Making Art: a beginning

Back in the middle of August, I wrote about the struggle to get my inner artist to come out and play. I was just about to embark on a little art project that felt huge to me. I'd signed up for a Postcard Swap hosted by Karen of Chookooloonks and was both excited and petrified. I wrote:

All I know is that I'm supposed to mail out 11 hand-made postcards in two weeks. And I don't want the recipients to be disappointed. As I fretted over this a few nights ago, a poem came to me, just a few lines long, but perfect and complete. I haven't written poetry in years and was surprised by its appearance. I'm taking it as a gift that I can use to anchor my vision for the postcard. At least I have a starting point now.

I may have had a starting point, but I was still tentative (read: terrified) about this project. I'm embarrassed to admit that I didn't manage to mail out my postcards until much later than the official mail date. But I'm proud that I overcame my fear, made 11 postcards, and sent all of them. In the end, I think I probably overthought it, as I too often do. I was so worried about what others would think, about whether or not my efforts would be good enough, that I squelched my creativity and paralyzed myself.

I made a few different designs, including one collage and a watercolor sunset, but I mostly stuck with the design that involved the poem I mentioned. This was the simplest of them all, and also my favorite. I'm sheepish about sharing it, especially given how simple it is. After so much handwringing and navel gazing, I feel like I should have something grander, more complicated, or more sophisticated to show for it.

The theme of the postcard swap was "Beginnings," which turned out to be perfect. I'm really just beginning to explore the idea of making visual art. I'm more of a words person. So it's fitting that I incorporated words as the central element of the postcard.

Now, without any more stalling, here are three versions that show the evolution of the same basic design. These scans don't do the color justice, but you get the idea.

Bathroom Reading

James: I think I'm in love.

Me: You haven't seen Crate and Barrel before?

James: I've seen Crate and Barrel before, but never like this.

Me: ?

James: I'm on page 28 and I've found at least one thing on each page that I want!

The naming of cats is a difficult matter

Warning: This post is about my cats. And a moose named Eli. And a Winnie the Pooh character. But mostly about my cats. If you are a cat hater, or are just looking for something more meaningful, I invite you to read my long-winded thoughts on building community and leave me a comment there. (But if you are a cat hater, you probably won't want to be part of my circle of friends anyway. In that case, I suggest you head on over to Dooce, a more appropriate blog for your dark and twisty ways.) For those of you who are staying, please note that Nikki's post over at Candybuttons inspired this post. We've both turned into crazy cat ladies against our will and both have fathers who insist on calling our pets the "grandcat."

When Gatwick first came to live with us, he was named George. James and I did not like the name George, nor did the cat look like a George. I don't know what the shelter workers were thinking, but I figure they see a lot of cats and probably run out of good names a few times a year. You have to cut them some slack.

So we set about naming the cat. We considered Avery and Chester, both respectable cat names, if our cat was a butler in a tuxedo. I tried to rally support for Lapsang Souchong, after the smokey-flavored tea, because "George" was a smokey grey color. But my husband wouldn't have it. (He pretended he couldn't say it, butchering it to "Lapsang Singsong" and other variations.) We finally decided on Gatwick because it seemed to suit him and it reminded me of England, one of my favorite grey things.

We named the second cat before we even decided to take her. But once James started referring to her by name instead of as "the kitten," I knew it was a done deal. My family likes to pretend that her name, Cheska, is short for Francesca, but it's not. Her full name is Cheska and she's named after an imaginary alligator.

Once upon a time, before James and I were married and before we had any pets, I had stuffed animals. James has the uncanny ability to imbue any inanimate object with a multi-faceted personality. He's made me laugh at the antics of a salt shaker and nearly cry because a pillow shaped like a fish wanted to come home with us. He applied this talent to my stuffed animals, specifically an orange moose named Eli and a pastel pink and green Piglet from Winnie the Pooh. (There were also two hedgehogs who regularly performed vaudevillian skits, but they're not part of this story.)

A side note on Eli: He was one of three sherbet-colored moose(s) that once lived at Target. He had a raspberry-mauve sister and a moss-green brother. I may have carried all three of them around the store, waiting for James to turn around and see me with an armload of moose(s) and offer to take them all home. He did, but I buckled under the pressure of responsible spending and settled on just one: the orange-creamsicle moose. (I've felt guilty about leaving his siblings behind ever since.)

Eli and Piglet became great friends, despite the weird moose-pig dynamic. Piglet had been lonely and was pleased to have a new friend, especially since he hadn't seen Pooh for awhile. (I think this was when Pooh got stuck in a doorway after too much of a little smackeral.) Piglet and Eli had lots to say and do, and all of it was funneled through the magical storytelling and puppetry of James.

That's how I found out about Lars and Cheska, a married couple with whom Piglet and Eli are friends. (I'm getting back to the cats. Hold your whiskers.) The husband Lars is a frog, and his wife Cheska is an alligator. Some people have wondered at the strange relationship and even feared for little Lars' life, but they're a lovely couple. And they loved to hang out with Piglet and Eli while I was gone at work during the day.

But then one day, Lars and Cheska moved to San Francisco. Piglet and Eli were sad, but perked up when they realized that they could go visit them. Neither one had been to California before, so it was extra exciting. They're still friends today, all these years later.

(You can see why we needed to have pets or children. We weren't ready for kids. So kits it was.)

And that's how we named our second cat after an imaginary alligator who is friends with our stuffed animals. It was all James' doing. The name fit perfectly and stuck with the little kitten. But of course, like all cats, ours go by many names. They even have their own theme songs:

Gatwick the Catwick, for all your Catwick needs! Gatwick the Catwick, he does what he pleases! Gatwick the Catwick! He's the greatest Catwick!

Hey Cheska! You're a little kitty! Hey Cheska! You're so pretty. Oh my little Cheska, yes you are my kitty, yeah! (sung to a bastardized chorus of "Mambo Italiano")

But back to those names:

Gatwick is also affectionately known as:

• Gatarino
• Gatarino Wam-bam-bino
• Buddy
• Big guy
• Gatwickers
• G-W
• G-Dub
• Bucko

Cheska is also affectionately known as:

• Sweet Pea
• Sweetie Peetie
• Little one
• Cheskanator
• Cheskalator (This one has a song too: "Cheska now, Cheska later. Get on the Cheskalator!")
• Cheska Sue
• Chickie Cheska
• Frisky Fresca
• Chicklet
• Francesca or Frannie (all by members of my family)

As far as I know, Gatwick and Cheska have never met Lars and Cheska.

Wi-Fi Vibes

I am an emotional sponge. You're chipper and happy? Me too! Had a bad day and are throwing off a negative vibe? Then I'm in a foul mood, too. I know that it's normal to be impacted by the people around you. But my reaction often goes beyond the norm. I internalize others' emotions too fully and can get lost in them.

I also pick up accents and dialects without trying. I have to fight the urge to say "ya'll" with a drawl when talking to a Southerner, or sounding like Madonna when talking to the British with their "car parks" and "loos" and "tellies." I don't try to mimic them; it just happens. I try not to let it, for fear of sounding like I'm mocking the other person.

I don't know about the accent thing, but I think I've found a scientific reason for my extreme abilities as an empath: mirror neurons. These interesting creatures are thought to be at the root of human empathy and altruism. An article on Salon explains them this way:

Unlike other kinds of brain cells, such as motor neurons, which control muscles, mirror neurons fire both when a person is in action, and when he or she observes someone else engaged in the same action. Before the discovery of mirror neurons, cognitive scientists assumed that we gained access to the feelings of others by theorizing about them. Now we know that a direct experience is responsible for much of what we thought was computation, speculation, memory or inference.

There is speculation that autism may result from a breakdown or suppression of the mirror system, since people with autism are less empathic and have trouble reading the emotions of those around them. Functional MRIs show they have less mirror neuron activity, as well.

I'm wondering if I'm on the other end of the scale. Could my ability to pick up emotions like my bluetooth headset transmits my cellphone calls be a result of having highly active or an overabundance of mirror neurons?

I don't need a scientific explanation to know that I'm attuned to other people's moods. Whatever science proves, I know what is true about myself. Nonetheless, it's always interesting to connect the dots between the mind and the body.

NaNoWriMo: 2,455 Words

I'm pleased to report that since leaving the 801 word mark, Anna has managed to do more than not get on and then get on a train. Currently, 1,645 words later, she has also avoided a scam artist, looked at a Christmas tree, and met a man named Ian, who apparently sells puppets and marionettes. Who knew? (I certainly didn't when I started this madness.) Things are really starting to pick up -- if you ignore the fact that I'm 7,547 words behind schedule.