kay stoner

What are you doing?

2011-04-20T19:09:00.000-04:00

What are you up to? What are you doing? What are you helping to make happen in the world?

Each day, in a thousand little ways, we influence the lives and experiences of others. Our words influence. Our actions influence. Our very thoughts influence. And around us, the world responds to our input.

I'm not talking about anything particularly esoteric. Just basic logistics. Say there's a misunderstanding at work, and someone says or does something really bone-headed to someone. That someone goes into a funk and goes home at the end of the day in a rotten mood. Their kids irritate them, and they yell at the kids and their spouse. The kids and spouse in turn feel bad and "share the wealth" of discord with each other and the rest of their world, throughout the following days. And the one who was wronged carries a chip on their shoulder that colors much of what they hear and say and do -- not necessarily for the better.

Over the long run, you end up with problematic relationships all around, which -- as we are coming to realize -- create all sorts of other problems in the world. And not just at work. Of course, at work, there's the lost productivity (and possible impact to margin) thanks to frayed relationships. But in individual lives as well, there's a cost.

Once upon a time, it was thought to be enough to tell people to "suck it up" and "deal with it" and all that was wrong with the world would manage to make itself right. Now we know that the wrongs don't necessarily right themselves through sheer force of will (the quantum field notwithstanding), and sucking it up may only get you so far. Never mind the immune suppression, the susceptibility to illness and disorders, and the general havoc that unfolds in social ecosystems, thanks to unchecked drama.

It's all connected. There's no escaping it. We can pretend we're rugged individuals with no impact on others, but the facts indicate otherwise. We are connected.

Now, if you believe in the quantum field (as I do), you may be more inclined to consider your very thoughts and expectations to be powerful things. And if you believe in manifestation and the power of positive thinking, as many an individual does (I'm on the fence, I must admit) you may believe with ever fiber of your being that we all have the power to make our world according to our wishes.

But even if you don't believe in all that stuff, the fact remains that everything we do has consequence. The things we make, the connections we cultivate, the actions we take... it all has impact. But we often don't realize it. We're so invested in believing we are helpless victims who have been repeatedly wronged, who have no say over what happens in the world around us, who have no sway over our life circumstances. We get so caught up in thinking we are victims, we are targets, we are oppressed, we are at odds with all the world around us...

In a way, it's invigorating, especially if you're the kind of person who lives for the fight. But ultimately, it's draining, and if your fiestiness doesn't outlast your physical strength (how long till you cross paths with someone who's bigger, stronger, and a whole lot angrier than you?), eventually your autonomic nervous system is going to show the effects.

Adrenal depletion is remarkably resistant to sheer willpower, after all...

Anyway, this is the start of a little exploration I'm on -- the kind that never actually ends.

All I'm asking for now is, What are you doing? What are you making of your world? How are you being in your world?

Next time I'll ask, "And why?"

The view of Prospect Hill

2010-07-18T09:54:00.000-04:00

Here's a landscape I painted last winter for my Mom for her birthday. It's hanging over the couch in the living room. I wasn't expecting it to come out this way, but I'm really happy how it emerged.

It's oil pastels with gouache and watercolor, marker, and acrylic on watercolor paper. It's about 4 feet wide by 18 inches high -- about 4x2 feet, with the frame.

I know it "works" because when I was getting it ready to give to my Mom, I had an almost overwhelming urge to keep it and make her something else. But I overcame the urge, and now a lot more people get to enjoy it than me.

Queen Woot

2010-06-29T20:27:00.000-04:00

Mama Donna (Queen of Herself) has posted (edited) portions of a piece I wrote about a year ago. It's still as important to day as ever.

Thanks Queen Donna!

http://blog.beliefnet.com/thequeenofmyself/2010/06/a-call-to-queendom.html

Confessions of a happy person

2010-04-25T14:19:00.000-04:00

Before I trundle off to bed for my Sunday afternoon nap, I have a confession:

I'm happy.

Now, it might not seem like that big of a deal, but in light of the state of the world, and in light of the states of minds of lots of people I meet, I think it's, well, unique.

See, here's the thing -- I'm really, really happy. Not just pleasantly surprised at how well this day is going... not just relaxed and enjoying myself... not just feeling no pain. Au contraire. I am feeling a bit of pain over a number of different issues.

But at the very core, at the center of who and what I am, in the most authentic fiber of my being, I'm happy.

Woo hoo!

The Sense of a Powerful Place

2010-04-04T10:18:00.000-04:00

Some time ago, I had an business appointment at a building whose tenants were global and powerful. Some of the most successful companies in their sectors had their headquarters in this massive steel-and-glass structure, built high atop a hill overlooking a reservoir along one of the most heavily traveled corridors in eastern Massachusetts. The building was clearly visible from below, and I'd glanced up at it many a time, while traveling north and south on the interstate far below.

When the appointment came up, I was excited to go. I had always wondered what it was like, up on that hill. On either side of the highway at "sea level", modern office buildings had proliferated over the years with impressive designs and intriguing logos prominently displayed for clear visibility to both north- and south-bound traffic. But up on the hill... that was a location of a completely different order. Whoever had their corporate presence up there was literally a cut above the rest.

I made a point of leaving early, to leave myself ample time to soak up the experience. I checked Google Maps thoroughly, figuring out multiple routes of approach, in case traffic got bad. I knew there had been construction around one of the main interchanges, and I didn't want to be distracted by lane shifts and Jersey barriers, along the way. I checked the map version... and the traffic version... and I also checked out the satellite, to see where the parking lots were located. Alas, there was no "street view" available, but I could make do in any case.

I found my way there in good time and got through the snarls of the interchange without incident, then made my way slowly along the reservoir, dodging potholes and keeping an eye out for the street number of my destination. Numerous office parks were built into the hillside, marked by substantial signs heavy with names that evoked a sense of practiced nonchalance with power. Near the end of the road, I spotted the number I was seeking, and with a quick left turn I began my ascent.

Just driving up to the building was awe-inspiring. The well-paved roadway, its lanes clearly delimited with tight-fitting gray curbstones on the outside and neat white lines between, wound up-up-up, past manicured "softscapes" and lower buildings, terraced parking areas, and stands of strategically maintained trees. I drove past signs that told of occupancy by well-known tenants, and followed the arrows to the very end of the road, where my destination awaited.

The campus high atop the hill was comprised of the usual amenities: plenty of parking (but precious little shade) surrounded a massive structure in lots that branched off one another like lobes of a liver. The afternoon sun and scattered clouds scuttling across the blue sky danced across the surface of powerfully framed, reflective windows, as though the massive bulk behind it were little more than a chimera designed to impress with glass and steel and Bauhaus-like austerity.

Air and Glass by AurelioZen

At first approach, the volume of the building was palpable, as though it were animated with a spirit of its own. If the intention of the architect was to convey a sense of protective power, they'd succeeded -- with me, at least. I strode boldly up to the front doors, taking note of the regular people who were on their way out and taking some comfort in their ... normalcy. Taking a deep breath, I gave the heavy door a strong pull and entered the inner sanctum of the structure.

Once inside, it took me a few minutes to get my bearings. Outside, it had been bright and hot and wide open, but inside it was cool and dark and self-constrained. Where a drop-ceiling foyer with a receptionist surrounded by potted plants might have been found, some 30-40 years before, there was a massive atrium, a stories-high vacant space in the center of the building, which was flanked on all sides by the balconies of successive levels. Up-up-up it rose, the vast hollowness disorienting as much as it awed. Across the atrium, a stories-high glass wall overlooked the reservoir, the interstate, and miles of Massachusetts -- practically to the sea.

Standing in that void was, I imagine, like entering a decompression chamber after a particularly deep dive. And it took a few minutes for me to adjust. Once I did, I was suffused with a very clear sense that I had arrived.

Now, I'm not well-schooled in architectural design, and although I have been known to page through Architectural Digest at times, I'm not well-versed in the nomenclature of that discipline. But I do know a sense of place when I feel it. The sense of that atrium.. in that building... was one of undeniable self-conscious significance. The place had clearly been constructed to communicate to the tenants that they were Players in the game of life. And to everyone else, the place spoke volumes about the importance of those who were housed there, and the significance of their business. Well-done, to those who designed it thus -- and I have no doubt that was their intention.

One thing struck me about the place, however, after I acclimated to it. And the reversal was almost as disorienting as the adjustment to it, coming in from the outdoors. In a matter of a few minutes -- once my eyes adjusted to the light, and my body adjusted to the change in proximity to interior artificial instead of exterior, natural objects -- the atrium morphed from a clear statement of consequential substance, to... well... nothing. It was the strangest thing. Here, I'd been climbing a hill in my humble little car, bathed in ample outside evidence of power and influence... and I'd stepped through heavy doors to the greeting of a commanding, even overwhelming inside space. But once I was really in the space, all sense of substance dissipated, and the atrium became, well, an empty void that had little to offer aside from echoes and a confusing absence of signage.

That first contact sense of awe and intimidation dissolved, as I looked around the space itself and saw little more than two angular, 50's-style couches facing each other in the center of the room, brushed metal elevator doors off to the right, and recessed alcoves of entrances to tenant offices. The layout looked a lot like a spread I'd seen about feng shui in the workplace and how foyers could be properly designed for the most advantageous energy. But the feel of this place was very different from what I'd gotten from that feng shui magazine spread.* It was as though someone had glanced quickly at that magazine and thrown together something that looked like what they thought they saw. As though the person picking out the decor had read about minimalism and heard it was the latest thing, and took a stab at it without a lot of deep thought, consideration, or even a direct experience of what that space would be like for people entering from the outdoors. It was as though they'd thrown together the atrium design -- such as it was -- as an afterthought... a last effort to put the finishing touches on a project that probably went over-schedule and over-budget, and they were just happy to have it done.

What a shame. For the impression I had of a commanding presence over the lesser office blocks along the highway below, morphed into a sense of distance, even longing. As indifferently aloof and overbearing as the structure had felt at first encounter, it suddenly felt, well, lonely.

And the awe I'd initially felt for its shiny, reflective surface transformed into a bittersweet sadness tinged with regret, even pity.

I'm sorry to say, my appointment turned out about the same. The meeting began well, and the potential client and I seemed to hit it off, but ultimately the connection didn't pan out. The business I had hoped to forge a deal with turned out to be very much like the atrium of the building that housed it -- impressive at first blush, but ultimately hollow and without a whole lot of substance, a little sad... and lonely, too.

As I headed back down that winding drive, I noticed that the signs along the way had some blank spaces where tenants names had once been. And in stretches here and there, the lines marking the lanes needed repainting.

--------------

* I'd have to go back and look at the book again (I may just do that), to compare the lighting and the proportions of the area with what I saw in the atrium. And perhaps the actual experience of that feng-shui-friendly office foyer would approximate what I felt in that real-life space. It's tough to tell from magazine spreads. I really have to be there to judge for myself.

The mindfulness of morning weight training

2010-03-27T09:44:00.002-04:00

Here’s an interesting connection: NICABM has been hosting a teleconference series on brain science, and now this research comes out.

Weight training is good for you! I knew that already, but now science is talking about it, as well. It's not just for narcissists or body builders. It's actually really, really good for your brain. And I firmly believe that the mindfulness by weight-lifting has a lot to do with it.

I had a chance to see Dr. Dan Siegel (whom Ruth Buczynski talked with a few weeks back) when he came to talk at the Cambridge Insight Meditation Center last weekend. One of the things that came through loud and clear was that intentional, focused, mindful activity clearly affects the brain’s health. Even 10 minutes a day can have an impact.

I have been lifting weights, on and off, for over 30 years. I have also engaged in other sorts of exercises, including toning and balance movements. I can personally attest that the focus and intention that is required when lifting weights — even if they are not very heavy — creates a much more involved state of mind than lighter exercise.

Even lifting light 2.5 – 5 lb weights requires more attention — both to movements and to the state of your body. And when you lift heavier weights, focus and intention and attention are not optional. The last thing you want to do is strain or injure yourself. When you’re lifting weights, you MUST pay deliberate attention. Sometimes to every aspect of your movement and posture.

Interestingly, after a number of sedentary years, I began doing light weight training each morning — nothing too intense, but it is weight training — within the past year. I’m in my mid-40’s but I noticed a significant difference in how well my brain was working, all across the board, in the space of a few weeks. I was more alert, more responsive, and I needed a lot less coffee to get going in the morning and keep going throughout the day.

Now, many months on down the road, I’m ‘hooked’ and I do this as a mindfulness practice each and every morning. It gives me a clear edge in my work, and in my life. The benefits and tangible results are numerous: a new job, improved time management, better rest, 15 fewer pounds to carry around (and my weight holding steady), and improved overall happiness, to name a few.

I’m a believer. And I would love to hear what Dr. Dan Siegel has to say about this.

Gearing up for Audacity trainining

2010-02-05T07:19:00.000-05:00

A little while ago, I received an email from someone inquiring about my interest in presenting on Audacity, a free open-source audio editor I've been using for a number of years to produce Women In Music. As the executive producer, each week for the past 13 years, I've been ensuring that Women In Music gets where it needs to go, to get up on the Public Radio Satellite System, so it can go out to over 100 affiliates each week. And Brainshark -- a company that lets you create online presentations on demand -- was looking for someone to help their user community better create and edit their audio.

Now, anybody who knows me, knows that -- given the chance -- I can speak at length and in detail about things I love. And Audacity is one of them.

My "personal journey" with Audacity has been a truly happy one. I genuinely enjoy using the program, and it has seriously saved my neck a bunch of times, when producing Women In Music.

Once upon a time, "getting the show up" to the Public Radio Satellite meant that I made sure we had a constant supply of DAT tapes, and I made the weekly trip to FedEx to drop of the DAT (digital audio tape, for those who are feeling nostalgic) in time for it to get to Ames, Iowa, where they would encode it and forward it on to the folks in Washington, DC.

But when PRSS went digital, several years back, and they started charging extra for encoding, we ended up deciding to do the encoding ourselves. It was a big change in how we did things. Once upon a time, Laney would record the show in the usual way onto tape -- through the board, and into the DAT machine. It was the same concept she'd been following since she started doing radio and recording segments in the mid-1980s. Now, back in the early days, she recorded on reel-to-reel (we still have some reels of her work in boxes in the basement), and manually sliced and spliced tape together. But the concept of recording to tape was the same, whether it was on reel-to-reel or onto a DAT.

Granted, recording to a DAT is less manual, and you're going to a tape that can't be edited by hand (which, for someone who is accustomed to more hands-on work, can be a bit nerve-wracking, since you don't have a direct way to edit the recording). But it was still recording to tape.

That changed, when PRSS went all-digital with their new Content Depot catalog. All of a sudden, it was no more DAT tapes, no more connecting with the Ames Uplink folks, no more runs to FedEx. It wasn't all bad, as there was no more rushing to get everything done by Thursday night -- or else. But having to go out and buy a new recording system (i.e., a 17-inch Mac Powerbook with an iMic, a big external hard drive and a spool of CD-Rs for storage) and transition to recording straight to digital, was a bit of a firedrill.

I have to say, the sound you get from analog -- even onto DAT tape, which is technically digital, but is still tape, and thus a "softer" media -- is second-to-none. This might be why Ani DiFranco has done a fair bit of recording onto reel-to-reel. You just get a truly great feel from it.

Now, one of the things we did in between DAT and pure digital was, Laney would record the show onto DAT, make sure her levels were all good, and then I would master it into the final digital format on the Powerbook. If you've got plenty of time and you're heavily invested in a rich, full sound, I can't recommend this approach enough. It's the best of both worlds. You pay for it, of course, in terms of time and money spent, but if you're a highly religious audiophilic recording artist, you have tons of time on your hands, and you want to get the best sound possibly available, you may want to try this, in your next recording session. We got such great sound off that approach -- and if we had the time and the equipment to continue to do it, we would.

Sadly, the DAT player died, and between the money for the new machine and the DAT tapes, as well as the extra hours it took to produce the show each week, we opted to go all-digital and just record straight into the Powerbook.

That's what we've been doing for a number of years, now. At first, it was an adjustment, getting used to the crisper digital sound. One benefit I noticed with digital, however, was that the editing process was actually easier. The highs were more clearly high -- as in, you could see distinct spikes on the track in Audacity -- and cleaning up the highs and the lows and normalizing all the levels was a lot more straightforward.

If you're an experienced Audacity (or any other software, for that matter) audio editor, you know what I mean -- when you're editing with digital tools, you can see right in front of you where your levels are, and you can click and drag over the sections to adjust them. When I was editing digital versions of an analog recording of Women In Music, the distinctions between sections were a lot less clear-cut. So, I had to work harder to clean up the spikes and bump up the low areas. It took more time -- a lot more time. Between transferring the DAT to digital and then editing the whole show, it took several hours longer than just doing straight digital does.

I can't say I miss the hours and the money it took to make the show happen in the old way. But I must admit, I still miss that analog feel.

Well, nostalgia aside, the latest news is that I'm going to be doing training on Audacity with Brainshark, next Wednesday at 2p.m. And I'm looking forward to finding out how folks there use it.

What kind of a world shall we create?

2010-01-02T17:58:00.000-05:00

We're nearly 48 hours into the new year, and like many people I've been talking to, I have an invigorating sense of possibility. Not some heady, pie-in-the-sky fantasy of a world that fixes all our woes and has none of the smudges and smears of yesteryear, but a solid, certain sense that there is always a chance that we can -- and will -- make more of our future than our past.

I may very well be in the minority, in this regard. All over, I hear people talking about how the next generation can expect less than the previous ones. I hear people talking about how America is on the way out. I hear people proclaiming that the future is far bleaker than the past, and we're all going to have to adjust down our expectations and learn to do less with more.

Gas prices, after all, are going up.

But I'm not convinced that things are really that grim. Someone who "is supposed to know about these things" once told me that 'round about 900 AD, in western Europe, Christianized rulers (and their subjects) thought that the first millennium BCE was going to herald the End of the World. And so they started building lots of ornate cathedrals to convince God not to wipe them off the earth.

1,000 rolled around, and the earth didn't disintegrate. Everyone wasn't wiped off the face of the planet. And the unfinished churches which apparently ran into scheduling issues prior to the turn of the millennium were completed in a flurry of "Whew! That was close!" gratitude to God for not wiping everyone out.

I'm sure that's a gross over-simplification of what was probably a very complex and intricate relgio-socio-economic forumula for collective panic, but the general idea stands -- people are always looking for reasons to preach doom and gloom and convince others that they should be Very Very Worried about our chances for survival.

And yet we survive. We persist. We manage to muddle through, bit by bit, generation after generation. Cuban missiles and Soviet threats and Influenza Epidemic, Legionnaire's Disease, Avian Flu, Swine Flu, H1N1, global food crises, clean water shortages, extreme weather disasters (and more) notwithstanding, somehow we manage to continue. Granted, the future may look very bleak to folks who follow polar bears and the disappearance of ice and the decimation of the rain forests (all of which are serious, no doubt), but the future has always looked bleak to people who looked for reasons to be concerned.

We're human. We're small creatures on a big planet. Everything looks bleak, when you think you're up against the infinite.

But let's not forget -- we're small creatures who are capable of great things. And for the life of me, I cannot see why in heaven's name we should give up, when we have such a profoundly amazing history of invention, ingeniousness, persistence, and courage. For all the challenges that stand in our way, look to the past, and see there the signs that our future is not hopeless.

It's not in our nature to fall apart when we're up against seemingly insurmountable odds. We have routinely done the impossible. We've caused huge machines to fly. We've rocketed into space. We've come up with amazing inventions that can not only transport us hundreds of miles in one day, but can have us talking and laughing with (or swearing at) people on the other side of the planet. Honestly, look around you and take a moment to wonder at the stuff we've managed to come up with.

Now, I'm not saying that all the stuff we've invented is such a great thing. We routinely dabble in things that I don't think we have any business fiddling with -- like the Large Hadron Collider in France/Switzerland... nuclear fission... and gigantic silicone breast implants. Pharma has come up with some pretty scary stuff that they market like it's candy, and some doctors routinely advocate surgeries to remove organs that they don't think serve any purpose... just because they can (and they can bill the insurance companies to do it).

But the thing that I take away from it all is that, given choice, we have the opportunity to do what we will with our abilities, our powers, our potential. We can use our powers for good or ill, for the sake of self-aggrandizement, or for the benefit of others in desperate need. We can use the same ingenuity that came up with a better way to harm others, and use it to help. Ingenuity (like money) doesn't care how it's used. It's just there, to use as we see fit. And we can do just that.

The trick is figuring out what we want to use it for. And mustering the resources to actually USE it... consistently, persistently, tenaciously keepin' on keepin' on, till the problem is solved, the widget is created and deployed, and the pernicious problems that make it so easy to despair are subdued enough to give us a little breathing room, let us catch up with ourselves, and remember to live our lives -- not just survive.

Call me crazy, call me a blind fool. I have a really hard time believing that all is lost, or that we're doomed. I also don't believe that any group, government, or agency can strip me of my human dignity and prevent me from having the life of my dreams with their laws, their regulations, their tax incentives. I'm too stubborn to let them. And I'm too contrary to give up, till I get where I'm going. People who have been on the receiving end of the cattle prod that is my determination know what it's like to try to oppose me, when I get my heart set on something, and I know I'm not the only one who's single-minded enough to not quit when things get tough.

I can't speak for anyone else, but it seems to me 2010 is shaping up nicely. I'm not saying it's going to be easy... I'm still recovering from my all-night blow-out new year's celebration, and I probably won't be 100% for at least another week. But eventually I will be at 100%... and in the meantime, anything more than 10% is more than enough to get me going in the direction I want to go.

It's a new year and a new decade. Let's make it worth our while.

Becoming Dabrowskian

2010-01-02T12:54:00.001-05:00

About a year or so ago, I encountered the work of Kazimierz Dąbrowski, a Polish psychologist, psychiatrist, and physician who developed the Theory of Positive Disintegration, which describes how a person's development grows as a result of accumulated experiences. "Disintegration," as I understand it, refers to the separation (or un-integration) of the individual as they mature and realize that being well-adjusted to a mal-adjusted world is not the most, well, mature thing. Dis-integration comes from the maturing of thoughts, and it is positive when the process moves one's personality to a more developed level than what is offered by the dominant paradigm.

I've been intrigued by this idea for some time, in no small part because it reflects my own outlooks and approach to the world. Whereas a fair amount of pressure is placed on us as adults to "adjust" to the world, and there is a fairly large focus in psychology and educational circles on creating "well-adjusted" people who can be productive members of society, it has always seemed to me that about the last thing the world needs is more people who are content to accept things as they are.

It seems to me the world would -- and does -- benefit more from ill-adjusted individuals who take it upon themselves to change the things that are all wrong. Where would we be without these folks?

I've been meaning to make a more concerted study of Dabrowski for some time. Of course, work got in the way, as did life in general. But I'm clearing out a whole bunch of extraneous activities and interests that don't look like they're going to amount to anything productive anytime soon, so I'm making more time in my life for the things I really, truly want to do -- which will bear fruit.

Studying Dabrowski is one of the things I truly want to do. I ordered a CD of his collected works in English, as well as plenty of writings by other folks. It seems like the perfect sort of reading for a snowy day like today.

After I clear the snow off my deck and drive and roof, that is.

Health is...

2010-01-02T12:02:00.002-05:00

Health is a state of complete physical, mental, and social wellbeing and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity.

- World Health Organization

But what if I want to avoid the healthcare system as much as possible?

2009-12-30T22:00:00.057-05:00

I've been doing a lot of thinking (and writing) about technology and health, and much of the conversations I've heard going on have to do with improving Health IT (HIT) with hospitals, clinics, and other healthcare providers. For those seriously ill, like ePatientDave, who are depending on their records to actively help manage their own care, this is a non-negotiable must-have. You've just gotta have access to your data, if you're going to have a hand in your own survival. There's no way around that.

I won't spend a lot of time discussing this. People with a lot more expertise and drive in the HIT space are discussing this actively. There's a lot of progress that needs to be made, but there's also a lot of focus turned to it, with new electronic medical records systems coming online and formal projects underway to craft solutions for the rampant issues that are keeping the "care" out of healthcare.

What I DO want to discuss, is another focus I've had. That focus is two-fold: 1) staying as healthy as possible, so I don't have to become dependent on the medical system, and 2) being able to manage my own health issues, should they occur, with the tools and information I need to maintain the level of daily functioning that I desire. Health concerns aside (and I do have some), I shouldn't be waylaid and held back in my dreams, goals and ambitions, because of health issues I can manage myself.

Now, I've had this dual focus for over 20 years, in no small part due to the botched healthcare I've received in the past. I lost some of the most vibrant years of my life to flawed diagnoses; in my early 20's, I was told I had a serious, possibly life-threatening illness by medical professionals who even after many, many months of testing, had no conclusive, substantiated evidence that I really had what they theorized was vexing me. I spent my early 20's living in mortal fear of spontaneous internal bleeding, skin discoloration which would disfigure me for life (and never go away), debilitating pain, and degeneration of my connective tissues. When everyone else my age was running around doing what one normally does in their early 20's -- working jobs that would form the foundation of future career paths, going out on the town with friends, enjoying social and outdoor activities -- I was holed up in my apartment, laying low, trying to keep my stress level as low as possible.

I was intensely stressed, in those days, and I realize now that the stress of the diagnoses I received -- at first, discoid lupus erythematosis, then sytemic lupus erythematosis (nasty stuff, as the names imply) -- probably put a lot more strain on my system that may have caused many of the symptoms they attributed to the condition. At the time I was undergoing tests, there was not yet a conclusive rule-in test. Everything was rule-out, back then, and they couldn't find anything other than lupus, to explain my symptoms -- skin rash above my right eye that would not disappear, fatigue, pain in my joints, general weakness, and more.

So, I got assigned a diagnosis of lupus, and it was off to the races.

What a slog that was... all those tests, all those consultations... and nothing conclusive coming of it... how maddening for everyone. I followed their directions to the "T", learned all about lupus, altered my lifestyle, took my meds, did everything I possibly could... but the pain just got worse, the fatigue was crushing, and my early 20's slowly faded into a fog of pain and disorientation from the meds.

Now, I don't bear anyone ill-will in that drama. (I used to, years ago, but I've since given that up as a pointless waste of time and energy.) I spent a lot of time seeing some of the best specialists in the country, but none of them had more to offer me than a prescription for anti-inflammatories and other meds that would buffer my stomach. My symptoms weren't budging, and I couldn't get any relief. Thinking back on that time, it must have been terribly draining for those docs to see person after person in such bad shape -- I shared a waiting room with deeply suffering people many a time -- and the lack of straightfowardness about my condition must have driven them nuts. I really felt for the docs I saw, back then, and I still do. And at a certain point near the end of my active involvement with them, I asked myself -- and them -- what I was doing there, if they could not help me?

They didn't have an answer for that, aside from saying they could try to reduce my symptoms. But their attempts had not been successful to that point, and I was wearing thin, with regard to meds.

Ultimately, I stopped seeing the docs. I stopped seeking help in the medical establishment. I focused more on the basics -- quitting smoking (yes, it can be done), eating better, and making rest and good sleep hygiene a priority. These basics have continued to serve me through the years, and when I start having symptoms again -- a small rash that appears and won't go away, intensifying joint pain, fatigue and weakness -- it's pretty sure sign that I'm neglecting myself.

I guess I'm just one of those all-or-nothing kinds of people. If I'm not all-in, I'm all-out, and I pay a steep price for self-neglect. And sometimes I end up at the doctor in the same state I was before -- me looking at them, leery of the medication they're suggesting, and just wanting my life back... them looking at me, not sure what they're supposed to do for me...

That being said, for this coming year, I'm prioritizing pro-active personal health management. I am totally behind the initiatives for getting health records in shape and making health information shareable.

But one of the unfortunate off-shoots of making data accessible, is that it's vulnerable to corruption and hijacking. A mal-formed database can end up revealing your personal data to someone you don't want to see it. Or a non-secure system can expose sensitive information that should never be seen by outside eyes. People in vulnerable positions are even more vulnerable, when the stewards of our data are nonchalant about our privacy needs and make light of the need for a thoroughgoing security/privacy policy.

And another one of the unfortunate off-shoots of all the HIT work, is that while it may empower me as a patient of a hospital or PCP, it is predicated on the assumption that I am actively engaged with a hospital or PCP. If I'm not "in the system" what then? What tools do I have to manage my own health on my own, outside the purview of the formal system? And what tools do I have to share the information I wish to share, when I wish to share it?

Will I be empowered only if I'm actively participating in a healthcare system which has not fully cared for me on numerous occasions, and has yet to prove itself as a 100% trustworthy partner in my health and well-being?

These are just some questions I have, and some concerns that nag me. I'm not writing off the whole HIT-iverse, and I'm not disparaging it. I just would like more options and more choices. And if I can't find them "out there" I will come up with my own system(s) that suits me just the way I need them to.

Who's afraid of the health care conscience clause?

2009-12-28T17:55:00.001-05:00

Does anyone know the fate of the conscience clause that went into effect on 1/20/09 that allows physicians and other health care workers to refuse to care for/treat people seeking help, based on their own religious beliefs?

Under the rule, workers in health-care settings -- from doctors to janitors -- can refuse to provide services, information or advice to patients on subjects such as contraception, family planning, blood transfusions and even vaccine counseling if they are morally against it.

CNN ran a story on it last February (where I got the above quote), saying White House set to reverse health care conscience clause, but I haven't heard about the fate of the regulation.

I assume that no news is good news -- for the folks who hoped it would be repealed. That news would be not-so-good for the folks who looked to that regulation to protect their beliefs and desire to live their lives and pursue their professions consistent with their faith.

Like combining church and state, mixing faith with professional practice can be a tricky business. On December 16, 2009 a Medical group CEO quits (the) AMA in protest. I can understand why he would do so. The AMA stance was clearly not consistent with his own beliefs, and what choice did he have, really? If you don't agree with your governing body, and you can't change it to be more in line with your beliefs, then it seems the only really honest thing to do, is leave. Apparently a lot of people are doing that, according to the CEO "that AMA's membership has dropped since the 1960s from nearly three of four practicing doctors to closer to one in five."

Which is fine for doctors. But what about the rest of us? What about those of us who are not aware of our doctors' religious beliefs and -- not making any judgments about who's right and who's wrong -- we find out too late that our doctor does not believe in certain procedures that we believe may preserve our health and save our lives? What do we do? Seek out a second opinion, certainly, but how do we find out in advance if the next doctor holds beliefs that are consistent with our own? If we are in need of a procedure that one doctor would do, which might help us, but another doctor would not even remotely entertain (or possibly even discuss) due to their ideals, how do we find out what those ideals are before we enter into a relationship with them? How can we do our due diligence and make sure that we're engaging with a physician who actually can help us?

Now, I'm not here to call people right or wrong, or claim that one belief system is superior to another. I grew up in a very conservative part of the country, and I respect people's rights to believe what is in their hearts. You can't argue with a conversion experience, and people who think that conservative folks can be won over to another side through heady, intellectual reasoning alone, have a rude awakening ahead of them.

But objectively speaking, I prefer to go to a doctor who won't refuse to treat me based on their religious beliefs. I am queer, after all. I live with a woman, and I have been committed to her and our life together since 1992. We are legally married in Massachusetts (not that it makes any difference in Pennsylvania, where I was raised). Our finances and our daily schedules and our very lives are more closely entwined than conjoined twins. You literally cannot affect one of us without affecting the other.

Of course, outside my own circle of like-minded folks, in many parts of this country -- indeed, the world -- my relationship is one of sin and iniquity. It is an affront to God, and to the natural order of things. It is an abomination that some believe will condemn me to eternal hellfire and damnation. Some believe that I have deliberately chosen this life of sin, and that my choice condemns me to eternal separation from God -- unless I confess my sins, vow to change my ways, and take to a strictly straight-and-narrow path of righteousness that leads me to the rewards of eternal life.

And I know from personal experience that in some parts of this country -- and in the world -- there are people who believe that my soul is safer in heaven, after having confessed my sins and changed my ways, than continuing to life in illicit iniquity here on earth. I also know that in the church where I've heard it said out loud, "I would rather my child be dead, than be homosexual, because at least then I would know they were with God," there were doctors who attended that church, some of them quite devout.

Now, I'm not here to say who's right and who's wrong. I'm not here to criticize, but to observe. What people believe, and why, is one of the great mysteries in life, and it's not my place to judge others for their strongly held beliefs. But when I go to the doctor - whether I agree with them or not - it's my hope that I will have access to the type of care I am seeking. And it's my hope that they will do everything in their power to help keep me alive.

Now, I don't expect health care providers to utterly abandon their beliefs in the process of helping me. I would never ask someone to willingly violate their own principles. But I do want to know if my beliefs are consistent with theirs, and whether we have the same medical perspectives and priorities. People's beliefs can run very deep -- and very hot. And if you aren't aware that your doctor harbors grave misgivings about helping you continue to stay healthy and whole, because they don't believe that you are doing God's will in your life and you're better off in heaven than staying in sin on earth -- or they deny you access to a procedure you desire because they don't believe in it -- well, then it gets problematic.

As with many issues with me, this is a data issue. There are lots of doctors in the world, and there are lots of different ways of understanding why we're here and what we're supposed to do with ourselves. And for every person who doesn't agree with me or has grave misgivings about helping me, there is surely someone else who does agree with me, and who has no hesitations about providing me with certain types of care. The trick is finding them. Maybe there's a great database in existence, containing details on doctors' and other health care providers' religious beliefs, a list of what they will and will not do in the line of helping their patients. Maybe there's a vast info warehouse that holds details on the ideologies of everyone who's in the care-providing chain -- from doctors to janitors -- so folks on the margins of mainstream or with alternative religious beliefs, as well as smack-dab in the middle of the range of popular acceptability, can decide whether or not to seek care from a certain physician or a certain hospital. But I'm not sure there is.

I wish there were, though. I wish there were some data repository where I could locate docs who are "friendly" to me -- as well as the ones who are not sympathetic with me for religious reasons. I wish there were some place I go to could find out if the hospital I might be admitted at has nurses or janitors or lab techs who have the job of helping someone like me, might have some reason not to. I wish there were a database I could simply query to find a doctor who has no moral qualms about keeping me alive AND who is open to me being an ePatient -- using email and social networking and trusted online resources to better manage my own care.

I'm not trying to be discriminatory in a negative sense, but in a positive sense. Freedom requires responsibility, and what better way to foster responsibility, than by giving both caregivers and patients access to each others' ideological profiles? I am genuinely interested in ensuring that people of all faiths and outlooks have access to quality care that is consistent with their world view and values. I'm also genuinely interested in ensuring that doctors who walk a path of faith and who take that faith very seriously are able to practice medicine in a way that is consistent with their spiritual values. There are an awful lot of doctors in the world, with a variety of ideals and values. And there are many, many different patients with a wide range of beliefs. We just need to find each other more easily.

From where I'm sitting, the problem is not whether doctors and patients are properly regulated/protected or not... it's a matter of whether the right doctors are paired up with the right doctors. And vice versa.

Imagine if there were such a data store that was easily accessed, accurate, up-to-date, and easy to use -- then, at the 11th hour, when so much is on the line, well-paired doctors and patients alike would be able to provide and receive care that is consistent with both their needs and their consciences. They wouldn't have to have all sorts of extraneous (and possibly unnecessary) ideological dramas and crises over life-and-death issues (which are of course never easy to begin with). They could both know that they were dealing with another person who was on the same page as them, who both acknowledged, respected and understood their points of view. And being on the same page could clear away yet more of the anxiety that comes along with healthcare and relying on someone outside yourself for your continued well-being (or possibly death with dignity).

If a doctor or nurse or technician is not going to treat me because they firmly believe that the way I live my life is not in keeping with God's will for humanity, and they also believe that life in the hereafter is far more important than life on this earth, I have no argument with that. I understand many people feel that way, and I don't want to deny them their right to live consistent with their faith.

But at the very least, I want to know about it ahead of time, so I have a fighting chance to stay alive with the help of someone who won't deny me care, based on my "lifestyle choices."

Yes! At last, a real conversation with a doctor!

2009-12-26T08:29:00.001-05:00

On Christmas Day, I got a great present -- an extended conversation about the issues of healthcare reform... with a real-live doctor. This guy is a recent addition to the family, the freshly minted husband of my partner's niece. He's doing his residency at a local hospital, and he's working in internal medicine. He's got an osteopathic background, which I find fascinating. Nothing against AMA docs -- MD's -- but yesterday I had an actual discussion with a doctor about the innermost workings of the body, how it fits together, how it interconnects, and what some of the root causes of disease and healing are.

He also said something I haven't ever heard an MD say -- that the human body is built to regain balance and to heal.

Most of the MDs I've ever talked to, have held to what seems like a "party line" -- we don't know enough about the body, it's a mystery, nobody understands it for sure, and medication is the one sure way to address issues that come up. Now mind, I'm coming from this from a patient's point of view, and I could be completely wrong, but that's just what I hear coming from the allopathic ("regular" mainstream medicine, as we often think about it), versus osteopathic camps.

Anyway, this doc and I had a great discussion about the ills of this new healthcare reform process we're all going through at the moment. I say "we're all" because we are ALL affected by this change. No one will escape it -- except apparently the people who are creating it, who have their own medical benefits package that will apparently be unaffected by this legislation.

I don't pretend to have all the answers, and I'm sure I'm lacking some really critical information. The whole issue is huge and vast and complex and as varied as the humans who are influence by it. And by the end of our conversation, in which he laid out very clearly all the different reasons we should all be deeply concerned about this, the bottom line for me was that when it comes to my health, I cannot -- and will not -- surrender ultimate control to anyone except myself.

Washington is going to do what it's going to do. Insurers are going to do what they're going to do. Doctors are going to do what they're going to do. I have no control over them. I can offer some ideas, but the systems which are in place which gave rise to the conditions we are facing right now are simply too vast and too intricate to influence on my small scale. Fixing what's broken will take time. A lot of time. And after my discussion with the doc, I can assure you, I'm not holding my breath.

Now, I could fret and worry and concern myself over the impending doom of healthcare reform. But I'd rather do my own healthcare reform, and take matters into my own hands. I'd rather have myself to thank (or blame) for my health and happiness. I'd rather be responsible for my own well-being, not depend on an official governing body to "help" me. The chances of any government agency being able to truly help me are slim to none. Certainly, it helps to have insurance for specialists and extreme situations. But for overall health and well-being, I'd rather take those matters into my own hands.

I actually have been, for many years. About 20 years ago, I had an extended bout with extreme, crippling, inexplicable joint pain. It wreaked havoc in my life at a time when I "should" have been getting on my feet with a career and savings account, and all the seeds of my future adult life. I was unable to work full-time, I was unable to do much of anything, aside from rest and move slowly from one carefully selected activity to the next. The experts -- and I went to some of the best in the nation -- were unable to offer me any conclusive answers. And the medicine I was on was playing even more havoc with my life.

Ultimately, I had to stop seeing them and take matters into my own hands. Change my life. Change my diet. Quit smoking. Start taking care of myself. Get my act together. Get on with my life, pain or no pain. And I did. It wasn't fun and it wasn't easy, but I did it. I've still got intermittent issues, but now I know how to handle them, and I do. I track my daily health. I exercise regularly -- as in, daily, not several times a week. I don't just watch what I eat -- I actively manage my health with the food I eat. And I don't expect anyone else to supply me with The Secret to a long and healthy life. I pay attention to what long-lived people do. I study what folks do to stay physically and mentally healthy for 100+ years. I make a point of tracking my progress with issues that come up. And I don't quit working towards improving what I can. There's no end to what I can improve. So I'm usually well-occupied.

I have been blessed to not have to deal with cancer in my body. I have been blessed with a strong constitution and an even stronger will. I have been blessed with good sense (for the most part ;) and a desire to do better the next time. And I've been blessed with an insatiable interest in useful information that I can put to good use.

I'm fortunate with what I started out with -- but if I didn't make the effort to do something with it, it would all go away. Determination and willpower and constant improvement don't happen on their own. Even the largest reserves will wither, if not attended to... and the smallest speck of potential will expand many times over, if given the proper attention and priority.

I still have a lot of thinking to do about my conversation with the doc, yesterday. There was a lot that was said that I need to noodle through. But when all is said and done, the thing I'm taking away from that discussion is that the government is really NOT my preferred healthcare provider.

I am.

Listening for more

2009-12-24T08:04:00.001-05:00

Not long ago, someone asked me where I've been for the past few years. They read something I'd written, and they liked what they heard/saw. They seemed surprised that I haven't been more of a presence in the healthcare discussion.

The first answer that came to mind was, "I've been dealing with health issues in my family," which is all too true. Like so many Americans, I've had some pretty pressing health stuff going on in my immediate and extended family. It's demanded a lot of focus to sort it all out, but sort it out we did. As a lot of people know, taking care of health and navigating the medical system can take a lot out of you. It demands rigorous attention to detail, at times, and we don't often have much left over for other activities... like blogging.

Yeah, I've been busy. With the kinds of stuff nobody wants to have to be busy with, but so many of us are.

Then I thought about it some more, over the past few days, and it occurred to me that the second part of the answer is, "I've been thinking." One of the big pieces of the coping process for me has been pondering what's gone down, examining it, analyzing it, figuring out what it all means to me. I'm not perfect, by any stretch -- as an earlier post about my relationship with my doctor clearly shows. I have a lot to learn, and I have a lot of progress to make, in terms of establishing and cultivating the kind of relationships I want to have with the doctors and specialists in my life.

For me, the lion's share of making progress with health concerns is understanding the nature of the problems at the root of my (and others') discomfort and distress. Until I understand them and can extract some sort of meaning from them, I'm adrift in a sea of details... and non-actionable data.

I can't make much progress towards understanding what I need to, if I don't take time to closely consider what's taken place in my life... and I really like to make progress. So, I stop and think, examine and wonder, and if I'm lucky, I come away with something meaningful and useful and -- most importantly -- actionable.

But when you're in the midst of crisis, it's easy to get stuck inside your head. Being introverted by nature, I tend to first look within for the answers to my questions. Which is fine, until the wheels start to spin so wildly that they drown out everything else around me.

But sometimes, inner awareness is not enough. Sometimes you've gotta listen for more.

Which is what I'm doing now. I'm visiting extended family out of state, and lo and behold, I'm in the midst of a bunch of doctors and healthcare professionals. I'm also smack-dab in the middle of a part of mainstream America that is far from Massachusetts, in many ways. It's not Better, it's not Worse... it's Different. And it's a great opportunity for me to stop and listen to what folks here are saying about their health and healthcare, from a point of view that's shaped by circumstances very different from my own.

I've been going at a pretty brisk clip at work, for the past couple of months. And my head has just been spinning with all the thoughts I've got about how we care for ourselves and keep ourselves alive. Now is truly a wonderful opportunity to take a break, slow down, and listen to what people are saying about their health and how they care for it.

I have the opportunity to spend a few days with a new doctor, who is absolutely livid about the healtcare reform activity in Washington. I have the chance to find out what makes him so angry and so concerned, and what he thinks should happen instead. I have the opportunity to sit down and share a cup of coffee with a medical school registrar who's contemplating the prospect of retiring in the next 10 years or so, and having to shell out $1,000/month for health insurance for the rest of her born days. I have the opportunity to witness how people in this part of the world live, eat, sleep, and generally take care of themselves, and absorb that information into my world view.

It's a great opportunity to get out of my own head, and I don't intend to pass it up. This is a chance to widen my view, round out my considerations a little more, and gain a greater understanding about what it means to be alive, today -- and want to stay that way.

What a great present this is.

Opportunity awaits...

2009-12-22T09:27:00.000-05:00

A number of years ago, I spent the morning of the day before Thanksgiving in the Emergency Department. My partner and I had been out with friends the evening before, and she'd gotten scratched by a rusty piece of metal. I cleaned out the wound as best I could when we got home, but I could still see some little pieces of rust that I couldn't get to, and we both thought it best if we had a doctor take a look at the nasty cut -- she also needed to get her tetanus shot updated.

Our ED experience was -- as is often the case -- less than stellar. There wasn't much staff around, that day, and since Laney's injury wasn't life threatening, we sat helpless and idle for more than 2 hours, calculating what time we would arrive at her family's place. Under better conditions, we would have been making a serious dent in the 12-hour drive to southwestern Virginia. As it was, we were stuck.

Eventually, Laney did get to see a doctor, and he complimented me on how well I'd cleaned it out. But it was good that we went -- she had the wound cleaned with antiseptic and a professional eye, she got her tetanus booster, we regrouped, and headed down the road to Virginia.

In the years since, we've had a few other emergency room visits. One recent visit comes to mind -- while winterizing my home, I slammed my hand really hard on a window sash, and it swelled up quickly. I could move my fingers pretty well, and I didn't have too much pain, but the swelling alarmed me. Even when I put ice on it, it didn't look good. And it started to ache and pain me. Now, I work at a keyboard for a living, and I can't afford to lose the use of my hand -- or neglect an injury that might cause me problems later. So, after some deliberation, we reluctantly went to the ED.

The wait there was something in the range of four hours. It took place on a Sunday afternoon, and I wasn't overly pressed to do other things, but still, the loss of four hours on one of my precious days off was troubling. That, and being sequestered in a room with people who were sick-and-coughing. When I found out that I hadn't injured myself seriously, and it was basically a contusion that didn't require an x-ray, I questioned the wisdom of going in the first place. But the chance that I'd done real damage to my hand -- which is my bread-and-butter -- wasn't something I was about to mess around with.

I must admit, I'm not a fan of visiting the Emergency Department. I lost someone very dear to me, nearly ten years ago, when they went to the ED complaining of stomach pains, and they weren't seen until their intestine had ruptured and they were irreversibly, mortally ill. Going from the ED to the OR and never regaining consciousness... it's awful, and that tragic (and possibly preventable) loss will stay with me all my born days. I often wonder what might have happened, had the ED staff taken the situation a little more seriously.

I also work with a guy whose wife fell and was bleeding from a scalp wound. She was fortunate to be near a hospital when she fell, and when he got the call about her accident, he hustled out of work to go meet her at the ER. When he got there, he found her sitting with a clipboard and a form, and a handful of blood-soaked paper towels held to her forehead. He composed himself and approached the folks at the main desk and asked if they had any bandages, since his wife was bleeding all over their waiting room. The attendant opened a drawer beside him and pulled out a big gauze bandage -- which had been right beside the stack of intake forms. Hmmmm... priorities....

Then again, I have had other ED visits where the person I took in was whisked away with all due haste and given immediate, thorough care. I was also allowed to go back into the treatment area with them, which was very helpful for them. Those were positive aspects of generally negative experiences, and I'm very grateful for them. On the downside, we were both left waiting with the beeping machines and the it-takes-time-to-kick-in medications... waiting... waiting... waiting... till the doctor came to check in. Our interactions with the ED doctors will be the subject of another post -- this post is about the wait.

Now, sad stories about ED staff responsiveness are something we probably cannot fix anytime soon. People are people, and you can't legislate personal priorities. Things happen, and tragedies take place every day, due to complex, interconnected issues which are not easily addressed.

There is one area, however, where I think we could make progress - the use of time spent waiting in Emergency Departments.

Now, I'm big into time management -- I have a ton of things I need to get done, every day, and I generally get most of them done. If I don't, I know there's something wrong. And when I lose four hours to just sitting idly, when I could be getting something meaningful accomplished, well, I feel that loss. Surely, there's a better way.

According to the CDC's web page on Emergency Department Visits, here's the skinny on our national relationship with the ED:

(Data are for the U.S.)

* Number of ED visits: 119.2 million
* Number of ED injury-related visits: 42.4 million
* Number of ED visits per 100 persons: 40.5
* Most commonly diagnosed condition: injury and poisoning
* Percent of visits with patient seen in fewer than 15 minutes: 22%
* Median time spent in emergency department: 2.6 hours
* Percent of ED visits resulting in hospital admission: 13%
* Percent of ED visits resulting in transfer to a different hospital: 1.9%

Source: National Hospital Ambulatory Medical Care Survey: 2006 Emergency Department Summary, tables 1, 10, 12, 21, 25

Now, I know median numbers can be misleading, and the time spent will necessarily vary from person to person, but if 119.2 million Americans are spending an average of 2.6 hours in the emergency room, well, that's a heck of a lot of time we're spending waiting for assistance.

Even if we're seen right away, we can also spend a fair amount of time waiting for our care to be completed. Now, I know things take time in the ED. I'm not disputing that. But the hours we spend could be better used -- for our treatment and our health.

Enter the ED Care Champions

Imagine, if you will, that a hospital has people on staff who come to assist patients who have come to the emergency room. These "patient assistants" have some medical (possibly nursing) training, and they have been trained to interview people who have come to the ED to find out exactly what happened, find out about existing medical conditions, flag potential issues, like allergies or sensitivities, and then translate that all into a summary for the attending physician (who's not going to have the time to establish personal rapport to read body language and understand the whole person, anyway). They're versed in the effects of trauma on cognition (remember, injury-related ED visits = 42.4 million, and that's a lot of trauma), so they can deftly coax the pertinent information out of the visitors, and create a patient profile that actually makes sense to the attending physician.

What's more, they are educated in how to explain medical conditions and terminology to average people like you and me. So, after the patients are seen, if they have questions about what needs to happen, they can check with the patient assistant. They can walk through the info the doctor gave them, or discuss their next steps, and get clear on what they're supposed to do -- and why.

Imagine, if you will, that these patient assistants have printed information available from a trusted source (possibly the hospital itself) about a wide variety of conditions (it wouldn't need to be already printed, like a pamphlet -- they could pull it off a website they access with their laptop, and then print copies of the info on the printer that's sitting near the intake desk). Further, they have lists of related, reputable, trustworthy online resources they can give to the patient, so they can educate themselves and manage better over the long term.

In the process, these ED Care Champions can help patients more fully understand their situation, and better conceptualize the next steps of their care. And they've both hastened the treatment process by giving the doctor the exact information he/she needs to act quickly and accurately, while reinforcing the dignity of the incoming patient. What's more, these ED Care Champions could pick up the slack left by overloaded reception folks who miss important things (like getting gauze bandages to patients who are bleeding profusely) and fill the gaps that invariably arise when busy people are given more info than they can process.

Maybe I'm crazy, but it seems like a good use of time. But who would pay for it? Why not insurance companies? Why not hospitals? Actually, the insurance companies might make more sense -- not because it adds to their costs, but because it could cut down on claims (and their long-term expenses) by assisting with treatment and care, from the get-go -- prevention and immediate action as a sound way to avoid later complications. Getting people on the right foot, with regard to their care -- not to mention giving the doctors additional tools and information to help them diagnose and treat -- seems like a long-term cost-saver to me.

But, you argue, the insurance companies will never buy it? I disagree. Some insurance companies have "care champions" who call insured individuals (after they've been diagnosed with a chronic condition) with regular check-ins to see how they're doing. These care champions act as coaches and resources for chronic conditions, and they make providing info and counseling an integral part of extended health care. The care champion model seems like a good thing to integrate into Emergency Department care -- especially when people are just sitting there, marinating in their discomfort and difficulty, wondering when someone is going to see them, getting antsier and antsier, and possibly increasingly combative. I don't have the stats on it, but it's my understanding that just talking to someone can reduce agitation and physical pain... which contributes to communication... which facilitates good and speedy care.

There's always the possibility that I'm oversimplifying things, or I'm not fully understanding all the issues at stake. But why not consider the idea? It would definitely create jobs -- and these would be meaningful jobs that connect people with other people, helping them in real and substantive ways. Sure beats standing in front of a styrofoam cup machine for 8 hours (which I have done, so I am qualified to speak to that). These would be jobs that fill a truly pressing need, and that give people a sense of purpose and belonging to something greater than themselves. These are the kinds of jobs we need, and this is a need that's waiting to be filled.

Personally, I think that implementing something like this wouldn't have to be overly complicated or difficult. I'm not saying it's a piece of cake -- there needs to be prioritization and organization around it, and people would have to think carefully about how to do it best. The ED Care Champions would need to be educated in a range of areas -- medical, psychological, technical... and more. And it might be really personally taxing work, so the EDCC's wouldn't be on shifts longer than 4 hours in the ED -- with remaining hours spent on reviewing cases and administrative housekeeping. But there's already a seed of that paradigm in the existing insurance company care champion model -- why not extend it to ED Care Champions, too?

Seems like a good use for those 100+ million unused hours.

Feedburner Feed now Available

2009-12-22T08:06:00.001-05:00

ePatientDave suggested I get on the Feedburner train, and so I have -- here's the feed url: http://feeds.feedburner.com/KayStoner-TheArtOfLivingWell

Cheers
Kay

I would just LOVE to be more engaged with my PCP

2009-12-20T20:00:00.000-05:00

And I think she would like it, as well. But every time I show up for what is even a routine visit, she tells me she's going to "get in trouble" for spending too much time with me. She's supposed to sail through the appointment, taking no more than 15-20 minutes to find out what my issues are and what I should do about them (with or without medication), and that's supposed to suffice.

Except that it doesn't. Because 1) I need more time to explain things to her (I have a lot in my head, you see, and I don't shy away from complexity, and 2) she needs the time to really find out what's going on with me, aside from the rash or the spreading poison ivy or the upper respiratory infection, and 3) I need more time to clarify with her the things she's telling me, 'cause unlike some folks, I have a real and pressing need to be involved in my own healthcare, my own life. I need to be WELL, on all levels, not just not-sick (or asymptomatic).

I have tried different approaches -- like making notes about my situation that I can share with her. This is an important thing for me to do, because I have a nasty habit of forgetting important details in the moment.

It's so predictable, you'd think I could stop the cycle. Before I get to the office, I am usually pretty clear about what's up with me. But then I get in there, I get talking to the staff (who are all very nice and also get in trouble for not moving fast enough, because they take too long with me - but we're actually having a human exchange, and it's not taking forEVER, so I don't see why that's so awful)... and I get caught up in scanning through the pharma-company-supplied pamphlets and fact sheets that are scattered about... and then the doctor comes in after a few minutes and asks me how things are in general, and by the time we get down to talking about what's going on with me, I am hopelessly distracted, and all I can do is shrug, sometimes. It's sad, I know. Very sad.

So, I've tried writing down notes and bringing them in. But my doctor tells me to put them away and just talk to her. As though that will be easier for me. It's probably easier for her... tho', come to think of it, I'm not sure why she prefers partial information to a complete picture? She also appears to get a kick out of me showing up with information I found online. It's not like I'm trolling around about.com (my apologies to the guides who work hard to put useful info up there) and relying on amateur infopreneur articles for my sources. I tend to seek out reputable sources, and I take the time to consider what I'm reading. But my doctor just rolls her eyes and says "internet" like it's a joke.

My health is not a joke. My survival is not a joke. My life is not a joke. If I can't get the right information from her -- because she doesn't have time to spend with me -- I'm going to seek it out elsewhere.

Now, I don't mean to beat up on my PCP. Overall, she gets high marks, and she's the best doctor I've ever had. I have awful stories about past experiences, including a multi-year spate of extended (inconclusive) tests in the early 1990s -- I think I'm still trying to build back my blood supply ;) -- and a string of doctors who dismissed me outright or made fun of me or refused to honor my genuine inquisitiveness.

Maybe I've just been walking around with a sign on my back that says, "Dear Doctor, please ridicule me -- and bill my insurance company for the hour you spend laughing at me."

Well, anyway, it's Sunday night after a long day of shoveling 5 inches of fluffy snowfall off my deck and stairs... snowblowing the driveway, and raking my roof, so I'm a little punchy. But really, I would love to be more involved with my PCP. I'd love to be able to email her with questions, or just raise a question without her looking over her glasses at me with amusement that I'm daring enough to guess that the spreading rash over my legs and arms looks like the pictures of poison ivy I've seen online, and my symptoms match that condition. I would love to be treated with dignity and respect, not grudging accommodation, and given the time I need to fully understand what she's saying to me about how to keep healthy... and discuss the ramifications of her prescription with her. (Let the record show that I will NOT be talked into taking prednisone again -- the 'roid rage is just not worth it to me -- I'd rather itch.) I would love to have her get to know me and my quirks and foibles, so she can understand what I'm saying and what it means, without taking it out of context.

All these wishes... I'm not sure if it's going to happen anytime soon, or if it will happen at all. Maybe they're as fanciful as a letter to Santa. But they feel pretty real and pretty important to me. I'll just keep trying. The one New Year's resolution I know I can keep is just that -- keep trying.

Okay, now you can comment

2009-12-20T19:16:00.001-05:00

I'd been in a non-communicative frame of mind for a while, so I had turned off comments on my posts. All the monitoring got to be too much.

Now that's changed. Please comment at will.

Thanks

Kay

Google chief: Only miscreants worry about net privacy

2009-12-19T09:28:00.003-05:00

I realize the irony of this post -- I'm putting it on Blogger, which is owned by Google, and this is a post questioning the position of Google on privacy.

With any luck, someone will take notice and think seriously about the privacy issues I'm about to raise.

One of my favorite sites is The Register, which is full of geeky, nerdy news. Their tone is... well... honest. And it doesn't take itself overly seriously, which is nice in this IT world where everyone, it seems, takes themself very, very seriously.

Anyway, I happened upon this post about Google's chief saying basically that only miscreants worry about net privacy. Huh.

I'm not sure what worries me more -- the fact that he equates the need for privacy with wrong-doing, or his seemingly trusting attitude towards authorities who "need" to know people's details, or his off-handedness about what is truly a problematic and potentially disastrous aspect of people's lives.

Here's an example of why privacy concerns can genuinely be about protecting innocent people from authorities who mis-use what they know:

Many years ago, before I got into web development, I was a staff supervisor at a mid-size professional services firm in downtown Boston. I was third in command in the firm administration, reporting directly to the Executive Director and the Director of Human Resources. The firm was in a bad way, financially, and the Director of HR had a penchant for finding out who she could cut from the staff, so she could 'save the firm money' -- and also boost her annual bonus by reducing 'overhead'.

Well, one of my staff (I'll call her Tammi) was a woman who had battled breast cancer several years before. She was the best one I had on my team, and I would have been sunk without her. She had ostensibly won her battle with cancer, and she was in good shape, as far as anyone could tell. That was fortunate, because her husband had been out of work for a while, and she was the sole breadwinner for their family of 4. They had two small kids, and her paycheck was the one thing that kept them afloat.

Well, one day the Director of HR says to me, "How's Tammi doing?" I said she was doing fine, and she was doing a great job. The Dir of HR tells me, "Well, is there anything she's not doing well?" Long story short, she was fishing for a reason to fire Tammi. I asked her why, and she told me -- flat out -- that the firm was concerned that Tammi might get sick again, and if that happened, they'd have to pay short-term disability for her, and they didn't want to pay it. Basically, the firm couldn't afford to have her get sick. So they needed to fire her.

For no reason other than that she had health issues they didn't want to "gamble" on. They knew she had been sick. They knew there was a chance she might get sick again. They didn't have the heart/ability/resources/integrity to willingly employ a perfectly capable and productive employee, because she might get sick.

I spent the next year fighting for Tammi's job -- there was no way in hell I was going to let her go because of some off chance that she might become sick again. She was the best staffer I had, and she knew her stuff. There was no way I was going to put her and her two kids and husband out on the street, because of what might happen.

Unfortunately, Tammi did get sick again. And she did pass away in the time that I was there. But when she passed, she was not unemployed because of what some HR director decided was most beneficial for a firm that had spent so much on booze for the Tall Ships reception they threw for their clients, that they had cases and cases of wine and vodka sitting in storage for years after that.

I left the firm a short time after that. I was through fighting the good fight that should never have to be fought.

So, when I think about what the Google chief has to say about privacy, I think of Tammi, and I wonder if he has any clue that this sort of "staff management" behavior is unfortunately not uncommon. It's patently illegal. It's indefensible. And there are protections under the law. But if someone finds out that you've got a chronic health condition... or you suffered a TBI or developed PTSD in Iraq or Afghanistan... or you suffer intermittently from some inherited illness... people can -- and often will -- find other reasons not to hire you. I have heard many stories from people who made the unfortunate mistake of revealing too much about themselves online -- including health problems -- only to find themselves dumped by people they were interviewing with. (I heard recently that a website for returning vets got started, to educate employers about the challenges that some vets face when they return. The site, I read, was full of good information, but employer responses were less than enthusiastic.)

Now, if someone posts some snarky, bitchy blog post that contradicts their shining example at a job interview, they have only themselves to thank for having a job offer rescinded. But if someone trusts a source like Google to store their health information -- and I mean ALL of their health information -- and some unscrupulous individual with connections or a 'reason" to access the data, gets hold of it, the havoc wreaked can be considerable.

Having your health information stored by a company which equates privacy with a need to conceal wrongdoing... well... let's stop for a moment and ponder the ramifications. Where's their impetus to protect what they've got? And do they even understand the true needs for privacy, versus just wanting to hide out? Do they get the privacy thing at all? And if they don't, what the heck are they doing, storing personal details which can be damning -- in no small part because people don't know enough about how successfully people can deal with certain conditions, and a scary-sounding condition can look pretty alarming and discouraging to a prospective employer... especially if they Google it and find all the worst-case scenarios clearly described.

Don't get me wrong -- I love Google for many, many reasons. But when they get into the business of storing some vitally sensitive information, and their CEO says, "If you have something that you don't want anyone to know, maybe you shouldn't be doing it in the first place," then personally I'll seek other solutions for my health records storage and management.

Like my own hard drive.

----------

P.S. My thoughts on using social networking and online communities to troubleshoot serious health issues will come in a later post.

Bringing your best

2009-12-15T10:09:00.001-05:00

Don't do it for your company. Don't do it for your loved-ones. Don't do it because it's what you are supposed to do and your annual bonus hinges on it.

Do it for yourself. Because the more you bring your best, the better you get. The better you feel. The better you are.

Bring your best for yourself.

Why the best people are sometimes sent away

2009-12-05T21:07:00.001-05:00

Layoffs, layoffs, and more layoffs. 'Tis not an easy time to be employed, these days. Who can say, how long any of us will be? I heard recently of a layoff that took folks by surprise. Most layoffs do, for some reason. We like to think that we are valued, that our work counts for something, that someone notices what we've been up to. Sadly, that seems to happen less and less. But still we hang onto the belief that, well, we will be spared in the next round of downsizing.

I recently finished reading The Art of Possibility by Ben and Roz Zander. Much of the book I found a bit grating - but that had more to do with the tone, than the content. I actually found some tasty little nuggets between the covers, one of which really hit home, with regard to an orchestra member whom Mr. Zander (conductor of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra) considered unmotivated and disaffected. Turns out, she was anything but -- she was actually deeply invested in the music they were playing; it was the score/arrangement that was the problem for her. When he switched up the pacing, she was able to pour her whole self into it.

From the book on page 39:

"The lesson I learned is that the player who looks least engaged may be the most committed member of the group. A cynic, after all, is a passionate person who does not want to be disappointed again."

Interesting... when I thought about that in terms of all the IT folks I've worked with in the past, as well as all the really good IT folks who have been inexplicably laid off, over the past few years, by organizations that desperately needed them, suddenly something clicked. Could the unfathomable shedding of some of the most talented and committed team members have anything to do with this phenomenon -- the cynicism of the disillusioned passions?

Let's break it down:

Top performers with a passion for what they do are asked to perform feats of unbelievable efficiency and productivity on a shoestring budget and about half the time they need to get it done right.

They do the job, and they do it well, but they keep being asked to do more and more with less and less.

They have to make trade-offs in their choices, and they have to sacrifice excellence for efficiency. You can have only one of the following three: high quality, quick turnaround, or decent price, not all three, and time and again they've had to sacrifice high quality for speed and price. That soul-sucking exercise ultimately cuts into their morale and passion -- the more deeply they care about their work and the quality thereof, the more quickly they grow cynical and disaffected.

Management notices that, over time, they've become increasingly marginal. They don't contribute the way they used to. They don't perform with the same vigor they once did. Their work is solid, but other than turning in work, they've long since stopped adding their hearts and souls to the life of the organization.

So, they end up on the shortlist for cuts.

And when they are cut, the organization loses some of its most passionately committed performers, who -- given proper support and actual leadership -- could bring home one slam-dunk after another, app-wise. That's bad news for the organization, because the folks who were once the most dedicated, loyal, passionate, committed individuals in the shop are no longer around to help do the job. The fire that burned brightly enough in them to carry them and their teams through the tough times, has been ushered out of the building, leaving the survivors to try to kindle the same drive, the same... vision... that once got the job done.

Problem is, there aren't nearly enough of the best people left. And there's twice the workload from before... and more threats of layoffs.

A new cycle of encroaching cynicism ensues, as the survivors -- who cannot for the life of them understand why some of the best and the brightest were disposed of -- struggle to meet their goals... making the same sorts of sacrifices that drove their colleagues away... slowly sinking into the quagmire of their own broken-hearted cynicism, until they too end up on layoff shortlists.

I'm sure this phenomenon been amply detailed in management literature, perhaps ad nauseum. I'm sure someone somewhere has highlighted this to the H.R. folks and managers of the world. But for me, that instant when I read the Ben Zander quote, a little bit more about my world became a little bit clearer.

Which made me happy... immediately prior to making me very, very sad.

Catching up after catching up

2009-12-03T11:03:00.002-05:00

Well, I overdid it at Thanksgiving. But not in a bad way. We had a really nice time and we reconnected with friends and family we haven't seen in months... or a year. The drive back home took an hour longer than usual, due to the heavy traffic, but it was because we took a more remote route that steered us away from the backups and endless red ribbon of tail lights, and led us through the northern Mass countryside. It was dark, of course, but traffic was flowing. And it was a good thing.

But I can definitely tell I'm not the spring chicken I once was. We "landed" on Sunday night, and I've been going full-tilt boogie ever since... till last night, when I started to come down with something (and me with that 10:00 p.m. conference call I had to be on... global commerce waits for no one). I had been feeling steadily worse, over the past few days, and I had a sneaking suspicion my constitution was going to rebel today. Sure enough, first thing in the morning, it said, "A 9:15 meeting in Boston?!"

I'm not joking. And don't call me Shirley.

Anyway, the upside of being down, is that today I can catch up on my notes -- transfer the wild scrawlings in my notebooks into meaningful collections of cogent thought. It's very artistic and all, to have all sorts of partial words and phrases scattered about, but dude, I've gotta get some WORK done. So, I'll use my time today to catch up with housekeeping stuff that must be done, but often gets pushed aside, once I land in my cubicle and the action starts to pick up.

I generally do pretty well about planning my days. I'm quite fanatical about it, actually... and I probably save myself a good 1-1/2 to 2 hours of churn each day, just by thinking everything through up front, before I launch into my day, preparing-preparing-preparing, and getting clear on my priorities and the steps I need to take. Without my planning, well, all bets are off. The price of velocity is mindful care.

So, there we have it.

Anyway, enough of this break. I've got an 11:00 call I've got to get on, in a few minutes. In some ways, this is turning out to be a very productive day.

Maybe this is what the Taoists mean when they talk about "doing without doing"

A new poem, as Fort Hood mourns its dead

2009-11-23T19:18:00.000-05:00

I did not follow much of the coverage of the Fort Hood tragedy. Too much misinformation, too much speculation, too many conclusions jumped to, and too little insight into the full spectrum of very human conditions which contributed to it.

As Thanksgiving approaches, my thoughts turn to the survivors and loved-ones of those involved… and to everyone who was affected by it. Thanksgiving for me is as much about loss as it is about gratitude. It is a season when I am keenly reminded of those who are no longer around, those who have passed out of my life… places and things and aspects of my life which are now beyond my reach.

Perhaps it’s the proximity of Halloween and All Souls. Or perhaps it’s just the normal course of life. Who can say? But summer is over, autumn is giving way to winter, and the days grow shorter with each passing week. The loss of light, in itself, is a significant loss — even if there is promise of its return.

I have had my share of losses in this life, and there will always be empty seats at the tables where I sit during the holidays. We cannot love without losing, I believe. And we cannot gain without sacrificing first. Of course, some sacrifices are a hell of a lot more painful than others…

But enough of my prattle. For all those who have lost, and (like me) are reminded of it this time of year, this is for you.

Requiem for Healed Griefs

A week later, it is still HERE. No relief in sight.

A month later… WTF?! Three letters are about all one can muster.

A year later, one would imagine
it will all disperse like so many fall leaves after
several rainfalls
and a handful of hard frosts.
The shock, the guilt, the accusations un-
spoken, yet deeply felt, the fault, the fault… and more
faulty wires crossed between family members far-
flung to disparate lives, sparking
in the dessicated tinder of old hurts
unhealed, bursting
minor incidents into major-
league blow-outs… like a bobbled infield hit can so quickly
turn into a triple…

A year later — yes, all twelve months’ worth — one would
think, the hurt could lessen, the anguish
could fade, the jagged edges
of loss-loss-loss would soften. But

no

Two years after The Loss
That Dares Not Speak Its Name, one would think
it would be just a little bit easier to sit
in the same room as others
grieving. Some still taking it harder
than others. But

no

it is not enough time. Two years is twenty-four months, is
730 days (or 731 if a leap year happens), and that adds
up to over a million individual minutes of individual
pain.
That’s way
too many minutes to think about grieving.
Too much time to spend being it, as well.
We know that. We know — we think — better
than to let it get us down.
But loss is loss.
And I don’t care what folks say — time does not
heal all wounds.
Two years is not nearly enough to make
sense of much of anything.

Three years later, aren’t we all
feeling foolish and a little self-indulgent, still
smarting from time’s lash…
Those who grieve hard — still — cannot help but
wish their pain will last
as long as they breathe, the measure
of their anguish
being the measure of their devotion
to their long-lost loved one’s memory. To pry
their grieving grasp from around their treasured memories, to try
to talk them into trading tear-soaked-soggy sack-
cloth and ashes for a comfortable house dress… Well,
that would be
just plain cruel.

Four years after that terrible, terrible
weekend/week/evening/event, some
still ache as though it happened yesterday, and they
cannot help but
suspect
those who claim to have moved
on…

and in the middle
stand
the ones who can see
both sides…

they’re the ones who hurt either half
or twice
as much, depending
on the movements of the moon
and the configuration of the seasonal sunlight
on scenes once shared with the one
who’s passed.

Grief is not like an autumn leaf suc-
cumbing to persistent elements.
It is a season, in itself.

Ethereal

2009-11-20T18:19:00.000-05:00

The ancients trusted their guts -- they knew
as well as we (but were braver in the saying) that
all we are,
all we have ever been,
all we will ever be, is made of
air.

Breathe in... breathe out... there's magic in that -- the stuff of life
ingested from invisibility, the building
blocks of flesh and bone
loved
into the palpable. Breathe in... breathe out... there's magic in that.

They call it "stepping down", that chain of commands
from saint
to teacher
to student
to life,
the pulling out of the atmosphere those invisible lessons that should make us brave
and noble
and good
and kind, those traits all too rare that should make us
much more than animals and a little less
than angels,
traits
that are rarely measured, except
by the good wishes and good-bye parties and the sorrows of those left behind,
whether by job transfer
or dropped-body passing... all of us along the way
hoping
that life will give to student,
who will tell teacher,
who will show saint,
that this life dwelled among pulsing veins and moving fluids and the tyranny
of the anxious loveless and the rise and fall
of wishfully
affectionate ways amongst onetime strangers
is one of those things
that truly matter,
that really counts
for something.

How do we number the ways that we fall -- for things, for people, for ideas, for all those qualities
we crave? In falling,
we rise --
to the ethers,
to the upper, purer air above us,
to the celestial realms that have meaning for us now
only in shadow
and unenunciated veneration for ritual and symbol that,
no longer in style, molder
among winsome monks and devoted nuns of every ilk. All of it,
again,
is made of air,
ether,
that stuff that the ancients had full faith was the root of their existence, folding
over into their tolerance for mystery, much higher
than ours... their need of it,
their trust in it, exceeding the capacity of modern logic.

We want,
we want,
how we want,
how much we want. Putting
our fingers on what it is we really desire
for ourselves, is no more easy
than counting motes of dust aloft in a sunbeam, and half the time
we kid others
into thinking we want it for them, when truth
mumbles
something
less noble, less
easily justified and quantified, but far
closer to bone and flesh and pulsing fluid than slips comfortably past our lips.

The ancients trusted
our guts -- they said what we are
too cowardly to admit -- that
all we are,
all we have ever been,
all we will ever be, is made of
air.

Breathe in... breathe out... there's magic in that.

So, I was whining to a friend, the other day...

2009-11-20T18:12:00.001-05:00

... about how my "issues" are being a real PITA, and how people along the way have encouraged me to set my sights in life lower, because of my various challenges.

My friend had this to say in return:

If everyone with issues settled for a less ambitious life, we'd have no electricity, no cars, women wouldn't learn past third grade, and NO ART would exist.

That beat of the different drummer is the beat of tomorrow. If those who hear it are beaten into believing that the drumbeat is dangerous, we as a culture have no future.

... You know what it's like to fail, you know what it's like to not work with your gifts. You know that the second option is worse. You feel it.

I was just thinking on my way to work that I am starting to understand what I have gained by continuing to work in this toxic environment. Every day I've been demeaned. I've been sterilized hourly. Every day I have watched my work be erased. My most precious products have been decreed dangerous to society. So every hour I have had to use my core to remind myself that I have worth, intelligence, and that my version of history is valid. I see now that a habit has formed. I live from my core now, I can't help but believe in myself because I am all that I've had for months. What an amazing habit to gain. (This is not to degrade the importance of you and my other friends. I'm talking about the moments when I needed to walk the path myself.)

It's your path. Choose your companions carefully. "To thine own self be true" isn't just advice. It's a warning that any other decision will erase you.

I just had to share that. I'm still savoring the feel of it.

Good thoughts.

So, yes, I'm sure some folks along the way who have encouraged me to be very, very careful have been trying to protect me from failure, but personally I'd rather give it my all and give my life a good shot, than play it safe and miss out. It's just hard to know how to balance their best of intentions with the Life that has a way of pushing its way to the top with me... and somehow manages to make them Very, Very Nervous.

Well, it's all a grand adventure anyway, so why not live it like one?

Ha -

2009-11-18T19:33:00.002-05:00

I was talking to someone today about my blog, how it's been my intention to post my poetry regularly, but the process of weeding and culling and sorting just gets to be too much. Yah. Way too much.

Anyway, the year is drawing to an end, and here I am again, looking at the resolutions I came up with last year (or over the course of this year), and I'm thinking about how I can make good on them, still.

One of my big promises to myself was that I was going to post my poetry online. I've got these books of poems, all nicely formatted and looking ever so tidy in printed form.

I should promote them, you say? Honestly, who has the time for marketing it all? I just haven't got the urge. I'd much rather be writing, than promoting, anyway (and I know, Virginia, that today's writer must be their own promoter, too, but dangit, I jest don' feel like it!)

What ever happened to the honor in just being a writer...? What ever happened to the accomplishment of actually putting words together in a cogent form that folks can actually access? I mourn the days when it was enough to have a thorough grasp of the deep-and-wide-and-highly-textured English language, in order to write and read poetry. What's happened to us all, that we have to go through all those aesthetic contortions to be taken "seriously"? I just don't get it...

And I think back to one of my college buddies who was adopted as a literary protege by one of the English dept. profs. He was cultivated and sponsored and encouraged, and I seem to remember he was pretty good at the verse work. It looked like he was all set in his literary life... getting noticed by magazines... connecting with the right editors... Then my life took a sharp turn to the left-right-left, and off I went into the wild blue yonder.

I always assumed this guy had done well for himself, and I would occasionally check literary mags to see if he'd made it. No sign of him. And then while I was watching MTV, back in the summer of 1993, lo and behold, there he was on the roof of the MTV beach house, cigarette and beer bottle (still) in hand, looking way ragged, way dissipated, and eminently un-literary. Funny, how those things go. It was sad. But also wickedly sweet. More sad, though.

But wait, I think I've digressed... Back to the poetry...

I think it's time for a new strategy that lets me just get the work up there, without having to do all the editorial labor. I've got way too much material, to spend time figuring out what to post when. I'll just start at the beginning and work my way through. Or, even better, I'll just post the friggin' pdfs of the books I produced, and be done with it.

That's better. I hate getting bogged down in old stuff. I do want to honor the past, and give it its due after all it's done to make me the person I am. But it is old, and it is past, and I need to make room for What's Next.

Now... Back to the blogging business. I must more of it. Because my life has gotten a lot more interesting, all of a sudden, and I find that (as I clean out my study at home), I'm ditching a bunch of old crapola and finding areas in my life magically opened up for closer scrutiny.

It's wild, how life twists and turns the way it does. How tossing out three long filing cabinet drawers full of old papers (that used to mean something to me, but are no longer of use to me at all) can prompt me to think about one of the streets I grew up on, and the elementary schools I attended...

Anyway, I'm rambling. It's almost 8 p.m., and I've had a long day. My clothes dryer is broken and awaiting repairs (so sparks stop flying out the back -- how's that for excitement?), my laptop hard drive is making weird grinding noises that remind me to backup anything I care about, and this morning we had a gorgeous layer of frosty whiteness all over things that were very much alive during the summer.

There is much to celebrate. So I shall.

A new poem, as Fort Hood mourns its dead

2009-11-18T19:16:00.002-05:00

I did not follow much of the coverage of the Fort Hood tragedy. Too much misinformation, too much speculation, too many conclusions jumped to, and too little insight into the full spectrum of very human conditions which contributed to it.

As Thanksgiving approaches, my thoughts turn to the survivors and loved-ones of those involved… and to everyone who was affected by it. Thanksgiving for me is as much about loss as it is about gratitude. It is a season when I am keenly reminded of those who are no longer around, those who have passed out of my life… places and things and aspects of my life which are now beyond my reach.

Perhaps it’s the proximity of Halloween and All Souls. Or perhaps it’s just the normal course of life. Who can say? But summer is over, autumn is giving way to winter, and the days grow shorter with each passing week. The loss of light, in itself, is a significant loss — even if there is promise of its return.

I have had my share of losses in this life, and there will always be empty seats at the tables where I sit during the holidays. We cannot love without losing, I believe. And we cannot gain without sacrificing first. Of course, some sacrifices are a hell of a lot more painful than others…

But enough of my prattle. For all those who have lost, and (like me) are reminded of it this time of year, this is for you.

Requiem for Healed Griefs

A week later, it is still HERE. No relief in sight.

A month later… WTF?! Three letters are about all one can muster.

A year later, one would imagine
it will all disperse like so many fall leaves after
several rainfalls
and a handful of hard frosts.
The shock, the guilt, the accusations un-
spoken, yet deeply felt, the fault, the fault… and more
faulty wires crossed between family members far-
flung to disparate lives, sparking
in the dessicated tinder of old hurts
unhealed, bursting
minor incidents into major-
league blow-outs… like a bobbled infield hit can so quickly
turn into a triple…

A year later — yes, all twelve months’ worth — one would
think, the hurt could lessen, the anguish
could fade, the jagged edges
of loss-loss-loss would soften. But

no

Two years after The Loss
That Dares Not Speak Its Name, one would think
it would be just a little bit easier to sit
in the same room as others
grieving. Some are still taking it harder
than others. But

no

it is not enough time. Two years is twenty-four months, is
730 days (or 731 if a leap year happens), and that adds
up to over a million individual minutes of individual
pain.
That’s way
too many minutes to think about grieving.
Too much time to spend being it, as well.
We know that. We know — we think — better
than to let it get us down.
But loss is loss.
And I don’t care what folks say — time does not
heal all wounds.
Two years is not nearly enough time to make
sense of much of anything.

Three years later, aren’t we all
feeling foolish and a little self-indulgent, still
smarting from time’s lash…
Those who grieve hard — still — cannot help but
wish their pain will last
as long as they breathe, the measure
of their anguish
being the measure of their devotion
to their long-lost loved one’s memory. To pry
their grieving grasp from around their treasured memories, to try
to talk them into trading tear-soaked-soggy sack-
cloth and ashes for a comfortable house dress… Well,
that would be
just plain cruel.

Four years after that terrible, terrible
weekend/week/evening/event, some
still ache as though it happened yesterday, and they
cannot help but
suspect
those who claim to have moved
on…

and in the middle
stand
the ones who can see
both sides…

they’re the ones who hurt either half
or twice
as much, depending
on the movements of the moon
and the configuration of the seasonal sunlight
on scenes once shared with the one
who’s passed.

Grief is not like an autumn leaf suc-
cumbing to persistent elements.
It is a season, in itself.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Kay Stoner, All Rights Reserved

New Work - Perimeter - in progress

2009-06-28T22:52:00.003-04:00

I'm in the process of finishing up a new piece - Perimeter.

Here are the individual photos.

Some of them are a bit blurry -- I was focusing on the painting, not the photography at the time, which you can probably tell ;)

Still, it's coming along nicely. Now I just need to put the finishing touches on the piece... and figure out how to frame it.

It's 36" wide by 28" high - large format mixed-media piece that is a larger version of a work I did a few years back. It is composed of acrylic, watercolor, marker, and oil pastels on paper. I anticipate it being completely finished by the beginning of July.

Online it doesn't show as much of the great texture as I'd like. Oh, well. It's the kind of thing you need to "be with" to appreciate. All in all, I'm fairly happy with it. Can think of things I'd do differently next time, but for now... happy, happy. A good weekend.

I'm painting again...

2009-06-27T07:14:00.002-04:00

And drawing. And wishing I had a whole lot more time to do it. It's been a number of months since I worked on anything visual -- most of my time has been consumed by coding and information design and trying to collect my writing and clean my study and update my various blogs and whatnot. Oh, and do social things(?)

I guess I got a bit swamped by all the stuff I've got around... And it didn't help that I had neatly organized all my paints and brushes and supplies in various containers and put them in areas I was intending to use for artwork... but never got to it.

Organization is fine and necessary in some respects, but sometimes you just have to create.

I'm getting back to my geometries. And my cardboard pieces. And my oil pastels and watercolors. Still trying to sort out what moves me the most -- 'cause no matter how important something may be, no matter how significant it may be to others, no matter how socially acceptable and status-invoking a certain activity may be, if you don't have passion behind it... the kind of passion that would drive you to do it, even if you weren't getting paid... well, chances are you won't have the stick-to-it-iveness to hang in there through the tough times, the dry spells, the painfully niggling little details that all make up the sum total of your Work.

So, what moves me?

Color. Shape. Light. Nice precise lines, along with texture.

More to come.

Refund

2009-06-24T20:27:00.001-04:00

The road has returned
my missing scarf -- almost
before I knew it was missing. I found it
lying almost undisturbed on the snowbank where
I must have dropped it
yesterday, whilst rooting through my pockets for some-
such I've since forgotten.
A little wet
in spots, but mostly dry, yes --
that would be the scarf I was looking
for this morning before
I set out.
Thanks be to country roads
where precious few walk on foot
and a dropped item can be
reclaimed
with as little fanfare as kicking a pebble.

Waltz Whitman

2009-06-24T20:26:00.000-04:00

You propel me out onto the roads today,
brother. Striding
down the long hill away from my house, all
I want of the day
and the woods around me, is
to see.
Like you, I am queer
as the day is long, and I know better than to suspect
the cozy coddled world of established ways
will have me as I am -- without alteration -- or reward'
me for my defiant differences.

The sight of a well-train'd runner got your juices
flowing in 1867. I, myself, grapple with whether or not to dote on my work. I think, not. My work
shall arrive a paper out of time.
Should ti prove durable enough to pique curiosity, lo
those many years down the line, I"ll leave it
to the academians to determine the precise year of my poems'
inception.
I have the dates marked down
somewhere.
let them dig for them. It will give them something
academic to do...

But back to "The Runner" -- such a small
poem, that. Almost
haiku.
And I embarrass myself with all this verbosity over
four simple lines.
Like a Chinese fan, you snapped that moment closed on paper.
I am pulling it open again, perhaps finding more
within, than originally existed.
From your grave
I hear you chuckling -- what a complicated mess
we butterflies pinned tot he board of the 21st Century
have made of simple things.
A runner.
A moment.
An impulse.
We are starving to understand mechanics, we moderns -- hungering to detect
THE mechanics
of Life, all secrets
we suppose
laid bare under the glass of adequate scrutiny.
But the microscope lowered too far
cracks the plate, and the specimen is lost
to intellectual greed.
Best
to wonder from a distance.

My distaste with analysis sends me out
onto the roads today -- no pack on my back, no staff
in my hand, only paper and pen in my pocket
and a charged cell phone -- just in case. The road
eases by underfoot, the lives of all Sunday homebound citizens
who line this track out on display
for passers-by like me, to note well and bless with our attention. The woods sweep by
on either side -- oak and beech
and pine and hickory and maple and redbud
and more, most alive, some dying, many dead -- centering the road
with their sentry density.
You, brother, took alternately to city and country, much
as I have,
now and then traveling some distance to find some trace
of What Must Be Worshiped
or simply Must Be.
There was too much love in you
to be held to just one way or place,,e and my own
promiscuous muse is restless, now, too, aching
and whining
to be fed some new sweetmeat of experience.
But I am no single man, free to ramble
about my nation's back roads, criss-
crossing at will whatever country calls me. No,
I am a married woman, wedded to the kind
of life I suspect you disdained, and I have much
I must accomplish today.
The road leading away from my house
down
the
hill
beckons. I take with me
the sense of you,
my pockets full of Now.

A History of Moments

2009-06-24T20:23:00.001-04:00

Within each and every moment, there lies an entire history, a succession of unique events whose sometimes-unlikely combination produces the quality of a thing, of an instant, or a moment. It’s these histories we so often miss, in the course of our daily movements, as we flit from one instance, one still life, to another. How much richer could our lives be -- could our experiences be -- if we recognized the bits and pieces of our present.

Indeed, I do think that this is one of the elements that plays into our sense of alienation and separation -- we see ourselves as separate and distinct from the “things” we use and encounter, never guessing the history behind them, the time and effort and love that went into creating them. We don’t see past the present, as though we were near-sighted and had put our glasses down somewhere and walked away, never to find them again. Indeed, never realizing we’d displaced them.

Or perhaps it’s more like slowly going blind -- as though our sight were progressively failing in such small increments that we hardly notice the loss until it’s too late. Or, perhaps we notice along the way that we can’t see quite as well as we used to, but no matter -- what we can see, suffices well enough, and it’s actually easier for us to not be bothered with so much detail on a regular basis. Comprehensive comprehension, we tell ourselves, is perhaps the most overrated quality one could have or experience.

Reading Elizabeth Bishop and Wondering...

2009-06-24T20:22:00.001-04:00

Had I been born in, oh, say ‘07, and had I
known then what I know now,
would we have called each other up to travel,
or summoned one another with telegrams --
“Pack those bags, girl -- we’re going away
again!” attaches of papers and works
in progress
tucked under our arms, the streetnumbers of fay friends
settled down towards Cuba neatly
penned into our address book.
Would we have known each other
at all?
Could we have not?

Reminiscence

2009-06-24T20:21:00.000-04:00

Dreams of Hemingway once
sufficed -- my battered old copy of Islands
In the Stream still travels everywhere
with me, and I promise myself
frequently, I’ll read it again
soon.

Halcyon days they were, when visions of expatriates sipping
anise on the Left Bank and signing on
with ambulance crews to prove
their devotion to a cause could extend past
paint or canvas
moved me as much as the words they called their own.

At 18, I dreamed
it was enough to flee one’s homeland
and cluster abroad in pockets of conscience
to retrieve one’s life
from a predicted, prescribed fate.
At 18, I planned to travel
widely and leave
all calculation behind.

And at 20, I did.

Commute

2009-06-24T20:19:00.000-04:00

The world goes silent
as the train rolls in -- traffic stopped
at the crossing, cars idling in patient
resignation till the bells sound again,
the crossbars raise,
and their trips work-ward can resume.

Along the platform, we
wait, heads turned away
from dust blown up by the wheels and wind,
steeling ourselves against one more day,
as resigned (but not quite so patient)
as the sedans and SUVs lined up
on either side of the tracks.

Where will this day take us?

The train eases to a stop -- the open doors
at the next platform down from where
all of us have gathered.
Silently, we file down, climb aboard past
the conductor, our thoughts already well into the day
that takes us far from this silent place.

I am not a pretty girl : an online art installation in the works

2009-06-18T21:02:00.002-04:00

Some months back, I created a painting on cardboard in a series of deliberate steps. And as I went, I took pictures of each stage of the painting, with the intention of eventually creating a sort of narrative about this creation.

And then I got busy with job stuff and tucked it away in the back of my mind.

Well, the other night, I was showing my work to friends, and I pulled out this finished piece and showed it to them and explained the process I'd gone through to create it. And they thought it was way cool.

The piece I'm going to be displaying in the coming weeks is an end-creation of a deliberate process. A narrative in color and paint, if you will. An experiment in textures and merging of phases. It's the story of a life -- a life of a woman, growing up from a young girl to a full-grown woman.

It's starting out as an online installation, then I'll be turning it into a full-color book.

I hope it will be enlightening and thought provoking. Barring that, I think it will be fun to create. The painting surely was.

More to come...

How -- and why -- (visual) art suddenly matters

2009-06-15T05:59:00.003-04:00

Actually, art has always mattered. No doubt about that. Art (of many kinds) and music have been staples of human experience for as long as we've been able to draw figures and sing and dance and make stuff that is not only functional but also beautiful. They're staples of the human experience, and they have a way of getting to us in ways that only they can.

I'm going to talk about visual art, here. Much as it dovetails and consummately integrates with visual art, music is a whole other massive world unto itself, and I'm going to leave it alone for the time being.

There's a reason that art collections, whether corporate or personal, grow over time. There's a reason that art has become increasingly valuable over the past years. It's not just about art portfolios out-performing stocks and bonds and real estate in long-term appreciation of value. It's not just about striking a pose and chatting about your latest acquisition at a dinner party thrown for the parents of the kids your child goes to private school with. It's not just about making a good impression when you're standing in front of a piece at the MFA or MOMA or WAM and some good-looking (and apparently single) individual stops beside you to admire it.

I've been working with colors and lines and light for decades, now. I've been doing it in the privacy and comfort of my own home workspace(s), building pieces out of whatever was available, and being alternately surprised/dismayed/pleased/distressed/annoyed/encouraged/invigorated by the results. I haven't had a lot of formal training -- almost none, if you must know the truth. I've had a sort of "fringe" arts education -- hanging with people who have had the means and the opportunity to receive formal training, who assured me that what I was creating was every bit as inspired as what they came up with.

But I never really took it to heart. Art for me was always something that was, well, for me. A sort of poor-woman's therapy that kept me going through thick and thin.

And while I haven't shown a lot of my work to a lot of people, I have had a lot of time to think about art and light and color and lines... not in the context of a formal educational environment, but in the context of my own life, my own art, my own impressions. And the ideas and approaches and attitudes I've developed around art and its place in the world have had the freedom to grown and change in a sort of hermetically sealed one-way mirrored container of sorts -- always looking out, always looking out... reading various things along the way, contemplating those things, changing my views, adjusting my attitudes... all along the way...

And what this isolated thought process of mine has come up with, is that (visual) art is, in its purest form, simply information. Its lights, colors, lines, textures, shapes... it's all information. And it is non-verbal information that is actually a synthesis of and extension of verbal information -- a visual-spatial "echo" of the linear-sequential info we are constantly taking in, which sends out ripples of effect throughout the whole of our lives, the whole of our world. What's more, color and lines and shapes and textures enable our brains to synthesize the linear-sequential information, so that it can be integrated into our whole selves, and so inform our own growth and evolution.

Visual art, to me, is a complement and logical extension of this linear-sequential-information-rich modern world we presently inhabit. Each and every day, those of us who are connected with computers and other media are bombarded with information at a dizzying rate that probably would have driven our great-great-grandparents over the edge. We can't possibly take it all in. We can't possibly make sense of it all.

Unless, of course, we use art.

More work from last year

2009-06-15T05:20:00.000-04:00

I'm working my way through my drawings and paintings from the end of last year, digitizing them and posting them. Eventually, I will get around to posting them individually with information on their media and original dimensions. The colors don't always translate exactly, but I'm pretty happy with how they've come out.

Here are some more:

Central Sun (October, 2007)

Circus (October, 2007)

Double Fuse (October, 2007)

Feather (October, 2007)

Gemini (October, 2007)

Green Fuse (October, 2007)

Gridlock (October, 2007)

K-Type (October, 2007)

Mountain Air I (October, 2007)

Mountain Air II (October, 2007)

Mountain Air III (October, 2007)

Ode to Kandinsky I (October, 2007)

Of Earth (October, 2007)

Omen (October, 2007)

Piet I (October, 2007)

Ringlet (October, 2007)

Self-Portrait (October, 2007)

Splay (October, 2007)

Stormy (October, 2007)

Suess (October, 2007)

Sundown (October, 2007)

Swept (October, 2007)

Treetops (October, 2007)

I'm on artaculous

2009-06-14T08:08:00.003-04:00

I just signed up with Artaculous, an international art networking startup that seems to be kind of a combination of Facebook and Yessy. I'm still working my way around it, trying to find out how it all works -- and how I can integrate it into my other social networking sites -- Blogger, Wordpress, Facebook, MySpace, Twitter... and more. All this social networking stuff gets to be a bit overwhelming at times, but that's probably due to my borderline-OCD obsession with detail.

I am a very detail-oriented person. Problem is, it can all get to be too much.

Anyway, here's what I posted over at Artaculous. It's a start...

About me

I am a mixed media artist and writer who has been creating abstract expressionist art for over 20 years. I have been working in solitude for most of that time, and I only started showing other people my work in the past 2 years. I'm a firm believer that art is created first in the cauldron of human experience, and only when it is completed there, should it find expression through the media we use. Whether we are using paint or pastels, clay or colored pencils, I believe the true measure of our work is not our facility with our chosen media, but our familiarity with our own souls.

That being said, I consider myself an artist first and a painter second. My life is my art, and I use whatever media seems apropos to express what I am experiencing at the moment. I work with acrylics, oil pastels, watercolor, gouache, colored pencil, marker, crayon, graphite... on paper, cardboard, canvas, canvasboard, and wood.

I have invested a great deal of my life in mindful meditation -- seeing what the true essence of a moment is. I have also studied the approach of artistic masters who devote countless hours not to painting or drawing their subjects, but to experiencing them, getting to know their essence, and reaching a place of innate, intimate understanding... before they ever start work.

Along the way, I have held a large number of jobs -- from working the graveyard shift at a styrofoam cup factory, to tutoring art history, to doing temporary legal secretarial work at some of Philadelphia's largest law firms, to supervising word processors, to building websites. I am currently engaged in the financial services industry, implementing emerging technologies at the enterprise level.

As far as my artwork goes, I am a firm believer in the ability of art to inspire and motivate... to transform the energies of human-inhabited spaces. I also believe that, in this day of exponentially increasing information, art embodies an essential way of communicating informational richness to the broadest audience possible. In "encoding" information through the use of color, shape, and light, an artist can both enlighten and unify the viewers in ways that connect the many seemingly disjointed aspects of our modern world. At no other time in history has art been so important -- particularly corporate art and art in public places. We all crave unity, we all crave connection. Art lets us do it in both highly sophisticated and lightning-fast ways. Art truly is the "written language" of our emerging world.

My art has been the one constant in my life, through the years, and given the enthusiastic responses I've received from folks who have seen my work, it's now time to make it available to the rest of the world. I've loved what I've created, and I've loved creating it. Now it's time for the babies to leap from the nest.

Meditations on vastness

2009-06-13T15:42:00.010-04:00

Just under 4' x 8.5', Because Blue Always Forgives Red is the first large-format painting I finished last fall. I had a couple of other large canvases -- Blue Flame (4' x 5') and Rain At Dawn (4' x 9') -- in the works at the time, but this one I finished first.

I painted it for my sister, Carrie, who passed away in 1996 from cancer. It pretty much sums up how I knew and understood her to be -- carrying a great deal of weight and troubles, but still able to flow through it all with remarkable energy and grace.

Until last year, I had never seriously considered painting on canvas. It always seemed like such a big deal to me. And messy. And where would I work, anyway? But I got all fired up when my friend and fellow painter extraordinaire Stone Riley prodded and cajoled me into at least trying it.

So, I did.

I went out and bought some supplies, trucked them home, and we threw together some frames, stapled canvas onto them, and gesso'ed the heck out of them. Then we let them sit, and I started work on them a few weeks later. What came out of it all both surprised and frightened me a little. What I got was a wide swath of abstract colors, and two intensely dark works that just exude vastness.

I'm not sure where these two dark works "came from," but standing in front of them makes me want to fall to my knees in that abject sort of veneration I imagine the ancients felt in the face of Great Mystery. Whenever I show them to friends, they are moved -- sometimes to tears.

I, myself, am sometimes moved to tears. The depth is just so ... there. I simply procured the supplies, put myself in the mood, and then showed up with the intention to serve whatever Goodness chose to manifest itself through me. I'm sure it sounds all mystical and whatnot... and it was.

I really can't explain it. You'd have to see it for yourself.

To date, I have yet to stretch the canvases. I have them rolled and I haul them around to show friends and acquaintances, when I get the chance. I'm always interested to see how people take in the big, deep ones. Sometimes they're afraid. Very afraid. And they either freeze... or they back away and leave the room.

I still have to get pictures of Blue Flame and Rain At Dawn. It's pretty tough to photograph them without proper lighting. In any case, they are much better experienced in person.

And that's what you have to do with them -- not look at them, not intellectualize about them, but experience them.

And the vastness.

Loss – No. 1

2009-06-09T19:51:00.000-04:00

It’s 6:00.
Where are you?

It wasn’t every
day our paths
crossed, but it was often
enough
to turn seeing you into a habit.
A comfortable, comforting rite of my pass-
ing day, a marker
that told me how well my week
was going
and made many things right
just by right
of your being
there.

What is this odd-strange world that makes friends
of virtual strangers, simply
by rights of habitual proximity?

What is that weird pen-
chant I/we/some people have to turn
acquaintances
into fixtures that fix
our wandering gazes just long
enough to hold us
close — all eyes and ears — close
enough to make us
feel
this must be something more
than accident… and no,
this was not some trick of chance log-
istics — it was
…
more.

Surely, we must be
connected… Or is it little more than
chemistry, instinctive cerebroglandular en-
thusiasm pumping us full
of what passes for contentment
impelled by nothing
more than
familiarity? “Nothing more than…” I say?
I don’t mean it, of course. I know better. I know…
at the very heartroot of familiarity is
“family”.

Routine relates us.

But now that is broken.
And so am I.
That little part of me that hates to admit to limit-
ation, to begin
with, is abashed
at how little it takes to throw
me off
…
way off.

Have I told you lately how much I
hate
this?
Of course not, you are nowhere
to be found, and I am dis-
traught over —
what?
A fracture in my routine
that my heart takes personally?
What?!

It is 6:20.
And it’s been weeks since I last caught
sight
of you.

I am a fool.

And would have it
no other way.

Going East to Look West

2009-06-05T21:36:00.000-04:00

I see it all more clearly from a great, wide distance --
the speed, the urgency, the mad dash to whatever
grabs our attention
and holds it tight - tighter- tighter, till the sheer force
of centrifugal speed breaks the grip of compulsion.
From a great, wide distance across the sea,
the Way Things Are
becomes almost comical, when stripped of daily context
and the collective, assuming mind
that conditioning lulls.
GET AWAY! cries the voice I usually drown
with coffee and the flow of a carefully packed schedule. GET
AWAY
to where they can't' see you to assign one more task, to where
you can't see that side of you
any longer
that's arranged by the clutter of expedience. Get Away
to where you recognize, there is more to life
than billable hours, allocated resources, status checks. Get Out
to where milestones still are lumps of granite
nestled in a wild tuft of grass by the side of a well-worn path.
And there
in that place, look back over your shoulder, catch
a glimpses of the old heads-down world
you put behind, for however long you can afford to, and know
in your bones
all that which a 6x6 foot cubicle
cannot encompass.
Know the feel of the grasses crushed underfoot, the cool
packed earth of that old path, the coarse
solidity of this honest-to-God milestone marker.
Breathe
deep.
But do more -- live
more deeply.
And believe.

Poems for those who pass through

2009-05-27T20:28:00.000-04:00

I have had a lot of people passing through my life, of late. People I haven't seen in years who suddenly show up... people who I've known for years who are moving on. It seems to be going around... I've been hearing a lot of stories about people losing friends to suicide or retirement or relocation or career changes or starting a new family. Either way, change is change, and it puts us through our paces.

People come, people go, and as the world is in such flux, these days, it seems only right to, well, write about it.

Verse is really the only thing that's making much sense to me, these days. Prose just ends up glomming up the pipes. So, I write poetry. And it helps.

New poem - Alarm Clocked

2009-05-26T19:32:00.003-04:00

Alarm Clocked

I.

That marauding black cat from across the street must be
gone. The chip-
munks and jays are
quiet
again -- tho’ it’s too late now
for me to get back to sleep.

Saturday morning before eight, one prefers not
to be woken by the manic-frantic OhMyGodInHeavenOhMyGodInHeaven
shrieking of bird and miniature rodent parents
telling all the world the neighbor’s beautiful
killing machine is near-
by... on the prowl,
hunkered down
beneath a fallen log, too close!
to all the nests full of freshly birthed hungry striving life, while
bluejays shrilly dive-bomb with unreserved aggression and chippies squeak
at
ambulance decibel levels. Their nails-
on-the-blackboard calls
drove the predator away -- and with her, my Saturday morning lie-in.
Death is afoot! Death is afoot! Guard your babies!
The alarm is for all
the world to hear, including once-sleeping me, oh deafening
entitlement of survival.

That cat must be gone. All is quiet. But all
is not well.
I am awake
when I shouldn’t be. I did not get
to bed at the pre-arranged hour, the night
before. The movie and the prospect of a long week-
end were too enticingly rebellious -- and so liberating. I could not
take myself to bed
at ten.
I simply couldn’t. And life has refused
to humor my defiance, waking
me early, re-
fusing to fill in the neglectful gaps
I’ve created in my own needful routine.

I have none but myself to blame for being bo-
thered by being woken early.
There ‘tis.
What is
simply is. And today I won’t sleep in.
Life
goes on -- but not by default. Some things,
like keeping chicks and pups safe from feline claws and teeth,
must be
earned.
What must be done, must
be done.

II.

Now all is quiet.
I have made peace with being woken by nature’s
eternal dance of life and death.
I have brushed my teeth and put on
my grubbies for the morning, and resigned my-
self to having a sick headache from too
little sleep (staying up
too late last night is the cul-
pable culprit, not the chippies and jays, not
even the neighbor’s cat). I have taken what
responsibility I can for my situation and re-
solved to redeem myself with verse -- and nap
in the early afternoon.

Today, I shall write. And perhaps mow the wild-growing yards
around our house. At
least, walk the lawn to see
how the seed I spread a week ago is
taking, in the bare-ish patches that come
back in the same spots
each year.

But wait -
it looks like rain.
Perhaps I shall not
go out today -- live instead
like a modified Emily Dickinson, roaming my
house, rather
than my attic, but avoiding outside act-
ivities all the same.
There are ticks out there, after all.

III.

Five or six days ago, I was
asked -- “Have you written any poetry recently?”

And, thinking myself honest
and sincere
and 100% correct, I replied, “No,
I haven’t had the time or the inclination.
Not lately.”
I was convinced of it, too.
Utterly,
totally convinced. Utterly,
totally
wrong.

On a hunch, I thought I should double-check my certainty, and
the following day, upon rifling the top drawer in the filing
cabinet that holds up the left side
of my makeshift desk, I found
tens -- maybe more
than a hundred -- pages of verse penned
in the past three years.

Idiot.
I can be such an idiot at times.
Saying stupid shit like “Oh, no, I haven’t written very much at all
in three years!” makes me
look like a pathological liar. I didn’t mean
to deceive, but
I did a damned good job of it -- myself, not least of all. And
once again, I find evidence
that I am without a doubt truly
stupid.
Utterly.
Totally.

IV.

But
wait.
Self-flagellation doesn’t become me.
Where mortification runs thin, my pride wins out.
And I turn my mind to more productive,
attractive
activities.
.... now that I’ve found
these words
I penned in a flurry and tucked away
tidily in a steel-cased desk
drawer...
now what?

First,
I shall try like hell to figure out why
in heaven’s name I would forget a thing like
having written hundreds
upon hundreds
upon hundreds
of lines
and placed them neatly in labeled manila folios,
suspended in tabbed hanging folders,
tucked in tightly like sleepy children
all organized
in my left
desk drawer,
out
of sight
out
of mind...

Why?
That question must be answered first.

And next,
I shall work like hell to redeem myself from my in-
explicable neglect, walking deliberately
across the territory I dashed
wildly through
in recent years past,
salvaging
what’s worth saving (in my estimation), ditching
or pitching
what didn’t work then and won’t work
now ... all along paying mind
to the promising skeletons that may still support
fleshy addition -- making like Dr. Frankenstein
picking choicest pieces
of anatomical additions for his prized
creation, I myself
being cognizant (more than the fic-
tional Swiss doctor was, perhaps)
that I may not end up
creating what I sought to seize
in words and sound and breath -- but yet de-
termined to love
what comes of it
all the same, un-
like the fictional doctor who fled
the crass evidence
of his most human failings.

Then what?
Then what shall I do?

Like Proust biting into that madeleine,
this gradually dawning shock of mine -- that I
have done much much more
than I recorded in my sometimes dim im-
agination -- has unleashed
some sort of torrent.

Panic, perhaps, that I lost sight
of something so vital, so precious, so
core.
And was so quick to dismiss it,
as though I could dis-
pense with breath
or light
or the sea.

My voice -- where is my voice? What is my Voice? Has
it changed on my journey through the long
dark gauntlet tunnel
of shifting jobs, medical emergencies, reversals of fortune, and the too-soon
passing of my next-younger sister?
I am com-
pelled to look backwards-forwards-backwards again,
to compare my before-and-after styles,
my pacing and diction and choices
of sounds -- my “maturity”, if any is to be dis-
cerned by my own self, unschooled as I am
in the popular vernacular of poetic/artistic
acceptability. I took enough anthro-
pology to know analysis is not often best done
from the inside. Criticism is an out-
side job.
I think...

But what would I know of these things?
I have not taken the designated coursework and satisfied
sufficient requirements to call myself publicly “a poet.”
I make a shitty student -- and I make no apologies for it -- teachers
of the intentional, professional, certified human sort irri-
tate the shit out of me.
I can never figure out what they want me to say... tho’ I’m pretty
damned sure they don’t mean it
when they say,
“What do you think?” I don’t know their world well enough to tell
when I’m being tricked.
In classrooms I usually feel like
I’m about to be tricked.
Trapped.
Taken for a ride.
For the amusement of the neurotypical.
Or the predatiously dense who hang
on my words long enough to lift them from my distracted possession
and sell them to someone else.

No, I am no use to anyone in a cubical classroom of cinderblock walls.
I am too wary of my fellow students.
Too clueless to give my teachers what they seek.

Too itchy for actual life.
To guru life, in contrast, I am a doting,
rapt
devotee.

The passing years must be
my classroom.

So it has always been.
And I’ve not suffered
for it.

So mote it be.

VI.

.... But where was I?
Ah, yes.
Proust.

I am awake now, even
as his petite madeleine broke him out
of the everyday present and unleashed a sensory avalanche
of What Once Was.
Volume
upon volume
of words-words-more-words. All written
by hand...
I sit here at my desk overlooking a back clearing
alive with chipping rodents and pipping birds, sensory cacophony
of life as it is, was, shall always be (provided we don’t wreck
it all with our lust for wasteful conveniences)... also writing
in longhand -- though surely
with less artsy grace than Marcel. The computer I usually
use is not yet turned on,
oh blessed relief.
And in the punctuated silence,
words come.
Even
before coffee.

I know next to nothing
about Proust, aside from
his petite madeleine and that it fired his mind. Or per-
haps that is just hearsay, and it wasn’t
like that at all. I may be taking
liberties again with my memory -- poetic
license I can apply in the privacy of my own
simple study/studio, to fill in
the gaps of what I think I know
but truly do not.

VII.

I am awake now
and very much in need
of coffee. Let me take
this notepad and pencil and pencil sharpener down-
stairs with me and keep it handy while I boil
water and watch
for what words come next.

Downstairs is cool, now. Yesterday
was hot. Almost too hot -- making everyone
I encountered nervous, antsy, prone to move
and drive and react
too quickly.
Yesterday was hot. But today -- this
morning, anyway -- it’s cool.

The cat slumbers, paws tucked under chest, atop
the scratching post perch. She loves the heat, lan-
guishes in it each afternoon, but she rests better when
it’s cool.
The kitchen is quiet, dimly lit
by a cloud-covered noncommittal sky.
Even the refrigerator’s mute.

A rush of water from spigot into kettle.
The click of the knob that turns on
the back right burner. The clack of kettle bottom
onto tempered glass cooktop. And the stove starts to hum lowly
with electronic heating work.

Peace.

VIII.

And yet
I am still troubled by -- no, perhaps “intrigued” is a
better choice of words -- no, troubled fits --
this lapse of mine, this lost
memory of deeply productive activity.
What the hell?!
Am I losing my mind?
Is my memory going, as my older friends. all
assure/threaten me that it will?
Did I think so little
of my work that I just dis-
missed it, banished it, sent it
packing
without so much as
a good-bye?
Do I value my words so scantily? Imagine
I had better things to do, than
redeem my various, varied experiences
with lilting, healing sound?

What was I thinking, when I told that active listener
I had written nothing of consequence
for years? What
was I thinking?
No --
wait --
“thinking”is not the right word.
“Feeling” fits better. In my case,
at least.
What Was
and Is
and Will Be, I do not retain
in my brain alone.
My body holds it for my brain to ac-
cess later.

IX.
Let me
explain...

The Sense of
Things -- Events -- Moments in Time
is what I retain. The intellectual details
perhaps
not so much. At least
not in the way others do.

It is the Sense of the Thing, the
Feel of the Moment, the physical impression
that makes it mark and
stays with me long
after the particulars are past.

An energetic Signature -- sense-able signpost
along the path of my life that marks
where/how/when I have passed my time.
My memory works best when my brain is not
on its own -- at least
the brain in my skull. the brain in my belly
must be engaged, as well.
Or else.
I forget.

In truth, I recall
being very much up in my head
the morning I forgot the last three years of poetic excess.
And when I was asked, “Have you written any-
thing recently?” I did not feel
as though I had. I sought out
a specific type of sense memory -- re-collection of
laboring long and hard over pages, editing, editing, editing--
which of course I hadn’t done. I haven’t done it in years.

Small wonder, I had no memory
of writing. I did not do it that way.
Not at all.
I was looking for the wrong kind of memory.

So, you see
I actually told a specific truth about that vague por-
tion of my experience. And my in-
accuracy was less related to de-
ception than thoroughgoing single-
mindedness... an out-
of-sight-out-of-mind focus I de-
pend upon to do well in the world... to do
anything at all, really -- well
or not. My rapt devotion to specific,
pragmatic priorities
betrayed my memory again, blotted my poetry’s presence
from my fickle recollection.

It wasn’t an intent to deceive that drove my tongue, just
some acquired fragmentation of the vessel
that contains
what came before
which I carry with me into
my present
in hopes of making future.

The vessel cracked, pieces
of what makes me
dropped through without my notice.

How cracked am I, anyway?

It’s terrifying, isn’t it -- the prospect
of losing one’s mind to in-
herited dementia, Alzheimer’s, head trauma,
brain virus, stroke, miscellaneous unpronounceable degenerative conditions, un-
treated mental illness, neurological insult of various kinds, or the un-
avoidable march of time.
Blood-chilling.
And in many minds, un-
avoidable.
On my more darkly resolute days, the prospect of progressing madness
impels me to plan
a later life of extreme sports -- parachuting, base jumping, rock climbing without
ropes, leading police on the cross-country high-speed chase
I’ve always craved, or plain
and simple
telling the truth to cranky people in power
out loud and
for all the world to hear.

If I must exit this delicious world, let it be decisively,
with a sugar shot of adrenaline-glucose-endorphin-laced
biochemistry cascading through my pumping veins.
Let the end be worth it.
Let it taste good.
Let it be by choice, rather than by accidental, irreversibly progressive tragedy.

But I am getting ahead of myself. All I’ve done
is forgotten writing poetry -- but one aspect
of countless occasions over three
Very Busy Years.
The fact that I’m still standing tells me
I don’t need to learn to skydive anytime soon.

So there.

XI.

~ Sigh ~
I must learn
to let myself be.
Learn to see myself -- again -- for what
I truly am, and do more
than organize swiftly penned verses in proper-
ly labeled manila folders in the left-
hand side of my desk drawers. Learn
to do more than react to what
descends upon me, and Answer
with my gut
as well as my head, when asked some-
thing as significant as
“Have you written any poetry recently?”

I must also learn to slow myself down. I fear
too keenly
I haven’t got all year to sort this shit out.
I’m accustomed to being swept along by artificial time’s hurried pace,
adept at grabbing its coat-
tails and swinging myself up
behind it, like a bandit fleeing the scene
with a mounted compatriot, well-practiced at hauling
myself onto the back of a galloping steed, like some
circus performer who does it every night
and day for paying, cheering crowds.
I AM
a bandit. And a thief. And a practiced
performer. All the best-
living artists are. And the world never misses what we
steal, repackage, and sell back to it, pro-
mising enhanced powers
from its ingestion.

All the world, it seems, longs to be tricked.
Our species is like a flock of magpies who crave and collect
magick sparkles and bold promises of the most
unlikely miracles.
We as a species are addicted
to faith.
Heaven help us.

XII.

So, where is mine? My
faith, I mean. Me-
thinks I buckled too quickly when I found those files
of captured words, gave in
to the idea that my mind was going, diving memory-
first into the suspending brine of prospective dementia.
Started
planning my own funeral, just
in case.
Foolish. I can be all too capricious and cut
myself too few breaks. And for
what? To feel I’m on top of things
again?
That I have a plan?

What things should I be on top of?
What plan should -- can -- I have?

My point...
where
is my point?
I’ve lost it while roaming the room
around my being. Come
back.
Why am I here in the first
place?

Because I forgot? No -- I just
didn’t remember properly.
Memory was not lost to me completely. Only
mis
placed.

XIII.

Track it back.
Cut
to the chase.
Get on with the day. The cat is calling
from downstairs for another course
of wet food before noon
arrives.

Recap:

1.
I woke up too early... No, I was woken earlier
than I wanted to be
by the protective natures of threatened creatures
who wanted nothing more than
to live to see another day and to see their babies
do the same.

2.
Their shrieking,
screaming, piping, chipping at the tops
of their tiny lungs kindled
a kindred impulse in me -- to throw reserved propriety
to the wind and make loud loud
sounds of cacophonic cadence
to claim my place on this spinning orb,
no matter what dark
shadowy beast(s)
may stalk me.

3.
My memory may have its own mind
at times, but that is of no great con-
sequence
if I can just remember what I am really trying
to access.
Sure as
bluejays dive-bombed the neighbor’s cat
at the crack of my dawning day,
I too shall fly
at what threatens to pounce...
and then trounce me -- those inner-
most misgivings that must flee -- like black kitty --
when exposed, full-throated,
by the unabashed drive to do more than
survive.

But live.

And write.

And be what
I simply am
as best
I simply can.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Kay Stoner

All Rights Reserved

Improving my art space with feng shui

2009-05-25T09:16:00.002-04:00

Mountain Air 3

10 inches wide x 7 inches high
Mixed media -- marker and oil pastel and watercolor and acrylic

Mountain Air 3 was created as part of an overall effort to "feng shui" my studio, which has a big chunk missing from the room -- ironically, the corner that's about self-awareness. I created a bunch of pieces that had strong blues and browns and blocky design in them and placed them in that corner, and the effect was palpable.

It actually seemed to help me be more comfortable in my space, become more focused in my work, and not feel this general sense of malaise that had dogged me, every time I went into the room, no matter how much "my space" I tried to make it. Let me tell you, it was a really weird feeling to have a studio of my own -- at last -- but not feel like it was friendly to me. When I feng-shui'ed it, that really changed. The improvement was dramatic, and my work really took off, as it hadn't in years.

I started out being something of a skeptic about feng shui, but after I made some simple but intentional changes to my space -- including adding a bunch of artwork that addressed the "energetic needs" of each quadrant of the room -- I became a real believer.

Kind des Bauhauses (Child of the Bauhaus Movement)

2009-05-25T08:40:00.001-04:00

In my work, over the past years, I've come to appreciate more and more, just how strongly I've been influenced by the Bauhaus movement and other European artists who were working in the first half of the past century.

Indeed, I have to say that the Bauhaus movement, more than any other movement (including the impressionists and expressionists, of whom I'm very fond) has shaped my sensibilities and my art.

And when I look at the works I've been producing for the past years and compare them with the works and sensibilities of Bauhaus-related and inspired works, I get a better sense of where I stand in the grand scheme of things. I must admit, I have never been very diligent at studying past masters in the usual ways. And I'm not formally trained in artistic styles, I haven't had a classical arts education, and I am waaaay out on the margins of the art world. I tend to work in my own style, then cast about looking for folks who seem(ed) like kindred spirits, when they were working, and look for similarities. I'm an outlier, really. And yet, I'm very much steeped in some important traditions -- not only with regard to my art works, but with regard to my whole life.

Let me explain...

I was born in 1965, which was smack dab in the middle of the Cold War, and had this undertone of hardness to it that I believe got carried forward from WWII times -- indeed, both World Wars. There was a strong European influence in the American world I was born into -- in no small part, I think, due to the rather abrupt rise of the United States on the international scene after much of the rest of the "developed" world got itself all blown to bits. We Americans were suddenly thrust onto the world stage as world leaders (after having been pretty much consumed with getting settled on our own continent, sorting things out via (let's be honest), genocide and conquest and mowing down anyone and anything that stood in the way of our European-American Dreams. We went from being highly insular and focusing on getting our domestic house in order -- settle the West, build the cities, establish our industrial manufacturing base, quash rebellion wherever it sprang up, and define our American culture (more or less) -- to being the military and moral watchdogs of the world. Where oh where would we look for guidance in steering the world in the direction we saw fit?

We couldn't very well look to Asia, as Japan was still very much our sworn enemy -- they attacked us, after all. Africa had never been a source of "mastery" for us -- rather, slavery. The Middle East was a sorta-kinda fragmented collection of warring tribes (more or less -- no offense to anyone from there), so those models weren't apropos for our burgeoning American purposes, either. We needed some cultural precedents for world leadership, which were best (at that time) supplied by Europe. Europeans knew, from what we could tell, how to run things on a large scale. The conquest of the Americas (not to mention Africa and Asia) had been driven by European powers, so we could derive some "template" for cultural success from that heritage.

Yes, Europe would do.

Much as the United States has always been a melting pot, when it came to the cultural heritage(s) we tapped into, 'round about the time when I was born and first growing up, it was really Europe -- bombed out and reconstructing as it was -- that shaped my East Coast cultural experience. And the Bauhaus Movement had a huge impact on my environment. I'm talking, in particular, about all the architecture that was built in the aftermath of WWII -- during the Baby Boom, which immediately preceded my generation.

Note: For the record, I consider myself one of the first Gen-X'ers. I share many more of their qualities, than the Baby Boom. I'm just too much of a pragmatic, make-it-up-as-you-go-along entrepreneur, to be well-qualified for inclusion in the idealistic Boomer crowd.

The world I grew up in -- in particular, the school buildings where I spent most of my waking hours -- was strongly Bauhaus-derived. Look at the square, brick-and-metal, highly functional school buildings where I whiled away countless hours, and you'll see what I mean.

The front entrance of the first early childhood center I attended - note the front door -- all the blocky windows and the straight lines.

My high school, in its early days -- see all the straight lines -- it looks more like a factory than a school, to tell the truth.

There have been plenty of other buildings I've spent lots of time in, which had a strong Bauhaus flavor.

At least, that's how it seems to me. And I really believe that growing up and living my life in the midst of that predominating design had a strong influence on my visual and artistic sensibilities.

Or maybe I'm just the kind of person who gravitates to straight lines and highly utilitarian functionality...

In any case, looking at my relatively "unschooled" work -- after not really studying many artists formally, having no real background in art history or theory -- I see so many similarities between my work and my sensibilities and the Bauhaus Movement, I have to wonder where the influence came from, if not from a classroom or a course of study.

My true influence? Life, actually.

And for an artist, that's probably the best sort of influence, of all.

Why Piet?

2009-05-25T07:37:00.002-04:00

One of the smaller pieces I created in 2007 -- or was it 2008? -- is a piece I've entitled Piet_1, in honor of Dutch Neo-Plasticist Painter, Piet Mondrian (1872-1944).

Looking at a set of Google search results on Piet Mondrian, it doesn't much look like one of his pieces. It's not full of straight lines and straightforward colors. It's actually very different from so many of the square-angled works of Mondrian... at least, at first glance.

But on closer inspection, it does have some elements in common:

Common elements repeated -- the curved lines that intersect

Similar colors to many of Mondrian's works -- yellow, blue, black, red -- without a whole lot of inter-mixing. Even in the places where the colors coincide, they do not mix -- they remain distinct, even in their overlapping.

Blocks of single color -- the black squares and the blue areas

It's almost as though all those years I spent examining Mondrian had made an imprint in me, and then blended and swirled... gotten "swirled" by my own individual sensibilities.

In a very real way, it's as though the images of Mondrian I've absorbed over the years had turned into an optical palette of sorts... a pot of paint that, when undisturbed, has the Mondrian imprint on its surface... and my life, full of its own adventures and experiences, then reached down into the pot of paint with its own stick or brush or baster, and gave it a big swirl.

Piet_1 seems to be what happens when the undisturbed, imperturbable lines of Mondrian are given a good shake by an active, evolving life.

This is one of my smaller pieces, being 10 inches (254 mm) Wide x 7.75 inches (196.85 mm) High. It's mixed media -- oil pastel and water color and acrylic on watercolor paper. If you could see it in person, you'd catch the little sparkles that come up from the acrylic paint that's thinned with water -- one of my favorite aspects of acrylics. They turn into something different with each substance you mix into them... in this case, they have a faint sparkle to them, which makes a nice contrast with the matte watercolor paper.

This is also one of my favorite recent pieces -- I'm really happy with a lot of the work I've produced over the past couple of years (which I'm now carting out for all the world to see), and this piece has grown on me. When I first created it, I thought "What the hell was I thinking? How... uninspiring." But then I took a closer look at it, I thought about it and where it came from and what it told me about my evolving style, and lo and behold, it really grew on me.

It's for sale, but it's not framed. That's for the next owner to decide on. I'd probably go with a simple Bauhaus-like frame -- maybe something metallic to contrast with the colors. It's a subtle piece, and I think it would do well with a very simple frame. Whatever glass is used would be best chosen for its ability to allow light through to pick up the sheen from the acrylic colors.

It's a happy piece, and I will miss it when it goes. But I'm hoping someone else can gain some happiness from it, as well.

As always, if you like this work and would like to acquire a similar work of a different size or slightly different features, I am available for commissions. Contact me at kaystonerATyahooDOTcom for details.

Reading Elizabeth Bishop and Wondering…

2009-05-24T22:19:00.000-04:00

Had I been born in, oh, say 1907, and had I
known then what I know now,
would we have called each other up to travel,
or summoned one another with telegrams --
“Pack those bags, girl -- we’re going away
again!” attaches of papers and works
in progress
tucked under our arms, the street numbers of fay friends
settled down towards Cuba neatly
penned into our address book.
Would we have known each other
at all?
Could we have not?

Copyright (c) 2009 by Kay Stoner
All Rights Reserved

Winged Destiny

2009-05-24T10:58:00.002-04:00

Spun of magic
and of grace, this moment
crackles with its newness,
like fresh crepe paper from the wrapper
embraced by eager palm.

The emerging monarch climbs free of its cocoon, spreads
its damp-heavy
wings to the shifting breeze and lifts
from from my finger.

Milkweed feasts come first, while
South America awaits.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Kay Stoner
All Rights Reserved

Paradise Coveted

2009-05-23T14:06:00.001-04:00

I would be Milton, that well-versed
poet, who commenced his obsession over words of others -- and
intently so -- prior to his practical life’s
inception, and never forsook
his flame. I covet
the choices of his driven father, who afforded his son
the luxury of becoming book-bound. If only
my own father had been less poet,
himself, and more provider...

I would be Milton, who made such casual
references to classic facts, assuming
he’d be understood, whose pool of truths
was perhaps less wide, yet
far less shallow than that from which we dip
today -- who could well afford
to reference Hector
and not be trashed as a pretentious hack,
to draw from Virgil
and be taken for sincere, not quaint,
to cite comparisons of old
without the gaze askance
from a differently educated peerage
with no sympathy
for Clytemnestra,
to type the names of kings of old with no
arguments from a spell-checker that had no record
of their monikers till I showed up at the keyboard.

I would be Milton, despite his failed love
life, his latter pragmatic partnering, his unruly
daughters, his failures to keep mute
when silence would likely have served best his public stature.
I, too, would press onward
against principalities and powers, known
for a quick tongue and rambling pen
that by its very lucidity breaks
the back of vociferous opponents,
deliberate defiance marking my path, even when passing
through friendly hosting lands.
I would profane the pompous with brute force
of learned mind, and cause the critics to lament the waste
of my talent, as a cheap
and imprudent pamphleteer. I would broaden
my reputation with propaganda most impassioned, lauded
in tomes not once, but threefold in the same century.

I would cast in my lot
with king-slayers, then bemoan how monarchy
prevails -- even in the guise of populists -- and rue
the rashness of my
impolitic endorsements. I would reap
the seeds of discontent sown
and fly in the face of advancing night
with such a deluge of vitriol
channeled hard against the advancing tide -- so hard
that none
could make light of my drive.

I would be Milton, who thought better
of telling only tales of woe, who saw
that most grievous loss could prompt a bit of gaining, and knew
full well to whom credit for the brighter song
should be attributed.
I would seek out the company of others
well-read, and spar with princes
in their courts.
I would parry the fumbling advances
of “modern” usage, slice off
that custom blade at the hilt, and send it
scuttling across the flags to dark corners
where the hounds repose,
and brandish my older, sharper, more
tempered blade
in victory.

I would trust the cadence of scriptures
and not be put off
by their popularly suspect intent,
seeking infamy’s father in the illiterate judgment of ob-
scured truth.
I would seek -- and find -- God
on my own terms, regardless of king and country.

Would that I were Milton. True --
his bloodline, for all we know, ended
eventually, with no modern men to pen
“M” as their second initial, quite the way
he did.
True -- his escapades into love and friendship ended
tragically. Perhaps
too much so.
True -- his were viral times, fraught with
danger and early death.
True -- there were events so crushing even he of boundless expression
could neither articulate nor eulogize, so
deeply did they slice into his heart. But
still...

For ever so brief a second, would that I
could esteem myself as learned,
as linguistic, as treasured in syllable
by a knowing crowd who turn no
deaf ear to these ancient rumblings.
For the most fleeing of instance, would that
I could lust openly for Rubens’ curves,
and not be accused
of base lechery.... would that I could dwell at
length upon the conceits of Olympians, rant
contrary to hubris-driven posers, invoke Uther’s bloodline
and cry to Queen of Heaven
in unison with a host of readers
who themselves would claim
Milton’s glory
as their own. And shrink
not from it as conceit.

Let us all be Milton.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Kay Stoner
All Rights Reserved

I am neither painter... nor poet...

2009-05-22T18:45:00.001-04:00

I am an adventurer who ranges far and wide to see what life has to offer, and then records my experiences in color and words. If color happens to use paint and canvas as its medium, or even pen and paper, then so be it. But it can just as easily find expression in wood, stone, clay, marker, colored pencil, graphite, oil pastel, watercolor... or on the monitor in front of you.

Acrylic paint on heavy canvas suits me better than the more refined "professional" supplies that promise to make a work of art an "investment" for the collector. And it gives me a broader, wider, deeper "vocabulary" to work with.

Just as written words, spoken words, felt words shaped and plied in solitude feed and sustain me far more than public performances or "poetry slams" (heaven help us).

These media give me a way to record/express/memorialize/archive my adventures in a shareable and (I think) exciting way. Through the use of color and light and texture... through the sing-song lilt of vowel and consonant... the nuances of not only what I've experienced, but also how I've experienced it, can be captured and expressed.

Through the eye and ear -- and through touch as well -- the full range of human experience can reach into the deepest centers of the brain and tickle the mind to new knowledge, new understanding, new appreciation, new experience, and renewed humanity.

I don't "think" art should ennoble us. I know it should.

Okay, so I've got all this art...

2009-05-22T18:21:00.002-04:00

It's pretty wild, how much of it I have. I mean, tens upon tens of works, in a variety of media. It's like my poetry -- I have a lot of it, and it comes very naturally to me, so I end up not thinking much of it -- I mean, I do think much of it, but it doesn't make as much of an impression on me, while I'm creating it, as, say, coding up a web app or something like that.

For some reason, if it comes easily to me, it just rolls out, and I forget about it -- sometimes -- almost as soon as I've created it.

And since I often (usually) work in solitude, frankly, not many people know about it.

So, I'm working to change that. The web is full of social networking opportunities, so I need to just avail myself of them, I guess.

For starters, I've uploaded a whole bunch of my artwork to my Flickr account at http://www.flickr.com/photos/kaystoner/. I haven't gone in and created a whole bunch of descriptions (yet). I just got them up there.

There's plenty more where that all came from, and I'll eventually get to it.... But what I wouldn't do for an intern, or someone to help me organize myself...! Or someone who has a real knack for marketing... and who knows about art... Oh, hell - whatever.

I'm just glad I'm able to do this, and that I'm able to share all these pieces.

Maybe someday I'll find a benefactor who can help me get this out to the world. But in the meantime, at least I've got Flickr. And my blogs.

New poetry from Provincetown

2009-05-20T20:22:00.001-04:00

It has been way too long, since I last posted... I've been busy, I guess ;) Studying this and that, reading this and that, writing this and that, and drawing/painting this and that.

Funny, I hadn't realized until lately, how remiss I've been with my blogging. Oh, well.

A funny thing happened the other day. I was talking to someone about my writing, especially my poetry. I was showing him all the poetry books I've written, and he asked if I'd written anything recently. I said -- off the top of my head -- "Oh, no... I really haven't written much at all for a few years. I just haven't been in the mood."

Then I decided to double-check, and lo and behold, I actually have tens of poems I've written over the past three years -- since 2006. I have a real sheaf of paper filled with words, some of them pretty good (I think, anyway).

I don't know what got into me, but I was convinced that I haven't written any poetry, lately. Odd.

I think I've just been so wrapped up in a lot of work-related stuff... stuff I'm doing for others... that I've shut off the part of my brain that keeps track of what I do for myself. Hermetically sealed, as it were. I think I've been too stressed over job transitions and just keeping my life on track, to delegate attention to my poetry.

Because my poetry is something I don't have to work really, really hard at. It just comes. I don't know how or why, but it comes. I have my theories about sound and vocalizations and the sight of letters and words on paper, but the bottom line is, poetry comes very naturally to me. So naturally, it almost seems like second nature. And it doesn't capture -- or hold -- my workaday attention the same way that work-work-work-harder-harder-harder activities do.

Strangely, it seems like, if something comes easily to me, it must not be that big of a deal. I know it's a big deal for others -- they like what I've written, and they want to read more. But somewhere in my mind, I have it stuck that if it's not really, really hard, it must not deserve a great deal of attention.

Well, that's changing. I'm changing it. I'm going to publish my poetry here, as I type up the different pieces. There's a lot of it, so I should have plenty to post... for the next several years.

And I won't need to be this delinquent again.

Here's a fresh start -- please, note, there's profanity in it, so you may want to cover your ears ;)

Echoes of Hell Town*

It's easy to forget, this was
an artists' colony long, long, long before
anyone thought of charging
nine dollars and change for a salad. But
its true. Crazy
motherfuckers have wandered the streets
of this only-recently-straitlaced place
since time first thought of building up
a spit of livable land out of
nothing
more than sand and seeds scattered
by birdshit.
Only an idiot would set up house
on a dune more than fifty miles out to sea... but
still
we came -- all we crazy mother-
fuckers, bags packed for Hell Town,
ranting and railing against The Man, ever
a source of entertainment
or outrage for those stuffed-
shirts of Barnstable, Hyannis or Boston.
Sands shift, though.
Roads get closed off in high winds,
escape routes blocked, right-
of-ways impassable, except
by expensive four-wheeler.
Grain by grain, dune by dune,
it gets easier to forget this place
was ever an artists' colony.

26. Jan. 06

* Back in the day, when polite people stayed in Truro, and only "sinners" crossed over to Provincetown, they called the place "Hell Town". In a way, it's a pity they can't (don't dare) to still do that...

Engineering co-creation

2008-08-01T07:24:00.000-04:00

It's the day of a Total Solar Eclipse, and I've been painting since about 5 a.m. I woke around 4:04, when the eclipse started (on the East Coast), and I tried to get back to sleep, but it was nothing-doing. So, I got up and went to my studio to see what was becoming of the pieces I've been working on.

I had given some thought to modeling some figures for friends of mine, to capture the spirit of the day, but I got caught up in painting.

I've been wanting to paint for some time -- with brushes, I mean. I do that type of work periodically, when I want to hone my brushwork. But honestly, it's just not me. I don't have that kind of dexterity to manipulate the brush pressure and direction, and my lines end up being more blobby than I want.

A whole lot more blobby.

Not good.

Now I'm presented with several choices that I can see:

Either keep at the brushwork and try like the dickens to sharpen that skill, running the risk of developing a skill that really isn't "me"... and losing valuable time in the meantime, when I could be creating works that are much more in line with what I'm like, and my orientation to the world. I figure I stand a pretty good chance of becoming a middlin' brush gal, if I keep at it.

Or I can cut my losses and limit my brushwork to occasions where I'm not as dependent on precision as my smaller works are... and develop ways to "engineer around" the blobbiness that tends to emerge from my attempts at straight lines. And let the paint do the actual work.

I choose the second option. Already, I'm coming up with ways I can not only have the precision that I want, but also work with the media I have in ways that are totally appropriate to them... and in ways that let them "do the work," using their very qualities to achieve the effects I'm seeking, rather than trying to impose my will on them.

It's an interesting concept I'm working with here -- how do I relate to my media? How do I work with them? How do I honor them as equal partners in the art I create, while still bringing my own vision through?

I think it's a new approach whose time has come -- a new approach for a new time.

The "standard issue" approach to creating art (and being respected as an artist) appears to be all about "mastering your medium/-ia"... putting in long years of work in your preferred media and then showing that you've got total control of it.

It seems (to me) to be the way folks go from art aspirations to art school to art vocation out in the world. And it seems to be what folks look for when they're considering the skills of artists in question.

But my approach is not to "master" the media, but collaborate with it. Learn its ways, its temperament, its moods, its inclinations... and then blend it with my own vision and bring forth something that is not all me, not all the paint/pastels/gouache/watercolor, but rather an amalgam of us all, equal partners in the creative process.

It sounds a little hokey to me, talking about "co-creating" artwork with the media themselves. A sort of "media animist" approach. But I am essentially an animist at heart, and I do believe that all things have spirit within them.

I'd much rather work with the media, as the media, and allow it to "do its thing" in the creative process.

Ultimately, what comes out of it is an exponentially greater expression than I could achieve on my own, by exerting my own "mastery" over the colors and textures I choose to work with.

New Online Gallery - ZeroPoint Images

2008-07-30T19:45:00.005-04:00

I'm not much for words, right now.

But here are new images from my studio

Re: Testing my posting from afar...

2008-07-25T19:38:00.002-04:00

It's time to start posting more of my artwork on this blog. I've got literally tens of pictures and paintings and drawings, and it's time I digitized them and put them up.

The past six months have been eventful in ways I can't even begin to express.

Now, it's time to get back to art.

Update before July is out...

2008-07-25T07:59:00.000-04:00

I've been really, really quiet, for some time, now. I've been doing massive amounts of research on creative process and visual thinking -- just kind of following different threads, and seeing where they lead me. Researching as an artist in search of material, as an individual in need of explanations, rather than a hard-science inquisitor with facts to prove or disprove.

It's been a deeply personal process, and I can't say I'm entirely comfortable with everything I've found, but it's all grist for the mill. It's all material for my ongoing work, and in that respect, it's been a very productive number of months.

I've been drawing a lot. I've been writing a lot. I've been "distracting" myself a lot... which is what I used to think, till I realized (just this morning, in fact) that I haven't been distracting my attention, I've been deepening it. I just didn't realize until very recently, how it was all put together.

I really have to "trust the process" (much as I detest that expression) in this. Have faith that there is some underlying reason why I'm "scattering" my attentions and going off on different tangents. I really have to believe that the visual/spatial part of myself that's so very, very hungry for information and understanding, knows what it's doing, knows its own needs, and knows how to get itself fed.

I've been feeding that part of myself, lo, these past 8 months... or rather, it's been clamoring to be fed, and I've indulged it. I can't say that I was feeding it, 'cause at a very fundamental level, it wasn't a conscious choice on my part... I wasn't fully aware enough to 'get' that I was feeding it, only that I was running around in all different directions, compulsively consuming vast amounts of information about stuff that a part of me suspected might just be very, very important -- and it was.

Well, whatever the process, that part of me that was aching to be tended to, did in fact get fed. It had its fill (for now), and I am coming away from the past 6-8 months with a vastly more complete understanding of myself, my life experience, my way of relating to the world, my way of relating to myself and my friends and family, than I have ever had before.

So, the distraction has been well worth it. And I am feeling a whole lot more centered, more capable, more able, more connected, more comprehensible, than ever before in my entire life.

It's quite remarkable. But enough of the words. That's where I'm at right now, but only time will tell how this plays out in the world beyond my head. And that, for me, is where it truly counts.

Angel Heart Ruby at the Heart Art Gallery

2008-01-21T06:16:00.000-05:00

Angel Heart Ruby, originally uploaded by kaystoner.

"Oh, my God...." is what everyone has says to me, when I first show them this fractal, Angel Heart Ruby.

I've now got an online gallery of my heart art -- www.heart-art-gallery.com -- where you can see this and other Angel Heart works. The detail is just breathtaking, and when each image is available as a desktop wallpaper for your computer (800x600 and 1024x768 resolutions).

I had Angel Heart Ruby printed at Imagekind -- I've got a gallery there of my Heart Art -- http://kls.imagekind.com/HeartArt -- that lets you purchase fine art giclee prints (on paper and canvas) of this and my other fractals.

The print quality from Imagekind is just astounding. I never expected it to look as great as it does, with all the gradations and color contrasts... but the first time I opened the tube and unrolled the 30x24" matte print, I gasped... Such vibrant colors... such intensity... and I'd never fully guessed, from working on my laptop, just how dramatic the effect would be.

But then, it does look different in a large printed format, than it does on my little laptop screen.

Truly, this is a miracle of computer science, and I'm incredibly blessed to have "midwifed" it.

Angel Heart Ruby on Flickr

2008-01-15T10:23:00.000-05:00

Angel Heart Ruby is up at Flickr, along with other fractals I've "found."

New fractal artwork at my Imagekind Gallery

2008-01-02T11:46:00.000-05:00

I've got new fractals posted at my Imagekind Gallery

Earth Burst
This round, reflective fractal holds the darkness and deepness of the earth, while at the same time nestling the intricacies of Gaia's innermost secrets along the meridian of the work. It stands in sharp contrast with Gossamer Burst - which is much finer, much more delicate than Earth Burst, and it makes a fitting compliment to Gossamer Burst, which feels much lighter and airier than this piece. This is a more "basic" treatment of the same concept -- as above, so below. Very much in and of the earth.

and

Gossamer Burst
This round, reflective fractal really jumps out at me as a sharp contrast with Earth Burst - it's much finer, much more delicate, and it makes a fitting compliment to Earth Burst, which feels full of earthiness. This is a more ephemeral treatment of the same concept -- as above, so below. But this time, in dreamtime.

The Art of Strange Bedfellows is now available online

2007-12-11T09:22:00.000-05:00

The art of Strange Bedfellows is now available online at My Imagekind Gallery.

Giclee prints on paper, as well as canvas are available... and all of them can be custom framed at Imagekind.

Pay a visit to see what the artwork looks like on its own.

Read an Excerpt from "Strange Bedfellows" here...

2007-11-11T10:55:00.000-05:00

Looking for a taste of Strange Bedfellows?

An excerpt (in PDF format) can be viewed here.

Introducing "Strange Bedfellows" - A Cautionary Tale for Times of Global Change

2007-11-11T09:46:00.000-05:00

It is with deepest gratitude that I now announce the publication of Strange Bedfellows - A Cautionary Tale for Times of Global Change. It is the retelling of an amazingly detailed, epic dream that came to me unexpectedly in 1992. Dreaming this story was like watching an intricate and fully developed feature film -- it was awesome, even a little intimidating.

About Strange Bedfellows

Everything is going great for Paul and Christina. Their careers are fast-tracking them to success, they're moving up in society, and their future prospects are excellent. They take what they desire from the world around them and live life to the fullest. Everyone and everything around them reinforces their entitlement, and they have no reason to question their right to do what they please, when they please, to whomever they please.

But when a strange and horrifying incident takes place in their home, their lives are turned upside-down. In the blink of an eye, everything they've worked so hard for is at risk.

What will they do, when a grisly guest appears out of nowhere? Will they have the courage to make the changes necessary to restore right relationship to their world? And how will they save themselves from a horrible fate they have helped to create?

Strange Bedfellows is a cautionary tale for our times, a retelling of an epic, intricately detailed dream Kay Stoner received in 1992. This is a story of truth and consequence... entitlement and impoverishment... conscious choice and change... and the hazards of being motivated by self-centered fear and short-sighted ignorance.

Strange Bedfellows can be purchased online here at Lulu.com. Proceeds from these sales benefit women who make earth stewardship a priority.

The Journey Into Print

This work has been some 15 years in the making -- a decade and a half of fits and starts... believing in this story, trusting it, pondering its truths, and integrating them into my life. Now, as we propel forward into times of dramatic change on a global scale, it's time to get this story out to the broader world. I give thanks for all the help I've received from seen and unseen folks over the years, to help make this publication possible. I've been challenged and cajoled, encouraged and dismissed, prompted and chastised, supported and urged on, in countless ways by folks who never knew they were contributing to the creation of a book, but helped make it possible by their examples and their expressed needs -- needs for vision, needs for clues, needs for leadership, needs for a new story to tell ourselves about ourselves and our planet and our place on Her.

The creation of Strange Bedfellows truly has been a group effort, in many ways, with me being the steward in the middle, working steadily to make some sense of the many messages and meanings behind this tale, and pulling together the feedback and input and impetus from so many different sources. In the end, though I was given the dream, I am ultimately its steward, and this publication is an act of service to you all -- to us all.

Some dreams are clearly only about the person having it. They touch on aspects of experience that are particular to the dreamer -- symbolic representations of family members and friends, or personal characteristics which beg closer inspection. This dream was clearly not just about me -- the characters were far too well-developed, the scenarios were far too realistic, the events were much too sequential, and the message(s) inherent in the dream plainly had a great deal to do with more than just me.

Oh, no -- this was a dream about us. For us, about us, from us... this dream was us. It's about all of us, in these times of global change... how we react to the choices we've made which endanger our survival, how we choose to alter the course of our lives, and how we do -- and don't -- make sustained change possible.

I hope you'll pay a visit to Strange Bedfellows at Lulu.com and consider the message within. This is a story we all need to work through -- for the good of our planet and the hope of our children.

Fame - Feng Shui - Inspired artwork available at my Imagekind gallery

2007-11-01T08:07:00.000-04:00

This piece incorporates the concept of fame in vertical triangles of red, with smaller visual elements incorporated into the intersection of horizontal triangles.

Buy it here

Purchase a print with this frame, or use principles of feng shui to choose another frame that fits your space better.

Montain 1 and 2 - Feng Shui - Inspired artwork available at my Imagekind gallery

2007-11-01T07:56:00.000-04:00

Feng shui-inspired artwork is now available in my WindWater gallery at Imagekind.com -- http://www.imagekind.com/GalleryProfile.aspx?GID=0f28b4f3-23c7-4ec2-9a23-f22044e5b17e&P=1

These pieces were created to anchor the energy of Mountain -- one Yang/Heaven above and two Yins/Earth beneath. Created with oil pastels, this piece uses color to convey the strength of mountain and the expansiveness of sky. The two Earths below are signified by the dual mountain ranges, each of them "broken" as the two lower lines of the Mountain trigram.

Working with Mountain, I'm finding that having the images prominently displayed in the Mountain/self-knowledge/wisdom sector (gua / kua)in my workspace really helps anchor me and center me... enough of the scattering already.

Somehow, it just works. As I'm sure thousands upon thousands of Chinese folks have discovered over the past couple thousand years.

Totem II

2007-09-20T21:06:00.001-04:00

totem_II, originally uploaded by kaystoner.

This is one of the drawings that came out of my getting set up on my own in Philadelphia in early 1990. I had my own home, I had my own schedule, and I could do as I pleased, for the first time in my adult life.

The sacred came forth for me a lot, during that time... when I was completely un-interrupted in my home life, by any intrusions, and I was free to create as I pleased. Totems and images and myths... and more.

Sacred Geometries on Flickr

2007-09-20T20:52:00.000-04:00

I've posted a collection of my early work on Flickr

Follow the link to get there...

About Me

2007-08-21T11:00:00.000-04:00

Born & raised in southern Pennsylvania, with plenty of ties to Canada through Mennonite population (who all seemed to arrive in PA from the Ukraine via Waterloo, Ontario).

1983-1985 -- Lived 30 miles from the Canadian border, attending SUNY-Potsdam majoring in German & Cultural Anthropology, spent Saturday mornings watching Sesame Street in French and catching up on curling while finishing off last night's pizza. Primarily Ottawa-influenced, media-wise, listening to the BBC and CHEZ-106. Got used to snow and cold pretty quickly.

1985-1987 -- Studied in Germany, just inside the French Zone in Tuebingen. Traveled widely throughout Europe during semester breaks (as widely as the Iron Curtain would allow at that time, of course). Worked for an American translator who worked for VW and translated automotive material for Detroit. Learned enough French to say, "Je ne parle pas francais." Learned plenty of German, tho'.

1987-1995 -- Lived in NJ and Philadelphia, where I was a freelance writer/editor, and lived in northern California for 3 years, where I was Head of Documentation for a software company that built relational-database-driven desktop software. Created electronic and print docsets for DOS (it was 1993, after all), Windows and Mac versions of the product. Also contracted at Hewlett-Packard's microwave technology division, training their HR dept to transition from paper files to their international hiring database. Also wrote documentation for a hardware supplier for Intel, which built wafer handlers for silicon wafer printing, as well as medical pathology software. Worked for O'Reilly & Associates, who are based in Sebastopol, where I lived at the time. Spent a whole lot of time at the Sebastopol public library, combing through gopher servers (as the web had yet to emerge) - O'Reilly was at the time working on their "Internet in a Box" product, "the first shrink-wrapped package to provide a total solution for PC users to get on the Internet. Internet In A Box provides instant connectivity, a multimedia Windows interface, and a full suite of applications. New features in the second edition include: access to the CompuServe Network; Spry Mosaic, Mail, and News; Secure HTTP; and a Network File Manager." Blast from the past.

1995 -- Moved back to the East Coast (Boston), where I supervised staff at one of Boston's top law firms, dove into web work, starting to build my own websites on my own time -- with one of the first WYSIWYG html editors, then deciding I could write the code better myself. And I did.

January, 1997 -- signed on with Fidelity eBusiness as one of their first in-house people to do web development. Survived two full-site redesigns, directed construction of site-wide templates for componentization and standardization. Go-to-gal and general troubleshooter/problem-solver for various issues, such as "broken" back button off the login page, cross-browser compatibility, Netscape 6-related (remember that debacle?) changes to 1700+ individual web pages, enterprise-wide web development issues, returning mixed search results from non-secure and secure contexts, page optimization, code cleanup, Perl customization implementations, daily net asset value feed monitoring, online calculators & retirement/investing tools, content management systems vetting, etc., etc. You get the picture...

2000-2002 -- Developer and project manager for Search, eLearning and Knowledge Based projects, working with third-party vendors. Built front-end for enterprise-wide search engine pulling data from multiple Fidelity-owned domains and disparate data sources. Built it in Perl, parsing out xml returned by the "black box" search engine implementation. Worked with former members of Israeli intelligence for data mining projects. Development consulting for Instant Messaging implementation.

2002-August, 2005 -- Consultant Software Engineer with Fidelity Institutional (employer services), heading up web accessibility and compliance initiatives, leading client-side development for site-wide redesign of 2000+ piece self-service HR benefits management site. Oversaw efforts of developers in multiple US states & India, set and enforced standards, coded application for customer perceived response time to ensure compliance with SLA(s) for third-party vendors.

August-December, 2005 -- Technical writer with Fidelity Institutional, writing back-office operations documentation for HR outsourcing business.

December, 2005 - January, 2006 -- Built a podcasting content management system, written in Perl and PHP and some integrated Java components.

Feb, 2006 - April, 2007 -- Client-side developer for Generate, building out presentation-layer code for G2 and the first iteration of the corporate website. Also freelance web developer for several websites.

Technologies used over the course of the years: (D)HTML, C, Perl, SQL, CSS, Javascript (since 1997), Java (J2EE/JSP), ASP (classic), IIS configuration, Apache HTTP server and Tomcat, UNIX, Linux, emacs (not so much vi), DB2, PHP, Lotus Notes, graphics programs, command-line and IDE environments, Websphere, Weblogic, dotNet (@ Generate), Vignette, various content management and knowledgebase/data mining systems, etc.

Other hats:

Executive Producer & Digital Engineer for the nationally syndicated radio show "Women In Music with Laney Goodman", which you can hear on over 100 markets nationwide in the US (from the tropics -- including Guam and the Philippines and Puerto Rico -- to the tundra, reaching as far north as Barrow, Alaska, not to mention a few stations in the Aleutian Islands) -- www.womenonair.com is the url, and you can listen online through affiliates, most notably WUMB in Boston at 10 p.m. on Friday nights -- hear it online at www.wumb.org tonight!

Independent publisher with over 10 books published, to date, and a couple more in the pipeline.

Visual artist and designer -- see www.kaystoner.com for a smattering of my work. More to come. Soon.

Selected art - 20 years in review

2007-07-30T11:57:00.000-04:00

I've been unearthing my collected artworks from various folders and notebooks around my study and the house... and getting some positive feedback from folks about it. Turns out, my lack of proper training in this area works in my favor, and according to an artist whose work and vision I have tremendous respect for, nobody is apparently doing quite the same kind of work I am, these days.

He also told me that some of my stuff is "seriously good", which comes as a surprise, 'cause I "jest do it"... I haven't sunk vast amounts of time into classroom instruction or classes or whatnot... I haven't been tutored by geniuses... I haven't gone to Paris or Florence to hone my craft. I just go about my day, go about my life, and I draw and write what comes up, as a result.

I've started scanning my collected visual works into the computer, and I'll be uploading them to this site, as I go. I work mostly in paper and colored pencil and crayon and some pastels and some markers and some black pencil and some ink, as well as mixed media, so the textures tend to get lost in translation, especially since my scanner leaves a little to be desired.

And so, without further ado... the first of my visual works I'm posting online -- from May, 1990:

5/90 - Graphite and colored pencil and crayon on paper. 8.5" x 7" Unframed

About this Piece
This work was created in May, 1990, when I was going through a great deal of transitioning around my life, my work, my relationships... basically, everything was up in the air. I was crashing at the pad of a friend, while I was looking for a place to live. Technically, I supposed I could have been considered "homeless", but it was such a heady time of great excitement and change, I didn't mind it at all. It never occurred to me at that time, that I was living on the edge. I didn't see the edge -- I was too busy looking out to the horizon, and I was a whole lot more excited about what I saw there, than what was right in front of me... which was changing rapidly, anyway.