When Life Takes a Hairpin Turn

Unknown Artist

Life rarely goes straight forward. Generally speaking, I’d like it to. I’m a planner and I really don’t care to have my plans interrupted. By this time, you’d think I’d know that thing about life: it just isn’t linear–at least not in a straight forward sort of way.

 
Life enjoys the twists and turns, sometimes gentle curves, mostly gentle curves; but every now and then life throws in a hairpin curve. A dramatic change of direction. Maybe just for fun–that life force called by different names obviously has a sense of humor. Or maybe just to keep us from becoming complacent.
 
I suppose those hairpin turns can be seen as challenges, even opportunities. At the time, however, a hairpin curve is an obstacle, a difficulty, a disappointment.
 
It could be that a sharp turn of events really does mean that something is over and something else has begun. Or it could mean that it’s time to reassess and realign: to rethink; to incorporate the new into the old in creative ways.
 
For certain, a real hairpin turn demands a change of direction, demands some change of plans. And it demands walking on, trusting to the future, holding on to strands that can be collected and reaching for the wispy new strands that float by.
 
M L S Baisch © 12/2017
Photo: unknown artist – Think of this cat as a cat turning from one of its 9 lives to another.

Happiness! Ah!

Art by Catherine Rayner

Thinking about happiness today, and just what it is really. Many many people think that life is about finding happiness, about being happy. Think about happiness as something to be found, as if it hides under a rock or, more often, resides in a specific other person or persons. Think about happiness as the effect of a cause, but a cause outside oneself.

 
I came on this quote by Albert Camus. He takes the happiness dialogue up a step or two, raises it to the level of principles. I suppose that is the truth. Happiness is not just about a feeling, it is about the conditions that not only cause the feeling, or that we think cause the feeling, it is about the conditions that we allow the feeling we call happiness to be caused by in the first place.
 
We can only be happy when we allow ourselves to be happy. Some people can be happy only with money, or only with a devoted lover; others only in the bosom of their families, on and on. But there are other people who can be happy without those things. People who can be happy in the face of terrific loss; happy in the event of drastically changed circumstances. Even happy in declining health. If happiness were a fixed phenomenon it wouldn’t be such a shape-changer.
 
Here’s Camus’ quote: “Those who prefer their principles over their happiness,” Albert Camus wrote in contemplating our self-imposed prisons, “they refuse to be happy outside the conditions they seem to have attached to their happiness.”
 
M L S Baisch
 
Art by Catherine Rayner. Love love her art.  And the metaphors her art bring to my mind.

Tea for Two

“There’s nothing sadder to me than associations held together by postage stamps. If you can’t see or hear or touch a man it’s best to let him go.” J. Steinbeck – East of Eden

Perhaps central to the disassociation of our times is our disassociation from one another. Family is no longer a centripetal force. Nor is community. In fact, community–where you can see, hear, or touch has been co–opted by technology. Now we hear and see though our various devices and even touch has become sterile–perhaps to the demise of the human race.

When women devalue men, of course men will devalue women. Men may find solace in dolls. Women, apparently, prefer to find solace in metphors for anger–some, in real anger. What are children to think?

Children, after all, really do come in two sexes. Boys really do need good men as role models. Girls really do need good women. Neither particularly need to be modeled by a society that pretty much devalues normal human relations. A fabricated society is not a society; nor is it ‘civilized’ as in a civilization.

It is a trope. There is nothing literal, nothing real, about relationships that devolve into the realm of the artificial. Worse, there is nothing that can be sustained.

Steinbeck had it right: if you can’t see or hear or touch, you may have commercial relationships, you may have memories of earlier times when relationships were central to the life you were living, you may even have developed a habitual inclination to artificially connect, but your real life is comprised of the things you do every day and the people you interact with everyday–those you can see and hear and touch.

It is a sadness, the fact that life moves on in a continuum of change leaving us with memories when change takes people, places, things, and activities from us. But there is no happiness in living on memories.

Nor is there happiness living in the fantasy land of technology. There may, for some, be wealth, but health? Depends, I suppose on how one defines it.

© 2018 M L S Baisch

On Neurotheology

Our Lady of Heaven Catholic Church Oreana, Idaho

Our Lady of Heaven Catholic Church
Oreana, Idaho

My friend, Christine, mentioned neurotheology this morning – something I’ve thought about, but not put a name to. Obviously, writers, most of us who call ourselves writers I imagine, know that when we turn loose of our minds, words come from somewhere inside–from a place, or perhaps from a knowledge, that wasn’t known to us consciously.

Below is a quote from an article in the Atlantic (by Lynne Blumberg, Jun 5 2014, link below).

“When practitioners surrender their will, activity decreases in their frontal lobes, suggesting that speech is being generated from some place other than the normal speech centers.”

The writing experience is simply that. When words flow free to the page–and writing is a form of speech, speech a form of thought–they flow from this place.

I’ve long recognized writing–not all writing, obviously, not letters, not even this post, but what most likely call creative writing–to be a spiritual activity. When people say that religion is dead, or God is dead, it likely means these people have lost, or never have found, the capacity to surrender their will and commune from this other place.

Good writing comes from the place. The commercially-oriented writing market is, perhaps, probably, really killing God.

 
© M L S Baisch 2017
 
https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/06/what-happens-to-brains-during-spiritual-experiences/361882/

Permutation of Color Wheel

Add color to your emotional life!

Add color to your worries!

Sometimes something just catches my fancy, as did this worry wheel. Love this concept – a worry wheel that looks like a demented artist’s color wheel. How much nicer to have one’s worries organized and colorful!

I imagine that just the process of identifying, categorizing, and coloring every worrisome thought that flits through my mind would soon lead to hilarity.

I’m not particularly worried, though I have colorful things to worry about–I imagine we all have vibrant worries, pastel worries, dark worries, bright worries, lurking worries, silly worries, and also very real worries.

If I ever get around to coloring in my worries, I definitely plan to put the bright ones in the middle of the wheel. I can see that there’s something about bright central worries that makes the dark worries lurking on the outside less terrifying. No one can doubt that the dark worries are out there lurking. Not anyone with a television.

Gardens, though, are peaceful, and I spend many of my hours in the gardens. They are also a lot of work, especially this time of year. The dig here is about over–another week or two. It’s about time to be putting my gardens to bed. Cold weather is just around the corner, which is difficult to believe since it was at least 103 here today.

I’m ready for cool weather and another season. I seem to want to be picking up my paintbrushes, to be putting some words on blank pages with a story line that makes better sense than this post. My mind is getting playful again. Tis the season! The dig is coming to a close for another year.

M L S Baisch

9/2017

LIFE GOES ON . . .

Rat swimming the Snake River, Idaho

Rat swimming the Snake River, Idaho

Life goes on

Inside the ups,
Inside the downs;

Inside the frowns,
Inside the smiles,

Inside the truth,
Inside the guile.

Life goes quick:

As short as it is long;
As fast as decades slow;

As brief as winks and smiles;
As memories ebb and flow;

As wonders never cease
To grab, pull and release;

Or hold, to cuddle close
To fabricated truths.

Wherever Is life going?
Wherever does life go?

M L S Baisch © 2017
8/2017

Photo: Rat in Snake river 4/2014 © M L S Baisch

Rat swimming the Snake River, Idaho

Rat swimming the Snake River, Idaho

The Idée Fixe

The east park garden in bloom.

The east park garden in bloom.

To quote Van Gogh from a letter to his brother: “Principles are good and worth the effort only when they develop into deeds. . . . The great doesn’t happen through impulse alone, and is a succession of little things that are brought together.”

 
Which leads to a discussion about what happens between the the thought (impulse to action) and the action. Santiago Ramón y Cajal called them “diseases of the will”:
 
1. There are the ineffectual but enthusiastic contemplators,
2. The pretentious intellectuals who stumble into endless erudition, but never stop preparing,
3. There are those who puff up with over-confidence, and mostly believe in miracles,
4. There are those who never manage to get the inside to the outside: the thoughts inside the mind out into the world,
5. There are the talkers, the groupies, who endlessly mine the minds of others,
6. And there are the bibliophiles–lost in book after book after book after book . . .
 
Who have I left out? Certainly not myself!
 
What have I left out? Well, I’ve left out all the parts of life that fill it up with things that have to be done, and done NOW! And I’ve left out the parts of life that have more to do with the corporeal than the ethereal: the body and the mind get tired, hungry, sore, restless, sometimes sick, sometimes anxious, often worried, frequently on hold. I’ve left out time. I’ve left out the constraints of the human condition that make it necessary to keep on keeping on with the mundane.
 
Now van Gogh pretty much retired to a solitude. But before then he was attracted to trouble–finding women he wanted to help: not a recipe for a steady life. Living in the days before modern medicine, he turned to art for it’s therapeutic benefit: it worked for him. It worked well enough that he spent his money on art instead of food: in the end, that didn’t work for him.
 
But he painted.
 
So let me add:
7. Life happens between the impulse and it’s manifestation. Those who manage to bring forth the pregnant impulse do so at a price.
 
It’s a choice, always a choice. Many say life needs to be balanced, should be balanced. But what, exactly, comes from balance? Happiness? Success? (If success can be defined.)
 
What is important? All I know is that what is important seems to have a short attention span. It’s like the weather near the ocean: wait a few minutes and it will change.
 
There is a buoy out there in the water: memory. Idée fixe, that is OBSESSION seems to be the only way to birth the interior self. Obsession has a bad reputation, though I can’t imagine why. It’s uniquely the obsessive impulse that leaves any trace of the interior self behind.
 
It’s Friday. It’s only on Friday that I have time like this to let my mind wander into words–at least until September. Until then, I’m a gardener. The garden, at any time of the year, is a muse. But it’s in July and August–during the summer heat–that all the work has to be done: the digging and shipping of the iris. And it’s in July and August that my mind goes into neutral: not much conscious thinking goes on on when there’s work to be done. Still, it thinks. It must still think, because while it rests it manages to put its house in order. July and August are my mind’s respite from itself.
 
M L S Baisch

Whither Thou Goeth

 

Albert Handell Lookout Point - Pastel

Albert Handell – Lookout Point / Pastel

Whither Thou Goeth

Life, naughty life, thou sneeketh up on me. Thou bendeth
thy irresistible crooked finger and beckoneth me onward.

Thou maketh me to forget to wash my face
until my crusted eyes forget to see where my feet troddeth.

Thou stoppereth my ears until the birds sing silently through days
and the toads roam through my nights without croaking.

Thou forgeteth to have me remember to turn out the lights
and the oven and the faucet and the sound of my heart beating,
so that they burn brightly to spilleth out over the shadow of my days,
burneth the roast until it’s crispy, flood over the floor of the life
left to me, left with a dirty sink and stoppered-up with bloody veins.

Thou maketh me old when it’s wise I prefer to be.
Thou maketh me silly when I would have chosen carefree.

Thou maketh me forget everything save worries without end
and sorrows that come to stay like beggars with nowhere else to go.

Derelict, they burrow in, snuggle down but never sleep.
Famished, they eat me from the inside out.

Who knew that Forgetful would move in, take the stage and insist
on being cast as Worry, the starring role in the farewell performance?

Who knew, in the opening act, that the play would be at least
as tragic as comic, and that the finger that beckoneth was deadly serious?

M L S Baisch © 2017

Night-Song

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Night-Song

A life swirls away day by day; it swifts away into a drain
of calendared days where only the night’s light
brings bird-songs–remembered trills coming from unknown
places, warbling from down there somewhere.

Somewhere where memories are the pitch pipe
for the choir. And the choir! Oh the remembered faces!
Unseen for a calendar of time, it rehearses for the underworld
premiere without me: but then I’m only to be a walk-on.

Up here in life, I’m still circling the drain, taking an occasional
peek into the cellar through the prism of a beating heart.
A life ticks off another day, until the starry night-song
begins again to keep regular time.

M L S Baisch © 2017

Photo: Art by Jacqueline van Leeuwenstein

Book Spine Poetry

2017-03-18BookSpinePoetry-5

Well, winter is over for sure. It’s definitely spring! Among other things, that means that I have piles and piles, stacks and stacks of books! They’re all over the place–on most every surface. I’m a reader. I buy them–on line and in book stores; I reread from things I keep on my shelves; I read for pleasure, for relaxation, for information, and probably out of habit: I just love to read.

I don’t know if you’ve heard of Nina Katchadourian. She’s an artist of an unusual stripe. And, I don’t know where or when, but she’s who introduced me to the concept of BOOK SPINE POETRY. So every time I get ready to actually make sense of my bookshelves that have been piled high, sort of in the order I’ve read them (no I don’t always read every single one from beginning to end when I take it from the shelf–some I do, some I eventually do, some I never so, and some just were never meant to be read that way in the first place).

BOOK SPINE POETRY, is simple. Interesting, too, because it reminds me what I’ve been thinking over the past months. These books are all on a chest close to where I read the most: in bed.

THE BAD BEGINNING
THE REPTILE ROOM
THE WIDE WINDOW
THE PEOPLE IN THE TREES
THE LIFE AND OPINION OF THE TOMCAT MURR
STORIES-ANTON CHEKHOV
CHEKHOV-THE EVOLUTION OF HIS ART
CHEKHOV-THE COMPLETE PLAYS
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
ANTON CHEKHOV-(A BIOGRAPHY)

Sometimes the spines read like poetry all by themselves–sort of like the refrigerator magnets where one can simply juxtaposition words. This pile, not so much.

I’ll make it a poem:

From a bad beginning
the reptile room could be seen
through the wide window,
where people in the trees frowned
at the antics of Tomcat Murr.
His life and opinions were like stories
out of Anton Chekhov.
The evolution of his art seems
like complete plays on his words
when told by the kindness of strangers.
Taken altogether: a biography complete!

Ooooo. What was I doing with these books. Well the top 3 are all Lemony Snicket books–I was looking at them for form, primarily: how they were put together. And I also re-read the first book, and dipped into the other two. I remembered that the form was interesting and wanted to take another look. One thing I’d forgotten was that the Snicket series includes definitions of words as part of the story.

The People in the Trees I keep picking up and putting down. It’s interesting, but not as interesting as other things.

Tomcat Murr came off my shelf when a friend asked me if I knew about it. It’s another book that is worth a look ever so often to remember its form. As a writer, form is always important. (Another book I re-read for form this winter is Olive Kitteridge. It made it to a stack in another room.)

Tennessee Williams is one of a group of genius writers, often expatriate, coming out of WWII. They’re all worth reading. It’s said by many that TW was the best of them. There’s much of his work I haven’t read: I’m catching up. My favorite of the group is Capote, actually: Capote writing before he wrote In Cold Blood.

Then there are the three Chekhov books–one about him as an evolving writer/artist, his plays (I’ve read more of his stories than plays and wanted to do something about that), and a good biography (most important if you want to understand a writer).

My reading life has come to have its own celebration of sort. It’s a fun ritual as I take down my stacks to make a library sort of sense of them again; shelve them in sensible categories.

Just for fun, I’m including the rest of my stacks from this chest. It was a long winter.

My love of children’s’ literature and fantasy is apparent. Some books that are notably missing, probably the ones I spent the most time reading are McCullough’s Masters of Rome series. Why not on the chest? Well, they’re actually ON THE BED. I’m re-reading them for the umpteenth time. This morning I asked myself why I kept re-reading those books, and I was able to answer myself once I decided to put it down on paper: it’s complicated, but there are reasons.

M L S Baisch

3/18/2017

2017-03-18BookSpinePoetry-42017-03-18BookSpinePoetry2017-03-18BookSpinePoetry-22017-03-18BookSpinePoetry-3

Imperfection

Montana Fence Line Detail Watercolor & Ink February 2017 © M L S Baisch

Montana Fence Line
Detail
Watercolor & Ink
February 2017 © M L S Baisch

So, yesterday, first time for a long time, I slogged through snowdrifts to the art studio–just to see what was going on in there after months of being snowed in. There was no damage to speak of–the spiders and the mice hadn’t taken over the place. There was a small amount of leakage right around the door–and I can only imagine there will be more as the snowdrifts melt: I mean, I had to STEP DOWN about 3 feet to get in the door! (DIG myself in.) But I did get in. I decided not to stay. I sort of wanted to paint. Before I can paint in that place again, it needs to be cleaned up: nothing fares well when it sits for months without occupancy.

 
So I collected a watercolor block, some pan paints, and a container of brushes and slogged my way back to the house–where I learned what it’s like to try to paint around Harry. Interesting. He had his nose in everything–licking the paint pans and the paper, and really thinking his best vantage point was right in my lap, on top of the paper.
Montana Fence Line Detail Watercolor & Ink February 2017 © M L S Baisch

Montana Fence Line
Detail
Watercolor & Ink
February 2017 © M L S Baisch

Eventually he came to understand that fine art is meant to be a visual experience, and viewed from a polite distance.
 
Calling it fine art, though, is another thing altogether. Just the same, I’m posting the results here because it’s sort of a life lesson: sometimes the parts are better than the whole. And the message, of course, is to just keep doing something; keep what’s worth keeping and don’t worry if everything isn’t perfect.
Montana Fence Line Detail Watercolor & Ink February 2017 © M L S Baisch

Montana Fence Line
Detail
Watercolor & Ink
February 2017 © M L S Baisch

 
This is watercolor and ink. Inspiration was a photograph on file: I take a lot of pictures of fence lines.
M L S Baisch
Montana Fence Line Detail Watercolor & Ink February 2017 © M L S Baisch

Montana Fence Line
Detail
Watercolor & Ink
February 2017 © M L S Baisch

Just for fun – because it’s a brand new year!

Georgia's Foster Home for Fish © M L S Baisch 2017

Georgia’s Foster Home for Fish © M L S Baisch 2017

GEORGIA’S FOSTER HOME FOR FISH

(Under Construction – Draft)

by M L S Baisch © 2016-17

There once was a fish named Thug
who preferred to wrap up in a rug.
That’s Strange.

In a fish-bowl he couldn’t be trusted.
In fact, that’s how he got busted!
It happened.

He pushed, poked, and prodded
’til some fed-up fish plotted.
Against him!

A big sign that fish posted,
and Thug’s goose was roasted.
Oh yes.

Sad story, but true.
Thug’s notariety grew.
It happened.

No other fish loved him.
They all swam above him.
The shame!

His name once so proud of
they now disavowed of.
Poor Thug.

He had to go somewhere
so deep was Thug’s despair.
But where?

That rug was just handy
on the floor by the lady.
Get the picture?

The demoiselle fair said,
“You just cannot stay there!”
Fish don’t (usually) breathe air.

“You need your own place.”
Thug shrugged in disgrace.
Yes, he did.

The lady named Georgia
felt for the fish, sorta.
Kindhearted soul.

A fish does need water
not air for much longer.
Or he’s a gonner!

She picked up the rug
and the fish with a shrug.
And quickly.

“I have just the place
for a fish with your taste.”
She didn’t mean fishfood.

From the sink she poured water
in a bowl on the counter.
Good thinking.

Put the fish AND the rug
in the bowl: it went thud.
The rug was heavy.

When Thug got his bearing
his little eyes were tearing.
That was a close one.

Hands on her hips
and a smile on her lips,
Georgia was feeling good.

Georgia picked up the bowl,
with the fish and bedroll.
She took it all

to a room full of fishes
in bowls and in dishes–
there were lots of fish!–

where, from their places,
Thug saw their faces.
They were smiling!

Thug was so happy,
he didn’t feel scrappy.
Civility requires a bit of distance.

He swam round and round,
in and out, up and down.
Out of the rug!

The other sweet fishes
smiled from their bowls and their dishes.
Welcoming Thug!

They swam and they sang,
“Welcome, Thug, to our home.”
To Georgia’s Foster Home for Fish.

“We’ve all been unsafe
till we came to this place.”
To Georgia’s Foster Home for Fish.

“We know what you’re feeling.
Your heart needs some healing.”
At Georgia’s Foster Home for Fish.

“Some rest and some quiet.
There’s no need for a riot.”
Not at Georgia’s Foster Home for Fish.

“You can sleep in your rug,
wrapped up nice and snug.”
At Georgia’s Foster Home for Fish.

“When you need a hug here
come out of your rug, dear.”
said Georgia to Thug.

It was all so delightful
Thug forgot to be frightful.
Georgia smiled.

“Stay as long as you want,
though house-rules are detente.”
She laid down the law.

Thug tucked in his fins
and looked up, all grins.
Thug was happy.

So the new resident
took his place near the vent.
Home sweet home.

Where his water was warmish,
(nasty) inclinations all shorn-ish.
At Georgia’s Foster Home for Fish

The End

Ring in 2017!

michelangelo-angel-with-candlestik-1494-95There are events in our personal lives and our collective history that seem categorically irredeemable, moments in which the grounds for gratefulness and hope have sunk so far below the sea level of sorrow that we have ceased to believe they exist. But we have within us the consecrating capacity to rise above those moments and behold the bigger picture in all of its complexity, complementarity, and temporal sweep, and to find in what we see not illusory consolation but the truest comfort there is: that of perspective. – John Steinbeck
 
Steinbeck’s words were written, I understand, on January 1st,1941, during WWII–but they are applicable to world events now as well to each of our personal lives now. We have all known sorrow and sought consolation when there was little consolation to be found. Perspective does make a difference. Perspective can’t un-ring the bell, but it takes the mind beyond the immediate sorrow, takes it to a place where one’s own part in the scheme of things becomes more clear. In the final analysis there is little any one of us can do; and still that little is very much.
 
2016 was another wonderful year with terrible problems.
 
M L S Baisch
January 1, 2017
Happy New Year
 
Let 2017 be a year where we all, each one of us, bring light to the space we occupy on earth, laugh at the devils, and, like Michelangelo, may we all see the angel in whatever marble stone we find in front of us and carve until he is set free.
 
The photo: Michelanelo’s Angle with Candlestick / 1494-95

Work: What’s Left Behind When Life Has Moved On

Giant Springs

Giant Springs

“I always used to work hard. But I had no idea what hard work was until something changed in my mind… I don’t really know what it was. Maybe some sense that this whole enterprise is limited, that there was an end in sight… That you were really truly mortal.” Leonard Cohen

Photo: Taken at Giant Springs out of Great Falls Montana. Why this photo paired with this Cohen quotation? There’s something about running water that is analogous to life. It has a source and it flows on until, eventually, it merges into something more than itself–or, sometimes, it simply disappears somewhere: either way, running water is a moving force. Where you find it, it seems to have a place. The place remains but the water moves on. Lives, too, move on: some leave remnants–places, things, thoughts, memories–that can be returned to, others simply disappear without a trace.

M L S Baisch © 2016

LEONARD COHEN – DEAD AT 82

Leonard Cohen

Leonard Cohen

Leonard Cohen has passed from the earth. The great musician who was also part poet and part mystic. Did you know that he was a Buddhist monk?

 
In my own life, I am often reminded that I am a slow writer–not always, but often. I get the words on the page, and then I keep revising them. Always when the writing is best, the process seems to take longer. The thoughts become chiseled: more profound. The sentences get simpler over time, assume a cadence, a structure, a depth that evolves.
 
Well, Leonard Cohen was a decade writing the song Anthem.
 
Some things happen quickly and seem be just perfect the first time, but some things just can’t be rushed. I already knew that, but it was still a psychic gift to learn that about Cohen: nothing about life is meant to be rushed–perhaps especially one’s thoughts. Whatever else is art is, it’s about merging the mind with the soul; whether visual art, music, or poetry (all well-written literature seems to have a certain poetry about it).
 
Cohen’s words are best heard with their musical accompaniment, but they also stand alone:
 
From Anthem: “There’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
 
From Suzanne: “. . . look among the garbage and the flowers.”
 
From Hallelujah: “There’s a blaze of light In every word. It doesn’t matter which you heard. The holy or the broken Hallelujah”
 
Leonard Cohen’s words and his songs will be heard for a very long time, and his light will continue to seep through the cracks.
M L S Baisch
lcohen2
 

Call it what you want: becoming . . . aging

Joan Didion

Joan Didion

“We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.” – Joan Didion

The pictures tell the story: over a lifetime, we do indeed become different people. We’ve lived in different haunts, most of the people in our lives change places, we even live in different skins! Very little of our youth is left us as we age–memories, that’s about it. Who besides ourselves travels backward down that lane often? Very few. And, if someone did want to follow me down that backward path of mine awhile, the flowers would all look different from those I see, and the storms would all seem like showers. Just the same, the person I am results from the people I’ve been: that seems important. Every day on earth is part of a slow metamorphosis to becoming someone different from who I am now. Until there isn’t another day. One has to think that un-becoming, in the end, the final unraveling of me, will seem natural since I seem to be un-becoming every day of my life. For sure, what’s has been is more real that what has yet to come. Nevertheless, I look forward to the uncertainty of tomorrow based partly, at least, on knowing what has come before. Thank you, Joan Didion, or these somewhat uncomfortable thoughts. (Joan can be counted on for those.)

Joan Didion

Joan Didion

M L S Baisch

Photos: Joan Didion

Joan Didion

 

Another Way to Impart the Message of THE VELVETEEN RABBIT

Teresita Fernández

Teresita Fernández

Someone told me, yesterday, and to paraphrase, that life had been very good; there was much to be thankful for; and that she was blessed. But there was still one little thing that lurked behind it all: one mistake. Apparently a big mistake. A huge mistake. A failing too great to ever be forgotten or even forgiven–if not by God, then by herself. I found myself thinking that even our mistakes, maybe exactly our mistakes, lead us on to other things. No life is without mistakes. Who’s to say whether any life would be better or worse if one were to live it from one end to the other without ever making one. I said, “we are all human, after all.” That’s the thing: we are all human. I seem to recall that saints made mistakes too because they too, after all, were human.

 
But the exchange soon had me remembering something I once read (I found it and  I quote Teresita Fernández below): it isn’t the mistakes we make as much as how we go about living our lives after we come to think of something as a mistake. A failure. An imperfection. No words of mine can say it better. I believe the concept can easily be applied to a person as readily as to a bowl. We’ve all heard this message in many forms; I’ll call it another way to impart the message of the Velveteen Rabbit–it’s only after much living, much scar tissue has formed on the psyche, and many metaphorical buttons have come loose or fallen off that any of us become a person of substance: a person valued “precisely because of the exquisite nature of how (we) have been repaired.” 
To quote Teresita Fernández:
 
“In Japan there is a kind of reverence for the art of mending. In the context of the tea ceremony there is no such thing as failure or success in the way we are accustomed to using those words. A broken bowl would be valued precisely because of the exquisite nature of how it was repaired, a distinctly Japanese tradition of kintsugi, meaning to “to patch with gold”. Often, we try to repair broken things in such a way as to conceal the repair and make it “good as new.” But the tea masters understood that by repairing the broken bowl with the distinct beauty of radiant gold, they could create an alternative to “good as new” and instead employ a “better than new” aesthetic. They understood that a conspicuous, artful repair actually adds value. Because after mending, the bowl’s unique fault lines were transformed into little rivers of gold that post repair were even more special because the bowl could then resemble nothing but itself. Here lies that radical physical transformation from useless to priceless, from failure to success. All of the fumbling and awkward moments you will go through, all of the failed attempts, all of the near misses, all of the spontaneous curiosity will eventually start to steer you in exactly the right direction.”
 
M L S Baisch
Photo: Teresita Fernández, Artist whose work is characterized by an interest in perception and the psychology of looking.

Tennessee Williams — leaves you in a place you’ve never been before.

Tennessee Williams

Tennessee Williams

If you have never read Night of the Iguana, or seen the play, you might consider it. There is a poem near the end, called Nonno’s poem that is quite beautiful. And existentially profound. It sneaks up on you, the end of this play–and this poem–and you wonder how this improbable piece of fiction turns on its heels and grabs you by the throat. How did these strange, impossible fictional characters pull it off.

Nonno’s poem wraps itself around the enormity of what it means to live. Most of us, I imagine, think more about the vicissitudes of everyday life than existential realities. Everyday life is scary enough, frightening; but existential realities terrify.

Knowing full well that very few people who haven’t already read Tennessee William’s Night of the Iguana will ever read it, here is Nonno’s poem. It’s worth knowing that someone wrote this.
 
How calmly does the orange branch observe
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair.
 
Sometime while night obscures the tree
The Zenith of its life will be
Gone past forever, and from thence
A second history will commence.
 
A chronicle no longer old,
A bargaining with mist and mold,
And finally the broken stem
The plummeting to earth; and then
 
An intercourse not well designed
For beings of a golden kind
Whose native green must arch above
The earth’s obscene, corrupting love.
 
And still the ripe fruit and the branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair.
 
O Courage could you not as well
Select a second place to dwell,
Not only in that golden tree
But in the frightened heart of me?
 
– Tennessee Williams
1961, Broadway Premier
 
M L S Baisch

Books

Hermann Karl Hesse was a German-born Swiss poet, novelist, and painter. His best-known works include Steppenwolf, Siddhartha, and The Glass Bead Game, each of which explores an individual's search for authenticity, self-knowledge and spirituality. Wikipedia

Hermann Karl Hesse was a German-born Swiss poet, novelist, and painter. His best-known works include Steppenwolf, Siddhartha, and The Glass Bead Game, each of which explores an individual’s search for authenticity, self-knowledge and spirituality. Wikipedia

“Among the many worlds that man did not receive as a gift from nature but created out of his own mind, the world of books is the greatest… Without the word, without the writing of books, there is no history, there is no concept of humanity. And if anyone wants to try to enclose in a small space, in a single house or a single room, the history of the human spirit and to make it his own, he can only do this in the form of a collection of books.” – Herman Hesse

 
I can’t imagine a world without books. Real books. Things you can touch and feel, hold and turn the pages. An electronic device just isn’t the same (though they have their uses).
 
We live in an age with a disappearing history; modern history is largely going to disappear–well, all ages do, but ours is going to disappear more quickly. All those digital pictures: do you have prints made? If you don’t, they will inevitable be lost. You won’t even be able to look through them a few years from now, must less your great-grandchildren 100 years from now.
 
Our governments now store meeting minutes on video tape. There are no longer archives of current written summary documents. The electronic technology is not stable. Why I have old VCR movies that can’t find a player anymore. I have laptop computers that have antiquated operating systems stuck on shelves. Computer technology changes rapidly and then is quickly so antique as to be inaccessible. Unlike an old book, it can’t be read or viewed.
 
The ultimate sin, as far as I’m concerned, is to stop teaching our kids how to write in cursive.
 
One bad decision after another will leave us with a society of of functional illiterates. We’ll be able to punch butons, and ask computers questions. But not many of us will be thinking for ourselves. Finding our own answers from within.
 
Which brings me back to books. I can imagine a world without them, but I don’t like what I see.
 
M L S Baisch

Business–as in Busy-ness

A view looking through the iris gardens. May 13, 2016

A view looking through the iris gardens. May 13, 2016

James Baldwin once said about writers: “The importance of a writer is continuous… His importance, I think, is that he is here to describe things which other people are too busy to describe.”

 
Well, I have become one of those people who has become too busy. And I’m really trying to sort it out. Even a quiet life can become overfilled with activity.
 
Anything a person does to organize anything requires endless attention. I’ve gone from organizing words and sentences to organizing trees and flowers! The one is actually much harder than the other. (You can decide which is which.) As to which is more important? That’s the real question. I suppose it’s like it’s written in Ecclesiastes 3:1: there is an appointed time for everything.
 
My gardens have grown to the point that next year, I do believe next year, I will have to have help. This is the summer of my discontent (no time). Next year, the gardens will begin to support themselves. And I will have hired help, and more time for words and sentences.
 
The truth is that there is something wonderful about gardens. They are worth the time the take. They teach their own lessons, including the very important lesson about patience. Flowers open when they’re ready to open. Bees find their way to them when they’re sweetest.
 
Patience, however, is an abstract sort of thing. The garden teaches very practical lessons as well. For instance, birds tend to choose safe places to nest and when they don’t there is not a good ending.
 
Life is a balance of choices. Patience is a virtue, it’s said. But to be eternally patient is to get nothing done. Balance. Choices.
 
M L S Baisch

Time Management

Good writing is never wanting for metaphor.

Good writing is never wanting for metaphor.

Time management: it’s been awhile since I’ve thought much about it. Back in the days when I did think about it, the problem was simply not having enough hours in the day: there were simply too many things to do and prioritization was essential. Some things just weren’t going to get done. Period.

Now, the days have enough time in them–though there are still too many things to ever get done, and there are still many things that never do get done. The truth is that many things just don’t need to get done.

But there is another time management sort of problem. It’s of the type that Harold Klawans wrote about in his story, Chekhov’s Lie: one simply cannot do justice to both one’s wife and one’s mistress. In other words, the mind has room for only one obsession at a time. An obsession, by definition, is all-consuming.

Of course, in order to bring anything to fruition from nothing more than thought–which is what creation is–obsession is required. If one takes off in a new direction (finds a mistress), it isn’t that one intends to leave or neglect one’s wife (one’s previous interest), it’s that something important has come up and has, at least for a time, captured one’s attention.

How then does one support both one’s wife and one’s mistress, metaphorically speaking? The answer to that question, if there is one, gets back to the notion of time management. Or, more correctly, it gets to the notion of obsession management. If anyone has written on how to manage multiple obsessions, I’ve not run across it. But that’s the problem. And it’s a problem that has kept me from writing much.

If, however, you’d like to meet my mistress, just go to http://facebook.com/rossroadiris/ or http://facebook.com/thegreenthumbery/ or http://www.rossroadiris.com

Let it be known, that though I do love my metaphorical mistress, that I also love my metaphorical wife, and intend to re-instate my wife to her rightful place in my life somehow. I do not intend to forever neglect her: my writing life. A wife, after all, has a superiority before others, a central position, a traditional preeminence. A wife, even a metaphorical wife, is central to one’s life. A mistress . . . well, a mistress is often just a passing fancy. In my case, interest in my metaphorical mistress is more than just a titillation. She is important and I’d like to keep her around for as long as possible. But she has to make peace with my wife. Somehow.

M L S Baisch

A Time for the World to Turn

Sometimes the best way to start writing a new story is to give it visual form. This is a mock-up cover for my new manuscript.

Sometimes the best way to start writing a new story is to give it visual form. This is a mock-up cover for my new manuscript.

I’ve been gardening, and to a limited extent I’ve been writing. But mostly I’ve been gardening for awhile now. My writerly life has been ‘light’–not superficial, exactly; but I’ve been writing short children’s stories while I’ve been finishing the edit to a longer, more substantial book–Leona the Part-Time Fairy: also a children’s book, but a pithier one than the stories I’ve been writing in tandem to the edit. A writer has to be writing something in order to keep the “writing ligaments” limber. (Not my phrase: it was used by Steinbeck and, I believe, by Virginia Woolf. There is no better way to describe the process: when a writer stops writing, the mental muscle that is needed to write atrophies.)

 
I’ve long known that my gardens are like Petri dishes to an internal, writerly, process. While I putter and plant and dig and water and sit on my garden benches looking at blue skies and gray skies, feel the wind and the sun and the rain, an watch seeds sprout, grow, and bloom, I’ve known that something more is happening within myself.
 
It has been my intention, upon completion of Leona, to write a sequel to it. In fact, I have the story more or less written in my mind. I’m beginning to think that it isn’t the story that I need to be writing at the moment: that it’s a story that will keep. It isn’t in a hurry to be written.
 
There’s something else close to the surface, but just beyond my understanding. Something more difficult to articulate, more difficult to translate from the interior world. More difficult to bring to the world of form: words. It is requiring an internal positioning, a rethinking and a re-knowing process; a re-arranging; a stepping both inside and outside of facts as I’ve known them to be and appreciating that perhaps facts are not really factual at all–there may be another interpretation. Perhaps the facts were really only someone’s point of view. Perhaps they were self-serving, or just self-deluding.
 
I seem about to set off to tell a story that will be part fact, part-deduction, and part entirely fiction; set in an historical period I can never know more about than what I’ve been told and what I’ve read, as it was either before my time on earth, or happening when I was too small to understand.
 
My story will be as true as the stories I’ve been told, as true as my imagination extrapolates possibilities from those stories, and as fictional as any other biographical fiction. It will be a war story and a love story and, if I can become the vehicle for the words that need to be written, it will be a good story. It will not be a short story–in either pages or the time it takes to write it.
 

The new book: Whisker

Watercolor by Andrea Penovac

Watercolor and Ink by Endre Penovac

My writing life has been taking a back seat to my gardening life for awhile but it’s still alive. The final edit for Leona the Part-Time Fairy is complete–the story re-read and last edits made to hard copy. Those edits are now being incorporated into a final Scrivener word document. I do believe Leona will FiNALLY be on-line by May.

But editing isn’t exactly a writing life, is it? It’s an important part of writing, but it isn’t the part that goes exploring in the cave that is the mind: the most important part. Only interior exploration keeps new words and new thoughts coming to life, alchemizing them into new characters and new stories. Early mornings I’ve turned my mind to writing a little book about a small cat. I’m calling the book WHISKER.

Whisker will be illustrated, I think, although it’s not exactly a picture book. It will be too long for that–about 10K. It’s about a kitten who doesn’t have an easy start in life. Here is Chapter One.

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WHISKER – by M L S Baisch © 2016

CHAPTER ONE

At the end of a long narrow alley, boxed in on both sides by very tall brick buildings towering so high above that when you finally saw the sky it was only as big as an envelope you might find in your mailbox, behind a garbage can sitting close by a green door, there was a kitten. It was huddled close to the ground trying to stay dry, as it was pouring rain. The wind raced down the alley in a hurry until it hit the brick wall, ricocheted off it, and was redirected back again—but not before it found its way behind the garbage can where the kitten crouched. It was a very small, and very gray kitten. And it was shivering, probably because it was frightened as well as because it was cold. The day was very gray and the cold was very harsh, and the shivering kitten was in a very bad place. This was no neighborhood for a small kitten, even on a good day, and so far this hadn’t been a good day at all.

Yesterday, was a better day. In fact it was a delightful day full of good things like a warm bed with the warm bodies of his brothers and sisters snuggled close, and warm milk, and sunshine coming in through the window, and his mother’s warm tongue washing his ears. Then, this morning, while the brothers and sisters still slept, his mother hissed quietly that he was to follow her. One thing led to another until here he was abandoned in this terrible circumstance.

“I’m sorry,” Mama had said, “but you are an embarrassment. You don’t fit in to the family. I’ve waited, hoping that you would change. But you are two months old now and still just as strange as the day you were born.”

Hearing that didn’t make the kitten feel very good. In fact, he hung his head feeling terrible. His mother was ashamed of him. He didn’t really understand why, and so he asked her, “But, what have I done? What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I fit in?”

“Done?” she repeated. “I don’t imagine you’ve done anything at all, son. It’s just what you are. I don’t suppose you can help it.”

“If I can’t help it, how can it be so terrible?”

“It just is, that’s all,” Mama said. “And I can’t have it. When you’re older and can’t be kept out of sight, people will laugh at you, and they will make fun of you, and it will be very hard for your brothers and sisters.”

“I can see that it will be hard for me,” the kitten said, “but why will it be hard for my brothers and sisters?”

“And me,” said Mama.

“You, too?”

“Yes. Me too.”

“I don’t want anyone to have a problem because of me, but I don’t understand why they would. Why you would.”

“Have you looked in a mirror, my son?”

Well, the kitten didn’t have any idea what mirrors were, and he hadn’t looked into one. If he had, perhaps he would have understood what his mother was talking about. After all, he knew what his brothers and sisters looked like, and his mother. If he had seen his own face, he would have noticed. He had only one whisker. It was rather high on his right cheek, closer to his ear than his nose. He knew it was there: how could he not know? In fact, he liked to stroke it, especially when he was going to sleep. But he had no idea that it was strange to have just one whisker or that anyone would be ashamed to know him because of it. Now that he did know it, he was feeling very low. All he could think of to say, once he understood the problem, was, “Oh.”

Mama cat wasn’t feeling very happy either, but she had to do what she felt was in the best interest of the family. Still, she didn’t want to leave her strange son without a few words of comfort and advice.

“You will be fine if you just don’t draw a lot of attention to yourself. Cats like the nighttime, anyway. In the dark, no one will see that you only have one whisker. It would be a good idea for you to stay out of sight in the daytime.”

“I think I will be lonely,” the kitten said. “I’m already lonely. I like to play with my brothers and sisters. And I like warm milk and the sunshine coming through the window.”

Not wanting her son to be completely demoralized, Mama said, “I’m sure you will find a nice life and many comforts. It will just take some time.”

The kitten felt a little better hearing those words.

“Now, I have to be going. It’s starting to rain.”

It was starting to rain, but Mama gave her little son one last fond lick and told him to be a good kitten.

“Wait!” the kitten called as Mama turned tail to go. “Who am I?”

“What do you mean? You are a kitten.”

“But what is my name?”

“You want to have a name?” Mama cat had to stop and think about that. Names were given to kittens by people, not by mother cats. She didn’t have the heart to tell her little son that he didn’t have a name. His life was going to be hard enough. She said, “Why your name, of course, is Whisker.”

2016 © M L S Baisch
This book will be published by shooflyranchpress

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I have no graphics for WHISKER yet. But I love this series of watercolor and ink cats by Endre Penovac. There are more of them than I’m including here. These Penovac cats prove how effective simple can be. To achieve simplicity is actually very difficult.

Watercolor by Andrea Penovac

Watercolor and Ink by Endre Penovac

andreaPenovac-cat9 andreaPenovac-cat12

Reality – That Nebulous Something

PhillipKDickPhilip Kindred Dick is someone who has gone under my radar. I don’t know why–probably because I don’t read much sci fi. He wrote mostly science fiction, but he had interesting things to say about reality. Such as:
 
“It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.”
 
“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.”
 
“Don’t try to solve serious matters in the middle of the night.”
 
Recurring themes in his work include false realities, entropy, the nature of God, social control, and man vs. machine. These are all things I think about. Obviously this man has written books I need to read.
M L S Baisch
 
Short bio: PKD
Born: December 16, 1928, Chicago, IL
Died: March 2, 1982, Santa Ana, CA
Books include: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Man in the High Castle
Movies: Blade Runner, Total Recall, Minority Report
Short stories: The Minority Report