When Disaster Strikes – Who Are You?

“My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive: and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.”

Maya Angelou

Dear friends, 

One day you will meet a stranger. I don’t know when or where, though for many of us I believe now is as likely a time as any. That stranger will hold your life in their hands. Not only will they hold your life, they will hold the lives of those closest and dearest to you. 

That stranger’s identity is bound to one question: when disaster occurs – who are you?

Let me digress for a moment, though I have barely gotten started. 

I work in a grocery store. It is not a glamorous job. I have given up on making any “30 Under 30” lists. But I take that job very seriously, because it offers me countless fractions-of-a-second to shape others’ lives. 

For the past week, the store has been stripped of shelf-stable food and dry goods within hours of opening. It is not a sight for which our first-world economy has prepared us. 

I have helped many individuals over the past few days. Nonetheless, in all of these interactions I have talked with precisely two people. 

The first person does not look at me. Their eyes are on the shelves in front of them, looking at all the empty spots. They may have found half to a quarter of the items on their shopping list, but their attention is on the missing items; their attention is consumed in a feedback loop with their experience of the unknown. They may not hear me when I ask if I can help, and they are very likely more frustrated by, than appreciative of, the offer. Other shoppers avoid their eyes and give them a wide radius.

The second person looks at me just a bit longer than I have come to expect from a customer. They smile, and they mean it; they are completely present in this moment. They may only have half to a quarter of the items on their shopping list, but they say they will experiment with what they have. They are more focused on the shared experience of a community of humans facing the unknown. Whether or not they need help, they thank me and others as they move through the store. 

Most of us know ourselves well enough to get through a typical day. We know how it feels to live in our heads, our familiar routines and choices. 

But many of us have never had to face an exceptional day. These are the days which, by definition, we do not know how to get through. There is no template, no previous experience to rely on to guide our decisions or reactions. 

Exceptional days are not anomalies. They are a normal part of the experience of being a human. They are a slight twist on the familiar question we debate each day with the Universe: “What can I make out of this?”

Related: See Trickster’s Bouquet for thoughts on creativity as resilience.

Exceptional days occur infrequently, and because of this we may be unfamiliar with the version of ourselves who emerges in response. It is very likely that this person will be a stranger to our normal mode of thought – but that person holds our future. And fortunately we can give that stranger gifts towards our survival. Like caches of water in a desert, we can leave them compassion, humor, and courage. We can bequeath them the strength that comes from saying, disaster is part of the question of how to be human. 

You see, you get to pick your stranger from my two grocery store varieties. You may find yourself in the hands of someone who sees empty shelves and no help in sight. Or you may find yourself in the hands of someone who has come to understand that empty shelves hold room for quite a lot of kindness, empathy, and the clear-sighted intelligence which says, today is a good day for discovery. 

Today, pick your stranger. Pick the tools you want them to use in the midst of an exceptional day. On the day you face your stranger, you will know you are in good hands.

Best,

Marushka

Early March Mornings

Morning green, forest green
Air condition hum. 
The heat of summer sunrise –
Early March has come
In Texas. 

(Narrated to the sound of iced tea, iced showers, and soaring electrical bills)

Friday 13

What is Friday 13?
They all have different answers:
Filmmakers and actors,
And all the black cats.

It’s a reason to notice the day,
An excuse to look behind you:
See every shadow
And feel breath and skin.

It’s the luck of life crossing your path.

Fed-Up Writer To A Stubborn Piece of Work

Think and don’t think
My contrary child. 
My shadow, my sun, my rage 
and my thorn in the side. 

What do you want today? 

To feel, and float on feeling, 
Think with the edge of a knife.
To see stories and speak stars
Speak truth and spin attraction.

I see you sitting on the page, 
I see you sitting on my shoulder. 
I see you waiting to be born, 
And I see you slipping away. 

You didn’t like today. Will you like tomorrow?

All I want is for you to want me, 
To crave towards birth like I crave to be done with you. 

(A dramatic narration to the sound of crumpling paper and flying pencils.)

The Success Narrative of the Kandinsky Hot Pocket Affair

Last night my life changed, and I have a Hot Pocket to thank for it. 

The experience itself was deceptively mundane. I was at the second of my two jobs; I paused for dinner. I should clarify that I do not often eat Hot Pockets, but this particular one was an unexpected dinnertime gift. 

The first three bites were unremarkable: cheese, red sauce, warm bland crust. It was the fourth bite that caught me unawares. As my teeth separated the bite from the Pocket, I realized that in that bite – in my mouth – was something perfectly, inexplicably spherical. 

For a moment my thoughts went no further than sheer surprise. The sphere had no apparent taste or texture – the only sensation was that of shape, a perfect roundness of a type alien to food. Then – was this a grape? Perhaps a very small tomato? My mind was left adrift. Those were the most obvious edibles I could recall with such a shape and size. But there was no sugared burst of a grape, no caramelized gush of a roasted cherry tomato. There was – nothing. Just a spheroid in my mouth, and a dawning sense that my understanding of reality was a touch more tenuous than previously realized.

Fortunately, I recently read an article in which this very experience was perfectly described. 

Picture the scene: Moscow, Russia, the year 1896. A gallery hosts an exhibition. A man strolls through, a successful lawyer by profession. The man is named Wassily Kandinsky. 

Mr. Kandinsky pauses in front of a painting. It appears to be one of Claude Monet’s Haystacks series. His expression undergoes several rapid changes. He reaches for the gallery catalog. He stares at the catalog; he stares at the painting. He stares back at the catalog. In his own words:

“That it was a haystack the catalogue informed me. I could not recognise it. This non-recognition was painful to me. I considered that the painter had no right to paint indistinctly. I dully felt that the object of the painting was missing….”

Let us consider Mr. Kandinsky’s “non-recognition.” This is the instant of tabula rasa – the instant right before a brain is changed. It is the familiar out of context, the unknown within reach; it’s meeting your double and losing your shadow. The discomfort hits as your brain starts to process some sort of meaning you can plausibly tell yourself and your neighbors. It is the classic snowball-to-the-face reaction. You are bemused, astonished, frustrated, outraged, caught off guard. In simple English: you are surprised. 

This surprise is the mark of potential. This is a moment that can change your brain and reshape your life. Since it can hit you like a shot of adrenaline or a natural disaster, discomfort is only natural. Discomfort simply means change. Neuroplasticity is occurring. 

What does Kandinsky think of neuroplasticity? He continues:

“…And I noticed with surprise and confusion that the picture not only gripped me, but impressed itself ineradicably on my memory. Painting took on a fairy-tale power and spendor.” 

As Tank says in The Matrix: “Hey Mikey, I think he likes it!” 1 

From shock to “give me more” – creation work2  requires this rapid recognition of the creative potential of surprise. 

Creation work – such as Kandinsky’s – maps out how little we know. Kandinsky routinely questioned everything. He questioned his career as a lawyer, and became an artist. He questioned what an “artist” did, and pioneered abstract art. People who create things – whether paintings or stem cell research or perfectly fluffy pancakes – know it’s a balancing act. You have to have perfect confidence, and you have to have perfect doubt. You never know it will turn out, until it does. 

This is a largely untold story. In its place, we have a social narrative about knowledge and creativity that is – allegedly, inexorably – linked to success. But that’s an artificial connection. 

This artificial narrative tells us there is a predetermined arc from creation to success. If this arc includes mistakes or surprises or detours, it does so only to count these as further evidence of the inevitability of the creator’s success. It’s the myth of the “fail better” cult.  

It’s hard to spin a motivational narrative about the shock and discomfort and horrendously gnawing doubt that is crucial to making anything of worth. So the narrative doesn’t try. In its place, we have The Myth of the Successful Fill-in-the-Blank. It goes like this:

This artist/scientist/writer/entrepreneur is a success, because they were destined for success. 

Therefore, they are an artist/scientist/etc. because, and only because, they are a success. 

Did you catch that? It’s a subtle flip. It’s easy to do. And it’s an easy story to tell and sell. The artists/scientists/etc. in question frequently tell it themselves. This may be because they understand a good story when they hear it, or it may be because it’s simpler to believe that once things achieve a comfortable status quo, they have always been destined to achieve that status quo3. 

Here’s the damaging part. The corollary is: if you aren’t a success, you aren’t an artist/scientist/writer/what-have-you. 

Why? Experimentation and mistakes aren’t worth money. They aren’t sexy, they aren’t inspirational. They’re just drudgery. But they are essential for anyone to make a glimpse of a different world – even if they’re the only person who ever sees it. 

I speak only for myself: I crave honesty. I crave to know that my failures aren’t unique, and I don’t have to “fail better”. I just have to pick up the pieces, each and every time. I just have to keep wrestling with the ideas in my head – and understand I don’t always get to know if those ideas affect anyone else at all. 

As I reject the “success” narrative, surprise becomes my ally in the struggle through disillusionment and failure. Surprise – and subsequent wonder at the unknown – gives me the courage to look for those moments that make me disoriented, uncomfortable; to look for those moments where gravity pulls me towards the ceiling instead of the floor. I observe them, remember them, pick them up and take them apart, spread them out on the table and imagine what makes them tick. For today, that’s success enough. Tomorrow, I’m looking for Kandinsy’s “fairy-tale power and splendor.”

Oh, and in case you were still wondering about the mysterious sphere – I checked the package. It was a meatball. 

1 Matrix aside, this experience was powerful enough that Kandinsky subsequently quit law and took up art. He became widely known as a painter, art theorist, and pioneer of abstract art, though he would always insist his art was “still deeply ingrained in reality.”

2 Creation work? Yes, it sounds (pick one) either overly pretentious or a euphemism for something slightly more messy than sex work. It’s my pet term to describe anyone who knocks out the walls and floorboards of existing knowledge. I refuse to give in to the false dichotomy between The Arts and STEM – but that’s another post.

3 When the subject is geopolitics instead of creativity, this is also called the “end of history” argument: I like this government, therefore this is the government we were always destined to have.

Fair Play

A species can expect to live about one million years. This is not a span of time we understand; more than a one and six zeroes, it’s the opportunity for a lineage to rewrite Life’s odds against Death. When a species dies, it means one less card up Life’s sleeve. 

On five separate occasions, Life has lost more than three quarters of the cards up its sleeve. (Yes, Life is an epic cheater.) Likely culprits include meteors, volcanoes, climate phenomena, and plants.  

There’s a sixth occasion. Let’s call it “now,” or “soon.” Life’s cheating stash is again disappearing. Death is watching with interest, because Life never wins with fair play. The number of cards – pardon me, species – “…that have gone extinct in the last century would have otherwise taken between 800 and 10,000 years to disappear…” if the game was business as usual. In interest of fair play, one of the species is now evening the score of 3.5 billion years; in interest of fair play, one of the species is now playing on Death’s side. 

In interest of fair play, that species should remember Life and Death play different games. Life will lose the cards to win the game, but Death keeps every card dealt, always. 

And in interest of fair play, when the score gets so close that no one can tell the difference, Life and Death will always remain the best of friends. Together, they’ll pack up any remaining cards1 and go find some other game to while away the time between the stars. Sometimes, it’s just time for a new deck. 

1 Between Life’s stash and Death’s hoard, there’s usually not that many left.

No Dull Topics: Watching Clouds

“There are no dull subjects, just dull writers.”

– said your pick of five writers

As they say: challenge accepted. Once a week, as intrepid writers and readers, we will test the limits of boredom and the meaning of dull. We will establish whether, indeed, there are No Dull Topics.

How? With your help! Each Monday, head over to the Skeleton At The Feast Facebook page to submit your dullest topic idea. What does dull mean? PG, and no more than three words including hyphens. The last comment as of 8 a.m. CT Tuesday morning is next week’s No Dull Topic! My role? To turn it into an entertainingly readable post.

Special thanks to Havoc Octavian Teslasmith for this week’s topic, “Watching Clouds.”

Watching clouds is not something easily pinned down; watching clouds, as a topic, is just as likely as the real thing to shift and coalesce, merge and disappear, leaving you frantically scribbling notes that make no sense to any future version of yourself. The longer you think, the more meanings emerge. 

There is the simple childhood act of laying back and watching the sky change. There is the notion of “the cloud” – that Internet creature that gulps information and stores it indefinitely. Then there is Aristotle’s Meteorologica, the Bible’s many clouds of revelation and concealment; clouds as creatures and clouds as castles; clouds as one of the most obvious harbingers of change in our planet’s weather system. The sources agree: clouds carry meaning – of some sort. 

It is easy to over-simplify water vapor in the sky. It is easy to over-complicate clouds. Today, it is the simplest image that transfixes my mind. The act of watching clouds is an anachronism. I say this not because I believe we are “too busy” or “too attached to our screens” or other easy excuses; as someone who spends most of my time either writing or reading on screens of varying sizes, that would be the height of hypocrisy. Rather, I refer to Merriam Webster’s second definition: “a person or thing that is chronologically out of place.” The act of watching clouds displaces one from time. It is that strange act of spending time with yourself. It is that strange phenomena of watching your own thoughts unfold: checking the weather of your own mind.

You learn things about yourself when you watch clouds. It isn’t something as diagnostic as a Rorschach test, or as flakey as a mood ring. It’s a simple question: are you there?

Are you there, and how do you see the world today? Have you dreamed recently? Have you thought of the thing you want most, have you put yesterday behind you, have you looked another human in the eyes? Do you remember what makes you smile? Do you remember anything, if you can help it? 

Is that dog or a horse? Ah, too late, it’s turning into a duck. 

Is that the person you want to be, or someone you never really liked? Ah, too late, you lost the way to tell them apart. 

You lost your way, with only clouds to give guidance; spring and shower, storm and gold-gray sun. Clouds are not such a bad guide to this sort of thing. Each of these moments is part of your life, each moment a change. 

There is no way to stop this change. There is no way to comprehend its entirety. But there are rare afternoons when you can lie back and watch it unfold, see some sort of balance or beauty between the blue and white. Some afternoons you are at peace with time; some afternoons are a beautiful day for cloud watching, whether cloudy or clear. And some afternoon – just perhaps – you’ll catch a glimpse of a cloud shaped like you, just for a moment, before that cloud also shifts and changes into something completely new.

Good Morning, My Friends

Good morning, my friends! As of this week, there are over fifty of you who follow this strange Skeleton At The Feast. To each one of you: thank you. You brighten my day, give me hope and vision and courage. I sincerely hope my words do the same for you.

I admit to curiosity: what would you like to read? If you could read anything…what types of posts or subject matter would you grin in anticipation of?

Please let me know in the comments.

Very Best,

Marushka

Creation Is An Odd Sort of Work

“The idea of trying to create things that last – forever knowledge – has guided my work for a long time now.”

Edward Tufte

Creation is an odd sort of work. It demands that you pay attention. It expects you to be elbow-deep in questions. 

Questions demand constant thought. There are many ways to approach this ongoing internal engagement, but I prefer the words of Edward Tufte: “The idea of trying to create things that last – forever knowledge – has guided my work for a long time now.”

Given infinite expressions of creativity, “forever knowledge” is the simplest way to describe the focus of creation. Parents and artists and scientists, cooks and mathematicians: each of them coaxes something they hold within towards becoming something separate from themselves. Each of them searches for and coaxes the qualities that will sustain the created to independence.

The goal, always, is that the created takes on a life of its own. That’s the spark of forever – the spark that breathes life, that says, “This thing deserves to be. The world will make room.”