A Thread Of Good Memories

[anni]

It wouldn't matter. I don't think. How old the memories are-good would be good? Puppies would have to make a few!

 

[anni]

I just had to go Google Catahoola Leapord Dog- HEE! WHAT great faces, soooo happy! A very good friedn has a border collie who is hysterical- the biggest personaility I've ever met in a dog. She can open the refridgerator when her mother is at work, and does, if they don't remember a bungie cord. Oh it does sound like your memories will be awfully good ones with your new puppy-someone had a good thought with that mix, surely!

 

[Iam]

I googled it too and oh my gosh TL....they are so adorable! I know Border Collies are considered the smartest dogs. I bet the Catahoola Leapord Dog is right up there. Sounds like a good mix ;o)
Do you yourself need a service dog or are you training for another reason? My mom had a golden retriever that was a certified therapy dog. She took him everywhere and they worked with kids who suffered with autism. What a great team they were!

Hmm.....a good memory...ah I've got it!

When I was growing up we used to go to a campground in the Sierra's called Bear Meadow. Side note...we took our sons there too. It is on the North Fork river. As was typical, my brother and I would get up early to go fishing and then fish in the evening too. This particular day, can't remember what time but I think it was in the morning, my brother and I headed up stream. About a 1/4 of the way up to the big pool that was our usual turn around point, was large granite boulder that overhung the stream with a nice deeper pool. A good fishing hole. My brother had lost a fish there several times over the last couple of days. He'd hook it but lose it everytime. I talked about leap frogging in my last post. I was headed around Pete to go to the next good spot. We always walk as far around the other person so we don't disturb them or spook the fish in the shallow stream.

I was in the forest, the early morning sunlight streaking through the trees in streams. It was high mountain morning chilly out, but when a sun beam caught you.... the warmth cut through and felt wonderful. It had the damp smell of a forest....I wish I could describe it fully, kind of mossy with the distinct smell of pine and the river. Scrub jays would occassionaly scream, they really are noisy birds. And of course the sound of the river was constant. In this spot the stream was calm and had more of a babbling sound with the quiet rush of rapids in the not too far distance.

I decided to stay and watch my brother, 3 years my senior, fish. He was tall with sandy blond shoulder lenght hair. Dressed in brown words and a cream colored button down, long sleeved shirt that had an earth colored design of small flowers on twigs. A sun beam had broken thru the forest canopy and was beating on his back. This would be his fourth try to catch this elusive fish that seemed smart enough to take the bait without getting hooked. My brother, the expert fisherman. I mean that in all sincerity. I watched as he cast upstream and let the bait float down river past the hole where the fish lurked in the shade of the boulder. Reel in slowly, cast and do it all over again. Finally the fish struck and Pete set the hook. He pulled that 10 inch trout in and whooped outloud!!!!

My brother didn't know I was standing in the shade of the forest watching him. Nor did he know the immense pleasure I felt watching him in his determination and glory.
If my brother should pass before me, he has asked me to scattered his ashes in a stream, any stream. Can you guess where I will go to do this? This is the picture I will always carry in my heart of my dear brother.

 

[anni]

The good ones are SO clear! Gives me such hope that this ridiculous memory crap isn't going to be comprehensive and worse and worse because it really is intrusive across the board, you know? The fact that you can pick these pretty things out of your head which are treasured must mean SOMETHING- wouldn't be possible if ALL the wires in there are all fefluffled!

Nothing like a good, addicted fisherman. You wrote it so that it made one happy for him that he got that fish in the end, too!

 

[Iam]

Yes Anni HOPE! Isn't it that which keeps us going and trying? There has been and is good in our lives. Which do we choose to dwell on? It also occurred to me this morning that there is good that came out of our abuse. You probably just screamed "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" Are we not more compassionate towards others because of it? I am sure there are other positive qualities that have been caused or enhanced because of our abuse. I am a survivor and am far more persistant and hard working than I might have been otherwise. It is far easier for me to be forgiving of and compassionate towards others than it is to extend that same mery to myself. I want to be able to integrate both the good and the bad of my life and myself so that I can be whole. I HAVE to do this, accept all of me, to become whole.

I remember in 6th grade camping at the same spot I mentioned above. That day we went fishing further up in a place called Pacific Meadows. It was just a little brook that we caught dolly vardins out of. Beautiful, this huge meadow surrounded by pine trees. There was a mare and her colt grazing there. The colt and I became friends. He would grab hold of my shirt tail in his mouth and followed me everywhere all day. The mare standing off in the distance keeping an eye on her little guy. It was amazing that this colt took such a liking to me and of course it was exhilirating to me to think I had connected with this horse. Horses....my main love and fantasy. Evening came and the colt wanted to play. He obviously thought I was another horse so acted as any playful colt would, coming at me running, rearing and bucking. A very dangerous situation. My father, who was on the other side of the barbed wired fence, saw and slipped thru the wires in a flash. He ran up, placing himself between me and the colt, slapping him in the nose and then pulling me between the barbed wire to safety. My father was a hero in my eyes at that instant. I still find it amazing that colt followed me all day. Wonder what he saw in me, why he wanted to stay close. Why this connection I have with horses? I don't know but I am glad it's there!

 

[anni]

Hee!

No, I didn't jump up screaming- but funny! I have many, many times thought the same thing and not worded it so very basicallly because it didn't seem like I SHOULD just baldly come out and say it like that. But it's true for all the reasons stated. Good heavens denying that I think is to hold on to too much of this crap and I can't do that anymore.it's hard to explain, because it was allll so awful-and the damage is certainly there. I have some bones which look funny from the outside, I walk with a limp sometimes, my voice is actually hoarse when i talk too long and have to speak loudly then(or really softly-depends) because my larnyx was crunched by fingers at one time-other little physical things besides the stupid fog/memoryfragmented crap you can't see. Just the STUFF-it's not going anywhere. But what a different person and outlook than was there before! Who knows who one would be 'if'-it's a moot point. I do know that if there's anything at all I genuinely like about myself it's the things I know are there which I think are the GOOD things, perhaps, and are there because of 'what happened'. You siad it so WELL-I've often thought it-and found what you wrote extremely helpful. The dmage one can't see includes stubbornly disliking myself, and dammit-I LIKE those things, So nice to flat-out say that.

Funny too the horsey trends here at the moment, and HOW we've gotten taken back to ours-the moments and the single beasties too. I think it's something to do with competance, maybe, and these big lovely things who liked us so simply, and times before ALL THAT. Maybe I'll mess it all up trying to analyze the why's so shall just shush and watch the pictures when you draw them of yours. I have to think about some of my best moments. there- haven't yet and suspect it will be hugely comforting. Went for years and years not being able to listen to music because I could not STAND all of a sudden being made to feel something-like what a song does to you. Seriously couldn't-YEARS. Good memories I couldn't either-same reason-they hurt. It's like Christmas, these last few years slowly liking music again, and now also starting to let these nice, happy memories pop open. They make me cry but it's nice! :)

That was genuinely awfully helpful, you know-really want to let you know that!

 

[Iam]

I am so glad Anni. I want to be whole...so much. I can't remember a time "before it all happened" as the abuse was always there. Even so, there were good things that my parents did with us, good things that they taught us.

My father is an artist. He wasn't by profession because my mom belitteled it. She was a concert percussionist and played the piano beautifully. My brother got the musical side. Me, I got the artistic side, though I had the raw talent, I never had the passion to perfect it.

I remember one day when I was maybe 11. My father was teaching me to work with pastels and charcoal. I thought of the picture in my room at my grandparents house. A picture that now hangs in my great room. I drew the barn, but instead of a lake in front of it I put in a corral. My father taught me how to shadow the door so that the interior looked dark and make large sweeping stokes for the branches of the willow trees. I was so proud of that picture. My father was offered $300 for it by a gallery owner he knew, but he said no. Instead he framed and kept it. It still hangs on his bedroom wall. I wonder...what if? What if my father had sold it to that gallery owner.......would I have become an artist of repute? Ahhh....who knows and does it matter? It was so sweet to sit there that day, creating with my father. HIs teaching me, sharing himself and liking what I did. We didn't have much money, but my parents took us to art museums, plays and classical concerts in San Francisco. They educated us and exposed us to the "upper" culture so that when we were grown we could hold our own with anybody. There was good.......yes, there was.

 

[James B.]

I have some good memories. In the summer of 2000 I was able to do a bunch of high-country back pack trips. I went mostly by myself, and mostly to the same lake at about 8000' elevation in this amazing mountain cirque surrounded by peaks and glaciers. It was a nice summer, I felt very alive and very lucky to have this experience.

 

[Iam]

Sounds beautiful James!

 

[Sammy]

I also loved horses. My mom was extremely allergic so would become quite upset if I went near them. However, when I was in high school (incidentally. also while I was being abused...) our neighbors had a big, old paint horse I was free to ride whenever I wanted (I washed my own clothes so my mom didn't have to go near them). He was in a pasture and was left to himself. Toby always seemed to know when I was coming to visit and would be at the gate or in the upper pasture, waiting for me. Of course, it took a handful of grain and some baling twine to catch him - as if he couldn't walk away any time he wanted! I remember long moments, standing in the sun, grooming him. He would become so relaxed, his head would hang, eyes closed, lower lip drooping. Some days I'd put on a halter, crawl aboard and take him to another pasture. I'd lie in his back in the sun, half asleep, as he grazed or dozed. On other days, we wandered to the nearby creek to play in the water. With Toby, I felt safe. And he with me. Probably for the first time in my life and perhaps in his (he was older than I was!). He had been rescued and had phobias of his own. But not with me. He would follow me, hang his head over my shoulder, lean against me, plant that big, gentle head against my chest and close his eyes. I would cry my tears of fear, hurt and teenaged angst into his shoulder. Toby was my best friend.

All these decades later, I still have one of his horseshoes.

My, what wonderful memories.

 

[Iam]

;o) Sammy......your story touches my heart. I can see Toby putting his head over your shoulder and hugging you to his chest. I am so glad that you had a friend like him during that traumatic time. Amazing memory, thanks for sharing!

 

[anni]

It's not cool to feel one's post is being skipped over and don't mean to James- yours is exactly what the thread is allll about, too! I know what I did it, those memories made me cry later after the lump in my throat dissolved. They are SOOO important, I think. Even without details the picture was so CLEAR, too-another good point on clarity in these prescious memories as opposed to the trauma fog of the others.Something we OWN, too-noone can take it away from us. I like that thought. They are MINE.

I was SO taken by your artists vein of thought, Iam. That was something else I couldn't do for awhile-too much feeling involved in the creation of things. I'm an artist by profession now-horses something which is more an addicton which makes ends meet sometimes.(hee-sound like I'm doing something illegal with shady characters in a dark alley!) You're rather besieged on all sides with the creative, talent DNA, aren't you and whew?

Please do not be offended if I come across as one of those 'well let me tell YOU, missy, because I know SO muc you can't exist without MY wise input'' sort of folks. Bleacchh and vomit. You know the type.I SOO do not mean to-have been knocking around the genre for decades, figured out some dynamics good and bad and have dug into m own personal niche now. Art is tough, that's all. I'd originally been a commercial art major-my grandfather had been a professioanl artist-must have gotten 'it' from him, whatever on earth IT is!

I loathedddd commercial art-oh my! All I got out of the first 2 years was the credits and a profound dilike for the world one would have had to immerse oneself in to make a lving. Cutthroat? Ha! Stayed in classes and just began developing my own vague concepts of what I WISHED to do. There's a crap shoot-the words 'starving artist' are no in our vernacular accidentally, I can assure you! Ever seen the breathtaking work in chalk art on any city street? Kept at though out of of course sheer creative drive and the inkling of an idea that niches are there to be made, not found without compromising oneself terribly.My work has no 'deep meaning'-as in 'wel this piece means the end of civilization as we know it' (when the painting shows a black dot on a green canvas-you know what I mean)while the person looking at it nods wisely so they do not look like an idiot because it just looks like a dot to them. It is, of course- the rest is pretty much a load of dishwater.My 'stuff' is mostly allll basic, there days-my niche and what I LIKE myself. Neo-folk I think is the term, or even outsider art-who cares-I like it plus it sells well so ha. :) It's single message in the end is that evokes happiness-how Pollyana-but it does and it's the intent, if there must be one.

The thing is, that I have ever seen a room full of artists I did not wish to instantly escape from, PTSD reclusivness notwithsatding. You'd THINK it would be a group of nice, laid back, peacefull eccentrics all encouraging the creative procces in their peers. Uh-huh.I've treid manyyy times to join various droups in various levels-pushed through this stupid antisocial PTSD crap and would go. Good God. There would be a few exceptions but mostly one enters the room, work under your arms and you set it up with the others works while they watch. There's a lot of little smug smiles and whispering before you figure out the whole idea of such gatherings isn't supportive at ALL. It's to make dam well sure noone else is doing anything which elicits more admiration than yours. Since only a rare artist will sincerely praise another's work ( unless they're dead and painted a good 3 centurie ago) this wouldn't be in the cards anyway. I'm aware, as I write this, another professional will take umbrage and write to tell me what a load on nonsense this is.I do have the credentials, and experience and some decades now of respectable sales under my belt so will quite sturdily stand my ground, however. No sour grapes-I SELL, so would not be inclined to witch over things out of jealousy.In my expereince I've found a room full of artists is one which I personally do not find to be a warm and inviting one, much less enouraging. You KNOW what you are capable of-you should just DO it and take not one piece of input from anyone until you can comfortalbly fend off the negativity that is out there. The presupposes you wish to pursue being an artist-I know. It's just that being one myself I recognize that yep- you ARE one and probably have no coice in the atter, whether you scribble somthing on paper once inwhile or go buy yourself canvas and brushes and go to town! :) Your love of it is so clear-wow!I know all the snotty artists I avoid have the same feeling too-just rather insecure somewhere. Anyway- allll this to say that I can't help feeling you've 'got' it, whether for personal use or professional-and sometimes it can really, realy take chunks out of you not to DO something with it.All conncected with your father, too, so suspect your work might have something very strong running through it. Wish people would understand that THAT is frequently the 'meaning' of a work, you know?Elusive to put into words but you know what I mean?

OH so sorry to be so long-it's my profession but it's also ME-the artist thing. When people ask me what I do, and I get to say 'artist'-well-it makes me smile only because it feels just kind of nice to have a word to say not only what I do, but to b allowed the validation of saying also who I am. Funny! So paint or smudge or draw ot whatever-paid or unpaid you sound an awful lot like one of us. :)

SUCH a long post, and if it makes no sense just sort of let your eyes glaze over and pretend you forgot to check these replies today!

Take care,

Anni