A Work Progressing

Saying goodbye to a house/home that has witnessed a lot.

Moving is only a concept at first. Soon it becomes a crisis. Why do I have possessions? What do I take with me to the future? And then there is the permanent question of why?

What if I box it all up, find a cheap storage facility, and visit once a year??

Once every five years?

Do I possess them or do they possess me?

Is home in the boxes?

When does a house become a home? Is it automatic, or is it only due to a signature on a deed?

The house is ours, we still own it, but we don’t live here. It is no longer our home.

I sit in the open garage, looking at the driveway, the trees/hills, across the road, I’m no longer comfortable in my own house. I feel like a displaced spirit, no longer attached in a significant way, but still responsible, still on watch.

Let it all go…

We have a disaster plan. We purchased storage food from a doomsday/apocalypse company.

We brought two 55 gallon barrels to store emergency water. And then we waited, knowing that mostly nothing would happen. But if something did happen, we would not be standing in line somewhere hoping to get food and water.

Then disaster struck!

Nothing happened and we decided to move our residence.

Naturally we move all our furniture and possessions into moving Pods for storage, and naturally we forgot about our emergency food and water storage. The very last things in our garage did not get into the Pods.

12 boxes of food, 110 gallons of water, 5 pails of wheat/corn, covered in the dust of twenty years in the rafters (or under the house for the water).

I dunno, it’s another full pickup truck to the dump as one solution. We could start eating and drinking for another solution.

I would have to start grinding a lot of wheat for the bread.

Some things get lost as time goes on. Probably because they are small and inconsequential. Nobody writes about it, even if it is an every day, every week, every month event.

I obviously remember banks, we had savings accounts, and a little book of deposits that was kept in a curious manila envelope that had two brown buttons, with a string to wrap around them to keep it secure. Why? It was paper! You could rip it in half if you wanted to get in to it.

Banks saved your money, banks loaned you money, but only the very rich had checking accounts. Who would trust a common man to write checks?

Banks would cash your salary checks, but only if you had an account there. The other possibility was your local bar or tavern, but only if you drank there. The bars had an understanding with their banks, and two party checks, particularly salary checks were approved.

So a small economic cycle occured with groups of bars on the streets of workers coming home, stopping to cash their checks for the week. Salaries were weekly. It was very rare to be paid every two weeks, or even monthly. Monthly salaries only became popular with direct deposit to the bank. Ha! Direct deposit only became popular when personal checks were accepted.

We forget how things were, shopping at stores that gave green stamps, collecting “blue chip” stamps and redeeming them for a blender or cake mixer. I once got a transistor radio! It ran on big batteries for several hours! Of course it was only AM frequencies, but it was high fidelity!

No one will find this interesting, unless they also “will remember when…”

Inflation’s a beast, folks. Back in the day, a $55 dollar sink was my choice. Perfect for the guest bath by the door – a quick pit stop, not a spa experience.

But the master bath? That was getting the Italian stone treatment, complete with a perfect mosaic tile job. Picking those three sizes took forever, with countless trips to the charming (but slow) tile shop downtown.

Right there, tempting me by the register, was a display of sinks unlike any I’d seen. Forget utilitarian porcelain, these were artisanal masterpieces. One even had the artist’s signature! And a “Sale” sign. Intriguing.

On my third visit, curiosity gnawed at me. “Price on that beauty?” I mumbled, gesturing at the signed sink. His response was a quick “$1,600”.

The salesperson’s expression was a picture. He must have seen the “$55 sink guy” tattooed on my forehead. I mumbled thanks and stuck to the tiles.

But that sink… it lingered in my mind. Next time around, I found myself confused, trying to justify a $1,600 price tag. The poor guy thought I was negotiating! He whispered a desperate offer: “$900, take it or leave it.”

I was so prepared to leave it. Ha! But in my final stop after finding the right color grout, the salesman said, “$600!” And I surprisingly nodded yes!

Fifteen Years of Basin Bliss

For the next fifteen years, that sink became a source of pride. Guests got the full tour – the perfect granite countertop, the gold fixtures, the whole shebang. It wasn’t just a sink, it was art!

Fast Forward: The Staged Sellout

Now, we are selling the house. Times have changed in thirty years. Stagers are all the rage, promising a faster sale with their beige-on-beige nirvana. I get the logic, but ouch.

My glorious sink? Ripped out, replaced with a white quartz ghost. White on white, surrounded by white. My personal oasis, sacrificed to the market gods.

But the signed beauty? That’s coming with me. Not for handwashing, perhaps, but as a conversation starter. A reminder that a little defiance can be a good thing. Maybe even a nod to Duchamp, mounted on the wall in all its glory.

Cleaning my messages on my phone to create more space for more messages. Ouroboros!

I copied/paste from a message to a family member.

Some advice

Have you ever heard the phrase, “You are what you eat!”

There is another semi lie, “you are what you do.” When you retire you realize, “that you are what you think” and everything flows from that.

Your art doesn’t define you. You define your art.

I’ve seen drawings where the horse is hitched to the wagon, pushing it forward. It doesn’t work that way. You are the horse, and the wagon is your world, your art, everything… and it just follows you where ever you go.

The issue is that you must choose your path everyday, if you don’t, someone else will choose it for you, and you will be living someone else’s life.

You don’t have to be perfect, but sailing teaches you a lesson, if you don’t make tiny corrections early on, you won’t make the port you desire.

Freezing up, not moving the wheel, will guarantee a crash. Or sailing off the edge of the world, hahaha!

As a philosophical exercise, pick a reasonable goal, outline the steps that would normally assist you in getting there, then each day, for a month, assess how well you have done. Then make the goal bigger.

Hehe, I once removed the word coincidence from my vocabulary. It changed everything for me.

That was 15 years ago.

Everything is a plan, either my plan, or others. Some that are good, some that are bad. But nothing is by chance. Or luck.

Not making a plan, is a plan!

Then there is the old Irish saying, “Do you want to make God laugh? Tell him your plans!”

The Arabs often end every paragraph with, “in-shallah”, meaning “God willing.”

Here’s another thought. What is peace? The Hebrew word for peace is “Shalom”, the root word that creates shalom is “sacrifice”. There is no peace without sacrifice. A soldier knows this.

See what happens, you ask a simple question and you get word diarrhea from me.

I’m old and slightly demented I think the answer is somewhere in between everything that l’ve heard from everyone.

I prefer to think a bit, before I do. Take a beat!

It is complicated. Self-identity is always thick… with ego goo. The answer will always be the thing that works.

When I find something, it’s always in the last place I’ve looked. And I have never been lost… just misdirected for a few years.

Spring, the season of hope, emerges as the most uplifting of the four seasons. The very word “spring” signifies “coming forth”, likely inspired by dormant seeds, patiently awaiting through fall and winter, now germinating and thrusting green shoots into the air. It’s a riot out there!

Our ancestors must have been challenged to comprehend nature’s workings. They had to accept its rhythmic repetitions like clockwork. Today, of course, science illuminates the tilt of the earth that orchestrates the seasons, somewhat diminishing the romantic allure.

I recall the incredulity of my youth upon learning that while it was spring here, it was fall elsewhere, seeming as if I stood upright while others were upside down.

Reflecting on our ancestors’ perspectives on spring, Greek mythology offers insights into the complex Pantheon of Gods. Zeus, the chief, alongside his formidable brothers Poseidon and Hades, and their three sisters—Hestia, Demeter, and Hera—spawned from Rhea. It’s a convoluted family, replete with peculiar dynamics.

Cronus, having usurped his father Uranus to rule the Heavens, harbored the same apprehension. Upon Rhea’s childbirth, Cronus swiftly swallowed each infant, one by one. Yet, Zeus, the youngest, was spared when Rhea concealed a stone within swaddling clothes, tricking Cronus.

Zeus matured and eventually overthrew Cronus, liberating his siblings and marrying his sister Hera. Truly, a turbulent family affair.

Meanwhile, Hades, unmarried, set his sights on his niece, Persephone, daughter of Demeter. Despite Persephone’s disinterest, being deeply connected to the Earth like her mother, she was ensnared by Hades’ relentless pursuit. His black chariot, drawn by four steeds with fiery eyes, whisked Persephone to the Underworld to reign as its queen.

Consequently, Earth lost its idyllic perfection, descending into a singular, melancholic season. Demeter, devastated by her daughter’s abduction, plunged Earth into desolate winter, lamenting her loss. Eventually, Hera intervened, securing a compromise. Persephone would cyclically descend to Hades, marking the onset of fall, then ascend to reunite with Demeter, heralding spring’s return. Summers, meanwhile, were a time of revelry.

Thus, the year’s cycle was dictated by a dysfunctional family saga, transcending the mundane tilt of the Earth. Oh, and did I mention Persephone’s father was Zeus, the younger brother who reigned over all?

Martha Wainwright’s poignant song “Proserpina” (Persephone) on YouTube.com adds a musical dimension to this tale.

https://youtu.be/0CfwGwhcycI?si=-L-00hFkSGaGd4ZA

I’ve collected a number of Fayum Mummy Portraits from archeological digs. There was a short period where this art was popular, running from 1st century to the middle of the 3rd century, primary in the Fayum Basin in Egypt.

They were primarily full color portraits, painted on boards, that were placed on the face,and attached, to wrapped mummies.

It’s clear that many of the mummies were of individuals who had died young.

I scanned the images, then spent some time repairing cracks, and giving a little modern makeover.

It’s tax time. Every year about this time, it’s tax time. Time to pay the piper. Time to fund the government that makes choices for where my money goes. Time to assess if those choices are in agreement with my choices. Yech!

It’s also one of those big years, one of those presidential choice years, it’s such a very very sad year, at least until this morning.

This morning, as a complete surprise, I found a candidate, one that edged out the others in the significant category of who I would want stuck in an elevator with, or trapped in snow lodge with lots of coffee. Actually it even extends to personally having a dinner in my own home.

No one has met that standard on the national stage for decades, and that’s okay because national issues are really platform issues, and I always support the platform that mostly coincides with my own personal standards. It’s never perfect, but I know I’m doing the best I can.

But this year, I believe I have found a candidate that meets both standards and that hasn’t happened for decades upon decades.

My vote is secret, I will not participate in polls, I’m stubborn that way, but I do occasionally announce candidates that I support…

I support Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.

All have to say, is watch his movie

Bags and bags of springs, their ends straight, with the springy part in the middle. My pay depended on the pound of completed bent springs.

It was a monotonous task, but one I could manage from home, offering flexibility in my hours. There seemed to be an insatiable demand for precisely bent springs. For months, it was the same routine, until one day, a new jig arrived with slightly heavier springs, ushering in a change.

A “jig” was the machine responsible for bending and clipping the ends of the raw springs. I merely had to insert the spring and press the pedal on the floor. Arms would swing into action, bending and clipping the wire. All I had to do was drop it into the completed bucket and insert another spring. It was repetitive, hypnotic, and surprisingly profitable.

In the 60s, there weren’t many job opportunities for teenagers with long hair. Businesses were wary of hiring “hippies” or radicals. But for me, it worked out just fine.

I landed this gig through my sister-in-law, who outsourced her spring making. She obtained her springs from a weathered old man she had “adopted”. He was likely in his eighties, with gnarled fingers, stooped shoulders, and a shuffling gait, speaking broken English with an Italian accent.

Amadeo, the middleman, supplied the portable electric jigs and the specified weight of the springs. I assumed he shipped the final products to factories or warehouses.

But Amadeo was more than just a supplier. He was a genuine spiritualist, specifically a Faithist, believing in the “New Bible”, a text published in 1882 by a dentist in New York City.

The book, titled “Oahspe”, was said to have been “automatically” typed over several years, guided by spiritual forces. With the typewriter being a recent invention, the spiritual forces must have been thrilled.

Amadeo often lingered for a few hours when delivering supplies or picking up springs. It was his opportunity to share about Oahspe and its impact on his life.

As a subcontractor, I felt it was polite to excuse myself and return to bending springs. Although I did receive a broken English translation of Oahspe, I needed to focus on earning money, so I politely declined further discussions.

Amadeo left a copy of his “New Bible”, a thick tome of around 1500 pages, filled with cosmic charts and color portraits of saints in turbans, giving it a distinctly Persian feel.

Years later, with Amadeo gone and my spring-bending days behind me, “Oahspe” remained on my bookshelf. During a visit, a friend noticed the book, she abruptly turned around, and left, another date gone awry.

Yesterday afternoon I saw the musical ‘The Divine Sarah” by June Richards and Elaine Lang. Something both of them started over forty years ago, and shelved more then 39 years ago. Most things on the shelf for more than five years are simply lost in time.

In this case, good friends asked them, “What happened to that script?” Then someone found the .pdf of the typed pages. Another found some VHS tapes that were made of readings, and the songs were found on tape.

Old friends were called upon, rewrites were made, COVID forced readings on Zoom. Endless edits, a completely new second act, lots more current research, and nearly a thousand images downloaded from around the world. When the resolution was so poor, the images were redrawn, reimagined.

In a world of takers, there was a subset of “makers”.

Months of wondering what to do, now that it was nearly finished. Submit the musical to producers, and a magically a local playhouse dedicated to new works agreed to produce the musical. I began helping nearly 4 years ago. It’s been on stage for a week with three more weeks to go. The production is wonderful, the music sublime, Sarah is perfect, and the Ensemble could not be better.

So amazing to see something that existed only in text and images in your head, become alive on stage with an audience enthralled.