Happiness

Touched by Art

I like art and art shows. Not so much the fancy ones where we wear ties and drink champagne. They’re okay, but I’m talking about the ones in tents, where the artists hawk their own creations. I’m all for galleries and museums, but kicking back while roaming through the tents in flip-flops, shorts, a tee-shirt, and ball cap, with a cold one in-hand is way more fun. There’s always plenty of unhealthy food and marginal live-music to boot. It’s a gas, both figuratively and physically.

This is where I find art that I am willing and able to buy. I have a few pieces from shows hanging in my room now. I like to talk about art. I’m an art (and rain) lover. I am not going to deny being an artist, but I want to focus on the work of others. One piece in particular – for a specific reason.

Several years ago I went to a big art show in Pensacola, Florida. It was an outdoor, wing-ding affair and a cut above others I’ve attended. Now, most people who know me might not describe me a sensitive guy. I have no idea why, but crusty old fart is more likely. They’d be wrong. In any case, comparisons with Jack Nicholson movie roles are common. I cried when old yeller died and sobbed pitifully at the movie Love Story. However, for this image, you can picture Jack if you want. In my left hand was a plastic cup containing a yellowish liquid that could’ve been extracted from the hang-down of a diabetic horse. This they passed-off as beer. In my right hand was a heart-attack-on-a-stick with mustard. It was a hot, sunny day and I wore my Pensacola Blue Wahoos baseball cap.

We walked around looking at all the stuff. I met one artist whose studio was in New Orleans and who shared my name. He did a lot of hot, multi-dimensional creations. They were kind of big or I would’ve bought one. Moving on, I approached another tent. This was an artist from Houston, Texas. He was not there, but his wife was minding the store pending his return. His beautiful paintings were hanging there – waiting for me.

As I strolled through looking at his work, one piece about 18-inches square caught my eye. I just stopped and I stared. It was a court-room scene with a young girl. Her back was to me. Gradually, a strange feeling come up from the earth. It entered and possessed me. As I became more emotional, I started to tear-up. There was nothing particularly sad about the painting. Since I still had my wits, I looked around hoping no one noticed my loss of control – how embarrassing! Geez, Bill, suck it up dude! Get a grip. It was just a painting; one of hundreds I’d looked at that day. Maybe it was the sausage or maybe the lousy beer. Perhaps I’d had too much sun. Down deep, I wondered then and for a long time afterward if I could possibly have been affected by the painting. Does that actually happen?

76876-duendeMore than a year later, I learned a new word that explains my reaction to the painting. It had never happened to me before, and has not since. The word is duende. It is a noun meaning the mysterious power of art to deeply move a person. There is a lot more to and behind this word. You can check it out for yourself by reading the wiki, if you’re curious. Apparently, artists sometimes experience this with their own work. However, if you’re familiar with this, or had a similar event happen, I would love to hear from you.

Let’s Talk

This isn’t really about politics. I promised not to do that. But, I want to share my experience with the Washington State Caucus yesterday – the process of selecting candidates for elections. Until now, I’ve lived and participated only in states where everyone votes in the primary election within a political party. It is so much easier there. You may fill out a ballot and send it in, or you can go to a polling location to vote. I recall that in Texas, anyone can vote in either primary, but not both. They stamp your voter registration card with the name of the one you voted in. My point is: when you vote in a primary, you’re done and can be fairly anonymous.

I doubt if caucusing is done the same way state to state, or even precinct to precinct. I suspect that it’s similar. The time for caucus was from 10AM until 12:30 PM. Two and a half hours to vote, but we didn’t simply vote. These folks served coffee and snacks – a sure sign that you’re going be there a while. Before I went to the caucus location, I downloaded and completed a form. When I arrived at the registration table, I was instructed to write-in the name I wanted to vote for and to sign the form.

The room was packed with almost 200 people. After finding a seat, we were told that the actual caucusing begins at 10:30, before which the lady in charge read a bunch of things I would call ‘rules of engagement’ – boring and irritating, but necessary. Since we were from two precincts, we were divided into two groups, by precinct. At start time, the other group left for a separate room. Then the lady leading the caucus asks, “Would anyone like to speak on behalf of their candidate?”

This is where I need Deacon Andy Griffin to narrate events. That’s because what some folks apparently heard was, “Would you care to tell us how wonderful the other candidate is and then follow that with ‘But!’ and then tell us why the other candidate is not as good as yours?” In some cases (no kidding now) we will be in the end times for sure, “if we do not chose to nominate who I think is the best choice.” Listening to people pander to the opposition before stating their support for their preferred candidate was entertaining, but boring. I have no idea how sincere anyone was.

There was one brouhaha, which seemed silly. There were a few yells from individuals in the crowd, but it was generally peaceful. After the talking and some arguing, we were offered the opportunity to change the ballot that we turned-in at registration. After over an hour of talking, cajoling, pandering, and yadda-yadda-yadda, not one person asked to change their original vote. As it is with politics and religion, no one changed anyone’s mind. “May we go home now?” Nope!

We needed to elect eight delegates to represent our precinct. Fourteen had to volunteer; the eight, plus six alternates. Then we had to vote because we had an extra volunteer – me. I attended the caucus with a friend and she (and I assume others) did not want one volunteer to be a delegate. So, when she saw that happening, I felt an elbow slam into my side. To which my right arm instinctively responded by raising itself. That is how I became a delegate from our precinct. I was elbow-jabbed into it.

I have to admit that while just voting in a primary is easier and less likely to get me committed to deeper political involvement, caucusing is more fun and more interesting.

Welcome

Welcome to my blog. Please join me on Our Rainy Journey. I hope you enjoy it. I plan to write about things on the journey of life that interest me. When I wonder if you may be interested as well, I shall blog about it.

I want to explain my choice of a name: I wanted pluviophile, but it was taken. Pluviolover was not—close enough. I am a pluviophile, which is a lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days. I will indeed be writing about rain and my reaction to it. I will not do that often, but if you’re curious, do look in.

Additionally, I want to write about the importance of how we feel; about happiness and laughter, the human condition, and the dark side. I want to write about love, art, pain and suffering. And I want to write about rain, walking, and doing.

I also want to write about my more current, albeit brief, experience as a writer. I believe that we are all writers, we are all in this together, and we learn from each other. Writing has been, and is, a discovery for me, inside and out.

While I consider myself to be happy, I am enigmatically intrigued by our human nature and enjoy dark poetry and exploration of the human condition, especially as it applies to the dark side of our nature.

Recently, I had the opportunity to decide where I wanted to live. I chose the Pacific Northwest, in western Washington State. I have been here about a year and I love it, so far.

I like music, rain, romance, comedy, adventure, mystery, and fantasy. Oh, and food. Second oh, and beer. I like food and beer. If there is ever a longevity study on survival rates for people who live on stout and Italian food, I plan to volunteer. Third oh, I should not forget coffee.

While politically active and opinionated, I’ll avoid talking about religion and politics. I’ve had numerous discussions and debates over the years on both topics. I can’t recall changing anyone’s mind or having my thinking altered a smidgen. I was given the gift of the opinion of others and I’ve learned from that. I appreciate the people who do write on those two topics, but I shall not contribute.

I am new to the blogosphere. I have read that posting on my blog only a time or two a week is a good start. I will do what I can. However, there is a challenge that some of my friends are tempting (daring?) me with: the A to Z Blog Challenge during the month of April. I believe I will do that. It will mean posting on my blog every day, topically assigned to a specific letter of the alphabet, in order. My theme will be all of the above. Let me see now, A is for….

Bloom Later

This little ditty I found made me think.

“I regret nothing in my life; even if the past was full of hurt…I still look back and smile. Because it made me who I am today.”

I support and encourage others to write their memoir. Other people encourage me to write mine. I should, but I haven’t. I’m thinking about it. I’m not sure how I will do that. I have to wonder, though. Would that experience get me to “look back and smile?” Would I discover what is was that “made me who I am today?”

Another meme I saw was,

“When a man dies, that particular vision of life that is his, and his alone, dies with him. Therefore, it behooves every man to tell his story, his unique vision.”

The value of such writing is ironically unselfish. Any story about me is not for me, except that in the discovery process only I would experience the memory for it what it is, and the story for what it was. It is, as perhaps all art and writing should be, for the reader and the looker. Would anyone ever ask, “What was it about him? What was he like? What did he do?”

Being born shortly after the end of the Second World War has placed me at the front of the Baby Boomer generation. For years I have lead my generation into a crowd. There were, and still are, many of us. We were there in the 1960s, enjoying the music and revolutionary attitude of the time. In the 70s we had our young adult experiences. Our children were born in the 70s and 80s and are called Generation X. In the 80s and 90s, we did our thing made the world what it was for us. Those were our career and adult growth years.

As we crossed the Y2K panic, some of us started to mellow and to wind things down. The millennial century found us touching career capstones and looking ahead to watching grandchildren grow and experiencing our own retirement. Now, tossing about age numbers from the fifties up to being septuagenarians, we remember that we have ‘been there and done that.’

Anyone of any age, but especially those of us over the age of fifty, should be thinking about writing memoir. There is bountiful assistance available through books, on line resources, ghost writers, or from friends and family. We should be writing and telling them our stories so that our unique vision lives on, long after we do.