Haar - an explanation

It occurs to me that the previous post may require some explanation, especially the reason why I am so drawn to it.

Haar is a Scottish term for sea fog. Much of Scotland is close to the sea. Much of Scotland is cold and damp. The haar rolls in during most seasons, a dull whitish blanket that deadens and dampens and folds all visibility into a tight wad. Audibility, too, is lost as the haar creeps into the ears, clogging the tiny cilia that would normally vibrate to the merest of sound.

The man intoning on the website referred to in my previous post is describing the haar as it sweeps across the harbor and then inland in northeastern Scotland. His voice is as cold and chill as the fog. He speaks to me in my home tongue. I hear the bleak tones, the plain words burred by damp. He tells of a dwindling fishing fleet, of creaking boats, of seagulls vanishing into "the whiteness." The "bones of the land falling into the sea" as the lighthouse, "unmanned for a year," scours the edges of the fog, booming a solitary siren.

The chill he describes enters your bones. It silences you. It draws you into it, as surely as you are part of the earth. There is no time, no space. Only you. In the haar. Alone.

Yet in the morning, as the fog recedes in the cool sun, there arises a sparkle in the air that is energizing and enlivening. Chill solemnity is replaced with a vigor and zest for life that returns the blood to your legs and feet. The sea dances with light, the flowers shake their petals, and the blades of grass bend in the breeze.

Ah, Scotland the Brave indeed.

"Some Nights the Haar Sweeps In"

Please, please, listen to this utter bleak beauty:

http://www.thehaar.org.uk/bill/bill.html

(Make sure your sound is on.)

Perspective

This is a particular favorite of mine, especially since I work at a high school. Much preferred to some of the logos I see!

It makes the point that so much is down to perspective.

(I have been thinking about the immigrant question, mainly because of the proposed actions on Monday. I could present my immigrant point of view here, but I promised myself this would be a writing and arts blog, not a political one. Suffice it to say that I am an immigrant, and was LUCKY enough to have the education and financial wherewithal to end up as a citizen in my chosen home. Am I perceived as one of the "bad" immigrants who should not be here? Maybe. Probably not. Lucky me. But are any immigrants "bad?" Come on!! OK, I'm climbing down now.)

As writers, we deal almost wholly in perspective. The perspective of the protagonist, the antagonist, and everyone in between. More profoundly, we deal in our own. How is it that we can step successfully outside that perspective and present that of another, totally different human being? (Or other creature, depending on the genre.) That has to be the art of a great writer, no? To leave her perspective up on the shelf and proceed with the perspective of a stranger? Is that even possible? How can we do that? How can we leave behind our experiences and points of view, developed over years, and step into a brave new world of otherness?

When I was in high school, I had a rather old-fashioned creative writing teacher (Miss Fortescue - great name!) who insisted we write only of what we had experienced. I seem to remember her using Virginia Woolf as an example, and a description of, I think, a necklace. "She must have seen that necklace to be able to write about it so exquisitely." I believed that for years, and cut off what had been a busy imagination. Now I know it's bs. Yet still I struggle with that insistent little string that pulls me back - how can I write about it if I haven't experienced it? Yes, I can use my experience in imagining something similar, but am I overreaching if I step outside my own experience and create something new?

Now, here is where I step further. Say I DO write outside my experience, and beyond my perspective. How can it be beyond my perspective if it is I who is writing? Am I ever free of my own perspective?

When I got my psych degree, somehow I missed those sensation and perception classes (and I am really sorry now), but I think perspective certainly extends beyond perception. Perception is how I interpret my sensations. Perspective is my view, my outlook, what I see colored by my opinion. It is layered on top of my perception. Given the personal nature of perspective, and how it influences my thoughts (indeed how it IS my thoughts), how can I ever step outside that to create a piece of work that is compelling to others beside myself?

The Mind-Body Conundrum

I consider myself a wordsmith. I love to find the perfect turn of phrase, to coin one if necessary, to describe what I see, feel, or conceive. Yet here's the conundrum - I am also a person held tightly in the sway of my old brain, a person who reacts viscerally to even minor stimuli at times. And when I am in the midst of such a moment, an episode where my old brain holds my mind a kind of hostage, my language ability deserts me. I had such an experience earlier this evening, when I felt the abrasive fight or flight hormones coursing through my system. I tried to use verbal logic to describe it, to explain it in cogent and practical terms, and my words failed me. Thousands of years of human development, and coil upon coil of grey matter that supposedly filter the responses from the ancient white matter systems fell away, and I was speechless, processing by sensation rather than language.

What creatures we are of our bodies, of our old, reptilian brains. I can observe that now, using my words. I couldn't then.

Klimt comes to America

"I have the gift of neither the spoken nor the written word, especially if I have to say something about myself or my work. Whoever wants to know something about me -as an artist, the only notable thing- ought to look carefully at my pictures and try and see in them what I am and what I want to do." Gustav Klimt

Today I visited the five re-claimed paintings of Gustav Klimt. I was bowled over by the famous and sumptuous portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer. Golden textured work, rich and symbolic. But my favorite was the deep, secretive, and mystical "Beech Woods" I am showing here. As I looked, more and more of the painting miraculously revealed itself to me. This is a masterpiece that drew me in and in, and yet further in.

I hear the paintings may be sold. Oh, how I want this one!! The texture of his work is such that a reproduction just won't do.

What a treat this was. What a glimpse into genius and mystery and the gifts of the earth.

Picture this...

...me in a neon orange cast on my right wrist, a splint/brace on my left (that may be broken also, but I don't think so), and my elderly dog after a steroid injection left her thirsty, drinking gallons, and in need of frequent urination. She thinks outside my condo unit door is outside. It's not. It's carpeted. This last time she made it as far as the lobby, then the dam burst. Buy stocks in Bounty paper towels & Scotchguard carpet cleaner spray- their sales just shot up in SoCal.

Still, it's spring, the sun is shining, my life is opening up, and I am happy.

Beginnings

OK - just a short one - my fingers are itching to type, though I can only do it for a few minutes at a time before it starts to hurt.

I live in a condo. My windows are open. I can hear a young child sobbing and trying to talk. I can hear a mom yelling at the child. She keeps yelling. The child keeps trying to understand. I know I will be seeing that child later in my work, or at least someone just like him or her. The child will be troubled and angry. I will drop a tiny bead of salve, but it won't be enough.