy. I get the feeling this is the bonding between two older ladies, some secret female/feline society deal.

Soon we have Fritzy on a warmer and an IV and in a good size cage. The younger Vet says I can stay with her for awhile if I like. So I sit there telling Fritzy that I know I am a terrible cat servant for letting this go on so long before taking her to the Vet. She is a very forgiving animal. I stay with her for about 40 mins, talking to her, petting her. I really don't think she is going to make it but at least she is in good hands and if she does pass on, I know she is surrounded by people that will treat her like a queen.

The general comes in nods at me, looks very intently at Fritzy, meows, bows his head and leaves.

I update my information at the desk and tell them I will stop by in the morning to see how she is. I know that she is in good care. I feel like if she does die, that she will be peaceful and not in pain like she was.


As I leave, I think I heard a parrot squawk in the background.