Saturday, August 28, 2010

100 Days 2010.100 The End

Please view my inspiration piece at:
http://johntimmons.com/video/archives/510


The End
The film snapped to an end and the writer was sad. She agreed with the filmmaker,the answer was simple, that's not to say the project lacked complexity, but the idea behind it was simple. It was about her, you, everyone. She simultaneously understood yet was perplexed. If it was all about her, what did it all mean? She supposed for her it meant taking back up the torch of writing she had abandoned so long ago and using it to light new flames of photography and film. Some works burned bright like fireworks against a cloudless sky while others snuffed out like a campfire left unattended overnight. No matter whether the pieces shined or burned out however, they were, in fact, all about her and each was precious and deeply held like 100 little children gathered in her apron and held close yet she had also let go of the apron and sent all the fragments of her heart, soul, and spirit into the world to be read, judged, or ignored. She started the journey not believing in herself or her ability to make it to the end and for a while it really seemed as though she wouldn't be able to make it through to the end but with some encouragement from some beautiful souls and poets and an internal drive to change the narrative of her old life (She never follows through on anything) she did it. Today she is writing her final piece for the 100 Days 2010 project and tears of happiness and grief are streaming down her cheeks as she does it.

Had she achieved the goal she set out for herself? Had she found the artist within by looking to inspiration without? Gun to her head she would answer yes. Writing her final piece she knew in the depths of her soul she would rather photograph the beauty in urban decay ,write a poem about the death of her father, or make a movie starring her beautiful niece than submit another financial statement. Did that make her an artist? Earlier she called out one of those beautiful, encouraging souls to stop hiding behind her self-dismissive label of housewife and embrace her truly fitting fine cloth cloak of poet. Was it time to throw off her own yoke of office manager and begin to skip down one or all of the paths of poet, photographer, or filmmaker? This question is not so simple to answer, but she surely will begin to give it some thought.

Epilogue
I have been inspired by and enjoyed the work of each and every participant in this project but there are some who I owe a special debt of gratitude for their amazing work, inspiration and occasional support. In no particular order I would like to thank and praise John Timmons, Steve Ersinghaus, Susan Ersinghaus, Neha Bawa, Susan Gibb, Jessica Sommers, Maggie Ducharme, and Heather Lochtie.

100 Days 2010.99 The Dream

Please view my inspiration pieces at:

http://johntimmons.com/video/archives/508

http://steveersinghaus.com/mediaplay/?p=1085



Jennifer had a habit of falling for men who she knew from jump could not should not or would not fall for her and she feared being asked about this in the interview. Especially since Jennifer knew she would be sitting there by his side, Alfred to his Batman during the day, but in the night... How could Jennifer tell her when she was starting to fall for her too. Jennifer had seen her pictures, she knows she shouldn't have looked but she had to, and they broke her heart. They told a story of a comfortable, weird, happy, lovely life-husband, children, mother, pets, and her as the wife. What she wanted was under both their skin.





If asked about it in the interview she would lie though they both would already know the truth. If they were kind they would accept her lies and move on to the next question, the question of reality. There she had no fear in answering. Jennifer would sit up straight and say"I don't know yet if this is the right path for me but I am willing to travel down it a little further in order to find the answer." She had started down the path for him, and they, by now, would also know that, but now she was traveling it for herself. If they were compassionate they would understand and move on to the next question of windows. There also, Jennifer had no fear in answering. "We see what we want, not what is there or not there when we look through a window." He would nod his head slightly in understanding waiting for her to say more, but she, Jennifer had never met her yet so she had no idea how she would react.





"When I look out the window onto my deck I see a grill covered in a green cloth and two chairs folded up, leaning against the brick wall. I also see two empty flower pots, one large, one small, that from them once grew sweet and fragrant basil that I never used to cook with." That was the objective, descriptive representation of what they would see if they too looked out the sliding glass doors onto her deck. Jennifer continued "But what I also see is failure and potential, disappointment and possibility." There was no need to elaborate on those dichotomous views, her remark about the basil pretty much explained that, and Jennifer was sure they would both understand.





It was then, however, that Jennifer realized while one might perceive this dialogue as an interview, in her mind it was turning into an inquisition and the secrets that churned within her would soon overflow the levees of her mind, there was no blow out preventor that could cap the shame and desire that gushed from the bottom of her soul. It was the damn dream, five years ago and she couldn't shake the guilt associated with the dream even though at the time Jennifer had no idea that she even existed.





That's when Jennifer realized the interview (inquisition?) was over. There was nothing that she could say next that would be perceived in any one's reality to be the proper thing to say. She had two choices: she could tell them about the dream, let the water crush the levee and the well gush freely. But who would be able to clean up that mess? There was no dispersant that could send the pool of pain, passion, lust, and betrayal into meaningless fragments to be swallowed by the world and eventually forgotten. Or Jennifer could calmly stand up, shake their hands, thank them for their time, turn around and walk (run) from the room never looking back.



Maybe, Jennifer thought, there was a third choice. She could still calmly stand up, shake their hands, thank them for their time, and leave but then she could tell someone else: Ruiz, Thomas Cobb, or her friend, the comatose patient still stuck in a blue checked armchair on the shore of Coventry Lake. Then her secret dream would sink like a stone to the bottom of a calm and beautiful lake instead of ravaging a gulf of which she had no concept of the width or depth. So that's what she did, she shook the interviewers' hands and headed out into the peaceful chaos of the sidewalk outside the firm. Someone had dropped their hat on the ground, funny that she had not noticed it on her way in, she picked it up, placed it on her head, and took a cab to the hospital. She placed the hat at the bedside of the comatose patient, sat down and began to confess her dream:



"I once knew a carpenter who told me he had been trapped on a raft at sea. One day he came to my shop. I owned a small shop with an apartment above, I sold fine household items, milled French soaps, hand embossed stationary, and the like. I don't know whether the carpenter came to my shop to see me or the shop but it didn't matter. Perhaps he came to see me or perhaps, being recently widowed, he came in because he knew his wife loved the shop. She had been in on many occasions though I didn't know she was the carpenter's wife. She enjoyed sending hand-written letters and often purchased note cards that were thick and creamy white with delicately embossed patterns. Maybe he was looking for me, maybe he was looking for a sight, a smell, a shadow of his recently deceased wife. He saw me and began to weep. I hadn't seen him in years since he had repaired some broken boards on my deck and I was surprised and happy then concerned to see him weeping next to my display of delicate English bone china tea cups. 'What's the matter?' I asked him. 'My wife passed away and I am all alone now.' That was the end of conversation, no more needed to be said. I embraced him gently then led him up the stairs to at the back of the shop that led to my small apartment above. There wasn't much to it, a galley kitchen where I could have made him a cup of tea, but instead, I led him to the large walnut bed covered with a thick white duvet that covered crisp white linen sheets. We made love, not for the act of love, but for the act of comfort and though he continued to weep throughout, I knew the act of flesh against and into flesh was momentarily distracting (or maybe eyes closed he was reliving) but wrong yet necessary. I wanted him to put his pain in me so I could take it on and take it away from him. This was before I had any loss of my own and could not fathom the futility of this or any other act of distraction in the face of grief and the finality of death."



That was it, it was only a dream but the detail and the sadness and consummation of it stayed with her for weeks and to this day the memory of the dream is faded but the person it opened her up to become is bright, shining, flawed, hopeful, and real. If you looked out your window right now and saw her, she might seem sad yet beautiful, beaten down yet still fighting, alone yet connected, a transparent frame or an intersection of light, the hardscrabble path behind her or a yellow brick road in front of her that she need only open her eyes and begin to walk down.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

100 Days 2010.96 Stalking

Please view my inspiration piece at:


I wish I could say I didn't really think it was stalking but I know it was. It was a habit I learned at a young age from a friend of mine. Every night since she got her driver's license we would get into her parent's giant blue Lincoln we gave the very original nickname of "The Boat" and drove across town, up Willis Street and then a left (or was it a right?) and then a slow drive by of the house of the boy she had a crush on. A boy who she could look at but never touch. I don't know what satisfaction she gained driving slowly by his house, I don't even know if she had a way of knowing whether he was inside or not but night after night, we drove and craned our necks to look in the windows hoping to catch sight of what I'll never know.








Tuesday, August 24, 2010

100 Days 2010.95 Wounds of Remembering

Please view my inspiration piece at:
http://johntimmons.com/video/archives/500


Wounds of Remembering

Because YOU can't see them doesn't mean they are not there
Because they don't appear as bloody gashes or oozing scars
Interstitial tearing or shining white bone jutting from mealy red
flesh doesn't mean they are not there


My wounds of remembering may be unseen but they are felt
The holes, pits, incorrectly routed circuitry, and misfiring synapses in my brain
Tear apart my heart, suck out my soul, and diminish my spirit
Just because YOU can't see them, doesn't mean they are not there