Posturing.

Robert Rauschenberg died last week. I credit my friend Marcy with introducing me to his work. I can't speak critically or at all knowledgeably about any of it, I can only say I find it striking. A different me, from a different world, might be able to say why.

We'll accept striking, and move on.

Rauschenberg said, "At the time that I am bored or understand — I use those words interchangeably — another appetite has formed. A lot of people try to think up ideas. I’m not one. I’d rather accept the irresistible possibilities of what I can’t ignore."

I second that. (Thank you, Mr. Rauschenberg for clearing that path.) It makes sense to me to use the words bored and understand interchangeably, and every day I accept the irresistible possibilities of what I can’t ignore. Especially when I'm at the library. (Any library.)

"The irresistible possibilities of what I can’t ignore" might even be the heart of this blog. I could even use the phrase for a title, except I think it would sound pretentious.

Is there another way to say this? It's important that I find out. Because what I can't ignore makes me tick. I'd be lost without it.

Unrelated: I finally started doing yoga again. I have mixed feelings about this. My body is so physically awkward, it's upsetting. I am the opposite of lithe! Sometimes I think that's why I'm doing yoga, to work on physical grace and flexibility. Sometimes I think my inflexibility is categorical. For example, I couldn't ignore the only other young, thin person in today's class, because she seemed equally incapable of flexing her body. Will this change as we do more yoga, or is there a lithe type?

Maybe I should trampoline instead.

Lately, I've been a little worried about torking my port when I exercise, which is a grammatically incorrect way of saying What if the catheter disconnects from my port, wends its way to my heart, and creates an aortic occlusion? That happened to someone once, I think.

But I thoroughly enjoy the relaxing part of yoga class, the part at the end. Corpse pose, or Savasana, I think it's called. It's restful. My mind sometimes wanders, which is probably natural. Tonight, I spent the entire pose imagining Ted Kennedy's reaction to his brain tumor diagnosis. This was not at all relaxing, of course, but I continued to breathe and stay one with the floor.

Unrelated: I found two books in my mailbox this week. Feeling Like A Kid: Childhood and Children's Literature, by Jerry Griswold, and Minders of Make-Believe: Idealists, Entrepreneurs, and the Shaping of American Children's Literature, by Leonard Marcus. Thank goodness! I was losing momentum.

Dear Me,

I'm tired and I'm demoralized, and I have carte blanche to be a witch.

But not really, because "put yourself in our shoes, Bri."

OK. But for the love of god then put yourself in mine.

I don't normally invoke this. Much of my energy goes straight to walking in the other person's shoes. But I've lost a lot of power all of a sudden, and my emotions aren't in a giving mood. I feel like I'm being punished, and I'm tired of defending myself.

"I'm a good person!!!"

Right?

I'm sorry. This cancer thing is demoralizing, professionally, physically, and emotionally. But the cancer books say, "Get an eyebrow wax! THEN tell people you have cancer! Then max out your credit card! You are a VIXEN, not a victim! Meditate with the monks! Go raw! Buy a handbag! Buy a juicer! Be a cancer-diva wheat grass queen!"

I don't want to buy a juicer. Not even the small one with a hand crank, good for travel. And I don't want to eat lettuce, I want to eat cupcakes and bacon. I would meditate with monks in a heartbeat, of course, but who lives like that? WHO GETS CANCER AND TURNS INTO A DIVA? Nobody, see, because divas after diagnosis were divas before diagnosis. Untroubled, well-adjusted people with resources. And nice eyebrows. With handbags to match.

I've never had my eyebrows waxed.

Such a healthy way to be ill. (Susan Sontag would approve.) The uncertainties and the anxiety tempered with vibrant hopes and productive energy: I will make a documentary and write a book and open a school and grow my own vegetables and do yoga every day! And I will heal. While the oncologists study the overexpression of PROX1, and that compound in coconut milk.

Yesterday, I learned that federal law requires me to use my tiny bank of paid vacation days to get my chemo treatments, before using any unpaid Family Medical Leave. And I'm not supposed to think of it as using up a vacation day, I'm supposed to think of it as getting paid to get poisoned for a day. Which, if you think about it, beats NOT getting paid to get poisoned for a day.

What stinks, of course, is afterwards, when you could use some actual time off from going to hell and back, but you have no way to do so.

What federal official believes in this policy? If I were in charge, and someone ran that by me, I'd inject his corneas with malignant tumors, enroll him in a clinical trial for anti-angiogenesis therapy, and have him give it a whirl. "Use your vacation time first!" I'd say, all chipper. "Because as soon as this is over, we need you back at your desk, designing Asinine Policies for the American People."

Some people don't even have paid vacation time. I know. And employers aren't required by law to offer such a thing! So I consider myself lucky, all complaints aside. But there's the rub -- I am not allowed to complain without combining it with gratitude. Which is frustrating now that I have cancer. Because right now I just need to complain. But I suppose it's equally, if not more, frustrating for the hungry, the war-torn, the earthquake victims, and the cyclone survivors. And for people with Stage IV.

Why me-oh-how it could be worse.
At first I thought my world was cursed!
But then I changed my mind (inverse);
Now I want to buy a purse.


Apologies. I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow.



- Also, apologies for the uninspiring photo. I have no new photos. Beige with pillow and IV pole is how I'm feeling. Tomorrow I'll try to notice some things with my cancer. (I MEAN CAMERA! That's the funniest typo I've ever made.)

Before and after.

What happened on March 3, 2007?

I'm wondering, because on March 3, 2008 I received my official cancer diagnosis. What was happening a year ago at this time?

I reread my old posts for clues. Turns out, I didn't post on March 3, 2007. But I wrote a brief post the next day, It begins --

Sometimes I look at my body and think please don't die on me.

How Poignant.

Now I'm thinking about an even more important anniversary -- the day we cancer patients use to mark our survival. For me, that day is March 12, 2008, when my surgeon removed the tumor. That makes March 12, 2009 my one year cancer-free anniversary. Which means March 12, 2013 will be my 5-year cancer-free anniversary.

I will probably cry on March 12, 2013.

What was happening in my life a year ago on March 12?

You can see for yourself, if interested. In a nutshell, the photo I chose to use that day features skulls and microwaves, and the text was inspired by a book called How to Live With Yourself. Such riveting foreshadowing!

This is sort of fun.

How about February 26, 2007, one year before my fateful colonoscopy? Oddly enough, my entry that day is titled, "Will Today be Any Different?"

I could go on. I long for my old concerns and complaints.

On Friday, I attended the "Stowe Weekend of Hope" for cancer survivors and their families. (I have a long way to go before I can call myself a cancer survivor, but I went anyway, for a dose of hope and camaraderie, which I found in large supply.) On my way to the opening ceremony, my mom wondered aloud how I was feeling. "I just don't want to be the one with the name tag," I said, watching the crowd assemble. I felt grouchy and the scene seemed unreal. We sat wrapped in blankets, outside a resort, waiting for the governor. "Not that I want anyone else to wear the name tag!" I added. Sincerely.

Someone has to do the dirty work.

I have things I want to say about my weekend of hope, but I keep running out of steam. It was a very intense experience; I'm no longer in denial, and I made a new friend.

More later.

Briefly

I went to Vermont for the weekend. I'm too tired to write about it tonight, but as weekends go, this one's a keeper.

More soon.

Cancer kinks and titling links.

If you ever get cancer, and you treat it with western medicine, you'll find medical bills in your mailbox, even if you have health insurance. And you'll have to pay those bills, unless you can prove that someone else has to pay them, in which case they'll be sent to a different mailbox. When typos lead medical bills to your mailbox, you will tell yourself to find the humor in the situation, and mutter the phrase "it's only money."

If you ever get cancer, and you work for a living, you will need to ascertain your sick benefits. This might prove complicated and unnerving, and require a lawyer for precedents and peace of mind. This will feel absurd and awkward. People will say "you shouldn't have to worry about this." You will agree. Eventually, you will find that phrase unhelpful, and the phrase "my lawyer" will seem normal.

If you ever get cancer, and you live in America, these economic kinks will not surprise you. They will also surprise you. You will face the possibility of unpaid medical leave, and spend money you no longer earn on luxury items like nice shampoo because you will feel flawed and unattractive, and nice shampoo is cheaper than makeup.

If you ever get cancer, and you decide to tell people about it, everyone will want to know if you "caught it early." If you are in your twenties or thirties you might say, "The vast majority of people don't catch it until their seventies or eighties, so yes, I caught it early." This will not be the answer they are looking for.

I don't think you will ever get cancer. But if you do, read this, and this, and this.

This brings me to Part II of this post: Titling Links. Thank you Dr. K., for reminding me about this feature. You do not read my blog, but I read your blog, and I especially enjoyed your last post about word play. I had fun reading your link titles, and I imagine you had fun creating them. I am not linking to your enjoyable entry because it might seem opportunistic, and I have no use for that.

What do I mean link titles? Hold your cursor over any one of the links in this post. You will see a small pop-up window with text. The text offers readers a sense of where the link may lead. This can save people from visiting links they aren't interested in visiting.

They say this feature is best used in moderation. I say have some fun with it. (Except now I can't think of anything to link to.)

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Wire you so sad?

Happy 90th Birthday Grampa Johnson! b. April 22, 1918

I made a little portrait of you with stainless steel wire from Johnson Steel & Wire. Remember that giant spool you gave me years ago?

If you set your portrait in the sun just right, you'll get a bonus shadow drawing. That's all part of the gift.

Wire shadows such talented draftsmen?
Where do shadows learn to draw?




Yesterday, I had an 11:30 appointment with my prison mentee. But the guard wouldn't let me in. "Basement's closed," he shrugged. "Come back at 12:15."

How do you argue with a prison guard? "I can't come back," I complained. "This is where I'm supposed to be now. We scheduled this! A long time ago! I haven't been here for so long! I have to leave at 12:15." Some small part of me thought that might work. It didn't.

I tried one more time, with more emphasis. "I have an 11:30 appointment with --" "The basement is CLOSED," said the guard. "Why don't you go get a bite to eat and come BACK at 12:15." Like I have all the time in the world.

Who can flex their schedule like that?

I was furious. For a number of reasons. So I just stood there. From 11:30 until 12:15.

12:15 turned into 12:30, and I began to worry. What if the guards orchestrate a fake lock-down to show me who's boss? I could be stuck inside for hours! I almost talked myself into leaving. Then I decided that sort of thing only happens in the movies.

At 12:35, I was allowed inside. My belt tripped the metal detector. Why did I wear a belt? I met with my mentee for 14 minutes.

Prison guards are not accommodating. It's not their job to be accommodating. But I pushed to keep my appointment for three reasons: 1. It's important to be there when I say I'm going to be there, so my mentee knows I take our visits seriously, 2. Sometimes I have time to spare, but yesterday I didn't, and 3. I believe they could have accommodated me if they had wanted to. But by chance I encountered someone who decided not to make it happen. I could be wrong about that. I do realize this is a maximum security prison I'm trying to enter. They have strict rules for good reasons. But it's also a breeding ground for power trips, so I had to try.

Silver Lining

When I was in the hospital, I read something online, then scrawled this in my notebook: "Gray is the perfect fusion of black and white, the color of nuance and dialogue. . . the family of grays permits all other colors to lean against them, to underline or overshadow them. Gray is patient and flexible, an appeasing tone in times of change. . ."

I failed to note the source of the passage, but I just found it again in the New York Times. It's from a piece by Li Edelkoort about a show at the Museum of Modern Art called Color Chart: Reinventing Color, 1950 to Today. From MOMA's website:

Color Chart celebrates a paradox: the lush beauty that results when contemporary artists assign color decisions to chance, readymade source, or arbitrary system. Midway through the twentieth century, long-held convictions regarding the spiritual truth or scientific validity of particular colors gave way to an excitement about color as a mass-produced and standardized commercial product. The Romantic quest for personal expression instead became Andy Warhol's "I want to be a machine;" the artistry of mixing pigments was eclipsed by Frank Stella's "Straight out of the can; it can't get better than that." Color Chart is the first major exhibition devoted to this pivotal transformation, featuring work by some forty artists ranging from Ellsworth Kelly and Gerhard Richter to Sherrie Levine and Damien Hirst.

I found out how much I love color during my first year at RISD, all because of Irving Haynes. By chance, I landed in Irving's freshman foundation two-dimensional design class, a required course, taught by any number of professors. Freshman 2D is where art students learn the fundamentals or, as RISD more formally puts it, "the contradiction inherent in a two dimensional visual plane." Assignments focus on "formal issues of pattern, rhythm, figure-ground oscillation, the effect of line, relative size, light and shade, texture, and color." For me, 2D was a godsend. My foray into the "why, how, yes, no, and because" of color and mark-making. Irving used to say, "Act now, think later." In other words, play.

So I played. I didn't notice how hard I was actually working.

Unfortunately, many students associate Freshman 2D with one thing: tedious color studies. We did our fair share of color studies in Irving's class. Some were tedious, but they were also useful, and my guess is we internalized what we needed from each assignment. Which means we use what we learned to this day.

I learned to love color. And to notice color. And to work with color. I was lucky to have a colorist guiding me.

I became Irving's teaching assistant the following year, and I watched his new students learn to think visually. Once, he asked them to collect leaves during their lunch break. "And I don't mean a few," he grumbled. "LEAVES! More than you can carry." That afternoon, Irving plucked a leaf from someone's pile, held it before him, gathered his students' attention, and explained what they would do. "Look," I whispered earnestly to the student beside me. "That leaf is so green next to Irving's purple shirt!" "Wow, " her eyes widened. "It is! You're right!"

That might be the art equivalent of the computer geek, but I like to think my student and I shared something important in that moment -- a brief realization that tedious color studies prepare us to notice extraordinary things.

Green explodes in front of purple. And pops in front of gray. Check it out next time it rains.

I felt grateful that night in the hospital (where everything was beige) for coming across such a wonderful definition of gray, and I'm glad tonight that I remembered it. "The color of nuance and dialogue."

I have a sense that negative interpretations of the color gray are the norm. Lack of sun makes us glum, and we pout when it rains. According to Wikipedia, "Grey has been used pejoratively by environmentalists to describe technophiles as being those who like granite, concrete and other city materials, as opposed to the term "greens" to describe those in favor of environmentalism." The article goes on to say, "In a moral sense grey is either used pejoratively to describe situations that have no clear moral value, or positively to balance an all-black or all-white view (for example, shades of grey represent magnitudes of good and bad)." Nuance! And in J.E. Cirlot's Dictionary of Symbols gray stands for "neutralization, egoism, depression, inertia and indifference -- meanings derived from the colour of ashes."

Pshaw, Señor Cirlot! Hooray for gray!

To distract myself from the uncertainties of cancer and chemotherapy, I'm giving my bland, white studio a glorious gray makeover. And, to be canny, I've decided on a shade called Silver Lining.