Reinforcements Have Arrived. Finally.

Finally, they are here. As you can see, there was much rejoicing.

Celebrated author Neil Gaiman gave a commencement speech in 2012 at the University of the Arts called “Make Good Art.” I have often returned to this brilliant piece of writing and encouragement in times of desperation. Or fear. Or ennui.

This summer I read it a lot. And the section that always rings truest for me is, “Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all the other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do.

Make good art.

I'm serious. Husband runs off with a politician? Make good art. Leg crushed and then eaten by mutated boa constrictor? Make good art. IRS on your trail? Make good art. Cat exploded? Make good art. Somebody on the Internet thinks what you do is stupid or evil or it's all been done before? Make good art. Probably things will work out somehow, and eventually time will take the sting away, but that doesn't matter. Do what only you do best. Make good art.

Make it on the good days too.”

I’m happy to say that so far in 2020 I have escaped predatory snakes and exploding kittens and most of the crap on the internet, but 2020 kicked my ass. As I studied the color coded New York Times Covid map weekly and doom-scrolled through CNN, my creativity calcified. My words failed. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t concentrate. Some days I couldn’t seem to get dressed.

But along with my bitter sourdough bread baking, and fits of Marie Kondoing the closets, I developed one good habit in this endless, dreadful year: I went for a walk almost every day. Just put shoes on and walked around the neighborhood. Sometimes it was 20 minutes. Sometimes it was an hour. Sometimes I walked through tears and panic attacks. Other times I just focused on breathing in and out, literally putting one foot in front of the other.

Then in August I hit another wall. I just didn’t feel like I could get off the couch to retrace my normal route outdoors. And then I caught sight of yet another pile of my kiddo’s underused/discarded toys. A whole plastic jar of little blue aliens (the ones from the “Toy Story” movie, that you can ONLY get at one of the theme parks!) was sitting in a basket of miscellaneous junk.

And after all the cleaning and sorting, all the trips to Goodwill, trying to declutter my life, I felt utterly defeated. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw them down the garbage disposal one by one. Then I got a better idea.

He is inspired. He is dreaming of other places his brothers and sisters can live.

I put a handful of the giddy little extra-terrestrials in my pocket and I shuffled out the door for my walk. But now I was on a mission. A covert operation of public art, if only for my own amusement. I started planting the aliens in my neighbors’ yards.

A surprising number of the people in my part of Middleton have little fairy gardens in their yards already. Some have fantastic planters and hedges. Some have lighted stone garden features. Some have gnomes who look lonely. Some just have trees that contain a perfectly shaped crook.

A very nice tea party, accompanied by seasonal gourds.

I documented my work, and moved stealthily beyond my normal path into new areas of the neighborhood. I invited my family to help me out one night on a group stroll. My son put an alien on top of a miniature table in a fairy tea party populated by porcelain frogs. He thought it was fantastic. My husband thought I was going to be arrested for trespassing. Or littering. But I persisted.

“Four score, and a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. . .”

When a neighbor didn’t welcome the alien into their greenspace, and removed my friend from their lawn decor, I smited them with silliness. I replaced the missing martian with two in the same place. Ha HA!

I got to the bottom of the clear plastic barrel relatively quickly and realized my public alien art project had grown bigger than me.

A mysterious presence descended on the neighborhood.

Kids were drawing pictures of flying saucers on the sidewalk with chalk.

Neighbors were confering with one another about the sudden appearance of little blue statues.

“Slow down! Little blue creatures at play.”

I knew I couldn’t stop. I got on eBay and bought another tub of them. My work continued. And at the moment that they were all distributed around the greater Middleton area, the end of fall came with rain and cold, blustery winds and so my walks ended. Which was okay because my mood had also improved. The election was over and the whole city seemed to be throwing themselves into seasonal decorating on a grand scale.

“Wow! The circus is in town! Plus, land sharks!”

I resolved to visit my aliens again in the spring, if any of them survive the Wisconsin winter.

“Ooh. . . the mother ship.”

Then the reinforcements arrived. A fabulous neighbor who had charted the progress of my little blue friends sent me another tub of gleeful aliens, complete with blue plastic rocket and launchpad. The art project must continue, to provoke random smiling, occasional consternation, and perhaps wonder from passers-by.

I mean, it’s not Banksy. Or Christo. It’s not as cool as the Black Lives Matter murals downtown. But I created a tiny bit of art, I hope. And now maybe I can create it on good days too.

“Now we are both sitting on the same chair. “

“You’ve been a great audience. I’m here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waitresses.”

“I love modern art. I feel so connected to the work. Immersed in it.”

Kicking back on his own private meteor.

“I have climbed mount subdivision!”

Finding new blue friends in the garden.

“I can see everything from up here!”

“Step right up, step right up. See the tallest flamingo in history. . .”

“Oh! Just in time for Tigger’s birthday.”

“That’s no moon. . .”

Visiting an ancient temple.

“I love these new planned communities. Plus, there’s a playground with a slide!”

Just chillin’ with the birds and their pet cat.

“Doorbell broken. Please do not knock. Huh.”

“Shrooms!”

There once was an alien who lived in a shoe. .

“Caught between a rock and a . . . rock.”

“I lift my lamp beside the golden door. And this arbor vitae.”

“It’s a trap! He’s a robo-dog I tell you. It’s a trap!”

Hanging out at the edge of a garden party.

“More shrooms. And gnomes. These guys are everywhere.”

“This is my summer place.”

“I’m on top of the world, lookin’ down on creation. . .”

Legend has it that no one has ever returned from these caves. . . “