Here's Some Crazy Talk

I know I've been missing it, so just in case you were craving some Crazy Talk (to be filed under Gibberish, which is located in the Lunacy drawer), I thought I'd better sit down and write a post. 

I think I've been spreading myself too thin. I'm not complaining, it's always good to be busy, but there's busy and then there is Spinning-Top-Mania. Spinning-Top-Mania is not productive. Don't let this happen to you! Although, it's almost certainly already too late. You're probably well-mersed in your own mania of spinning toppidness (when I'm cranky, I make up words. Sue me). We're all of us so busy, busy, busy and mostly we're busy with crapola that we don't even want to do. What the hell??? I'm standing in a line for stuff I don't want again, aren't I? Talk about crazy! Yeah that's all right, I'll have mine with a Side of Buttered Guilt (all the better to shove it down my gullet) and a mess (emphasis on the mess) of Smashed-And-Dashed Feelings. Thank you.

Just what am I trying to say here?? I really haven't a clue. There is way too much going on in this head of mine. And try as I might (really? is that the best you could come up with, IK?) I can't seem to make friends with my brain. So...I'm shutting it off. Yeah, that's right. Shut off the brain and enjoy the bliss...or at least that's the plan. I don't want to dump the poor dear permanently. Just shut it down for a bit. Honestly, my brain is so loud these days that I can't think. And yes, that actually does make sense. Just shut down your brain for a moment and you'll see. Ahhhh yes...much better.

And if all else fails, listen to The Beatles...

And if THAT hasn't solved the issue, here's Mr. Marley...

AND to bring this madness to a full and complete stop (please remain seated on Err Insanity until the captain's light goes on...you could be here awhile), I will leave you with a doodle. Yep. It's another Faery Snail. Hope all is going well in your world(s)...

Her Faery Snailness

Why is it that my snails have better fashion sense than I do? I'm a jeans-and-tee kinda gal. Where do these ball gowns (and wings. let's not forget about the wings) come from? Perhaps it is some sort of deep-rooted desire. Interesting. I don't really want to analyze this, by the way. My semi-functional delusions are far too much fun to risk losing them on some psychiatric couch.

Grayscale Part II – Winning the Battle of the Gray

“Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life.” Oscar Wilde’s theory is that Art sets the tone for how we perceive everything. Without Art, we would not know beauty or despair or be empowered to glean meaning. Through the artist, Art presents us with the achingly beautiful, the depressingly ugly, and meaning. I don’t know if I’m 100% there with Oscar (having spent so many nights with him, I’m fairly certain we’re on a first name basis); however, I do believe that Art of whatever form (painting, photography, writing, humor, sculpture, poetry, music, film, food, whatever) does elevate Life. In the sense that without Art, there is merely existence. I’m not saying we all have to get to a museum more often, although that would not be a bad thing. I am saying that Art is actually everywhere, we just need to temporarily forget about the laundry, those aches and pains, our bank balance, or what’s for supper, and simply open our eyes.

A battery of tests (labs, x-rays, and biopsies oh my) have been run on me. Why do they call it “battery”? Did this all energize me? I think not. Is “battery” meaning battalion? As in the white coats are attacking me with tests? To that I can only say, they’ve thrown pretty much everything they have at me and I’m Still Standing (thank you, Elton) so na na na na.

And throughout it all I’m proud to report that I’ve maintained my F-U attitude with the white coats. As far as I’m concerned medicine and all the bureaucracy that goes with it, is a necessary evil, and perhaps less on the necessary and more on the evil. I don’t feel the same about nurses, by the way. Mostly, I think that’s because nurses generally don’t have that holier-than-thou demeanor and because they get stuck with all the dirty work of traditional medicine.

And what have all the test results told the white coats? Well, they know something’s wrong with me. Seriously? That’s what you get paid for? Stating the obvious?? Okay, they do know that it’s not cancer and that is a very good thing and I am really-truly-no-fooling grateful for that.

Apparently (or not so apparently), I have some sort of connective-tissue-disease-auto-immune-disorder thingy. Why didn’t you say so? If I were Yoda, I might say clear, things are not. The white coats have no idea which disease-disorder thingy my body is expressing at this point. Apparently (no qualification this time), there are a whole lotta these auto-immune thingamajiggies. I have been told that I’m in a “gray area” and until another symptom manifests, they probably won’t be able pinpoint which connective-doohickey is occurring. My advice to the white coats was, “look for the strangest, most obscure of these disorders and there will be a picture of me waiting for you to name it.”

Unfortunately, the white coats did not find my advice helpful. So for now…I’m stuck in this “gray area.” At first this seriously anger-and-frizzle-fried me. All this time has gone by, all these stupid, miserable tests, all that money and they can’t give me a name to associate this with??? And then, like the errant brick that Truth sometimes is, it smacked me in the forehead and I realized how dumb is that? Who cares what label they want to slap onto my whatchmacallit? Will that label cure me? No, it really won’t.

Does being in this “gray area” surprise me? No, it really does not. Gray has always played out a theme in my life and not just with my love of Grayscale Photography. My first novel features a land of gray. My greeting cards are grayscale doodles printed on (100% recycled) gray paper, which by the way took me ages to find. I’ve never been a fan of gold jewelry; I’m a lover of sterling silver. I tend to associate gray with depression, something that I've fought valiantly for most of my life. My finances are certainly more on the gray side than black (and thankfully not red). Philosophically, it has always been the “gray areas” of life that intrigue me far more than the black or white. And give me the lovely, soft light of cloudy overcast over recklessly blaring sunshine any day. Holy Graymoly. Sometimes it takes an illness, difficulty, tragedy, or a drastic change to connect the dots of your life, because we all have such bizarre patterns. But I do believe that we all have a pattern, perhaps several. 

A great deal of my life has been about gray, I just never knew it consciously until now. Upside? Now I can have fun with it. It’s what you don’t know that runs you like some sort robotic marionette. Once you know, you can run it. That may sound like a dubious upside, but not to me.

So, does Life truly imitate Art? Or is it that Art imitates Life? As my husband always says, “a little from column A, a little from column B.”

Woke up with a faux hawk this morning…

Not a really, really faux hawk. It’s just that while sleeping part of my bangs somehow got smooshed (it’s a word) and is now pointing straight up. I keep looking where it’s pointing, but so far, I’ve not seen anything of merit. I’m not saying that this means anything (at least not straight out), but I do find it interesting. It got me to thinking (and you know how dangerous that can be) about a bunch of articles I’ve read recently about what makes a “successful” person. Does a “successful” person wake up with an unintentional faux hawk? The world may never know or at least, I may never know.

Instead of discombobulating myself with thoughts of whether or not I'm a successful person, I decided to doodle. Believe it or not, this is actually progress for me. Hah!

Ms. Swirly-Shell Lady, so damn successful that she just says balls to the faux and goes for the full on mohawk. 

Grayscale – Part I

Desaturation: To remove color from an image. 100% desaturation results in a grayscale image. Notice that it's a "grayscale image" even though we call it Black and White, which is odd considering that "grayscale" is quicker to say and type. I'm not saying that we shouldn't call it “B&W,” I'm just saying that it's odd that we don't say “grayscale.” Another oddity to add to my collection (which is massive…just saying). 

As a lot of photographers will agree there is something very special about black and white photos. Black and white are the essence of photography. When all color except for black and white (and gray, let's not forget the all-important gray) are eliminated, it is never more clear that photography is the art of Shadows and Light. 

Don't get me wrong, I absodamnlutely love color. Every color. Color is awesome. Stunning. Brilliant. Sensing a "but" is on its way? You got it. Here's the "but:" color is distracting. Yeah. Color adds dimension, but color can also detract from whatever it is you happen to be perceiving. There are small details in shapes that can be missed because color gets in the way. Weird, but true. And this is true of any shape: fruit, flowers, blades of grass, animals, and people. Especially people. There is nothing quite like a black and white portrait. In a strange way, I believe color doesn't really do the human form justice. 

Maybe it's because most of us see in color and we're accustomed to missing the finer details of shapes and when color is eliminated it's astonishing to see what we've missed. I suppose the perception of people who are color blind must be completely different the color sighted. An interesting thought. 

And how flipping fantastic are digital cameras? I used to have to buy black and white film, take the photos, and then hope everything would come out all right in the darkroom. Now, I can set my little camera to “B&W,” which essentially desaturates my view and I can actually see everything in black and white (and gray). How awesome is that? Not to mention the fact that I don't have to go through the hassle of developing the film, making the prints etc. 

How different the world is when seen through a desaturated filter...grayscale is pretty cool. But we all know that it’s the contrast that makes for a great B&W image, not the grays. Too many grays and everything just blends, the image becomes “muddy” and nothing stands out. Not enough contrast and your image is flat, and basically uninteresting. Too much contrast and you can’t see a damn thing. The lights are too bright and shadows too dark.

It’s all about balance, isn’t it? Photography and Life have a lot in common.

Morning light on bedroom wall. I know it's grainy, but I still like it. 

Weird, eh? This bulletin was just laying on the sidewalk. There are signs everywhere.

Me and my husband's feet lazing about on Saturday morning. A bit muddy, but I like the intimacy of this image. I have no idea what's on the TV.

Flowers work in grayscale or color. Nature always works.

P.S. Whether in conversation or writing, it's not like me to blurt things out (except, of course, expletives)...and grayscale doesn't blurt out. Grayscale saunters, meanders, works its way up to whatever. Nice.

Cront Ardead…RIP Edgar Allen Poe

Being that he died in 1849 it could be a bit late for a Eulogy, but then you know the saying, right?

“I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.”

I am a woman with a classical bent. Or just bent. Probably both (you can almost hear the snare drum during one of my posts, eh?). In the past, I’ve mentioned a few of my favorite classic literature titles and authors on my blog and will continue to do so in the future. Just try and stop me. Hah!

An old love of mine is getting some recent press due to the film The Raven, starring John Cusack. I fell in love with Mr. Poe at the ripe age of eleven. Yeah, I had weird taste at eleven. In case you haven’t noticed, my taste is even weirder now. While most eleven year old girls were swooning over Donny Osmond, I was devouring Mr. Poe. Gruesome, no?

Years later I became aware of a modern day Goth movement in both music and art…and make-up. People (myself included, for a brief period) who find an odd solace in donning a wardrobe of primarily black, along with heavy black eyeliner, lipstick, and fingernail polish…and I wondered if they knew the man who truly lived Goth (and to my knowledge without the heavy black eyeliner, lipstick, and fingernail polish).

“…All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”

How beautiful is A Dream Within a Dream? Achingly so. And here I am not alone, this poem cleaves the heart (notice my use of nineteenth century phrasing?). His hero was Lord Byron and Poe’s earliest writings were indeed poetry. So, a romantic dreamer was Mr. Poe? Uh, well sort of…

Literary critic, Cryptologist, and Cosmologist, he also put his own unique spin on Gothic writing, leaving us with what flavors the genre today.  I think what makes his horror tales so absolutely horrific is that he did not write them as horror…but perhaps more as cautionary tales. Don’t let how someone else views the world upset your applecart to the point that you smoother him in his sleep, cut him up into pieces, and hide the parts under the floorboards. You’ll only end up hearing the incessant beating of your victim’s heart and it will drive you up the wall. If you’re abusive to a cat and then kill your wife, don’t bother to brick up her body in the basement. The cat will only tattle on you. In case you ever wondered what would happen if you do these things, Mr. Poe tells us.

Horror fan or not, regardless of which side of the fence you sit (and even if you didn’t know that there was a fence) you must admit Mr. Poe has an enviable style, as well as a flair for evoking strong reactions. Mundane he was not. Otherworldly? Most certainly, yes.

I think some (if not all) of the original intent of the horror genre has been lost in a sea of gore and oh-boy-look-what-we-can-do-with-make-up-and-special-effects. Mr. Poe knew what it was about. No matter how smart or rich or angry you are, perform evil deeds and you will never truly escape the consequences.

Since he wrote about madmen, alcoholics, and murderers, and made it all so creepily believable, it’s no wonder that most of us still think of Mr. Poe as some sort of coked-out, drunken, necrophiliac freak. And all of this is thanks to a bogus obituary written by a man who hated him.

Personally, I believe that Mr. Poe was simply comfortable on the darker side of life. The scars of one’s childhood run deep and quite often will shadow our entire lives. Poe experienced the heavy loss of loved ones at a very early age, compounded by further losses later in life. Grief changes us forever. For a rare few, loss leaves them with a willingness to explore the shadow that causes so many others to shudder and look the other way.

And certainly, as his tales attest, though he may have shuddered he did not look the other way. He chose instead to become a master of his craft, an artist true, squeezing out every drop of sadness, terror, beauty, darkness, and ugliness with each word he penned. I cannot help but tip my imaginary hat to him and give him a very real and hearty nod of appreciation.

“They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”

Whatever dreams you may be dreaming in daylight, keep dreaming them with the certain knowledge that they are what sets you apart from the weak and weary and oh-so-dreary mundane.

   

Wondering about “Cront Ardead?” I’ll tell you, anyway. As far as I know, it means nothing. You know those prove-that-you’re-not-a-robot thingies? Yeah, everyone hates them and most of the time I too, find them unnecessarily annoying; however, sometimes I’ve discovered interesting inspiration and a bit of amusement from the not-words that the characters spell out. “Cront Ardead” seemed appropriate for a post about the late Mr. Poe.