11.30.2005

I just read my post from 10/17... turns out, I'm liar.

In addition, I just wanted to see if I could write a post less than three paragraphs. Clearly brevity and I are not friends.

11.27.2005

It takes a village

I really suck at this blogging thing.

Aside from that, today was a great Sabbath. My great friends, Gregg and Cyndi, had their baby dedicated today so I went to their church and enjoyed so much being a part of the intention of raising this kid we call Brennan Brave Hampton. I'm a big supporter of the idea that it takes a village to raise a child. And we felt like one, too, as we gathered on the left side of the church behind Gregg and Cyn - us people asked to "sponsor" and love and grow Brennan up to be a good boy and a better man. The church should've tipped a bit. We were a heavy village.

This past week I went home to NY to spend Thanksgiving with the fam. I joined up with an old and very good friend. We've known each other since we were 3 and our parents collectively raised us. We went to the hospital Wednesday night to visit her father-in-law in ICU. He passed the moment she arrived at his door. The family was called and we waited for them to arrive. The wife came with her two foster children, 4 and 6. Why could she think she would be good and qualified to raise them at her grand and respectable age of 80 something? Becuase she wouldn't be the only one offering direction and care... it would be the whole community.

As this family gathering was playing itself out, the wife and her daughter needed to step out. The two boys and their pepsi's were placed in one office-furniture chair next to me with the instructions, directed at me... "You yell at them if you need to", "Boys, you listen to this lady if she speaks to you." I'm an adult, somehow connected in some way - clearly I'm trustworthy and at that point in time, was a member of the village - therefore, I was to be heeded if I spoke.

The teacher in me whipped out a packet of colored pens and drawing paper from my magic satchel and we set off to create monsters and creatures not yet discovered. After Shaka had traced his sweet little hand and learned how to write his name he enjoyed expending his energy on large and fast strokes of the pens. The other was much more meticulous and clearly, and honestly, was quite creative with what he had.

People came in and out. A large community came and I noticed that when someone was not occupied with a family member, offering condolences or discussing, they were offering words of instruction to the children because, well, that's what you do. Children need not go too long without hearing the voice of some elder in their lives.

After the the evening was over, at least in the hospital, and many hugs were offered, "God bless you" was shared in abundance, and we moved like a tribe to the elevator, I said to my friend, "This is one of the things I love about the Black Community, they know what it means to be a family, even when they're not. They know how to take care of each other and they know how to be a "village", as it were." I remember thinking when one of the other adults spoke up to one of the boys about what they're were doing "We don't see much of this among us white folk" because white folk don't do this... and if they do, people get offended. We tend to be isolated and independent, to a fault. When another adult speaks to a child, offense is taken and often a "this is my territory" look is given. Ridiculous.

I liked today for so many reasons, but today was so good to see these friends of mine say, "we realize we can't do this alone. We need all of you behind not only us, but we need each one of you to be committed to our kid because we don't have everthing he needs... but hopefully one of us in this group does. And if we're lucky and blessed, you'll all be around at some stage of this precious kid's life and we give you permission to help shape him as you see fit." I just think that's cool. I think it's reflective of Jesus' kingdom, the one I hope to see happen here on earth.

So, Good Sabbath, good thoughts for my heart today.

Thanks Gregg and Cyndi and Brennan for letting me be a part of today.

Walk The Line

Today's going to be a good day for the Jenn Swift blog. I'm posting twice because I saw "Walk The Line" today - the movie about Johnny and June Carter Cash - and I was... well, I loved it.

I've been excited about this movie for a few months. I'm not a die-hard Cash fan. I know those guys. Troy Yeager is a die-hard Cash fan. I saw him at homecoming shortly after The Man In Black died and I asked how he was doing with all the sincerity I would ask if a parent had died for him because it really was epic. So me, not die-hard, but I really like the guy. That atleast put me in the the-movie- was-being-looked-forward-to-greatly. Finally got to see it today.

It was the kind of movie that had me feeling a lot of a lot at the end. I couldn't even tell you what the "a lot" was, but it was deeplpy visceral (is that a bit redundant?) and I felt a bit like liquid when it ended 2 1/2 hours later. I haven't seen a movie fully be worth it's ticket cost in a while. This one was... probably twice. I would probably see this again. I would even own the movie and that's just not something I do. I don't buy movies. I would buy this one.

It was so worth it on many technical levels... great acting, good music, good scene work, good script... but beyond that, I left feeling something when the credits were playing. I say all that as an amateur - but I want to read eveything I can about this man, and June Carter for that matter. I want to own all their music. I want to dive in. I may become die-hard... atleast as much so as you can be after a musician dies. But I'm interested. This week I might become immersed. We'll see. But I'll see the movie again and I would recommend it to anyone I can, such as yourself. If you haven't yet, go see it.

11.11.2005

Jenn's a duster

I need a break. I should probably use a mask. I've been spray painting for the past hour. I am fascinated with spray paint and tagging. I really want to learn how to do this. A few years ago was when I started wanting to explore the hazy realm of graffiti. Two weeks after this new want I found myself in Russia next to some teenager and he was showing me how (not on public property... nice record that would've been - "American Pastor found desecrating public property in urban square with local band of taggers" - though, I'm sure, a great story that would be) He was working on a board. He let me spray a couple of lines and then gave me a cardboard box and some chalk. Not a very glamorous beginning. I apparently did not have the makings to start at "great".

I've messed around with the stuff a lot, feeling a little defensive everytime I show up at the walmart counter with 10 new cans. "Ma'am, can I see your ID?" "I promise, nice Walmart lady, I'm not huffin the stuff" - it looks a little suspicious. Clearly nothing good can come from that many cans of spray paint. None-the-less, spray I do.

In May a friend in Minneapolis asked if I would make some banners for a series their church was doing. I did two banners, 9 and 6 feet, gathered my arsenal of aeresols and went to it. Perhaps it was the fumes and the fact they were finished at 6am on a sleepless night, but I felt good about how they turned out. A week later I was in Australia at Juggler's Cafe feeling a bit more like, "why do I bother?"

Peter opened the garage door and we entered a long corridor that would be an alley between buildings if it weren't a passage made for them. The walls were completely covered and layered with images that were like nothing I'd ever seen. The smell of paint cans and brick wall (yes, that is a specific smell) was enchanting. After about 40 feet the corridor opened into a courtyard with walls maybe 15ft high and I was hit with sensory overload and it was great. Taggers had been invited over and over again to make these huge walls their playground. I felt like I was gorging myself on images and I would soon have to purge.

When I was in high school I found out about the Egyptian's philosophy of images and heard about something called horror vacui - fear of space - which is why there's no space left unfilled in their pyramid art. This experience left me feeling very much like what I imagined the Egyptians feeling. Every space was covered with something. I have a bit of affinity towards this philosophy myself which may have been why I had something of an emotional response to this all as I entered. It felt like a sanctuary.

I'm wheezing a little bit while I'm breathing right now. Lungs repair themselves, right? I grew up living in a house of smokers, left fairly unscathed, but I'm sure I'll die of lung cancer do to my artistic pursuits. Is that ironic?

Somebody just walked into the room and said, "it smells like spray paint in here". I'm a good football field away from where I'm working on the piece, but it's all over my hands, my jeans and the smell has seeped into my jacket simply by association. "It's me" I confessed, and slowly raised my hand.

I think my head's a bit heavier now, I'm probably coming down a bit from any impairing fume inhalation... time to get back to it.