The Even Side Of The Street

Something happened this weekend on the roads between Goliad and Galveston.  I realized that after 20 years of marriage and 40 years of friendship, my husband and I don't agree on the basics.  Oh we love each other with a kind of love that just feels like we've traveled through many lifetimes together.  We are true soul mates. But ask us to agree on something like artistic vision and we will defend our separate grounds with gusto. 

 

 
 Standing in the middle of the empty road somewhere outside of Tivoli, Texas, as I was framing up a perfect shot of the sun kissed fields with my iPhone, Kev put the car in drive and started moving on down the road.  He'd had enough of my artsy ways.  I've come to expect these limitations from him.  After all, he was from the even side of the street.

 

Growing up across the street from one another, his house number was 360, mine was 363.  He was from the even side of the street.  The OTHER side of the street. One of THOSE kind. It's the fundamental difference that has divided us like an asphalt river all these years.  It's as black and white as his thinking.  The even side of the street was home to the engineers, the mathematicians, and the architects.  My odd side of the street was where all the historians and free thinkers lived. We were the preservationists, the art teachers, and the activists. 

Road trips lend credibility to the even/odd debate.  Kev prefers a map.  I prefer driving on instinct.  Kev likes Willie Nelson where I like Sublime (though one could argue these two artists are joined by their mutual affinity for weed).  Kev enjoys righting the wrongs of offensive drivers whereas I am just thankful no one caused an accident.  I will stop the car every 5 feet if the sun changes the photo composition ever so slightly.  Kev will roll down the window so I can catch the sun's changes at 80 mph.  If Kev finds a souvenir he likes, he buys it.  I will consider the price and determine I can make one myself... and then regret not buying it because I know I have 654 "things I can make" ahead of it.  You get the idea. 

Luckily we don't sweat the small stuff.  And though there are days we wonder what it would be like to find a mutual fascination somewhere between Shakespeare and the poetic voice behind Eminem's twisted lyrics, we've always enjoyed a healthy debate on even and odd.  But every now and again, we are tempted to drive off into the Texas sunset, leaving the other in the middle of the road.  But we'd always come back.  At least I would.

 

LOVE  &  SOUL MATES

Ghosts of Goliad

When I need to get away I hop in my car and drive.  Texas country roads are full of breathtaking scenery, mysterious landscapes, and sudden surprises.  Miles and miles and miles of twisty turns and straight shots from one ghost town to another.  There is so much pasture land and forgotten space in Texas that when one gets out of the car under the massive Texas sky the sound of the wind is sweet melody ripe for losing oneself.

 On a 30 mile stretch of road between Tivoli and Goliad I passed only two cars, and no one was ever in front of or behind me. I can't help but imagine I am lost in one of those "end of the world" scenarios where the population has died off  in an urban science experiment and I am left like a peaceful Mad Max roaming the countryside seeking other survivors. The falcons high in the sky swirling close to the sun add credibility as I push the petal to 80 mph.  After all, I need to get to Goliad before the Mission Espirtu Santo Zuniga and the Presidio La Bahia lock their doors for the day.

Goliad immediately joins the ranks of my top 10 Texas towns!  A key player in the War for Texas Independence, this tiny town packs volumes of history in a very short distance.  With tragic battles, a game changing massacre, and a famous hanging tree in the town square, Goliad was prime pickins for a ghostly explore. 

First stop was the Mission Espiritu Santo; a beautiful restoration of the original structure on the grounds of Goliad State Park.  A docent in Monk attire explains how the Mission was moved several times due to Indian raids before settling on the San Antonio River. 

A comprehensive museum shows the recovered artifacts and illustrates how artists replicated the works that had been destroyed by nature or locals who sourced the stones in construction of their homes.  Thanks to the WPA and progressive efforts of community leaders in the 1930's, the Mission was granted protection and preservation funds. 

 

Less than a 1/4 mile up the road is the Presidio La Bahia, an 18th century fort and Mission that became the end point for as many as 400 Texan soldiers massacred by Santa Ana's troops in the Texas War for Independence.

 Though I didn't encounter the wailing woman ghost or hear any mournfully departed cries, here I fell in love with the early Texan flags and found inspiration for a future needlework project.  Both the Mission and the Presidio were history buff bargains with the entrance price for both setting me back $7.  A small price to pay for the privilege. 

Goliad's town square is lined with picturesque shops, many named to playfully reflect the dark ghost on the courthouse lawn: the hanging tree.  After Texas won independence from Mexico, the towns were in shambles from the battles.  Looting and lawlessness abound.  The crime spree came to a sudden end with the decree that these criminals be captured and hung.  And so they were. 

I am pretty sure the "orb" is just a sun spot, but perhaps the figure in the lower left right window isn't so natural.  (Insert eerie music here.)

Like a specter itself, Goliad rises from the dead at dawn and closes back into herself at 5 p.m. Rumor has it Goliad's ghosts prefer the night. But that explore will have to wait for another day.

As evening hours settle in not a soul is seen on the streets and again I am back in my "end of the world" scenario.  Having learned what I could from Goliad, it was time for me to leave town, pack up my Mad Max Honda Element and speed on under the wide open Texas sky, to chase the sunset and find the next glimpse of civilization. 

 

LOVE  &  TOUCH HISTORY DAILY

A Karma Kinda Girl

I am a karma centered kinda girl.  I believe every action has an equal reaction and ripple effect in the world.  I have come to a place in my life where I can see where I have been, where I am going, and how karma has influenced every step of my journey.  I am a pacifist at heart. I believe in the greater good inside people, and I have honed the skills to reject negativity in my life. But it wasn't an easy road to get here.  And lately I am bothered by what karma road The Secret Project will forge.

This past week was a creative hiatus.  A self-meditating week when no Hand of Bela Peck studio work was done and all means of writing were suspended.  Just fun, low thought projects and mind cleansing thrifting.  This is how I seek clarity when questions of karma arise, waiting patiently for the universe to respond.  The Secret Project often calls karma onto the wrestling mat and I have to get tangled up in the sticky questions.  How does one create a true depiction of events that will hurt others while simultaneously trying to remain objective? What if the greater good demands the condemnation of the action of others?  And how does one tell a story and not be called a liar by the opposing side?  Is the result worth the risk?

Speaking with my project advisor yesterday, we discussed the karma question in terms of what I fear I could lose in completing the work.  There were only two things on the loss list and they turned out to be things I lost years ago.  The gain list was significant and went on through laughter, light bulb moments, and a higher hope for the greater good.  I know the potential benefits far outweigh the risk. Bravely, I will push on.

 

Creative hiatus is over.  Time to get back to work :)

 

LOVE  &  THE SECRET PROJECT

The Secret Project: An Observation

My writing has always gotten me into trouble.  Love notes intercepted in middle school, petty girl fights, party promises and late night ranting.  I just loved my pen and paper so much that I overcame the feared school counselor or the inevitable parent-teacher call.  Blah blah blabbity blah, I was in hot water...again. But despite the content, no one ever told me my ramblings were poorly written.  Guess there's something to be said for that small victory.

 Through my teen years I honed my talent to code meaning and avoid those embarrassing confrontations with authority.  I never wanted to be without my voice- or to curtail what I was saying because no one wanted to bear witness to the ugliness of adolescence.  I bought pretty books in which to put my thoughts, as if one would balance the other.  Ugly versus pretty. Truth be told my journals held all the unpleasantries of my formative years but they were contained inside pretty wrappers that looked lovely on a shelf.  Perhaps more symbolic of the real me than any vulgarity spelled out on a page.  We all have trials, things that happen to us, good and bad.  It's how we react to events that shape who we become.

I always knew I had a quirky dark side.  Most artists and writers do.  It is the give and take for talent.  I find it odd that darkness in the mature artist is celebrated, contemplated and theorized over, yet darkness in a child is not a welcome sign of a creative soul. Or is it the suffering in silence that turns a young soul into the artistic kind? As a child, I masked my trials and experiences. I coded them into all those pages with pretty covers.  Though I tried to voice them to the adults in my life, no one really wanted to hear it. But for years my codes have wanted to be revealed for what they really are: A triumphant will for survival.  No longer a secret but a story. A way to give tragedy an opportunity to heal. Not just for my own healing, but for so many others as well, artists or not. 

My writing has always gotten me into trouble.  Why should I stop now? 

LOVE  &  SECRET PROJECTS

The Artist At Rest

In a recent conversation with my artsy bestie, Ashlie Blake, aka Painting Bliss, we couldn't figure out what was up with the universal stalemate going on this summer.  We ended the spring with a bang! Published artwork, debut articles, and creative abundance.  But just like a kid mid-summer break, the doldrums have swept in!  No schedule, bad eating habits, and vacation slacking has taken it's toll.

"We are not lost and hell-bound!" We assured one another, "We are transitioning." 

 Now is the time for inaction! A self-gentle allowance to put down the work and enjoy our families, our friends, and all the silliness we put aside when we are hard at work.

 

 Time to hear the subtle changes happening around us. The deepening laughter of our children as they grow older, their nudges for independence, and our own vocal wavering as we reluctantly let them go to play a little farther from the safe shore of our arms.

Time to sleep in a bit later, take that nap, and admire the very good works of others instead of forcing our own growth.  Strong roots are not formed under duress.  And though we feel guilty if we aren't creating everyday the truth is no one, no thing, can perform 100% of the time. 

 So let us be still.  Let us listen to the universe and rest as we take it all in. After all, summer is a time of transition, marking the end of one growth spurt, and preparing for the next.

So to Ashlie, and all my dear friends, rest now.  We are not lost.  We are transcending.

 

LOVE  &  GROWTH

Twenty Years Later

It's a question most newlyweds ask themselves, half laughing, half dreaming after the vows are said and the bind is legal; "I wonder where we'll be in 20 years?" Asking and never imagining the twisty turny journey of the years ahead where the brave hold fast and a deeper love transcends expectation.

Hubby and I will spend our 20th anniversary in San Antonio, bringing our only child to her college orientation.  Texas would've been my last guess on my wedding day. Just a year prior to our wedding we had fled the great state of Texas after a failed grad school adjustment at Baylor.  It's a hard transition at 21, from liberal Boston to ultra conservative Waco back in the day of the Branch Davidians.  But here we are.  Yankees turned Texans.  With a Southern child who says y'all, loves her guns and cowboy boots. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've never not known my husband.  We grew up across the street from each other, went to the same high school, went to proms together but not as each other's date.  We went on double dates together, but not as each other's date- even though we'd be playing footsie with each other under the table.  It wasn't until one June when we were both home from college that we started seeing each other as more than just friends.  We figured it was just a summer thing, an odd curiosity, an unusual blip in our life long friendship.  But once September arrived and we returned to our separate colleges, we simply couldn't shake the idea of "us".  Four years later, we married.  My mother swore it would never last.

Twenty years seems like forever when you are 23, but as we all know it zips by with bullet speed and suddenly what was once the fodder of late night discussions is now all written in a shared history.  Looking back, it was twenty years of magical memories and grueling challenges. No matter what we faced, we always stood by each other, defended one another, and put our selfishness aside to be certain we stayed strong as parents, friends, and partners.  Marriage is hard work but yields great reward. And so on our 20th anniversary, as we sip margaritas on the River Walk, I can't help but ask my Hubby, "I wonder where we'll be in 20 years?"

 

LOVE & SOUL MATES

Summer Primitives Ahoy!

Summer is in full swing and finally my jet lag is wearing off enough for me to enjoy it!

Somewhere between the unpacking and sleepy haze of the past week I was able to finish up a few summer projects to offer on the Early Work Mercantile for July.  I've discovered dolls are so much easier to complete when they are half naked.

Sam and his clams emerged in just two days from idea to final stitches.

I have been making these starfish for years but have never offered them to the public until now.  Made of vintage linen they are pure sun bleached summer breezes.

Swing by the Early Work Mercantile to see all the fresh offerings for July 1st from the best prim artists around! Then skip over to By Your Hands to visit my shabby chic alter ego on Up-Cycle Nation Monday.

For such a sleepy girl, I sure have been busy!

LOVE  &  NAP TIME!