genius

a true genius. who can be said to be/have been a true genius? who is more of a genius, VanGogh or Einstein? given the close line between madness and genius, can it be said that the two are linked? are all geniuses, to a degree, mad? if so, then is the madness a result of the genius's depth of intellect, or is the intellect a result of the ability to look maddeningly deep into the mind?

why are artists generally the outcasts of their time, yet masters of the future? do they have an insight into the future that the average being lacks, or is it just a coincidence that starving artists only gain fame postmortem?

what allows some people to create and others to appreciate? why are most members of society completely out of the loop? is creation simply a product of the ability to be completely honest with the self?

take music, for example: why can some people understand why Hendrix was so amazing, yet others only like him because it is cool to like him, as if he is baseball card or brand-name? one person might hear one of his songs for the first and only time, and be so moved and touched by it, but not know it to be a popular song, yet other people can own a copy of every Hendrix song ever recorded for the sake of having an extensive collection, but never listen to the songs, and never feel the soul-altering melancholy in each guitar solo?

will every generation listen to and love nirvana? or will they eventually fade out? what truth is there in "smells like teen spirit" that touches whole generations. young children who cant understand the lyrics, have never seen the video, and have no idea what a mullato is, but still feel the frustration and energy of the music?

how can people study art their entire lives, and never make anything worth notice, but others can pick up a paintbrush for the first time and create a masterpiece? does everyone have the potential to create, or is it an innate ability that some select, lucky people are born with, and that some may never realize.

are people born with a talent lucky? is it actually a pain? does art come from pain and profound sadness? can art come from happines without being contrite and forced?

where is the line between technical ability and soul? and how do i cross it?

when will it end?

I have been sick since Sunday. Misery. Troy and I went to Skyline Drive, and drove 99.9 miles to get there, drove 53 miles each way along skyline drive, and then 99.9 miles back. The view was beautiful, and totally worth the drive, but, unfortunately, the altitude change meant colder weather on the mountain, and I came down with one hell of a head-cold.

for anyone who may stumble on this blog and not know, Skyline drive is a 150 mi (169 km) road that runs through the Shenandoah national park in Virgina. The road is along the peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and stretches along US rt 81. During autumn, the view is spectacular with the color of changing leaves, and the sky is usually pretty clear during this time of year, so the view stretches out for miles. It is really interesting as you ascend the mountain slowly, to drive into the micro-climate of the top of the mountain. When we went, the valley was in complete sunshine, but the top of the mountain was cloudy and ominous. Beautiful. I think, and I may be confused, that the road has been named one of the most impressive roads in the world because it travels along the peaks of and through a range of mountains. I think I remember seeing it on the History Channel's Modern Marvels.

so that is why I am now sitting, bundled up, at my desk, and periodically sneezing all over my macbook.

being sick always reminds me of being a kid. is that strange? so, in the spirit of being sick, here is one of my favorite childhood poems by Shel Silverstein:



SICK
"I cannot go to school today"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry.
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox.
And there's one more - that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue,
It might be the instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke.
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in.
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My toes are cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There's a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is ...
What? What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is .............. Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

i feel like i am constantly catching up with my blog...

after years, literally like five years, of searching for my best friend that i lost contact with, I finally found her. thank the internet gods for myspace. i hate myspace, but i must admit that it has its uses every now and again. she called me tonight, and we spoke over the phone until my phone died and shut off!!! and it was just like old times! no strange awkwardness, no stuttering, no problems. awesome!

by the by, it is freezing cold in maryland today. and by freezing cold, i mean that in the middle of august i wore a hoodie at noon today and was still cold. fyi: maryland augusts are usually mid 90s to 100 degrees on average. it reached a high of 61 degrees near my house today. maybe al gore is right. the environment is angry at us. i would like to personally thank the environment for making the day so beautiful. a rare break in summer heat is always welcomed, though i must express my fear of the coming fall and winter...


in other news, I am planning a wedding reception. because my mother has religious views that are not quite my own, troy and I have decided in a not-yet-engaged way to start planning our wedding. we are going to fly to the dominican republic and have a private ceremony on the beach, and then have a reception at home. lots of money. more money than i care to think about. it is turning out to be expensive because, incase you were not aware of it, Maryland is the "richest" state in the country, and therefore our cost of living is outrageous. a wedding venue that would cost 3,000 in, say, tennessee, would cost 7,000 anywhere in maryland. sucks. and since i am having my dream wedding on a beach, i feel the need to cut corners on the reception. and its not like i am an extravagant person. (you, reader, obviously read my blog, you can probably tell how un-extravagant i am) i like simple and elegant, not expensive and over-done.

I have always wanted a huge wedding, ever since i was a little girl (what little girl doesnt?) but now that i am finally at that point in my life, i find that big parties are not my style. i want to make my own invitations from scratch, and have brilliant ideas about centerpieces and flower arrangements. i guess personalization is better than extravagance. stay tuned for the next few months for pictures of my wedding crafts.

in the mean time, i have a job interview next friday. im not gonna say where, but the job, if i get it, will involve just the right amount of money to make this whole wedding thing a bit easier. I am nervous. it is with one of those companies that one cant help but be nervous about. this is the shot, if i dont get this one, i feel like i'll never get a job. but that is negative thinking, so lets move onto something more positive.

i am having a creativity freeze lately. i think wedding research has taken all of my life over. makes me glad i dont have a good job at this point...at least i have lots of free time to do the leg work that i would otherwise have to fit into my day. with all of the time and research and stress and what not that i am putting into my wedding planning, i am getting nowhere with paint or writing. (thus the lack of blogging) so i am going to try to write something later. i did manage a poem a few weeks ago. it isnt the best, and it is only rough draft material right now, but here it is for your reading pleasure. i will leave you with the poem and an empty promise that i will blog again soon.



Sticky, crust-rimmed morning
7/6/08


Fog,
like the Specter of dwindling dreams,
is hovering

just beyond my window.
Every yawn prods it
further and farther
from my reach,
Unrolling fields and trees
and roads and buildings
and cities and oceans and
every mundane chore of the day.

the aforementioned poetry:

Hole in the Wall

A speck with depth
just a minor hiccup
on the smooth surface of institution.
A fissure of change trapped
within a cinder block prison.

Walls have to breathe too—
inhaling carbon dioxide thoughts
moist with scraps of textbook regurgitation.

If the school was a ship
our education would sink;
drown
one drip
at
a
time.




Edward Hopper Hotel Room Ekphrasis
(form was lost in online translation, sorry)

broccoli chair,
cherry dresser,
banana walls,
asparagus carpet

sheets

like the meat
of a coconut
freshly
crac ked
dri
p
p
i
n
g
with
milk.



International Terminal

His knuckles drain
pale and drip
with nervous response
to the reverberation of combat
boots trudging across
a crisp linoleum desert
scattered with camouflaged
tumble-weed bags.
Thirsty wives and dessicated mothers
muster cheek-to-cheek
to drink in the last
drops of rain




Presidential Vacation Pantoum

How do you live
in a yacht on the lake,
playing with toys
while the country suffers?

In a yacht on the lake
you govern the world
while the country suffers
and others fight your war.

You govern the world
and destroy the country.
Others fight your war
and they’re still fighting.

Destroy the country.
The children are soldiers
and they’re still fighting
a useless war.

The children are soldiers,
but you don’t care.
A useless war
is money in your pocket.

You don’t care
that cities are burning
money in your pocket
as people die.

Cities are burning
how do you live
as people die?
Play with your toys.



Some Poems Become Baggage

Some concepts bog down the mind
and thwart thoughts
from following their instinct
like the scent of cheese to the end of a maze.
To recuperate,
some stanzas must be hemmed
with scratches and eraser smudges.

Some lines make better

space

than Erector-set words protected by Lojack.

Some words might
sound good
and look pretty

but encumber the moment
like a sopping sponge.



Maryland Avenue

The parking meter flashes green, and mounds
of fresh reflection flank the sides, standing
like sentinels to an invaded door
deprived of dignity; its shattered window
destroyed by selfishness. The seat is left
exposed to wind, or rain, or prying eyes
with sticky, prying hands. A lump of grey
hoodie entraps the seat and pleads: “I’m still
in class. I still believe my car is safe.”
But on the center console, chiseled out
of murky travel dust, a palm-sized
rectangle draws the borders of the place
where music used to live. Remaining is
a tangled, white, electric artery.




Coach

Primped for market,
embroidered, branded, and buckled
bovine pose on glass pedestals
surrounded by mirrors.

Patched with pieces of snake
or zebra or snow leopard,
each cut of veal
tastes of exotic fashion.

Skirted ladies laced in gold
admire hides of dyed
pink or baby blue suede
sows with silver stitching.

Mint or white or bright red
patent leather doesn’t squeal
when tucked beneath a cashmere’d arm
and stuffed with money.