Posts tagged ‘parallel writing’
Your drawings, sketches, photographs, product design, glass design, ad campaigns- for the most part your class work from your years studying at Cleveland Institute of Art has comforted me. I am surrounded by your raw talent in this house you called home for 28 years.
Not long after that dreadful December day, when I was in such despair my breathing was “forced”, the will to continue absent, trying to bear the unbearable -I would sit in your room, hour after hour looking out at the sky you looked at, drinking in the essence of you that lingered- waiting – for my breath to stop and release me from the agony.
Your father, wandering around the rest of the house , he too , looking for answers as to the cruel and terrible place we found ourselves. One such day, he struggled up the stairs with this life-sized self- portrait you had done in your “foundation years” at CIA he had found in a pile of your “paintings” . I had seen the preliminary sketches , small and the large, but I never knew the painting existed. You had done “just enough” to get it passed for the class- you weren’t a great success when it came to painting- that was not your forte.
The portrait , amateurish, insignificant to the rest of the world was and is worth more than any “old master” to us. The portrait hangs in pride of place and although a likeness of you at 22 , the perspective- a little needy. However, in the evening, softened by a night-light, the “mistakes” fade and blend until I see you as you were.
My comfort, I was reminded by your portrait there was more to you than the emptiness left to us. And so, I was able to find the strength to write about you and to write the truth.
I thought I was done receiving your gifts of comfort- and there have been many – some surprising. But once again, this last week, your father came in from the garage with another object. This time apparently with one of your “tries” with “glass”. I treasure “failures” just as reverently as I treasure the successes.
World Cup Trophy – Breath of Life- Tiny Blue/ Gold Vase – Chris Ritchey
There are times, looking at some of your work, I wonder what you were thinking – did you have a premonition as to what the future may hold? But this latest gift did take me aback somewhat. I know of your wicked sense of humour. Was it used for a drinking vessel, as it is hollow inside and is a little strangely shaped an elongated smooth edge or was it designed to hold a light, as others of your pieces did?
You liked to work with light in glass- I have experienced that in the “Breath of Life”- a certain time of the day when the sun hits its just right the piece glows and the Celtic design in the body of the glass glow with fire. But “this” latest addition is very heavy but is surprisingly tactile in nature, the feel of it in your hands adds another dimension I wouldn’t have believed possible- there is a sense of movement in the texture of the glass – planned or by accident – it is a “puzzlement “ What can I say Chris once again you made me laugh, made me cry and ask the question ‘WHY????”
“Struggling still to sort out the conflicting thoughts”.
Where do I begin? and how did I get to this place of quandary?
I don’t like Cricket , but millions do and some of my best friends and close family love the game . I know very little about the game except for the Tea Pavilion
and the fact my Aunt Rene apparently dated one of the game most famous batsman Denis Compton.
Therefore, I stay away from Cricket matches and conversations, commenting or having an opinion on Cricket. It just isn’t worth the time and effort in sharing my uneducated opinion of the game-
One: I don’t know enough about it
Two- I am not the least bit interested in finding out about it.
Cricket is not a problem for me here in Lorain. a discussion about “Cricket rarely comes up , in fact I have never had a discussion with regard to “Cricket” in Lorain
I don’t like a lot of things that many of my closest friends and family like and also follow. None of us are ever in complete agreement with our interests or following. To each his own.
I don’t like reality TV ( personally ) if I want to watch dysfunctional life, I just need to turn on the local news .
Reality TV shows cost so much less to produce $100,000 to on the high end $500,000 on the other hand a “show” about a somewhat dysfunctional family Downton Abbey of $1.7 million dollars to produce per episode or another whey hey what is next in the Yorkshire Dales of Dysfunction “Last Tango in Halifax” at $2. million per episode
However as “cheap as chips” reality shows are highly successful as it seems the demographics of young people with expendable incomes are drawn to their product and switch on regularly .
“Entertainment is a subjective thing, so where one thing is quality to one person, it’s not to another,”Manville says –
Scott Manville ( founder and president of TV Writers Vault
I am not quite at the age where I have seen it all , but I have seen a lot of it and been a part of more than most in my “circle”
One of my “hats” as long time readers are aware is the “Co Chair of Charleston Village Society “- This is a non-profit organization founded in 1989 to preserve the quality of life and historical aspect of Lorain’s oldest neighborhood.
However, when we first started out it was against the wishes of the then Community Development Dept. They didn’t want a “middle class clique” in the middle of their lucrative HUD funded “bank” . In point of fact, many obstacles were put in the way at every turn, which is WHY there is a Charleston Village Society today– I was young enough, energetic enough and passionate enough along with a few others to “fight City Hall” literally.
You don’t take on that particular fight lightly, especially when more than a few depended upon the city for their bread and butter- my husband included. Oh! there was quite the “back lash” then and since; the times when we were vocal and in opposition. Since I was the one not having a “regular job” and was available for meetings etc. I became the spokesperson, my name went out under the letter head as “secretary and co-founder” . The “village idiots” continued and a few months ago I was contacted about an event coming to our neighborhood.
And it turned out to be definitely “NOT CRICKET”
ED NOTE for the non Brits among you ‘ not cricket
phrase of cricket British informal
a thing contrary to traditional standards of fairness or rectitude.
or perhaps “I detest what you write, but I would give my life to make it possible for you to continue to write.” Voltaire
There is some “discussion” as to the actual attribution to Voltaire http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voltaire but whomever interpreted those words or actually said them – they are very powerful words. Words, that a great many in this country and others who believe in “freedom of speech” carry with them in their hearts.
But I ask you – WOULD YOU DEFEND TO THE DEATH THE RIGHT OF SOMEONE YOU DIDN’T AGREE WITH TO HAVE THEIR SAY?
Supposing you didn’t have to actually die to make your stand for the right of another to disagree or express a differing opinion ? Would you then enter into a fray – even though, although not death but, a verbal assault that would come with an , insulting, ridiculing and vicious back lash aimed at YOU for your defense of another’s opinion whether you were in agreement or not?
That is the question I am now asking myself – me of the supposed “higher principles” who has spouted off time and time again about “Freedom of Speech” – Freedom of thought “Freedom to Write”.
Have I finally realized and acknowledged -I am a hypocrite? I talked a good game, got on my soap box time and time again – knowing that actually I never really made a difference but at least I registered my opinion and thoughts. . I had belief and passion but NOW – NOW in the world, so changed by the loss of my son – I am no longer passionate, no longer care or am I just beaten down by the uselessness of it all?
A recent situation in this tired and desperate City of Lorain has seen a seething , biting cat fight clawing at the right to have a differing opinion to the vocal majority.
This not so uninvolved bystander has watched as cyber bullying, on air bullying took the place of debate and I have stood by and watched as the rabid rhetoric of majority has pounced on the freedom of opinion and I have felt the ripple effect of it. It seems I won’t even stand up for myself so why should I make a stand for others .
Is it, as my son’s poster points out from a time when he himself was fighting for his own right of freedom of speech.
Speech can segregate you from everyone
that I am afraid of being alone????? – No! even that isn’t a good enough reason to stay away from the fray? I could be no more alone than my current situation of being locked in a world of hurt….. it isn’t that – I am at my lowest ebb – nothing people can say or do can hurt me more than the pain I already experience every waking moment .
So why don’t I, I who have the tools, to at least try to defend the rights of others? I look at my son’s artwork – he who was so passionate about patriotism , this country and freedom in all things and guilt comes crashing in – because I know he would have been disappointed in my lack of action – even if it makes no difference because – “at least you tried………..”
To be continued … MAYBE
I have become a hoarder of memories………..
T.s. Eliot;Andrew Lloyd Webber;Trevor Nunn
I sang that particular number, once a upon a time, in my days of theatre. I always identified with the lyrics – even more so now that my son has become a fading memory to the majority . The lines in bold – hold for me – a meaning of my life as morning dawns.
Not a sound from the pavement
Has the moon lost her memory?
She is smiling alone In the lamplight
The withered leaves collect at my feet
And the wind begins to moan
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
The time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again
Every street lamp
Seems to beat a fatalistic warning
Someone mutters and the street lamp flutters
And soon it will be morning
I must wait for the sunrise
I must think of a new life
And I mustn’t give in
When the dawn comes
Tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin
Burnt out ends of smoky days
The stale cold smell of morning A street lamp dies, another night is over
Another day is dawning
It’s so easy to leave me
All alone with my memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me
You’ll understand what happiness is Look, a new day has begun
Some times I wish I had selective Alzheimer’s so that certain people and the cruelty of those days are lost.
As my own memories have become more about my life today, I have discovered I have an affinity with others and how precious their memories are and were.
How I wish I could ask my grandmothers more about the stories they used to tell, how I wished I had paid more attention , how I wished I had asked about their mothers, fathers and grandmothers as they “remembered.
I did have my mum write her memories down- but mum being mum wouldn’t write about the scandals of the day and to me the “more interesting” memories of “naughty stuff”. She has stored those way back in her attic memory and refuses to let me in…..
To Be continued …………….
I have not downloaded the Dragon Software–
coward that I am , especially due to my once or should I say many times experiences of being bitten by technology. I don’t want to do anything which may mess with the latest expensive desk top and my myriad of files ( even though I can’t easily access them – thank you Windows 8!!!!). I decided instead to “persuade” my husband to download it to his lap top- he only uses it for recipes and solitaire anyway :). Knowing my penchant for wrecking technology he is understandably hesitant, although he did say
“Yeah, Ok but it will have to wait – I can’t find the microphone- I thought I had it in the box” –
As mentioned, I wanted to make a start on one of three books I have in mind .
I will start the old-fashioned way
until he gets around to “finding???” and downloading the dragon .
However, as I started on – page one- that has not worked out too well. The writing follows the direction of the “ME of the moment” that is in control of my emotional state. I started as defensive me, then angry me, depressed me, wounded me, apathetic me, logical me and then puddle me. The fragmented “ME” -I am now- all had a hand in the writing and editing and therefore it was a jumble. The 1st page has been revised more times than a politician’s platform . I can’t make up my mind and neither can my writing.
I feel inadequate, out of my depth in this instance . I thought possibly if I could “talk” the story first and edit later I might be able to make some sense when it came to a direction and editing.
I tend , because of the blog and many years of a column, to edit as I write. This isn’t going to work in this case- I am too much a part of the story. I am not a mere observer. I am a mother first , a mother who has outlived one of her children – there is a blame, a guilt a questioning of life or faith of everything that was “before” my son died , changing the ME.
I was checking my searches this morning and the search –
how intense is a mother’s love
brought the person to the following post:
At that time, just weeks after my son died, I received a letter in my dead son’s clothes from my son’s “bride” the “healer”????? Angela Marie (Lombardi) Ritchey DO who made my love for my son something of a negative which “blinded me to who my son was” . I replied to Dr. Angela Ritchey in an open post-
The wounded me , shaken me and just trying to “live and get through the days “me due to the loss of my son found it cruel and incredulous she would try to taint the memories I shared with my son. I refused to let her take anything more of him, she and her family had done enough.
Hence the rise of the “anger me” and the “bitter me“!
Since that time the “questioning me“ questions intent and the worthiness of some in the supposed healing profession.
I have realized, after these many months, the death of my son has not stopped my love for him, it is undying; if anything it grows with each “memory that should have been” is missed.
The love continues , but the love given to the son or daughter who is no longer among us has no outlet , no recipient. When Chris died , the part of me who was Chris’s mother died too. The other me– the daughter , the wife , mother of Nikki, grandmother of her children still lives and loves but I am fragmented from the “whole” . It is hard to find which “ME” will write the story but it will be “truth” no matter the ME .
Now whilst my husband is otherwise occupied I am going to look for that microphone !