Can you do great art, or even good art, or any art, while waiting in an airport? You can do the “any art” category with sticky things from an American Girl polka dot book and watercolor pencils. You can connect the dots.
I had a lot of time in the Denver airport, so I fooled around with a journal page I started at my daughter’s house. It was idle time, which lets my brain sort, file, and process. After all the mess of moving, during which I went to the soccer tournament in Las Vegas, the art opening in Oceanside, and Colorado for 10 days, I felt rather scattered. Travel time helped me connect the dots.
I came home feeling settled, unhurried, and interested in connecting with family and friends. I felt like, although we still have boxes and boxes to go and lots of little details, that I can be part of real life again. It’s been like having a cold or the flu – you know you must have felt well at one time in your life, but you can’t remember what it felt like and can’t imagine feeling like that again. And then, one day, you are better. You remember.
During this time I had written an email to William. Life was feeling surreal to me, and by writing I can process. I called it Strange Days, and I’m going to copy it in here to try to explain how disturbing this move has been. (I changed all the “yous” to “William” so it would make more sense.)
April 15, 2010
I’m having the oddest feelings lately and it’s all connected to moving. Having made the conscious decision to move, making sure that we chose the kind of house we think we should grow old in, every single thing I put away, every picture I hang, takes on a new meaning.
My bedroom is now in its satisfactory state of clutter. The only thing in the room indicating it’s a bedroom at all is the bed. That’s a pretty strange and unconventional approach to a bedroom, but for me it’s functional. Mostly it’s an office – I have two printers and a scanner, a computer, all my photo supplies. Large bookcase. I have a new curio cabinet full of all my little collectibles – the enameled boxes in the shapes of animals, the little glass animals, old metal monopoly markers, my Planter’s Peanuts salt and pepper shakers, an old skate key, a metal ice cream spoon that used to come with those sundaes in the freezer case, etc. So many of the objects are rooted in the past.
As I put the objects in the cabinet, I think, what will these objects mean to me when I’m 73, or 83, or 93? Will they be a comfort to me and I’ll still enjoy them? I have this odd desire to render everything sterile right now. But at the same time I plan to buy cabinets so I can finally display my Star Trek action figures and my Harry Potter action figures. Then my mind fights a battle with itself – you’re 63 and you collect action figures? You want to display them? Well, why not? Why can’t I do what I want? But is it going to matter in 10 years? Then I wonder why I’m thinking about it at all.
I feel kind of removed from things.
I look at the wall across from where I’m sitting – I put up pictures today. There are five objects on the wall opposite. My Bright Eyes Buddha poster, the birch tree photo I took in Alaska, the green leaf photo William took, the map William drew in 7th grade, and the beautiful leaf and fruit he drew for me the first year I came to Lugano. Then on other walls there are two posters Michael gave me from shows he was in, two mirrors he made for me, lizards William gave me for my birthday the third year in Lugano, a special horseshoe Michael brought me from a trip, and on and on. Nothing is fantastic art but it’s all precious. It’s personal.
Over my desk I have the autographed photo of Jonathan Frakes (William Riker on Star Trek), the autographed photo of BB King, the poster of the Titans signed by so many of them (from a history day project), a photo signed by all the old 5th period lunch bunch from Fruitvale, and something Jeff Johnson made for me after I organized my first film festival at the Fox. And my two Arthur Rackham book plates from the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books.
I’ve pared down the photos. I have quite a few of me with people who’ve died. AIDS. Michael Barrie, Ron Aiello, Charlie O’Malley, and then Dell Allen. Cancer. Then photos of family, William and Michael. William and Michael qualify as family.
I could go on describing it all but I guess the point is I’m looking at it all from the perspective of being 80 or 90. And I can’t even imagine what that will be. I suppose that Mom and Dad’s current state is mixed into this strange feeling. I really hope I’m not watching my future. And I’m not even expressing the feelings I’m having with accuracy.
I like my clutter. I’m happy with my things. But I wonder about the feeling of removal. I think it might have to do with the newness of the house. Getting familiar with the area and getting it all arranged. It may be less than a mile from our old house, but it feels isolated. I didn’t think it would feel like that. Being in a small, gated community on a very quiet street without much happening feels isolating. Yet I know it’s just because it’s all new, and it’ll be a neighborhood like any other once we’re established. I mean, the people from next door brought over homemade cookies to welcome us. They have seven kids! Wow.
I think what I have to do is start going to things again – openings (missed one tonight), gatherings (missed the writer’s workshop last night), get back in public and mingle. But maybe what I really need is for my studio to get organized and for all the paintings to be hung, etc. so we feel like we are living, not moving.
I suppose this ill-defined feeling will pass of its own accord. Hope it doesn’t take too long.
Of course, the feeling passed. I’m home, things look and feel like home, and we love this house. We’re thrilled with it. The whole process of calling this move “Operation Old Age” in light of what we’ve learned from and about my aging parents, put a new slant on the idea of moving. Psychologically, it was working a number on me that I didn’t even recognize.
Thankfully, I’ve connected the dots and it all feels right. I feel like me.
