I awakened from an unusually decent night’s sleep with thoughts about how my gardening techniques, which are often very impulsive and random, also carry a kind of genetic intuition about how to respond to seeds, soil, and moisture. It is often surprising to me that I get any yields at all. This dance of what seems like a very instinctive, and sometimes sloppy process is often accompanied by disciplined research although the latter is not always visible to me; it is not so different from the care and attention that I offer to many of my passions.

Now that my life is so centered in the home (something I would have abhorred when I was younger), I can see this pattern with more definition. There are an assortment of creative and not-so-creative accretions that seem to ooze and accumulate in piles all over the house. Most of them get tackled eventually, but they can be both embarrassing and frustrating until I get to them. It sometimes makes me wonder how the being who inhabits this body was actually able to pay the bills and accomplish so much in these 69 years. Eventually, after what seems too long, a witchy part of me emerges, seemingly with a magic wand in hand, and tackles these sticky and often overwhelming patches of chaos, either making them vanish in satisfying ways, organize themselves, or that which was truly overwhelming finally gets completed. Writing this book is requiring multiple wands and arms, especially since it is totally self-motivated, with no deadlines other than the ones I impose.

Multitasking Deity, digital painting, 2004

I know that many folks struggle with distractibility in the hyper-connected world of pings and accessibility, but in this particular chapter of my life, I have it in spades. With a young adult son who still requires co-parenting (he’s neuro-divergent & wonderful, but not quite ready to be independent) and an amazing co-parent moving through Stage 4 Melanoma, my caregiving roles have multiplied significantly. Still I’m bound to my creative work to keep me sane, and even if my time is constantly fractured, I will get this task done.

Given this context, the term “fractured” for describing this memoir may make more sense, but there are other reasons, I am drawn to this word. It is a good adjective to describe a process that does not follow a rubric, or at least, the rubric of memoir-writing. I assume there is one because there are a number of “how to” books, videos, and workshops on the topic. It might be helpful for me to look at one of those, but I’m going to choose not to for now. Why? I like to start with improvisations for a bit, and trust my intuition. When I hit a block, I’ll look for more resources.

Another positive association with the word “fractured” are the “fractured fairy tales” from my childhood. Those cartoons always cracked me up (bad pun) and gave me an inkling that things that were considered the “standard” or THE WAY THINGS ARE and HAVE ALWAYS BEEN could be “jammed” and reframed. They opened my mind to the joy of satire; and how a certain twisting of the story might give a totally different perspective on an issue. That shift in point of view is totally in alignment with my vision for what this book will offer.

In preparation for this task that has felt of late like my life’s mission, I’m making long lists of events and stories that have been important to my evolution as an artist and thinker. I’m looking at where my life has interfaced with movements, with impactful events, and teachers. I intend to include stories of “failures” because I think they will illustrate some of the points I want to make about the joys of an imperfect, definitely not conventional, creative life. My muses sent me countless lessons about attention, delusion, competition, arrogance, and privilege. Each one of those lessons may be useful for those who are struggling to overcome their own foibles, and they may give others a chance to find self-compassion in a system that is set up to make us feel like losers. Capitalism’s demands can eventually beat the artist out of a person, and I’m hoping that the examples of emergent strategies that have shown up on my radar will encourage readers to find new ways to reseed their creative soil.

I’m not sure whether the narrative I’m shaping will be linear, but the outline that I’ve created starts with epigenetic influences and my awakening creative self (ages 4-7); I am going to give space for wherever the through line needs to move after that point. Woven into the narrative will be stories of the projects that I feel are essential medicine for all that is damaged by living in an extractivist and exploitative economy ruled by fears of the “other.”

Who am I writing this for? Our descendants and the generations coming up who are feeling listless and despairing about what’s available in their futures. I’m hopeful that there are some strands or pivot points in my life story and the innovative projects and interventions that I will share might inspire folx to shape something that allows them to breathe and create despite all the forces that want to crush them into obedient conformity. I want to offer medicine and encouragement, despite the fact that my own life had opportunities and privileges that seem to be no longer available (like cheap rent and a free graduate education).

Some of my support folks have told me that this book needs to come out by the spring, and we will see if that’s what the muses have in store. I have no publisher in mind or an agent, so I’m moving with a blind trust in the universe’s willingness to make this manifest in the best way. I welcome suggestions from readers.

and HAPPY SOLSTICE, dear readers! I hope that the return of the longer days will give each person reading here a renewed sense of possibility and purpose.

Gravity Humming

The Tender Sprouts of a Fractured Memoir