Goodbye 2010, hello to the splendid unknown!

Wow. As I begin to compose this post, the clock indicates that this ridiculously dramatic, at times wonderful, at other times indescribably painful, all-around eventful, undeniably fruitful year will end in less than two hours. Are you curious about how I spent the last few days of 2010? Well, I'll write about it whether you're interested or not. How's that?! Aw, give me a break! I write because I need to, not because I care whether the world cares or not. There's plenty of less stimulating, less ego-centric, more scandalous and flesh-happy literature available for a few bucks a pop at your local grocery store checkout line or tobacco-and-news (and porn) joint.

Yesterday I declared in a very permanent way my admiration for and devotion to Pittsburgh's best member-supported, commercial-free public radio station, 91.3 WYEP ("Where the music matters!") by getting their logo tattooed on the back of my left calf. That was my fourth--but certainly not my last--tattoo. (Did I mention that tattoos are addictive, that you'd better be mindful of that fact when you wander in for your first one?!) I plan to write more extensively about this fourth tattooing experience in a few days. The tattoo itself looked like this moments after it was finished:

My newest little baby currently feels like a bad sunburn, but that's an understood consequence that must be accepted if one is going to have ink forever needled into one's skin. As long as it heals well without too much color dropping away with the dead skin, I'll be happy!

Last night I dreamed, among other things (including Legos, soaking in a wintertime swimming hole a la the Polar Bear Club, wading through a muddy creek, and exploring a most interesting woodsy landscape coated in ice-melting salt residue) that I was watching Fleetwood Mac rehearse for a comeback tour--but all was not well. Stevie Nicks sat on the stage floor next to me, beautifully made up with her pleated suede knee-high platform boots, but tired and showing her age; she wanted me to sing harmonies on 'Rhiannon': Dreams unwind, love's a state of mind over and over again. I sang two different low harmonic parts for her and she told me exactly which one I needed to stick to--and I could not creatively alternate. She was hurt by Lindsey Buckingham's constant biting comments and passive-aggressive behavior. He just couldn't or wouldn't let the past die, or so it seemed. When I sat next to Christine McVie in a folding chair a bit later, she was sarcastic and bitter; I could imagine that she would've taken comfort in a cigarette just about then. She might have said something to the effect of--and I take great liberties with embellishment here--"This whole bloody tour's going to implode. Bunch of dysfunctional sixty year-old babies. I should have stayed at home in the English countryside with my dogs and my cooking."  I think that John McVie (Christine's ex-husband and Fleetwood Mac bassist) and Mick Fleetwood (Stevie's onetime lover, wild statuesque band namesake and percussion virtuoso) would've been happy jamming away together, the other three and all their drama gone for good.

This morning, after brewing some coffee, I finally finished my latest Kurt Vonnegut foray, The Sirens of Titan. People, listen: if you're wondering what to read next, give Vonnegut a try. If you're a fan of political satire, or scathing black comedy, or social commentary, or heart-prodding tragi-drama otherwise, or particularly of well-crafted science fiction, read this Vonnegut work first. The story was deeply moving and an enthralling piece of Earth-rooted Sci-fi fantastica spanning millennia and most of the geographical universe by leaps and bounds. I actually cried a bit near the end--but then I'm an overly emotional, sentimental sap on Wellbutrin, so what do you expect? A few lines really caught me in those last twenty pages, and I'm compelled to share them. First, "It took us that long to realize that a purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved." (I've been thinking about love and all its residuals lately, so that line really pierced my wicked little heart.) Later, referring to a Tralfamadorian (fictional planet) spacecraft, "The controls were anything but a hunch-player's delight in a Universe composed of one-trillionth part matter to one decillion parts black velvet futility." Black velvet futility to describe outer space. Exactly.

I spent most of this afternoon exploring the wonderful Homewood cemetery, less than a mile from where I currently sit. (By extension, less than a mile from where I've been living for the past four years.) How, oh how, could a morbid brooding zombie-loving cemetery enthusiast let so much time pass without exploring a magnificent cemetery so close to home filled with the rotting memories of some of Pittsburgh's most famous (and criminally wealthy) citizens and the ridiculous architectural creations that house their bones?! How, having passed this cemetery over 100 times, could I have ignored it for so long? These questions and their necessarily rhetorical admonitions are irrelevant; what matters is that today, on the last day of the last month of 2010, in unseasonably warm weather under blue skies, I finally ventured into the place with my camera and took approximately one zillion photos. I braved idiotic dog-owners ignoring the "leash at all times" rule, foul-mouthed Emo teenagers up to a whole lot of no good (common in city cemeteries, in case you didn't know), and the inevitable unpredictable mystery of companionship with myself and myself alone in the name of art and adventure, folks! I will post more about this experience, and share a photo or two, a bit later.

In the meantime, I'm going to wrap this post up, finish my first glass of New Year's Eve wine--a flavorful deep-red vintage called Seven Deadly Zins (thank you Matt Goodman, good buddy!)--and get the hell downstairs so that my friend and housemate Josh--and I--will not be totally alone at midnight.

FUCK YOU and thank you my beloved, deceitful bipolar mistress 2010! I know well that 2011 will be a much better companion. She simply has to be.

Creative explosions (or candle flames)

Ever wary of the frighteningly swift passage of time (and my misuse of it!), I often scold myself for not producing enough artwork or otherwise doing enough creatively stimulating things, including reading. I tend to feel guilty when someone says "You should read some of Mike's poetry" or "Mike's an awesome artist!" when, truthfully, Mike's not writing very much poetry or doing much art most of the time. Unless I'm actually producing artwork regularly, I am uncomfortable with being called an artist; "a person who occasionally turns out some really good drawings" is more appropriate (although I suppose that's pretty convoluted). Fortunately, I did find some time in the past seven days to be creative. Granted, this creativity stemmed from my responsibility to complete a commissioned work--to be given by a friend of mine as a Christmas gift to his girlfriend--and my earlier procrastination in avoidance of starting the drawing.

Last Sunday was one of those rare days when I had absolutely no obligations: nobody to work for, no pressing chores, no appointments. I should have started my friend's drawing, due Wednesday, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I sat around all day long in my pajama pants, barefoot and shirtless, editing photos on my computer, drinking coffee, and savoring the incense burning in the study/library where my lovely reptiles lounge in tanks dreaming of crickets (Luna) and twitching pinky rats (the snake gang). Out of the blue, it occurred to me that I should do something to immortalize the leftover roses arranged in the dining room and living room before tossing them in the compost. I grabbed the camera and tripod, headed outside before dark, and started playing around in the garden bed. This is Rose Wake, so named for its allusion to a funerary gathering:

On Monday night, I mustered a bit of discipline and got started on Daryl's drawing. As with almost every artistic project that I embark on, the beginning--the intimidation of a blank page and no definitive vision or sense of direction--was a lonely emotional battleground. Yet, as with almost every project that came before, a vision developed as the page took on color and geometric composition; my confidence grew; my singular determination to stick with the art, to see it through to completion, developed into excitement and experimental possibility. As the drawing came alive, my muse stretched her limbs, chanted three Aums channeling the vibrations of the universe, and struck some pretty phenomenal yoga poses. On Tuesday night, the drawing was finished and celebrated with a one-man spiced rum toast.

Later today, I'm going to head over to the 61C Cafe on Murray Avenue and prepare some of my Christmas cards while sipping coffee (like I need more of that!) and hopefully feeling a little hip among all the hipsters and academic types who often populate the 61C. This week, I promise myself to work on a poem--a little epic about a solitary World War II American flying ace in France that I've been meaning to write since September. I'll start reading Kurt Vonnegut's The Sirens of Titan after having just finished Mother Night. With enough discipline and motivation, I'll do at least one oil painting between Christmas and New Year's Day. Wish me luck! 

Appreciation and direction

Yeah, I had so much to say that I've decided to post twice today! This past week, for the first time, I watched Madonna's documentary 'I Am Because We Are' on YouTube. (To clarify, the film was written and produced by Madonna and directed by Nathan Rissman, once a gardener for the star.)  If you haven't heard of it, I recommend it--and I'll summarize by saying that the film explores, among other things, the devastating effects of AIDS on the population of the African nation of Malawi (seemingly unknown or unheard of to much of the western world, at least until Madonna became involved): the hundreds of thousands of orphaned children, the despairing victims on the verge of death, the desperation of parentless youth left to fend for themselves on the streets. Add poverty, lack of education, economic stagnation, alcoholism, absence of medical aid, and destructive traditional cultural practices perpetuated by ignorance (including "curing sex" in which elder male villagers designated as spiritual healers engage in repeated forced sexual intercourse with the mothers or wives of AIDS victims to supposedly rid them of the resultant impurities of their lives), and you've got a pretty awful situation. The film is devastating, brutally honest, at times repugnant, inspiring, life-affirming, and beautiful. 

Say what you will about Madonna--about her musical significance, her talent, her reputation for manipulation, her knack for mastering the changing weather of cultural relevance and taste, her very public adoption of two children of Malawi (one of whom is well known to still have a living father), her motives as an artist / director / singer / songwriter / musician / actress / producer / executive / philanthropist. 'I Am Because We Are' humanizes Madonna and convinces all but the most cynical, cold-hearted viewers that her heart overflows with love and an inherent responsibility to help others. As someone who has questioned, on countless occasions, the value of his own life, his purpose, his value to the world, I was left wondering how I might sign up to serve Madonna's mission for a better Malawi and a better planet. I would gladly go there in a heartbeat, and not just to please her. Indeed, the potential benefits and inherent thrills of a professional relationship with Madonna Herself are hard to deny, but the realization of a personal commitment to change in a suffering yet promising nation of life-loving survivors and innocent children--capable of changing the world as we know it--is an opportunity that is hard to dismiss.

Make no mistake: I am committed to a better America, and I am grateful to live here; but as Madonna points out, there is a joy, a deep celebratory abandon, an absolute lack of pretense or artificiality, present in the lives of the most impoverished and seemingly discarded human beings populating the forgotten corners of the developing world that makes our spoiled, selfish, unabashedly ignorant American experience pale in comparison--a life of color and dance and laughter blossoming amidst the death thriving everywhere. If I had the courage, I would book a one-way flight for Malawi tomorrow. Somewhere in that land of suffering and wonder I am convinced that I would find myself--that I would find purpose in influencing the lives of forgotten children and neglected souls begging for the opportunity to shine. Honestly, it would be fantastic to meet Madonna, to earn her respect and admiration; but it might very well be good enough to connect with the people regardless of her approval or praise. I would never do it just for her, or just for myself; I would do it for the children, for the elders of Malawi who would hopefully be convinced, in time, of my selfless intentions. How can I do this?! Is it my calling? 

Starting from scratch

What a day. In the blink of an eye my entire savings account has vanished. Why? Hospital bills. At first, they came trickling in, little harmless things--tremors inflicting manageable amounts of damage: $143.95, $77.50, $48.25. I'd almost convinced myself that the Big One wasn't coming after all. Then the quake hit like a mother, a ruthless highrise-toppling 9.0 on the Richter scale of my sanity: $1,042.00. I stood in the living room last night with my coat still on, bill in hand, staring at the wall and thinking All the work to save that money... and Why can't I ever catch a break? Just ONE?! Then my attitude shifted: the bill must be paid, the past cannot be undone, the loss isn't worth agonizing over, and I actually have enough money in my savings account to finish the whole thing off in one payment. At three o'clock today, I did just that. Now, as I sit here in the mercifully quiet basement of the Software Engineering Institute, I'm thinking to myself How much and how often am I gonna have to whore myself out to rebuild my savings? I guess I can kiss that shimmering mirage of a trip to Germany or Turkey or the British Isles goodbye. This is but one of the many unfortunate penalties that I've paid for having been blessed with more than just a touch of instability. If I were asked to relate one positive element of the whole experience, it would be this: without insurance, my out-of-pocket bill would have totaled $3,165. Health insurance companies may operate as depraved, humanity-hating mini-governments with dollar signs for eyes, but at least I have insurance.

Lately, to keep my spirits up, I've been reflecting a good bit upon my magnificent Thanksgiving break--the road trip to Georgia with my friend Greg: how wonderful his family was to me and in general; how exuberantly generous the weather was when we hiked on Thanksgiving day; how good it was to swing by Nashville briefly, meeting up with my best friend Ryan and pounding a few too many excellent dark beers down in the company of guys I'd give anything for. Even the long drives south and back seemed to pass quickly, colored as they were by an endless variety of music, meaningful conversation, amusing stops (e.g., the criminally tacky combination BP station / fireworks emporium in Tennessee), surprisingly lovely early-winter landscapes bathed in misty darkness (on our way to Georgia) and sunshine (returning), and the refreshing liberty of not having to be or sound like someone I'm not during any part of the journey.

It's terribly frustrating not having any inkling whatsoever as to what my destiny in life is, yet being plagued with an unwholesome obsessiveness that refuses to allow me some refuge from the habit of thinking about such things constantly. As this year comes to an end, I'm once again in a position to symbolically start anew, as you perhaps are. If I can allow myself to simply live, to stop predicting possible futures and to avoid self-persecution as a result of my perceived failure to succeed with the magnitude that I'd expected myself to, that will be just as wonderful as any conventional new year's resolution. Of this year, I have certainly learned that I am a survivor. Does that not count for something?