10/10/2019 Gift Horses
I'm wondering if I write more fluidly, frankly, and quickly typing than by hand. The last few weeks, it's been difficult to keep up with my sketchbooks as they devolve into lists of things to do each day. Likely most days (for now, while I can tolerate it) will remain that way, but for today and always here, I write for myself and for the random invisible other than may encounter these notes. Is there such a thing as privacy for an artist? Even as an introvert, perhaps especially as an introvert, I want people to read me - just not too many people, and I'd rather not ask for attention. In a world full of often necessarily squeaky wheels, that's a good way to disappear completely. My inclinations - whether born of nature or nurture - need not remain the habits that assist in my successful disappearance. I do want to be seen but also do not want to disappear. Hence, Gift Horses not be looked in the mouth.
I came home about 45 min ago. A golden mid-twenties fellow with a pained look, gauged ears and beautiful eyebrows has been working on his car in front of my house for about a week now. I write this not because it bothers me, but because it doesn't.
“Is it the eyebrows?”, my inner critic asks.
I answer back definitively, “at this moment, who fucking cares?”. The beauty of youth deserves consideration just as the accumulated knowledge of age does.
Al-anon says to do someone a good turn and not get found out is goodness. Well, few visit this website of mine, and being empathetic isn't a "good turn", it's being a good neighbor. He certainly acted as if it were my street and how kind of me to not care that his vehicle, indeed ugly and jacked up as it is, hadn't moved in a week. It's not my street, it's the public's street. It's OUR street, if his car is broken down and needs a week to be fixed affordably than I'm not going to be an asshole about it. In fact, it made my day for him to smile and respond in English (which we share). Previously, when I've spoken to him in our shared tongue, he has simply not responded. I have greeted his children in Spanish, their first language, but do not have the skills in Spanish to address a stressed out adult.
As I waved hello and wished his repairing well again, my memories of being one of those kids on the sidewalk while a car is being repaired, and of being the young adult overburdened with responsibilities suddenly compounded with a vehicle repair, came flooding back. I too have been inordinately grateful for not being kicked while down, and hope that he returns the favor next time he identifies with someone having trouble. The world appears to be falling into quite a state of flags being staked and I'm not into it. This land is our land and I'll consider public space as such and treat people accordingly.
The car has just roared off and already I miss the sound of his children playing in front of the house. His smile may have been just as much about seeing the end of the job approaching as it was my kindness. That thought also makes me smile while observing my own human hubris. Today, I pulled an image of myself at about 6 years old from facebook and posted it on my instagram account with the caption "me, remembering to be kind to myself" It's true, I forget that the little person in that photo, barefoot and clutching a raccoon doll in an orchard that would soon be cut down, is still inside of me. She deserves the same love and attention that I give to others.
I see the warmth of my father's thumb covering the upper right of the lens while noticing how he cut off my feet. I remember that photo being taken. I didn't trust him, and still jump to the conclusion that he was likely high when this photo was taken. But, no longer do I ignore the fact that he wanted a photo of me, implored me to stay, to stand still for a second in that retrospectively gorgeous summer afternoon. I see how he looks at my much younger brother now, and the intense mixture of discomfort and love that I see in his face no longer signals that he's unable to keep me safe like I wish my father would. It means he loves even though it’s strange. That is not his fault nor is it mine.
The one time that I can remember my father saying I love you (at some point in my mid-twenties), no longer feels like not enough. I have this loving photograph, with his warm thumb in the corner, and a look on my face that mirrors his.
