My New Site

I've been busy working on a new website complete with a blog and a photo display case.  I appreciate your past support and patience as I have been reinventing myself online!  

Here's the link to the site:

http://www.qwerkirob.net/

Soon you can subscribe if you like, but it will also appear regularly on Facebook!

Check it out and let me know what you think.

Rob

All the Doodle Da Day

The doodles to pictured here are the images I always seem to pen when doodling; or something very similar.  I never really thought about it until the other day when I caught myself doodling while on terminal wait while calling for a real human being to talk to about an issue.  If that doesn't drive you to doodle, nothing will.

Strangely enough, I noticed as I doodled, that I always tend to doodle the same type things.  There is the "magic box" that flip-flops the part closet to you.  Sometimes I do this one with triangles.  It is just so intriguing to me that the eye gets tired and makes the image change.  Sometimes I blacken two of the squares.  It still does the flip-flop.  This is a cognitive issue that I am sure has been studied.  But for me, it is just a fun exercise.

I always draw a star.  A five pointed one. One line, criss-crossing until the star appears.  Sometimes I include a moon, a crescent moon.  I see I didn't here.  Then of course a sun.  And my suns are usually round with the rays attached.  Sometimes they aren't attached.  I imagine that is a happier doodle moment.  Then there is the strange looking dog.  Looks more like a wolf...from another planet.  But he always looks happy.  And of course a cat face.  This one seems rather moon-faced.  Usually my cat doodles have more character.  Not sure why this one looks so blank.

There are always trees and little houses.  The trees are usually pine-like, like this one, or with a thick trunk and cloud-like leaves.  I always draw an eye.  That eye always seems to need another eye.  Then a nose, an eyebrow leading down to a nose and a mouth.  This mouth pictured here is rather plain.  Sometimes I give them full lips and teeth and on rare occaisions, a tongue is sticking out.  My faces vary somewhat, but all seem to be from the same family with similar facial characteristics.  I have no idea who this family is, though.

A doodle revery would not be complete without a spiral of some kind like the one in the upper right-hand corner.  Sometimes these turn into tornados. I like drawing tornados and whirlwinds, even though I have never really seen either of those in person and would prefer not too.

I always have to practice my numbers and my lettering.  I try all sorts of styles.  Numbering and scripts are fascinating to me.  Nowadays you can get whatever font you want on your computer.  It is not the same, though, as putting pen to paper.  Of course I say that while typing on my laptop.  Convenience and speed does have its benefits.  But I still like to hand-write.  And I feel very sad that cursive writing is not being taught in many schools and soon will be like a foreign language to the coming generations.  

Until then, I will practice penning my letters and numbers the old fashioned way while waiting on the phone or just waiting for inspiration to strike.  Sometimes the hand-pen-paper connection loosens the imagination and brings out the most interesting things.  But don't get any ideas. I am not going to take these to an analyst any time soon.  I am not sure I want to know why my doodles re-occur so much, even since childhood.  Maybe habit, maybe rote learning, maybe just something comfortable that connects today with yesterday.  Who knows?  And ultimately, a doodle is a doodle....all the doodle da day.

Oh, one more thing I just noticed!  I usually doodle a daisy of sorts.  Round center, symetric petals, a long stem with ivy-like leaves.  Hmmm.  Now I am sure that having omitted that favorite has some sort of meaning....or not.  All I know is to doodle is to doodle.  And that's the truth.  Doodle that.

Shared Experiences

This picture of my faithful little companions, Ching Ching and Tater Totte, was taken a few years ago.  Every time I look at it, I remember the moment and how they seemed to be sharing a good laugh while I looked on.  They are companions if life.  They are best friends.  Inseparable.  They eat, sleep, walk, play, do everything, together.  They are the definition of what it means to have shared experiences.  They not only share their experiences, but mine, when I am with them.

Ching came first to live with me.  Not long after, Tater was found and I adopted her.  They are the best friends a man could have.  And they are best friends to each other.  That, I often find myself thinking, is what life is all about.  Shared experience.

Sure, it is good to do some things alone.  Sometimes you just gotta get away and do some thinking and ruminating.  Sometimes you need to go off to yourself and reflect on life’s many facetted aspects.  There is always something that needs examining and there are times when you can only do that alone.  But the bottom line is, sharing experiences with others is what life is all about.

Carol Burnett always sang at the end of her variety show in the ‘60s and ‘70s, “I'm so glad we had this time together, Just to have a laugh, or sing a song. Seems we just get started and before you Know it comes the time we have to say, “So long".  That really sums it up.  You could add to that, “to give a hug or shed a tear”, too.  The importance of being together, sharing life’s ups and downs, is part of what makes us human.  Dogs too.

Just for fun and sentiment, here is a link to Carol singing that song:

Carol Burnett Singing "I'm So Glad We Had This Time Together"

The Cactus Blooms

"Bloom where you're planted."
Saint Francis de Sales (1567-1622)

I was coming down from Mount Rubidoux, walking along 9th Street, when I saw this amazing cactus in full bloom in a curbside garden.  Someone had skillfully managed to make it appear that the cactus had actually split the rock in growing.  What struck me most about this plant, however, was not its staging, but its shear exhuberance.  I have seen cacti in bloom before, but this one seemed particularly awesome.  So many blooms!  The effervencent color! I just had to stand and stare a moment or two.

Then I began to wonder about this little cactus, here, in this small residential garden, just sitting there, blooming its fool head off.  It made me think.  Why aren't we just blooming idiots like this plant?  What on earth do we have to lose?  Just be happy and show the world what you've got!  Maybe it won't last, but what does?  The image of this little cactus with magenta flowers will forever last in my mind now.  It gave me such joy, not only for a moment, but for a long time to come.  It, well, it actually inspired me.

You've heard of stopping and smelling the roses.  Well, there's a heck of a lot more to observe and enjoy than just roses.  And I think I have as much to give the world as this little succulant does.  Who knows how long this guy was working up to this show?  One moment in time.  That's all it takes to last a lifetime...that's all we need, moment after moment after moment...

“All the flowers of tomorrow are in the seeds of yesterday”
Old Proverb

And Then There Were Five

And then there were five

I had just left the front porch and was at the kitchen sink when I heard the crash.  It was more like a “clack”, glass on glass as it were.  “Oh, no!” I thought, stiffening.  When I went back onto the front porch where I had been sitting ready the paper, it was not Tater up on my chair about to scarf up the unfinished leftover sandwich sitting on the table that truly dismayed me.  No, although that would have been not good because I am sure the green-fried tomato and ham grilled ham sandwich from Appleby’s would surely have upset her tummy; no, that was not was made my heart sink.  As I ran out to the porch, I saw was had happened.

I should have known better than to leave the glass unattended as windy as it had gotten outside.  It was the still half-full glass of iced tea (see, I am an optimist!) I had left on the table to go into the kitchen to do, what, I cannot recall now.  Anyway, a gust of wind had somehow managed to lift up the folded paper bag that the LA Times had inserted into my Sunday newspaper with the promotion from Officemax offering to give you 20% off of whatever you could stuff into the bag on your next shopping trip there.  I had put it aside thinking that maybe this time, (even then, knowing I probably wouldn’t), actually take advantage of the offer.

The wind had flipped the bag over, the bag then landing on the half-full glass, knocking it over onto the table surface sending the contents flowing onto the cement floor of the porch.  The glass lay on its side, empty.

For a brief moment I thought it was okay.  It did not look broken.  I picked it up to examine it.  It looked okay at first.  I thought, no harm, no foul, don’t do that again.  But then my heart sank.  I saw the crack.  Then two cracks.  I knew it was a goner.  The day had come for the set of glasses to begin their eventual trek to the land of broken glasses.

These glasses were a set of six (now five) that my great aunt had bought in the 1980’s at Fedco.  Now that may not mean much to most folks, but to me, they were always a heartwarming memory of both my aunt and of Fedco.  We often went shopping together at Fedco. She had been a member since it had opened.  I joined soon after moving to California almost forty years ago.  I remember auntie buying those glasses to replace, what else, another set of glasses that had one by one met there demise.  It seems to be the fate of daily-use glasses to one by one meet their doom.  Smashing on the bottom of the sink, slipping from your hand and dropping to the floor or just giving up the ghost one day for no apparent reason and shattering.  Five glasses remind you of the missing one.  Four become a set again.  Then three, how odd they seem, two, who would have a set of two?  And finally one lonely glass that sits forlorn on the shelf missing its mates.

I know it is rather strange make such a fuss over a broken glass.  Much like spilled milk, there is little use in crying.  But even knowing the day would finally come, it is difficult not to regret not being more careful.  If I had only taken the glass with me, out of harm’s way.  There would still be a full set on the shelf with their heartwarming connection to the past.

My aunt died in 1997.  She had lived to see the demise of Fedco and the death of Princess Di, two of her favorite things in the world.  I am not sure she would have been that concerned about the breaking of this glass.  But somehow it means a little more to me.  So few things in life last for as long as we would like.  A broken glass is a broken glass.  Nothing more.  Or so they would have you believe, those who do not attach much sentiment to things like glasses used every day.

Shining Through

I looked up from the hammock and saw the sun shining through my sycamore tree.  It was one of those epiphany moments in my life.  I was getting back to what was my truth, my personal vision of how my life should be.  No, it was not that I saw myself lying in the hammock lazily reading a book with my dog companions Tater Tot at my side and Ching Ching between my legs asleep.  Although that is indeed close to a halcyon existence, that is not what I realized in that moment.

I realized that I had dominion over my emotions.  I could choose to feel abandoned or less-than or I could move along and know, as a good friend told me yesterday, it is not all about me, not about me at all.  Some things, some people, some situations just are.

I had bristled at the thought that he thought I thought it was all about me.  (Love that sentence!) Of course I didn’t think that.  I am not the center of the universe.  I learned that a long time ago.  But then it hit me went he went on to say I had been sounding a bit like Winnie the Pooh’s Eeyore.

"Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party."
"Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it."

At first I thought I brayed like a donkey, but then I realized he meant I was sounding a bit down, a trace depressed, and just a dash too sorry for myself.  Oh, how the truth can sting!  But instantly I knew that was not what I intended to show at all!  I just wanted some validation for what I was feeling.  And for some reason, his comment validated it.  Not sure what part, but, really, when someone calls you an “Eeyore”, you pay attention.

This past month I have been looking inward.  It has been a time of introspection and reflection.  I knew something was off, but I wasn’t sure what it was.  I wrote morning pages, I took long walks.  I went to town and to sea, to the mountain and to the mall.  I looked high and low.  I read a book, the newspaper and Facebook.  And finally I just laid back, let go, and looked up.  That was all I needed to do all along.  And now things are indeed looking up.  Its okay to get into your inner blue donkey now and then, but it is not okay to stay there.

As Winnie the Pooh so aptly said, “You can't stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.”

Morning Pages

Three pages.  Every morning.   Handwritten.  Uncensored.  Whatever pops into your head.  This is an exercise that comes from Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way.  I have to say when I first learned about this exercise, I was rather doubtful; doubtful I would have the perseverance and discipline to stick to it.  And I have to admit, I have not always succeeded; but ultimately, overall,  I have not failed.  The one thing I have found is, when I do it, the clarity of thought and times of creativity to seem to come more frequently.

Cameron recommends that you set your clock to get up about half an hour earlier and go right to doing the pages.  I did this for some time, before I even got out of bed.  But after a few months of not doing them, on the first of this month,  I started doing them again.  This time I did them after I got out of bed, fed the hungry dogs and cat, sometimes walked the dogs, sometimes did a few chores first, etc.  The most important thing, though, is to do them.  I am sure this is some of my proclivity to rationalize things, but I also believe we all have our own personal rhythms and this fits into mine.

So I do it.  I sit down at the dining room table with my spiral notebook and begin to write.  No TV, no radio and the dogs seem to have learned that they need to entertain themselves or take a nap while I tap into the stream of consciousness of my mind.  And the stream does flow.

I rant.  I rave.  I write what the little voice and the inner critic have to say.  I dialogue with them.  I have gotten reacquainted with them.  They are life-long friends.  Their mission is to keep me safe and keep me honest.  I have come to understand this and sometimes I have to tell the critic to be quiet.  Yes, I appreciate his input, but he is not always right.  But it is good to know what he thinks.  The inner voice is usually more in tune with what is going on with me.  He usually knows the answers.  I just need to ask the questions, be quiet, and listen.

If this sounds a bit schizophrenic, well, I don’t think so.  I do know these voices I hear are me, hashing it out.  I know, like you most likely,  I tend not to hear what these inner voices are saying when we get caught up in the activities of daily living.  The morning pages have helped me focus more.  It is remarkable the “coincidences” I experience when things happen during the day that echo what was expressed on the page that morning.  The awareness of what the universe is revealing is astonishing.

And as you might note, I am writing again.  Baby steps.  Getting back on track.  Little exercises like the morning pages work.  Whatever it takes.  Morning pages or some other discipline to get in touch with your inner self.  It may take time.  It may seem onerous at times.  But the perseverance pays off.  Even when you don’t feel like it, just forging ahead and doing it anyway helps.  And that is what those morning pages are all about.  Ultimately I have come to learn I can listen to my inner critic, thank him or her, and then move on.  Even an critic can be a friend.