by Laurie Wagner | Mar 20, 2013 | Blog
When I was in my mid 20’s and in art school, one of my roommates brought over an older French woman for dinner one night. At one point she got up close to one of my abstract watercolors, and reading it like a Rorschach test proclaimed, “you’re just like Sisyphus** – you’re going to be pushing this boulder up a hill your whole life.” I could say that she cursed me that night, but even then, all those years ago, I could feel the truth in her statement. I was then, and still am, in many ways, someone who will often work harder than I need to, throwing my whole self into something to get a job done. My motto was always, “give me a shovel watch me dig.” There’s pride in that. There’s also a ridiculous amount of burnout over the years. And while I can’t tell you I’ve completely changed, I can tell you that in the last few years I have begun to ease up and get some help. I’ve partnered, I’ve let more people in, and I’ve opened to suggestions from friends. Their vision, humor, their talent and love have been, in large part why I’m where I am as a teacher and creative entrepreneur today. I’ve been meaning to share a few of them with you – there are so many more. Stefanie Renee Lindeen – a photographer who took a picture of my home fire pit at least 3 years ago, and that had me understand who I was and what I doing over here at 27 Powers. Stef’s photos are like a...
by Laurie Wagner | Mar 12, 2013 | Blog
The other day in Wild Writing I found myself writing about longing, and longing took me to love, and then I got embarrassed because I thought I should be writing about something more important – like work – and I struggled – felt a little lost in the land of love. And when I feel lost, I make a list. Change the girl’s sheets Edit student writing New poetry for class Move green cabinet Get back to Joanie Party on the 20th? Don’t forget the bills! Call Thomas Get back to Markie D. Sell cuisinart Paint the car door Get the car stereo fixed School yearbooks Pay for the AP test Mend Ruby’s dress for the show Eye stuff – Zoe Ah, I can breath again. I know where to go, what to do. I won’t wake up lost. If you need me you can find me between Call Thomas and Get Back to Markie D. But it’s been dawning on me that these lists, they become my days, and my days become my life. And then that’s it. Finito. Bye Bye. I’m nearly 53, then I’ll be 70, then 80, and I wonder, as I amble toward the very end, whether the last thing I’ll write will be “Close your eyes Cookie.” I wonder if these lists I make, my little marching orders, will be the rails I cling to through my life. A week or so before my Father’s death, four years ago, he asked my Mother, “Do people know they’re alive?” The question might have been inspired by the fat doses of morphine he was on,...
by Laurie Wagner | Mar 4, 2013 | Blog
This is a letter to martinis, chicken liver pate and Girl Scout cookies. To late night games of Blitz and Hangman on my Iphone. This is a letter to the small corner of the bed that I unfold each night, a cotton envelope that I slip myself into. This is a letter to the ritual of two blue tablets of Sleep Eaze from Walgreens. To the bottle of Prosecco in my refrigerator just in case. To the bulging clothes drawers – bathing suits and sexy lingerie – woolen mittens – clothes bought in haste – an attempt to change my life. To the old cashmere castaways from my glamorous aunt– clothes she’s worn forever – 30 years- still in perfect condition – perfumed and luxurious – her walk in closet in L.A. soft paint chips arranged by color. Here’s to the must-dos, the will-dos, the should-haves and the when-I-have-time fors: cleaning out my closets, paying bills, get the tires checked. And here’s to that bathtub and its siren song of love. One summer, the worst summer, I got in nearly every day – it was the only safe place; contained and warm and wet. And here’s to the letter my then 10-year-old daughter taped to the bathroom wall directly across from where I lay. “Mommy” she wrote, “we love you, who wouldn’t?” And to the cigarette I smoked after that bath, out on the porch in my summer skirt, relieved that my husband had taken the girls for a ride and that I could be alone again. I could hardly tolerate myself. It was even harder to be with...
