In My Head

If there were any day to sit down and write, this would seem to be the one. Jeff and Nick are not here to work on the porch, Luke is using my studio as an office, and everyone else is upstairs.

I’m tempted to go for broke and publish whatever ends up here in this document. That likely isn’t a good idea, though. On the other hand, I’m awfully tired of being careful. Remember Frances the badger and her friend? Is it better to be friends or to be careful?

I saw a neighbor walking down the road when Andi and I were out getting the mail. We gingerly danced around the subject of COVID-19 and the resulting lockdowns. Yes, I was the one to bring it up. While I could have kept my mouth shut and not shared some of what I’ve learned about antibody testing and how many people were likely sick with the virus in the fall and winter, I decided to proceed. To a certain extent, I do these things as a bit of a game/test: will my listener respond as expected? My neighbor did. Of course. They all do. The level of faith that people have in the “systems” that operate in—and just plain operate—our nation (world) is deep, indeed, so I wade in cautiously, never outright asking them to think unsanctioned thoughts, pretending I am not trying to nudge them out of the carefully labeled boxes they’ve placed themselves in and have no desire to leave.

The mailbox held two new books, (and I’m looking forward to soon receiving four others). I’ll likely start in on both, even though I tucked into three new ones just yesterday and still have another five in process. Yes, yes, but you know about those conversations that books like to have amongst themselves: the volumes close to hand should have some interesting things to say to one another—and those four on order promise to blow things wide open.

I just opened the reading journal I happen to have next to me on my desk. It started out as a place for notes on art and photography. Unfortunately, such subjects hold little attraction for me at this point. I try to pick up my camera nearly every day and just record bits and bobs of my life, but I do little more. Sure, attempts at capturing abstract images work their way into many of my days, but with a wonky computer and weird uploading issues with my website, I find myself hardly inclined to put in the effort. I’ve had more success with paint and ink. Just yesterday, Stella, Bridget, and I sat down at the kitchen table to play with such supplies, and Henry eventually joined us. It was a pleasant way to spend some time together. “A pleasant way to spend time,” it turns out, is the best descriptor of what I do with art now. Is that good or bad? Neither? Perhaps it just is what it is, but I lean towards believing that it’s a good thing. My hold on grandiose notions about what I might be creating/accomplishing started slipping long ago, right around the time I mostly internalized Andy Warhol’s dictate about just making art and letting everyone else worry about whether it’s any good. Perhaps it’s more succinct to say that I’ve stopped caring. Yes, I know, you’re thinking: Sure, you’ve stopped caring. Haven’t we heard that before? Or, at least, something along those lines? Perhaps you have and perhaps you haven’t, but your impressions of what I write are your own business, not mine.

I’m not trying to be confrontational (it seems I never have to try); I readily manage to accomplish the feat. I’m just writing, and it feels good to write, to just sit down and type, without having thought up beforehand some sort of theme or angle or concern about audience.

Okay, why not just deal with what comes next in the reading journal on my desk? Alpha and Omega: I took some notes on how the Greek letters alpha and omega have traditionally been used as symbols in art. Not surprisingly, they represent God, the beginning and end of all things. What I didn’t know, however, is that omega can be represented as a W, so if you’re looking at a painting and are wondering if God might be in there somewhere, scan around for an A and a W, likely to be found on the pages of a book an elderly gentleman might be holding.

Oh, boy. What’s next? Well, it looks like a quote from Heather King. She is a convert to Catholicism, and I jumped on her bandwagon years ago, only to eventually find, as so often happens with Catholic writers, that I wanted off again. I’ve never really articulated why Catholic writers and artists who flaunt their faith bug me so much—probably because I’ll find that I’m just being petty. I do know that it has to do with humility and rules and people always telling me—in one way or another, “you’re doing it wrong.” Nevertheless, here is what I copied from Ms. King: “Our offense doesn’t lie in breaking a rule. It lies in offending against love, against truth, against beauty.” The sentiment meant something to me when I first encountered it, and in these crazy days that are increasingly convincing me that we’re living in the Matrix, it becomes more meaningful by the second.