My uncle Junior, nee Wilson James, Jr, in some So Am port, if memory serves me, during. WWII
My big surprise for the PSC class last night was to read “Stave 1, Marley’s Ghost” from the pretty little green and gold facsimile copy of A Christmas Carol I had purchased two days earlier, instead of “something from the Gurdjieff tradition,” as threatened the week prior when I volunteered to present. My idea seemed perfect to me: written 1843, about the time spiritualism debuted acceptably in Europe and America, the best redemption myth ever, in my opinion, presented in lively descriptive language and unforgettable images. Vin extraordinaire. And the vast number of its recapitulations in the last 182 years indicates a proper opinion, I’d say. Except…as demonstrated by the outcome of the reading.
I introduced the evening’s topic to five spiritualists, showing the book, then proceeded through 18 pages in lively voice. I stopped as Scrooge and his clerk closed the office, exiting to bitter cold foggy dark. No spirit, no Marley’s ghost yet. “Would anyone else like to read.” I passed the little tome left. “No, let’s talk about what we’ve read so far.” “OK.”
The thirty minute discussion that followed emphasized the muppets and the Muppet Christmas Carol and personal developments from the past week in the the lives of our attendees, with smidgeons of the meanings and morals of Dickens’ invention filtered through that movie primarily with honorable mentions to other versions. The book never passed on, so I recovered it and read two ending pages of the chapter, the description of Marley’s ghost’s departure into a world of moaning mournful spirits unable to aid the suffering mother and child in the street. Then since talk varied between what we glean from what we know about the movies to personal events, I “dismissed class early.”
I admit I was disappointed and even shocked with that hour and a quarter. But it revealed again an important, usually buried, piece of my personality. I wish to be a “ marketable artist,” but literally almost no one buys what I put out. That includes my drawings and paintings, stone jewelry, poems. Can’t even give it away, and I “know it’s good,” not just mediocre. This includes these blogs, which people don’t read after or with an invite, far as I can tell. This isn’t a reference to financial gain; it means I want an audience. Sure looks like vanity, doesn’t it. (And can I ponder whether God feels vanity and disappointment with creation? Or will lightning strike! Is it not part of the Sorrow of the Absolute?)
This blogging may be my last art form, last productions, and it remains to be seen how long I slog on sans feedback.
Perhaps I was a successful visual artist in a past lifetime, and karma is teaching me a new lesson this go-around….
My grandson just posted a new song, his best so far to me, with a broken Picasso-esque self portrait cover. I think it should be a million-hit adolescent anthem.
He sings “ I can’t decide what to do with my Life”.
Listen and see if you, like me, relate.
I expect one of these links will take you there:
The title is Skyseeker”My Life”
Lord, thank you for the lessons learned from disappointment. I must admit the humor I find in this recent one, and you know I love to laugh. So maybe I can infer that you love me. At least within the whole realm of your Creation. I sense that I’m afraid to think You really love me; this deems more reflection later, however. I thank you for voices that speak on your behest from all ages; I was startled to recognize that Dickens showed us a Scrooge who required agents from your realm to effect salvation. Duh!
May I, my folk, and the world receive and open to your agents in this special season as well as the coming year. IJN
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