Being Amanda: Part II

I cannot believe the events that have just unfolded.  As I wrote previously, the bitches and I were starting to go talon to talon.  For the past two weeks, Carmen has been implementing, “Operation Make Amanda Go Crazy”.  

She and her peons have been shutting me out from our water supply by encircling the bowl with their fat asses so I can’t get any.  They drink all of it before I’m able to have some.  You might be thinking, “What’s the big deal – you’ll get some water next time”.  Well, the problem is that my species can’t digest food without water.  We need water in order to help food pass through our gizzards.  Without water, I get as backed up as a nursing home with one toilet after Texas Chili Night.

Factor in that I also lay eggs.  Big eggs.  So I have had to endure a gullet full of food plus the pain of having a harden 3 oz. rock inside of me.  My system has been out of whack leading to uncontrollable diahrreha with no relief and terrible gas.  Which, of course, was Carmen’s objective in the first place.  Let me also remind you that it has been unseasonable hot.  I thought I was going to die.

But I didn’t. Carmen did.

On Tuesday morning, the Chicken Whisperer came in and fucked with us like he does every morning.  This particular morning he brought us cheese as a treat. Having my system already blocked up, the last thing I wanted to eat was cheese.  But not Carmen.  She snarfed down that yellow piece of rubber and wouldn’t share with anyone else.

Now I’m not criticizing her on overeating because, let’s be honest, that’s my hobby.  But I’m not a leader.  I’m in this thing for myself.  I don’t have a troupe of minions chomping at the bit right behind me. She’s such a selfish bitch!

About 3 minutes later, ol’ girl’s indulgence and egoism caught up with her. She withered and writhed trying to gasp for air.  That human food got lodged in her throat and she fell down dead. She had eaten herself to death.

I can’t say that I’m happy about this because I only wished her dead figuratively.  But rooster oh rooster, when you start being an asshole to chickens, maybe Life starts being an asshole right back.  Karma’s a bigger bitch than Carmen was.

R.I.P.

Being Amanda: Part I

Let me just start by saying that I’m the head hen of this roost.  I was the one who, before the stupid monkeys inserted a heat lamp in our home for the winter, kept all these skinny bitches warm.  Everyone wanted me around when they were cold to snuggle up against and steal my heat generated by my incredible mass.  They were all like, “Mandy! Come lay with us!” or “Mandy, don’t leave!  We need you!”.  How quickly they forget.

Now that the weather has gotten warmer and they don’t need me, they pretend like I have the bird flu or something. And I think that bitch Carmen is the little mutinous ringleader.  

It all started with the new addition the biggest monkey built us.  He added a backdoor and fenced in a backyard for us so we could spread out a little bit.  In doing so, though, it created two separate playgrounds.  Well, the dumb fucking monkey didn’t measure the new door properly and made it too small for me so I can’t even go into the new yard.  Those bitches know it, too, and purposefully go into the backyard with their skinny asses easily hopping through the house and out the door.  

I heard them talking about me the other day.  They’re so stupid they don’t realize they sound like a bunch of geese looking for Canada.  I heard Carmen say to Beeker, “Did you SEE her egg?  I mean, it was just so BIG and OBLONG.”  

You know what?  It’s embarresing. All these bitches lay these cute little single yolk eggs.  A couple of times I’ve dropped a doozey.  I can’t help it.  Sometimes I just get all backed up and I have to release – right there and then, ya know?  But Carmen, she thinks she’s so god damn special because she lays BLUE eggs.  Well, fuck that.  She’s a mutant.  Then on top of being an asshole, she corrals all of her dumb followers to shitting in my yard.  Like they can’t do it in their space.  

Oh it’s game on, Carmen.  You better watch out or one of these days, I’m gonna peck your squinty little eyes out.  

Get your foot off the boat, Spalding!

Last week I watched a documentary about Spalding Gray – an actor, writer and monologist.  Despite his creativity, intelligence, and amazing story telling, Spalding decided to take his own life by jumping off the Staten Island Ferry in 2004.  He was the brother of my favorite professor, Rockwell Gray, at Webster University.

I took my first course with Rocky in 1998 called, “Literature in Exile”.  The course depicted writers who, for mainly political reasons, were exiled from their home countries and wrote about their tales.  During this time, I read autobiographical accounts from Hoffman, Nabokov, Gass, and Santayana to name a few.  Like his brother, Rocky was a great story-teller.  He often staccotoed accounts of his life that pertained to the literature we were reading.  Moreover, he used GRE words in everyday vernacular which left most of us egotistical collegiate students wondering how in the hell we were even allowed in this man’s presence; No one word could encapsulate the breadth of Rocky’s love of words.  And he imparted that passion onto his students.

By the fall of 1999, my graduating semester, I had become obsessed with Rocky.  He wasn’t one of the most well-attended professors at Webster because he taught esoteric classes such as “Reading and Writing Autobiography” and “Essay Writing” that didn’t garner the sex appeal of “Modern Poetry” and “Social and Political Philosophy” that liberal college students gravitate towards.  Regardless, my friend Eric and I were disciples of Rockwell Gray – outcasts following an unheralded rebel.

As with every Creative Writing major, I had to do a senior thesis which required a professor to oversee the progress of the student.  I, of course, chose Rocky.  Not only had he captivated me for a year and a half with his extensive knowledge of the OED, but he legitimized the genre of non-fiction as something modern and exciting.  Ergo, my senior thesis was about growing up in my household.

No big deal, right?  Just talk about yourself.

For four months, Rocky and I met routinely at Kaldi’s on DeMun scratching out pages upon pages of crap that I had written.  We had therapeutic cups of coffee relegated by old wounds and new scabs.  He taught me how to be a writer and a protagonist.  He taught me the struggle of creation.  He taught me objectivity.   He helped synchronize my self-perception with self-expectation.  No professor’s salary paid him enough for all of this.

At the end of the semester, I took my unfinished manuscript consisting of 40 wishy-washy pages to the English Chair, David Clewell, the former Missouri Poet Laureate.  (This sounds like name-dropping but I mean it as like a, “Holy shit – I’ve had some pretty incredible teachers!”)  In the final oral examination about my thesis, David asked me what I thought about it.  I told him: “It’s unfinished.  It sucks.  I only had 4 months but I see now that I need 4 years.  I only have 40 pages but I’ve deleted like 50.  I’m proud that I was able to write this but I’m not proud of the finished product”.

David replied, “That’s what writers say.  You get an A”.

********************************************************************************

Back to the documentary on Spalding.  Watching it made me feel really bad for Rocky in losing his brother.  The objective part of me made me miss reflection.  For the past couple of years as I’ve been delving into painting, I realize that I haven’t done any personal reflecting that writing mandates.  I haven’t created any plot lines, any characters, I’ve had no heroes or anti-heroes.  Painting has given me the luxury of recognizing my emotions and philosophies as they happen.  I don’t bring my past into my paintings.  I don’t bring self-perception into them either.  I am the consummate observer in my works – the outsider once again.

Like doing my poorly written senior thesis, I don’t know how to meld all of my Self into my work.  What is my “work”, anyway?  I had a great conversation with my Uncle Mark, an artist, the other night.  I told him I was getting bored with painting but this journey has solidified my self-perception as innately creative.  This sounds so fucking egomaniacal I want to throw up.  But what I mean is that I am happiest when I am exploring and creating.  I’m happiest when I’m learning.  I’m happiest when my house is clean and my kids are asleep.  Seriously.

Regardless of which path I walk to get to the shore, I’m in the Creative Boat for the long haul.  I’m happy to be the deckhand or the sous chef.  Both feet are on that boat and No, I won’t take them off.

Me Like John Cage

In a couple of days, I will be installing 6 new paintings at Tavern of Fine Arts – a hip new restaurant in St. Louis.  Unable to create without some thematic or philosophical structure, I racked my brain to come up with some concept.  As I perused my bookshelves, I saw my copy of “Silence” by John Cage and dug in.

During my days at Webster University, I took one of the most influential classes of my life whose lessons I’m still trying to embrace.  It was called “Discoveries of Attention”, based on my professor’s dissertation.  The class was an incorporation of Eastern philosophies, religions, poetry, and music.  The point was to observe and absorb these components daily by paying close attention to life and living in the moment.  As a senior in college vying for my future to begin, worrying about exams, waiting tables to make money and just being 21, quieting my mind and being totally present was a struggle.  It still is.

We learned about John Cage and his famous 4’33″ musical composition.  In it, he sat before a piano, lifted to cover off the keyboard, and just sat there for 4 minutes and 33 seconds.  My first reaction was, “Seriously?  This is some avant-garde bullshit”.  After my professor described the meaning behind it was to pay attention to the natural music around us, I cursed myself for being so stupid.  Duh. That’s brilliant!

“When I hear what we call music, it seems to me that someone is talking. And talking about his feelings, or about his ideas of relationships. But when I hear traffic, the sound of traffic—here on Sixth Avenue, for instance—I don’t have the feeling that anyone is talking. I have the feeling that sound is acting. And I love the activity of sound [...] I don’t need sound to talk to me.” – John Cage.

Cage wrote poetry in fragmented phrases with gaps in between them. Those gaps mirrored the Silence of his music.  In between the cacophony of his words, there is still poetry in the blank spaces.  I’ve often quoted his phrase of “purposeful purposelessness” and have mustered the courage to embrace this, finally, onto my canvases.

I worked with unframed material clamped onto my garage door.  If I were to begin a process of this magnitude the way I’ve begun all my paintings (fully wrapped canvases), I knew I would get stuck into my old habits of being conscious of creating.  But with the material dangling, I painted cognizant of composition and color, but somehow freed from the perimeters that a frame imposes.  I slapped watered-down paint I put into empty shampoo bottles to further remove myself from my comfort zones.  I went back and edited with my standard palette knives and globs of paint – redesigning the free-falling paint into something cohesive.  I used my entire physical being.  I used my entire mind. The resulting abstracts seem completely random but they aren’t.

"Each something is a Celebration of Nothing". 29x53 Acrylic on Canvas

This whole process made me reevaluate my intention as a creative person.  Although I’ve had many accolades and have been accepted into some mind-blowing exhibits, I still feel like a fraud. I realized the reason is because I know what I am NOT, but not what I AM.  I know I don’t want to be an “ar-teest” – those self-righteous artists who have everything figured out with nothing left to learn because their art is about their egos.  They are the equivalent of elevator music.  I know I am not a painter’s painter – someone who has the patience to recreate perfect proportions, shadows, color and depth like a photograph like Caravaggio or Vazquez.  Although dramatic and technically immpecable, they don’t draw me in.   I know I don’t want to be an emotionally serious painter because I like to play, tell bad jokes, cuss and drink.  I know I don’t want to be a part of David Letterman’s “Elephant or Artist” segment.

These past few weeks, working within the perimeters of John Cage’s influence, I’ve learned that I have some talent beyond my ability to make some kick ass crafts (which will come in handy during this Giving Season – who doesn’t like a handmade pot holder?).   Moreover, I’ve been reminded that being fully present in the moments of my day, although difficult when I’m perpetually looking forward to my kids’ nap times, is truly my happiest state.  So if I can continue to create and live like this, then hopefully, eventually, I’ll figure out what I am supposed to be since I’ve resigned to the fact that I’ll never be a fat, black, soul singer .

The Dollar Store Really Cost Me

I  know this blog is designed mainly to discuss my artistic process yet I keep posting about my kids, among other things.  Although these events don’t pertain, specifically, to the goal of painting, they definitely influence and effect how, when, and where I can paint.  This is just another example of why my canvases serve as my retreats.

While cooking breakfast on Tuesday, I looked at my calendar and saw I was in charge of bringing snacks to Aiden’s preschool that day.  I had forgotten to do it last month so I was going to be sure to make the effort and bring some animal crackers lest his teacher solidify her opinion of me that I’m a total flake.  My “routine” for Tuesday and Thursday mornings, (when Aiden has school those afternoons), amounts to giving both he and Samuel a bath. That’s my main focus.  Laundry, dishes, emails, etc are secondary to getting them clean for public display at least twice a week.  Throwing in a trip to the store to get snacks was something I needed to allot time for when flipping pancakes.

I know some stay-at-home moms who revel in going to Target.  I am not one of them.  Going ANYWHERE with my kids, even 2/3rd’s of them, is not something I look forward to.  You can tell my disdain for running errands by the lack of food in our icebox.  Until we start gnawing our own tongues, I avoid the grocery store.  Similarly, I only go to Target when we’re out of toilet paper – even then I’ll saunter to 7-11 and pick up a 4-pack to hold us over.  So when I scoured our barren pantry for something remotely appropriate for 14 preschool aged children’s snacks and came up with a can of pumpkin, garbanzo beans, and old cake frosting, I knew I had to go to the store.

Being mindful of our budget which consists primarily of “don’t spend any money”, I weighed my options of what store to hit up for snacks.  If I go to Target, I know that I’ll get screaming and crying from the kids to buy them a toy since, marketing geniuses that Target is, they revamped the store and put the toy aisles directly in the center.  Tonka and Legos are unavoidable.  OR, I could go to the Dollar Store and assuage my kids’ woes to get SOMETHING by buying them piece of crap plastic thing that would normally cost me 6 dollars at Target – nevermind the lead poisoning.  I’m cheap.  I’m in a hurry. Dollar Store wins.

So I pack Samuel and Aiden into the car and we hit up the most economical place to by party favors.  All the while I’m reminding myself to check expiration labels when I buy the snacks knowing some Dollar Store products are not FDA approved.  I don’t want to be that mom who wouldn’t spend the extra 4 bucks to buy kosher snacks so I poisoned the entire class.  The thing about the Dollar Store that makes it so wonderfully malfunctional are their janky carts.  Nevermind that you have to go ”In” through the “Out” door, but their carts are especially shaky and small – wee, even – meant for Carnies.   Plus they don’t have belts to strap my exuberant Samuel into.  Oh well – it’s worth the 4 dollars.

As we perused the store, Aiden and Samuel pointed and grabbed at the crap they wanted – a bubble wand, a coloring book, and a basket to put all the lego guys into. Whatever.  I’m still ahead one dollar.  I find sufficient snacks that are well within their processed ingredients’ shelf life to not make anyone ill. Score!  I got to check out.  While we had been meandering up and down aisles, Samuel had been adamant on freeing himself from the small cart.  He kept trying to crawl out of it.  I kept putting him back in his seat when he would try to stand.  I did this while looking at the bullshit dish soap, the gift bags, and the popsicle stick aisles.

Distracted as I loaded the check out belt with my dollar finds, Samuel, frustrated from having to endure the pain of sitting in a cart, decided to implement his Plan B – to go under and not over the cart.  He began to shriek in that high pitched octave that only a baby can reach.  Everyone began to stare at me as I stood in total shock. My determined child had wedged his fat ass into one of the small cart’s leg holes.  These plastic mesh orifices are designed to contain one child-sized thigh – not two, off the pediatric charts, legs.   Yet there Samuel screamed – defying all physics – half in and half out of this goddamn dollar store shopping cart.

Embarrassed by my obvious lack of attention, I scrambled to relieve my gentle giant from his trap.  He wouldn’t budge. The cart’s seat wasn’t bolted onto the chassis so it elevated every time I yanked Samuel from underneath his armpits. Seeing my struggle, the cashier and an old hillbilly waiting in line behind me, these Samaritans, came to my rescue.  I held the seat down with my arms and held the cart down with my foot as the two of them pushed and pulled on Samuel.

“Watch his hips!”, the old man pleaded to the equally old cashier.

“He’s stuck! We need to turn him to the right!”, she responded.

“You’re gonna break his hips, ma’am, I’m just tellin’ ya.  You can’t pull him straight out! We need to turn him”.

Samuel’s squeal echoed throughout the store.  Occupying half of the store’s employees with my predicament, all the customers circled around us to get a good look at the show.  I began sweating.

“Do you have any bolt cutters”, the old man asked the cashier.

“No”.

“Then we’re gonna have to get the jaws of life and call the fire department. This boy ain’t gonna budge”.

With that statement, I thought to myself that “this boy” had slurped through my vagina so he sure has hell could be extracted from a shopping cart without the jaws of life.  In one fell swoop, I grabbed Samuel by his pants and yanked him out without twisting.  He popped  like a ripe zit.  Into my arms he feel, grateful to be free to kick.

I handed the cashier my credit card to finalize the transaction.  I told she and the old man thank you and got the hell out of there.  I’m pretty sure all that wasn’t worth saving a dollar.

Um, can you open this diarreha?

My love, Aiden James, just turned four years old.  As he’s been going to preschool, his vocabulary has increased proportionately to his shyness decreasing.  This has allowed him to translate his odd little duck personality so that we can understand what, exactly, is going through his brain.

For example, he’s been routinely calling Ben and I, “Mr. Ben” and “Ms. Megan”.  Bear in mind that he has a lisp so it comes out more like:  ”Mithter Ben and Mith Megan”.  Plus his voice is deep and he speaks with an inflection that makes him sound like a Guy Ritchie film character.

The other day we were all hanging out in our family room.  I was on my computer and Ben on his. The kiddos were playing trains, drawing, and watching Nickelodeon.  Aiden comes up to me with a Dr. Pepper in his hand as says, “Um, Mith Megan, can you pleath open up this can of diarreha for me?”

“What? No, you don’t need it.”

“But Mith Megan!  I NEED the diarreha!”.

It dawned on me what he was saying so I replied, “Do you know what diarreha is?”

“Yeth!” he exclaimed as he held the can of soda up in my face indicating that he was, in fact, holding the diarreha.

“No, that’s Dr. Pepper. Diarreha is when you get sick and have uncontrollable bowel movements and you poop all the time.”

“Um,  no it’s not.  It’s THITH!”

“Well, whatever.  You’re not having it”.

Being a resourceful, determined, willful little kid, he takes the can of soda over to Ben and asks the same question.

“Um, Mithter Ben, can you open up this can of diarreha?”

Without even looking away from the computer screen, Ben opens it up and gives it back to Aiden.

Victorious, Aiden comes over to me and says, “See, Mith Megan.  It’s not that hard!  Mithter Ben just opened up the diarreha with no problem.  Geez”.

Oh, well, my bad.

Reconnecting

Usually when I post a blog I have something concrete to say.  This time, I don’t. But I have a general idea of what’s been happening lately that is directly effecting my art.

First, my husband and I have been making a conscious effort to be mindful of each other.  Seems a little bit like overkill but after 10 years of living together and 3 crazy ass boys later, finding time to remain friends has been taken for granted.  So now we’ve begun a trek that’s leading us in the right direction towards rediscovering each other as people – not as co-parents.

Secondly, I haven’t seen my best friends in forever.  ”Forever”, in girl time, is like 6 weeks.  And boy does that suck.  We’re all getting busy with kids, family, lovers, obligations.  These early mid-thirties years are hard to actually see one another.  The funny thing is the sentiment of “I miss you” is all over the board.  How crazy that we all live within a 15 minute drive of one another yet can’t seem to produce the energy or time to actually spend time together.

Thirdly, my middle son is turning 4 on October 3rd.  I remember his early baby surgeries and frets that the super bacteria would infiltrate his blood and leave him….elsewhere. And yet I haven’t even given a thought about what to get him for his birthday.

Fourth, my beautiful mama.  Man, I yelled at her ass a couple days ago and let her have all this stress, anxiety, disbelief in humanity that has been pent up inside for months. She didn’t deserve it.  She took it like a soldier and accepted my apologies which weren’t enough.

Fifth, I’ve been emailing a kindred spirit of mine, my cousin Adam, whom I adore, respect, and love so freakin’ much.  He knows me without having to know the details of my life but remains interested in them.

Sixth, drove down to my old neighborhood today and saw the house I grew up in.

All of these innocuous experiences are linked by the idea of reconnection.  In order to reconnect, I must first ascertain what I’ve disconnected from.  What I’ve become “too busy” for, or taken for granted, are the people that mean the most to me.  Losing a modicum of that daily connection reminds me that, not only do I rely so much on my personal relationships, but moreover, that without them, I am lost.  I am no one without my husband and children. I am no one without my family (blood and in-laws though I don’t distinguish – just wanted to specify).  I am no one without my friends.

As I’ve been busy juggling my own schedule, I’ve isolated myself making painting a priority, barely maintaining a clean house , much less children (i.e. “You don’t have time to brush your teeth so eat a mint!”), and have forgotten that which drives me: love.  Love love love.  And I love all of these energies and people that give back to me because each relationship is rare and defining.

I just wanted to pass on the quote from the Beatles, “The love you take is equal to the love you make”.  And I guess that’s why I’ve been so stressed out – I haven’t been giving as much as I should be and I’m sorry for that.  I’m sorry I’ve been missing out and I feel that emptiness profoundly.  But I promise to be better because I am infinitely grateful and awed by the beautiful people in my life who give a shit.  And you guys are pretty amazing.  Muah.

www.meganriekeart.com