WORDS AND ART

Lately, I've spent my off-time playing in the kitchen, doing artwork and reading serious literature. The big reality that has hit me is that I can't possibly do everything I want to do in one lifetime. Choosing among the things I love and leaving some things undone disturbs me. I don't want to leave anything behind. However, if I don't, I will never actually be good at anything. Choice is positive and necessary.

I make bread. There's a satisfaction in watching the loaves rise and in sampling them hot from the oven when they are done. I commented to a friend that bread baking is a spiritual experience. I've even read in a magazine about using bread baking as a meditation. Anyway you look at it, it is therapeutic and also useful. It is also an artforn.

I am also a writer. Words matter to me more than most things. Written work can make a person joyful, sad, knowledgeable and educated. It can also change someone's philosophy of life. Words are powerful. I like that.

As an artist I use words in my artwork, mostly creating modern-day versions of medieval illuminated manuscripts. I love the calligraphy aspect of the work I do and also the design and color techniques I use. Soon I hope to start an active art studio to produce gallery-acceptable work. That won't be until next year but it's on my agenda.

I taught English before I began a career with the State of Missouri. I am reaching back that direction now to study good writers and see how they do what they do...why do they have appeal when others don't? As I work on my book, I hope to unravel that answer before I am finished with my novel. I hope to resonate with others with my story.

Using Personal Experience in Writing

When I write about other people, I often draw from personal experience. Yesterday offered two opportunities for reflection.

My son, Grant, a brand new Army recruiter, signed up his first recruit. He’s been at the job for less than a month. I don’t know how good it is to sign up someone in that length of time but his Momma was proud. A former member of the 101^st Airborne, Grant has done two tours to Iraq. I am happy to have him safe and sound in Springfield, Missouri.

My older son, Daniel, is taking the firefighting exam for the St. Louis City Fire Department later this month. He’s already a hot-shot EMT for the city. I am amazed at the stories he tells me about some of his runs -- like about the man they took to the hospital and, several weeks later, picked up again. Daniel found out he was a “regular.”

Many story ideas can come from these experiences. Mostly, however, I enjoy knowing that both of my sons are doing things they feel will positively impact others.

1969

Recently, I was reading Norris Church Mailer's book, Cheap Diamonds. In it was a reference to the Stonewall Riots in New York that occurred in 1969. I never knew a thing about them until I started doing research on a book several years ago. Police continued to raid one particular gay night club in Greenwich Village until, one night when they came to make arrests, the gays said NO and fought back. The gay rights revolution had started.

When I graduated high school in 1969, I knew nothing about such things. I lived with my parents until I graduated college in 1974. All that time, I was isolated, more or less, by the norms and mores of my family. I did break loose some in college and paid for it emotionally. I wish now that I'd been freer than I was, more radical than I was – at least intellectually.

1969 was Woodstock. Led Zeppelin released their first album, Nixon was sworn in as President, the Beatles gave their last performance, The Saturday Evening Post died, Charles De Gaulle stepped down as president of France, we landed on the moon, Judy Garland died, "Easy Rider" hit the movie screen, "Monty Python's Flying Circus" is born, Vietnam exploded and the lottery was established. I sat back watching. Now, so many years later, I realize how important that year was.

In 1969, I began college. I started learning about art, writing and history. I didn't know how those lessons had affected me until much later.

Norris Church Mailer's book was a retrospective, a trip backward to know how far I've come.

DECLARATION

Raw, exposed, sensual,
I declare my independence.
For too long, I held back words
because of what someone
might think.
Now I say, listen.

If my words are cold, all is well.
Ice has its purpose.
If my words are hot, I am hot also.
I am magma, steam, essence flowing.
I am all that I am and nothing more,
Nothing less.

I'm neither Faulkner nor Fitzgerald,
Neither Pound or Porter.
I am my own voice, singing my song
Into the night air.
I will not be silent.
I will speak.

Unleashed!

I had an interesting evening with little sleep. I started writing and couldn't stop. At 2 a.m. I was still going. It was like I was ignited. Rarely has it happened that I've become so empowered, actually overpowered, by words that I couldn't leave them alone. I have no clue what sparked it, but it was both wonderful and draining.

I wrote deeper than I've ever written. I forgot what the lady down the street might think of me and, with one exception, posted everything on my blog, except one. I thought it was too explicit to put online. Guess I have another step to go in my "outing" as a freethinking poet.

I'm not certain what makes someone GOOD and someone NOT GOOD as a writer. Imagery? metaphor? subject matter? ability to expression them all? Or, maybe, just the nerve to put it on the page and say, "there it is."

Today I am rung out and home. The residuals of last night are still with me. I want to write something about Pavarotti today, that wonderful stilled voice.

I am thankful all who have helped me develop my own voice. It's about time.

Stay tuned for further developments...

Mindy Phillips Lawrence

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