Lately I’ve been really drawn to pictorial representations of what’s going on in my head and in my life.  Maybe it’s because I’m feeling pretty scrambled, dealing with lots of loose, untidy ends.  Pictures seem to help me see from a distance where words corral me too close.

We still haven’t finalized a place to live when our current lease is up in exactly 19 days, and for me that’s living on the edge.  I don’t think I ever not known at what address I’ll be plumping my bed pillow.  This is new territory.  I’m learning to cope.

Although yesterday I began to feel overwhelmed by the situation.  I’m not faulting myself for that, but I hate overwhelm so much I wanted preventative measures above everything.  So, I started constellating (or mapping if you prefer) my thoughts with scrap paper, colored pencils and permission to draw badly.  I ended up with this…

In the end, I captured an array of clutter, the angst, a way through.  I definitely give this constellating business a thumb’s up.

If you want to try the exercise yourself, here are a few bits of advice:

• Try to not get hung up about drawing skills or wordsmithing or anything like that. Sometimes the ol’ hands don’t quite capture what’s in the ol’ head, like – ahem – that pink spiky thing in the bottom left corner.  That’s supposed to be a tree.
• Be curious about what spills out.  Figure out what stuff means later.
• Don’t fiddle with the flow.
• Your output only has to make sense to you.

In Wiccan lore, so I’ve been told, the full moon is for releasing while a new moon is for asking.  That’s the extant of my Wiccan knowledge, and please don’t quote me on that interpretation.  It might be drastically off-base and unrecognizable to Wiccans.  No disrespect intended towards them.

In any case, I like the balancing aspect of the moon ritual.  By constellating the cosmos of my brain I discovered what I can let go of to gain some peace of mind.  It’s kind of like witnessing the birth of a whole new little universe in the bowl of a candy dish.

Lately I’ve switched from writing with pens to pencils, and that’s stirred serious longings for the electric pencil sharpener that was left behind in Atlanta.  I hate the thought of buying a new pencil sharpener when there’s this perfectly already good one already in my possession.  Never mind that it’s in a box 6,000 miles away.

For weeks now I’ve been a bit fretful about some of the stuff we didn’t or couldn’t bring with us when we moved.  I don’t know why.  The pencil sharpener is just the tip of the fretting.

I wasn’t in the mood to analyze this mood this morning, so I sharpened my pencil with the old fashioned sharpener and treated myself to some sketch therapy.  Which I’m thinking may become a regular Monday ritual, because it was really nice to be out of my head and in my hands for a spell.

My handwriting totally clashes with ink; switching to graphite is one of my better ideas.

In grad school my poetry professor once opened a discussion of  meter and line breaks by writing these words on the blackboard:

I am dying

for a bowl of ice cream.

In comparison to …

I am dying for a bowl of ice cream.

Which line held us?  Which line moved us?  That was the debate.

The short answer:  it depends.  The discussion, though, wasn’t really about declaring one of the two a clear winner.  (It was about deliberateness rather than arbitrariness.)  And for that reason it’s remained one of my favorite lectures by this professor, so much so that I toddled down memory lane to muse about it this very day.

And was inspired to play around in the spirit of it. Know, however,  that what I’m about to ask is done with all sincerity and seriousness:

I am dying

to know which doubts

henpeck you most:

marketing, time, money,

chutzpah, writing,  voice,

self.  Overall.

Comments welcome.  Private

emails welcome, too.

Whether you’re currently self-employed or inching closer to your vision of solo-businesship,  I would love your feedback.  On the question.  Not the poem that’s not really a poem.  Ray Charles could see it’s not so good.

Between the rented accommodation search, the power outage causing our wireless network to go apeshit, and an ongoing battle with ant (home) infestations it’s been a busy week so far.  But busy in an empty-handed way.  Except for the wireless network, which is back to behaving nicely.   As for the ants, they stoke the raver and ranter in me.  It’s not pretty.

Anyhow, I have six Rufus/wall photos left, but I’m not enthused about extending the series through the rest of September and into October even though I have enough photos to do so. Flying ready itchy for something else.

In five out of six cases, you’ll have to trust me that the location is as labeled.  The exception is a no brainer.

Minerve

Rufus, Minerve, May 2008

Minerve is an old, old, old village built alongside a gorge.  The catapult Simon de Montfort used to lay siege in the 12th century still stands.  He got it into his head to lead a crusade against the Cathars, and Minerve was most definitely a Cathar town while that lasted.

Terrible, terrible things were done to the Cathars in the name of God.  In the nearby city of Beziers, every one of its inhabitants – human and beast and irrespective of age or culpability – are said to have been executed in front of the main cathedral because they defended the Cathar citizens amongst them.  If this is true, it’s ranks among the hideous-beautiful stories of the time.

Minerve is well worth a visit if you happen to find yourself in the Minervois part of the Languedoc.  There are cafes serving very good food and beautiful views, a nice bookstore and some artist ateliers.  The local wine is tops.

On one side of the amazing man-made bridge that stretches across the gorge and takes you into the town, there’s a natural bridge under which runs a river for much of the year.  (During the warmer months, the river dries up if there isn’t much rain).  The river bed itself is shallow enough that you can probably just wade your way under the bridge, that is if your feet to freeze off.  Tim tried to do that and didn’t get very far.  He said it was some of the coldest water he’s known.  Ever ever.  And he’s Irish, so if he wimped out on wading any further then you know the water’s effing cold.

Collioure

Rufus, Collioure, 2008

Collioure is beautiful.  It just is.  It’s a somewhat glitzy French Mediterranean town of yachts, people walking around in bathing suits that are a few centimeters away from being birthday suits, and outdoor cafes packed with snazzy people sipping snazzy drinks.  But also a town of artists, and simply, naturally stunning coastline.  Southwest of Perpignon, Collioure remains on our list of places we always said we’d go back to for a weekend and never did.  It’s about six hours north from where we are now, so we can still make good on our yapping if we have our druthers and feel inspired to take the steam iron out of hibernation because we want to dress like semi-mature adults who take an interest in our grooming. It’s not a town where you feel that it’s fine and dandy to traipse about all rumpled.  Don’t let that scare you away, my rumpled friends.  It was one of the loveliest towns we saw along the French Med.

Millau

Rufus Butt, Millau, 2008

En route to Fontainbleau last November (where I hugged a fireplace) we took the motorway that includes the Norman Foster bridge near Millau.  The A-75 cuts through the stunning, spectacular Massif Central.  So, even without the added splendor of the bridge across the river Tarn, the scenery is worth a looksee in and of itself.  Going north, once you cross the bridge you can pull over to a rest stop area.  On the far side of the parking lot there’s a path that takes you to a viewing spot where you can pause to take a thousand pictures in pursuit of the perfect shot of the bridge in all its glory.

Maybe you’ll get your perfect snap, or maybe you’ll have to make do with a good one,  Or maybe you’ll get the equivalent of this one here where my dog’s butt shares center stage with the bridge itself.  Sorry about that. It’s the best of the bunch, though.

Bordeaux

Rufus, Bordeaux, 2008

Last Decmeber we stopped in  Bordeaux for two nights on our way to Cherbourg where we would catch the ferry to Ireland.  The weather was cold and gray, exactly as I like it to be in late December because it makes all the Christmas lights stand out that much more.  While in Bordeaux we drank warm, spiced wine (blech) at the Christmas market and got to see a student demonstration, two items that have never appeared on my to-do list.

And yes, my dog was wearing a doggy jacket when this photo was taken.  He doesn’t have a whole lot of fur on his belly!  It was really cold outside!  I bought it on sale at Old Navy before we moved!

He’s always a hit with women when he wears it.  Which makes it a hit with Tim, too, though he pretends otherwise.  The big faker.

Roqeubrun

The first photo is actually one of the last photos I took of Roquebrun, the lovely Hérault village in which we lived for 10.5 months and that nearly killed us with boredom and drafts towards the end.  Slight exaggeration.  Only slight.  That house was cold 24/7.  So we fled to the warmer climate of Spain in March, and have spent the past couple months trying to not expire from heat and boredom as we ride out the soaring temperatures and the tourist season.  I’m sensing a pattern….

Rufus, Mimosa Fete, 2009

At any rate, this first photo was taken during the annual Mimosa festival in February, a rollicking good fête that I cannot believe I didn’t recap in this blog.  God, I must have been in a funk.  The crowds were amazing, there was food and music and wine, and a parade of bands and floats.  There were one or two displays of public drunkenness, and apparently one incident that necessitated calling the gendarmes.  It’s not a party unless the gendarmes arrive, you know.

Rufus, Roquebrun, 2008-ish

In this very last photo of our darling dog posed atop a precipice, Rufus smiles for the camera on the bridge leading into Roquebrun.  He trotted along this wall many, many times, never a worry that he might slip and fall into the river far below.  He left all the heart-pounding worry to me.  Because I’m an expert on that.

If you’re wondering, as any sensible person would, why we let him trot the bridge as he did, there’s a simple explanation:  he won the battle.  Too many times, he’d be walking alongside nice and quiet, and then without warning he’d hurl himself onto the ledge.  We decided we’d have more control over the situation if we facilitated it our way rather than leaving it to Rufus’ own devices.  That’s very similar to the argument made by the legalize-pot crowd.  They might be on to something.

Thought you might be interested in seeing some of the results of the buddy-to-self tasks I gave myself on Friday.  Here’s the current list of quotes I keep on hand that always motivate me to sit up, rethink, fly a little higher.  I’d love to have an uneven 31, so feel free to add your faves in the comments.

Straight Talk

If you think you’re too small to have an impact, try going to bed with a mosquito. — Anita Roddick

Until you make peace with who you are, you’ll never be content with what you have. — Doris Mortman

An idea is salvation by imagination. –  Frank Lloyd Wright

A hunch is creativity trying to tell you something. – Frank Capra

Thoughts are energy, and you can make your world or break your world by your thinking. — Susan L. Taylor (American Journalist)

I have a simple philosophy.  Fill what’s empty.  Empty what’s full. And scratch where it itches. –  Alice Roosevelt Longworth. (Teddy’s mom.)

Aerodynamically the bumblebee shouldn’t be able to fly, but the bumblebee doesn’t know that so it goes on flying anyway. — Mary Kay Ash

Figuring out who you are is the whole point of the human experience. — Anna Quindlen

Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.” — Mary Anne Radmacher

…People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.  — Maya Angelou

Proverbs

Trust in Allah, but tie your camel first. – Arab Proverb

Firelight will not let you read fine stories, but it’s warm and you won’t see the dust on the floor. – Irish Proverb

A Little More Lofty

I had to grow up and learn to listen for the unspoken as well as the spoken — and to know a truth.  — Eudora Welty.

Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone; it has to be made, like bread, remade all the time, made new. — Ursula K. LeGuin

No army can withstand the strength of an idea whose time has come. – Victor Hugo

The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

It is because Humanity has never known where it was going that it has been able to find its way. – Oscar Wilde

Look closely, the beautiful may be small. – Emmanuel Kant

Joseph Campbell

It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life. Where you stumble, there lies your treasure.

Life is without meaning. You bring the meaning to it.

The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.

Myths are public dreams, dreams are private myths

We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.

Best of the Best

I haven’t failed. I’ve found 10,000 ways that don’t work. — Thomas Edison

Inspiration exists but it has to find us working. – Pablo Picasso

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. – William Shakespeare

Don’t die guessing. — Brooke Astor, quoting her mother

And finally, the one that gives me goosebumps….One man scorned and covered with scars still strove with his last ounce of courage to reach the unreachable stars; and the world was better for this. — Cervantes,  Don Quixote de la Mancha

I’d like this last one on my urn, please.