It's Not A Disaster

A poem:

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost
that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day.
Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel.
None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch.
And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones.
And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied.
It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

In a Nutshell

I laid the Hyundai to rest last week. Yeah, she had major mechanical issues going on (not to mention all of the exterior bumps and bruises) and I think given another month or so of opportunity, she would've simply died on me (probably during rush hour at a major intersection). So last week I made the hefty decision to get a different, less troubled, vehicle.

The whole process went surprisingly smooth - well, as smoothly as any major decision involving a large dose of commitment can go I guess. The car salesman was very friendly and as this lengthy car buying/car trading process commenced, we would chit chat, naturally. For instance, he learned I was from Pennsylvania and he confided he was from Poughkeepsie, so of course we talked about snow. Just light, easy banter...casual conversation to avoid any awkward or uncomfortable silences. He shared anecdotes about his children. I smiled and nodded.

Then, inevitably, at some point he brought up my occupation.

Him: "So you're an architect? *big smile* I thought about being an architect for a while."
Me: *smile*
Him: "That must be fun. Do you enjoy it?"
Me: "Yeah I really do...of course, there are aspects of it that don't suit me, but generally it makes me happy"
Him: "So what made you decide to go into architecture?"

Whoa! Okay, listen buddy! we are having a LIGHT, CASUAL exchange of words here to pass the time: ya know, weather-esque sort of conversation! I sat there for a minute thinking how to answer his question in a few short conversational words instead of launching into a long, philosophically-oriented monologue. I didn't really want to answer. I know he was just being friendly and polite, but that is a heavy question for me - a question I don't want to be flippant about and address with a casual, off-the-cuff answer.

On the other hand, I also didn't want to explain to him how I have a degree in art and how my passion and respect for visual art developed. How I became fascinated with installation art and land art. How I spent my evenings drawing pieces of the human skeleton in an effort to understand structure. How I would pause to admire the solidness and mystery of a door and suddenly need to sketch it. And how I eventually came to the realization that architecture, of all visual art forms, has the greatest potential to profoundly impact our everyday lives.

Architecture is powerful. And I am drawn to that power. Architecture is invasive. It's not an art form that can be safely kept out of our sphere behind closed museum or gallery doors. Often times it's not even something we have a choice about experiencing or interacting with. Architecture is confrontational - not always aggressively so, sometimes gently, benignly, even affectionately. Architecture is a rare hybrid art form - each element contributes to a delicate balance of functionality and pure art. Developing and maintaining that fine line is exciting. Working with the kind of potential that architecture offers is exhilerating. It feels epic, it feels like being a part of something greater than yourself, that could really matter.

So, Mr. Car Salesman, that, in a nut shell, is why I decided to go into architecture. Now, what about this beautiful weather we've been having lately?

Coincidence? Not.

"Can we trace the chain of events that leads to our own birth? Is our existence just coincidence? Do little things matter?"

These are the questions posed by the lovely animated short The Danish Poet.

F. and I took part in the Nashville Film Festival Saturday night and attended the Animated Shorts 1 program with the theory that sometimes the simplest things convey the deepest meaning.

While this theory did not hold true for the animated short, Atomic Banana (I know, how could a film about a chimp, a mad scientist and molecular transformation be anything but transcendant? - trust me, it was profoundly idiotic), it most certainly did for The Danish Poet (which, as you may know, won the Oscar this year for Best Animated Short).

The success of this film lies partly in the sweet simplicity of the story told with an innocent and gentle humor. On the surface there is a depressed poet, a muse, a rainy day, a clumsy cow, a faulty mail delivery system...a series of seemingly random events and coincidences that eventually lead to the very existence of the narrator. And we (the audience) are left wondering if coincidence even exists or if life is just a series of chance events.

Is it that every seemingly little thing that happens in life, happens for a reason, even when we may not be privy to the reason? Or are we all just floating around, being bumped and directed (or misdirected) by happenstance and coincidence? I don't know, maybe it doesn't matter - ultimately it comes to the same thing, free will or not, there are things which happen beyond our control that lead to and shape our lives. The Danish Poet was an enchanting reminder that life is not necessarily random.

What's Your Battle Cry?

Skulking through the desert, swinging a bladed baseball bat, cometh Cathryn! And she gives a gutteral scream:
"Blood and souls for my dark lord! I carve into flesh with reckless abandon!!"

Yes, friends, that is my "official" battle cry. Cool, huh? - although why I'm skulking through the desert I have no idea. Seeing as how F. will periodically, randomly even, break into the Spartan battle cry, and how Bethany and I are convinced we're directly descended from Viking warrior women, when I saw this nifty little Battle Cry tool on Joanna's blog, of course I eagerly typed in my name. The link is below for your bloodthirsty amusement. Let me know what your Battle Cry is in case we meet in a dark alley (or in the desert).

http://chaz.bdmonkeys.net/battle.php?

Night at the Opera

It was a dark and stormy night...eh, not exactly...more like dark and drizzly - and COLD. The valet parking nazi wouldn't let us cut in front of the line of cars waiting to be parked (go figure!), so while the clock ticked ominously toward curtain opening and drizzle continued to muck up the windshield as we waited to be parked, we entertained ourselves by making odd, irritating - but completely hilarious - noises. Don't ask, you had to be there - the only reason I mention it is because it made an episode later in the evening that much more comical.

So we finally get inside the theater and find our seats just as the lights dim (perfect timing really). Okay, so I think I've established before that I like opera. Nerdy, I know - but I make no apologies. Opera is a very formal type of entertainment in that it is highly stylized, over-dramatized, story telling. One does not go to the opera to enjoy subtle acting nuances or brilliant bits of insightful scriptwriting. With opera, the story and dialogue are both secondary to the vocal and symphonic performances. The story is merely a vehicle for displaying the vocal and musical talents and as such, often comes across as melodramatic, corny, eye-rolling, triteness. Which is why sometimes it's almost better to ignore the translation screen.

The first act passed without incident - it was lovely and I was transported. F., on the other hand, was having a hard time staying awake. We hadn't gotten to any of the well-known arias yet, which was apparently the only thing that would keep him conscious.

So, F. was seated on my left. To my right (I was pleasantly surprised to notice) perched a wizened gnome. No kidding. A little old man - I'm guessing about a hundred and ten. The top of his white head didn't even clear my shoulder. Completely adorable. I don't know whether or not he was having difficulty staying awake too, but during the first part of the second act (and during the most famous aria of the entire opera), this tiny gnome accepted a piece of candy from his female companion and (I can't help laughing even as I type this) proceeded to rustle the wrapper in an effort (I can only assume) to open the treat (I'll be damned if it wasn't one of those butterscotch candies that elderly folk are so very fond of!).

For the first thirty seconds or so of rustling, the movement and the sound barely caught my attention. But then...it just went on and on...and on. It was that familiar and annoying scratchy, crinkly cellophane noise that typically lasts for a tolerable few seconds as the perpetrator unwraps the candy as quickly and quietly as possible. But, for some reason, the mechanics of the wrapper were simply eluding my little gnome and the rustling was ceaseless. And then after a couple of minutes, I looked over at F. and I just completely lost it! A fit of giggles overtook me and the more the gnome crinkled and fidgeted with his candy, the more I shook with laughter - I think I even snorted (loudly) at one point.

You know how one little thing can tickle you at an inopportune moment and then it just snowballs. And the more you try to contain your mirth, the harder it is to stop. So there we were...F. and I, shaking with laughter over the incessant crinkly noises issuing forth from my gnome who, I really think was so concentrated on getting that damn butterscotch unwrapped, was completely oblivous to our plight. At one point, the rustling abruptly stopped and we managed to calm ourselves down. But then it started again! - the same piece of candy - the gnome was merely resting his weary fingers (I think that was the point where I snorted).

Aaaaaanyway, after my gnome finally conquered the wrapping and settled down to sucking on his butterscotch, and F. settled down to a nap, I returned my attention to the tragic Madame Butterfly and the beautiful sounds of the opera. It was a great night.