Out with the Old

Hipsters! Consider yourselves served. I would like it to be known... I picked up my new glasses this week. (These spectacles are reminiscent of my glasses from 1993.) The fact that I have these glasses is the sign for all Trenders to move on to the next big thing. It's like when the crocuses pop up as the first sign of spring.

I find I often come to trends on the tail end or well past the trend arc. I was the next-to-the-last person to get a cell phone. (The last person was my brother-in-law.) I only caved in to the cell phone thing when my car broke down in the fall of 1990 and I was 40 miles away from everyone I knew. It was freezing and I had a parakeet in the car. A nice man stopped and asked if I needed a ride and I said "no, but can you call my husband from your cell phone?" That was a little pathetic. Nice man called. Husband rescued me. The bird lived.

To prove my theory, witness my recent discovery of flaxseed.  I just started using it and I found out a few days later that flaxseed is out and chia seeds are in. (I know, flaxseed has been around for a few years but see, this is what this post is about. Me discovering things later. Like The Police. I found them after they split up and I decided I liked Sting anyway...a very controversial statement.)

Def Leppard acquired from Pinterest.

It's like when Madonna ran around in leggings under her underwear and Def Leppard wore messed up jeans. Underwear is something I still believe should be hidden which would explain the lyrics "like a virgin..." and I didn't get into the ripped jeans until mine wore out and they became fashionable... a little late. Always a step or two behind, sometimes never catching up.

I got into leggings but I didn't buy them until everyone moved on to high-waisted jeans and all the leggings went on sale and then I couldn't get enough. I had leggings in all kinds of colors and matchy-matchy tops to go with them... not realizing that I wasn't old enough to wear matchy-matchy. I figure in 20 years I can go matchy with any color of my choice. Diane Keaton did it with black and I am going to do it with pink or maybe lavender. I haven't decided. I might mix them up. That will be a perk I am going to embrace.

There is only one time I remember getting the jump on the trend. I had the cool specs first and that was right before Sarah Palin hit the scene with interesting glasses. My glasses. Finally, for once I had them first but all I heard was "oh, you got Sarah Palin glasses." NO. Sarah Palin got Darcy Cline glasses... and I can see Mt. Rainier from my house. Really. If you press your face up against the front living room window you can see a snowy slope through the trees.

My first pair of bifocals, the Darcy Cline glasses, required some practice to get used to the dual planes. Right after I got my new prescription, I fell down the last three stairs landing on the concrete on my knees. That hurt. I didn't see them because I was looking through the reading lens. I became a little paranoid after several incidences where I almost fell while looking through the wrong lens of my bifocals. (So if you see me clutching the stair rail, its due to fear of smashing my knees... or breaking my neck.)

I like to think of myself as a person who doesn't jump right into the latest fad. My boss made an assessment of my situation. "You're not a Hipster," she said. "You're like a reverse Hipster." Yes I am a Retspih. (The 'h' is silent) 

Aside from the Darcy Cline Glasses incident, I generally stay behind the curve and most trends that I end up with have cycled through everyone I know.

Barbara Streisand & Robert
Redford in The Way We Were.
Rastar/Columbia Pictures

NO wait. In 8th grade, I liked Robert Redford in The Way We Were. All my friends thought he was ancient. (Now, that gets funnier as I get older.) He has gone on to be an advocate for environmentalism, Native American rights and the arts.

I also fell in love with Barbara Streisand. None of my friends caught that trend because they were all into The Jackson 5, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Bachman Turner Overdrive, and Elton John. I listened to those musicians as well and some have remained my all-time favorites, but Barbara Streisand has a voice that wouldn't quit and I loved it that she kept her unique look and sound when the pressure to change must have been pretty great. Yep, I am still a fan.

My new glasses lead a line of old
specs slated for the Lions Club
Donation box.

Back to the seed that grew this Out with the Old post; the important feature of my new glasses is that when I wear them, I can see very well. I don't have to ask my classmates to tell me what the words are on the projector screen during lectures. I can read them for myself. I don't have to find that perfect two-inch depth margin where I can read clearly... thanks to my new bifocals, and most notable is I will not mistake caution signs for busses. (That one was for my kids.)

I love my new glasses in the same way I loved my 1990's glasses and I relish the end of this latest fad when I will be able to walk through a crowd and not recognize my style on anyone else. That's when I will be an original again.

Think of me as the "Jumping the Shark" of trends gal. When I get around to it, its already gone. So Hipsters, what next?

Nothing New?

During my time at Pierce College, I have had many opportunities to learn new things, radical ideas, interesting concepts. I say to myself "well, yes... college is like that." But I have been to college before and this learning thing is nothing new.

After 52 years of living I have a pretty good grip on who I am and where I fall in the societal scheme of my world. I am a product of a teen marriage. My divorced parents are decendents of mixed European races: Danish, German, Irish with a bit of Native American thrown in. I have two siblings; We grew up low to middle income. Pretty ordinary for an average American.

When a learning opportunity presented itself, I jumped on it. I'm not going to lie, the idea of spending two nights in a hotel and having all meals prepared... throw in a little live entertainment... of course I am ready to learn something new.

Along comes the Students of Color Conference(SoCC) in Yakima. Yes. I applied and was accepted and I was ready to have a fun-filled weekend. I expected the performances and I knew I was in for some interesting workshops about race, equality and diversity.

First on the agenda: White Race Identity Caucus. "Who am I?" as Jean Valjean sings "24601."

I had no idea.

I felt like we were going to be asked to stand up and say "Hello. My name is Darcy and I am a white racist."

I had no idea that because of the color of my skin, I am a racist.

I wanted to argue, "but I'm not a racist!" I am not.

But I am white.

And with my white skin, comes privilege that no other groups can claim. Yay me. I win.

Why didn't this feel like a win? I don't want privilege simply because I was born of white European decendants. Thats not fair. And it for sure doesn't say anything about my talents or brainpower... or anyone else's. I want fair. (I can talk about fair later.)

There was a moment of silence in that room where we all tried to absorb this concept. I did not like it at all. This concept argued in my head. "I try to be the same to everyone... but my skin color makes it different."  It doesn't matter how much I want it to be otherwise, it colors every interaction I have with people every day.

Now that is a learning moment, isn't it? My skin color makes me different. After 52 years I have just now felt for a moment what it was like to be judged by the color of my skin. (A moment can't really give me a true understanding of what it is like to be on guard all the time, but it helps put a little, tiny check mark in my experience tab.)

This concept was presented to me on our first night when we were all asked to select an identity group. I selected white because that is what I am... although I have liked that I have Native American heritage and have read about different tribes and watched documentaries, I know this does not make me a Native American nor an expert. And also I didn't claim this identity because I have not taken the time to research my father's grandmother's lineage. So, white I shall be.

The important lessons for me were to really look at the advantages I am given and haven't even thought about the fact that I have them. I have power and privilege and because of that, I have a voice that is not silenced by oppression. I can walk into my child's school and demand things that will be given because it came from me. I can get upset and angry in public and it will be a sign of my passion for what I believe. A woman of color must not show passion or it is interpreted as a "race thing" and she runs the risk of losing the attention of the policy-makers, the administration, the people in power. She has to be so much better at public relations than I.

A person of color runs the risk of losing ground every day. Every new day brings the same battle, the same hidden traps and the same pitfalls.

Here is where fair comes in: I learned the difference between equality and equity. Equality is when everyone gets the same thing, but equity is when everyone gets what they need. We all have different needs so equality isn't really equitable... it's a new and interesting concept for me, and I like it. I was reminded to look at the meaning of oppressive terms and think about who is the minority and what does that mean? I am a minority and yet we still call the greater population of people of color "the minority."

The list goes on. The topics I listed were a small drop in the larger pond of issues I had skipped merrily by in my ignorance until the White Race Identity Group Caucus "kicked me in the teeth," as one of my fellow White Caucus attendees stated so eloquently.

I remember the feeling of terrible loneliness as I left that room and stepped out into the hallway. As I made my escape, I ran into an incredibly nice young man from our group. I said "how was your identity meeting?"

He was so happy and excited, he was practically vibrating with joy. "I love it! I am so excited about my culture and my people! This is the best conference ever!"

I was genuinely happy for him. That is how it should be for him. I was also sad for the white students who were in my group. There was no joyful celebration of identity for the minority.

Our somber group dispersed into the hallway packed with people laughing and cheering. I couldn't even begin to identify with the explosion of excitement and anticipation. I wasn't excited. I was bummed, actually. I wanted to be somewhere safe so I turned away from the crowds and made a dash for the doors where the Yakima wind was blowing fresh and clean.

I went straight to my hotel room and when I got there, I felt even lonelier than I did at the Students of Color Conference. I sat down and cried.

Then that got old very quickly so I quit being a baby, made some coffee and went to the next session and learned more.

And then the next... and the next... and the next and learned.

What I learned at SoCC was really quite profound. I need a few more years of constant study to understand the whole concept of power and privilege and oppression. And even then I may not know everything I need to know.

Every speaker, dancer, storyteller, and presenter was motivational and profound.

I can't really explain how moving the experience was. I have more to learn, certainly. Given an opportunity to go to the conference again, I would take it, for sure. I want to make sure I convey the idea that this is a journey begun. I am not the flag-waving proclaimer running through the streets. I am not out there in that way.

What I hope to do in my life is interrupt oppression in the way that I can do it and to do it... every day. I know there are little injustices that happen minute by minute and my goal is to not tolerate it. The kicker here is that I may not recognize oppression. I know its tricky but I am going to try... do not listen to Yoda. There is TRY. If we keep trying, we will get it right.

In one of the sessions I attended on Sisterhood, I was sitting there in a roomful of women when the speaker dropped a bomb.

"Thank you all for coming. Men, thank you for being here to support women. You are not allowed to speak. You may listen." She took a breath then continued, "White women, thank you for coming. You may not speak, but you may listen."

I was shocked and hurt. I remember a moment a few years ago when I was helping at an event where a musician performed for a small group. After the music ended, we were all talking and when I spoke, the Privileged White Male singer said "stop talking." It was awkward and embarrassing.

I have never been in a similar situation like that again... until SoCC. But this time it was different. I was handed an opportunity to learn. To see what being stifled feels like. To know that I could speak... but that I wasn't welcome to speak. For that two-hour period I was not allowed to participate because of the color of my skin.

That was powerful.

My Mexico

I know it has been a bit since I last posted, but finals are over and that brings a close to this difficult quarter. I have one more quarter to go and then I am officially graduated. Whew! Why does it seem harder this time around? A question for another time. I hope you enjoy my latest post. Thanks for reading.

Recently, my boss asked "where were you born and where do you call home?"  I was born in Ukiah, California but I believe home is where my family is, so for me, it's true to say home is where the heart is. This answer is always true.

There are times I have an additional answer to this question. La Gloria. La Gloria is a small town near Tijuana, Mexico tucked into the dusty yellow hills 20 minutes outside Rosarito, close enough to the pacific ocean to smell the salt and seaweed scented breezes. Cool mornings touched by fog are the relief as the sun climbs high and the temperature soars, scorching in its intensity, .  I love it. I have been to La Gloria 16 times over the course of 9 years. For two weeks every summer, La Gloria was home.

It all began with an uneventful Sunday morning. My oldest daughter, Courtney and I were sitting in the crowd of parishioners.  I know I was not really paying attention.  I was busy thinking of all that needed doing. The laundry, finishing up school shopping, getting a plan for the coming holidays... I admit, I wasn't using my God-given time wisely.

Sometimes the homilies speak directly to me and I pay full attention because there is a bit of wisdom tucked away in each of those carefully written talks.  At the time, it was Father Gary speaking and at the end of mass, he didn't release us.  "Please be seated. Eileen is here to talk about her recent mission experience in Mexico."

United States vs. Mexico

I imagined a collective groan from the room full of Catholics who had done their time, ready to move on. Courtney and I sat and listened.

Eileen talked about serving our young people by being involved in the Esperanza program at Holy Disciples. She talked about experiencing the challenge of helping people build a better life. She talked about the grassroots program that empowers people to work towards the common goal of a close-knit thriving community. Low interest loans, payback programs, community involvement... and she talked about Mexico. It was interesting.

I was in my early forties and I began thinking about how I had always wanted to travel, join the Peace Corps and make a difference in the world. I didn't grow up in a household that worried about what was happening outside of our own country or even beyond our neighborhood, so I was easily discouraged from this yearning. I went down a different path instead.  That all turned out good but I couldn't quiet the travel bug.

So when Eileen talked, I listened and thought "I could do this. I could finally go somewhere." Yes, travel was the bait.

The Neighborhood built on a dump site. This picture was
taken from the clinic that was built to help the community
resolve their many illnesses due to toxins from the refuse.

I looked at Courtney and she looked at me and we said "lets do that."  So we did.

It turned out to be more than an opportunity to travel. It became a calling.

My first trip in 2002, in which I was a chaperone was so profound, it was beyond explanation. The entire experience was rich in culture and struggle. I couldn't get enough of the scenery and the people. I found a sad beauty in the blue tarp communities and took hundreds of photos. I loved the families we met and learned to communicate with very little Spanish... and there was the hard work, the extreme heat and limited conveniences. It was all very interesting.


It felt so good for me to do this... I was part of something important and our first family was wary of us, having had a previous group that didn't talk to their children, complained about the food the family served and made the construction crew wait in the car while they ate lunch at a McDonalds.

We won them over, though. Before long the kids were singing songs with our group and we were exchanging recipes in the kitchen...  and fixing up their house... it was just like home.

I think the Esperanza International program is a smart, grassroots program to
teach communities how to care about their surroundings. The families accepted into the program must hold jobs to pay back very low interest loans on a cinder block space that can be added onto in later years. Unlike the wood structures, cinder block homes do not catch on fire or get washed down the hillsides.  The 2-3 foot foundations keep them firmly in place. They are also very good in the heat, providing much needed shade in 100+ temperatures.

The program is built on the theory that friends within a community will work together to make it a better place and want to stay.  Each family can be on the waiting list for a home for two years. During those two years, they help and support other families while their homes are being built. When it is their turn, the people they have helped, then help them. It is a "pay it forward" philosophy. http://www.esperanzaint.org/

The work was long and hard and tiring but what I enjoyed most was learning about their lives. This always happened with the moms in the kitchen, usually a room made of parts found in the junkyard: a garage door, old lumber, barrels, and roofing materials housing a cook-top electric stove powered by wires crawling across the lot to be joined with other wires in the street that ran down the side of the road to the nearest working utility pole.

The progression of the foundation.

When water ran down the street, I could see the sparks snapping as children ran around and jumped the wires as they played. I remember one volunteer could not get past the U.S. code violations: "They would never do this in the U.S."

He didn't love the experience, which I think is fine. Some people like to get down into the trenches and work till they drop when natural disasters devastate a town, community or region. Some like to go on managed missions to make a difference. Other people like to send money. All of this is good.

Ladies of the community preparing food for the workers.

One of my favorite memories of the kitchen talks, was when I sat and listened to a mom talk about her challenges to use holistic methods of dealing with her family's health. It was like being hit over the head. The daily life in the ever expanding edges of Tijuana is so difficult that I never considered there would be time to study alternative lifestyle choices and yet this mom was totally motivated and excited about this. She expanded my narrow thinking.

Lunchbreak.

My family and I have spent many summers traveling to Mexico through the Esperanza International mission program. this was something we looked forward to every year. I couldn't wait to go back... year after year. I loved every minute of the experience. I loved working with the youth of our church as each person changed and grew in one way or another. I loved meeting the families and hearing their stories... watching the children get to know each of us... helping in the kitchen... building.

I miss it.

Loving Life

So here we are at the end of time.... again. I am writing this blog post in anticipation of the end of the world: December 21, 2012.

In my lifetime I have survived three official "End of Time" events and I am sure, many unofficial calls that I obviously didn't pay much attention to until last year when a man (Harold Camping?) predicted the end May 22, 2011, but the end failed to appear. This was his second such prediction. I feel sad that he isn't very good at predicting and hope he secures other work, and yet find myself quite happy he was wrong.

This predicting of the end of the world must be a lot like the housing market; just when you think it can't go any lower... boom, there it is. Another end of the world.

As I mentioned earlier, I have survived three doomsdays, hopefully four after the 21st, and feel the need to talk about these false starts or more accurately, false stops stopping.

March 10, 1982 - The Jupiter Effect

I must admit, at the time this prediction came to light, I was busy being a newlywed and a college student and I remember being horribly uninformed while I attended college. Once on a visit home, we heard Gerard's younger brother talking about a war going on and we both said "what war?" We had no idea Argentina and England were warring over the Falkland Islands for 74 days. After that embarrassing incident, I became addicted to CNN Headline News.

On March 10th, my husband and I celebrated our 5 month anniversary (we didn't really celebrate our monthly anniversaries because we were busy getting an education ;). Anyway... The Jupiter Effect is the rare instance when all the planets end up on the same side of the sun. This event would then cause catastrophic natural disasters which would put an end to all the goings on here on earth.

The Falklands Conflict began on Friday, April 2, 1982. I don't know for sure but maybe someone was feeling a little pissy about selling his Grateful Dead collectibles so he could go on a drinking binge to drown out the end and woke up April 1st feeling like a fool. This might get him to thinking, "I'm going to get the Falklands back!" Like the end of the world, wars don't always make sense.

January 1, 2000 - Y2k

Yes, I ask myself this question often. Why K2? And then I remember that was the name for the ski company on Vashon Island and I go to wondering how many people commute on the ferry from the Seattle area to Vashon...  and are they still in business... and are there skiing opportunities on K2... Hi. My name is Darcy Cline and I am a research addict. I LOVE RESEARCH!

Okay, settle, settle. Y2k was a dumb theory that when all the clocks turned over to 2000, it would all go wrong because the sad guy setting up computer time blah blah blah was working under a little black cloud and didn't see a future, so he set all the timers to end at 1999. (I didn't research this, but I think it went just like I said.)

So everyone, (scientists and everybody with math like calculus and triggermonetary believed this?) expected that stuff would blow up and the world would end like one giant New Years Eve celebration gone awry, where Dick Clark's famous ball falls off and rolls around Times Square killing all people everywhere. I should write horror.

Nothing happened. Moving on... (85% of the 200 employees commuted from Seattle area, K2 moved manufacturing from Vashon Island to China in 2001, closest ski resort is 175 miles away from K2)

June 6, 2006 - The Antichrist Returns

Now the return of the Antichrist is something to fear. I know this. Two months ago I renewed my AAA membership and the representative issued me a number that had 666 in the middle of it and I thought that was just asking for roadside disasters. I asked if we could renew with our old membership number and she assured me I had to make due with the new evil number. (AAA, 666 - this is just asking for bad juju.)

A week later the cards show up and I refused to hand them to my kids and say "happy driving... oh, and beware the Antichrist!" I put them all back in the envelope and let them sit on the counter while I stewed about the evil number. A day or so later, a representative from AAA called and asked how our service was upon renewal. She was an angel, I tell you.  I explained my misgivings over the stupid number on the card and she was the all-helpful, smile-voiced angel of mercy who eliminated the evil number and reinstated our old membership with a flap of her snowy white wings. Good wins out over evil.

Having just said that, I can't remember this date coming or going. That could be due to the fact that during that time I was anemic and can't remember many things because my blood wasn't strong enough to send oxygen to my brain. George W. Bush was president then... it's best we put this behind us.

Well, here I am at the almost end. We have one more end of time prediction to contemplate. (Yes, I couldn't resist publishing this on 12/12/12 at 12:12 am. I am still here for those who thought it would happen now.)

December 21, 2012 - End of the Mayan Calendar

A Beautiful Mayan Calendar - I might have ended time way
sooner than the Mayans if I had to draw up one of these.

I have less faith in this prediction simply because an ancient culture failed to buy a new calendar for the next 5000 years. Yes, I do believe it was lack of foresight on their part but we have to consider they might not have known what they were doing, hence their mysterious cultural and environmental collapse around AD 900-ish.

Granted, we haven't lived through this new and current end, but I have faith and hope that we will be running around from December 22nd to the 24th, cursing the doomsayers, buying all those gifts we didn't buy when Christmas was getting hijacked by the hourglass, and overjoyed at finally having a valid reason for postponing the shopping.

I am happy to report, we have all our Christmas shopping done for the first time in... probably ever and we paid cash for everything. GO US! I still have gifts to make and that cannot be postponed. The future is coming and I am looking forward to celebrating the holidays with my family as I wish hope and joy to  all of you to experience each day as the world continues to spin.

Peace.

My Calendar Design for Winter Quarter - Simple

P.S. 3797 is suspected as being another end of time date and I really don't have much interest in this date since I plan on living less than 150 years... that gives me about 98 years which would put me in La La Land or 2110, which is probably a number freak's next special date.

Nostradamus has predicted many things and is known as a prophet and philosopher. His prophecies stop abruptly at 3797. Well now that could mean many things... (If I stop chewing gum... does that signify I stopped abruptly or with great meaning?) I suspect it was a bit like the Mayan calendar... maybe he retired to write romance novels and knit scarves... just saying.



If you are interested in more research, here is an interesting website that has listed the most number of End Predictions I have seen. Get past the bad graphics and see a load of information that is very interesting, indeed: http://www.bible.ca/pre-date-setters.htm.

Please take a moment to read Joanne's story in my previous post, A Kinder Kidney.

A Kinder Kidney

I wonder what it would be like to wait for someone to die, so I could live.  And to possess the knowledge that someone else waiting on the list, was also wishing, holding their breath... and in a better place in line. I could see this battle waging in my head in which I let slip a little thought or prayer to God or the Universe that the person ahead of me not make a good match. The idea that wishing for someone's misfortune, even for a split second, when I finally pay off a college loan, or after reaching a goal, or maybe while I am playing with a future grandchild and I send off a great need and yearning to be spared so I would have a chance to see this child grow, would cause a mountain of guilt in me.

My mom's best friend, Joanne, lives with this uncertainty every day. She has been on a kidney transplant waiting list for 3 years. She tells me "the wait can take up to six years... if you are lucky enough to survive until then."

Joanne's friends and family are working hard to bring awareness about becoming a live donor, because the transplant list is long and odds of surviving a transplant are higher with a live donor kidney, as opposed to waiting for a deceased donor organ.  I think most people might associate the phrase 'organ donation' with organs from someone who has just passed away. I know I did.

I have been an organ donor since I realized I could make that choice in the event of my untimely death. I have the little heart on my driver's license. I like having it there, but it wasn't the department of licensing that made me aware of that option. It was my friend and coworker.

Ruth was the first person I had ever met who was on the kidney donor registry, as a live donor. She had no family members that needed a kidney. A friend hadn't convinced her to do it. She just did it because she wanted to help someone live. I think this the best gift... the unconditional gift of life.

And because I love statistics and research, I did a little digging:

According to the National Kidney Foundation (NKF) 

as of August 31, 2012:

There are currently 115,193 people waiting for lifesaving organ transplants in the U.S.
Of these, 93,148 await kidney transplants.

Last year, 16,812 kidney transplants took place in the U.S. Of these, 11,043 kidney transplants came from deceased donors and 5,769 came from living donors.

Joanne Prokop 2010

        My mom's friend Joanne Prokop has Polycystic Kidney Disease (PKD). She was diagnosed with PKD at the age of 30, after the birth of her third child. She was having trouble controlling her blood pressure so her doctor ordered an ultrasound, which confirmed the diagnosis.

At that time, her doctor advised living a healthy life. Joanne complied, taking medication and following the doctor's advice, managing her illness, but she has been unable to stop the progression of the disease.

Despite her commitment to healthy living, Joanne has progressed into stage 4 kidney disease.  Her kidneys are no longer functioning properly and are estimated to weigh about 20 pounds each.

"A normal kidney is the size of a human fist and weighs about a third of a pound. However, with the presence of PKD, cysts develop in both kidneys. When many cysts develop, the kidneys can increase in both size and weight, sometimes weighing many pounds each.  There may be just a few cysts or many, and the cysts may range in size from a pinhead to the size of a grapefruit." - PKD Foundation.

At 54 years of age, her disease is catching up with her, which is why she is eager to get the information out to as many people as possible, because as more donors step forward, more lives will be saved.

I am sure there are hundreds of thousands of family and friends of the people on the transplant waiting list that feel the same way I do. They want their loved ones to live.

Joanne is a wonderful person and I know I don't want to think of what life would be like without her, but we can't help worry.

In writing this post, I don't expect everyone to jump up and come to the rescue... although that would be nice. I feel compelled to do something. I can't donate my kidney because of health issues, but I can write a blog and put a thought out there and bring more awareness to live organ donation.

While talking to my best friend about this, she informed me that she and her daughter were talking about my upcoming blog topic and now her daughter is very interested in the idea of being a kidney donor. I love it that she is thinking about it! My blog caused two people to talk about it and then maybe one of them talked to their husband and maybe he talked to someone else about what his wife was considering.

I believe it doesn't matter how we help, what matters is that we help... in any way that makes sense to each of us.

So if you are thinking about this and about people like Joanne, I am happy.

And because I love research, here are more statistics, as daunting as they are to read, I think it is important to be informed.

According to the NFK, on average:

Nearly 3,000 new patients are added to the kidney waiting list each month.

13 people die each day while waiting for a life-saving transplant

Every 10 minutes someone is added to the transplant list

Last year, 4,903 patients died while waiting for a kidney transplant.

Acceptable organ donors can range in age from newborn to 65 years or more.

I know this doesn't have a great deal to do with art, but it has everything to do with life.

For information about kidney disease, visit these informative organizations:

The program Joanne is enrolled in:
Virginia Mason Hospital & Medical Center, Seattle | Seattle's Top Doctors are at Virginia Mason
www.virginiamason.org

http://www.pkd.org

http://www.kidney.org

For information about becoming a donor:

http://www.kidney.org/transplantation/livingdonors/aboutdonation.cfm

These are just a few of links available to find information. Google "kidney disease" to find a wealth of information about PKD and "becoming an organ donor" to access organ donor programs.

Jumping Jimmy Johns! Is it Juxtapositional Justification or Just Junk?

I have a thing about lining objects up. I feel an intense compulsion to place objects on my desk, paper, the kitchen counter, the wall... so they create an imaginary line that leads smoothly towards items nearby. Having intersecting lines from several directions is perfectly allowable in this mental game I play, as long as the objects are perpendicular to each other.

But it isn't so easily discerned. Sometimes these items can be skewed, however, this skew must have a reason or logical placement. Remember, all lines from point a to point b must serve a purpose. I am required to have a reason for this skew. This skewed, anti-perpendicular object must also connect on an imaginary line to some other anchor in the setting.

I suppose this compulsion is my own West Coast, home-grown, version of Feng Shui. Now Feng Shui is a beautiful and complicated system of using the Tao of Heaven and Earth to improve life. I am simplifying this terribly so I will call my own version "Fan Shoe."

Fan because I do love film and television and I am a fan, but can behave myself in the presence of celebrities. (I did see Elvis in concert at the Coliseum in 1976 and not once did I scream out "I LOVE YOU! Also that same year, Danny Kaye touched my face and I didn't dissolve into an incoherent puddle. More recent testimony had me wiping Eddie Vetter's... saliva? off with a napkin as he was spitting on everyone during a performance at the ShowBox in Seattle. I am happy to report the napkin ended up in the trash, not on Ebay.)

And Shoe, well, because I actually want to love shoes, however, I don't have a wardrobe that would complement a great pair of shoes, so you see, old clothes/new shoes is not Fan Shoe in my world. Old clothes/old shoes is a straight, uncluttered line from point a to point b. Capice?

After Gerard and I got married, we moved to Ellensburg, Washington to go to school at Central. We rented a little house on a cattle ranch and had the full use of a tethered goat to mow the lawn.  That was interesting and a story for another day. What interests me here and now about that little farmhouse, was the shed out back.  It was shifted just a few feet away from being perfectly parallel to the house.

It drove me crazy. I couldn't go behind the house because my eye would be drawn to it in an effort to understand why they didn't move the front end a few feet to the left. Gerard knew how much this bothered me and he actually considered jacking the shed up and moving it the few feet. It was a sweet thought... thank goodness we moved before it came to that end.

Our garage shares a similar relationship to our house. It isn't quite as bad as the poor unfortunate shed because the line of the driveway makes a sensible bend as it curves its way towards the garage doors. It has a justifiable curve, if you will.

Wires and cables fit into my Fan Shoe theory as well. I must have my wires hidden or lined up along the floor so tidily that they are optically illusive. I prefer not to see them at all.

I have a compulsion to keep wires in my space coiled. My mouse is a particularly troublesome example because I need enough give in the wire to facilitate the manipulation of the mouse, while still maintaining a visually peaceful Fan Shoe appearance.  I accomplish this by coiling the bulk of the wire, tying the coil in two places and leaving a ten inch span loose which I work with as I utilize the mouse. This wire business is extremely frustrating for me and, it seems I lose this battle in an effort to stay connected, I have wires running all over my office and they cross my line of vision every moment. Definitely not ideal Fan Shoe for me.

These related lines also appear in my art.  I am compelled to justify my juxtapositional arrangements. I find the order of repetition visually relaxing. I think it calms my soul. When I have troubled thoughts, I will draw vertical lines on my paper and it feels as if a pressure has been eased between my shoulder blades.

This Fan Shoe theory was in effect in my Blue Room Triptych from my post, "Everything Easy." I had many intersecting lines and they all have a direction, reason, or destination to validate their existence. I may not always remember why I placed them, but I am secure in the knowledge that at that time, those lines had purpose.

My current assignment for advanced drawing is an interpretation of this poem:

Along the Sun-Drenched Roadside

Along the sun-drenched roadside, from the great
hollow half-treetrunk, which for generations
has been a trough, renewing in itself
an inch or two of rain, I satisfy
my thirst: taking the water's pristine coolness
into my whole body through my wrists.
Drinking would be too powerful, too clear;
but this unhurried gesture of restraint
fills my whole consciousness with shining water.

Thus, if you came, I could be satisfied
to let my hand rest lightly, for a moment,
lightly, upon your shoulder or your breast.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Along the Roadside - ©2012 Darcy Cline

I can see the careful construction of lines and intersecting elements although I imagine it might be more difficult for someone who hasn't looked at this work for hours... days... and consequently been bedeviled by it.

This piece represents my first full-scale graphite drawing in years. I used to draw all the time, but somewhere along the way, I became too careful. I can see that coming out in this drawing. This careful perfectionism is what has kept we away from drawing for so long. It is emotionally draining to be so careful with something I actually love.

So, where is this going, you ask? Well, our class recently benefited from live models in the classroom and as an added bonus, we were given a 15 minute time limit to complete drawings of the models faces.

I decided to use charcoal, since I haven't explored charcoal very much... it is so messy and I do like to keep my hands as clean as possible. I have never liked the idea of smudging on purpose, and when charcoal is involved its one big smudge.

We were given a very helpful demonstration on how to use the medium, washing the drawing surface with a mid-tone to eliminate the white paper, adding in the darker shapes then finishing with reduction (erasers) or using a white conte to bring out the highlight areas.

It helped quite a bit to just jump right in and also the time limit was good for me. When given more time, I will overwork the spontaneity. I didn't have the luxury to worry about how things were lined up and relativity and Fan Shoe, etc., etc.

I think I like working with charcoal. It's freeing. I do need more practice, for sure. (My hands did get messy, though.)

See the results below.

Sketch 1 - Prior to the demonstration on charcoal.

Sketch 2 - I see my style tightening

Sketch 3 - After the demo.

Sketch 4 - 30 minutes on this sketch.

Interesting Illustrations

Sometimes, being an illustrator is easy. There are days when drawing is painless and the images rush and flow from the pencil as if the graphite was lured onto the paper by Odysseus's Sirens, to be trapped on the page, which is transformed into a more forgiving place forever and always. The shapes are lovely, the shadows rich and supple. Its a world where ugly is transformed into fine art and becomes a thing of beauty simply because it was rendered with a pencil. Plain becomes interesting and mysterious. The blank white page comes alive with emotion and the artist... yes, me... I cannot believe what I have created.

I am stunned and filled with fear that this thing I have created sucked my stores dry and there is no more where that came from. I study it, find faults that no one will ever see and worry a little about what I will do with such an amazing creation. I can't keep everything. Like children, they must be set free to find their place in the world. I like the idea that there is artwork out there that I created, but don't know exactly who is currently looking at it and whether or not they have come up with the proper interpretation.

I take a picture of these great works and stare at them until I nod off and my ipod slips out of my hand and hits me in the nose. This indicates a good day's work.

On occasions, the illustrations come hard and heavy and the creating is chore. The lines awkward, the strokes offend the image. Nothing flows with peace and abandon. Rending becomes an effort like dragging glass over wet boulders, they slip and break on the rugged surface, shattering, leaving shards that cut and scrape. Every line is carved. It is easy to abandon, but this work must be completed, whether it is for an assignment or commission, the work must be completed. This is when it is difficult to draw.

I have been known to question myself where my art is concerned. I admit, I am a demon in my own head. I keep looking for my "style" to emerge and feel disappointed that all I see is the same old me... my style.

I draw, paint, render, print, sew, bake.... etc. I do it as I have always done it. I am careful, controlled, rigid, methodical and... I am hopeful, enthusiastic, enamored, playful, creative and in love. I am all of these things when it goes well, leaving less of the left brain qualities behind while I dive freely into a pool of the more engaging characteristics of my art self.

Still, all of these qualities and more are present when the art flows as well as when it doesn't. I never leave any of them behind, so when it goes badly, it is really my perception that is skewed. I know that when I am disappointed, its not really half as bad as I think it is. I don't really give myself a break and yet, I can look at any other drawings and find the glory, well rendered or not. I love gazing upon the artwork of children. I can see a love for the process of art in them and that is beautiful thing.

My first child, Courtney, spent many years feeling as if she missed the creative art gene that the rest of us all have. She felt her work was never good enough. I do know the feeling and maybe she was echoing my doubts about my own abilities. But the main characteristic of her artistic discontent was that she didn't love the process. Art is messy and she wanted it to be perfect. The one thing art is not.

When Courtney left home to attend college in Bellingham, she began to explore her art self, in the same way I explored design at Central. She launched an expedition through the uncharted territory of her creativity that was quite amazing, creating interesting art using any medium she could obtain... all the while claiming she wasn't an artist.

When I attended Central Washington University, I discovered a different world in art and its relationship to communication and design. That was my focus. Occasionally, I produced a drawing that wasn't technically perfect, but I loved it anyway and even though I didn't have an ipod to stare at before I fell asleep, I would sit in our tiny kitchen late into the night and look at what I made with my hand and a pencil. I did that with many of my works, but with my Self-Portrait from 1983, I feel wonder every time I look at it. Sometimes it feels amazing.

It was like that when Courtney came home from college and showed us this urgent need to create a charcoal drawing. She was driven and it was a strange thing to watch someone who felt like a left-brainer attack this artwork like a full-blown, obsessed artist... and she wasn't free until she finished the thing.

This piece is my favorite of her now vast body of artwork.  I loved the lines and the energy and her commitment to finish or to get it right.  It was perfect.

I know a well-drawn work of art gets the glory, but, what makes it interesting is loving the process.

As I begin a quarter of Advanced Drawing, I am going to give myself a break and try not to be the perfectionist. I am going to learn and lose control and draw freely. No mistakes will be made, because art is joy, the process is love and the result is a gift.

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up. — Pablo Picasso

Smoking, Courtney Cline, 2010 Charcoal 

My Self-Portrait from 1983 - Pencil on Newsprint