Monthly Archives: July 2013

A Refreshing Kick in the Butt

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My drawing of the Virgin Mary

My drawing of the Virgin Mary

New PR–214
God Is Studying Art
(to Daniel)

I wonder if you could do a talking poem blues
The same perhaps
Without the guitar
But what I’ve got in mind
Should definitely be called the blues but art

You see I was lying in bed
In the middle of the night and
Some muse woke me up to an idea
That this is all just like writing a story:
Every day is an overlay

Every home is a poem
But the next “word” is a sun rise
Because you saw that yesterday
Just like a poet has seen a rose before
And so when the new sun arose

Basically you painted it
And every day on top of every day
It’s like oil painting:
One touch over another with darker contrasts
(Hence the blues)

To make it seem more real more
Three dimensional, as is de rigueur
In this painting of the world
But Dani my art restorer friend
Tells me that he traces underneath the previous

Versions of God
Knows what the artist or us
(In this case)
Was trying to say but every day is subtly new
Something you wrote out of yesterday

And the rest of your back story’s foreshadowings
But this is God’s story too because
(Didn’t you know?)
God is studying art:
We are his poem and He is painting our music

And it wasn’t really our sunrise
It belonged to a wiser owl than thou
And if
(Up to now)
We’ve been fooled

It’s because God’s got one heaven
Of an imagination
And all this is His bedtime story
And He’s sticking to it until you wise (and wake) up:
That’s what education means

~.~.~

Hazrat Inayat Khan’s Invocation:

“Towards the one, the perfection of love, harmony and beauty, the only being, united with all the illuminated souls who form the embodiment of the master, the spirit of guidance.”

~.~.~

Hazrat Inayat Khan’s Prescribed Daily Mantra:
“My thoughtful self: Reproach no one. Bear malice towards no one. Hold a grudge against no one. Be wise, tolerant, considerate, polite, and kind to all.”

~.~.~

Gentle Readers,

This is another reinstallation of a lost post (for apparently an act of vandalism) from 2013, the current series of which is biographical, detailing how I ended up living in Guatemala, and devoting myself to metaphysical poetry.*

Okay, so we’ll continue from the last post with my art teacher friend, Daniel, or Dani, depende de tu capricho (as per your whim). The opening poem from the last post was dedicated to him. As was today’s.

Dani is a sweetheart. Charismatic for the sweetness of his smile, but none the less a refreshing kick in the butt for a budding would-be artist. Dani needed money and I like being a patron of the arts. Not to mention my giant lead-up to this moment in which I was ripe for an art experiment. So I hired Dani, the expert artist, to give me art lessons.

There are two parallel tracks here (as befits a trainload of fate). The first is my friendship with Dani, which was as I mentioned last time, slow to develop, since we didn’t speak the same language. But I have always prided myself on my ability to learn languages.** Not to mention it was driving me nuts not being able to communicate.

For instance, I got invited to a party but it was an all Spanish thing. It was so frustrating to see one after another of the party people telling apparently hilarious stories with everyone taking turns laughing on the floor.

And of course Dani is Guatemala’s answer to Jean-Louis Barrault (the nonpareil actor, director, and mime)***And so even if you don’t quite get the punch line, Dani still has you on the floor. But what with all this pressure, pretty soon Dani and I could communicate to the point of meaningful conversation. Of course that was more important later when we were talking about my poetry. But here we are still in my art phase of exploration.

But the second fate track is my “self-actualization”**** process, first with art, though soon segueing to poetry.

But Dani got me started in the art part.

Even before, during my much earlier adventures stateside with the Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain book,***** I had been mostly fascinated by faces, especially women’s. Most especially, for some reason, the Virgin Mary (See above for the drawing I did of her after Dani’s art lessons. (I sold it for $150 dollars–I guess that makes me a professional artist!)******

So of course that was one of my art projects. In Antigua was a wonderful little library that allowed gringos to check out books, including art books. And when I found a reproduction of a 400 year old painting of Mary by Alonso Cano, well I just had to draw it.

And speaking of drawing, I fear reader overload and so I’ll be drawing to a close here and we’ll get next time into the painting part of my road.
God be with you,
Eric Halliwell

*As in these posts:
https://rumi-nations.com/…/…/24/my-falling-dominoes-odyssey/
https://rumi-nations.com/2013/07/01/the-fates-found-her/
https://rumi-nations.com/…/07/08/my-heart-was-in-panajachel/
https://rumi-nations.com/…/07/15/because-the-mind-is-power…/

**For instance, when I was 17, I wrote this poem in French for my girlfriend on the occasion of giving her flowers:
Ce sont de moi quelques fleurs
Qui expriment pour toi mon amour.
Les fleurs, elles sont mortes dans des heures
Mais ton memoire vit joujours
Dans mon Coeur.

Rough translation:

Here’s some flowers from me
That express my love for you.
The flowers die within hours but
Your memory lives always
In my heart

*** For info about this incredible artist of the theater, see http://www.biography.com/people/jean-louis-barrault-9199946#theatrical-and-film-career
I have a DVD of his classic Les Enfants du Paradis, (children of Paradise) practically my favorite film.

****See Maslow from last post, and this https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Self-actualization

*****Which I highly recommend to any who would love to do drawing but who feel hopelessly incompetent. It worked for me (and all her students. You should see the before and afters in her book which is an easy to follow set of art lessons, from basic to more advanced, with great kick in the pants explanations which inspire you to believe in her method, soon reinforced by wonderful results. You can order it from amazon (I’ve mixed feelings about amazon but they are so damned convenient!):
https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_38?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=drawing+on+the+right+side+of+the+brain&sprefix=drawing+on+the+right+side+of+the+brain%2Caps%2C226

******This is a Sufi blog, and so I will mention a Sufi-oriented aside. I have heard that the Sufis particularly in Anatolia (Turkey), have always had a pronounced interest in Jesus’ mother, as an object of reverence. People often forget that to the Muslims, Jesus too was a prophet and as such, coequal with Mohammed.

Your Inner Harpsichord

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Abraham Maslow

Abraham Maslow

PR–72

A Favorite Face of God

(To Daniel)

If you don’t know where to start
(What to give someone
Who has everything)

Just do sweet things for God

Whose heart’s conveniently at hand:
Just pick like a flower
A favorite face of God

Just do sweet things for a friend

Attempted Spanish translation:

Una Favorita Cara de Dios
(Para Daniel)

Si no sabes
Por donde comenzar

(Cual cosa que dar para una
Persona que ya tiene todo)

Solo haz dulces cosas
Para Dios cuya corazon esta

Convenientamente a tu lado:
Solo escoger

Como coger una flor
Una favorita cara de Dios

Solo haz dulces cosas
Para un amigo

~.~.~

Hazrat Inayat Khan’s Invocation:

“Towards the one, the perfection of love, harmony and beauty, the only being, united with all the illuminated souls who form the embodiment of the master, the spirit of guidance.”

~.~.~

Hazrat Inayat Khan’s Prescribed Daily Mantra:
“My thoughtful self: Reproach no one. Bear malice towards no one. Hold a grudge against no one. Be wise, tolerant, considerate, polite, and kind to all.”

~.~.~

Gentle Readers,

(This is another reinstallation of a lost post–for apparently an act of vandalism–from 2013, the current series of which is biographical, detailing how I ended up living in Guatemala, and devoting myself to metaphysical poetry)*

Let’s see how far I can push this fate metaphor.

So here I am, year 2002, newly installed in Guatemala, newly unencumbered by job or stateside girlfriend, with no reason to have to go back to California, and its constant concomitant economic struggle. For instance, maintain a car, insurance, gasoline, pay the rent, the utility bills, etc. Way too much to manage as a pensioner. So work in California would be necessary, and let’s face it, after you’ve spent the day harassing the wolf at your door, you’re pretty spent yourself. And good luck with that art project, that expressing your heart project.

Read about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs** and you‘ll notice the self-actualization part (the art part) is at the top of the pyramid. Which means everything below it has to be satisfied first. Only then can you begin to quench your thirst for self-expression.

Which means everything below (with its broader and broader base) comes first. For some reason, survival tops creativity. Go figure. And actually, a disturbing case could be made that love is a luxury–so I thank God for divine philanthropy!

Alternatively, here in Guatemala I was economically liberated, what with savings, two pensions, cheap rent, cheap food, etc. etc. I even have a combination maid, cook, and butler person who comes in three times a week—an utter and total sweetheart by the way—and guess what? I taught Alicia to cook! Or at least how to cook gringo cuisine, of which she’d been particularly ignorant. (as opposed to hotshot me)

For example for her first lesson, I gave her two separate recipes. One for coleslaw, and the other for bread pudding. She got the notion that it was all one recipe, and so mixed cabbage, mayonnaise red onions, and freshly ground black pepper into the custard. (Her chickens ate farty-hearty that night!) Yet now her piecrust is flakier than mine! (And I’m pretty flakey!)

But I digress.

So I decided to take advantage of my big chance at Mayan pyramid climbing. But as I said last week, there were issues, like which art do I choose? And once again, fate took the tiller in hand.

Now I’d been writing poems since I was fourteen. Even one in French! And the only art I’d dabbled in was around 1983, when I’d persevered with the wonderful book, Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain. So I knew of the soul-satisfying repose that accompanies an artistic fugue state. (Especially on your inner harpsichord!) And I did well (As does EVERYONE who gives this wonderful book a chance). And so I was open to the visual arts when, again, fate intervened.

And as usual it was in the form of some illusory romance, which for me seems (so far) to have served the same purpose as the proverbial carrot on a stick dangled in front of a donkey (to keep him moving forward).

So one day I am in Deliciosa, the little specialty store in Antigua, mostly frequented by gringos (looking for those otherwise hard to find gringo-fancied things) but this day also by a statuesque Chilena, denombre Maria Eugenia. She was of Palestinian extraction, though her family lived in Chile, and so she was quite tall (5’ 10”) both for a woman anywhere but especially so in Guatemala where the indigenous women can range as short as four foot six. So she stood out. And we caught each others’ eyes, but what’s a guy supposed to do, amble over and say, “Didn’t we just have a moment there?”

So of course, I, this shy guy (with women) just smiled back as invitingly as I could, and left the store. I was headed to my then apartment just beyond Parque San Sebastian. And she must have left just after, but by a different two sides of the same giant rectangle we described, me going home and her going to visit her best friend, a gay artist, who lived hard by the park. So when she turned the corner, I turned the same corner from the other direction and suddenly there we were, eyes inches apart. And of course we had then the icebreaker of our “moment” in the store. I couldn’t foment the “moment” before but with this fated coincidence filling my sails it was full speed ahead and it turned out what with her studying to speak better English, and me Spanish, we soon hatched a plan to meet and help each other out. Mutuamente. And so we spent the next three days together, at least during most of the waking hours, having fascinating conversations. She was like Bette Davis off on a witty monologue which at the end each time was punctuated by some hilarious twist on the situation. So I was good and hooked. Would have been bad and hooked but she wasn’t interested in that. And through much pursuit never could I quite get her to pull that trigger. But she did say, you have to meet my best friend, the fateful Dani, short for Daniel. (The aforementioned artist).

It took a while for the friendship with Dani to take off. Because he didn’t know English and I didn’t know Spanish. I’d managed with Maria Eugenia because she knew a species of English. Her problem was mainly she didn’t know the past tense and so while there was for that some initial confusion as to if she was a practising present-day polyandrist. But by and large she had command of English sufficient to keep the communication amusing as hell.

I wrote her a romantic poem (My first in Spanish! I wish I had preserved it. I showed it to a new half gringo half Guatemalan friend who said if a guy were to have given her such a poem it would have made her weak in the knees) but Maria Eugenia (also known as Sheny as for some reason all the Maria Eugenias in these parts are also so nicknamed) got scared and by a fateful coincidence was offered lucrative employment far away, and though I did end up inheriting her apartment (with the patio view of nothing but the natural, the floral even, except in the distance the oxidized copper green dome of a two hundred year old cathedral, and a volcano not seven miles away, which at night featured a ribbon of red lava trickling down the left hand side, like the left hand of God.)

I think she threw me her apartment like one throws a roast to detain a dog to cover one’s retreat. She later allowed as how I’d been too tempting for comfort. That was flattering so I made do with that.

And so then there was just me and Dani, the fabulous Venezuelan artist, who became my art teacher.

So the fate theme is still hanging in there, tale-wise. Asi que more next week.
God be with you,
Eric Halliwell

*Any who would like to see the earlier in this series of how_I-got-to-Guatemala reinstallments are referred to these urls:
https://rumi-nations.com/…/…/24/my-falling-dominoes-odyssey/
https://rumi-nations.com/2013/07/01/the-fates-found-her/
https://rumi-nations.com/…/07/08/my-heart-was-in-panajachel/
https://rumi-nations.com/…/07/15/because-the-mind-is-power…/

**In case any want a Maslow refresher course, check this out: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs

Because the Mind Is Powerful

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My drawing of the Virgin Mary

My drawing of the Virgin Mary

PR5–34

A Helpful Thing, Which Takes the Sting Out of Fear

Stuff is lurking and lying in wait there’s
No doubt about that
Or perhaps it’s just God’s end of a plan
And to execute a plan

I have often seen
(With the keen eyesight of the heart)
That one does need a kick in the butt
And so when stuff leaps out at you

(Even in the dark
Especially in the dark because there the contrast
With light is more stark and so God knows
That shadows have their place in your face)

It’s best to have a sense of humor–I hear
God likes it when you laugh for having seen through
His or Her ruses to the roses behind or
Is it angels God delegates the sense of humor to?

Even this speculation makes the whole thing more
Amusing which is a helpful thing
Which takes the sting out of fear
Takes the bite out of night

~.~.~

Hazrat Inayat Khan’s Invocation:

“Towards the one, the perfection of love, harmony and beauty, the only being, united with all the illuminated souls who form the embodiment of the master, the spirit of guidance.”

~.~.~

Hazrat Inayat Khan’s Prescribed Daily Mantra:
“My thoughtful self: Reproach no one. Bear malice towards no one. Hold a grudge against no one. Be wise, tolerant, considerate, polite, and kind to all.”

~.~.~

Gentle Readers,
This is another re-instated blog post from those which mysteriously and suddenly went missing. There were over a hundred posts in all dating from April Fool’s Day, 2013, and as I have occasionally mentioned, the vast bulk of them were wiped out by some apparently malicious entity who got access to the inner workings of my website. And as I have promised, I am gradually (and laboriously) reintroducing them, from back-up files. This is one in a series of those. Also, I should add, this whole debacle explains the gaps you will see in the Archives section. I generally choose which to put back, by those which a new blog post makes reference to. (Which I use as an excuse to reprise that post). And this (lately) series is mentioned in my upcoming (soon) new blog post (watch this space). I have kept with this particular series also because these latest from 2013 are a series of biographical stories about how I came to be a poet in Guatemala. Which I of course mention, not for some egofied notion that you all are interested necessarily in my life story, but (honest!) because I feel all this illustrates if not Sufi principles, at least it exemplifies my conception of them. And frankly that’s what this whole blog and website is for: to express how I feel about the broad category I call Sufism. Hence the title rumi-nations.com, which derives from Rumi, the best known Sufi in this part of the known universe.

Last week (from 2013) I left off with the decision to leave Oregon and go to Guatemala. (In 2001) And since Eve (Not her real name) soon had a new boyfriend, I thought about what to do next, since this clearly obviated the original plan which had been for me to return to her, after I had mastered Spanish enough to get a teaching job (e. g. first grade).

But the plan, as I mentioned last time, was a fairy tale. Then I soon discovered I was living in my own new fairy tale. And (knock on wood!) I will live happily ever after. And it’s been so for twelve years now and so why doubt it? Especially since according to Hazrat Inayat Khan, the Sufi murshid I have been following, (and who if you have been following this blog, you are vastly familiar with) such thoughts are poison.

Because the mind is powerful.

But as I think perhaps you (who have been following this saga of the last few posts) might have noticed, things have had a way of happening differently than what I had been wishing for, working for. I guess it’s like John Lennon’s point about life being what happens while you are making other plans, which sounds bad, as if things may be out of control. But as I have seen over and over again, things that looked grim turned out well. (e. g. my carpentry failure led to my nursing school failure which led to my teaching first grade which in itself was successful, with the interesting interference of romance. But romance–perhaps you’ve noticed–is a part of life. (And please, I can’t let this go by without quoting my Sufi murshida, Ivy Duce, when she said, “Failure never let anybody down.” ) And when the romance failed, I ended up in Guatemala. Me, the historically geographically unadventurous, who like a blind man who depends on his heightened sense of hearing etc, became adventurous, daring even, once romance got into the equation. Interestingly I just did the typo, “roamance.” Because that surely was what got me to roaming.

As I left off last week, the issue now was what was to be my occupation. Here I was, having (due to decisions made in a romantic context) sold my house, and so sitting on 50,000 dollars in profit, having quit carpentry to become a first grade teacher, hence drawing an early retirement pension of just over $500 a month, and having quit my teaching job to be with Eve in Oregon.

So I found myself without any need to return to the states, and enjoyed the prospect of living in Guatemala where stuff is cheap, for the rest of my life, unencumbered by work (at least once an early social security pension would kick in, after a mere eight years).

And Inayat Khan has stressed that poets at least, (and all art is suspect here), function best where there’s no stress; they need a tranquil life of contemplation.

Intuitively, I knew that some art form was my destiny. It’s true, left to my own devices I probably would have just gone straight for the poetry. I had been writing poems since I was 14. And one at age 17 was in French (to impress my girlfriend when I sent her flowers for her birthday):

Ce sont de moi quelques fleurs
Qui expriment pour toi mon amour
Les fleurs, elles sont mortes dans des heures
Mais ton memoir vit toujours
Dans mon Coeur

(In the perforce fractured English translation):

Here are some flowers from me
That express my love for you.
The flowers will die within hours
But your memory lives forever
In my heart

Of course it can’t hold a candle to E. E. Cummings’ first poem (and at age six!):

There was a little farder
Who pushed his mother harder

But fate intervened and stalled all that, for a time, so I could study drawing and painting. And for all I know this was essential training for the poetry I now am dedicated to. After all, the poet E. E. Cummings was also a painter.* And there are scuttlebutts to the effect that it informed his poetry in for instance the manner of his odd pictorial typography, reminiscent of Guillaume Apollinaire. There are also–incomprehensible to me–rumors that he employed jazz rhythms in his poetry as well.

The fate that intervened, led me to an art instructor, one Daniel Casimiro a Venezuelan living in Antigua, Guatemala. He was trying to make a living as an art teacher, as well as what he is doing now, in spades, art restoration. He is hired to renovate 500 year old paintings and sculptures. Though these days pretty much exclusively paintings. (He can adopt the style of the painter and repair a painting with giant holes and tears in it, to the point that it looks good as new.) But as I say he also made his living teaching. And so of course once we became friends, I hired him to teach me to draw and paint. (for an example, see above)

And it’s an interesting fate item how I met Dani, my art teacher and close friend. But thereby hangs next week’s tale.

God be with you,
Eric Halliwell

* If you’re curious, here are a few of Cummings’ paintings:
http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/a_f/cummings/paintings.htm