Mind like a steel trap…heart like a sieve…hands are machines…

Caution: contains curse-words that some readers may find offensive…

This experimentation in using all eight tracks on the DP-02 is pretty scattered…though not so awful as one may imagine or perhaps more awful? I learned a lot. That is the point of this project. Learning. I have learned that my voice is strained and that sometimes un-connected tracks converge in ways quite pleasing and that sometimes the tracks you struggle to sync simply do not. I got a lot done today…four “groups” and a couple of errands. I learned that pressing on my larynx produces different vocal tonality. I think I am trying to learn to sing. I sang loud and well, Friday and Saturday. Perhaps that is why my wind is reed thin today. Restrung and tuned up old classical with the resonant buzz, Yamaha something or other…another salvage from my childhood home…it’s pretty beat up…the guitar, not the home…I would not know of the latter. Good night.

The text that follows the video is my unbelievably long youtube commentary. I wrote lyrics to two songs…but my voice warbles too much to sing them right now. They are for guitar, I think – an instrument whose neck I am not used to holding…lighter but wider than my girl, The Silver Princess banjo.

Well, the issue is that somehow this .avi film is taking forever to upload. 4ever. I guess I used the wrong program to make the movie. I am learning quick and dirty all the ins and outs of the technology of documentation, both funded and unfunded. Uh oh. I feel an essay coming on.

The thing that gets me…and this REALLY gets me…SERIOUSLY. TRUE STORY. My family – 92% – of it…my children and small portions of my mother and children…has a tendency to WHOLESALE DISREGARD my ARTIST-NESS (the term is borrowed from one of artful ilk by self-definition. Hyphens are added for appropriate social distance and words are used in a neutral sense as they pertain to the life and identity of FR RHYNE (whomever that is?) (Oh, yeah…me. Good ol’ Faith.)

The issue is that my conception of self is in stark contrast to the conception of Faith Rachel Rhyne as defined by her family and community. It is obvious that I have some small degree of, if not talent…then at least perseverative and hyperprolific plucky optimism. See? Just then: I wanted to write “plucky motherfuck-y optimism”

But, noooooooo…my internal censor said, “Better not do that Faith. Could come back in an ugly way.” It’s true, I toss out these boomerangs with full awareness of all the movements that precede the launch of wood from fingertips…even at my most “unstable” (read: 4-6 red bull per day, on sale with Advantage Card the week I shut down…in Intensive Oupatient they call it Turtling…retreating when under threat…after sitting and listening to people laugh at my Cloud Study (which is less about clouds and more about universality in myth, structure, and belief)(…and the implications that our small time views has on our big time story, as a species…)(As well as a few genuine pleas for assistance or acknowledgment or something…more urgent with each unanswered email…I tend to view everything as a big experiment…otherwise my heart would be broken into smithereens…Asking for help and not receiving it is hard…even when all you really want is someone to acknowledge you as being somehow worthy of their time…not the “you” they see, but the self that is – if you are FR Rhyne – really trying to tidily do away with the girl who turned the other cheek ’til her head spun ’round like taffy and who played dumb and quiet ’til she burst at the seams in hideous ways…weeping in airports and crying on bended knee…just like it made my good old Uncle Marcus run away to drink on Forsyth Street in old Jacksonville, Florida. 1919. He wanted to be an architect. A respectable job for the son of a Judge. He probably didn’t love buildings any more than he loved horses and statues. He was another artist who couldn’t help but to see how it all was constructed, who was born to the writers of Reconstruction in the historical sense of the word and who had dark eyes just like mine.

What really bothers me about ALL OF THIS is that my family knows I am of a certain ilk of mindful observation. Why is it that I must relegate my experience of our detailed study to muted hues and private giftings to be hung in bathrooms? I don’t care if I make money from endeavors that feel art-full to me…I just want to be recognized by people who claim to love me as being quite stable and quite remarkable in her precociousness. I am not being braggy. It is weird to be a Jack of so many trades and a master only at weaving them all together. It feels strange and alienating to me that nobody in my family even discusses the fact that I have written well-over a thousand pages of public text and a thousand more of private, that I continue to draw and paint and now, music and innkeeping? The innkeeping is a long story. I intend to say that housework and domesticity strike me as more pleasing if I think of my home in terms of “What if there were a Cuckoo Clock that was really a small inn, so small it was almost a secret, and the hedges were trimmed like walls and within those walls of olived green the most delightful things occurred…biscuits were baked and rabbits were fed, the hedgehogs received their worms. Small dogs seemed like spies for the clouds that gathered whenever the Innkeeper sat upon her porch, her feet placed firmly on a heart-shaped rug that read, “SWEET HEART”

I am not an innkeeper, my dog is not a spy and if he were he would certainly be charged with a task less lofty than clouds, short as he is. I am just a 34-year old blahblahblah. I’ve said it all before. I know what I make of myself and I wonder, why doesn’t anyone seem to care about the parts of me that I find so vital to myself? The parts that were left standing when it all fell apart. Thank goodness it all fell apart. Hopefully, the next artists in this family will feel as if they belong and as if the work they do is valued…if not by their communities, if not by the world…well, then: at least by their mothers.

I wonder sometimes why my Uncle Marcus’ drawings and letters were kept…nearly a hundred years! A warning, an insight…or do artists in this family end up inevitably sad stories? No way am I going to end up a sad story. I tell my own story and if anyone dare think I am sad, well: You should be ashamed at your arrogance in thinking you know what is best for anyone other than yourself.

(Yes…maybe I have no right to interpret the best interests of my dead uncle…however, what right do you then have to interpret me? Check? Mate.)

It occurred to me that perhaps all the water and soil and chemical catalyst we have dumped into our atmosphere may be evolutionarily reactive. Am I like Chicken Little? No. However, when the sky falls and the world flips, I might be the first to say: I told you so. It is late, 2:28…

Here is an eight minute essay, while this video finishes uploading:

Unfunded Cultural Interpretations: The Culture of People
Funded Cultural Interpretations: The Culture of People as Defined By Media
1. profit driven
2. disempowering
3. places itself over Unfunded Cultural Interpretations

Okay…that wasn’t quite an essay. Six minutes to go. Why not just stop writing? It is the curse of the newly hyperprolific…the fear that, if you stop, it will stop…and I don’t want my confidence in my capacity to see and interpret in ways that make the world meaning and hopeful and interesting to me to go away. I want my kids to come home. However, I refuse to be dogged for the rest of my life and I insist that the people in my life treat me with respect and honor my atypicalities as gifts rather than “illness” –

I am doing my best to accommodate a world and a community that I find increasingly unaccomodating…(DSM-IV defense…no, shitheads…that does not mean suicidal ideation…it means I am sick of having to check myself against your criteria and to shoulder the weight of your negativity. That is your issue, not mine. I refuse to turn the other cheek any further. I am hurting noone and – in fact – if you weren’t so busy disregarding me and my meta-synthetic ways…well, you might realize that my work may actually be helpful to me, and perhaps others…)

By the way, I am not manic. It’s called coffee, people. Coffee. I just put Mania into the tags so that the video will come up when people search for images of whatever shit they just got told defined them as based on subjective criteria. I still want a list of my reasons for Involuntary Commitment (last week+1/2 of September) – I want to see the Magistrate’s Papers…I want my records…

Chances are good that I am terribly mis-represented and that the whole thing is riddled with disdain for my interpretation, bruises and evidence aside.

Letter 1

If by ‘way in greenville’ you mean getting into trouble in greenville – well, fuckin’ cut it out. Go somewhere else. Go sit at a piano in a fancy hotel lobby and play what your heart tells you to play. If you disappear into smoke and mirrors, well – I’ll kick your ass.

Shit, go to Atlanta and dress up nice, act like you belong at the bench and just play. If they tell you to leave, bow nicely and walk out. If they have you arrested, sue them. Go to each and every hotel and play every hurt you ever hurt and every joy you ever felt until someone notices. They will.

Seriously – don’t disappear. **deleted** find some nice Old Black Lady Church and tell em you need help with your hair and your clothes. Tell ’em your plan to play every Hilton highrise ’til Paris herself notices. Tell them to please believe in you and send you on your way wearing the clothing of their grandsons – dead or disappearred. Seriously, ——. It is what you have to do.

Catch you on the flipside. I am scramblin’ myself – I think I might turn my house into an Inn of sorts. I don’t know. Either than or I’ll be in a van down Folly Beach way come the winter. Cold as fuck. No way. I do what I have to do, you do what you have to do.

I know I keep telling you “go see the church ladies” – I don’t give a damn about religion, but those ladies are no joke and their faith will carry you as far as you let it…no pun intended.

I miss you as well. I made a great noodle/mushroom situation the other night and forced myself to eat the whole damn pan of it myself…your portion and mine. We’ll get up again sometime…unless of course you **deleted** truck driving school and petty women.

Get you a suit, wear it well.

Keep good notes so you get a book out of it, too. Tupac: A Rose From Concrete or whatever. The thing I like most about that little book he published is that his penmanship is good, his thoughts clear, his voice true…

Man, you got to get your shit 2gether. Get it?

Love Always Your Friend,

Faith

Letter 2

I have to say only that I always knew in my heart of hearts that we are the same in different ways. Thank you for your kindness and sensitivity. I APPRECIATE YOU!

Letter 3

Telephone: (828) 545-8321 or (828) 252-1158

I can assure you that if actual funds are received, they will be well-managed and well-used. Please see my website, www.mynameisfaith.net for more information about me. I am currently out of: milk, toilet paper, ‘wet’ dogfood, wood pellets for heat, and my bank account is – I think – overdrawn. If I receive funds, they will be managed by ***deleted***, a fine gentleman with an office in nearby Fairview, North Carolina.

Thank you again. This is truly fascinating. If you require further information or if there are undisclosed conditions, please do let me know.

With Sincerity and Thanks,

Faith Rachel Rhyne

Letter 4

Well, you got in touch with me at a really c-r-a-z-y time when I was – due to energy drinks (red bull?) – totally obsessed with thoughts of how exactly the old stories might play out in our messy modern world. It made perfect sense to me that you – a beautiful refugee – would get in touch to teach the world (i.e. The Money Making Countries) a lesson about being thankful for what we have and not trampling so many women and children in the march toward ‘progress.’ Sorry if I neglected to write you back. Things here got very strange with my family. They aren’t very impressed by art or questioning or hopefulness or anything.

They actually sent me to a mental hospital. Isn’t that insane! (No pun intended.) It’s a longer story than that, but I am working on being more brief in my writing. I tend to go on and on and on. Anyway, I actually met a woman today whose husband is from Senegal and then I remembered my friend Lilian and almost asked if maybe ya’ll are related…how silly and American of me, as if there are only a few Senegalese. Besides, you are – if I recall – from Sudan? I thought about visiting Sudan when I was studying Arabic in college. I also wanted to go to Tunisia. And Egypt. And…everywhere:)

Fortunately, life is long. I just wanted to take a minute and thank you again for writing me when I was asking for help. Seriously, you are the ONLY ONE WHO WROTE! Isn’t that crazy? People ought to be nicer. I hope you are well and that no problems resulted from my ‘public’ (blogged) appreciation of your kindness. Sad, that we live in a world where good deeds and nice people are harmed for being good and nice.

I met a beautiful young man here who you would LOVE. He is in Greenville right now, but I am hoping he gets his act together soon. He can play piano like an angel. Do you play music or sing or dance? Art saves my American ass every single day…I would really be crazy if it weren’t for art and music.

Thanks again,

Faith
Asheville, NC
USofA

www.mynameisfaith.net

If you did get in trouble for me blogging about how nice you are, feel free to seek amnesty in my spare room. I don’t have any money, but if you ever need help – please: tell me and I will try to help. Asheville is a beautiful town.

Letter 5 (excerpted)

Of course, he forgets stuff like that one of the “mental health professionals” that advised against me having time with my kids due to “instability” (Funny how fear and confusion, in the wake of a mild assault and out-of-nowhere invol. commitment, can appear as ‘agitation’ – I just wanted to know why I had to wear a hospital shirt that was totally see-thru. I understood that, somewhere, some poor woman had tried to hang herself with a brassiere…but, really? Was it necessary to place me so evidently nippled in front of the co-workers that I knew had been told grievous distortions about my mental health for what, months? Nope. For at least a couple of years, Mr. would come home to tell the Mrs. just how crazy she was for being concerned about her children’s psychosocial development, and how sick she was for wanting to maintain a close relationship with her family of origin. Turns out he was right on that one…I think the Old Southern Family is co-dependent as hell…)

Anyway – I am well. Creatively, this has been a landslide and I now, officially, consider myself an optimist…making the best out of hurtful and tedious situations…

Whoa! What a run-on sentence. Happens sometimes with the high verbal capacity…anyway, one of the “professionals” that told the DSS CPS SW that I was unstable actually received a David Byrne ticket – night of show – from me, because the boy was feverish and even though my Mom was over to watch him, I couldn’t go…

Some people really ought to take better notes. It doesn’t take an idiot to figure out who your friends are…or who theirs are…

So, I’m good. Trying to singcrochetdrawpaintplay as much as possible. Looking for work in a well-heated assisted living facility. Overnights would be great. You may get a call.

Thanks for being steady. You are one of the few who have my hard-to-earn respect.

Letter 6

Currently I am at my computer in my house, with a smudge-y bundle of sage burning downstairs. The kids are with ***deleted***, but they are okay…tougher than I thought. I am really making good use of the time. Instead of being all sad and boo-hoo, I am recording a tons of songs of variable quality and practicing my improv banjo playing+reading of books such as Emily Post’s NEW Book of Etiquette, Whitman, and Social Theory: The Classic and Multicultural Readings. I am also developing my skill as a brilliant surrealist, in 2-D, 3-D and, given appropriate quantities of Red Bull, 4-D.

Come teach me how to sing better if ever you’d like. I am thinking of turning my house into a strange little Inn and hope to have the children back within my partial care soon – just waiting for folks to realize how significantly they screwed up in thinking I am ‘unstable’

I am perfectly stable, don’t folks know anything about post-modernism and anomic identity crisis with families, anything at all about the collusion of macrostructural control mechanisms and microcosmic fear of evolutionary thought process.

Yup. I am now, officially, an optimist. I think I might also be a soprano? You should probably help me out with that, perhaps with some baking of bread involved. I would think that the scent of baking bread would improve my vocal tonality considerably.

Oh! You like scandals, don’t you? Listen to this – one of the “mental health professionals” involved in my systemic slander actually received a deep discount, night of show David Byrne ticket from me last year-and-a-half ago-ish…the boy was feverish and so I couldn’t go to the show. Even though my mom was here to look after him and I adore Mr. Byrne and his snappy white outfits. Isn’t that something? She should probably re-collect that, huh?

(Please note sardonic tone of Letter 6 and refrain from using my right to voice disdain of practice and process against me in any way, actual or conceptual. In other words, relax. Please.)

*********
You have NO IDEA how much I have left out.

This is a detail of a drawing I started about this time last year, of Pleura at the entrance to some mine-like shaft…the guardians asleep…I might paint it.

Who knows?

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