memories

The voices are all quiet now; all that remains is the nagging desire to talk, to share.

“You have to admit, you take criticism very personally.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Well, in the graduate critique, every time a professor said something about your art, you felt the need to respond.”
“I wanted to defend my work.”
“If you are a chef in a restaurant, and every customer comes in and tells you to make a dish differently, do you listen to them all? You are a people pleaser.”
“Yes. But it is both a strength and a weakness.”
“Just remember that in the same way that Art has become a leisure activity for the rich, a plaything to occupy the wealthy, so the graduate art program can be a kind of plaything for the faculty, an intellectual exercise in which they may make suggestions that are not as much about helping you as they are about exercising their own whims.”
“My work is for me.”

The TV is chattering behind me. “…turning precious moments into a lifetime of memories…”

Watching “Lost” last night Sawyer asks Locke why he wouldn’t just seek out his past self and tell him how to avoid all the pain and suffering they have gone through. Locke responds “Because I needed that pain to get me here.”

Life seems full of distractions, sounds surround; suffocate, making it impossible to form coherent thoughts. Lowing my chin to my chest I close my eyes. They feel heavy.

I think about the dangers of spiritual growth. That an obsessive tendency to self analyze can become paralytic: self-improvement becomes self-obsession. Personal history, our own stories and narratives become more important than... I pause. Than what? A larger view of history? I think about this for a moment.

History is about connections, like the myths and stories of the founding of America, the chopping of the cherry tree or the slogans of the patriots “Give me liberty of give me death.” Knowing them we become part of something larger. Is this sacrificed if we replace these stories with the jargon of self-help guru’s, mantras of self-affirmation, slogans designed to lift our spirits? Do we become part of the problem if we fully succumb to the idea of the individual as fully separate and self-contained? I mean… how independent can we really be if we buy our gas from the pump, our groceries from the store, and our clothes off the rack. Still, we don’t replace our connection to history with our own experience, after all, the dangers of self-absorption are only that, dangers. The sign reading “Thin Ice” doesn’t mean I fall though and drown, it only means, I need to watch my step.

Ugh, this cold is making me feel glum. I am not even sure what I am saying here. Another conversation comes to mind. Not fully formed it lingers in the peripheral of my mind.

“G. is really looking forward to going to Houston with you.”
“I think it will be really fun.”
“I hope so. D. often talks about the trips you two used to take together when she was little.”
“When we would drive to Albuquerque together?”
“Yes. She really misses those. I think it will be great for G. to have those experiences too.”
“I hope so.”

It’s funny how memories can come back in a moment, and then sink back into the mire, to be forgotten again and again. I like to think that somewhere in my mind all of my memories are hung on a wall, like a cork board that your parents may have kept with all your awards and ribbons on it, and that that the mind can wander up to this board at any time and pull off the photos, the sounds, and the smells and hold them up for closer examination. But that this doesn’t happen to make me feel better about myself, rather it is because I needed that moment to help get through this one, and that I am really trying to be gentle with myself, even when the memories are hard and unpleasant.

It’s funny I often wonder at the seemingly totally random crap that comes out of my mouth and ends up on my facebook status. Ugh. What is my mind trying to tell me now? Lets check the status. Oh it says I need more coffee cake and coffee. See. Gentle.