Sweet Talk vs Dirty Talk

To lighten the mood of a frustrating task, I start talking to inanimate objects. As it isn’t socially acceptable to talk with tools and materials, I begin to feel naughty and can focus on that feeling, instead of the challenge at hand.

For instance, when I’m working on removing trim for re-use, I’ve found that what I say to the pieces has an impact on how well I preserve them. Trim is synonymous with lingerie for many reasons, and it’s not difficult to connect them in my mind at the moment of removal, so I have to be wary of screwing it up. As I coax a quality piece of adornment off a structure, I use firm gentle strokes and whisper sexy words to it, to “un-guild the lily”.

Sometimes trim is made like ancient cotton briefs stained by use, so I can talk nasty to it while tearing it from the wall with my bare hands. Studs are even more fun to reclaim because they’ve been nailed so thoroughly to the wall, that they need a hard pounding with a heavy hammer and filthy language, to properly undo.

Deciding between sweet talk and dirty talk, is a matter of balancing quality in the materials, with the hope of doing something with them again. Asking myself how long it will take to satisfy the preservation of the material vs how much energy it would take to re-create them, is rewarding and necessary to the trade.

The process is further complicated by how slutty the wood has been. Has it been nailed in the face repeatedly? Was it stacked wet against other pieces for long periods of time, showing it’s dissatisfied need for sunlight and air as a rotten weak spot? What does the grain look like, and is the board straight? How many knots would need to be addressed when planing it, and does it have hidden scraps of previous nail mistakes buried inside?

Sometimes I’m surprised by an ancient beauty, and fall in love with a beam that could be a thousand years old. The strength in the piece of old growth beckons me to care for it, and the wisest choice is to do whatever I need to in order to reclaim it. I’ll strip away a dozen ugly boards with commentary reflecting their fake veneers and plastic faces, then BAM!!! There is a gem!! All work stops as I run my hands over her golden surface, and my words are lost in a dream come true.


Focus Stall Ranting

I enjoyed your article, as I also find myself in the unenviable position, of freezing my life due to heart breaks, to reflect on the patterns in the pain of the past. As you said, my symptoms are flight, fight, and freeze.

On my blogging adventure, I’m fighting by writing for the growth of my well-being, and yesterday I watched an interesting video on the study of perspective in time, that helps build my serenity for that purpose.

In the flight from emotional pain over the last year, I’ve become fascinated by how time relates to my spirituality and identity. It has a harsh impact on the judgements of others for who I am(an emotional trigger you shared too),so you I hope this video helps you too. Food for thought in The Secret Powers of Time.  The only criticism I would give, is that I wouldn’t choose to represent the present tense derogatorily as “Present Hedonist”, as I find the spiritual practice of “Mindfullness”, and living in the moment, bring me contentment.

I used my desire to comment on your article, as a motivator to edit my long list of backlogged drafts, so thanks for sharing your struggle, it inspired me to improve this article from 2012:

Why am I doubting the darkness, and interrogating the sun? Why does the cold make me angry, and the heat make me sad? What is this thing that makes me look up, expecting to see the ceiling, and finding the closet floor? What is the combination of the lock to the cellar door?

Why am I so tired, with rest evading me like a bouncing deer? Staring at one of my biggest fears, shaking my head and grinning, a mantra uttered to survive. Turning on the music, taking a shower, shaving, turning up the music, dancing, singing, drinking water….

Taking on something simple while physically demanding, as a challenge that will exhaust me to complete. A work that takes all of it away, and leaves me trembling for a different reason, than the one that motivated me to write this.

It’s a precipice, a focus stall, a pit. The scattering fragmentation and suffering of doubts, popping up like bubbles in a boil.

Putting my ear muffs on to cancel out the noise of the chain saws hitting rock, in my head, and again, turning up the music. Dancing to feeling it, loving it as a moment in time. Always as my salvation, the double safeties with end knots, rescuing my lost soul.

A place of absorption with mind whipping like a snake rattle…I’m barely alive. Outside the door lying under the floor, lurks my passions, perseverance, drive, resilience, sanctuary, art, and focus. Play that makes me tall, a work that fixes all.

It’s the decision that’s already been made, and a willingness to pursue it with dogged focus. Getting it done for me, means learning to transcend the focus stalls with grace.

So if you see me with bloodshot eyes and grinning, sweating while lifting, moving at high-speed, know that what you see is glee, buried in an uncontrollable passion to finish.

I have no choice to make at this point. My life has become make or die, and I love being an Artist Builder. Thanks again for inspiring me to lift this back up, by writing about the dynamics of your mental health, and the scientific study of it. Be well.

This is little blue man.  He glows in the dark.  My third puppet.  Made from reclaimed Douglas Fir, Yew wood, and an assortment of semi precious stone beads.

This is little blue man. He glows in the dark, and is my third puppet. Made from reclaimed Douglas Fir, Yew wood, and an assortment of semiprecious stone beads.  His strings are cut, because making him was my passion, and controlling him didn’t bring me happiness.


As a kid

As a kid, one of the things that consistently gives me what I need:

Many things mesmerize me, entrance me with focus, shock me with grace, stun me with beauty, stall me with meanness, or leave me laughing at my flow. Not many of them make me feel everything all at once, for long periods of time.

Love has done that for me, but left in a position to define how I feel when it’s gone, the only thing remaining that’s immediately available to represent what my words cannot, is Art. This art. Any art.

Welcome to my story. I’m absorbing myself in it, wrapping myself in a cocoon of breathes, and singing it in my minds eyes.

I believe in my heart that righteous intention revels at my fingertips, and as I start pieces with my greatest glee hopes, everything will be okay with my love.

It’s like taking a satisfying nap when your tired, having no schedule, no appointments, and only one agenda when you wake up: to focus, and improve.  When did we decide that naps are only for little kids, because as I edit this and hope to improve it for the 20th time, I’m remembering loving to read and write like this at 3 in the morning, when I was eleven.

Looking for what’s next, or editing, is the awkward part. I get sidetracked as curiosity leads me to something different. I pursue a favorite past time like studying an idea, and time is gone.

One of my favorite books to fully embrace a sidetrack, is the thesaurus. It has many forms now, some of them quite fantastic. I still anticipate opening the crisp pages of a new one(to me), maybe a 1962 version, with quotes.

When a word is defined, I am lost in it’s rules and structure. On the other hand when I freely associate an idea, releasing the hold on what I think, and break down the meaning to myself with synonyms and antonyms, then I have a whole picture. This is one of the reasons I enjoy Chinese.

The language as I’m aware of it, is an example of this concept. The words are broken into characters which represent separate things, that combined make a meaning. Deep and strong, ancient texts may be read presently, as the structure of the language holds it’s shape.

My native language of English is constantly changing, and the dictionaries continue to be the biggest collections of definitions on earth, as we redefine words and add new ones like lunatickle.

Living outside the rules, justifications, structure, philosophy, and perceptions of society became a way of life for me as a kid and artist. It’s the questioning of intelligence, education, culture, economics, and design, in order to visualize a symbolization, that expresses my feelings of saturation in the passion to create.

The most accomplished categorization we can give in academia which is recognized worldly as honorable, is given to those who can transcend the fundamental structure of our belief system in order to develop a new idea.  Isn’t that what I just described as the way kids think?

During which point in history did we decide that practical conversation, logical thought, and rational, were superior to illogical creativity, illustrious music, charming social skills, storytelling, intuition, adaptation of perception, motivation towards passionate pursuits over material goods, imagination, visualization, community, sharing, and getting better at playing games?

Why are all the playgrounds being replaced with timid and lame miniaturized versions of what used to be? Something is wrong with this picture.

The shade of color from the background is making me sick, it throws off my balance clashing with the other colors that are me. I wish to build playgrounds so dangerous that the kids who get on them have to be half wild and scared, to dare to play. I hope and pray for this day.

Our basic education structure for the masses reflects this in many ways. Where are the open sourced curriculum plans, alternative grading philosophies, and student led classrooms? Why am I subjected to below par un-fun educational dynamics each time I go to school?

If my life is a school, how should I think about my day to day education in economics and job experiences? The moment I figured out, “O!, now I understand the way compound interest works against me!!”, what was I supposed to do, or think? So this is how it feels to be poor and categorized, labeled, defined, described, or depicted as less valuable?

I will learn from each moment absorbing the world like a sponge, each action of the day becoming a ceremony of the way to become better at what I make, gain new insight into creation, and develop new process towards vision.

It’s a personal R & D department and a lifestyle of enthusiasm for something of value, in a pursuit of Art. So am I claiming this is a doctoral thesis at the bottom of the page, or getting out frustration and avoiding degenerative forms of insanity, by justifying feeling like a fool?

The way of evaluating our perceptions and the world, is based no longer on spiritual faith, feelings, experience, mythology, stories, inherited talents, or intuition, but on science and math.

Proving something to be true makes it true fact, and accepting what we know? These feels docile, sheltered, boring and slow, which describes devolution perfectly.

One of the keys to my happiness is teaching and learning creatively, free associatively, and imaginatively outside the institutionalized education structure. I hope I did this here, feel fee to add what you think anywhere on this website to encourage me on this pursuit.  

Braces for the first piece of furniture I finished with satisfaction.

Songs I love that fix me

I wish to share, a little piece of me, for a mate that reminds me to KISS it.

The last time I took a vow of song sound, this was on repeat, and loudly I sing;

For You—–Tracy Chapman:

Meeting the fails of epic proportions, with striving for the greatest of ideals, to tears;

First Try—–Tracy :

This song fills my rebel soul right up, gives me chills, and I find the place of serenity for my frustrations;

Mountains of Things—-Tracy:

To balance the equation of the mountains;

All That You Have Is Your Soul—-Tracy:

One of my faiths;

Heaven’s Here On Earth:

Roots love;

Bonnie Rait/John Prine—-Angel From Montgomerey:

For the feelings to jell in me;

It’s a Big Old Goofy World—-John Prine

At my wake, make it a big party, started off with these:

Satisfy my Soul—-Bob Marley;

Stir it Up—-Bob Marley;

Get up Stand up—-Bob Marley;

For all the women that are so mad at me, and yes, as you wish, Happy Valentines Week!!!;

Positive Vibration—-Bob Marley:

What a Wonderful World—-Louis Armstrong:

A kiss to build a dream on—-Louis Armstrong:

Into the mystic—-Van Morrison:

Your supposed to turn it up for this one, and grab any guy, close by, so he can agree;

Bonnie Rait/John Lee Hooker—-I’m in the Mood:

And to further satisfy our anticipatory valentine hearts;

Willie Nelson/Cheryl Crow—-If I Were a Carpenter:

Willie Nelson—-Crazy:

Merle Haggard—-Worried, Unhappy, Lonesome, and Sorry:

Now with some of the best medicine for my ears, I feel better.

Wondrous Bentonite Clay

Had a discussion recently with a fellow wildcrafter/forester recently. It went a little something like this: “man that shit is awesome right?!!! *chuckles ensuing*, and his response, “I met the guy who harvests that stuff from the ground, and you know what he’s doing? *capitalistic glinting business sense in his eyes emanates* He’s selling the same stuff you bought in a fifty pound sack, in small containers mixed with oils, as a beauty product for fifty times more. The guy is slick.”

This is not your garden variety dirt bag. Nope. When you pull out a sack of this stuff from the hardware store, you know what you have in your hands. There isn’t much of a mixture. It’s uniquely most excellent for your needs.

Known as the best pond liner(the next best thing (relatively speaking, synthetics are unpredictable) is EPDM, also known as industrial grade inner-tube, It seals itself when a branch or other foreign object pierces the bottom of the body of water. You can put a bunch of synthetic crap in the earth, spend a bunch of money, use a bunch of glue, or a heat welder for other synthetics, or you can get some old burlap (this is deductive reasoning on my part as the book says “landscape fabric”, but the picture looked like burlap), dig a hole, lay the fabric down, impregnate it with the clay, and make free the wild water.

If this doesn’t get you the way it does me, then just take your time and learn to get excited, about paying a maintenance man like me, to come and facilitate the process. The needs of ponds and such, are much like a person, attention must be regularly given, or they will metamorphosis into pools of stagnant anaerobic destitution. In other words, one of my business plans: build something rad, and get paid to maintain it, or give the work away. Note to self: aspire to give a suggested maintenance schedule to any customer that pays me a cent to build, fix, or maintain, anything.

So the application to your skin as a mask has been covered for beauty, but let’s not miss the medicinal capacity for it to suck out nasty stuff, like infections. I mixed goldenseal powder, bentonite clay(i had bought it before in small batches from the grocery store to dry out poison oak, and ran out, but began using the large sack I had in the shop), and water, and applied it to my skin in a paste. It disinfected and drew out the gross as it evaporated from the cyst on my neck, relieving the pain with the first application. The subcutaneous ball, had grown to the size of half an egg on my neck, and began to hurt in concentric circles further away from the source.

Four days, and six applications later, a small patch of dried skin had made itself separate from the other layers. Feeling the need to pick, I plucked at the patch (to the dismay of my friend who had helped me apply the last couple coats of mud), and pulled it from my face. A tiny hole was created in the center of the bump. With focused excitement, the squeezing ensued. After copious disgusting popping of the most gargantuan zit you have ever seen, (thanks friend) I have a black mark the size of a pen head, where the lump had been.

Started out standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, but got dizzy after fifteen minutes or so, and begged for the recliner under the lamp. When the thing stopped being incorrigible, we applied a hot damp cloth to keep it flowing. After repeating this several times, and another coating of greenish bentonite mud, I asked if I could stop talking and fall asleep. She was quite encouraging, so that’s what I did. About an hour later I woke up, and asked how the popping had gone while I was napping. It was finished, deflated, and had no more to offer. All said and done, I imagine the dirty task took about two hours.

Thanks to wondrous bentonite clay, and if you know where some is in your country, let me know by email, just in case I’m passing through, to build a pond or two, or fall in love with your countryside.