Poor Bertha

 

Wow!  Two posts in one day.  And what is the occasion you ask?  Well, my stupidity to be honest.  It’s spring break week, the campus is quiet, the weather is starting to change for the better.  I can smell those little green buds in the air.  It was misty, icy, and murky for  most of the day which inspired me to go out at lunchtime to snap some pics with my D60.  I got some great images of trees in front of Colgate, and around the campus proper. ( Bear with me, the stupidity part is on the way… ) 

 

 

Trees in front of Colgate

Tree outside of Burpee

 

     I was so inspired by this lunchtime tree – whispering, that I decided to get in some more camera time after work.  Ever since I moved, there have been many scenes I’ve wanted to try and capture, but there just hasn’t ever been the time.   My eyes always glimpse the money shots whilst on my way to campus in the morning.  But not today!  I aimed to knock the universe on its keester and press my D60’s shutter release until the sun set.  I flew out of my basement office @ 4:30 and headed for Pleasant Lake to try and catch the fog rolling over the trees, and maybe some open spots on the ice.  Nothing of interest materialized.  So I decided to travel down the road a bit further.  Hall Farm Rd.  I took the turn nice and easy, then…  Smash!  Crash!  I thought for sure I had been hit from behind.  I stopped and turned around to see the 32 inch Sony television a friend had given me over the weekend poking through two of my Volvo’s windows.  Both windows were completely spidered.  Crackling.  The sound of crackling was all I heard, but luckily the windows didn’t implode.  Please!  No flying glass…..  I drove a bit down the road, pulled off to the side, got out of the car.  ( In case you aren’t clear, we’ve now reached Stupid Central. )  I  hopped into the backseat thinking that I could perhaps pull the TV back towards me enough so it’s two corners were no longer sticking out of the tailgate and side windows.  No such luck.  Man those windows have teeth!  So I turned the car around and ambled home.  Very slowly. 

 

Soon after my arrival, the building manager, Gary, came out.  He saw me snapping pictures of my car’s backend and thought I had been in an accident.  “Are you okay?” he asked.  “Were you in an accident?  I saw you taking pictures, there.”  I started laughing.  What else could I do?  “Well, no.  I haven’t been in an accident.  Exactly.”  He stepped down off the porch, cigarette hanging out of his mouth.  “Geez, kid,” he exlaimed.  “When you do something, you really do it.  Don’t you?!”  Well, yeah.  I don’t do anything halfway.  And I’m convinced that only crazy crap like this happens to me.  It’s been awhile though.  So I guess the Universe decided today was the day to remind me I hadn’t been forgotten.  It’s now 9:22 PM, and I’m still laughing.  What’s done is done so there’s no point in me being upset or angry.  And really.  It is pretty funny.  Especially when one looks at the pictures.  It’ every Brit Com rolled into one. Poor, good, strong, dependable Bertha.  Good thing there’s a junk yard about 10 miles down the road.  And good thing spring is around the corner.   I’ll ride around with black garbage bags covering the busted windows as long as I can.  I’ve got a plane ticket to Vienna on my mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Cake and Coffee

Not all is doom and gloom when it comes to the recent move.  One of the perks about circling back to where I  grew up is cake and coffee at my grandmother’s every Sunday.  Sometimes an early afternoon dinner is part of the package.  I was very excited about a recent Sunday get together when Omi ( German for grandmother ) was to make one of my favorites, “Roladin”.  Essentially this is a thin slice of beef wrapped around a hard-boiled egg.  Accompaniments were luscious mashed potato mixed with scalding hot milk, butter, salt, pepper, and nutmeg; finely shredded red cabbage full of apple bits and cloves; and lots of rich brown gravy.  Traditional german fare.  My mouth watered in anticipation each day leading up to that meal, then mom called me the day before.  On the way home from the grocery store, Andre, one of my grandparents’ bichon frise’s,  muzzled his way into the shopping bags in the back of the truck and ate most of the beef for the roladin leaving only 5 pieces for dinner.  Needless to say, Omi was initially a bit sour about my grandfather’s inattention,  but it made me and my mom laugh.  As the three of us sat with our dessert and coffee, laughing and joking, my grandmother was able to eventually see the humor in Andre’s theft and gobbling.  Now we all call Andre Roladin, being the plump little doggie he is.  ( There has since been another truck incident where he snarfled a cup of soup my grandfather got at the grocery store.  No lunch that day.  We all think my grandfather might need a hearing aid because these snarfling incidents should have been cut short with the first rustling of shopping bags. )

This is Andre. Doesn't he look guilty?

Here's another one. Little Andre Roladin. What a dog....

During our most recent Sunday get-together, a special hazelnut cake with lemony icing was on the menu.  Usually we only get this at Christmas, so it was a special treat.  It may seem an odd combination that cake–full of finely chopped hazelnuts and baked to perfection in a bundt pan.  Then drizzled with the most wonderful citrus-y glaze.  But once you’ve eaten one piece, you just want more and more.

Special hazelnut cake with lemon glaze.

My first piece of cake. To be followed by many more.

Here's a nice table shot.

I was ever so grateful when Omi handed me my ziploc bag with four pieces as I left to go home at the end of the smorgasbord.  That’s always the hard part, leaving.  There’s usually so much packed into a few short hours.  So much talk of Germany.  It’s always been one of my greatest delights listening to my mother’s and grandmother’s stories, memories.  Of course, half the time the conversation is in German and I can’t understand a thing.  So I just sit there, listening to the funny words and wondering how they’re spelled.  I bought a German phrase book some months ago, thinking that would help me in my efforts to be more  a part of the conversation, but it’s not quite that easy.  So I’m hoping that if I ever get to travel back to where my mom and grandmother grew up, with my mom and grandmother, that I will be able to pick up some of the language more easily since I will be “immersed”.  And if not, then there will always be coffee.  Lots of coffee topped with whipped cream.  That’s the best way to drink it.

Coffee and whipped cream. The perfect combo.

Thirty3=666

 

At last I sit down to write.  Not about the terrible two’s, but about the terrible thirties.  Oh yes.  Thirty-three to be exact.  The overall trepidation with which this year approached me was much like that other number that inhabits the realm of Superstitious:  666.  Thirty-three just feels wrong to me.   Alien.  A harbinger of foreboding.  In December I accepted a new job gleefully, but a few days after my birthday on the 16 was told by the object of my affection that she wasn’t looking for commitment ( my hope for such was one reason I accepted the job….to move closer and set the wheels in motion for something beyond the nightly phone calls and occasional weekend ).  It’s the hugest cliché in the book, but my heart broke into a million pieces.  And then….oh no:  the new job.  A new life to build.  On my own.  How fucking overwhelming.   To say I was scared isn’t accurate.  More like insanely despondent.  Yet somehow I managed to find an apartment ( thanks to my mom ) and move my things ( The sum total of my worldly possessions amounts to little more than a reading chair, TV, 2 computers, clothes, an assortment of books/movies/cd’s, cookware and some food, some bedding, and a bistro set that sits in the bay window.  My mom let me borrow her air mattress until I fork up the dough for a bed of my own. )  I’ve settled in relatively quickly and successfully at the college I think.  But lately I do hear this Nag inside me that insists I grow down some roots instead of living like a gypsy.

My way of living—this sleeping on the floor, rooting around in cardboard boxes for my socks and underwear, roaming Lonely Planet for other places to Be—I haven’t really thought about it much.  That is, until I created a Facebook account.  Now, every time I log on, I’m greeted by smiling cherubs born to former classmates and all those “love shots”—couples happily pretzel-ing in the sunshine, wedding kisses.  Mostly I just want to puke.  Other times I mumble unintelligible snipes while making faces at the computer screen.  I’m not exactly proud of my behavior during such moments, and hate to admit it for all to see.  But when it comes to the heart of the matter, I don’t really mean my meanness.  Is it jealousy?  Envy?  No.  I’m happy for everyone I see on Facebook who’s found their other half, has built a family.  What I’m really filled with when I look at such happiness is longing.   

I love children.  Adore them.  The work I did with children during my time in human services brought me so much joy.  But I’ve always known that having children of my own just isn’t part of the reason why I am Here.  I have too much of an urge to travel the world.  Too much of a commitment to my own inner life and need to create art and write.  So this longing I feel and write about doesn’t have anything to do with not being a mom.  It has everything to do with being  33 and still single.  By society’s clock I should have been “settled” years ago.  For awhile I didn’t want that, but now?  Now I’d like to come home at the end of my day knowing that I would be greeted by something other than silence.

So to further explain that screaming woman bursting through a torn heart which I wrote of a few posts ago ( and which caused such a ruckus ):  yes, I am her.  Not in a suicidal capacity as was unfortunately presumed.  I am screaming out of the realization that I moved to the middle of nowhere with seemingly zero prospect of locating a life partner.  Let’s face it:  there aren’t exactly any lesbian hotspots in Wilmot, NH nor in New London.  No gay and lesbian center that hosts dances and movie nights.  Oh,  I’m pretty sure there are some Sapphic sisters inhabiting this here countryside, but I think that mostly we’re in hiding.  And even if I did pass by another One in the local Hannaford’s on my way from the produce to the salami I’m not sure I’d know it.  That’s the curious thing about The Sticks:  my gaydar just doesn’t transmit.  So there’s just no way to tell if it’s safe to do that silent dance of “Hey, I’m one.  Are you one too???”, with a flash of my pearly whites.  And what’s worse, flashing these whites would probably result in reeling in a fish that’s more interested in a chase around the tank instead of staking a claim to some nice water plant or sunken ship.  And that’s not me.  So I scream.  And scream.  And scream.  And sometimes cry. 

At this point I know I’ve reached the point of borderline whining, which is not my intention.  I mean, I know that this story is not unique to me.  This struggling to find the Other.  But I guess this whining, in some small way, makes me feel better.  Less foolish perhaps.  Less duped by my own foolish hopes for what I thought L.’s beautiful face and warm touch promised.  Out of anyone who’s been in my life thus far, I felt myself to be the most authentic when I was with her.  Granted,  there were still some experiences and parts of myself that I hadn’t quite worked up to sharing, but sharing always takes time.  It takes a lifetime for those who are truly interested and want to make that journey. 

But instead of curling up with L. tonight, listening to her breathe as I run my fingers through her hair, I’m writing this instead.  I’m looking at all these boxes and piles of books still unorganized even though I’ve been moved for two months .  I’m meditating on my chances of finding that kind of closeness again when I live amidst such Spartan geography;  this place where meeting another woman to share my life with seems more like it must be conjured by some potion that I’ve chanted over as it bubbles on the Bunsen burner.  I’m wondering how/if my life will change with the arrival of my new sofa tomorrow.  But mostly I’m remembering that day back in August when L. and I began our short interlude together and I ignorantly thought it would last much longer.  I miss her.  I miss that day.  She was Butterfly and I was Ladybug, and we flew up the side of Mt. Cardigan in the sun.

 

 

 

 

 

In the Digital Darkroom

Original

In lieu of an official blog post ( which I promised last Friday…sorry… ), I’ve decided to share my latest digital tinkerings.  Let me be clear:  I do not consider myself a photographer, but merely someone who enjoys playing and wandering with her camera.  Subjecting the caught images to various editing programs is just another part of the fun.  I know Purists would scorn my methods, but since I’m self-taught and all about experimentation, I turn a turn a deaf ear to all those, “You really should do it this way”…………

Edit…Take 1

on “Today”

Goodness gracious.  If I had known what a fury of concern my last post would unleash I wouldn’t have posted it.  There are many things I can expound on about that entry and will do so later on this weekend–when I’m able to sit down and relax with a pot of tea and listen to my favorite music.  But since 5 o’clock is now approaching I wanted to set things straight somewhat before I leave my work desk and head home. For those of you who have expressed concern, thank you. But trust me when I say this:  other than the normal things that anyone in their 30’s experiences, I’m actually quite fine.  I just happen to live in Wilmot, NH.  The middle of nowhere.  Away from my normal social circle and woefully searching for a new one.  Being someone who has made it a habit of talking about her feelings, intense and otherwise, I often forget how said intensity appears to others.  Being a writer/artist, I often forget how unnerving it can be to some when I share my visions and inner life.  As such, I’m using my blog as a way to document that inner life; to give voice to the struggles I don’t often share.  Truthfully, I’m a mostly private person and only open myself to a chosen few once I’ve reached a certain level of comfortablility.  And in the absence of the support I’m used to having around me, this blog is what I’ve got.  And it’s helping me get back into my artwork again.  If you find it too painful, too honest…..then perhaps it’s not for you.  Above all, I aim for honesty.  More on that later…..

Today

A few weeks ago I had this vision—this sort of flash of something that I thought would make a great painting if I can ever get myself focused enough to attempt it.  A human heart broken open with all its veins and arteries….perhaps not really broken open, but more or less torn open, with a woman’s head, screaming, bursting through that opening as if she was gasping for air. Today…just let me sit in my blue faded reading chair to think about that torn heart.   Let me watch the snow and ice fall from the gray sky.    Let me count my breaths. No.  Impossible.  Because I am that woman.  Screaming.   Gasping.

Butterflies…Part 1

No stranger to strange dreams, I had another last night:

 

1.   Barefoot, I wandered amongst tropical waxy leaves and over smooth stones at the edge of dark water.  Not quite Mexico and certainly not Bali–but an exotic and unfamiliar locale nonetheless. 

 2.   Red, black, yellow, and green totems alive, carved with joyous,  mournful faces stretch to the sky.

 3.   Unfamiliar faces bob among the ocean waves unconcerned with the waters’ darkness, their laughter filling my ears.

 4.   A tent of billowing white gauze atop a lush, green hill–abandoned, save 3 stacks of books,  titles unknown.  The shine of gold lettering on the black leather bindings stirs my curiosity.  Makes me hesitant.  Perhaps it’s best not to see the words inside.

 5.   And something else.  Out of the corner of my eye, a hovering.  The fluttering of tiny wingbeats on my neck.   I turn to look.   A single butterfly flaps its wings down the hill to the water.  And I run even though I’m terrified to touch the water and have no wings.   

   

 I’ve been struggling all day to capture the surreality of this dream, but Chuck Henningsen captures it all too well with the digital prints in his Chrysalis collection.  As does this hauntingly beautiful middle-eastern poem, Poem of the Butterflies.  Whatever the translation is, it’s the feel that is the pull.

 

The End is Where I Start From

Mt. Kearsarge

T.S. Eliot wrote:   ”What we call the beginning is often the end.  And to make an end is to make a beginning.  The end is where we start from.”  On January 3, 2009 I reached an end and set out on a journey back to where I grew up.  I traded the foothills of Mt. Monadnock where I had lived and worked for 5 years  for the winds and clouds of the mighty and stoic Kearsarge.  I ambled along the 2-hour stretch in my gray, battered Volvo 240 wagon bursting with liquor store boxes filled with all the odds and ends I forgot on my first 4 trips.  I reassured my cat Kenyon ( AKA “Gertie” ) that all was well.  Every now and again she’d brush her pink, cold little nose against my fingers as I poked them through the holes in the side of her carrier, and then she’d meow softly while uncomfortably nestled on the forest green bathrobe I put in there for padding.  I nervously glanced in the rearview mirror every 10 seconds or so, just waiting for that long IKEA kitchen cabinet to slide out the back of the car, the strip of red fabric tied to the trunk handle flapping in the wind warning drivers to stay back.

After I arrived at my new home in Wilmot, the rest of the day was pretty much a blur.  I went to get groceries, unpacked my clothes and dishes.  My mom and grandmother came for a short visit hoping to get a glimpse of Kenyon who, instead, burrowed underneath my comforter.  The only indication of my furry little baby was a big lump in the center of the bed.  Poor cat, whenever she heard a noise she scurried for the “invisibility” of the bed–a flash of gray racing past my feet.

Interestingly, Academy Apartments where I’ve moved to, used to a be schoolhouse way back when.  An old blue Victorian with seven units, it sits right at the corner of 4A and Bunker Hill Rd.  If I crane my neck enough I can almost see the Great Mountain as I sip tea at my table in the bay window.  I have a big bedroom with morning sunlight, a teeny kitchen, and plenty of storage space, so who could ask for more?  What I didn’t count on during my second weekend was being the entire Saturday without electricity.  I woke up @ 9:30AM shivering.  My eyes registered disbelief when I saw the thermostat at 55.  I trudged to Lebanon and Hanover not knowing what the problem was ( being without internet and cable ), and did my shopping at the Co-Op and bought a sweater and hat at The Mountain Goat.  When I arrived back at my new digs around 3:30 there still wasn’t any power, and when I talked to my mom she informed me that some logger had cut a tree which subsequently fell on a power line and cut the juice off to 6 area towns.  For the second time in 2 weeks.  By this time it was 45 in my apartment so I pushed Kenyon into her carrier and headed for the warmth of my mom’s woodstove 2 miles down the road.  Once power was restored around 5:30 I  headed back home and brewed the hottest pot of tea ever, boiled some corn chowder, and wrapped myself in all my blankets where I read Angels &  Demons until I fell asleep.

Academy Apartments - Wilmot, NH

There were many reasons I decided to move back home, and not all of them sound I suppose.  But when I started my new job at Colby-Sawyer College ( where I spent two semesters 12 years ago as an undergrad ) as Technology Specialist, I knew that this at the very least was a huge positive.  Less stress than my former job.  Everyone friendly and appreciative.  I feel like it’s a place where I can grow and further develop my tech skills.  But perhaps most important:  I’m in an academic setting.  I’m in a place where questions are encouraged.  Creative energy abounds.  Being the hermit I am, for the first time I can remember, I’m actually enjoying the meeting of new people.  And I want to know their stories.  Each and every one of them.  I’ve broken down and gotten a Facebook account.  I’m actually doing this blog–something I’ve always wanted to do but just never found the time.  I’m sketching in my tiny apartment at night.  I recently met with a personal trainer in the college’s fitness center so I could get a personal fitness routine put together.  I’m dreaming about a trip to Italy sometime in the next year or two.  And I’m researching the ins and outs of road biking so I can fork over a ridiculous amount of money on a Specialized Ruby Comp this spring.  So much change all at once, and hardly any time to get used to it all.

I won’t deny it’s lonely at times, and in some ways I am in a period of self-imposed isolation.  I have no idea where I’m heading from here, so every day I simply head out the door.  Letting my feet and heart guide me, yes…with my eyes closed.  I have faith and belief that something greater than myself, whatever “it” is, will lead me to where I need to go.  All I need to do is listen.  And feel.