Men Who Stay, Men Who Run

I used to swap stories with Robin, a neighbor who stood watch with me at our kids’ bus stop. She told me about her brother-in-law, a man who’d married badly and continued to suffer the consequences. Robin said that before their divorce, Bill dreaded encounters with his wife so much that he approached coming home from work like a diver preparing to enter a shark tank. He would circle the block several times summoning the nerve to pull into his driveway. Then he’d sit in his truck for five minutes before trudging up the walk to enter the front door.

After the divorce, his wife moved away with their daughter but kept in touch via lawsuits. Even though she had a much higher paying job, she periodically got court orders forcing him to increase his child support. He had trouble meeting the mark some months as he worked seasonally in construction. His ex-wife knew this and took pleasure in forcing him toward the brink of ruin.

Robin swore that Bill had done nothing to earn the ex-wife’s unending spite. He had never strayed and had tried to accommodate her demands. Attempts to appease stoked her anger even more.

I knew another man who suffered similarly but stayed with his wife. Scorn became part of his daily life. I got the impression that he thought he deserved nothing better. He grew so accustomed to abuse that he saw his wife’s aggression as an integral part of their relationship. He wouldn’t have known what to do, how to live, if the river of torment had suddenly dried up.

I took the second man’s example as a warning. I had an opportunity to date an attractive woman. We occasionally chit-chatted, and I once gave Sarah a ride to a meeting. She spent our road time complaining bitterly about her state of affairs. I remained cordial and nodded along as she told me her troubles. I realized, as she recounted a long list of resentments, that I would eventually receive a bad mark in her books if I entered a relationship with her. I didn’t. And she soon confirmed my suspicions by scowling whenever our paths crossed. I had failed to meet obligations in a deal I’d never made.

It wasn’t always easy to spot trouble. Sometimes the worst people, regardless of gender, came wrapped in the prettiest packages. I learned to take close looks inside gift-wrapped boxes. If I saw something unexpected or disturbing, I slowly backed away and got ready to run.

Time, Relationships, and Painting

My students are working on a final project. I have them alter an old master portrait painting in five ways. They can change a proportion (give Mona Lisa a Pinocchio nose), add temporal anomalies (a jet streaking across the sky behind a Durer self-portrait), change clothing (or the background, or the hairdo), add animal features (give Mona antlers or elephant ears), add robotic elements (turn a Rembrandt self-portrait into a Star Trek Borg), or partially zombify (change the smug expression of an Anthony Van Dyck aristocrat into a more feral facial tic). I give this assignment to teach them to both honor and rebel against the anointed stars of art history: learn from the best but do not slavishly copy.

One of my students wants to do an updated version of an Artemisia Gentileschi’s “Judith and Holofernes”.

In Diana’s version, two young women attack a man lying across the hood of a car. Instead of hacking off his head with a sword, Diana’s heroine strikes her victim with a large bicycle lock. Diana is a bicyclist, a dangerous choice in Orlando, and she wants to enact symbolic revenge against the aggressive male drivers who daily threaten her life. To add an additional touch of feminist outrage to her piece, she plans to paint the background bright pink.

I talked her out of making the black and white figures in the foreground clash so harshly with the pink background. I asked her to connect the two areas by adding swatches of color to the figures too. I suggested that she add a few tonal changes to the pink area. (She rejected these possibilities.) She finally agreed to add two streetlights to the pink area to create a link between the monochrome and flat color areas.

I told her that her initial idea made an interesting statement but wouldn’t create a good piece of art. I said, “What you proposed is a high-impact stunt. The viewer will get your point immediately then walk away. I want you to make something that someone can live with for a long time, something that unfolds gradually.”

I wanted her to learn the difference between an ad and a painting. An ad communicates best in a quick, abrupt fashion. It’s a one-night stand–no commitments. A painting, if it’s any good, asks the viewer to build a relationship with it. It reveals secrets, qualities, and connections slowly.

Don’t Close the Door

I recently wrote a break-up song. It’s about the process of letting go…and revenge.

Chorus: 

Don’t close the door till you say goodbye.

If you got to go, don’t tell me why.

Sit in my chair, watch the dust drift by.

Don’t close the door till you say goodbye.

1.

You were always right.  I was seldom wrong.

Sometimes our fights dragged on and on.

Now I miss you nights.  Do you miss me days?

Memories of love vanish in the haze.

(Chorus)

2.

I can see your smile in my dreams at night.

But the vision fades in the morning light.

Thought I’d ask you back.  Almost made the call.

Footsteps echo down an empty hall.

(Chorus)

3.

Sold your favorite chair, gave away your plants.

Called up your sister—thought I’d take a chance.

Well, she’s not as pretty as you used to be.

But she’s kind and gentle, eases misery.

(Chorus)

The chords are variations on DGA. The vocal, of course, is shaky and hoarse. I’m wearing a hat to cover up a bad case of “bed head”.

The Covid19 Roller Coaster

I recently viewed a video reporting that introverts are, paradoxically, suffering more than extroverts during the pandemic. The introvert’s tendency to withdraw has actually become heightened by the forced cut-off of interaction. In normal times, encounters at work, at school, and at a store would force an introvert to engage with other people. While too much social contact tires an introvert, they still require engagement to feel normal. Extroverts are still getting their “people-fix” by using whatever means available (phone calls, zoom sessions, shouting over a back yard fence to a neighbor). Those at the far end of the extroversion scale have been ignoring the warnings. They’re going to restaurants and bars despite the risks.

I’m an introvert and am riding an emotional roller coaster right now. I feel calm and okay at times but can switch abruptly into a state of depression and anxiety. I take this up and down ride several times a day.

The dark valley. A serious movie about grief and the “In Memoriam” segments on the PBS Newshour have sent me into downward spirals. Each new report about hospitalizations and the Covid mortality count brings back reminders of near misses, of lost loved ones, of relatives and neighbors suffering slow, difficult deaths. Gray and changeable weather (tornado watch tonight!) give me an uneasy feeling that something ominous lurks just out of sight. News reports about continued post-election conflict and the floundering vaccine roll-out erode my faith in progress.

Spells of irrational anger pop up out of nowhere. Any disturbance or change in routine can set me off in the wrong direction. I often realize, even as I’m swearing at a hammer or crumpling a bad drawing, that I’m angry at something else. My overreaction to normal mishaps and minor failures is a sign of built up tension.

I sometimes long for a brief moment when I could forget about the latest CDC statistics. While watching old movies, television shows, and recorded sports events, I envy the folks sitting packed tightly in crowds. They yell, cheer, hug, shout, even rage at each other without second thoughts about the consequences of their actions. We were such lucky bastards.

The high plateau. When I hear my granddaughter attempt to say new words, watch her play and explore, my spirits lift. She’s a spark of bright potential. When I finish a painting, read something new in a book, watch Whose Line Is It Anyway?, sit close with Judy on a sofa, share a good meal with her, and work in the yard, the gloom lifts.

Positive notes. My wife, parents, a nephew (who works as a nurse) and some of my friends have gotten at least one dose of the vaccine. My brother, his wife and my brother-in-law continue to recover from their bouts with Covid. My seasonal allergy symptoms (coupled with a pinched nerve in my back), while leaving me periodically short of breath, have not developed into anything serious.

Thankful

Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.  Thessalonians 5:16-18

This teaching has always run against the grain of my family’s culture.  My mother’s relatives bluntly called things as they saw them.  If a situation was miserable, they acknowledged the misery, gritted their teeth, and moved forward.  Pollyannas drew mocking glances for their unnatural cheeriness in the face of disasters. 

To be fair, I’d also have to say that family members didn’t always march in a doom and gloom parade.  They knew how to enjoy good times.  And they counted on a few relatives, during crises, to offer the relief of humor.  Great Aunt Margaret told the best jokes right before a funeral.

I eventually discovered that the “realism” of my upbringing leaned too hard toward the negative.  Our tendency to expect the worst possible outcomes sometimes guaranteed their arrival.  And even if our presentiments were accurate, we missed out on good things while worrying about the future.  The natural gifts that life offers couldn’t be grasped by hands clenched in fear.

Time and distance gave me room to discover that good may eventually come from bad, that life isn’t set with traps for the foolish and forgetful.  Sweet moments await those paying attention to the present.  Many years ago, I had a revelation during a lunch date with my wife.  I told her, “Maybe we’re just going to be happy.” 

In the end, I think that thankfulness is based on trust.  If we trust in God’s promises, then present and anticipated difficulties no longer inspire dread.  God wraps us in love and goodness despite the suffering we experience.  Thankfulness grows from that knowledge.

I doubt, however, that radical trust in God is easily achievable for me and many others.  Ingrained early training will not suddenly move on.  It has a will of its own and won’t easily accept an eviction notice.  I think, instead, that Paul’s verses invite us to walk on a path of thanksgiving.  Our understanding will grow through the practice of rejoicing, praying and giving thanks in all circumstances.

Like any form of training, this will feel uncomfortable and unnatural at first.  Playing guitar chords for the first time seemed like an exercise in awkwardness.  Speed and fluency grew through faithful repetition.

Perhaps our practice serves as an invitation to God.  We open ourselves to wonderful possibilities as we move forward toward joy.  And God rushes eagerly to meet us.

The Slow Disconnect

Detail of an interior by the Danish painter, Vilhelm Hammershoi

I’ve noticed a reluctance lately to engage with folks outside my immediate family. After a few months of enduring the pandemic, I longed for human contact. But feelings of camaraderie and shared experience have now contracted. I feel like withdrawing further. To misquote from a “My Fair Lady” song, “I’ve grown accustomed to just a few faces.”

Looking at fellow grocery store shoppers as potential carriers of disease hasn’t helped, of course. Listening to pundits describe our nation’s divisions widens my perception of the divide. After reading a news article, I could easily assume that the guy across my backyard fence is one of those (take your pick) immoral, America hating, violent, prejudiced, degenerate ignoramuses who stubbornly refuses to agree with anything I believe.

I already had a tendency toward living like a hermit. In the past, teaching and going to church continually pulled me back into the fold. I liked the challenge of running a classroom with its attendant moments of human drama and/or conflict. Serving on church committees gave me a sense of purpose and belonging. Trying to do good for others automatically pulled me out of habitual, self-imposed lockdowns.

So, this enforced withdrawal from humankind has allowed a taste for isolation to coil itself on my heart like a cat’s claw vine wrapped around a fence post. Untangling the creepers takes time and persistence. Perhaps a daily recitation of John Donne’s, “For Whom the Bell Tolls” might encourage me to think of myself as part of the continent of human experience. The bell tolls for me.

I’ve found, however, that attempts to retrain my mind by reciting inspirational passages do not work. I think that a physical therapy model might accomplish more. Perhaps the solution to turning too far inward is to exercise my social muscles, the ones that complain the most when put to use. I don’t feel like it, but calling a friend and writing a note might work the parts of my brain that have atrophied.

My friend Mark came over today. He, my wife and I sat, widely spaced, on the front lawn under our magnolia tree. We chatted about family life, politics and our shared past. Three hours flew by. When Mark got up to leave, we noted that our get together had cheered us up and given us energy.

Steps toward recovery…We plan to meet soon at Mark’s backyard gazebo.

What Would Fred Rogers Do?

My wife and I recently watched the movie, “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood”. We expected a light-hearted profile of Mr. Rogers. Instead, we got a tense drama about a journalist, Mark Vogel, coming to terms with his past. Mr. Rogers intervenes at several points to prod and push the journalist forward. Roger’s gently quirky television persona falls away to reveal a man of deep conviction willing to respond to other people’s pain and desperate need.

Fred’s influence eventually persuades Mark to reconcile with his father, to put his family’s needs ahead of work, and to write an appreciative article about Mr. Rogers. Vogel overcomes his habitual cynicism and distrust as he puts some of Fred’s beliefs into practice. The main lesson learned is that negative feelings aren’t bad or need to be repressed. They need to be processed and released, however, before damage is done to others.

The journalist, for example, harbored a deep resentment toward his father for abandoning the family during especially trying times. Mark’s mother died in agony from cancer while her husband cheated on her and went AWOL. Dad’s dereliction of duty extended past her death: teenaged Mark and his sister had to settle financial and property matters postmortem. At the beginning of the film, the journalist punches his father at a wedding reception when Dad clumsily attempts to begin a reconciliation. At the end of the film, the journalist sits at his father’s death bed, forgives him, and tells him that he loves him.

Fred makes an appearance at a family gathering at the father’s home. Mark’s Dad lies in a hospital bed with his children, second wife, and grandson surrounding him. Fred arrives bearing a dessert. They sit and chat until an awkward silence falls. Fred clears his throat and says, “It’s hard to talk about death, but whatever is mentionable is manageable.” The process of dying becomes more bearable when imminent mortality is faced and acknowledged.

Rogers approaches the dying man near the end of his visit, bends down and whispers in Dad’s ear. Dad nods in agreement. Mark walks Fred out to his car and asks what had been whispered. Mr. Rogers says, “I told your Dad that he’s very close to God right now. I asked him to pray for me.”

Air B-N-Bwhat???

Judy and I drove to Miami to visit our daughter’s family a few days ago. We rented an air-b-n-b in Cutler Bay. The house had recently been opened by the owner for business and had an unfinished look to it. Bare, white-painted walls gave the rooms an institutional feeling. A narrow breakfast nook off the kitchen featured a long counter, two stools and no windows. Three doors, two at the end of a hall, one leading from the nook to the garage, sported warning signs. They read: Private–No Trespassing. We assumed that the owner used the rooms for storage, or that she hadn’t managed to remodel them yet.

We sat, while recovering from the five-hour trip, in a living room spartanly furnished with a floor lamp, a lumpy futon and a big screen TV. I heard distant banging noises as if someone had slammed cupboard doors shut. The muffled sounds could have come from inside the house or just next door. Was the landlady at work on one of the unfinished rooms? Judy went outside to investigate.

She came back a few minutes later to tell me that a young woman had rented the other end of the house. Judy came upon her as she bent over a text book. Spring Study Break? The two doors at the end of the hall lead to a separate apartment. Who knew? The owner had mentioned on the website that she had another apartment, but we hadn’t realized that its location coincided with ours.

We drove in the dark after supper to see Annie, Bryant and baby Ava. We came home around 8 and began to settle down for a quiet evening. I turned on a movie, but we didn’t get far into the plot. We heard a loud woman’s voice echoing down the hall from the No Trespassing rooms. The distraught, angry tones rose and fell. A man’s spoke evenly, quietly attempting to calm her down. He didn’t succeed. The intensity kept rising as the young woman yelled loudly, shrilly about the man’s shortcomings. (Most of the words were unintelligible, but the topic and target of complaint were unmistakable.) At one point, we heard her keen in a tone reminiscent of pinched air rushing out of a balloon. The keening noise appeared to shift from one location to another, the sound fading gradually then growing louder again.

I asked Judy if she knew the address of our rental in case I had to call the cops. Judy advised me to bang on their door and say, “Is everything all right?” if sounds of physical violence began. We continued to listen carefully and heard fists banging in frustration on a table (?). No cries of pain or thuds or smacks followed. The man continued to speak in a low, calm voice.

I went to use the bathroom located a few yards from the forbidden doors and heard the woman screech, “Every time we go somewhere, you do something horrible! I feel…terrible!”

The argument continued but gradually faltered. Judy and I had wondered if we would get any sleep that night, but quiet eventually reigned at the other end of the house.

The next day all seemed well with our highly dramatic neighbors. A few cupboard doors slammed. The woman spoke sharply but briefly. We heard cutlery scraping plates as they ate their lunch. A cooking odor passed beneath the one inch gaps between the bottom edges of the forbidden doors and the floor. Fried fish.

The Hate Trap

The temptation is to respond in kind to attacks, to whisper campaigns and smears. An eye for an eye, etcetera. But retaliation usually leads to escalation. Escalation leads to devastation.

When I feel the urge to react sharply to a provocation, I sometimes pause to consider possible outcomes. For example: if I tell the driver who cut me off to go (fill in the blank), will I wake up in the hospital or find myself in jail having an unfriendly chat with a police officer? The satisfaction of venting wouldn’t be worth the risk.

On the flip side, it’s stupid to ignore attacks if they require a response. But the goal of the response needs to be considered. A useful choice: make attacks stop and ensure they never happen again. A foolish choice: revenge.

Hostiles hurt others to draw them into their reality. Their mission is to make their environment a mirror image of the hell-scapes inside their heads. If I accept the terms of engagement, then I become a participant in my enemies’ dark fantasies. If I fall into the hate trap, then I become one of them.

The only response left, as far as I can tell, is to acknowledge malfeasance without attaching myself to it. If folks feel the need to curse, cheat, lie to and snub me, then let them. Their aggression is theirs. It has nothing to do with me.

I described this post to my wife, and her response (based on her intimate knowledge of my character) was, “easier said than done.”

Entering Into the Retirement Zone

I recently turned 58, and one of my birthday presents was the realization that I only have 7 or 8 more years to officially belong to the workforce.  I can continue on after that if I still feel some drive to teach and exhibit my work, so the end doesn’t have to be in sight just yet.  But the promise of an upcoming choice made me feel positively lighthearted.

And I had another realization:  my professional ambitions have largely gone unfulfilled.  I am not a tenured college professor, I’ve made nearly no impact in the world of fine art, and I’ve never earned more than chump change selling my art.  If I had known how things would turn out when I was twenty-five I might have chosen to become an accountant or a biological research technician, but I’m happily surprised to say that I’m not bitter about my choices.  I’m largely satisfied by the experiences I’ve accumulated as I made my artwork.  The sweetness of applying paint to canvas is addictive, and I’ve had 30 plus years to scratch that itch.  Teaching has been a trial at times, but helping students still satisfies me.

And it’s good to know that most accounts have been settled, that I’ve gone about as far as I’m going to go.  It’s an odd relief to accept that a final sink into oblivion is probably my natural arc.  I’ve never been a fan of suspense, of waiting for the moment when my professional fortunes would finally start breaking good.  The overwhelming evidence suggests that they never will.

I still remember how I used to torture myself when I was twenty-five about every move I made as an artist, how I questioned and doubted my abilities and potential whenever I finished a painting that didn’t turn out as well as I had hoped.  Now I know that it’s just a matter of averages.  Like a baseball hitter I’m bound to succeed and fail according to a percentage.  I’m happy when I do well but no longer hope that a streak of good work will continue indefinitely.  In my personal life I also have realized that I will inevitably screw up from time to time, and be thoughtful and kind other times.  I have fewer illusions about my ability to maintain a state of benevolence, and also know that I have a penchant for snarky cynicism.  I still feel guilty when I say or do something hurtful, but am aware that there’s another side to the ledger.

It helps of course that I’m married to a woman who accepts who I am.  The one blessing that I desperately needed when I was 25 was to find someone who saw me in my entirety and still loved me. It took another couple decades for me to figure out that she hadn’t made a self-destructive mistake by volunteering to live with me.  Now I finally can relax in the knowledge that we’ve had a mostly happy marriage and have been good for each other.

The next decade or two may consist of a long downward slide, but at least I’ve gotten some altitude (thanks to Judy) from which to descend.  To quote Edith Piaf, “No, I don’t regret anything.”