"When you hit a wall, just kick in it."

[Warning :::::: I wrote this late at night, and it gets a little too self-reflective, so bear with me :::::: Warning]

To be an artist.
I have always revered the life of an artist. Maybe not the being starved, penniless part - but the part where you are able to create things, and comment on society or mankind or whatever - that is what I covet. To be different, to make a difference, to touch people with your gift.

These lofty proclamations that I make to myself (and sometimes to you) like writing everyday or picking up a paintbrush again or just being someone who can think outside the box - these promises exhilarate and stifle me. My creative soul is at odds with my Type-A personality. I am practical and safe but I wish to be spontaneous.

I like art because it gives me the opportunity to let go. When I took art classes in college I would get paint everywhere and I didn't stress over every detail. This person who made non-stop lists all day long - short of scheduling bathroom breaks - could not be the same person as the one dancing to her iPod in the dimly lit studio at 1 a.m., splashing paint all over the place, could she? Can she?

Just Kids by Patti Smith unearthed all these queries and brought them to the forefront of my mind again. And it validated my persistent want for a creative partner. It's funny because, just the other day I was talking to my friends about wanting someone to help me stay on top of my writing. Someone I could send drafts back and forth to, commenting on each others' work. An accomplice to constructively criticize and praise. I was just thinking that if I did so well and was motivated by accountability with the gym maybe I could transfer that helpfulness to my writing. Yes - I have you guys to keep my accountable - but unless you badger me and give me that "We have to do this! We will feel greatly accomplished afterward! Don't let me down" face - it unfortunately doesn't have the same effect.


Patti and Robert were lovers, partners and friends. They pushed each other to be the best versions of their creative selves. They understood each other on a deeper level. They loved each other through everything. Even when they didn't understand some choices, they were still respectful and supportive. It is this that I crave the most. A creative soulmate.

Soulmates. God, that sounds so cliche and naive. But this is different. I'm not talking about the "soulmates" in movies or books. I'm talking about those people in your life that just get you. There isn't just one out there for you. I think there are a select few who will fit the bill. One soulmate may be totally different from the next depending on where you are in your life. But essentially they all do the same thing - accept you. They never try to change you. What they do is push you to be the best version of yourself  - the one you constantly think about being.

I guess my question is, is this too much to ask for?

Las Aguas - Lima, Peru

I was reading through an old journal of mine and I came across some small vignettes that I wrote in 2008 when I went to Peru to visit my grandparents. Here is one about the fountain park in Lima:

 I walk in and the first thing I see is a skyscraping gush of water shooting towards the clouds, suspended in the air. The middle fountain, longer than the first, is where it will take place.
Sitting on a bench waiting for the 7:15 showing to start, I hear little kids of all ages scrambling to catch the water spritzing and squirting from below the bull's eye of dancing lights.

The show finally begins.
Water follows the music with sprays, spurts, puffs, and swells. The fountains spray diagonally. Straight up. Sequences of colors and shapes. Water cyclones, flowerbeds of crystalline water shooting upward like arrows. Each melting away when hit with another.
Pirouetting like the ballerinas of Lincoln Center, the water follows the beat of the soothing music. The Prima Ballerina shines in the center as the chorus jumps and twirls and sashays across the pool....

Once upon a time.........The End.

Like I've said before, short stories were never my thing. But the universe, as always, is trying to tell me something. It happened by accident. I swear. I didn't even mean to pick up three short story books in the span of a month (February, the shortest month of the year to boot). But, pick them up I did and again, I was pleasantly surprised.


How easily do I succumb to the power of suggestion? Well, when I heard J.D. Salinger died -- even though I did not have fond memories of reading The Catcher in the Rye in high school -- I decided to go to my library and comb the shelves for Franny and Zooey. As luck would have it, it was no where to be found, and I stumbled upon this little gem instead:

Honestly, after reading this collection, I can see why people thought Salinger was a genius (read: disturbed). Yes, the stories were a bit unnerving, but I don't think that's why I felt anxious while reading. I'm pretty sure it was his writing that created this unease. Even with eccentric characters and bizarre plot lines, it was the frenetic thought process and word placement that kept me willingly cringing page after page.

Normally, I can't read more than one book at a time. I just don't work that way. It is easier for me to read a book in two days, than to carefully switch my mind from one set of characters to another. However, that doesn't stop me from taking out 10 books every time I set foot in a library. Which then involves me frantically trying to finish one book before the next one is due back. I renew the books as often as I can, but that doesn't help when it's: read one book, take out five more. I think that's why I liked reading these short stories though. I could finish a 15 page story, and if need be, put the book on the back burner, while I finished another book before it was due back. It was also nice to take breaks between each of Salinger's erratic mini-worlds.

Well, when I picked up Nine Stories, I also discovered this beautiful, well-written collection:

I thought Valentines would be perfect if I read it before Valentine's Day and wrote a post for the special day.....

I'll wait while you check back....-tick-tock-tick-tock-....oh, hey....no? you didn't find a post about this book on Feb 14th? Yea. I know.
Whaaaat? (whiney voice) -- It crept up on me, I couldn't finish it (didn't start it) in time.

I wish I had though, because I fell in love with this book. The title was pleasingly ironic and every story in it was lovingly sardonic. It wasn't sappy or sentimental or cheesy or mushy or lovey or anything that would normally go along with the word "Valentine" when in relation to its namesake day. It's about lovers and relationships, but nothing ties together neatly in the end. It was heartache, heartbreak and realism rolled into one remarkably touching package.

So, I've decided I will no longer cower from novellas. I won't dodge anecdotal 10-pagers. The universe has won.

Hey, you never know, maybe now that I've stopped hating them, I can start writing them?

"People do not come to Greece to rest. They come to gain their days."

Get comfortable, it's story time. Today's feature presentation is the myth of Persephone (as told my Sue Monk Kidd in Traveling with Pomegranates:

"The maiden Persephone, is picking flowers in a meadow when a hole opens up in the earth and up charges Hades, lord of the dead, who abducts Persephone into the underworld. Unable to find her daughter, Demeter, the great earth Goddess of grain, harvest and fertility, lights a torch and scours the earth. After nine futile days of searching, Demeter is approached by Hecate, the quintessential old crone and Goddess of the crossroads and the dark moon, who explains that her daughter has been abducted.

In a rage and too dejected to keep up her divine duties, Demeter lets the crops wither and the earth becomes a wasteland. She disguises herself as an old woman and travels to the town of Eleusis, where she sits beside a well in despair. Zeus tries to talk some sense into her. Hades will make a nice son-in-law, he says. She needs to lighten up and let the crops grow. Demeter will not budge.

The earth becomes so desolate Zeus finally gives up and orders Persephone returned to her mother. As Persephone prepares to leave, however, she unwittingly swallows some pomegranate seeds, which ensures her return to the underworld for a third of each year.

 

Mother and daughter are reunited on the first day of spring... When Demeter learns about the fateful pomegranate, her joy is tempered, but she stops her mourning and allows the earth to flourish again. After all, her daughter is back. Not the same innocent girl who tripped through the meadow picking flowers, but a woman transfigured by her experience.”

When I was in younger, my mom decided it would be a good idea to put me in Greek school. She would drive me to the Greek Orthodox church a few towns over and pick me up after a few hours of intense Helenic immersion. We had language classes, history classes and even dance classes. I learned the Greek national anthem. I performed in plays and dance recitals. It was very intense. But I loved it. I felt special (and no M, not eat the paste special) because I was the only one of my siblings to go to Greek school. It was a really nice way to connect with my dad and learn more about his country and culture. And it doesn't hurt that my dad still boasts (more than 10 years later) that I won $50 for being the best student in my class.

The best history lessons were the ones that included Greek mythology. One of my favorite myths was about Persephone. It's a basic tale about "empty nest" syndrome. But instead of calling Persephone's phone incessantly and sending text messages that say, "are u ok? call home" (like my mom), Demeter (P's mom) is so distraught over her missing daughter that she falls behind on all her responsibilities and basically lets nature go to shit. I can't even imagine what kind of state the world would be if my my mom had mythical powers....*shudder*

Anyway...I had forgotten about this mythical tale until I stumbled upon it while reading Traveling with Pomegranates. A story about a mother and daughter, trying to come to terms with themselves and make some significant strides in self-discovery and self-acceptance. Kudos on this perfect pairing with Persephone's tale, Sue.

I have to be honest though, this book was not one of my favorites. Kidd is in her fifties and she's going on and on about how she's now an old woman, suffering through menopause. She makes these statements about losing her womanhood, accepting that death is right around the corner, etc. Unfortunately, I just could not relate to this older woman coming-of-age situation. I was expecting a fun tale about a mother and daughter gallivanting around Europe, getting into fun trouble and good-natured misadventures (kind of like what happens when my sisters and I go away with our mom). But, I guess I was wrong.

I know I'm not in my fifties, and I have no idea what it feels like to go through menopause and what it might do to your psyche in regards to your "womanhood", but I would hope that it didn't bring about this: take life too seriously, severe introspection that Kidd experienced at the time. I am in no way trying to diminish her journey. I just can't really understand it.

It was easier to relate to her daughter Ann. Yes, there were some moments where I felt stifled by both her and Kidd's uber-feminism (do we have to question everything?) but I was definitely able to enjoy/understand her twenty-something angst more.

All that being said, I did enjoy many parts of the book. One in particular is a moment where Kidd experiences an epiphany concerning her and Ann's paralleled self-discovery and sums it up with this: "Ann is new potential in search of ripening and I am ripening in search of new potential." I can dig this idea of a natural shift occurring once you reach a certain age. A cyclical rite of passage if you will.

I think that if you are looking for a book you can share with your mom, and are willing to overcome Kidd's (for lack of a better word) preachy moments, you might learn something new that could help you understand each other a little better, you know, woman to woman.


P.S. I also liked the fact that Kidd talks about her creative process while writing Secret Life of Bees. From a writer's (I use that term loosely) point of view, I appreciated that she also deals with writer's block and feelings of inadequacy and doubt, even with all her success. Gives a fledgling scribe some hope.