the last burnt sienna crayon

How is it, that we learn things, yet so easily forget? How is it that something becomes a part of us, how we think, how we grow, what we believe, what we feel, how we live. . . and yet, we forget? Does it happen at the point of some trauma, that we throw out all of that which has gone before? Or is it simply carelessness, the dropping of our manifesto into the crowds and busyness of daily life?

And am I just assuming that it happens to more than just myself? Is this collective “we” accurate, or is it just me who is the forgetful one?

Recently I saw that an old friend had posted a quote, something written by Rilke, and something in me leaped. “You know Rilke!” I said to him, excited to find that my old friend shared some kind of sensibility of mine.

“Yes,” he replied, “You were the one who introduced me to him.”

Oh. I had forgotten. So many years ago. How could I have forgotten? There was a time when I was practically evangelistic about the German language poet/author. I carried a pocket sized copy of Letters to a Young Poet with me everywhere like a tract or a Bible for several years. I discovered his Letters first (where anyone should start with Rilke) and reading them felt like the first time anyone had ever truly understood me. For the first time, someone was telling me what to do, how to live, in a way that seemed strangely comforting, helpful and relevant. (Does it reflect badly on me that that was something I felt that I could gain from a dead Bohemian poet and not from the Church or from my own parents?)

I moved on from his Letters to his other (dense, but beautiful) prose, then his poetry (both certainly a development in the relationship), and even though I have to admit to struggling through the density of reading German in English translation (and in various levels of success of the translations), for the first time I felt that I had encountered another human being who felt things quite like I did, as strongly, as intensely, a bit of an alien in this world, and who struggled through his life because of it.

It felt like being understood.

The encouragement, was that he always said that life was worth it. Difficulties, and particularly the difficulty of solitude (which at the time I felt that I knew so well), were to be sought out instead of avoided. There was something I could accept in that. I heard him say:

“It is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be a reason the more for us to do it.”

and I took comfort. I was told:

“The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things”

and I believed him enough to get onto an airplane and leave my country and look for life. In all that confused me about my life I heard:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions”

and I no longer cared for security. In those days, I lived, I mean I really lived. Because someone who felt and failed and hurt like I did told me that it was still worth it.

Any easiness in life was worth risking, for the attempt at something better. Life was worth living at all, because of its wealth and intensity. But I’ve forgotten. My fear and pains smothered that hope and joy, my failures crawled on top of me and wrenched the manifesto out of my hands.

Like Leonard said, “We’ve got to remind them how good it is.” Wouldn’t it be nice, to try to remember again? Difficult. . . but perhaps worth it.

I’ve had a rough afternoon. I’m not going to shout about it here, in fact, I am learning more and more that, especially in regards to issues like these, where I must stand alone in my opinions, but find a way to stand up for them all the same. It is best not to say anything at all. I know it just invites invalidation. But, once again, my definition of what is right, doesn’t match everyone else’s. But I still think it’s right.

I’ve had a rough afternoon, and the love I feel for my daughter has almost never been stronger than it has been recently and my wanting the best for her has almost never been stronger, and my fighting spirit, like that Momma bear protecting her cub, has almost never been stronger. It’s just hard when a mum defines ‘the best’ differently to how everybody else does, when they simply can’t see what I’m talking about.

But then I’ve felt a bit lately like someone who has been trying to cope having lost one of their senses that they usually rely on. I’ve felt a bit lately like I’m not ‘clicking’ with other people quite right. I’ve felt like I’ve lost my social awareness. I’ve felt a bit like an alien again.

I’ve had a rough afternoon, and all I can think of is this song. And reading it, I am crying again. And I haven’t actually done that in awhile now. Until today.

Flowers are Red
by Harry Chapin

The little boy went first day of school
He got some crayons and started to draw
He put colors all over the paper
For colors was what he saw
And the teacher said.. What you doin’ young man
I’m paintin’ flowers he said
She said… It’s not the time for art young man
And anyway flowers are green and red
There’s a time for everything young man
And a way it should be done
You’ve got to show concern for everyone else
For you’re not the only one

And she said…
Flowers are red young man
And green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than they way they always have been seen

But the little boy said…
There are so many colors in the rainbow
So many colors in the morning sun
So many colors in the flower and I see every one

Well the teacher said.. You’re sassy
There’s ways that things should be
And you’ll paint flowers the way they are
So repeat after me…..

And she said…
Flowers are red young man
And green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than they way they always have been seen

But the little boy said…
There are so many colors in the rainbow
So many colors in the morning sun
So many colors in the flower and I see every one

The teacher put him in a corner
She said.. It’s for your own good..
And you won’t come out ’til you get it right
And are responding like you should
Well finally he got lonely
Frightened thoughts filled his head
And he went up to the teacher
And this is what he said.. and he said

Flowers are red, green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen

Time went by like it always does
And they moved to another town
And the little boy went to another school
And this is what he found
The teacher there was smilin’
She said…Painting should be fun
And there are so many colors in a flower
So let’s use every one

But that little boy painted flowers
In neat rows of green and red
And when the teacher asked him why
This is what he said.. and he said

Flowers are red, and green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen.

I’ve been wanting a chromatic tuner. You know one of those little electronic things where you play a note and it tells you if you’re sharp or flat so that you can tune your instrument. Problem is, to buy one of these things you have to go into a music store.

Now what’s wrong with a music store you might wonder. Isn’t it just a place that one buys things musical? Isn’t it it a place where one buys tuners and sheet music and metronomes? Isn’t it a haven for someone like me?

No! It is a Mecca of cultural sub-sets where buzzers and alarms start to sound when I come near it. It is a place where I don’t speak the language of the initiated or wear the uniform. When it comes down to it, it’s just a place where I-don’t-fit. before reading on you could refer to the first 1 minute of the following clip to clear up any questions on the matter:

I knew I was in trouble, first when I walked into a place that immediately reminded me of the the above clip, but with no satire involved, and then when I was looking at the tuners presented to me and the assistant asked me “So what is it you want to tune?”

I almost squeaked my reply like the mouse that I felt that I was:

“hamm-ered dul-ci-mer ?” and the look on her face confirmed that I would need to get out of there fairly quickly. “Um, I think I may just tune to my piano a bit longer, thanks.”

I had a similar feeling last week when my dentist asked me what kind of music I was listening to on my iPod and the only response I could honestly give him was “umm, indie/folk that has a bit of electronica and traditional eastern European folk influences thrown in?”

The look on his face was a winner too.

Most of the time, I’m ok with being different. Most of the time I’m ok standing out. But sometimes it seems like it might be nice to fit occasionally. Boring, but perhaps nice.

I’m not homesick. That’s not what this is.

The keener eyed of you will have noticed that I wrote a story last week that I then went on to delete. It wasn’t quite complete and felt a bit too raw to share in such a level of my incomplete description. The problem being that so much of the description lies in the experience, which none of you could ever have had. At least not in exactly the same way, as it’s mine. You didn’t know my family. I’ve put the story back up, but know I may be the only one to undertand it quite.

I get updates from NPR (national public radio) which give me interesting photography stories, high quality news and tips on new music. Yesterday I was sent some links to listen to Moby’s new album. This track struck a chord with me and when I found the video, even more so. The simple line drawn alien conveys more to me about how it feels to be outside of one’s country, one’s culture, and one’s family perhaps more than I could have expressed in writing. Notice that the friends he imagines and draws for himself do not only look like him, but move like him too. He smiles, until they fade away.

I didn’t know a line drawn alien could break my heart.

Difference is good. Difference is important. But understanding is comfortable. And death is so final. I didn’t realise, until recently, that in embracing difference that I would be giving up so much understanding.

I left without realising that I could never go back. And without realising that no one would wait for me to try.

“Put me on the train, send me back to my home
Couldn’t live without you when I tried to roam
Put me by the window, let me see outside
Looking at the places where all my family died”