Hello and thank you, old friend for coming and visiting
Frau Kolb and The Talkinggrid, again. We return to each other, like lovers seeking stray kisses across a mountainous duvet.
“Darling!” I squeal. Arms link. Hugs melt away tension, raise spirits. We hug.
“Most sincere and honored being!!! How delighted I am to see you!!!”
Take my hand, let us sit, eat. Feast! Drink and be open with me, unlock the doors of your soul. I am waiting, receptive yet patient and full of an uncanny ease that comes from persevering, past exception and desire, leaving Death waiting and returning to the world of dish washing and stir climbing. Home life is central now.
We haven’t spoken in months! Where does the time go? “I went to to the bank where The River Styx flows. I was on the ferry amid the putrid stench of rotten expectation and desire. Where were you?”
My mirror image, you might say:
I’ve returned. I am here to entertain you, to remind you to laugh at my mistakes if your own are not juicy enough. I am here to nurse you, feed you off the teat of my intellect, regardless if you judge my skills to be fine or not. I am your friend. I host you and care about your children even if you haven’t had any yet. I care.
I am moved by your eloquence.
We haven’t gotten cosy, talked about the intimate details of our lives, investigated the lineage that defines us as parallel figures in history, in ages. We haven’t deconstructed how magical it is that our orbits ever touched and that we both know the magical feeling of touching each other’s souls. We haven’t undressed and danced in the moonlight of the Jersey shore, but there is always the possibility.
We have met, many so many times that you think you know me. I hate to inform you that that is an illusion. You know the me that has floated up on the internet for you to see and dissect, at will. I invite you to take apart an image, this season. Shred one of your hard won traditions, a sacred “cow,” try to buy nothing… give it all… love like love is on the brink of extinction and you and only you can save it. Mirror me, if you please, become the person you dreamed you might be.
I said my goodbyes and then was granted a coda which will extend into the ether, diminishing only when the applause die down. The applause haven’t begun, yet I expect they will start soon, thereby allowing me to enjoy another year, or two, or ten, twenty works—sort of—but I’m just getting started. I am open to hanging out at art gallery openings in forty or fifty years when I am beyond the silver citizen stage and have become pure social gold, a butterfly made of metal. I intend to be the old lady with a gaggle of admiring suitors and invitations to spare. You know her, right?
Mirror each other’s most gracious gestures. Learn to imitate the ones we admire and let leaders be representative of our best traits. Don’t be afraid to be shallow, as long as you present a polished surface onto which others can project super human qualities. Let’s look to each other for inspiration. Be better. Be healthy. Smile. Eat more veggies. Improve yourself the way you polish the specks on the surface of your super smart phone. Shine!
Sincerely,
Frau Kolb and The Talkinggrid
PS: To my friends in Berlin. I love you. Christmas markets are sacred. I’m sending love from Southern California.
Around the foot of the bed a gaggle of white coats has congregated. The situation is urgent, critical. They’ve decided to operate tomorrow, Father’s Day.
The evening before yesterday, we were in the hot-tub, afterwork unwinding. He looked in my eyes and saw yellow.
All day, I was in bed, my body expanding… the swelling, which started on one foot a year ago has spread. I’m putting on several pounds a day in water weight. If you saw me, you’d think I was just another overweight person, but no. I’m dying.
Decisive and wise, informed and on point, my husband took me immediately to the Emergency Room. I saw the sunset from inside the car. We arrived and were admitted into the hospital.
My roommate is in pain. She screams, yells, hollers for morphine. “Junkie,” I snap judge her. She is pretty, like me. Plump and sexy. She has a Puerto-Rican accent, but I bet she doesn’t speak Spanish. She is from New York. She is visiting family… she ate something, she was on a hike… whatever. “Ghetto bitch.” I think, listening in on her telephone conversation(s).
The room is divided in two with curtains suspended from the ceiling. Her bed controls the door and the flow of traffic and noise.
My bed is wheeled to the other side of the room, by the window. Here, I will sleep.
Sleep is impossible with people streaming in and out of the room, all night. They take your “vitals,” they give you pills. The two IV “trees,” machines which monitor the flow of drugs and saline into the blood, beep, if our intravenous drips are tangled. All night, the two trees took turns beeping. Nurses, rush in the room to stop the beeping.
After a few hours, I feel that the hospital is making me sick. I want to go home and sleep, recover, from this ordeal. Morning arrives and I’m ready to die. The room is still, for a second, before…
They come in, one by one, and then a team, I’m overwhelmed, too tired to lift my head, they tell me what will happen, what might happen, and what happened—according to them. I don’t listen. I don’t care. I’m busy. Dying.
So… this is what it looks like, THE END. Soon, I will be back in my father’s arms, we will go for strolls, and wait, in bliss, until my husband and children join us! Finally, I will get to know my grand parents and ancestors… all the Africans, they wait for me to join them. Clearly, they won’t be waiting long.
Father, Daddy, the black and beautiful man that trained me to be me, to thrive, has visited me, us my husband and I, yesterday and today. He assures us. Yet… I’m not ready. I’ve got a plan. I’ve got a lot of living to do. I’m not going, don’t make me! I want to raise my own kids. Forty years is not enough.
En masse, the Doctors leave and Eileen, Irish and fierce, open and alarmed, Best friend, arrives. Just seeing her cheers me up! We start to talk and I forget where I am, a nurse (on her rounds) joins us, and it feels like a party. NO WAY AM I DYING! No way.
This is just the beginning. I’m at the start of my adult life. Maturity is around the corner! I’m going to be fifty, sixty, and so on. I’m going to be a grandmother. That is the plan, the vision, The Dream.
Husband arrives as best friend leaves, says “Goodnight,” and I’m left with my roommate. She has decided to vomit, all night. “Why don’t you call a nurse?” I ask her. “I’m waiting till the morning,” She tells me. I put on my Bose speakers, the noise cancellation ones, another death bed gift from Hartmuth and I shut out my roommate’s hacking and spewing until morning.
Morning comes and the day speeds by. I don’t remember much, but they say, “The Operation was successful.”
A different room,a different roommate, each an experience, a window into another world. I drift. I float. High atop the crest of a Tsunami. I’m on a mattress in a narrow hospital bed on wheels. It folds up and down and it has a magic wand, upon which, you can call a surly nurse.
Surely.
“Hello! I’m dying.” No. I won’t admit it. Death is not part of my plan. I’m ok with a slow easy death from old age, not now. Now, I am busy. Writing. Painting pictures. Reading. Right now, the bulk of my dwindling energy is yoked to the privilege of taking care of my offspring and willing myself to live another day.
Roommate Number Two is young, perhaps a bit lighter shade of medium honey brown skin, a shade lighter than Cappuccino Me. I see her as they roll me in. I take her picture with my mind. Snap! Her story becomes mine for as long as we share this room. The curtain does nothing to separate us. This instance of forced intimacy, being a shared room while receiving visits from one’s doctors and nurses, friends and family is a radical change from the sheltered reality I know.
My dreams are torture. I go to hell and visit with an evil Southern Minister and his all white choir and congregation. I end up drowning in a flood cause by washing the plastic Negro soup dispenser.
Roommate Number Two is married to a young dark skinned man with a dollar sign tattooed on his neck. Her mother, a round quiet woman with blond hair, shaped around her head in a sleek bonnet, and her intense, and palpably, devoted husband, visit her. He spends the night, sitting in the chair by her beside. They barely talk. Thankfully. You can feel the quiet passion between them. When they whisper it is of their children. She wants to go home.
Daylight. Her t.v. wakes up. Desperate Housewives of The O.C. is on. I listen, curious. I want to learn. Those women are… well, whatever. I don’t understand. I sink back into “Inheritance,” a novel set in China, which I am slowly… until the doctors come.
A Gaggel of Doctors flock at the foot of my bed. They plan out my treatment. I listen. Scared. Doctors are really intimidating, lab coats akimbo. En masse they march into the room and nest. I am but a little bird, waiting to be told what is right, what is happening to my body!
I’m expanding. Each day I put on weight, no from food, but fluid… trapped under my skin. I am a prisoner in a huge body, now. I can not see my feet. Every step I take, is the Odyssey. Effort. Pain forms new shapes on the edges of my mind. I’m dying.
That night, I dream of a vast grave site. Deep tones of gray and unending shades of eerie blackness… There are tombstones. On has an open grave, lit bright, like a disco, with stairs going down. I fear this gaudy hole is calling me. The light pulsates bight, a green tinge to it. It whispers, “Come!” Death, oily and seductive, has come to lay claim on me.
Every trip away is an adventure, yet going to one’s home town has a special warm and fuzziness to it unlike any other trot around the park… especially, when the park in question is Central Park. The timing was perfect. The Park was in majestic bloom.
The Tulips are Talking
Ah! The early mornings, before the tourists hit the streets in smartphone click click clicking mass, on those sacred terse weekdays, when you can glide across the park and take in all the little birds, big robins and very blue twittering songsters, before the surreal street performers have claimed the park benches and the under passes… New York has its pristine beauty.
Spring in His Step!
I spent a comfortable night at the Renaissance Hotel. The bed was firm, tub deep, and wall panelling elegant. If you must POP into the city for a moment this a a place you might flop, thereby not falling too far away from the comfort you are accustomed to. The brick wall view from my hotel window was a heartwarming reminder that not everyone gets to see, everything all the time. We must enjoy each brick’s presence, stately endurance.
A Comfortable Bed
The familiar walls of black trash bags, ever so smelly, have an unmistakeable punch. They strike you with an unavoidable whiff of truth. A reminder that posh and poor alike we all have refuse, release, and unthinkable exchanges with toilets and plumbing, dentists and beauticians. We are all potential concubines and conquistadors, no matter what or present costume or apparent rank.
In New York, as a necessity, every type of human rubs shoulders with every other, yet gulfs between the Haves and the Have Nots are so vitally expressed, a pulsing truth, transitory and undeniable illusion. Everyone has equal footing, the same chance of making onto the subway and off, again. There is a thrill of danger, even when it is not there. Not a single person tried to mug me. I walked, not late at night, but by myself… I look like a person a mugger might target, I image. But, no… no attempts were made.
A quick jaunt up to Harlem for dinner with a Yellow Belt, artist friend was easy and delicious. Harlem is now an international hot spot, packed with trendy restaurants, and well healed humans looking for fine French or other International cuisine. I love it! Must explore, more, on my next visit.
The lovely and inspiring, artist, Dee Shapiro!
The allure of lunch with artist Dee Shapiro got me down to Gramercy Park, to The National Arts Club, a venerated establishment which hosts regular exhibitions of artists work, and boasts a very elegant private member’s dining room. I ordered a visually stunning yellow and red beat salad, capped by baked goat cheese. Delicious! Over lunch we discussed art and family life.
Tiffany Glass skylight of National Arts Club Bar.
Astoundingly, I managed to sneak in lunch at Fred’s with the one and only James Katson. You know, the artist, antique’s dealer, man-about-town… Yes, Mr. Katson! He positively oozes talent. He transported me with stories of his wayward youth to far away corners in a London best forgotten, scary and tender. He performed the voices of men that lived as ghosts in their own lives. Haunted. Katson’s edge is very sharp and one feels a thrill being in his electric company.
Mr. James Katson is captivating.
We had the most fun drenched sober lunch two song birds could ever tweet of! What a hoot!
Together, At Last!
Another stunning meal: lunch, at Cherche Midi with artist friends was an unmitigated pleasure. My people! All so smart and politically engaged. They enjoyed the fare and tasteful decor. I love how New York has so much French color and flavor to offer. We are Francophiles. Just as we appreciate our English pubs and Anglo heritage, immensely. Yet, everything is passed through an American filter and that works for me!
The Perfect Place to Brunch in New York CityA Gift for Me!ILE FLOTTANTE
A quick visit to The Whitney Museum of American was not enough but well worth the effort. My plan is to return as soon as possible to gather more art experience. I saw the two top floors. The jazzy elevator alone is worth the visit. The floors, soundless, marvels… no tap tap tap of crowds gawking at the splendors of American art on display. The curators have done an excellent job of picking work we know and love but not neglecting the work of traditionally underrepresented artists.
As I do with every visit into Manhattan, I traveled outside the city, for a night. Guest bedrooms are fascinating. I have made an informal study of them. They come in various sizes and the worst ones have entirely too much of the owner’s possessions in them so that you can not for an instant sustain the illusion that you actually own the place. On the other hand, rooms with ancient wicker chairs, and bodhi savat lamps, and handmade patchwork quilts are a rare pleasure. I slept so well. I shall not forget that the hospitality of a Best, a Dear One, an Old Love is a treasure.
Reflecting on Peace, at the private residence of great artist and dear friend.
Capping all these pleasures was a solitary evening of theater for one. Broadway! I treated myself to seeing a play. (I’ve never before attended a Broadway play alone. I’ve been a date, many times. Yet, buying my own ticket and seeing a play I wanted to see because I have read the book upon which it is based was a unique pleasure. I recommend it.) I saw Wolf Hall at the Winter Garden Theater. The book, the play, the mini-series: Hilary Mantel’s work translates to all these mediums with faultless grace. The story of Thomas Cromwell, common man that rises to the the pinnacle of power, is undeniably compelling. The production is just right, highbrow and educational enough, but with a little vulgar streak of something else… a little undertow, which is what makes New York City, Broadway, The Whitney… America’s glory.
Picture of Student art at Solana Pacific School, 2014
Dear Starving Artist,
Yes, we know you are talented, creative, and you work obsessively on your craft. If you had a trust fund all-of-the-above would be more than enough. Yet, you do not. Thus, you are “starving.” Or perhaps, thanks to the charity of your friends and the occasional meger sale you are merely, “hungry.”
Hungry for what? Food? Recognition? A generous grant? A deep pocket Patron? Public adoration?
Before I serve up some viable solutions to your situation allow me to tell you something urgent. It is unlikely that anyone is going to buy art from (yet another) starving artist. Most people feel they have no extra money. “The cost of living,” is at an “all-time-high,” they say. Humans are plagued by egoistic and actual needs which make it so that most people don’t have feel worthy of owning “Original ART,” by a real living artist. In other words, they rather buy a poster. They might, “love,” your work but when it comes down to forking over the actual cash for a painting… few have the means or will to do so. I speak from experience, from watching the art world and from having studied who buys art, when, and how.
That said, the majority of Art Collectors, are driven by established brand names of known dealers and very few (predominantly white male) artists who are more business and public relations minded than your average painter/sculptors. These slick individuals, and we ALL know who they are, wear suits, eat caviar, and pay for whatever they want with the big money they make selling their brands, their image, which is of wealth, effortless living, and causal opulence (the giant art lofts, private jets, and sexy public scandals with peppered matching lawsuits) not of poverty and “starvation,” neediness and eternal WANT.
That said, we (your fellow talented and creative beings) are sympathetic to your needs because we all have needs. Yet, how you go about addressing those needs will either make your situation more dire, less comic, and even deadly or you could change your course and arrive at a place beyond urgent NEED, odious WANT, and potential “starvation.” Are you interested?
Can you image a life in which you had ALL the materials to make whatever kind of art you crave to make? Can you see yourself RICH? If not… can you imagine yourself (even better) satisfied, healthily fed, and professionally fulfilled?
Well, allow yourself to visualize what it would be like to have your needs met. What would it take for you to feel satisfied?
Some people fail to realize that as soon as they have one need met another (larger) one is sure to crop up.
How do you deal with the fact that you will be hungry again tomorrow, after you digest the food you secure and scarf down today? Will you just let tomorrow be a replay of today and thus go through your life eating and defecating and forgetting about tomorrow because you are too busy worrying today away to think about what will be of you in advance?
Yes… that is the key. You must somehow step out of worry about today and allow yourself to picture and plan a life that is not based on worry and fear.
Who would you be IF you had no needs?
Would you even be an artist? Or are you an artist because you think it is “cool.”
If you had all the money in the world how/where/why would you live?
Allow yourself to make a plan based on who you really are beyond need/want/fear. Plan your life and if money is an issue, face it. Deal with it!
If you have, “money problems,” you must make peace with money. You must. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to your future self to be financially secure. Yet, if you do not make peace with money there is no way you will arrive at the harbor of financial freedom.
Most people claim that they need money. They feel that IF only they made ten percent more than what they do now they could relax. Yet the target is always slightly out of reach because humans tend to not be satisfied with what they have. The moment they have this, then they want that, and that! So they continue striving, wishing, pushing, crushing, fighting, forcing, and so on — until they die.
Yet, is that really living? I don’t think so. I’m not alone. I’ve learned what I know from spiritual teachers such as Dr. Wayne Dyer, Eckhart Tolle, Dale Carnegie, Louise Haye, and they in turn quote others like Carlos Castaneda as masters teachers in the art of making life work for you so that you can enjoy being rather than waste away in never ceasing hunger.
Furthermore, if you have never taken a moment to study money, appreciate it, and thank goodness for all you already have; well it isn’t surprising that you do not have enough. Money has its own rhythm, music, and melody. You can learn to sign along. Yet, if money is not your bag than don’t complain when you don’t have enough. Enjoy your status as free of it and learn to live on the fridge or jungles or wherever it is that money grows on trees and people can just throw dollars at you to provide for your existence, but please don’t expect others who have and do focus on saving, investing, and honoring the spirit of abundance to enable your stance as ONE that need not face the realities of how money works. Please don’t complain when the customary bills rain in and you have no way to pay, accept it that you haven’t made a plan, that you haven’t made the right friends, that you have chosen to isolate yourself from sources of income and that you live in the outcome of those choices. Also don’t think that because others have bank accounts, mortgages, credit cards, and automobiles that they are not without their own financial concerns, remember the more you have the more you are likely to want/need so that those that seem “well off,” to you are often immersed in a cycle of desire very similar and, from their perspective just as urgent, as your own.
The BREAD you crave demands that you bake or make it yourself.
Lastly, we live in an incredibly rich society and there are public libraries in every city. YOU can become an expert on dollars and cents, budgeting, and money management. Please don’t tell me that you don’t have time. I don’t believe you. I am sure that if you take a break from Facebook or from fiddling around with the worthless, wasteful, company which you have cultivated, you would discover that you have plenty of time to improve your personal panorama and tweak the image of yourself you project into the world based on your warped understanding of what matters and how reality works. Also be aware that the BEST way to stay hungry is to make public announcements about how needy you are, even private statements of this kind are toxic to your financial health. IF you are going to live on charity you might conceive of a system by which you benefit others in the process, start a campaign to help “the needy,” manage it well and you might find yourself rolling in dough.
The years have punched us, around a bit, but we learned to duck.
Together, “we fly like mandarin geese.” We dip. We dive. We fly past obstacles to Paris, France… Miami! Rome. New York. No problem. Hong Kong. Here we GO! Effortlessly, we transform from cocooned, invisible beings, into GRAND winged creatures. Image: WE wear ankle length, bat capes and fuzzy ears. Cute, huh?
Now, BACK OFF!!! WE are serious, deadly. Dangerous, ARTISTS! Visionaries… Seers.
Social critics?
WE STING! We spear chuck. We have outbursts. We are… INVISIBLE!!! Or not… we deflate, rapidly, like rubber sex dolls to be used as needed, and then put away for another day… no hard feelings.
Tears, drip down my face, from laughing at you, laughing at me in this ridiculous outfit, onstage. The audience, eats up our raw chemistry. We soar, creating jacked up rock-jazz-poetry, fresh with your hard chops and silver AXE and me, long legs akimbo, exploring the range of experimental accordion tactics, in a micro-mini. How refreshing! Talent springs forth. Together, we rock out. Your friendship empowers me. You get me out of the house, out of my books, and into the world. I appreciate that. Thank you. When we JAM, the sound is so good not only because you know music but because I didn’t until I bumped into my sixth grade music award… oh yeah, I’m a player, too… and I’m willing to make some righteous noise, just listen.
ROAR!
Now imagine: a zipping hornet of international black and pink polkadot WASPS! Unlike bees, WE stay ALIVE, after we sting. Honey, we don’t fight CANCER. Instead, we DANCE! Tango? Anyone? Buzzing. Social Butterflies. Diving into the pleasure of being here in ernest. Double dipping. Tax paying. Party Animals!
(Imagine it. Mix all the metaphors, in your head. Make a cocktail of images. Bees. Flowers. Birds. Painted rock stars in platform shoes performing before an eager and excited audience. Throw some gold in there, why don’t you? Diamonds, check! Feathers. Add, graceful dancers in tuxedos, sequins, (fake) furs. LIGHTS!!! Glamour. check. Frau Kolb. Check!)
Everyday, irrespective of what goes, “wrong,” or isn’t perfect in our lives, we have the option of seeing the GOOD that IS and digesting the FACT of our good fortune. We each have gifts. Perhaps you are a writer or seriously good looking. Perhaps you are a spirited salsa dancer. It doesn’t matter if you are short. IF you can salsa Hotties wearing elastic band dresses will follow you out on the dance floor. YOU know it… You have seen it. Remember Salsa Johnny? Shortest guy in Salsa-Land. The ladies don’t care. They just shimmy up and wiggle to his smooth moves. He leaves with the girl that twirls and looks BOMB in glittering spandex.
If you are the biggest NERD, well… everybody knows that the Nerds of the Eighties are the Tech Wizards of Today. Rich as Gates… We all have a purpose. Yet, it is easy to forget that everyone is special and worthy of love; so much is annoyingly WRONG, according to NEWS and Media. We are ALL OVERWEIGHT! People KILL people for no good reason. We are all VIOLENT, angry. History proves that humans are completely capable of hating themselves, and their brothers and sisters. The news confirms our worst fears and collective memories of HORROR. The flexing of power, which renders some into killers, soldiers, and officers… others into robots that follow orders to torture and maim or worse, design methods of “extracting information,” which are inhumane. Lest we forget, the fact that killing is central to the diets of billions, including myself, who cannot conceive a life in which not a single pig is grown for Sunday Bacon. Yet, do I want pigs to die senseless cruel deaths? No.
Do I wish for humans to hurt each other? Do I wish to harm? No. No. No. My mission is to remind you: BE GOOD. Write. Start your own blog. Above all, enjoy your life and respect the lives of others, no matter how tempting it is to think of some people as “Pigs.” It is wrong to demote humans into species traditionally farmed or hunted, hated… “rats,” the Nazi called the people they decided were not their brothers, sisters, and friends. Suddenly, the Jewish people, so civilized and entrenched in their German lives, were worse than enemies, they were pests. How we can transform into predators and others into prey is a mystery, if one forgets that not too long ago…
Die Entwicklung der Menschheit
Einst haben die Kerls auf den Bäumen gehockt, behaart und mit böser Visage. Dann hat man sie aus dem Urwald gelockt und die Welt asphaltiert und aufgestockt, bis zur dreißigsten Etage. Da saßen sie nun, den Flöhen entflohn, in zentralgeheizten Räumen. Da sitzen sie nun am Telefon. Und es herrscht noch genau derselbe Ton wie seinerzeit auf den Bäumen.
Sie hören weit. Sie sehen fern. Sie sind mit dem Weltall in Fühlung. Sie putzen die Zähne. Sie atmen modern. Die Erde ist ein gebildeter Stern mit sehr viel Wasserspülung.
Sie schießen die Briefschaften durch ein Rohr. Sie jagen und züchten Mikroben. Sie versehn die Natur mit allem Komfort. Sie fliegen steil in den Himmel empor und bleiben zwei Wochen oben.
Was ihre Verdauung übrigläßt, das verarbeiten sie zu Watte. Sie spalten Atome. Sie heilen Inzest. Und sie stellen durch Stiluntersuchungen fest, daß Cäsar Plattfüße hatte.
So haben sie mit dem Kopf und dem Mund Den Fortschritt der Menschheit geschaffen. Doch davon mal abgesehen und bei Lichte betrachtet sind sie im Grund noch immer die alten Affen.
Erich Kästner
In other words, no matter how SPIRITUAL and LOFTY we like to think we are… we are merely, the same old apes that slipped down from the trees a second ago. We are working on becoming BETTER.
I work to remind myself that It is mostly on television, in movies, or in novels, that people shot people. I’ve never really had much attraction to guns and can’t image why one would ever want to shot anything, except of course for target practice or in the case of, “a brace of pheasant,” being secured for Christmas
dinner. Yet, some decide to go into “Law Enforcement,” which means they are paid by taxes “protect and serve.” We appreciate their valor. I couldn’t do it. Imagine going out and responding to the calls of the insane and abandoned, hurt and abused. You’d have to be very brave. It must be very scary!
The thought of serving the public as a police officer is overwhelming to me, but I appreciate that IF there is an emergency, we have the option of dailing 911. We are glad to have specially trained support, a social recourse, on call. That police officers work for our benefit is part of the story. That some have loss sight of the value of each human life or see some citizens as instant targets for investigation, intimidation, and worse is NO NEWS. (Yet, we can not come to accept evil. We must continue to demand reforms, amends, and justice for all those caught in the net of evil that is prejudiced or violent Law Enforcement. We must or we are part of the problem.)
In books, noir detective novels, sexy smoky films with women in clingy gowns and men in linen suits, that show up, armed, dangerous KILLING is COOL. Imagine the moment when the fedora wearing man felt, “a calling to work with guns,” on the streets, sorting out the cigarettes and the fabricated misery from the true distress call of the frail, the battered, helping heiresses sort out their complicated family history and teaching these wayward girls how to slip in and out of a martini before the gangsters arrive and…. It would take almost superhuman power to face the world with a gun, badge, and number. Image, your first murder case… I mean in novels, murder is the novelty, the spark which propels the action of the narrative forward. Undoubtedly, there is a THRILL of reading of the dark passages where assassins lurk, waiting until apprehended by cleverer detectives… Yet, in real Life, murder is no laughing matter, no passing fancy, no story backdrop.
Fortunately, I did not become a police officer. I am not sure I would have ever qualified. I am fit but in a funky spirited art waif, way. As it is, I live a much safer life, than I image is that of either criminals or law enforcement. Really, I spend most of my time and energy, hiding out, in study, and cultivating peace. I invest my time in observing and encouraging goodness, prosperity, and harmony. People call to ask for advice because they know I’m pretty good at navigating through this sea of possibility we call, “LIFE.” Yet, I’m not one to shy away from discord in music or my private life…. In other words, HERE hiding in the comfort of my womblike abode, I am brave, I am willing. I protest by forwarding some news stories and commenting, however obliquely, on current events. I feel outrage mingled with great joy at being here in this world, now. Sure, I’ve had moments of intense confusion, RAGE beyond control, induced by… you don’t care to know… yet, I’m mostly about peace and cultivating global acceptance and mutual understanding. REMEMBER: FRAU KOLB is not Perfect. I know… I know… you don’t believe me. Unless, of course, you have read this blog for long enough to know that I am indeed, far from perfect… perhaps… I am like YOU, divinely flawed!
One thing I know: we are but shades of each other, each a little more, a little less and identical, the same. We try as we might to differentiate but we must all eat, shit, and die. Therefore, we are left with this instant in which to decide for what we stand. Or are we with the BIG BAD WOLF howling and gorging himself on fear? Do we binge on BAD NEWS? Do we cultivate DRAMA in our lives? How, precisely, are we investing our days, spending our lives? Are we designing with our actions a Romantic Comedy or a Horror Flick? Let’s forget about pointing fingers. Let’s LOOK at our own actions in the mirror and forget about a perfect people, perfect race, perfect blog. FUCK perfection. Let’s LOVE what is. Let’s love each other, flawed, ugly. Fat. Poor. White. Trash. Priceless princess. Devoted servant. Teacher. Scholar. Voluntary Sex Slave. Let’s collectively forgive our employers, parents, neighbors, therapists, siblings, and friends for all the harm they have caused us and let’s LET GO of the anger, pain, entitlement that allows us to make victims of ourselves and others on a global scale and let’s KEEP DANCING!
(You can tell that I just finished reading a fabulous work of fiction by Los Angeles resident, author, Lisa See, “China Dolls.” This book was a light, fun, sexy romp into the dark crevices of HORROR which history, World War II era, Asian American DRAMA, a classic love story following the tried and true boy meets girls… has sex with both, marries the nice respectable lovable predictable SHOW girl…YET enchanting pattern… I loved it, because sometimes we all need a little stability in a story line to keep us turning pages.)
Lately, I’ve been tortured that my writing is not to par. How dare I keep writing this awful blog? I mean, my best friends tell me how horrible the BAD grammar in the earlier stages (remember when I went through that ass for as, phase, when I couldn’t resist playing with my butt and my buts in public…) listen, forgive me… I was just getting words OUT. OUT. OUT. Some people may be able to wait, I can’t or couldn’t. I had to get the words OUT. I’ve been writing in diaries, journals, most of my life. I read and read and read some more… I’ve so many books, ideas, and art images in my head. I’m bursting.
The BLOG, this blog, is an extension of three strong urges. One: have FUN! Two: Get WORDS OUT! Three: connect with my kind, my friends, my people.
YOU that read my words, regularly, observe that I’ve distinguished myself as someone that has a message. Moreover, let’s not forget that I am a Columbia University graduate… I know grammar rules… let’s not forget that it is easy to criticize and much more of a challenge to build an audience, a rapport with the public. For those of you that know me well, it will come as no surprise, that I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I’ve approached it in a myriad of ways. Yet it is here, on-line that I’ve found my voice, my outlet. (I’ve started novels and nearly three hundred pages of drivel to prove it. I painted, participate in art events, and I draw daily… yet, there is a part of me that knows I don’t have the stamina to become a full time fine art painter. It seems, to me that a person would have to be made of nails to want to do that. You have to be very tough, maybe as tough as a cop… maybe not.) Anyway, I’m an artist, for sure… I write. I dance. My dance is impromptu, a jazz I fashion from the shock others experience when they witness me shake it. Now, the fact remains. I write. I write right here. Now. I publish. Miraculously, you read my words. Thank you.
More amazing: you are not alone in reading ALL THESE WORDS. You have waded through this long text. You have clicked and dug around and spent… hours of your life here, reading. Lots of readers frequent this site. Maybe they LIKE BAD GRAMMAR. I mean… there is so much good grammar out there… so many people writing scholarly reviews on Yelp…. yet SOME of YOU are even generous and supportive enough to DONATE to the Talkinggrid, which really means the world to me, to us. Now:
Let’s be grateful IF we have fingers, with which to type of LIFE as a JOY, a pleasure to be shared! Let’s remember that not everybody is so lucky as to be able to see, touch, smell, type, read, write, and/or tell the difference between right and wrong. Nope. You can, sometimes. So can I, until I can’t, but I don’t let myself forget my good fortune in being able to address these issues and share with you my perspective, my joy, my gratitude.
At the end of the day, it is my experience that goodness rules. Most people want to be and are mostly good. Sure we cheat, lie, and fail to live up to our ideals, but we have ideals and we will continue to improve. We may lose sight of this fact that most humans simply want to live, love, and grow old, when we watch children arm themselves and attack with weapons meant for military combat on our multiple screens and many NEWS (Horror) sources. We may eat meat, but we aren’t here to steal the life of another over political cartoons and we aren’t planning on wearing a cartoon hero suit and gunning down movie goers or drawing ourselves up to be warriors in video games, avenging High School Slights, paternal permissiveness, by gunning down our neighbor children. Daily, all over the world, humans exchange so many little supportive gestures, courtesies, which are the food that nourishes our collective spirit and allows us to continue despite the exceptional misery and astounding crimes that we know to be part of this endless narrative of sorrow and suffering, celebration and birth, called, “Life.”
Here we are! Dip. Rumba! Soft shoe. Flip! Dancing? Finding romance in the eyes of the partner we picked long ago, in our reproductive prime… finding the strength in ourselves to leave the abusive parent, the over taxing best friend (like the protagonist, Grace, in Lisa See’s stunning little novel of Asian American Show Girls shaking their cans into the retirement home lounge show circuit). On must learn to let GO, swing it, shake it UP, roll around like a clown and find BALANCE in the midst of the madness by being honest about one’s true and unique position as a STAR in the introverted and meandering, luxurious, and unpredictable, fun and carefree world of Frau Kolb & Talkinggrid.
The year is wrapping itself up into a tight wad. You call to confess to me, that you are you “TOTALLY FREAKING OUT???” Are you running around, trying to cater a party for 30 when you have enough chairs for 3? Is your budget stretched to the limit? Are you contemplating bankruptcy or, at least, a reduction in the size of your Barney’s Binge Shopping Budget in 2015?
NOW, before I begin to dish, my special brand of savory information, a delicate stew of warm MUSE NEWS, to which you have become increasingly accustomed, being that it provides a nourishing substance… you require. I readily advise you on how to shake those often ugly, hardened, stormy feelings that threaten spring upon you, to choke you, violently clouding out every ray of positivity, which might blossom, IF carefully tended and coaxed into fruition, during the HOLIDAYS, but instead FESTERS, like an open sore… oozing. I find myself instantly getting depressed when there is so much pressure to be HAPPY! Enforced Christmas Cheer pushes my buttons.
Not everyone LIKES Holiday music… Not even every ELF is a Sinatra Classics FAN! Yet, it is impossible to avoid, between October and January!
Perhaps… like many people… you HATE CHRISTMAS MUSIC and come around October, they start to BLAIR THAT CRAP… in every space that has the mojo to command a cash register. Don’t they understand that by giving US so very much of Christmas, many of us GET SICK of IT? Holiday music is like rap, country, or heavy metal music… not everybody’s cup o’ Joe… and maybe if it was just for ONE month, say December, then it would be almost bearable, but the shopping centers are relentless in their stream of sonic sales stimulating musical brain invasion!
The Annoyed Consumer, is forced to SUCK UP the “steamy,” sound of “Santa Baby…” for months, imagining tarty girls flirting with their fat Santa, Banker or Hedge-Fund SUGAR DADDIES… Worse, the sensitive soul is ground down by the schmaltzy mix of materialism muddled with a diluted, polluted, Christian message which is pumped into our veins in the toxic form of mainstream HOLIDAY Culture. YUCK!
Sometimes, just lighting a candle and taking a moment out to be silent is ALL the Holiday Celebration you need.
The pure elixir of belief is being mixed into the cheap sweet carbonation of hyped up SALES and shopping frenzies; what might be an authentic spiritual opportunity is turned into a SALES Event! The materialism revolts you…You wanna scream like the Edward Munch painting. YOU CAN’T TAKE IT! Yet… the holiday MUSIC follows you into Starbucks, another place I want to avoid. “Jiggle BELLS!” “Jiggle Bells!” Cry monstrous children, that chase you in your thin and flimsy dreams. YOU WAKE UP!
Stressed… the bills are mounting, the kids (you don’t even have any but IF YOU did it might be dangerous, this year!) are griping, screaming, and shouting! Their horrific excitement about ALL THE TRASH they are about to spew out into the universe. Wrappers. Packing. TAPE! The HORROR of Holiday Cocktails with people whom you do not trust and you must keep your guard and be very polite, ever so NICE!
(Chill OUT! It is clear that YOU have a BAD CASE of The HOLIDAY HORRORS! YOU have come down with a highly infectious disease. Yes. IT IS TRUE! You must contain yourself. You must find a means of protecting others from the bad vibe you are emanating. Yes, you.)
Thank goodness, you have come to the right place for instant on-line healing.
Please, allow me, Frau Kolb ARTIST comic relief and aspiring adolescent, laughing here, HEAD and IN CHARGE of ALL THIS FABULOUS CONTENT, on www.talkinggrid.com, to diagnose poor depressed and spiritually depleted,YOU, with the following flowing one-size-fit-all blanket of “ISSUE,” which you may or may not cling to in a desperate attempt to DISCOVER some greater truth, than the basics we ALL KNOW. The Holidays, are best invested in self reflection, go easy on the booze and pass on the sticky buns. You don’t need those easy escapes and quick fixes now. Concentrate on loving yourself, better than that.
Sure, like everyone else on the planet, YOU have problems. Now, forget about it… The truth is: It isn’t easy being human. We all struggle. Just getting in and out of pajamas… buying pajamas and washing pajamas is an epic undertaking. Add traffic. Sex. Finances. Children. War. Race conflict. Loud Americans (or whoever you feel is invading your space simply by being audible…) and… well… We are ALL ready to SCREAM! SCREAM! SCREAM!
Yet, here’s the rub: we all have to find the strength to move gracefully from one day to the next. It is our responsibility to seek out happiness, good spirit, Cheer. Not just during the holidays but year round for our health and for the health of others. We might benefit for some of the prescribed Merriment. Yet, How? Come on, my friend… step over here. Sit down. Here, on this silken pillow. I know you are tired. Exhausted. You feel used and abused. No one loves you (except Talkinggrid, of course). Well… I will tell you a secret…
Sit down. Take a seat. Breath. So… Here it is:
“YOU want to shake this terrible Holiday Helplessness that hits you with the force of a Caribbean storm. Yet, what to do?”
Here are SEVEN SECRET, Foolproof, steps to maintaining a modicum of MENTAL HEALTH & Happiness during the sometimes nauseating attacks of Holiday Panic, Holiday Horror! Okay, I LOOK at you and I tell you what ALWAYS works for me. I have SEVEN SECRET ways out of any little steaming HOLIDAY HELL which you may have wandered into this muddy pit, by accident but… NOW YOU are stuck in the muddy molten lava nightmare, yet HAVE NO FEAR! Frau KOLB is HERE to SAVE YOU!
1. NOW! Move IT! Nothing will make you feel better about yourself or your situation than doing some sit ups, jumping jacks, yoga, whatever primitive mode of self tuning you practice… get to it. At least half an hour per day. NOW! Go UP THE STAIRS! Walk to work. Avoid the elevator. Try skipping, as children do.
2. Start your New Year’s RESOLUTIONS EARLY! Hit it. NOW! Consider quitting drinking NOW! Do a juice fast. Wheatgrass. Everyday. You will feel better and you will thank yourself when instead of gaining weight this year you enter the NEW YEAR looking fit and fabulous.
3. Write everybody Holiday LOVE LETTERS! Screw the materialism. You don’t have to buy anything for anybody. Write them letters of praise, LOVE. What we all really want for Christmas is good old fashioned praise and love. Write your loved ones a few pages of script, extolling their virtues and enumerating their strong points. Better, mail it to them, even IF you live in the same house. Send actual cards, with handwritten words and perhaps a printed photograph, to, at least, ONE person. Yes. One is more than enough. (You can even send your letter to yourself in order to ensure you get HOLIDAY MAIL from someone special.)
4. Sleep. Turn off the phone. Say, “Goodbye Computer.” Turn INWARD. Contemplate. Peace.
Nothing hurts you more than forgetting to nourish your body with rest.
5. Ritual Bathing. Listen, don’t knock it, till you’ve tried it. I put a marvelous mixture of sea salts and oils, oatmeal (skin soothing) and green tea powders in warm water and soak away much of what ails me. Hey… costs very little and most of us can access a little hot water and epson salt. No?
6. Create. You know, seeing ALL THOSE flashing lights and shows… it leaves you feeling a little EMPTY. Try painting it out. Paper. Canvas. Board. You decide. Or… use words, music… write a SAD SAD Christmas BLUES SONG and blow everybody away at the company Christmas Par-Tay with an impromptu performance!
7. Apply the SEVEN BOOK RULE! Here is the KEY to the verdant private garden of Frau Kolb’s imaginary and real experience of total life success: READ, READ, READ! The deeper your interests, your knowledge, your connection to the fabric of humanity, through its thought which may be directly accessed in BOOKS, will sustain the fragile sensitive you in times of duress. Yes, books, are my best and most stable friends. I retreat into them and in them find constant comfort and guidance. You can read, whatever you like, whatever uplifts YOU! But give yourself permission to avoid topics that prove toxic or debilitating to you. In other words, censor yourself, if it means avoid the turgid sea of Ugly Holiday Horror.
Try reading about the Early Christians, Alternate forms of Jewish Faith, The Fluctuations of Stock Market Wave patterns… whatever floats your boat. IF it elevates your mood and is not a gun manual, read it.
Personally, I enjoy books on history. What kind of history varies. Lately, I find myself reading more and more books set in or about China. It seems that Chinese and Asian Studies are emerging as a major focus. This makes for yet another hobby which while absorbing much of my time, delivers timeless knowledge and thus inspires me to take my personal issues in stride, aware that I am but a drop in the bucket. Reading is constantly shaping my perspective on LIFE. I am after many years of interest into Chinese Art and painting but a novice at investigating the language, the characters, the gorgeous pictographic/calligraphic writing system. This multi layered interest, has brought new SPARK (PASSION!) into my, already full and delightful, life. By investing my time in learning what I find remarkable, I enrich my life and protect myself from succumbing to the HOLIDAY MELTDOWN which so plagues the Armies of Shoppers, mobbing Walmart for “last minute,” gifts.
What do you want to learn? What do you want to master? Tell me. Tell yourself and treat yourself to time dreaming, thinking, writing, and planning a better now by being more at ease and grateful simply for the gift of being, which in no way means, that we aren’t aware that not everyone is as lucky as we are to be breathing, NOW… and that is my point. Don’t allow the creepy mood of militant outward displays of canned Christian sentiment crush you! YOU are more ZEN than that!
Now finally, perhaps this year, I will write you again, a word or two… nothing major… but it is time I hear from you. Please comment. Mark LOVE at the top corner. Share this or another, your favorite of my stories, and PLEASE IF YOU are a regular reader and wish to contribute to the YEAR END Frau KOLB Christmas Par-TAY FUND, CLICK donate DONATE donate at the bottom of the Talkinggrid’s front page. By DONATING to Talkinggrid you ensure that I will continue making time to writing and thereby AMUSE and UPLIFT you with Frau Kolb’s Muse News and Talkinggrid FUN!
EXPRESS YOUR LOVE and APPROVAL for independent Artist/Blogger Absurdist World Traveling Imaginary Friend and Intricate Fuzz Ball, Frau Kolb, via the DONATE button, on the bottom of the cover page.
Gently, a day is taking shape. This visit is chiseled from the veined marble of long understanding. Kathy Goodell and Frau Kolb are friends with a connection that spans decades in this life and the infinite in some other plain of existence, past lives playing a prominent role. Yet, this is our first time spending an entire week under one roof. Will we get along?
Hartmuth Kolb is pleased to visit Point Loma in San Diego, California
Frau experiences refreshed awareness that life is phenomenological blooming of energy, fleeting blooms on the edge of time, the wind of ideas stirs reflection, when in the company of this refined Contemporary Art Muse. Thus, OPEN to talks on closing acts and end game strategy, we embrace a day of deep talks, woven into the breezy fabric of classic San Diego sight seeing.
We wake up early, as usual. The morning zips past. At noon we were at San Diego International Airport, picking up our friend, a soul sister and personal Art Muse of Talkinggrid, Kathy Goodell, a human flowering of loveliness and edgy intelligence has arrived! She is easy to spot, looking fashionable, in her HUGE sunglasses and “Op Art,” silk blouse. She is a powerful Muse. We rush to greet her. She embraces us with the warmth. BIG HUGS! Flowing kisses. “Hello! Hello!” All around, our day is off to a rip roaring good start!
Kathy Goodell looking lovely with BIG SUN GLASSES in San Diego with Frau Kolb and The Family
On the way to lunch in Little Italy, in San Diego, The Art Muse of Talkinggrid, Kathy Goodell’s winning personality is like a shawl, comforting. In my world, Goodell is famous not just for her expansive and intellectually daring sculptures and art installations, but also for being a person whose personality is at crossroads of glass and metal, transparent grace, fragile, yet of enduring strength and lasting fortitude. Her artistic oeuvre touches on the accidental, dreamy and quasi scientific in scope. Her art work moves me. She is a venerated teacher of art, mentor to many, with a following that spans generations, continents. She graciously speaks to my little children about the recent Henri Matisse, exhibition, up now in New York City, now, connecting with them immediately, tending to that sacred spark, an interest in art, which we hold dear.
Muse Goodell is loving the organic food market, Jimbo’s in San Diego!Always creating, Kathy Goodell, takes in San DiegoI painted this portrait of our amusing guest in a burst of inspiration, joy.Snapping a Selfie!Goodell’s good looks inspire artists, young and old.Annabella, age 8, makes a nice drawing of Kathy Goodell.My Kid finds Goodell a worthy subject for a portrait.
The Muse Departs
Goodell, simply, oozes neon talent. She is one of those beings that lives and breaths the mystical condition of being a “True Artist,” a multi-faceted creature, adventure ready. She thrills me with her floating free generosity of spirit, her cool fashion sense, and her quick mind. She is a favorite of the lively Contemporary ART MUSES, a female goddess of great creativity and wit, a source of artistic inspiration to many a young and an old artist, both inspiring to art legends and generations of students. Goodell is friend who has earned the extra attention not just from Frau Kolb but from all her army of adoring students, all grateful for her indefatigable encouragement and support.
Imagine being a real Contemporary Artist, an art professor, paid for your expertise in art, a Guggenheim Grant recipient, Best Friend to Frau Kolb, Star of Talkinggrid, and international MUSE! A respected person known for knowing about ART! Think of that… Imagine being known as an Contemporary Artist and being a woman respected for her solid creativity and staggering productivity? Now, go Google yourself. What does Google say about you? Google Kathy Goodell, you will discover a woman at the crossroads of American History, a person of singular interest, and tremendous charisma. Be impressed. I am.
We drive to the Historical and Natural Preserve of Point Loma, gladly paying $5.00 per vehicle entrance fee. We look about and then decide to visit the Light House. “I Love LENS!!!” Goodell purrs. Up into the little hill we go, which like so many such relics from a time past, seems tiny, a little precious jewel of a home, which once housed the keeper of the lonely lighthouse and his family. The rooms, spick and span, chamber pots under the beds, pitcher and bowl for washing one’s face, a little guitar in the corner, hand made quilts… the usual American frontier artifacts of a time just recently past, idealized as formerly simpler.
Point Loma is a lovely vista point from which you can see all of downtown San Diego, Bay and Harbor.
The Point Loma lens are so beautiful. Old glass, it captures the room around it, the light, the rainbows, upside down and inside out, the play of here and there is OTHERWORLDLY. One could image that these objects might somehow be portals to different dimensions. Doorways into space. The infinite.
Excellent iphone image of the LENS at Point Loma in San Diego by Talkinggrid Muse, Contemporary Artist, Kathy Goodell.
In Goodell’s company I find myself thinking about the perpetual. What is FOREVER? Our friendship is a lasting one, the seed of which was a casual comment Goodell made as the young Frau Kolb… I wasn’t Frau Kolb then… I was a very young woman working in an Italian Restaurant in Soho, when Kathy came in to dine. I waited on her. She saw something in me. That we became like family is a testament to her OPEN heart and generosity of spirit. Her friendship is an unwavering source of good in my life and I hope to be forever that in hers. All this LOVING makes me think of DEATH. Death.
The finality of it… really, each of us only has a few close friends in this world. Goodell is one of mine. Thus, with her I discuss the grand plan, my vision(s). We share the minutia of our days and compare notes about people that admire us, her, and/or me. We know a number of the same people, being that we are both California/New Yorkers: girls who wear the robes of Muses, forming a Muse Team, inspiriting each other to new heights.
Actually, when I die, I’d like for my tombstone to say: “Artist, Mother, Friend!” I’ve always enjoyed imagining my own funeral. I like the idea that ALL MY X Boyfriends might come together to mourn me. A handful of handsome men in tuxedos, of course. They would drink whiskey, or ambrosia, make toasts, boasts, and talk about what a pain in the ass I was. Hartmuth, my husband, would defend my memory! I would attend the event, as a sexily clad ghost, wearing a gigantic black hat bedecked in veils. The men, steadily drinking might glimpse me here, there. However, I vow, not to linger… wouldn’t want to get stuck as a wandering spirit, on this side of the river Styx.
What three words would you chose for your tombstone?
“OH MY GAWD!” She answers.
Who do you imagine might most weep when that moment of dropping a handful of dirt on the casket arrives?
“Besides YOU, Frau?” She asks, hazel eyes twinkling. (Of course, Goodell, did not really say that… but I can dream. If I really asked her this question, I think she would say her niece would be there, eyes a flood.)
What achievement(s), as a public person, artist are you most proud of?
“As a public person… I have to think about it for a minute… That my art might infect some with a sense of the eternal.” She answered, really.
How do you expect to be remembered?
“All depends on who is doing the remembering.” She says reminding me that every memory is but a flickering candle in the unceasing wind. Who cares how we are remembered when so much of what is remembered is tarnished in the self serving act of remembering? We live but for a flashing instance, to be forgotten is inevitable. Yet, by making great art Goodell is among those that will leave an enduring legacy.
I ask Goodell a handful of earthy questions (above) on her second day in San Diego. Each day here Goodell tells me of at least one beautiful story of her life and her development. She is a San Francisco native, successful transplant to New York, with an international exhibition record and a following that spans generations. As a child she was curious about religions, not finding the perfect spiritual fit she designed her own rituals, methods of observance. Her family, long established in the United States, has historically interesting characters galore. She is a person whose personal history is fascinating and instructive to the extreme. I would like to learn more about her and a week in her gracious company, leaves me longing for more of her causal bounty/beauty.
I’d like to share with you, more of Goodell’s Goodies, stories, images and a creative perspective unlike any other. I am inspired by Goodell’s tenacity, wit, and inner glow. She represents the mature woman we’d all like to become, a person that owns herself and holds her own in any situation, a woman I admire. As Goodell prepares to depart we sit next to each other and I relinquish a little control over the image I want to project of her glory. Her unwavering modesty, overrides, my desire to BANG a DRUM, toot HER HORN, and CELEBRATE like a champion gladiator her enduring brilliance, her remarkable SHINE.
The multi-colored days, the crisp season, of din celebration(s) have caught up with us, again. We hurtle toward the close of another successful year.
Successful? You ask.
Yes. Successful. You made it to this point and boy o’ boy am I thankful that YOU made it here. It is truly amazing that YOU and I are here, together, now. YOU breath. I BREATH!!! We can’t ever stop being thankful for every breath we are able to take. They don’t go on forever. Each breath is a gift for which we can be very grateful. Add to that gift the many skills, possessions, abilities, and desires that bring you here to me, to this particular page.
Why are you here? I wonder. Yet, I know that for some, Talkinggrid, is an alternate Muse Source, a spot of inspiration, an on-line destination to go for the private brand of elegant “Muse News,” Frau Kolb churns out. You don’t know exactly what it is that brings you here again and again but here you are again. Smiling at Frau Kolb’s quirky interests in things others have no time for, like peace. Talkinggrid isn’t like any other blog because it comes from Frau Kolb and reflects a way of being that may be perversely traditional or radical in its optimism. Regardless, Frau Kolb always makes you feel comfortable. Hospitality is my forte. I intend to constantly remind you that, well, we are privileged to be able to be us, to share and have ideas, to witness and shape our culture, to learn and expand on language(s), to swim in the underlying stability of being in a perpetual state of faultless grace. If you are reading this site it is because you relate to me, Frau Kolb, as part of a larger whole of artists, creatives, expansive souls. WE are part of a constellation, a universe, a little world of thinkers wired for abundance, joy.
You relate to the idea of Frau Kolb. We are either friends, family, colleagues, or otherwise connected. We are ONE in our ability to appreciate, to THANK each other, to love. Thus, you return to this page and I keep writing. We have made a pact of mutual support. I will continue to collect words, ideas, images to share with you. You will continue to click LOVE! Thank you for the many shares, the bounty of being that makes writing for you, a pleasure, a vessel full of joy. You will continue to read, to comment. Of course, I don’t know for sure what you will or won’t do, but I am THANKFUL that you have made donations and encouraged me with praise. I thank you for thinking of me as interesting for even one nano-second. You bless me with your attention, time, critique. Most significantly, I am thankful to those that read my errors and point them out, so that the Muse News I produce is comprehensible, enough. I’m glad for The English Grammar Police in my life that stood up to me when I want to replace the word “but,” with “butt,” gratifying the perpetual sophomore in me. I’m grateful that my dearest friend’s attempt to stop me from failing to communicate, appropriately.
Now don’t forget:
Thanksgiving is an opportunity to THANK YOURSELF. Yes. You. YOU ROCK!!! You, Dear Muse(s), are so inspiring! I could write poetry about the shimmer that is your hair, cascading. Curling. Rising in waves like the ones painted by Turner. I might decide to focus my mind on describing the KINK that is your bush. Who knows? I could sing SING sing your praises with paint, creating a portrait of you worthy for a Presidential HOME. Please, make Frau Kolb happy and thank yourself for all the breaths you take and steps to make life bearable for you and those that depend on glorious, sane, and reliable YOU for stability, love. Make sure that you focus on all the very good things you have done for others this year. Make a list. Then make a more important list, how have you show thanks to yourself in 2014? How have you demonstrated your devotion to your dreams, your values, your talents?
Thank the ones around you. How have your children, siblings, lovers, friends, and enemies contributed to honing your skills, making you stronger, and filling you with energy to move forward in every aspect of your life? Thank the trouble makers the ugly policy makers, the bad drivers, the incompetent mothers, Thank them ALL because without The Racists, The Cops, The Fuzz, The Blacks, The feckless Poor, The dirty Rich, The Drunk Drivers, and The Incompetent Mothers, You would be ALL ALONE. YOU would have no one to play with, no one to love. Thank the lady that cuts you off mid sentence to tell you you have no clue who you are, to advise you on your destiny, to sell you a slice of paradise for an internet donation. Thank her!
Thank Frau Kolb for all her unsolicited advice, which comes from her experience of managing life, love, friendships simply by being thankful and allowing all to flow as it will, while nodding in wonder at the splendor of possibility that constantly is. Thank me for my friendship, for the words of support I’ve lavished upon you. Thank me for the attention I pay to your art work. Thank me for eating your home cooking, and willfully supporting you. Thank me for cooking for you, setting the table, pouring the wine, and writing this juicy blog.
Tonight at the University of Southern California in San Diego, Frau Kolb attended a reading by author Chuck Palaniuk . She expected it to be of his new book, “Beautiful You,” which is available on-line and in bookstores, as of yesterday, October 21, 2014. Yet, the Author, clad in a red silk robe worthy of an Emperor, began the evening by reading a sexually charged car scene that was not only graphic but humorous and frightening AT THE SAME TIME!
The Emperor wears RED!
The book, I now have in my collection may or may not “delve deep into the needs of women and what ONE man does to scientifically meet the pressing wants of a billion woman” as I thought it would. The book, pristine, white… with itchy vibrating red writing on the cover and a bright gold sticker indicating that the book is a First Edition, invites reading. It is “loaded,” I imagine with penetrative, original, creative, and incisive thinking.
Now, that I was exposed to the author LATEX loaded road show… I’m aghast!
Glowing Balls To be Tossed at Chuck Palaniuk “Beautiful You,” event at UC San Deigo
“Beautiful You,” the reading promised to be, “An event you don’t want to miss with tons of prizes, games, and a sure-to-shock story, and audience Q & A.” Oh boy! I’m excited. My curiosity was aroused! Yep! Which is perfect because, the “Better than Sex Tour 2014 Pajama Party,” has the potential to be the book event of my year. (I’ve not attended any other book events targeted to adult readers before.) This event was tailored to reel in the university students, often on the threshold of true maturity and independence, throwing candy corn and GLOWING LATEX BALLS into the audience, the author is a powerful show master.
What TOY could be more suggestive?Frau Kolb is Bored by Boys with BIG GREEN BALLS
I learned of this event via one of my favorite local bookstores, Warwick’s in La Jolla. I go there to get my fix of paperbacks and hardcovers. I’m addicted to actual pages. (I dread the day when electricity fails and there is nothing to read, thus I hoard books.) Mostly, I read books either on or set in China, Japan, and Korea. Of course, there is Paris… I’m always reading at least one book on Paris. Of course, Warwick’s in La Jolla has lots of books on Paris and lots of other, thoughtfully selected books of merit. One could only wish the store was larger!
Bigger! Greater! Faster! These demands, desires for MORE, MORE, MORE may be the driving force behind a book on female sexual pleasure and the Mastermind marketing of sex toys to an army of ever ready women. I haven’t read the book yet, but I read the author’s brief and gleamed that this book should be more fun than a barrel of monkeys. The opening chapter of the book introduces us to “Penny,” a rape victim, raped in a courtroom, no less… is disturbing, to say the least.
Palahniuk is best know for his novel, “Fight Club,” which lead to the making of a feature film (starring Brad Pitt!). I saw the movie and haven’t read the book. I’ve actually never read a Palahniuk book. Strangely enough… I’ve seen them in bookstores, handled them. I’ve examined the intricate, compelling cover, of “Choke,” but I’ve not put down the money for my own copy nor have I borrowed a copy of, award winning “Lullaby.” I don’t believe I will buy either of those books because I now understand that Palahniuk’s “hidden gun,” technique of writing has the power to blow an unsuspecting reader asunder. Heartbreaking work, soul crushing writing, Palahniuk is a master manipulator and he knows how to create the kind of book that sneaks up on a reader and delivers a JOLT that might be too much for sensitive souls.
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