Musings

Eye of the Storm

Karen


Altered Book Journal :: The Art of Happiness

Like others around the world, I have been transfixed, appalled, and saddened by what I have seen happening to the people in the Gulf states in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I have been following one blog in particular Dancing with Katrina where two journalists who stayed holed-up throughout the storm have been updating us daily with conditions, news, pictures, and their personal experiences.

Ironically, when I came to the latest page in my altered book The Art of Happiness, the text was full of imagery about the wrath of Nature. As I selected words and phrases for my poem, the pictures of the hurricane poured into my mind. When it came time to do the art, I searched on the internet for one of those deceptively beautiful infrared satellite images of the storm and that became my inspiration for the art work. Such bright colors hiding the murky, gray reality of the devestation of so many lives

Visible and invisible
Nature
inexplicable
unfathomable
disaster.
stirring and heaving
chaotic, panic
drifting towards the darkness.
tossing and wailing
recurrent winds
a battle between
the forces of destruction
and the forces of creation
and all the poor creatures of earth.

The Art of Happiness Turns Sad

Karen


Altered Book Journal :: The Art of Happiness :: Page 10

You know how some things conspire to make you feel sad? Can you see the despair in this picture from my altered book The Art of Happiness? That’s not exactly how I was feeling, but a brew of meloncholy was created when I –one–watched the last episode of Six Feet Under, –two– watched the song/video of the the song from the final montage, Sia’s “Breathe Me,” –three– discovered Johnny Cash’s heartbreaking rendition of the Nine Inch Nail’s song “Hurt,” and –four– listened to them over and over in a loop on iTunes with Nirvana’s “All Apologies” and “Come as You Are.” Lots of pain and death in there. And then the text of the book was leading me towards a very desolate found-poem. This painting just flowed from all of that. Please, somebody snap me out of it! Just kidding…everything’s good.

I taste
something to hate
here
in this place
of desolation
and misery
futile
last resort
wretched wretched
weary tedium
sick to death of the daily struggle
and burden of the mind
poor decisions
weak will
yet
i dont’t
feel like ending it.

On the Verge of Weeping in the Hallmark Store

Karen

My oldest son, Christopher, is turning 20 tomorrow. Today I went to the Hallmark store to try to find him a birthday card. Am I the only one who abhores picking out greeting cards? I must have read almost every single card there was. Nothing seemed to fit. I wanted to find something funny and encouraging– but couldn’t find a thing. I originally by-passed the section with the cards that have deep colors and swirly fonts on the front. You know the ones with SON written in huge sweeping letters. Finally, out of desperation, I picked up a few of the sentimental types and almost burst into tears. And I’m not even menopausal! Was it the thought of my “baby” turning twenty? It hadn’t really occurred to me that this was a milestone, but yes, it is because tomorrow my son will be exiting the teen years. But wait, it can’t be that significant if Hallmark doesn’t even a have section for the 20th birthday. They just skip from sweet sixteen to twenty-one. What’s so great about 21 anyhow? Wait. I know . . . he can start drinking legally! Whoop de doo! And here he’s been able to vote and get killed in the military for two years already. I didn’t even look at the 21 yr. old cards. I figure they’re all about getting wasted t.

I was trying to think about where I was at in my head when I was twenty. But it’s too long ago to remember. I think I was just passing time until I was twenty-one and could drink legally!

But really, why would I get so teary-eyed in the Hallmark aisle? I think I need to buy a bigger sized pair of pants. There’s not much more in life that’s as depressing to contemplate as that. With the exception of coping with a mother who’s drifing away in an Alzheimer haze. I guess sometimes it’s all just too much to take.

Wall Sculpture :: For the Roses

Karen

The Wall Sculpture :: For the Roses was the second wall sculpture that I made. I had picked up that book for some reason before the concept of hanging altered books entered my mind. When I was looking for books to work with, the title immediately made me think of roses blooming on the page. I cut the center sections out and then painted the back sides of the pages in darkening degrees of pink. I cut out little star shapes and folded them back, which created the the roses. My sister says they look like stars, but I see roses. I cut and folded pages of the book for the vines that I wove in and out of the pages before I glued them shut. I really like the way this book looks on the wall.

I’m working on another flower-themed wall hanging right now called Anatomy of Paradise. It’s taking me a while to get it finished because I have to keep leaving home to take care of my mom. I have a hard time working on a project if I can’t stick with it over time. I like to just sit down, start, and then work and work until it gets done. If I have to put it down and pick it up, I get frustrated; I lose my rhythm. So right now the vines and leaves and blossoms for this altered book are lying all over my work space and have been for about three weeks. I can’t seem to sit down and continue working cause when I get back from my parents’ house, I have so much to catch-up with at home. I thought this summer I would really be able to focus and create. It’s just not turning out the way I had imagined.

Listening to Anne Lamott

Karen

One of my favorite books about writing is Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. She writes in such an engaging way, making everyday struggles seem sweet and sublime.

When I saw that she was going to be speaking in Berkeley, near my home, I knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hear her. She spoke for about an hour, mixing her wry humor with simple truths about her life as a mother, daughter, and writer. You can read my reflections on the evening in my essay Anne Lamott :: Tender Words.