Part II: The Pleasure Dome of Kublai Khan
and KAN- the abyssmal
Junior is here. He wants to say hello. Junior is one of the gold dust twins. More about them later. Junior is one of Boogers' kittens. She named herself that, I had very little to do with it. My friend, Dlish says Boogers probably hates me for naming her that. I explained how Boogers named herself that and she certainly doesn't hate herself.
Boogers is quite the cat. She is typical of the feline species in that, when she is indoors, she is a sweet, gentle purring ball of striped fur, and when she is outdoors, she is a miniature tiger. If I were the size of a Ken doll, I'd be dead meat.
Once, I saw her climb the forked chinaberry tree (see: Melissa painting) that is in my yard and leap from the main branch of the right fork,
through the air,
trying to snatch a cardinal that flew through the fork,
with all four claws grabbing at the flying bird in mid air,
missing the bird,
to make a perfect four point landing on the opposite branch,
and start licking her fur.
My cat can fly!
Before her maternity, she was quite the acrobat! She's still a great hunter. Once, when she was pregnant, I saw her leap from the back of my couch (which was pulled about 3 feet from the wall because of a leaky roof) to the wall, to grab a large moth in her mouth. Then, with moth in mouth, and claws in wall, turn her head to survey the situation and do a sideways flip to the back of the couch, once again landing perfectly and eating the moth as if nothing spectacular had happened. All in a day's work.
My first year in "the Pleasure Dome of Kublai Khan" as I called my garage (also known as Kamp Runamuck) began auspiciously with the wave of success I experienced in the local art world, cheap rent being paid months in advance, and a sort of happy go lucky new found freedom from the restrictions of schedules, bosses, paychecks, and all the rest. I had sold my last vehicle after it blew its head gasket and paid off the note with that money, then moved to Georgia where I didn't need a car to live and work.
So, here again, returned slightly dislillusioned, but no worse for the wear, was I back in good old Jackson. Jackson, the familiar, Jackson the friendly, Jackson, the haunted.
But it was summer, the paintings were going like hotcakes, the newspaper sent photographers to take pictures of my yard art collage I built when I was cleaning the yard and collecting artifacts around the neighborhood like a pink flamingo and an inflatable octopus named Ollie. These things are part of the "ongoing childhood" exhibit I call my life.
The summer was good. I had a crush that crashed but I didn't care. The piece' de resistance was "Bathsheba", a life size 3 dimensional nude woman in a framed iridescent pool. She took 3 sleepless weeks to create from tissue paper and Mod Podge (a papier mache like substance). She was a jaw dropper, but nobody bought her and she is hanging on my wall after spending a year at the gallery.
The autumn was not so good.
It seems to me that in the course of a life, we endure a series of shocks. For some people, they come early, others are spared until later in life, sometimes with worse damage to the unprepared individual. Some heal from their shocks, others don't. I've never felt I had any choice but to heal. I have never been one to curl up and surrender. I've come damn close, though.
The late autumn of 2006 brought the shock. The early chill at night as Derek and I went for walks around the quaint, tree lined streets of Belhaven seemed foreboding, like a warning of the coming numbing cold. There was something else, though. Something didn't feel right.
Derek had a boarder with the same first name as mine. One day, I noticed Derek telling him that someone had left a phone message that his father was in the hospital. The boarder said he already knew that and nothing more was said about it.
One month later: It was a cold, mid October night, the wind was cutting up hard and making eerie orange halloween tree shadows that leaped and hissed, savagely blowing icy breath.
I had been in Derek's house on the computer and on the telephone. I had found romance far away via matchdoctor, and we were having lively conversation on the phone. She was a very sweet lady and I felt comfortable telling her my whole life story and she laughing her sweet laughter at my jokes.
She had a call come in, she told me she'd call me back in an hour, she had to take this call from her daughter. I went out to my garage to wait.
I felt this new optimistic energy might break the oppressive "presence" as I trotted happily out to my garage.
I had an hour to kill, so I smoked some grass and decided to throw I-ching.
Now, I-ching and I go way back, I have studied it and consulted the oracle for at least 30 years, since my first year in college. I never cared for Western mysticism, it always seemed either banal or demonic. Astrology always appealed to me from the Jungian standpoint of archetypal personalities. I am a true Cancer, scholarly, nurturing, smothering, artistic, sappy. My mother was a Slovak-born Cancerian Catholic, which I think had a lot to do with my passionate, cloying nature.
Anyway, although I've had mixed feelings about Western mysticism and mythology, the Eastern Taoist/ Buddhist/ Confucian traditions have always struck me as just common sense. the Tao needs no frills. It is an acceptance of existence as is.
I-ching has always been central to my personal spiritual and psychological quest for deeper truth. It is always honest, sometimes painfully so. This particular October 20th, I tossed the coins with a joyful anticipation of a loving light to break the oppressive shadows. I'm afraid it doesn't work that way.
I tossed the coins...
The hexagram I threw was: KAN- the abyssmal (water).
Water above and water below. It gave warning of being swept through a ravine like water during a flood. I was advised to go with the flow of it, not to try to fight against it or I would be dashed against the rocks.
For a moment, as I read this, I saw the face of Kerry looking back at me from the mirror on my painting table. He looked concerned.
Just then I realized it was time for my friend to call back. I rushed back to Derek's house and flew up the narrow stairs. The phone was ringing, I grabbed and and sang a joyful "Hel-lo!"
It was my sister's voice.
She said "You hafta come home. Dad is dying!"
That's when I knew the flood had hit the ravine. I went outside and painted a small 9 by 12 piece (KAN the abyssmal) as I waited for my niece to come pick me up.
The next 3 days were the hardest days of my life.
Junior is here and he's sleeping.
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| Runamuck Diaries : Part 2 [Formerly Zen and the Art of Cat Wrangling] |
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