Meet the new plans... Same as the old plans...

I spend so much time thinking that I need to figure out how to recognize my cue when it comes.  The cue that will be my signal that my life is about to begin.  At 43 I have these predominant moments where I still feel like I am waiting for my life to start.  I have three kids, one an adult, one in college, and the youngest in high school.  My life has already started.  I’ve been living it.  But the old thought habits remain.  They still tell me that I need to be ready for that cue.  It might come any day.  But if it is a cue that I think I need, then I believe those thought habits have become ghosts of their former selves.  Their former selves are dead; the ghosts are all that remain and the ghosts are lying to me.

I spend a ridiculously inordinate amount of time sitting around and daydreaming.  The ‘and’ is important because sitting around is a separate act from daydreaming.  I sit around without daydreaming.  I daydream without sitting around.  I am a multi-faceted person.  But really, I think way too much about the “what if” factors of the ideal me that I see in my head.  The possibilities that were there for me all those years ago that the ghosts have convinced me are still there.

I am too old to believe that I can realistically start out as an actor now and play a lead on Broadway.  I don’t have the résumé.  But I can start now just the same.  I have talent, for whatever that’s worth.  I enjoy the work, and it is work.  I love creating a believable person.  I love releasing my creativity that way.

I look forward to trying to find a place in the creative community where I can be that person.  I want to try to find my own true self, and to let that self out.  I want to be in a comfortable environment where I can release that creativity.  But more than the simplistic desire of finding that place, or that group, or that environment I want to find success doing those things and being that person.  I could find some remote communal society to fulfill my inane wishes if all I want is to be able to narcissistically “let it all go man” and never meet resistance, whether through criticism or rejection.  As much as simply performing, I want to live the life.  I want to find growth through struggle.  I want to feel and appreciate growth, success, failure, ecstasy, and Zen in a group.  To set goals and achieve them.  To be a part of the whole and something bigger than I am as an individual.

It has been said that with age comes wisdom.  There is truth there.  But age also comes with trepidation and anxiety and most of all a lack of self-confidence that you’ve really got what it takes.  But I see myself countering age with age.  What I mean by that is this:  When an actor goes into an audition, if he can not find his confidence then he is finished before he has begun.  If he trembles, if he stumbles, if he presents anything that betrays his preparation or his abilities them he will not accomplish his goal.  But if he knows who he is, if he is aware of both his strengths and his shortcomings, if he throws it all out there in performing his audition then he has nothing to regret.  He has no reason for shame.  If he is not cast then it is for some reason out of his control. And there is what I mean by countering age with age.  If you age well enough, if you mature and grow as a person, then you bring other skills into the picture.  You know yourself.  You know, for example, that having been a father you might be able to be a more believable father in performance.  Having been a supervisor at a “regular” job, you know how to lead people or to manage a group.  Having been to job interviews you know that confidence is key.  Eye contact, engaging conversation, listening before responding; these are all not only relevant to acting but required if you want to do it well.  And auditions are just another form of job interview.  I’m sure I can handle that.  Well, if I can relax.  

Ha.

Songs in the key of me

   Music is a big deal to me.  I have to have it somewhere nearby nearly all the time.  I am one of "those people" who always seem to have a song in their head.  At almost any given moment you could ask me which song and I would have an answer for you.  If fact, one of the ways that I know that I am getting sick or especially developing a fever is when I have the same small piece of a song I hate running on constant repeat in my head.  When it happens I know it's tine to go lie down and sleep for a long time.

   There are artists' whose music is in fairly regular rotation for me, and some of that music goes back decades and is not really the stuff you might hear on the radio playing the "best of the 80s and 90s!"  For example:  My favorite band is The Police, but I prefer all of the "filler" songs from their albums.  I really don't like to listen to their Pop hits.  "Roxanne" and "Every Breath You Take" are not favorites at all.  But I love their instrumental stuff, especially "Masoko Tanga" with all of its nonsense or "The Other Way of Stopping".

  But for the last couple of days my mind has entertained "See My Ships" by the Violent Femmes.

"See my ships 

They are sailing 

In and out of the harbor 

Will they go together 

Or must they stay apart "

and then later in the song...

"Mercy mercy me 

Marvin Gaye he was shot 

By his father 

O my Father 

Have mercy on me "

   Now at first you might think that this would mean that I am in some sort of confusion, but not really.  The ships, for me, are symbolic of my thoughts, or maybe the various pieces of my life.  As in "Will I ever get my act together?" or "Is consistency even an option or possibility for me?"  These are all fair and accurate.

   But the interesting thing about the mention of Marvin Gaye...

   When I was about three years old my dad was forced into making a tough decision.  
   
   We lived in a trailer park at the time.  The landlord had come to my dad and told him that my brother (thirteen years older than me) had been caught either in possession of or selling marijuana from our house.  He evicted us.  In 1975, in a small town in the South, this was a big deal and very unexpected.  Moving a mobile home is neither easy nor inexpensive, and well, would you expect people living in a trailer park to really have the money on hand (or even access to it) to pay for something like that?

   So my dad performed something of a miracle in retrospect, and it was the right thing to do.  But even though I have neither spoken to nor heard from my brother in years I bet he still hasn't forgiven Dad for doing it.

   My dad made a deal with the landlord that the rest of the family could stay if he kicked out my brother.  So he did.  He was banished from anywhere on the property.  Over the next seven years (until my dad died) I rarely saw my oldest brother, except maybe on holidays.  To be honest I really have no idea how he got through the rest of high school.

   But the song lyrics...

   I thought about those lines last night as I was falling asleep, and I remembered hearing the news about Marvin Gaye when I was a kid.  I had no idea who the man was, what he did, or what he was famous for having done.  I gradually learned about him in the days following the news, but the thing that has stuck with me since I first heard the song back in 1990 was how that could have been the same story for my dad and brother.  Maybe they were so much alike that it made it impossible for them to get along.  They certainly knew how to push each other's buttons.  

   I don't know if my dad saw something in my oldest brother that no one else did,or if he simply disliked him for some other reason.  I don't know if my brother was truly a bad kid or felt slighted or was just rebellious by nature. 

   But whenever I think of Marvin Gaye I think of the dynamic of that father-son relationship and compare it to my own family's.  And I wonder if my dad had not died when he did would something similar be part of our shared history?

Hello? Testing... Is this thing on?

     So I have this blog.  And theoretically I am a writer.  So why do I not write for my blog?  I have no idea.

     I call myself a painter.  I don't paint.  I have canvases that will need to have the dust washed off before they can be used.

     I have had an idea for a novel for years, but I can't seem to do anything with it except come up with what I call "fringe" ideas, meaning that I have character names, some settings, and other various odds and ends, but when it comes to actually writing text, well, no.

     I am and have always been a procrastinator.  But when I was a teenager I knew I wanted to write.  I read what Steinbeck did with words and stories and I wanted to do that.  In my 20s I read Norman Maclean's "A River Runs Through It" and knew that I would never write anything so lyrically beautiful, but I still wanted to belong to the club, so to speak.  I still want to.  I guess I have finally realized exactly what the dues are that need paying.

     Don't get me wrong, my ego tells me (and various other people) that I am a writer already.  I can discuss mechanics.  I can discuss plot development, setting, you name it.  I can sound convincing that I know what I'm talking about.  But I have never finished a story.  I think my "mathematical" or "analytical" mind wants to get bogged down and distracted by details and minutiae.  I guess it's an ADD thing.  Very similar to my lack of success in academics.  (Or painting for that matter.)

     For some reason I feel like I need to create some sort of plan or framework or skeleton even for my novel.  I have to decide the timeline of events, the setting...  all of the crazy little stuff that I'll probably end up changing during the rewrite but that seems so necessary to decide on before I start.

     Writing teachers and others have told me to "just sit down and write", but for some reason that approach seems wrong to me.  I get the purpose of it and it makes a lot of sense, but it seems to be a great effort to make my fingers touch the keys.

     And yes, I get the odd coincidence that I am writing right now as I type this.  But...

     And now I realize that I am still just making the same old excuses.

     Years ago, shortly after we were married, my wife told me what is probably the most profound truth that any person has ever said to me.  She told me that I have never suffered from a fear of failure.  I suffer from a fear of success.  She explained that failure didn't scare me because I had been through failure but had continued on.  She clarified by telling me that I was afraid of success in that if I were to succeed at something that I really cared about, then it would be expected of me, and I didn't want that responsibility.

     She was right, of course.  And I knew she was when she said it.  I just wish that I hadn't wasted the last 19 years ignoring it.

     Now, I have no idea whether I'll be successful with writing (or painting-- or woodworking, etc.), but I have made another realization recently that, like so many other things in my life, I have known intellectually but have not accepted to be able to know emotionally.  That simple concept is that I do not need to be financially successful at something for it to have value in its pursuit.  Catharsis or simply enjoyment of the process are reason enough to pursue something.

     Now...  It's time for me to get to work.

Existential Angst is a Bitch and I Hate Her.

     I suffer from depression.  Anyone who knows me knows this.  I think it's about as obvious as the color of my eyes or the shape of my nose.
     My depression has seemingly always been with me.  It has been a part of me at least since I was 10 years old; the time since my dad died.  Mourning is a common source or starting point for depression, and I am no different.  I say that as an adult now, but as a child and adolescent I did not think I was common at all.
     I used to believe that I was special and that I was destined for great things.  I know now that this feeling was only a self delusion and was, if not encouraged, certainly not discouraged by my mom.  Of course, she had self delusions of her own.
     I was a much better than average student, achieving academic success without much effort at all.  I had a near photographic memory, an ability to grasp even complex things quickly, and to then use the knowledge for problem solving.
     What I did not have, and still do not, was perseverance.  After high school, or even during it, I would quit or give up if something required effort.  Homework?  My hubris told me that it was unnecessary.  I could do Algebra in my head, so why did I have to do homework or even "show my work" on tests?  The answer was correct, the teacher knew I didn't cheat, so why?  I understood French as easily as I did English.  "Madame" Knowles even told me at one point that I was one of the most gifted students she had ever had.  My ego took that and ran with it, to the point that I rarely if ever did my homework in her class again.
     I don't say these things to brag, although I am still a bit proud of them.  I tell you these things to set a foundation for the rest of this post.
     After not graduating from high school (I failed the 9th grade, then barely passed it, and again with the 10th, hence my four years were spent) I took the GED pre-exam and only missed a handful of questions.  Two days later I sat for the real thing and passed it on the first try, having essentially walked in cold off the street.  I enrolled in the community college where I took the GED exam and learned a lot, but I have no college credit to show for it.  Homework (and attendance) issues again.
     A few years later I wrote my way into a well respected liberal arts college, with the same result.  Two years later I petitioned my way back in, with yet again the same result.
     Obviously academia is not where I excel.
     So from the age of 20 or so I have wandered from job to job, never finding a career, and never really making much of myself.  I'm like the anti-Gatsby.  I have been asked time and again why I have ended up the way I have.  "With so much ability, and so much promise, how did you end up like this?"  I ask myself the same question frequently.  I have no answer.
     I have a wife and three kids who all love me, and I am grateful for them.  I do not feel like much of a provider though, and history bears this out.  I have tried to teach my kids the things that I was never taught as a child, about honesty, and fairness, and compassion.  About being comfortable in your own skin, and in being different.  And in some ways I have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.  And yet in others I see that I have failed them as a father because I see what I have not done for them.  There is no solace in the fact that I could not have taught them the things that I myself do not know.
     They are brilliant, every single one of them, and yet I see that I have given them all depression as well.  That I see is my greatest failing, and yet is also one of the things that I could not have prevented, because I did not know I was doing it.

     So in seeking some understanding for just how "existential angst" is defined, I turned to that most unreliable of resources Wikipedia.  In reading what was posted there, I learned that part of the definition lies in a "fear of freedom and responsibility", and so, in that phraseology, lies a day to day source for my depression.

From the article:

""Existential angst", sometimes called dread, anxiety, or anguish, is a term that is common to many existentialist thinkers. It is generally held to be a negative feeling arising from the experience of human freedom and responsibility. The archetypal example is the experience one has when standing on a cliff where one not only fears falling off it, but also dreads the possibility of throwing oneself off. In this experience that "nothing is holding me back", one senses the lack of anything that predetermines one to either throw oneself off or to stand still, and one experiences one's own freedom.^[20]

It can also be seen in relation to the previous point how angst is before nothing, and this is what sets it apart from fear that has an object. While in the case of fear, one can take definitive measures to remove the object of fear, in the case of angst, no such "constructive" measures are possible. The use of the word "nothing" in this context relates both to the inherent insecurity about the consequences of one's actions, and to the fact that, in experiencing one's freedom as angst, one also realizes that one will be fully responsible for these consequences; there is no thing in a person (his or her genes, for instance) that acts in her or his stead, and that he or she can "blame" if something goes wrong. Therefore, not every choice is perceived as having dreadful possible consequences (and, it can be claimed, human lives would be unbearable if every choice facilitated dread). However, this doesn't change the fact that freedom remains a condition of every action. Angst is often described as a drama an adolescent troubles with during their developmental years. This adolescent trouble or self-loathing is often tied to sexual attractiveness, both males and females often feel this angst and worry that they will not find both a partner or romantic conditional love for who they are. As adolescents face the prospect of adulthood where they must take control of their life the dread of both facing life alone and the fear of freedom and responsibility often lead to depression."

     I suppose, in short, that I have reached a point in my life (mid life crisis?  I don't know.)  where I feel that since I have some years left I should decide what the hell to do with myself.  Living paycheck to paycheck sucks, and yet what else is there?  I have no formal education, no qualifications for anything that I can list on a resume, so what do I do?  It feels like I am standing on a cliff with two planes of possibility.  If I maintain my course as it is, then I fall off into depression and banality of existence and what I see as a wasted life.  If I jump, then perhaps through that freedom and that choice I find some happiness, or at least some lesser form of depression.  Jumping requires acquiescence too, and will require relying on my creativity and whatever lies within myself that can provide not only material sustenance, but also the stuff that I believe life is truly made of.  I have a faith that if the intangibles inside of me can provide, then they can also lead me to those other intangibles that I see in the people I admire and want to be more like.  It is not a case of "I want what they have", so much as "I want to learn what they have learned, to understand some of the deeper mysteries and meanings of existence", so that while there is time left I might yet give my children things that I do not have the tools to build, pieces of character and of strength that I do not have, and also the path to knowledge of finding these things for themselves.  To know that life is always a journey, even when we are standing still.  And to never be afraid to take that next step.

I'm back! (ish.)

So yeah, no posts for over a year.  I'm a slacker, and I know it, and now you do too.  I have gone through some transformation since my last post.  I did not go blind, nor am I likely to anytime soon.  I just happened to see an ophthalmologist who, it turns out, was overly enthusiastic in his misdiagnosis and unintentionally scaring the bejeebus out of me.  After seeing a different one, I learned that there was nothing to worry about, except that I need to control my diabetes more and better.  But that kinda goes without saying, doesn't it?  There's always room for improvement.  I am reminded of the old days of Sportscenter, when one of the anchors (I think it was Keith Olberman) would say about some athlete "He's listed as day-to-day, but then again, aren't we all?"

The Vision Thing

    I love art.  Especially Twentieth Century Abstract Expressionism.  My personal Trinity are Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Willem de Kooning.  Their use of brushstrokes and Color Field Theory have made an impression (ha!- pun!) on me since I first started studying art.
    I came to Fine Art later than most, I guess.  I was never really exposed to visual art until about the age of 22 or 23.  That exposure only came because I took a Drawing class at my community college just to hang out with a friend of mine.  Being around art and the creation of it was for me like Alice stepping through the looking glass, or the Pevensie kids stepping through the wardrobe.  I was exposed to an entirely new world; a new world with different ways of seeing, understanding, discussing, explaining, and appreciating both the mundane and the profound.  It is no exaggeration for me to say that it was like tasting colors or smelling sounds.  Art for me was like nothing that I had ever experienced before, and I wanted to consume as much as I could, to devour the subject, until I realized that there was just so much, and that like any other buffet, I should pick and choose carefully.
    I enjoy photography as well, although I am not as well versed in photographers as I am painters.  I get a certain feeling of accomplishment or fulfillment with the "instant gratification" aspect of photography.  The composition of the shot, the dead-on accuracy of color in the representational image, and the crispness of the image make photography a nice balance for me to the abstract tendencies I have with brushes, paint, and canvas.
    I love to paint, even with the frustrations it brings, and I love to take photos, even with the limitations of expression inherent in them.  I love to read about art.  I love to go to galleries and museums.  I love to talk about art with others, to get into discussions about the relevance or importance of this artist or that artist's spouse or partner, or to discuss their influences, both received and given.
    I love to read.  About almost anything, as long as it will hold my interest.  Books were my first exposure to other worlds, other times, and experiences outside my own.  My favorite book is A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean.  I've never been to Montana.  I've never been fly fishing or had a minister for a father, but his use of language, his very poetry in paragraph form make me feel all of those things.  His easy explication of the time, place and events that must have been both incredibly complex and painful to put into words are to me the epitome of the writer's craft.  He took the iron and clay of his experience, the gold and soot of his life and made them not only relevant to the rest of use but interesting and entertaining as well.  He had a simple grace with language, so much so that his Young Men and Fire, even with its shortcomings of being an essentially unedited rough draft make it a fascinating nonfiction read.
    I was an English major in college, only because I saw words as easier to understand than images, and the degree more versatile.  I never finished though, because the bloom fell off of the rose quickly.  A sure way to kill a subject that you really enjoy is to major in it in college.  I didn't so much as "suck the very marrow" out of it as suck the lifeblood out of the pleasure in it.  It's my own personal problem, I know.  I'm dealing with it.
    All of this would be pretty boring to talk about, or blog about (or whatever phraseology I should use), except that I received some rather disheartening news this past Tuesday.  I went to see my ophthalmologist, since I am diabetic and hadn't seen him in well, several years.  I guess I should be glad I did, since he gave me some upsetting news.
    I am in the very early stages of developing diabetic retinopathy  in my left eye.  I have not had any blood vessels burst yet, but he said that they are hemorrhaging.  There is no treatment for this, and it usually gets worse.  If the blood vessels burst, then the blood that is released will gradually cloud up and darken the vitreous humor so that no light can pass through and the eye just doesn't see any more.  In its way this doesn't matter too much because due to a genetic abnormality I'm functionally blind in my left eye anyway.  I have been since about the age of three.  The abnormality is astigmatism that, when left untreated like mine was, leads to ambliopia that eventually just causes the eye to stop functioning.
    Obviously the treatment for this is better control of my blood sugar.  With great control comes retention of vision.  Great control comes from better diet and more exercise.  Changes in diet and exercise will also help with the other news that he gave me.
    I am also in the very early stages of macular degeneration in my right eye.  There are treatments for this, usually of the laser eye surgery variety.  Having more leafy green veggies in my diet will help to offset it, but there is no reversal.
    Macular degeneration occurs primarily in Caucasians in their mid 60s.  From the research I have done online, less than 2% of those diagnosed are younger than 62.  I will not turn 40 until February.  Yes, I guess I am whiny.  I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes in my early 20s.  I will have had carpal tunnel releases done on both wrists by the end of October.  Medicaid is my health insurance.
    I have no car, so I have no job.  I now have so many pre-existing conditions that I am unlikely to ever be covered by an employer's health insurance provider anyway, and even if they are willing, will I be able to afford the premiums or even the co-pays?  Hell, for that matter, how much longer can I expect to work?
    I used to be a bit of an optimist.  Now I seem so very doom-and-gloomy.
    I will gradually lose the center of my field of vision.  I can tell you from how the vision in my left eye is that this will mean no more reading, no more painting, and at the very least no way of knowing for sure if the photo turns out the way I want it to turn out.  Peripheral vision only.  I'll be able to walk through a room unaided.  Yay.
    The diabetic retinopathy, if not fended off, will eventually develop in my right eye as well, so the macular degeneration will only be compounded.
    Let me say again, they are both in their very early stages, so there is not only time, but hope.

    I am still scared as hell.

First of Many

     Have you ever had a "feeling" for a place or thing?  I mean that intangible vibe or sensation that you can't quite describe or put into words, but you know it's there as well as you know your own name.  I think we all have at some point or another in our lives.  Maybe it's the familiarity of your grandmother's living room, or the sense memory of a smell that hits you blindside and yet takes you not just to a specific place or time, but to a specific moment.  Maybe the moment of your first kiss or the death of your first pet or something as simple and benign as a math test in the sixth grade.
     I was coming home the other day from a doctor's appointment or grocery shopping or whatever and a similar feeling hit me, but not quite the same, and I realized that I have felt it before, and have felt it so often that I hardly realize it anymore.
     It was a feeling of history, of the past as present, and being all around me.
     I live in and am from the north-central part of North Carolina.  There is nothing particularly special about the area, except that it's where I'm from so I'm kind of partial to it.  
     There is a bit of historical significance here.  The Battle of Guilford Court House took place here, although I don't think it quite gets the credit it deserves.  (Think of it as a variation on the Alamo, except Americans versus Brits instead of Texans versus Mexicans.)  The very road that I live on was part of the "escape" route used by Corwallis after the battle.
     Going even further back there is the The Battle of Alamance, which, as I was taught in college, was a precursor to the Revolutionary War.  Taxation and representation and all that, don't ya know.  They lost, but they did not forget.
     Growing up we had a school trip to a church cemetery not three miles from my rural elementary school where we were to learn about the people buried there.  I remember that some of the grave markers dated to the late 1700's.  I remember this because that was one of the main points of the lesson.  I also remember my classmates making impressions of the dates with their pencils and paper.  We were in the fourth grade, and for them it seemed no big deal.  To me the very act seemed disrespectful and macabre.
     But the most vivid memory, and the one that has stayed with me the strongest is the memory of walking back, away from the road, down into the woods, and seeing the various fieldstones just lying around in the leaves.  This wasn't common, because in those parts agriculture had always been the primary means of income.  Yes, the county courthouse was next door, but...  These stones would have been removed to make plowing the ground easier.  Even right behind a church.  They were grave markers for slaves.  No name, but a stone to mark the grave.  I remember the sudden gravitas of this knowledge.  It was real.  It was not just something that we read about in books.  I also remember the looks on the faces of my black classmates.  Appalled doesn't even begin to cover it.  The representative from the church even made a point to say how nice and generous it was of the white slave owners to not just let them be buried in that cemetery, but they let them mark the graves too.
     Not far into the woods, a short way from the house I grew up in (In which up I grew?) there is a sunken in place in the literal middle of the woods.  There is an old stone marking a grave, there is the markings for the foundation of a house that by today's standards might be an oversized closet.  If I remember correctly the well is still marked.  Trees have grown up all around it.  There is no road leading to it, which leads me to believe that it must have been abandoned at least a century ago.  I only know of its existence because my childhood friend and I stumbled upon it wandering through the woods one day.  The property is owned by my cousin's husband's family (oddly enough his mom was my Kindergarten teacher's assistant), and they know about this old homestead, but they know nothing about the people who lived there.
     What do these anecdotes mean?  Why am I posting this?  I don't really know, except that they are examples of what I mean when I say intangible feeling.  They are not nostalgia.  Please do not think that.  Some of these thoughts and memories I would gladly let go if I could.  I am haunted by the past.  Not just my own personal past (so many of us are) but the past of all of us, the past that should inform and enlighten, and yet goes unseen by those around me.  Haunted?  Yes, for they do seem as ghosts sometimes.  They never frighten, though.  For me they only sadden.