Lingering

I've been having trouble sleeping lately. Waking up at 2 or 3 in the morning and going back to bed when the light comes up; waking up again, late, near noon, feeling like crap, or feeling too sleepy to stay awake by 8:00pm, staying up anyway, and then noticing at 2 or 3 a.m. that I'm still awake, going to sleep, sleeping (again) until 11 or so. . .or just sleeping a few hours. . .sudden bursts of intense energy. . .it's all jumbled, as if my body has forgotten what a sleep cycle is exactly. My body is confused.

This confusion has seemed to loosen my brain up some. That's called sleep deprivation, or being in a half-dream state, I suppose.

Anyway, in this state, I seem to be nearly obsessed with the death of Michael Jackson. I'm not mourning; I'm thinking. I'm thinking about nearly everything about him, whoever he was. I just read an article where he's called the "man who was not there".

Everything about the enigma who was Michael Jackson points back at us as a society, almost scathingly. He has been worshiped and he has been made the object of ridicule. Last night I found a webpage where we can see his facial transformations through life. There's no love there in the snarky comments, but why the fascination?

America simultaneously hates and loves it's freaks. It always has. The circus sideshow freaks, the sad clowns, Howard Hughes, every town's eccentric, the weird kid in school who's remembered fondly, the fact that biographies of injured souls are the most popular form of reading, the tabloids at the supermarket, and now all the sites that proliferate the web. . .We love our celebrities, but we seem to love even more watching them turn into monsters, or become just like us, with jiggling cellulite at the beach, bad marriages, lousy choices, their inevitable fall, and if they don't fall, we lose interest.

We both love and hate success. We're jealous. We need proof it isn't what it's cracked up to be. Haven't we had enough proof?

We love the confessions of the powerful, the politicians who've cheated on their wives or are secretly gay, or whatever their transgressions are. Why on earth are public confessions of "sin" more important than the news of the war in Iraq? It's insane.

Yes, I know I'm all over the map. It's fascinating to me how Jackson's death has got my mind spinning.

His surgery, symbolic of so much, and yet we know little truth about the whys of it all. What drove this man to obsessively change his appearance? But, it is that different than the ordinary, almost mandatory, plastic surgery that female public personalities eventually must have? Growing old gracefully for a woman in public is impossible. The illusion of perpetual youth is required. Yet, we practically spit on this man Michael Jackson, who mirrors our society's obsession with youth, albeit in a distorted fun house mirror way.

We are bombarded by messages that scream at us to regain our lost youth, coddle our inner childs, stay perpertually young. It's a given that we all want to stay 21 forever. Pick up any popular magazine and count the ads for facial creams that promise firmer, tighter, softer, dewy, touchable, blemish-free, spot-free, ageless skin. Feeling okay in one's old skin is not allowed.

I suddenly am thinking of someone I once knew well, whom upon seeing Janet Reno on television, would always say "They shouldn't allow woman who look like that on television. It hurts my eyes." Or Rush Limbaugh, who expressed gladness that Hillary Clinton didn't win the nomination, for who wanted to see a woman age in public, as presidents always do?

Michael Jackson was more female than male, at least from my point of view, and though he was a star, his vulnerability to all this seemed huge. But what do I know? I did not know the man, of course. Did anyone?

And if he had a painkiller addiction, so has Rush Limbaugh and who-knows-how-many Americans. The drug companies don't really want us to know how many. With all our drug laws, the drugs most abused in America are those prescribed by physicians. Vicodan, "hillbilly heroin", is so bad for the body that it is illegal in Europe. Yet, here in America, it's nearly as handy as aspirin. The doctors prescribe and prescribe and once you are hooked, you are shamed, or if you're famous, you just get another doctor (or your maid's husband) to get you more, and when that stops, you get some publicity, a stay at a upscale clinic, and possibly a book deal.

Yes, I'm all over the map.

This package, this commodity, that was Michael Jackson points directly back to us, a nation of confused souls, who pay more attention to "American Idol" than the war that is still killing people daily. Last night, there were memorials aplenty for Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson, while somewhere in the world, another "nobody" was blown up, shot, stabbed, starved to death, died in their sleep, unmourned, uncelebrated.

What a mess.

Photo note: Wali Sultani, a man who suffers from mental illness, in his cell in Afghanistan (read here).
I could have picked from a million images of suffering. Somehow, the image of this man, shackled because of mental health issues, resonated. Would a makeover make him feel better? In America, it seems we seem to think so.

Elisha Cuthbert gallery of wallpapers and pics

Elisha Ann Cuthbert is a Canadian actress. Cuthbert has co-hosted the Canadian children's television series Popular Mechanics for Kids and even acted in the American action-thriller television series 24. She had acted in leading roles in feature films like Old School and The Girl Next Door. She has also had starring roles in movies like House of Wax film and Captivity.

Cuthbert was born in Calgary, Alberta, Canada.Her parents are Patricia and kevin. Her
mother was a homemaker and father was an automotive design engineer. She has two younger siblings, Jonathan and Lee-Ann.

Cuthbert enjoys painting and ice hockey. Cuthbert was ranked #10 by AskMen.com readers in the list "Top 99 Women of 2007". She was previously in a relationship with Dallas Stars player Sean Avery and is now dating Calgary Flames hockey player Dion Phaneuf. she refuses to be photographed nude in film roles or magazines because likes to keep some things to herself.

Name: Elisha Ann Cuthbert
Birth Place: 30-11-1982
Birth Place: Calgary, Alberta, Canada
Profession: Actress

Public mourning, public celebration

I've written about this before, but it's come up again, as things tend to do, over and over. This evening, as I watched television footage of people gathering together in cities, because Michael Jackson had died, I felt another loss, the loss of any public life.

I've felt this before; on 9/11 and the days after, when Obama was elected, and sometimes, just when there's been enough snow to close the schools.

I didn't grow up in the country, as any of you who've read this blog before must have picked up on by now. I grew up in New York, in it's near suburbs, in the projects for a short time, and in the city proper the minute I finished High School. The city is in my blood.

I may love the countryside, the quiet nights, the frogs, the trees, the birds at my feeders, the pace, all of it, but my heart is that of a city person. When something happens in the larger world, my urge is to leave my house and be with strangers, to take to the streets for solace or for celebration.

Earlier today, when I saw the news reports, I looked out the window unto the garden that I love, and for one moment I loathed it. The trees do not care about Michael Jackson's death. The birds would not being singing "Billy Jean."

I was brought back to the early 80's and how I could look out my window in Brooklyn and see boys doing Jackson's moves on the street. And then I moved further back in time, to when I lived in the projects and won a dance contest - me! the shy girl who never spoke! - the Jackson Five were singing ABC 1 2 3 You and Me. . .Why did they give this white girl a prize? I couldn't believe it.

So, tonight I had an urge to sit on a stoop in New York, where I'm sure I'd hear Jackson singing, or maybe see someone donning a white glove in memory of him. In spite of everything I've directed you to in the last post, and a near-revulsion at what I imagine Michael Jackson may have done (and what he'd done to himself, and others had done to him), he was a part of my life. I'd never given it a thought.

Outside, the frogs and crickets are doing their thing. Tonight, I'd give anything for a bunch of weeping neighbors, a stoop, and an old boom box, a ghetto blaster, blasting away. Shut up! Turn that thing down! Nope, not tonight.

Photo note: Check out Lyle Owerko's "The Boombox Project."

Michael Jackson

I was surprised at how sad I was when I heard he died. I have nothing to say about it,at least not now, but Ta-Nahisi Coates does. It seemed oddly fitting that my last second-to-last post featured Prince, and how music does what it can do. . .so go, read Coates, and watch the video. . .it's heartbreaking, really.

I had forgotten how good the guy was.

Addendum: Earlier this evening, I tried in vain to articulate to Dick the tragedy of Jackson's life and what it meant. Andrew Sullivan indites us all, to some extent. Read that, too.

Some people know how to get to the point. I'm not one of them.

Opinions (we all have them)

When I was in art school, I was the little dictator of my tenement apartment. On the day my room-mate and I moved in, I said to her, "I'm in art school and I'm very sensitive to my environment, so I will make the decisions about what the non-private space looks like." Well, I may not have said that exactly, but I was quite firm about being the judge and jury of all things visual outside my poor room-mate's bedroom door. She seemed fine with it.

I remember I had decided this had to be announced for she had put two owls made out of coconut shells up on a shelf in the living room. They were hideous to my eyes. It was plainly obvious to me that she had not a shred of taste and changes must be made. How she stood my attitude is still beyond me. But then again, in my home, right now, I am the final arbiter of all the public space. When Dick put out a picnic table on the deck today and I came out to move the benches around, he said something to that effect, that matters such as these were in my hands. Where to put up a painting or even something as trivial as a laundry basket, well, the ultimate verdict is up to me, the little Hitler of all things aesthetic.

I am absolutely assured of my taste and I don't care if anyone disagrees with me. I feel I should be ashamed of this position, but I'm not. If someone wants my opinion, I'll give it freely, and I don't hedge for a second. Now, if it's something they've made or it's in their own home, I probably won't, for I think it's none of my business. I will usually only offer my bewilderment, for why should they even care what I think? Whatever you like is fine with me. Just don't put it in my house or try to sell it to me.

When I used to teach embroidery classes, I would always have the women (no, there were never men) choose their own colors. It was the single hardest thing they would learn to do in the class, and it always shocked me. Women who apparently could get up in the morning and pick out their own clothes were often reduced to paralysis when presented with an "artistic" choice. So, I would ask them how they picked their clothes, or their sofas, or the colors of the walls in their homes. I assumed (correctly) that not many would have used a decorator (but so many would if they could afford it, I'm sure). The answer was always, "because I like it", and so, I'd say that art was nothing more than that. Sorry to all those art-schooled of you out there, but in the end, it does come down to that.

The old saw "I don't know anything but I know what I like" is not much different than the schooled version, which might be "I do know something and I know what I like."

It's interesting when people have to collaborate on things visual (or anything else for that matter). Then their tastes and their reasoning has to be examined, and often we don't have any reasons besides those above. However, I often do, but I sometimes have to dig deep to find it.

Dick's trying to come up with a logo for Randome (link at the right) and it's pretty interesting seeing what the designer comes up with, how I react, how he reacts, and how another party reacts. It's all different, and sometimes we are all absolutely right. And at that point, it does come down to taste.

And of course, I am also thinking of perfume. Luca Turin wore Parfums de Nicolais' New York for ten years and he waxes poetic about it. To him, it is one of the perfect scents. I tried some the other day. It didn't offend me. I didn't need to scrub. But, I just did not like it, it did nothing for me, and I'll never wear it again. That's just taste. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I would imagine some people would chastise themselves and think, "Oh, I haven't got any taste!" I don't know why, but I have never done that to myself, and I'm glad for that, even if it does makes me a bit of a jerk.

Painting note: Tamara de Lempicka "Dr. Boucard" 1929

The people of de Lempicka's portraits all look so strong-willed to me. I found it funny that on the site (linked above), "Women in Art History", it says of her "as a child, Tamara was known as self-willed and domineering." I'm guessing that a male artist wouldn't have this in his bio.

elisha cuthbert wallpapers gallery

Which thought should I follow?

Suddenly, a flurry of thoughts, all begging to be written down, after almost a month of quiet. . .where do I begin?

Do I begin with my journey home tonight from sitting in meditation after a week of intense quiet, punctuated by the sounds of frogs, wind, rain (and more rain), one movie, cars whooshing by on the wet road, the click click click of my cat's paws on the wood floor, the intense need for quiet, more quiet, fear of the loss of the quiet when Dick returned home. . .and then, as I sat for nearly 15 minutes waiting for a cool cup of iced decaf, I heard the sound of AC/DC from the truck behind me and thought, "that sounds good."

I turned the radio on to the same station. Cranked it. Cranked it more. Cranked it until my body was vibrating. I slapped my hand against the side of my car as I waited in the queue for that cup of coffee, and I noticed the guy behind me was slapping his hand against the side of his truck. He blinked his lights. I looked in my mirror and saw a truck full of smiling people (which brings to mind the last time I really saw the people in a vehicle behind me, giving me the finger, all of them). In that moment, everything was perfect. I was glad the person in front of me had some sort of trouble with his order. I would never have turned on the Mountain of Pure Rock. My need for quiet was too deep.

And then it was gone, that need. The next song up was David Bowie's "Major Tom" (is that the right name?) and I sang along at the top of my lungs, laughing at my mockery of Bowie's accent and my always-there wish to sing fantastically; HA! The next song was something awful, I don't remember what, and I fished out my iPod. This was fun! My body was vibrating. I remembered how it felt when I was at the Kripalu Center, years ago, doing yoga one late evening in an empty room, while listening to Nine Inch Nails and Soundgarden. I didn't think anyone was around. The next day, the director of the school mentioned to me that she believed I was the first person she'd ever seen or heard of doing yoga to "that" type of music. Then she smiled - she loved every minute of it.

I think I hear Enya sighing.

So, after Bowie was over and that smaltzy ballad came on, I listened to Black Hole Sun and then some White Stripes, and then Closer by Nine Inch Nails. . .ended with Purple Rain, sitting in my driveway, singing falsetto along with Prince, smiling from ear to ear. That there's a perfect song. I don't care what your tastes are. Listen to it sometime, loud, closely. Let your body feel it. Prince is a genius.

Just my opinion, mind you.

My ears are ringing now, and y'know what? It feels good. I feel fine. I want to dance, to sing, to scream out loud, to move. . .but Dick's asleep and the house is quiet, as is the road at 10:32p.m. on a Wednesday night. I'm still moving inside myself, feeling my body, feeling it in a good way, which I haven't felt in a long time. I feel great. No. I feel good. My hands are tingling. I was pumping the air with my fists. Ah, what they say is true: music soothes the savage soul (or is it beast?) Doesn't matter. Not a whit.

Oh, man, I've been asleep to the feeling of being alive in this body for too long. Pain does that to a person. They say exercise is a good antidote, but it's hard to remember when you don't feel like moving. Turn the music on! Then try to sit still. Just try.

I can't do it.

I could go on and on and there's thoughts about yesterday's post that I'd like to address, to answer what a commenter write about, to expand on it. . .oh, there's so much I'd like to say right now, but I'll stop here, I'll stop. . .I mean it. These words are tumbling out (and I'm letting them), tumbling out in a rush of blah blah blah and I figure I'd let you all see that, show you what the inside of my mind is like freed completely. And now, I'll take a breath and stop. Good night.

Photo note: A very 80's Prince.

Addendum: This past Saturday was my mother's birthday. My mother died in 1984. The week she passed away, the movie "Purple Rain" had just come out in theaters. The day after my mother died, I had to visit a lawyer to discuss technical matters, and after I did, on a beautiful sun shining high in the sky August day, I stepped into the cool dark of a movie theater to watch Purple Rain. I had loved Prince since I first saw him on the BET channel when I checked myself into a motel after trudging through a record-breaking snowstorm in Trenton, New Jersey, thinking I might die of exposure (which was possible). I have no idea if Purple Rain was a decent movie or not. Of course, I loved the music, but the film? Beats me. I sat in the theater, weeping for my mother. No one noticed, or if they did, I did not notice them noticing me. I wept and wept until there were no tears left. It took me years not to cry when I heard the song "Purple Rain", and tonight, sitting in the car, on the same kind of sultry summer night that my mother died, it felt more than wonderful to be smiling so freely and enjoying the song without any hint of sadness. Now, there are just memories, not all good, but that's okay, for that's life. I wonder if my Mom ever listened to Prince. I have no idea.

Addendum II: Go here to see a grainy video of Prince, live, performing a fairly stripped down version of Purple Rain. Why isn't he cited more often as being the amazing guitarist that he is?