Perspectives on a Communication Gap

I realized that I needed to spell out a few 'generic' perspectives on a relationship that's become a bit jagged, distorted, pained, and is now fraying along its once taut fringe.

We censor. We mince. We bite our tongues. We hold back. We share, then sweat, then wait for the onslaught.

It's the risk of communication, it's the chance of acceptance, it's the open road of clarity, it's the shred of what remains between we imperfect humans -- friends, relatives, others -- that allows honesty and a turned-back. The question of what lies 'on our minds' or 'in our hearts' is what we lay out on the table before these Homo sapiens. And then we stall, kill time, hold our breath in that dead air of wonder, 'will I be shunned, shot down, accepted with reluctance, or enveloped with a verbal embrace?'

Dialoguing, among many other definitions includes the frank discussion "of areas of disagreement...in order to resolve them."
Avoidance is a natural way to undertake disagreement: just sidestep the issue or simply ignore its presence. Is she leaving? Are they gay? She quit and walked out? Did he really say that? Mmm, let's simply not talk about it, it's a bit touchy you know.
Confrontation is the scary way to look these uncomfortable situations in the face. Make the call. Look the other in the eye. Open the conversation with the tell-tale, "So, I hear that ...." Write a letter and establish one's own concerns or feelings.

Tip-toe in and out of the issue is an alternative manner to deal with an imbroglio. The age-old toe-dip into the pool idea is essentially the same notion. As a side note, this literal process is quite impressive to me, as it takes quite a bit of leg strength to flex down, maintain balance, and dip the alternate toe into the water simply to determine if the agua is suitable for plunging. I suppose that it defrays from committing to the process. Rather, taking a bit of inner -- perhaps muscular -- strength to contract the leg a few degrees and test the situation.
This is not unlike the visual gauge-measurement of monitoring body language of the friend (in the dialogue) when a simple blanket statement or question, 'Do you want to talk about it?' is blurted. This tippie-toe/toe-dip is gently risky, but truly not a dive into the unmarked pool; it's non-committal, not unlike asking, "You don't want to talk about it, do you?" Umm, no, I don't think so any more.

Somewhere in the middle of this Obtuse Dialogue is the process of Questioning. This lies between tip-toe, confrontation, and avoidance. For example, 'What is it I said that made you...', or 'Do you even hear what I'm saying?', or 'Why can't you...?', 'Do I look like an idiot (Often this is followed by the statement, 'I'm not blind, you know')?' Occasionally, 'Is there anything I can do to help/clarify/show/be a better _____?'
I've found that this Interrogative technique is aggravating to the other, even if it's less obtrusive. It shows support or desire to be involved, but in the same vein, it's oft perceived by the interoggatee as pinpointing or, perhaps pin-pricking in its inquiry. That is, the question(s) really tap dance on what's raw and ruptured between or around the parties involved. As much as the questioner's furrowed brow might display concern, she is doomed, will be shot down, and reminded to 'just back off', 'stop prying,' that 'you just don't get it, do you?'

Mind you, there is the occasional glimmer of the appreciative questionee who responds, 'gosh, thanks for asking. I've been wanting to talk about this for a while and I've not known how to broach the subject.' This response is always nice.

Rough, painful, difficult, or unsavory communication between friends & lovers is often -- not always -- the easiest. Friends, true friends, or true lovers are usually willing to forgive even if one of the bipeds is an ass. Time may be involved, you know, to let that Pig Pen dust settle, but that clock or sundial generally lends itself to the perspective, to the breath of clarity, to the realization that malice was not intended.
I'm not saying that there aren't tears, crumpled letters, and slammed phone receivers. Oh, quite the contrary. However, there's often a span to reflect and realize that the words stated, the body language displayed, the unstated words, the silence, and the long exercise routines were manners in which the other needed to exemplify the depth of position, the obviousness of message, the simplicity of emotion and desire. Ideally, this day-night-day-night (repeat as needed) period brings peops together moreso than apart. I think maturity (desire & hope, too) weighs heavily in this process.

The same type of communication between relatives, that is, the "biological" (not chosen) family can sometimes lead to resentment, anger, and back-stabbing.
Mind you, I've discovered the same results between friends, which is sad, since we choose our friends because of the character they've shared with us. Our relatives are who they are, and we find that when animosity spins like a sword-wielding whirling dervish, mean spiteful words spit out daggers and shards at us. We duck, cover, we hide, we face it and are slashed.
Yet, we remain, suffer a bit, attempt to pluck the blades from our skin and souls, forgive, and sometimes bury the hatchets. Scarred, we step away and kind of move on, but that darned vexing, [non] communicative baggage keeps tagging along. So, we spin around and re-examine what's still knicking our heels.

Hope and Avoidance then comes into play once again. An oppressive silence surrounds the topic of difficulty as the best means of clearing the air.

So, is this a Confrontational Proposition? Not in the least. Merely an observation of a crevasse that's developed between a few sensitive mortals. These are creatures who mean well, have loved truly and deeply, yet are unable to bridge the gap of misunderstanding, jealousy, and new love.

Can't say that I know how those Canadian guys got the rope from one side of the Capilano chasm to the other, but I do know that it ultimately occurred from undertaking the struggle rather than simply eschewing the endeavor. Eventually, they had a wood-slat rope bridge. Unsteady, yes, but a true connection between two sides just the same.

Life's too short to let a good friend fall to the wayside and be lost. Let's be frank here: resolve the disagreement, the misunderstanding, the whatever which wedges deeper and broader between. Bridge the abyss and allow the energy & life flow.

Found. Art.

"One man's trash is another man's treasure."

Found Art.


The homeless people who haul around single go-go boots, plastic hangers, computer monitors, 8-track tapes, and random pieces of lumber are cutting-edge artists. At least that's what I've discovered by way of my MFA from an esteemed San Francisco art & architecture school. I always thought it was trash, those plastic milk & juice drink rings, expired bus passes, shoe laces, and combs. My bad. They were figures or unclaimed pieces for a "collage" or "sculpture" or "weaving".





There's actually a published, glossy-paged book (or books?) on Found Art. Who knew? Found. Not lost, not dropped, discarded, or tossed, but found.


The other day, along side the retaining wall against my abode, I swept up a bunch of wind blown leaves that expanded into its own bottomless pond of autumnal detritus. Somehow they never found their way into the nearby storm drain or city-owned shrubbery that lined the road. No big deal, I like doing my civic duty. Besides, dead leaves and twigs always smell so autumny.


Among the yellows, browns, greens, and glossy black beetles, a glint of something shiny caught my eye. There are many raccoons that roam the streets on the Eve of Trash Day, so I assumed it was a lost scrap of foil hoarded from a nearby knocked-over trash can. Instead, it was a mangled set of dentures or a bridge with little clusters of teeth and faux pink gums clinging to the metal arc.

Eeeuuuw! Someone's teeth!

Immediately, I stepped back, thinking that a serpent, monster, or some such horror film icon would jump on me. I don't know why I stepped back, but the sight of these fake chompers shivered me timbers. My parents both sport the same style: little white nubs molded into pink blobs welded into the curved monorail so I was vaguely familiar with the sight.

I vaguely scanned the roadside in case other body parts snagged on the spiny blackberry shrubs or under the guardrail --by then I thought that these ivories were part of a Mafia 'cleaning.' The street was vacant of toes or clumps of hair. I swept the fangs into the dust pan and let them slide onto the top of the wall. They sat there like some family heirloom.

My thought process was simple: if these fake tusks were not lying here as the result of foul play, then perhaps somebody lost them and I happened to find them, you know, like a key or a pacifier or a bus schedule.

It's been a few days and they're still there.

It's funny, but from a distance or even close-up, they remind me of a morphed scorpion. The thin metal track curved and divoted from passing cars or the nearby family of raccoons who, much like I did with a paper clip in 3rd grade, probably passed it around and put it in their mouths like a Halloween vampire prop before realizing they had to get on with their nightly trash-dumping schedule. The wire pokes upward and out towards the imaginary pallet, ready to jab and sting. The gaps between the clumps of pink and white stones are articulated body parts held together by an evil, metallic wasp-waisted petiole.

Given the gap of time and my association with my recent Alma Mater, I'm now wondering how I can attach this imperfect body part to a canvas to follow in suit with the Found Art phenom. Ideally, I'd use dental floss and lasso it up, just to keep it aligned with the oral theme. However, I've discovered a few "natural" cigarette pack wrappers, a flexi-straw, a beer bottle cap, and a fast food restaurant's cold drink lid (size medium) clumped into a cyclone fence's corner at a local produce store I visit. Obviously, these are art pieces in the waiting.

+*+*+*+

I know some people use Found Objects in their own artwork. Often this is called Recycled Art or some such title.

I understand this is quite a profitable venture, especially if the art of welding is involved. I've seen old truck cogs, hubs, and axels melted together into quirky figurines and images. People find old metal signs and keenly place them in their backyards where magenta sweet peas and bright sunflowers soften the rusty edges. Others create tinkling chimes from mangled cafeteria silverware and fishing lines found along sandy beaches.

At NYC's MOMA, I viewed a small art exhibit of 7 flourescent light tubes leaning against each other in a corner. I wanted to believe that these were waiting for overhead replacement by the museums the maintenance people, but I was wrong. I cannot imagine how much someone would pay for this.

The most difficult Found Recycled Art for me to accept and appreciate is the toilet garden. Yes, it's a perfect bowl, but when it comes down to it, I have no interest in approaching this display, let alone sniffing the fragrant buds that bob their multi-hued heads, knowing that their stems and roots reach out along the edge of the porcelain and stretch down the oft-plunged hole which once housed, well you know. Too much prior knowledge on that planter's usage, thank you very much.

So go ahead, make your Recycled Art. But please explain to me how gum wrappers, a dirty yellow shower curtain ring, coffee cup handle, deflated mylar balloon (purple and red ribbons still knotted onto the nipple), a bread loaf's wrapper and its twistie, and a library book's crinkly cover all glued onto a canvas, or "woven together" with the other above-noted items are Found "Art." It just seems like garbage to me, not some cool sculpture, drawing, or figurine found at a garage sale or in the back of somebody's dusty, forgotten attic.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my multi-textured mouthy collage, begin gluing a chewed-tip pen cap, a boot's tongue, a single jigsaw puzzle piece, and a Reese's PB wrapper onto a cheap canvas. It shall be titled, "Oral Life" and I will offer it for sale at the artistic price of $500.

Found. Art. Canvassed trash for sale. Yet, I must say, the streets are a little cleaner for it.

HP Customer Service-Finale: Simple is too Simple

A computer, to the best of my knowledge runs on some sort of electrical power.
This power can be stored, as in solar power, transferred as in wind or hydro-electric power (harnassing the strength of the underground aquifer), generated by way of movement, you know, Gilligan style on a bamboo bicycle, or, the common method, the power cord. My sister reminded me that it's referred to in the techy world as a Cable. Thus, electricity shooting out of the wall socket or power strip into the 3-prongs along the insulated black cord, er, cable and into the computer by way of the recessed 3-prong innie.

HP Customer Service center folks struggled with some aspect of this new-fangled transference of energy when calls were made to their remote, secret centers.
Twice I received $xx credit for the mishandling and "inconvenience" that was suffered. Haven't seen the credit card bill yet, so I cannot verify this purported credit as of this posting. However, the true suffering wasn't as much a 'pain & suffering' as is often rewarded in civil court, but an insufferable lack of comprehension by the HP Customer Service phone staff.
Nonetheless, to close this post such that we can finally exhale with the knowledge that a wire hanger and a pair of jimmied forks are no longer serving as conductors of Hot electricity from wall to computer, a "North American cable" (again, tech-speak clarification from my schwester) arrived, sans paperwork, sans apology, in an unmarked FedEx padded envelope three days after my last phone conversation. The return address: Tennessee.
Strange that it took three days. I know for a fact that TN is, indeed a FedEx hub, and has been since its inception. Still, it arrived: the correct cable, the true embodiment of an electrically charged, 3-outie, 3-innie, shiny, black, snake.
At last, the sooped-up HP Pavilion is now ready for action. Now, if I can just shut off the Main switch to the house, I can finally detach the tinfoil-coat hanger-fork from the socket and we're ready to roll.