Shel Silverstein

Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.”

Shel Silverstein is my favorite author from childhood. When you saw him you just wanted to reach out and rub his big bald head! His poetry was more than imagination, it was enlightenment. His intent - to teach the parents a lesson - not the child. A Light in the Attic is brilliant.

once beloved . . . now disgusted

For what purpose does the library serve? I have spent my entire life believing that the library was a catalyst for understanding and growth. Perhaps my expectations of four walls enclosing a forest full of trees fall not far enough from the parting of the sea. Once a beloved world of fantasy and unbeknownst possibility, the library has become little more than disappointment. Every book I search for is not available, not only are these titles not in the library where I am physically standing at that moment – but the books I am searching for are not in the Utah state library catalogue, period. The first couple of times this happened I made the assumption it was purely coincidental. I would inevitably come home from visiting a friend in the East and in my pocketbook would be a list of books to read – books she recommended- book titles from her once ever growing bookshelves -books recommended in the Washington Post – books from the shelves of the Hirshhorn Museum gift shop – more recently books from the Phillips Collection – for years I have made little lists of books. I excused the library’s lack of books on human sexuality as an example of Utah culture. I told myself that titles recommended by the Washington Post were not of interest to the average Utah resident. Art books can be expensive, and often book titles carried at the museum are from small publishing houses. Other books for which I have searched the library catalogue come from my ever growing Amazon wish list; books on incorporating beeswax into collage, books concerned with painting techniques, the content of these books can be very specific, making it understandable that a library would not include them in their purchase order. But enough is enough. I am done making excuses. Autobiographies of American Women: An Anthology by Jill Ker Conway is a book I began reading in August while visiting my friend, she picked it up at the Arlington Virginia library. My local library does not carry this title; not a single library in the state of Utah carries this title. This is not a manual on safe sex - therefore it should not pose a threat to those open-minded individuals who feel endangered by such titles as “She Comes First” or “He Comes Next”. This is not a book professing one religion over another. This book has no political agenda. To my knowledge its author is not an enemy of the state of Utah. Why is this title not available? I can personally attest that the half of this book which I have already read is profound and beautiful; short biographies of 25 American women, women who illustrate the meaning of womanhood – these women are strong, intelligent, resourceful, independent, courageous…these 25 women emulate those qualities which are rarely seen in the best possible versions of ourselves. In this decade, perhaps more than any other, we need their example; we need their leadership. Am I asking too much? You can walk into the library and find numerous titles on making a pot roast, yet few (if any) on making peace. Disturbing.

I could not find this book on eBay, too cherished to part with; nor could I find it in the used book store. I will end up buying a new copy – which will go directly to the library after I have finished reading it.

Loss of a Mother

I only know what I have experienced, and that is the love between a mother and a daughter; I do not know the love between a mother and a son, nor can I pretend to understand. This is why I feel of little use to my husband. I have met death, I have felt death in the room, I have seen what death destroys, I have seen what death fosters, I have screamed at death, I have forbid it come, I have heard death delay and I have seen it rush. Yet death does not hear me nor see me nor feel me; for this should I be thankful?
I do not know that first breaths pain inhaled after losing mother. I have not walked upon this earth without her presence; I have not awakened to the silencing of her voice. Do you hear her still small voice as you shiver under cover? Do you feel her soft cool breath as you bandage up a knee? Do you see a glimpse of her as you stand affront the mirror? Do you recognize her in your child as some distant memory?

Why?

Why the hell are children starving when the earth has provided us with so much damn food?Why aren’t we outraged? Why aren’t we feeding them? Why are we throwing food away when there is someone who needs a sandwich? Why aren’t we clothing those who need a coat for winter? Why are we allowing men to rape women with rifles and worse, why? Why are mothers losing children to shrapnel while we drive our own children to music and tap and soccer and orchestra? Why… Why… Why… do we see the atrocities and horror on TV yet we go on making dinner? Why aren’t we protecting our sisters and mothers? Why do we allow a bomb to go off in a playground full of children? The next time it may be the playground where our children play.

Van Gogh Starry Night

Anyone so fortunate as to reach the age of puberty has heard the adage ‘mile high club’, it needs no explanation. I never understood its appeal – the broom closet at home is twice as wide, and the value per square foot…what is all the hype about? Then I recognized my own reverie – quiet whispers down another hall, long leather benches, soft lights – my own mile high club – a museum, perhaps after close, maybe under Starry Night.

Vietnam

I asked my father about Vietnam. I told him that one of the few things I knew about his life was that he had gone to Vietnam. I explained to him that I used to visit the Vietnam Memorial and stand where his name would have been, thankful that I never found those letters engraved in the cold black stone, knowing that I would not be standing there if they had. I asked him how you shoot in the direction of a child. He cried. He told me that you hear a comrade shot, watch him land at your feet with his guts spilling out yet you don’t think, you move your body forward while shooting into the dark. He said the jungle is always dark. He told me that most of the men in his unit stayed numb using drugs and women, he was often sent into the villages to pull men out of huts and back into the jungle.

Strange to refer to him as father, I found myself hesitating before using his first name, yet unable to stammer out dad; I spent the week calling him none of the above, opting instead to speak face to face.

My letter to the editor

I am writing to ask for more media coverage of the genocide occurring in the Darfur region of Sudan. At least a quarter of a million people have been murdered; over two million people have been displaced from their homes; villages have been burned; thousands of women have been raped. Yet six men who die in a mine receive ongoing media coverage for weeks, when hundreds are dying daily - lives we have the resources to save. Are their lives too insignificant to receive 30 seconds on the 6 o’clock news or a 2” x 6” article in the newspaper? If I drove into the next town and murdered one individual based on the color of their skin I would probably headline Channel 5 News for a week; yet a nation killing men, women, children, fathers, sisters, brothers, mothers, because of their ethnic background, does not warrant media coverage.

Even more disturbing than the lack of media coverage is the lack of public outrage at such atrocities. We have evolved into a nation more knowledgeable about the underwear deficit of a celebrity than the national deficit of our country. We need to show concern for someone other than ourselves. The front page of CNN.com gives no mention of Darfur although it has multiple articles posted about the Emmy’s. MSN.com has photos of OJ Simpson, the Emmy awards, and a plethora of articles on everything from finance to football, yet it offers no links to the genocide in Darfur. FOXnews.com has no mention of the increasing death toll or rising number of displaced refugees; it does, however, dedicate several lines to the ongoing custody battle of a has-been music starlet.

We cannot effect change unless we have an awareness of the problem. That leaves the lives of those still living in our hands. What can we do? According to the Committee on Conscience (http://www.ushmm.org/conscience/) created by the Presidential Commission, there are five things that we can do to fight genocide. The first is to educate ourselves about genocide. Information is available at the Committee on Conscience website; if you are fortunate enough to be in Washington D.C. the Holocaust Memorial has an entire library dedicated to Darfur as well as other regions of the world where genocide has taken lives. Second, write to the media and ask for an increase in their coverage of Darfur. This includes radio, newspaper, and television. Third, contact your leaders in government, both local and national; let your elected officials know that you expect them to take action against the violence in Darfur. Fourth, make Darfur a topic of conversation; many of my friends and family believed that genocide ended with WWII. Use your voice and educate others about the importance of ending genocide. And fifth, help sustain groups and individuals who are working towards ending genocide.

We can denounce genocide with words.

We cannot save lives without action.

Megan Van Pelt

Duncan Phillips

I found my rainbows end. Whether I stumbled upon it a third of the way into life or yesterday, my footsteps carried me, desire led me. Gently moving doors of glass proffered a glimpse of the treasure waiting for me inside. Mine did not take the shape expected, no round or oval object, no golden pot or kettle. Mine was a room, a perfect room of perfect proportions – a room of Rothko’s. Rainbows are unpredictable by nature, some guide us forward while others direct us left or right. Of course all of this is dependent upon where we are standing at the time. I happened to be standing at the Dupont metro station; early autumn hues led me up Massachusetts and 21st and into the Phillips Gallery. I had been meaning to come here for years, Duncan Phillips, the museums founder, is perhaps my favorite collector, choosing works that I would choose for myself, had I been born at the right time with the right resources. Unlike so many collectors who view art as an investment, Phillips saw art as life, as history, as expression....Duncan Phillips believed in the art of creating, he lived for it, as do I.
The room - intensely saturated with color. It felt deeply intimate. Alone I sat, in the center of the room, on a bench placed there as an afterthought, at the suggestion of Rothko himself. I am alone in this part of the museum, hearing only the faint sound of footsteps in the distance. The Rothko’s are mine. My heart is full.

A few words from last week...

I have been painting more frequently. My schedule has not changed, with two exams last week and a paper due next week my time is more limited than before – seconds are lost into minutes that turn into hours with haste. Time incessantly stumbles forward, yet I uncover the occasion to paint. Perhaps it’s a matter of self-preservation; perhaps its inspiration from others who seek their passions daily (Perrie’s piano melodies, Clarissa’s travels through the pages of a book). Perhaps it is nothing more than having the materials available at my fingertips; I have acquired quite a bit of canvas and oils recently, even splurging on a roll of un-stretched canvas and a half dozen frames on their second or third life.