Higher Education

Summer is actually ending. The days are getting a bit shorter and the desert nights are cooling.

As it ends, I feel a bit of nostalgia for the summer I didn't have this year. Right. I ignored it on purpose---it's on me. I think it was what I needed to do.

We always appreciate things more at goodbye.

Now we're heading into another school year. I always enjoyed the start of school---it was sort of the new year for me. Even now I feel that the new year begins as the air begins to cool. Autumn has always felt more like a beginning than an ending. It's a revival of spirit. Even more so in the desert, when in summer everything (including my brain) gets burned away.

Besides, I like the smell of pencils and crayons.

Our schools are starting the year with much less than they had last year---with less than they need to succeed. A lot of teachers will be digging deep into their resources, using imagination and creativity to make up for materials they won't have. And, as always, many will spend their own money for things they feel their students can't do without.

I'll volunteer some time to art programming and to the library for readings. I did this last year and truly enjoyed it. This year it seems even more important. I encourage any of you who can to do the same. Also to find out what else you can do for schools in your area. It's reasonable to think that many schools will have want lists available.

All of our lives we're students-- we never stop learning. I tend to believe this is largely our purpose as human beings.

We're also teachers, whether we mean to be or not. Little ones are always watching us. Scary, huh?

And other humans, and Poppets.

A love of learning is contagious. Education is essential and is the responsibility of the community, not just the teachers. Much can be accomplished if we all do a little. A bit of time, donations of money or materials can make a difference. It wouldn't be a bad idea to let teachers know that their efforts are appreciated.

Summer is ending. In many places, soon the leaves will begin to turn. Here in SoCal, fire season will begin. Wherever we are, this is as good a time as any for us to resolve to be better students and teachers.

Funny thing about artists. Just one.

Last week I saw, for the first time, the 1049 film Portrait of Jennie. I'd thought to mention it mostly because the winter scenes of 1940's Central Park were so surreal and haunting, really visually stunning. I'd never heard of this movie so watched it without prejudice---Poppet style. It was the visuals that caught me first, but other aspects of the movie have held on---especially the obsession of the artist protagonist, played by Joseph Cotton. He was real to me, and when he spent the night on a snowy park bench hoping for even a glimpse of his subject, that felt real too. I know it- that calling.

This week I saw In a Dream, a documentary about artist Isiah Zagar. A totally different animal from Jennie, but again the artist and his thing.
Indeed.

No, I meant the other thing, the muse-thing. Still, the artist does appear nude here and there, for seemingly no particular reason. But it's about the work and the artist, both of which are truly remarkable.


The event I referred to last entry was a personal experience--Alison was here in the desert for working together. In late afternoon on Tuesday, she got a call that Logan-- who is not quite 2-- had suffered a seizure and was en route to the hospital via ambulance. ( He's fine now!) Kids are alien to this planet and all the viruses and bacteria and toxins it has to offer. So each time something new comes along they must exercise fledgling immune systems. This often manifests as fever with no other symptoms. (Just last week Orion had a fever for about 24 hours---we guessed lots of things but it went away before we could even decide whether it might be new teeth coming in.)
Some kids' fevers trigger weird switches in their brains so that sometimes, at certain temps, symptoms including convulsions and blue lips and even unconsciousness can occur.
Apparently it was this that happened. Getting from the initial phone call to that explanation from the pediatrician at the hospital two hours away was an exercise of another sort entirely, for the rest of us.

Now that we're several days removed and sort of breathing naturally again, I begin to think over the experience as I work. Where does it fit?
It was cloudy all day today and only in the nineties. What a relief! I worked outside and thought about watching my daughter hold it together for two hours that seemed like twenty. It was bravery and it was beautiful. It was a stretch, a test for her---to know that cold fear and to avoid panic. It was a part of the human curriculum and she/we lived it.
Now she is stronger, just a bit. And so am I.

I feel it as I paint, I see the experience integrate itself into this and future works. See how annoying that is? This thing---this obsession with the human curriculum, the human experience.
This glimpse of something that is
bigger inside than out.

It's what my work is made of, this question, this observation.
It's the light I stumble toward.
It's what Harlan Ellison meant when he told me I'm a monomaniac.

It's not so very different from other's things. We all have them, by different names.

It occurs to me that I've stopped wondering why my particular vision is. It matters less and less, why. It just is. It's my thing.

That we share a human curriculum of similar experiences, I believe. That within it, we each have our one thing, our major. Mine seems to be something involving things that are bigger inside than out.
(I tend to believe I'm honing in on it. I've thought this for approximately fifteen years.)

I don't give a rats ass anymore whether any of it means anything or not. It doesn't matter.

Because. If it's my thing, I couldn't stop doing it even if I wanted to. (I've tried.)

I'm a human being, and the curriculum applies.

And here's the funny part: Neither can you. Silly human.

***
I nearly forgot. SeaGen, Not new, but another item worth checking out. Actually there are three different projects, each different and very exciting, for creating energy from water. Also not a totally new idea, but these ideas could possibly change, well, everything.


ok. that catches us up. a little. Let me know what you think.

g'night
POT on Etsy

Pictures now, words later.

I keep forgetting that lots of people read this blog without seeing the sidebar. So---here are photos of new Halloween minis and three of the astoundingly detailed Famous Artists poppets in our Etsy Store.


Boy do I have things to tell you. Boy am I tired. Yesterday was one of those thought-provoking days---way too interesting and without sleep.

So, comfort food and bed for now.

Words tomorrow for sure.

Thanks for being here, for the great discussion on sex, and The Birds too.

Check out Sea Gen---will be talking about that tomorrow.

Why I don't talk about sex.

The question gets asked occasionally. The answer is truly simple. It's the kids. Mine, specifically.
Oh, the paradigm-shifting horror of discovering anything remotely sexual about a parent.

We're a lot alike on this, we humans. And Poppets have already figured out that once a bit gets onto the internet it's there to stay.

Perhaps in the far and barely imaginable future I'll care less about embarrassing my adult kids and more about the stories for the next generation.

Of course there are stories.

But enough about me. I'm just one human in the human sea. Back to the question. Why is it that the exploits of our grandparents are often highly entertaining, that notoriety brings a certain pride? And yet mostly we pretend our parents never had sex?

What is this then---this one-generation removed filter?

Poppets want to know, and I told them you might be able to help.

silly humans!

smog

Today we had some errands to run and as often happens, were greeted by the smog that hangs over LA and surrounding areas. And, as often happens, the conversation died away and we looked as it loomed and we thought all the things we tend to think when encountering this thing we created. It is indeed our child, and it waits silently for what comes next.

It blots out the sun.

Next year will be 2010, the year the human population is supposed to reach ten billion. There's a fair chance that for human beings to carry on long-term, most of the ten billion will need to disappear. Some people believe this has happened before, but I've never seen or heard any convincing evidence of this, regardless of how many geek-out hours I've spent listening to science channels while I work.

We are evolving. We live longer. This is no accident, and may serve us well. Or not. We seem to use the time given us less productively, on the whole. Technology is growing rapidly. There are pros and cons. Are people less intelligent than previous generations? More intelligent? I don't know. I do think it's likely that primitive man was smarter than Hollywood would lead us to believe. I also think C. M. Kornbluth was a visionary. Are his marching morons upon us already?

In the grand scheme of things humanity is still in its infancy. In the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter one iota what you do, or what I do. Evolution will meander along its own crooked path. Why is it then, that some of us feel so compelled to help human evolution along? What is it that drives some of us to do that one thing we do and to foist that thing upon the rest of humanity? To even care about a future we personally won't be part of?

What difference does it make, why? Possibly it's because as a whole, as an organism made of the human population, it takes all kinds.
It takes all kinds. Idealists and nihilists. Writers and artists and soldiers and couch potatos. All sorts of genes, all colors and shapes and sizes and visions.

So it seems the best plan is to find which we are and to be that.

So we look at the smog, or the melting glaciers, or the change in weather, at poverty in Afghanistan and Tennesee and we think all these things. We ask, again, these big questions.
What can I do? Am I helpless to affect this situation? I certainly feel helpless. Does it matter?

We talk it over, again. Then we see an Arby's sign. Fuck yeah! Five for five. We're starving, we say. But of course we are not.

Pretty soon, the smog is at our backs and we're headed into the clear dry air of the desert. We've abandoned our monster child without a backwards glance. But the little ghost remains---accountability.

So we'll acknowledge this child as our own, at least on some level, and do what we can. We are bigger inside than out. We are the makers of whatever future comes.

And. Sigh. We are small creatures. My stomach is growling, again.

What do these things have in common?*

A collector commissioned an edition of "Resonant Kiss" and I fell in love with the piece again and made two!

Resonant Kiss is the inspiration for Neil Gaiman's story "Good Boys Deserve Favors." It was really cool to revisit the piece and the story.
(It can be found in Fragile Things.)

"Marney and Pet" is inspired by old movies I watched while down with a cold. "Pet" is wearing red glasses.

A bit more October in these truly silly Cthulhu masks for Poppets. Though Poppets tell me that in the right light, they can be very scary to other Poppets.

I love that we've begun to slip Halloween on like a favorite old sweater.

And because Poppets also say(or said, as we watched The Birds) that

Sixties Chic is way too cool for humans, we dressed a few up from top to bottom in leopard print.

You may have noticed that I'm not making many one of a kind Poppets as of late. Not to worry. I'm busy working on other types of art for now, particularly for the World Fantasy Convention. I been trying to decide what sort of programs I'll put together. Generally I do an art tour and a lecture about things that are helpful to aspiring creatives, and some sort of hands-on workshop. WFC's attendees are generally professionals themselves, but I'm thinking even seasoned professionals like to have fun. So now I'm thinking about some things we can do that are both creative and silly---like making art on the spot from ridiculous items, with distraction. Stuff like that.

In between, working on some new paper mache for October. No more theraflu, but still plenty of green tea and vitamin C. What an awful bug this cold has been. If I sculpted the thing, I wonder what it might look like?

Question---ebay now charges a fee for "UK visibility." What? I mean, WTF? Does this mean that if I don't pay the fee, my listings are invisible to people in the UK?

sheesh. And while we're on new and innovative ways to rip people off, I've closed my Bank of America accounts because of their new policy on "transaction sorting." It's the only protest in my power at this point, so I'm exercising it.

How dumb, actually, do banks think their customers are? sigh. don't answer.

*really nothing, except they're all on this blog. If I had to make art from them on the spot, I'd be fairly hard-pressed.

We don't create from nothing

These last couple of days I've replaced Theraflu with green tea. This is a good sign. I'm getting some of my energy back. The good thing is that I used the sick time to "put stuff in."

We don't create from nothing, after all.

The not so good thing is that I have many fresh new ideas but can't even think about starting any. That's a downside of being a professional artist. It's a real job.


To be successful at being an artist or writer, there's really no other way than to go to work every day, without fail. No matter what else, you have to show up and work. I've got that part. Sometimes I work long hours for long stretches of time because of circumstances-- like multiple deadlines. And also because it's the nature of the work--not one person has ever told me it would be easy to be a professional artist. But working long hours can become a habit.

It can be very easy to get caught up on a wheel and forget to take time to live your life. And it's hard to find time to work on personal projects. Very hard. This is where I've been for most of the summer---and very likely why the cold hit me so hard. So it's time to work hours. To focus while I'm working and quit when time is up instead of trying to finish everything on a list.

Just as with other things, it's not so much how you work this week, but how you work over all. I might push myself extra hard for several weeks or longer to get a project done. But this isn't something that works long -term. Trust me on this---you can't do it without burning yourself out. How arrogant of me to ever think I could! And I burnt out badly several times before I figured this out.

So eventually I'll have to take some time off to play, to spend time with people I love, to see something different and to create for the love of creating. Otherwise the raw materials get used up and---
We don't create from nothing, after all.

Sometimes the most creative days are the ones spent floating on the pool drinking tea and thinking.

(I said it was hard---I didn't say the job has no good points.)

Think about your schedule, look at how you spend your days. If they're out of balance, you might want to rearrange things, or take a step back and refresh your brain.

We're still having a good discussion of The Birds on the previous post if you want to join us.

g'night

Let's talk about those chicks in Bodega Bay

some stories bear revisiting

A summer cold is making its way through this house. Nasty little bug making everyone miserable and cranky. Especially bad when it's so bright hot outside.
So there's cold meds, and Twilight Zone marathons and books.

The painting for the World Fantasy Convention cover is going well. There's that. I'm calling it a painting--it has elements of dimension as well.

I've been reading Poe, a sort of refresher to help me prepare for the convention. I've always had a great appreciation for Auguste Dupin and his ratiocination.
(Yes, I know, the 'monkey' did it.)

I enjoyed reading The Murders in the Rue Morgue again. Though a lot of the text was comfortingly familiar, (perfect reading for a summer cold, oddly enough) I was struck by his bit on perception. It seems to be a lot about 'stepping back,' a subject we've discussed often enough here. I think it applies to creativity as well as mysteries:

[Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances--to view it in a sidelong way. by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly--is to have the best appreciation of its lustre--a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former, there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.]

I see a great deal of value in this passage, as applies to ideas and observation, academic and personal. It seems worth thinking on and talking about here. Do you have experience with this concept? I remember doing the star thing as a kid, but it seems Poe meant us to apply this vision to more than star gazing. When is it better to view something from off -center, not to analyze, but to appreciate the whole? Is this what Poe was referring to?

ah. Nyquil is kicking in.
g'night

Welcome to Palm Springs

It's 10pm, very nearly, and 102 degrees outside. Earlier today, it was 115. There was nothing to be done about it but to float and think.
On the positive side, good ideas can be found just this way.

So. This was Monday.

Hope yours was good.

g'night

finding the voice

I could rant for days. But I won't. I do in my head, quite often. We all do, don't we? In traffic, at the television, at the news, at ridiculous products we see. At the colossal evil of transaction sorting, e.g. Bank of America.
I used to rant here, on this blog. When it was new, I wrote veritable essays. Even researched them. On the one hand, they were pretty good---a couple even got picked up by local magazines. On the other hand, ranting and researching took up an awful lot of time and energy.

But that's not why I stopped. Well, that's part of it. I asked more experienced bloggers, (i.e. the NGaiman) who told me that eventually the essays and rants would shape themselves to fit me better and I'd find my own voice.

The other reason I stopped ranting is because I started to understand that human experience can be very generic. In other words, I'm not special. I don't have anything to say that hasn't been experienced and explained before. Those hundreds of irritating cliches endure for a reason. The reason is that they fit.
We don't really get those little revelations until we've lived them, or until they're explained in terms that resonate, that ring our mental bells.

I stopped ordering and polishing and began to simply relay my discoveries as they happened. I never intended my blog to be exclusively for artists. I meant it to be for human beings like me, trying to figure out what the hell we're doing and why.

I don't know why I'm compelled to do this any more than I know why I'm compelled to make art. What I do know is that I'm compelled.

You are too. I read it in your comments, sometimes between the words. That said, let's talk about 'the voice.'

I may have decided that there isn't one voice. For instance, one of the most important lessons I've learned in the nearly twenty years I've been a professional artist is this:

Show up. Every day. Do the work.

Now, you've heard this from other sources. I was fortunate to hear it personally from both Ray Bradbury and Gene Wolfe. I won't go into this here (no worries---you'll hear it again---I cannot preach this sermon enough.) I relay this message at every lecture on every topic at every conference I participate in. It seems most effective to tell you outright that I know this to be true.
The secret to being a successful creator is to show up consistantly.

There---I said it again.

But other lessons will have to be spoken in the language of the art, because that works better for me. At times it seems best to allow Poppet to speak for me.

What are your thoughts on using fiction or other art forms (the truth hidden in the lie) to communicate personal revelations?
It seems to me that some subjects are more appropriately dealt with through this filter---that speaking openly of profound experiences somehow diminishes them.

Do you know when to speak outright and when to apply the filter? If so, how? And, is one voice more effective than the other?

October State of Mind

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Today the mercury climbed to 117 outside my back door. But I opened a little Halloween section in the Etsy shop and have begun to put things in it.

Right. I'm a grownup and can't stay in October all the time. Still, an October filter makes the desert bearable, even in July, and sometimes, even a little creepy. perfecto

Night and Light

Got a bit of photography done today. It was 115 by our thermometer, didn't even bother to look up the official. It was hellishly hot outside, so a darkened cave of a room wasn't a terrible place to be. Screw it. I don't care how hot and blinding it is outside, I'm going to October in my head and staying there until December.

Spencer and I collaborated on this spooky little night light. Sweet, eh? I enjoyed getting a little lost in the painting, pulling colors from an October sort of palette, layers, upon layers that became almost like graffiti.

I've thought more on the mystery short story we talked about earlier. I also remember that it was very, very short and suspect it might be in the Damon Knight 50 Short Science Fiction Stories or a collection from the 50's/60's. I'm going to look around in my Lewis Padgett books too, though if it was his, I think I'd remember. I'll let you know if I find anything.

Another thing about the story is its connection to Daniel Keyes' Flowers for Algernon. Though the stories are very different, in both a character experiences a short burst of brilliance and clarity that is taken away, creating a great sense of loss. It's a classic theme, isn't it---gaining a glimpse of something greater?

In case you're on a feed and don't see the sidebar,

meet our Master Tinker. He's a bit Lisa and a bit Bent,

who has recently started his own blog. I shall get a link up soon but for now,

I am very, very sleepy.

g'night

I started the day out well, with a swim, then some reading. I'm re-reading Stephen King's Secret Windows, which is more or less a book of essays about writing. I'm a huge fan of SK for many reasons. I don't like everything he writes and I rarely like the last quarter of any of his novels because he has a terrible habit of showing too much of the monster. He knows better---he said so in regards to Dracula, "In that book, if no other, Stoker grasped the fact that shadows always stand taller than flesh and blood." Despite sputtering over the endings I continue to buy his books and read them because the flavor is right and the truth shines through his spooky/fun filter so we get it without hurting our eyes. That's what he's good at, the truth.
Secret Windows is an excellent book to read before starting a new project or for stirring up the creative juices. I'm about to start work on art for the World Fantasy Convention and I consider this my 'mental yawn and stretch' in preparation.

I started reading it last night. I was a bad, bad girl. While reading I munched on a bowl of tater tots that were forgotten in the oven until they were mere cocoons of greasy, crunchy outside with nothing but air in the middle. Eating while reading is a nasty habit. I broke it years ago but made an exception last night because those tots were too deliciously nasty to ignore and because I trust my brother's advice on such. He told me, "It doesn't matter what you do, this time. What matters is what you do overall, the patterns you develop. If you're going to drink, or break a diet or take a risk or be an asshole, do it consciously. Make your decision, be aware of the consequences, then proceed without guilt and with joyful abandon."

My brother is an extremely intelligent human being. In comparison, I am but a gnat.

But now it's morning, I've had a vigorous swim and healthy breakfast. I'm dressed in my summer uniform--a beach skirt and tank that are interesting together if you're an artist but look sadly mismatched if you're not. My hair is pulled up into a wet knot and outside, I see palm trees swaying in the breeze, hummingbirds flitting in and around the feeders and sunlight sparkling off the water.

I'll pour a cup of coffee, tie on my apron and attempt to make something that scares even me. If I can do that here, I can do that anywhere.

drive

Many years ago I read a classic science fiction story. I remember reading the story---I read it as I sat on the bank of a pond while my dad fished for our supper. (what? I said it was a classic)
I even remember some of the visuals in my head. But I don't remember the name of the story or the author.

I've tried to look it up, but I don't know enough to create a decent search. So, tell me if this sounds familiar:

Astronauts are traveling from one planet to another. Told from the perspective of one of them (not sure on this detail) it seems that at a certain distance from the planet they left, each of the astronauts experiences great clarity, vision and peace. Then, immediately upon entering the influence of the planet they're traveling to, all their previous fears and mental blocks return.

Does this ring a mental bell with anyone?

Little unexpected things, as thinking how much I need a new journal for sketches and finding one in the mailbox only moments after.

It was 112 degrees today.

Even now, nearly midnight, the ground is still very warm.

Time for swimming.

Motion

We are always in motion.

Something like 67,000 miles per hour.

We forget.

Silly humans!

I was going to write here tonight, really. I have notes and everything. But we spent a long day in the studio and it was one hundred and eleven degrees today, and Orion and I are going to have a late swim before bed. I knew you'd agree that's the best idea.

I did actually take some photos. I'm having way too much fun with Mini Poppets. Spencer and I are chomping at the bit to get back to our video projects. We like Poppets that move. Obviously, given the latest work, I'm ready to make that happen. The funny thing is that I know (now) that the video projects will be better because of the delay.

Now we are having fun.

wow---

the difference a trip around the sun makes.

Orion has waited patiently and waves 'hello' to everyone.

Time for swimming.

g'night

fireworks: audio on the outside, sparks on the inside

Our fourth of July celebration turned out to be exceedingly quiet. Orion went to a fireworks show with Aubrey and her boyfriend, Matthew. Spencer and I decided to watch the show from deck chairs on our roof, yet we discovered to our surprise the neighbor's trees grown enough to partially obscure the view. It's a fair trade for the extra shade. We agreed that we'd seen enough fireworks. So we enjoyed our outdoor space, playing "Endless Summer" on the television on the deck, sitting in beach chairs with our feet in the water and drinking Smirnoff. Recluse and Hermit were we, watching other people surf.

But we heard the fireworks explosions and speculated on future works and even solved a couple of small technical problems, geeks that we are.

One thing that came up in our discussions is an aspect of creativity we both recognized, but didn't have a name for. Maybe you can help. It's hard to describe in the way that it's hard to explain to someone how it feels to whistle. You must first discover it by casting around, trial and error style, until your brain associates the position of mouth with sound.

I get this mental sensation when I'm close to solving a puzzle (e.g., slider puzzles in video games --as in Finding Nemo.) I've also experienced it when close to solving equations. It goes beyond 'the zone,' but that state of concentration often precedes the sensation I refer to.

Does this sound familiar?

Multiply it by several factors and it aptly describes the experience of honing in on a complex work of art---one of those where the metaphors click into place. When it happens there, it's accompanied by a rush of adrenaline. Not a good time to interrupt me.

(and no, I'm honestly not smoking anything. ;)

It is indeed difficult to define a process without terminology. So I put it to you for clarity and, well, fun! Either someone will find a name for it, or we'll just make one up.

Time for swimming. g'night

July 4

Change comes of its own free will

ok. So now it's Friday.



Thank you to the readers who contributed to yesterday's post. I've considered your comments. At its best, this blog becomes a sort of collaboration, illuminating questions from different angles, allowing us to see more clearly. It can be difficult digging into deeper emotions and fears, yet these issues carry into the creative process, show up in the finished work.

It seems worth the effort to sort these things out. The frankness and eloquence of the comments tells me others think so too.

From them I've gathered the following: (if you haven't, you might want to read the comments---the moments will be well spent and this post will make slightly more sense.)

*Rituals are helpful. They allow us to release emotions, yet moderate them with a time frame.

*The need for these rituals has been recognized throughout history.

*We humans tend to create filters that skew objectivity and sometimes even reason.

*The one-year mourning period is significant for humans. It predates calendars-- it's about the planet we travel on.

*Joy returns on its own. Actually, I like "...it tends to sneak up on you." much better.



****

Today I considered these things while floating in clear water in a blue pool under blue skies in Palm Springs. I made a mental note that my profession often entails floating and thinking. Not everyone would count that as a positive, but on this one I'm with Bugs.
I mentally examined the work I've created this year. Some elements that are new(like very stylized skies) , others moved from background to foreground (crows.) I thought about the works in progress. I see symbolic connections in some places, others won't begin to make sense until much later, with hindsight and context.

They're time travelers, these symbols, messages to ourselves, in bottles or in backs of drawers, the handwriting familiar but the writing forgotten.

I've decided to have some sort of ritual--- I'll think of something---to mark the year's passing.
It will be something simple and quiet and...huh... oddly anticlimatic.

g'night

There is a season, human.

Well now it's Thursday morning. Another day in what I've come to see as the 'worst year in my life'. How dramatic. We get these concepts stuck in our heads. Last July, my marriage ended catastrophically and, for all the months and weeks after, the damage spread from the blast radius and daily I watched details fall like dominoes. I've tried to be more politically correct, saying things like "it's the most challenging year of my life, so far." Bullshit. It's sucked. I don't even feel like the person I started with.
Here's my point. Humans are funny, with these notions we get. How did I decide upon a year? Is this some period of time I chose to allow myself to be miserable? Does this mean that on day 366, I'll be all better?
Or does it mean that on day 366 I'll decide to be better? The two are quite different animals.

I called Neil and asked him to clarify something he's told me several times over the years, about troubles, and work. Did he mean that these things would resolve themselves through the work? Or that I would resolve them through the work?
He says it's the latter, for sure.

Reason tells me that "things' are not going to suddenly improve on any given date, because dates and clocks were created to coordinate human activities. Reason also tells me that human beings use dates and landmarks to help themselves navigate through all the messy events that make up the human curriculum. We like birthdays and anniversaries----or did we create those just to sell cards? I'd guess we use them to measure and mark because it's our nature to measure and mark. One only needs to look at music and art and sentence structure (mostly ignored on this blog) to see this is true.

Possibly I subconsciously chose this one-year period. I've come to realize these last weeks, as the date approaches, that it has been a year of mourning, I just wasn't seeing it, no matter how plain it should have been. Maybe I didn't want to.

Possibly allowing ourselves a given time period to process events is just what it seems, a tool for coping.
On the other hand, by using this tool, did I decide to be miserable for a year? Did I pull unrelated events, like losing Gurtie, under this umbrella of "the bad year", giving it more strength? Could I have put it behind me much sooner?

All that said, the date is coming up fast and I find myself anticipating it. By logic, I could decide to make the day today. But we're not entirely logical and I do believe there's some value in these rituals we share.
This asks for a bit of research and reading.

What are your thoughts on this particular odd bit of being human?

Stumbling forward. Is small the new big?

*This morning I put my apron back on. I'm taking that as a sign of repair. It's supposed to be 110 today. In protest, we've released this year's "anti summer Poppet." Later, we shall shake our fists at the sun, glimpsed between strips of shade, and we in the thankfully-still-cool water, holding drinks with little umbrellas, in plastic cups, of course. It seems the best way to face this whole summer thing.

**A friend suggested that the only way to appreciate the Poppet Mini is to hold it in one's fingers, so that it can be felt and turned and seen close up and that if I get these 'tiny pieces of art' into other's hands, they'd see them as I do. This friend has a long history of giving me good advice, so I've put our Steampunk Mini up at an introduction price, to get them out into the world where they can watch over their Poppet fellows and help humans think differently about size.

Is small the new big? Only Poppets know, and they're not telling.

*** We're trying to get our collectors moved over to the Etsy store for open editions. I really like the community of Etsy. I'm collaborating with other artists to create cool things for the winter holidays, like silver poppet jewelry and journals, and soft squeezy Poppets.

But for hard-core eBay shoppers, we put the Steampunk Mini's there too.

****Yikes. When putting the Steampunk Mini's in the eBay store, we discovered a typo in the listing of the Mini Red Poppet. A big one. It was listed for $30 and was meant to be $20. Sorry about that, it's now corrected so that the price matches the one's on Etsy. Good Grief and Sheesh.

*****We're moving our very cramped shipping department to a new space next week. We've had a few slow ships and some other minor mess-ups these last months. Now we can spread out, be more organized and kick ass like we used to. Thank you all ever so much for your patience while we were in transition. As collectors go, Poppet collectors are the cheese (to our macaroni.)

****** So today, simple things. Extra time underwater. Stumbling forward, at least.

have a great weekend.

strength and skies, friends and poppets

I'm still feeling fragile. Too fragile. There was the slow burnout, then the smashing upon the floor, then losing Gurtie. Sent me into a real tailspin.

Damn. But I don't give up. I use the tools I've acquired to stop the descent so I can start pulling myself up again. That doesn't mean that occasionally I don't cry like a baby.

I'm starting to gather up the catnip mouses and other things that set me off.

The temps are 'normal' now, (106 today) so there's little going outside until evening, except to be underwater.

I tend (as if you haven't noticed) to turn my attention often to the sky. Clouds by day and stars at night. I tend also (I've noticed recently) to use the analogy of flight for describing emotions.

I did finally get "Amelia's Skies" finished. It's been sitting for weeks, so very nearly done. Getting her finished and photographed feels good.

She's the first of a new series of Poppet sculptures honoring humans Poppets love. We made these really cool hand painted boxes for her ---good enough to keep---with a replica of Amelia Earhart's pilot's license inside the lid, acquired from the excellently cool Propnomicon. Very worth checking out.

So. there you are. I told you I'd keep you posted on the 'fixing' of your burnt -out artist. It's been anything but a straight line so far. I keep hoping some wonderfully helpful advice will come out of this, because I know a lot of you deal with similar issues. So far, I have no all-encompassing formula. But maybe you'll glean something useful from my sharing the experience. I hope so.

Spencer and I have some really interesting pieces (that do things) in the works for Halloween and the World Fantasy Convention. That helps. This weekend I'll spend some time with my buddy the Neil Gaiman and meet Amanda Palmer, whom I already feel I know. That will help too. The house is tired of me and really wants me to go away.

be safe

dancing puppies and the worry poppet

A few shots from Zoya's recital on Saturday.

(Zoya in center, ears flying.)

A new steam punk poppet car, collaboration with Bent.

Poppet 'worry doll' in a box. When I was a little girl there was an elderly lady living down the street. Mrs. Brewer. Her backyard was surrounded by an ancient grey fence with porcelain nails. My brother and I marveled at the smooth concavity of these strange nails. The bottom of this Poppet feels just like that, cold and smooth. It's hard to stop touching it. So I turned it into my version of the 'worry doll.' My own will live on my desk, but if that doesn't work, under my pillow she goes.

I feel a bit like I'm made of lead. I keep reminding me that this will go away. I know that's true . We can always count on things changing. So I work a bit, and rest a bit. Weird schedule, but it can work in summer. There is at least that.
And books. And cable. Oh Sookie. Oh Bill. You've made a sad human chuckle.

good things

This morning I walked by the bench that was Gurtie's favorite spot for napping. Her impression is still there.
I'm not going to hide from the sadness,
but I won't go looking for it either.

There are other things around me.
Zoya at ballet. Baby hummingbirds in a pot by our front door.
Sensations of the seashore, lingering fresh, despite the days between.
I'll take all these things with me to the studio and work. They'll go into the mix and become part of whatever I make next. That's the nature of art, and human beings.

Thank you ever so much for your comments. You are definitely on my list of good things.

June sky and sadness

Pelicans. I watched them and gathered up inspiration for new work. That was good.

June Gloom has arrived on the coast, and summer here in the desert. It's too hot now to walk in the evenings, so this morning I set out very early. On the way back home I was surprised to see Gurtie stretched out in her favorite position on a neighbor's lawn. But she wasn't sleeping. Their sprinklers were on.
I gathered her into a blanket and Spencer and I buried her in the garden.


For the past few weeks I've been terrifically burnt out. The year has taken a toll. Of course it has, we're no different from anyone else. We find ourselves working much harder for much less.
I need a break ---constantly in my head.
I need a break. Now I've got one. Immobilizing. Standing, staring with my hand on the refrigerator door. Sitting, staring at my hands. I recognize grief when I'm in it. It breaks us.
Oh, Gurtie.

I know these things are part of life. I know they happen to everyone. I know that they never happen quite the way we expect them to, or when. We never expect it to be now. And I know there are worse things.

No need to worry or fuss. I needed to write something. It's a cathartic, lonely sort of impulse that readers tend to understand best. It's a good part of being human, that we share our burdens. Some of you were there when I chose to love this cat.

Embracing Gurtie was a good decision. I'm not sorry.
But for now, I'm deeply sad and somewhat numb.
Thank you for being here.

There is new work up on Etsy and on Ebay. There are new works in progress on every table in the studio. There are meetings scheduled and lists upon lists. There are commissions in progress. There are long overdue projects in que. There is the one project I long to work on and rarely get to touch. There are people waiting for my calls.
I feel nowhere near a stopping point. I don't think things will even begin to ease up until October.

So, I'm taking a little time off, getting a change of scenery.

Because I can't afford not to.

I'm tired from overworking, still sore and recovering from the brutal encounter with the floor, but mostly, my brain needs some fresh air.

We all work better and smarter with rest. They don't call it 'recreation' for nothing.

Have a great weekend.

No time for extra credit, Mom. Put the pencil down.

A glimpse of how we spent our evening. These last weeks leading up to the event have been interesting indeed. I thought about what I might write about it, but the truth is that for those who haven't had the experience, the interesting parts are irrelevant---there's no point of reference. For those who've had the experience, there's no need for words.

Congratulations, Aubrey. Congratulations to all of you, Class of 2009.

The Road is Strange and Crooked

It's always something.

How clear the words become.

So, on the path to fixing.
Orion and I (photos, previous post) had root beer floats. We discovered that ice chips could be skipped across the water just like stones. He was as thrilled to triple-skip his ice chip across the pool as any boy ever to skip a smooth stone across a Norman Rockwell pond by the train rails, quiet on a Saturday and warmed by the sun.
Oh wait, it was a girl-- and it was me.

Anyway. We had fun.
I'm still good at skipping stones---thanks Dad.

On fixing, it was back to the realization that this is a tough time for lots of people. We're working with a skeleton crew--- lots of hours and lots of hats. It takes a toll, especially the stress.

I'm not very good at stepping off the wheel to recharge. I tend to plow through. A good trait for emergencies and deadlines, but not so good for long-term. I'm learning.

By Tuesday I was a bit better, having rested and watched a movie or two with Aubrey (including Pontypool) and played with Orion. I was ready to get back to work. As I sat with my feet up I played with clay, making little things, including tiny Poppets. By Wednesday afternoon I was in full swing, so much that as I zipped around the corner from studio to house I slipped on the tiles---ceramic, very slippery and quite rigid. Then I enjoyed a lovely demonstration of the laws of physics--- in slow motion, of course--- and jarred my entire body and split my lip, creating a Jackson Pollack-ish painting in red on the floor and giving Spencer, who arrived moments after, some distinguished new grey.

Dammit! Foiled again.

So, okay. I'm still learning some things the hard way.

A couple of days of no sudden moves and pain meds, which tend to make me grumpy. Reading and on-demand movies. I tried working. I read email from a customer with a legitimate shipping complaint and I responded to her pretty much like the soup Nazi.

Add shame to the mix.

The good that came of it is that we all agreed that the artist should leave customer service to the professionals.

Now it's Saturday. I slept late, I chipped away at the looming backlog of photography. I'm still extremely sore, but my lip is pretty much normal sized. I rinse with salt water several times a day. I'm trying not to grouch at the kids. So far, so good. The "fix" holds, oddly. I still find myself able to step away and back, as I did with sun and root beer floats, so that I can forget about the bumps in the road.

What road? All these moments seem to take some other shape. It's so weird, and so human, the way we imagine ourselves on a path, traveling in a specific direction toward the future "up ahead."

I don't know what it is I stumble upon. For today, I'll be content with the stumbling. At least I'm still moving. I'll do my best to bat away any dark moods that try to sneak up on me.

There's root beer in the fridge. I checked.

Hope you have a good weekend.

pictures now, words later

in progress on the 'fixing of your artist.'