Stuff

Sooo- here I am again after quite a while. I have discovered that sometimes I feel a need to just - write down what I'm feeling - or my reactions to what's going on. I have been feeling numb for a long time - last year - despite many great things happening - was horrible also because my closest friend died and in some way things just ground to a halt. I stopped taking care of myself and when the lockdown happened it just made everything worse. Now we're about to go into another lockdown - just when I think I'm starting to emerge from whatever-the-hell-it-was. Typical.

Ever since covid hit I've been astonished, and surprised, and gratified to see how careful other people have been to keep me safe. My brother and sister in law, my daughter, Spouse obviously have all been taking measures to shield me from possible contact with covid-19. Come to think of it, that may have something to do with my 'waking up'.

Another astonishing thing is my sales of painting. I've had a couple of commissions this year and last week I sold nine paintings that weren't even listed on my online site. I think I'm still in a state of shock but it is a good feeling. And now I get to replace them. Also I have to get a bit more professional about it all, with a spreadsheet or two (Spouse built some for me) and a bit more organisation. Perhaps the next month-long lockdown will be time for some experimentation - or maybe I'll paint the bedroom.

We're waiting now for the birth of my youngest daughter's first child. As of today he is officially overdue. The last couple of months have been hard for my family - my son-in-law died, leaving his wife and daughters in terrible grief and still having to socially distance and then try to get on with life. My oldest granddaughter - who is wonderful of course (no not biased) - was starting university and torn apart. The new baby will help us all heal and look to the future, even if our plans to go and see him have been thwarted by covid there will be much oohing and aahing over facetime in our future.

I have no idea if the picture thing worked in the last post.

I've thought, and said, and written, that I paint and draw for myself, for fun and not because I am an 'artist'. I have no vision, I've said, nothing to say. How can someone like me have a vision to communicate? I can't even visualise in my mind. Don't have the ability. Except - that's not entirely true. Or perhaps it's no longer entirely true. I have a peculiar kind of visualisation, to do with colour and emotion. It's entirely abstract. As is every piece of art I've made since I had therapy after I fell apart mentally. Not a coincidence, surely.
As for things to say - part of me wants to insist that art speaks for itself and no one has to explain it; and part of me wants to talk about what a human mind, and human hands - however shaky they may be - can accomplish. A computer, a printer, a camera, these can all produce smooth, geometric or representational, accurate, perfect lines, pictures, shapes and reproductions. If perfection is what you want, you can have it. But humans produce imperfection. Rough surfaces, odd shapes, distortions, shaky lines, odd juxtapositions of colour - and it can all still be beautiful, or shocking, or upsetting, or pretty, or ugly, or profound, or 'merely' decorative.
What speaks to me, resonates with me, provokes a response from me may leave another cold, or irritated, or angry. And so it should be.
I painted a picture last week that gave me great joy. And I painted one that someone else loved, too. So, I'm giving the voice that says I can't be an artist the boot. I did it once, to be a self-declared writer and now I'm doing it again.

Well that was fun, but the compressor isn't really up to sustained effort. Not without utility, but I could do with a proper one. Hee hee.
Spouse has a built-in compressor in the garage for all his Important Engineering Stuff and as I gave him the news he was eyeing up the ceiling and talking about running a line up through to my study/studio. I should think his monster would blow the paint right off the canvas and out of the window. I put in a plea for a nice neat table-top compressor. Keep the fingers crossed.

My mother in law died just before midnight on the tenth of July. Her funeral is this thursday coming. Despite the fact that her mind and personality, all the things that made her 'her', have been gone for a long while and little more than a human doll remained, it was still shocking to know that the world no longer contained her.
Many years ago, she dressed in her finest, most respectable gear and went off, entirely her own idea, to tell a judge that I was a good person and a fit mother for my child. She had no obligation to speak up for me, I don't think it occurred to anyone to ask her to. She decided it was the right the thing to do. So she did it.
It helped. And I choose to remember her as she was on that day, in her little fur jacket and tasteful gold earrings and perfect hair, serenely composed and staring down a High Court Judge. She had her faults, of course, and often drove everyone crazy, but she was also wonderful in her own, unique, way.

Many years ago, when my parents were pressuring me to have an abortion, my father told me about his childhood and his origins. He was illegitimate, he said, and never knew who his father was. He grew up bullied and insulted and abused at school and in the streets for being a little bastard. He thought I shouldn't do that to my child.
My father was not a nice person, but over the years I cut him some slack because of his early experiences. Not that he cared about my opinion, he disowned me decades ago, but I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, to be as fair as I could be. Recently I learned that he lied. He knew exactly who his father was. He knew him all his life and if he had wanted to he could have taken his name and grown up with no one knowing or caring about being born before his parents' marriage. Because his mother married his father and had about nine more kids. He told me my grandfather was not my grandfather and implied my grandmother was a whore - he did that about me too, later, so no surprise there. How do I know all this? Because despite my parents cutting ties with the enormous family we should have had (hardly surprising now, he didn't want them telling us the truth) one of my cousins, whom I haven't seen since we were little, tracked me down.
I have a cousin again. She sent me a text the other day beginning 'Hi Little Cuz' and I almost cried. I have missed her almost all my life. And she had all the facts. Including DNA evidence. Imagine it. I have a whole new branch in my family tree. Practically a second trunk.

It's been a very eventful summer, my youngest daughter was married early on, MIL died, long-lost relatives resurfaced, I've taken up a new painting technique and I'm having a grand old time with that; love it. Finally I've found something that having shaky hands can be an actual benefit for instead of a drawback.

I like learning languages. After watching a Spanish tv series and realising that the subtitles were sometimes inadequate, I decided to learn some Spanish. So I've been using Duolingo. It's fast, interactive, relies on text, listening, speaking and writing equally, and doesn't expect too much of a beginner. The day I learned to say 'I need a pen, where's my pen?' and 'I need to read a book' was a day of joy. Along with, 'I need a coffee' that's most of my daily communication.

Learning another language teaches one a lot about the native tongue as well as the new one. I think everyone knows this. It also points up certain 'default' attitudes. Spanish is a gendered language and when asked to put 'the doctor is american' into Spanish then 'La medica es americana' is as correct as 'el medico es americano' but to 'pass' the lesson, the second is 'correct'. Now, in English, I'm aware that it would be argued that the default was always to the male when gender was unknown but, 1) in the context of an actual conversation the gender would probably be known, 2) assumed gender may not be correct 3) the male default is being fought in many fields, not only language. Perhaps, as a beginner I should just shut up and get on with learning the basics, but I don't like it. Of course, this may simply be the result of trying to put language learning on a website where there is no actual interaction with a teacher. The programmers can't think of everything, I suppose, but I do resent that I, a female, often have to write as a male to achieve a 'correct' answer.
Or possibly I'm just getting old. (Also what about new pronouns? Gender neutral ones.)

On another note. I rather like Spanish. It is surprising, and has very interesting sounds and combinations of sounds. I'm confused about rather a lot, for instance why 'ella' is sometimes pronounced ey-a and sometimes e-ja, and 'yo' is io or jo. I have to research this, obviously. Oh dear.

I think my favourite word so far is 'disculpe' I like that way my mouth feels when I say it.

Only this last fortnight, I realised that I have been coming out of a period of depression. It goes like that, sometimes, I only realise it when it's practically over. There are signs, but I missed them this time.
It's a strangely egotistical existence, watching oneself always to see how one is thinking/behaving/living. No wonder I slip up.

We saw some old friends this summer. It was lovely. It was tiring. More and more, I resent explaining. Why haven't we done this? Or that? Mostly they're asking why we haven't been on more holidays (one can only say 'can't afford it' or 'I don't travel well' so often) and I know they're really saying 'Why haven't you done what we have done? Why haven't you done what we would have done in your place?' To which the answer 'we aren't you' is never acceptable it seems. (Still can't spell aparantly, apparently, apparrently)
And besides, why should I keep telling people that I'm in too much pain to travel far? Why can't they remember? Why why why. Why oh why oh why? 'cos people are people. Can't complain that people are being people. Well, obviously I can, as I am, but there's no point, I suppose.

It's just that there are times when it seems that everything I am, or do, or experience, has to be explained. I've spent some time with psychologists over the last few years who have explained that I am not entirely 'normal' in the way I think, that it is because of early experiences and developmental differences and that the most I could ever hope to be - after therapy - is 'two-thirds normal'. That's ok. I can live with that. It means I'm always trying to understand normal, while normal looks at me askance, but people have been looking at, judging, criticising, condemning me for decades now; I'm used to that.
But we're not really talking about abnormal when we talk about our lives, me and Spouse. We like our home, for instance. We like reading, relaxing with the dogs, feeling the sun on our faces and seeing the difference every season makes to our surroundings. When weekends and holidays and time-off of any kind come round, it's a chance to enjoy our home, garden, locality. But we enjoy a day at the beach with the animals as much as a day in the garden with same. We have friends who seem to think that's weird - they can't wait to get away from home - days out, weekends away, weeks abroad. We think that's weird. Mutual incomprehensibility.
They try to understand, sometimes. They assume we have to stay home because we have no money. And it's true that we have no money. And if we had money, I'm sure there are things that we would like to do. Spouse would love to got to a Formula 1 race or two, for example. I would like to go to Mars. :)
It's also true that going abroad, or even far afield in this country, is problematic for entirely other reasons. I'm in pain. I will always be in pain. I will always find it difficult to travel far, and will always need extra time (which equals expense) added to any schedule for recovery, for taking a break and easing off, for sleep and relaxation and painkillers just to keep the level of pain down at a level where I can function. And there I'm starting to get angry again. Because I'm explaining. Explaining why I'm not the 'norm'. Sod that. Where was I? Moaning. Oh yes.
I'm making it my business to at least present alternatives to younger generations of family and friends. When they start asking the questions that are based on their parents' assumptions "why aren't you doing this", "why are you doing that"?; then I point out that these are not the only options in life. They are often shocked. If nothing else, I can be an irritant. Maybe it'll stop me getting angrier. And explaining.

The 36th wedding anniversary passed last week but all the excitement was on the delivery of the new sofa. So much for romance. Though the sofa is really comfy and when everything hurts, comfy is important.
I might extol the virtues of said sofa for a while but the computer has just announced a new update is imminent and the dogs are getting restless so it's walk time. Hi-ho.

Just a quick squee about my glass pens. I've been using metal dip-pen nibs and they're ok, but I seem to have found something better that suits me well: glass pens with their twisted strands and knobs and grooves and - oh I do like using them to draw. There is no trouble holding onto enough ink, it's easy to see when I'm close to running out, they're easy to hold and manipulate. I think I'm in love.

Score one for Siri, who could give me information on when hawthorn blossoms. Alexa couldn’t. I think I may be having some fun with this.