9/10/98.. Parallax.

Cold fronts moving through, soaking the ground and washing out the hots. The grass is still growing like springtime, and the garden is having second, or third, thoughts. The pole beans we were ready to pull up have yielded another harvest. The squashes and cukes are doing July in September. The salads won’t quit.

Meanwhile Bermuda grass has overrun the spud patch, now the tops have died back, and volunteer cherry tomatoes are climbing over all, looking like gooseberry bushes. Every time I go past, I grab a fistful of the sweet red things. Beets, carrots, peppers, they all look like jungles. And the big tomatoes are lining the window sills, and our stomachs. Basil coming on strong. MMMMM.

I took the orange Husquavarna to the front slope, whacking it down to stubble one last time, I hope. The mosses have done so well this lush year, under the taller grasses, that the mower sinks down to its hubs out there. After clearing the set, I installed the four big ravens, gazing at the golden ball on its fluted column. A new display for a new season. Jumping from 2 foot robins to 4 foot ravens pops the house down to play scale. Ornamentation is such fun.

The boys on the paving crew redoing Rt 24 stopped to salute the birds. They all knew my name, and said that the fox chasing the chickens was still their favorite installation. It’s nice to get professional recognition.

Yesterday Russell, Annie’s trucking partner, stopped in the yard to propose a prank. I gave them a print of Annie’s Ford tractor last Christmas, and Annie has been bringing over cases of sardines that fell off the truck ever since. Now they have been invited to enter a photo contest, run by the trailer leasing outfit in Indiana they use as broker. Send in a picture of your tractor pulling one of their trailers, and if it’s used in their calendar next year, win a prize.

“Let’s be miserable,” Russell growled. “We’ll send ‘em one of your paintings. They’ll have to give us the prize.” I’m tickled. When an 80 year old trucker and her partner think my paintings are prize-winners, that’s success. I couldn’t be more pleased if I were being pursued by MOMA. Who says art is for a snooty elite?

If it’s the purpose of art to open our eyes to different ways of seeing the world, maybe more artists should be sticking cutouts on the lawn, and painting the neighbors’ rig. Put that in your catalog and sniff at it.

Of course you get your desserts wherever you eat. I think this has something to do with Heizenberg and the theory of parallel universes. Don’t they say that the act of observation turns particles into waves, or some such? I think the idea is that we get the universe we choose to observe. Envision being a local artist and you’ll end up in trailer body contests. Cast the right stones and you make waves, somewhere.

I’m psyched on this parallel possibilities paradigm. It fits nicely with giving a fig and casting the evil eye and all the other homespun hoodoo. If we actually choose our realities by acts of observation and intent, steer the world by our choice of perception, that not only gives us free will, it also raises the artist’s vision to the level of fate. Did we all get Picassoed in this century?

The parallel universe theory puts another spin on synchronicity, too. I think of all the books out there, mutating and ramifying in parallel worlds, diverging from my perceived path. But all I have to do is ask a question of fate, and informing texts fall off the shelf. I often dowse libraries and bookstores when the fey is on me, knowing the right lyric will come to hand. I’d come to think these sorts of serendippities are a sign that I’m in tune with the Tau, hip to the beat, in mid hap. Now I wonder if this book magic isn’t the result of perceptual intent, a choice of universe. Seek and you’ll find.

I propose divergent and convergent universes. The probability of most universes intersecting with my perceived reality approaches nil. Yesterday’s possibilities are less likely than today’s. Each step we take precludes past alternatives. The perception of time invokes divergence. I’m not going to be an heptathlete, at least not on this path. But my choice of intent may bend reality so my universe is convergent with others of similar intent.

See what I’m fumbling after? Observe that our social universe is constantly shrinking. We keep encountering people we already have a connection with, beyond all plausibility, like the coincidences in a Dickens plot. Doesn’t that sound like converging universes?

So this week I’m dippiting into the seren again. We had a heated discussion with family and friends at a dinner a while back about the pros and cons of corporate capitalism in developing economies. Whether capitalism underwrites better lives, is basically immoral, or simply amoral. The match was a draw, but it exposed some old bones that I’ve been gnawing. In particular the delusions of affluence. The fatuity of being fat and happy. I can’t help feeling nervous in a boom economy, or wondering about the dark underbelly of the beast.

That’s when two books about family fictions among the rich turn up alongside the bed. One is about a plantation family in South Carolina, called “Slaves in the Family,” the other is about Stanford White’s kinfolk, “The Architect of Desire.” Both superb books. Both about the corrosive effects of sustained denial. The Balls were slave owners for two centuries, but clung to the myth of the happy darkies. White’s people chose to forget that Stanford was a sexual predator. Both books remind us that there is a shadow behind all our acts which is better illuminated. The sensuous spaces of a grand architecture, and the cultured tradition of Charleston, may be built on mire. Both authors are writing for catharsis. Confronting family shadows so they can escape the dark. I wonder if the Great American Family is ready to wash its linen so thoroughly. Admit the costs of affluence.

Last night we had a potluck for Carlo’s drawing group at Chez Muir. It’s a treat to hang out with so many talented young artists, and our old cronies. The board was groaning. We put up samples of our drawings in the empty front room, and got to look over each others’ shoulder. I was buttonholed by Guy, an older gent who’s been drawing with us recently. He was very flattering about my work, but could see that I didn’t know how to promote myself, capture fame, and soak the rich. I obviously didn’t see the way to affluent success.

Spot on. I can’t envision a path to commodification. He suggested sub-contractors who could do the woodwork. I was polite but noncommittal. In a different universe. I don’t think Guy got it when I bragged about entering a trailer contest.