What is it about stories that draw us in so powerfully? We, the masses - constantly bombarded with images in advertisements, films galore, information tacked on to notepads on which we write directions to the party tonight - continue to stop dead in our tracks when it begins. A person, about to take a sip of their coffee, cannot help but turn their mind towards someone telling a good story.
And how can you know when the story will be good? A good story is not just interesting, or helpful, or entertaining. It is truthful. This is almost always obvious from the very beginning. There is something in the voice of the teller - either written or spoken - that conveys a confidence. The storyteller is wooing you, the listener. The teller, knowing the treasure he has, cannot help but through the very lilt of voice and force of sentence structure tell the listener that what they are about to hear is worth the cooling of coffee, the tardiness, perhaps even the hunger which will most certainly ensue from missing dinner.
A true story is worth more than its weight in gold. A good story is the gold itself. It is the scale. It is in short, everything.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Creativity
This morning was just like every other morning. I woke up. I worked on the scarf I'm making for my mother's birthday. I fed the cats. The ornery kitten was as usual: complaining even after the plate resonated on the tile, scolding me for waiting so long. I made coffee early and drank tea instead, as an appetizer, only to discover my husband thought I had already drank coffee. He only left me about a quarter cup. I thought about washing the laundry, but decided we could always wear towels in a pinch.
Today is a day like any other. Except for one thing. This morning I watched a short film, set to music, and something happened. I was...inspired! I had...ideas! In the course of a few minutes my ordinary mind was sparked into something of a theme park of delightful surprises. There were Christmas lights on every hut inside which wondrous creatures tread thick with mystery. Indeed, I found myself alive. Painfully alive, perhaps, reaching for something unfathomable, and demonically deceptive.
The odd thing about humans is that you can't quite put your finger on them. It's hard to describe to the outsider, but you know one when you see one. You can tell by the way it walks down the path, like it has a care in the world, like it has more going on than awkward pants and messy hair. What does it eat? How does it talk? How will it arrange a bit of noise and color placed in front of it? What makes it laugh?
How do you know where the boundary is between work and play? When has it abandoned feeding its body, and now nourishes its mind?
What awakens our creativity? I cannot know nor can I tell you. A spark. Like lightning, it comes unexpected, from nowhere, to a place we cannot predict. In the end, we only see the places where it burnt the earth. If it hits you, you're done for. The most we can do is be in the right place at the right time, and even then, you still might get struck. Even then, you might not survive the torment of creativity.
Today is a day like any other. Except for one thing. This morning I watched a short film, set to music, and something happened. I was...inspired! I had...ideas! In the course of a few minutes my ordinary mind was sparked into something of a theme park of delightful surprises. There were Christmas lights on every hut inside which wondrous creatures tread thick with mystery. Indeed, I found myself alive. Painfully alive, perhaps, reaching for something unfathomable, and demonically deceptive.
The odd thing about humans is that you can't quite put your finger on them. It's hard to describe to the outsider, but you know one when you see one. You can tell by the way it walks down the path, like it has a care in the world, like it has more going on than awkward pants and messy hair. What does it eat? How does it talk? How will it arrange a bit of noise and color placed in front of it? What makes it laugh?
How do you know where the boundary is between work and play? When has it abandoned feeding its body, and now nourishes its mind?
What awakens our creativity? I cannot know nor can I tell you. A spark. Like lightning, it comes unexpected, from nowhere, to a place we cannot predict. In the end, we only see the places where it burnt the earth. If it hits you, you're done for. The most we can do is be in the right place at the right time, and even then, you still might get struck. Even then, you might not survive the torment of creativity.
Monday, December 22, 2008
California, the Railroad, and Chaparral
(This entry, or a similar one, might go in the book I'm working on!)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The story goes that in the end, the West was won by the railroads. Not the cowboys, or gold miners, eeking out a living in their dry hovels and wet ravines...mad with resolve and whiskey. Not the sheriffs, imposing law on a lawless land. Not even the hunters and mountain men who killed brown bears just in time to build white picket fences. The railroad brought America to the West, European-style. The Chinese laid down the ties with their bloody hands, and the whites came bustling down on top of them and everything else. They came en masse, like Buffalo, threatening to drive each other off cliffs. Instead, though, they drove California into statehood in less time than it takes to pay off a mortgage these days.
But our story can not, does not, begin here. Prior to the opening of the western United States by the railroad, the place was not, as some have implied, empty. Empty?
There were herds of animals and seasons changing and winds and sometimes even water, flowing shyly under the surface of the earth. There were extroverted, jubilant rivers that carved out the land and remembered when there were creatures here that a human eye will never see and cannot imagine. There were people, arguably some of the most cultured and well-fed humans that history has ever seen, in this expanse, and they knew much of their own truth, and I daresay a bit of others' truths as well.
Empty? After centuries of scientific inquiry, perhaps our most profound discovery is this: even an unused jar is not empty. Emptiness is...illusion.
The chaparral was here.
Maybe the whites were confused. Maybe they thought it was empty, unknowable and unknowing, because everything is backwards in the chaparral. For one, the mediterranean climate brings life to the land not in the hot part of the year, but in the cold of winter. Things sprouting and fruiting all over the place when the sun wasn't shining. What kind of place does that? Just when a whole race was settling down to hibernate, expecting nature to follow its natural rhythm, the chaparral throws a curve ball. Green. There, there, and there. It's enough to make you throw your hands up.
(to be continued...)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The story goes that in the end, the West was won by the railroads. Not the cowboys, or gold miners, eeking out a living in their dry hovels and wet ravines...mad with resolve and whiskey. Not the sheriffs, imposing law on a lawless land. Not even the hunters and mountain men who killed brown bears just in time to build white picket fences. The railroad brought America to the West, European-style. The Chinese laid down the ties with their bloody hands, and the whites came bustling down on top of them and everything else. They came en masse, like Buffalo, threatening to drive each other off cliffs. Instead, though, they drove California into statehood in less time than it takes to pay off a mortgage these days.
But our story can not, does not, begin here. Prior to the opening of the western United States by the railroad, the place was not, as some have implied, empty. Empty?
There were herds of animals and seasons changing and winds and sometimes even water, flowing shyly under the surface of the earth. There were extroverted, jubilant rivers that carved out the land and remembered when there were creatures here that a human eye will never see and cannot imagine. There were people, arguably some of the most cultured and well-fed humans that history has ever seen, in this expanse, and they knew much of their own truth, and I daresay a bit of others' truths as well.
Empty? After centuries of scientific inquiry, perhaps our most profound discovery is this: even an unused jar is not empty. Emptiness is...illusion.
The chaparral was here.
Maybe the whites were confused. Maybe they thought it was empty, unknowable and unknowing, because everything is backwards in the chaparral. For one, the mediterranean climate brings life to the land not in the hot part of the year, but in the cold of winter. Things sprouting and fruiting all over the place when the sun wasn't shining. What kind of place does that? Just when a whole race was settling down to hibernate, expecting nature to follow its natural rhythm, the chaparral throws a curve ball. Green. There, there, and there. It's enough to make you throw your hands up.
(to be continued...)
Thursday, December 18, 2008
A Poem for my Lover
Today I wanted to write a love poem for my lover
I wanted to pour out my blood into my pen
Breathe out all the air in my throat
Until it was raspy, and I had written out my life
Exposed myself to him
Until embarrassed
But the words did not fall into place
They jumped around, leaping into memories
Slipping behind doors where the mind treads lightly
and keeps things dark, hiding its secrecy
I cannot follow,
and if I cannot,
Can you?
Remember the time we surrounded ourselves
with darkness and joy,
Running through the sprinklers, the water hitting our rolled up jeans
Stabbing us with its pins
covering our bare feet with short grass pieces
They must have just mowed that day.
We would not marry for many years, but we couldn't care then
We did not know if we would even have tomorrow
We were in love. No one saw us.
A decade goes by, it seems
And a crisp September day find us
Showy in our wedding clothes
I looked past you out the side window of the church
Did not look at the crowd of loved ones
A thing so private could not be shared, but had to
They only heard what we said, saw our expressions
Life becomes normal, and we forget
That there are secret things
behind the inner doors
We think there's nothing else to find.
All has been whispered and felt and cried.
Swimming, drowning in happiness...disgusting.
Drunk every day on our joy
Even in those matches
We sit across the bed, glaring, pretending to hate each other
Trying to hard to keep the fight going
I tried to write you a poem today
And all that came out was this
Things we have done,
As if in the remembering we could find the secrets
That can only be felt
Hoping beyond hope we can get at that thing
Inside, in the dark places of our hearts
I wanted to pour out my blood into my pen
Breathe out all the air in my throat
Until it was raspy, and I had written out my life
Exposed myself to him
Until embarrassed
But the words did not fall into place
They jumped around, leaping into memories
Slipping behind doors where the mind treads lightly
and keeps things dark, hiding its secrecy
I cannot follow,
and if I cannot,
Can you?
Remember the time we surrounded ourselves
with darkness and joy,
Running through the sprinklers, the water hitting our rolled up jeans
Stabbing us with its pins
covering our bare feet with short grass pieces
They must have just mowed that day.
We would not marry for many years, but we couldn't care then
We did not know if we would even have tomorrow
We were in love. No one saw us.
A decade goes by, it seems
And a crisp September day find us
Showy in our wedding clothes
I looked past you out the side window of the church
Did not look at the crowd of loved ones
A thing so private could not be shared, but had to
They only heard what we said, saw our expressions
Life becomes normal, and we forget
That there are secret things
behind the inner doors
We think there's nothing else to find.
All has been whispered and felt and cried.
Swimming, drowning in happiness...disgusting.
Drunk every day on our joy
Even in those matches
We sit across the bed, glaring, pretending to hate each other
Trying to hard to keep the fight going
I tried to write you a poem today
And all that came out was this
Things we have done,
As if in the remembering we could find the secrets
That can only be felt
Hoping beyond hope we can get at that thing
Inside, in the dark places of our hearts
Friday, December 5, 2008
A Narcissistic Indulgence Entitled, "Why I Write (and Why I Quit my Job)"
I write for many reasons. Writing helps me make sense of things. Being halfway through a good write is like emerging, hunched and frantic, out of a tangled and deceptive forest onto a great open beach. From here, I can stand up properly, breathe deep, and take things in.
I write because I am not a good speaker. I have no delusions about myself: I have no gift of persuasion or influence. I am not good at telling jokes, giving compliments, or (dare I dream of) attracting attention. Half the time people can't even hear me! I could say a thousand truths and reveal my most intimate secrets in public, and were they to be heard by all (this might constitute a miracle) these words would still feel empty and embarrassing. No, no. I'll leave those things to the Obamas and Kennedys and Bonos of the world.
I write ultimately because my voice is strongest on the silent page, and I am tired of not being heard in the world. I write because it is then I am my truest self.
I believe I have always been a carrier, but it was only recently I felt the symptoms of the illness of having chosen the wrong profession: Malaise associated with uncontrollable daydreaming, hopelessness, regret of my recent relationship with a 'certain' graduate school and in particular its price tag (*cha-ching*). All this was accompanied by guilt resulting from wanting to renouce said profession, which I assumed would provide me not only with financial security, but also with a sense of divine purpose in life (a tall order, I know). Seeing as how this wasn't the case after all, and all I ever wanted to do was write, I decided it was time to give up fighting this particular current and go with the flow. So I quit my job.
Haha. It's funny how the truer things in life seem to pursue you to the furthest corners of the world, yes? They will allow themselves to be covered up, hid in the back of the closet, not looked at in the eye, hopped over (having laid themselves in your path to trip you up), and cursed at. Yes, all this and more, but they will not be ignored, in the end.
Annie Dillard says, in not so many words, that you must give yourself over to writing. It must take all of you. Or else...what? I don't know what else, but I suppose I am not really willing to find out.
I write because I am not a good speaker. I have no delusions about myself: I have no gift of persuasion or influence. I am not good at telling jokes, giving compliments, or (dare I dream of) attracting attention. Half the time people can't even hear me! I could say a thousand truths and reveal my most intimate secrets in public, and were they to be heard by all (this might constitute a miracle) these words would still feel empty and embarrassing. No, no. I'll leave those things to the Obamas and Kennedys and Bonos of the world.
I write ultimately because my voice is strongest on the silent page, and I am tired of not being heard in the world. I write because it is then I am my truest self.
I believe I have always been a carrier, but it was only recently I felt the symptoms of the illness of having chosen the wrong profession: Malaise associated with uncontrollable daydreaming, hopelessness, regret of my recent relationship with a 'certain' graduate school and in particular its price tag (*cha-ching*). All this was accompanied by guilt resulting from wanting to renouce said profession, which I assumed would provide me not only with financial security, but also with a sense of divine purpose in life (a tall order, I know). Seeing as how this wasn't the case after all, and all I ever wanted to do was write, I decided it was time to give up fighting this particular current and go with the flow. So I quit my job.
Haha. It's funny how the truer things in life seem to pursue you to the furthest corners of the world, yes? They will allow themselves to be covered up, hid in the back of the closet, not looked at in the eye, hopped over (having laid themselves in your path to trip you up), and cursed at. Yes, all this and more, but they will not be ignored, in the end.
Annie Dillard says, in not so many words, that you must give yourself over to writing. It must take all of you. Or else...what? I don't know what else, but I suppose I am not really willing to find out.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Faerie Child
I
The summer little Grace’s lungs got sick was the same summer Holly, her older sister, was to begin her training. Holly would often steal unannounced into her mother’s studio, gazing wide-eyed at the paintings – some photographed sized, some as tall as her own self. Her mother would discovered her, quietly studying them, sometimes sitting on a stool at the desk or hunched down in front of a large portrait propped up against the wall, knees bent, leaning on her heels, elbows between her knees, chin resting on her hands. Other days, when her mother had asked not to be disturbed, Holly crouched noiselessly inside the large floor cupboard that could be opened from the adjacent room. It was the one with a thin open slit running up and down from a large knot in the plank, which allowed the stowaway to look, unnoticed, into the studio.Towards the end of May, her mother asked, “Your tenth birthday is in a couple weeks. Have you thought about what you want?” Holly wanted to learn how to paint faeries like her mother. Delicate, childish, pencil-thin faeries. Chubby, adult faeries with paper bag outfits. Dark, mysterious eyes that looked at you sideways. Boy faeries, shirtless, with yellow slanted eyes that might drone around angrily and throw small rocks at you.
II
Holly got one lesson before Grace came down with it. Holly used the “good” brushes. “You have natural talent…like mother, like daughter!” Mommy sang as she crossed the room, leaving her scent dancing around Holly’s shoulders. That night Holly fell asleep in dreams of yellow and blue becoming green, red and blue melding into purple seas.
She awoke to some commotion and the anxious whispering of her parents in the room. Grace was coughing that deep garbled cough again.
III
Doctor James gave the family strict orders to keep Grace indoors, under the covers, with heated rags on her chest and back. “Don’t let her out of your sight! She must not get cold!” he chided the mother. Holly sat on her little sister’s bed, feeling helpless. “Maybe I can paint you a picture of a faerie tomorrow?” She said quietly while Grace dozed. “A nice one.” But she didn’t do it the next day, nor the following.A month later, Holly had asked for a painting lesson for the second time that morning, to which her bleary-eyed mother snapped, “You KNOW I would, but Grace needs constant supervision, how many times do I have to tell you? We’ll have to do it later!” She handed Holly a warm cloth. “Just watch her for a second while I answer the phone, will you? Don’t let her chest get cold.”
Holly sat on her sister’s bed, next to her own, and scowled down at her. Grace opened two sleepy eyes. “Do you have the Barbies?” She said, sitting up. Holly would often keep her sister company these days. Grace would giggle at the drama that would ensue among the dolls Holly bounced in time to invented conversations. Today, though, Holly did not feel like making Grace giggle. “Why’d you have to get sick, anyway?” She turned her head to look out the window on the other side of the room. “You could play outside. And Mommy could teach me how to paint faeries. But noooo, you have to be sick (this she said dramatically, loudly, rolling her eyes). You make Mommy grumpy.”
Grace’s face darkened, and she looked away. “I don’t make Mommy grumpy! YOU do! I hate faeries. Why do you want to paint faeries?”
“Well Mommy paints faeries, so I can paint faeries too!!”
“You’re mean. Faeries are scary and bad!” It was true that Grace never liked going into Mommy’s studio. Once when Holly felt cruel, she raced after Grace with a small faerie picture, yelling, “He’s going to eat you!” and Grace had screamed until Mommy came and held her for a few minutes.
“Yeah, well I like them, so be quiet! I was going to even paint one for you, a nice faerie that you would like, but now…” with this, Holly stomped out of the room, feeling hot inside. She stopped just outside in the hallway. She could hear Grace’s muffled crying. For a second, she almost went back in, but something deeper than compassion held her there. “She ruins everything!” thought Holly, and kept walking to the closed studio door. She knocked. No answer. She could hear a murmur when she put her ear to the door.
She walked to the next room, shimmied into the floor cabinet, closed the cabinet door and peeped through the slit, her own angry breathing suddenly thundering in her ears. Mommy was slumped in the chair, holding the phone to her ear. She sounded tired. “Well, yes, Grace always seems to get through these things. Yes, she seems okay. Not too happy about the way things turned out this summer. ” Silence for a few minutes. “Yes, maybe we could use some of that magic. Remember when she was born?” A chuckle. “Isn’t that funny? That silly myth about being a faerie if you’re born in the birthing bag. Yeah, the doctor had to break my water. No, I’ve never told her. You know what they say – if they find out, they’ll use their powers for evil!” Another chuckle.
Holly stopped breathing for a moment and sat frozen in the cupboard, feeling confused, then cheated. No wonder her mother seemed to pay more attention to Grace! Her sister was a faerie? She didn’t even LIKE faeries! But maybe if Grace knew, and she did something bad, Mommy wouldn’t like her so much…
Holly, armed with a plan, climbed out of the cabinet and walked right down the hall and into her sister’s room. She finally knew what to say to get back at her sister for getting sick and taking Mommy away from her. She came right up to her bed and bent down next to her head. “Mommy says you’re a faerie. You were born in a bag just like all the other rotten faeries in the world! That must be why you’re always getting sick, because you’re just a faerie that wants to make our lives miserable!”
“No! Liar! Mommy would have said!” Grace said, getting up on her elbows.
“I heard her tell someone on the phone, when I wasn’t supposed to hear,” said Holly, her arms crossed, a wicked smile on her face, wanting to see Grace suffer. “She wants you to go away, too, so you don’t do something bad! Then she wouldn’t have to take care of you all the time, and she could just paint. Just me and her, and no Grace to get in the way.”
By the time Grace’s crying turned to coughing, Holly had already walked out of the room, feeling satisfied. “She deserves it. I wish she would just die,” she thought. The comforting burn of anger replaced the disappointment of not being able to paint, the thing she wanted most this summer. She walked past the studio, knowing Mommy couldn’t hear Grace. Mommy’s loud laugh drifted through the door, and Holly went straight out to the back yard.
IV
People milled around, hushed. Holly sat stiff in the corner by the fireplace. Everyone that came in seemed to walk past her to her parents, standing near the kitchen entry. Her mother wasn’t crying anymore. “There are no more tears. I just feel exhausted.”
Holly tried to remember it all. Holly went out to the yard. Chilly rain coming. Going back inside and feeling bad about Grace. Where is Grace? Checking the studio. Mommy still on the phone. Banging on the door. Mommy! Is Grace in there? Rain pounding.
Outside. Back yard. Front yard. Mommy yelling. She’s going to get cold! Weren’t you watching her? GRACE- she yelled over and over again.
Rain running down Holly’s neck. Holly running down the street. Grace in her pajamas under the stubby overhang of a house. MOMMY! Grace coughing and crying. Back inside, warm. Mommy crying outside the bedroom. Dr. James at the house, sad. Holly whispering “I’m sorry” to Grace in the dark over and over again.
A week later, when Holly woke up she knew. There were two bodies, but she was alone in the room.
V
Now, after the funeral, Doctor James was here. He said to Mommy by the back door, “Remember when Grace was born? Remember how when you got to the hospital Grace was almost coming out, wanting to be born so fast?” Her mother giggled a little, the first time in weeks.
“The taxi driver was mad my water broke all over the back seat. When we got to the hospital he was yelling at us on our way to the ER…Thank God we didn’t have to worry about that with Holly! Remember how she was born in the bag? You broke her bag for me!”
***
Monday, November 10, 2008
Let the Music Play
I've forgotten about music for a while. Does that ever happen to you? Life gets busy, at times hard, and sometimes even excruciating, and it's easy to forget about joys in between the line of life...Wine. Music. Unrushed showers. Dawdley walks just...because you feel like it.
Suddenly one day, for whatever reason, you experience it again. An emotional ballad stream into your consciousness as you are rushing to your next appointment. A magical chord that is so perfectly tuned it seems like it was played to call your heart out of the craziness.
Smell and taste are the same way. I swear I go through weeks and weeks of shoving food into my mouth because it keeps me alive, and I forget to savor it's character. Nature worked hard to get it to my mouth, the least I could do is enjoy it. But again, I forget. At the farmer's market, I don't notice the kettle corn scent making its path through the crowd, in step with me. I can see the microscopic particles drifting, darting, falling just short of my face, where I am squinting behind the blue-yellow sunrays on my face. I am looking for a good potato - one with no eyes growing on it.
Well, there is one nice thing about forgetting. You get to rediscover. My amnesia is so deep that when I hear an old kindred song, the impact makes me sit down and relive my experience with it. The sweetness of it is rarely matched except when I have discovered some magical place for the first time and my imagination is ignited. Feeling the memory of an old beloved song, though, goes beyond even this. It's like coming home after a long estrangement. It is remembering, in some senses, who I started out as. The bittersweet flavor it if in the soul brings me back to another self,. I wake up from a long nap, heavy and foggy at first, and then steadily refreshed.
Today I heard that song that brought me out of the mist. I remembered today that joy is not always gleaned from what we predict, and it often comes when we least expect. Sometimes joy is in the rediscovery of the way the world should be. Joy creeps in when we feel smaller than usual, perhaps because there is the reassurance that we don't keep it going. Joy comes when we hear the music that a million other people have heard before us, and another million will hear us. Perhaps the music is also hearing us and our stories, and carries them along with it.
Suddenly one day, for whatever reason, you experience it again. An emotional ballad stream into your consciousness as you are rushing to your next appointment. A magical chord that is so perfectly tuned it seems like it was played to call your heart out of the craziness.
Smell and taste are the same way. I swear I go through weeks and weeks of shoving food into my mouth because it keeps me alive, and I forget to savor it's character. Nature worked hard to get it to my mouth, the least I could do is enjoy it. But again, I forget. At the farmer's market, I don't notice the kettle corn scent making its path through the crowd, in step with me. I can see the microscopic particles drifting, darting, falling just short of my face, where I am squinting behind the blue-yellow sunrays on my face. I am looking for a good potato - one with no eyes growing on it.
Well, there is one nice thing about forgetting. You get to rediscover. My amnesia is so deep that when I hear an old kindred song, the impact makes me sit down and relive my experience with it. The sweetness of it is rarely matched except when I have discovered some magical place for the first time and my imagination is ignited. Feeling the memory of an old beloved song, though, goes beyond even this. It's like coming home after a long estrangement. It is remembering, in some senses, who I started out as. The bittersweet flavor it if in the soul brings me back to another self,. I wake up from a long nap, heavy and foggy at first, and then steadily refreshed.
Today I heard that song that brought me out of the mist. I remembered today that joy is not always gleaned from what we predict, and it often comes when we least expect. Sometimes joy is in the rediscovery of the way the world should be. Joy creeps in when we feel smaller than usual, perhaps because there is the reassurance that we don't keep it going. Joy comes when we hear the music that a million other people have heard before us, and another million will hear us. Perhaps the music is also hearing us and our stories, and carries them along with it.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Artists in Society: A higher economy
Lately, with all the fuss over the banking system failures and the END OF THE WORLD (save me!), the economy has been a subject of thought. Not in the usual sense - I haven't the good fortune to have investments to worry about in the first place, and perhaps I am silly enough not to think too hard about the future of the unemployment rate, seeing as how it's hard enough to get through today's laundry list of to do's, much less worry about the state of the global market.
I have, however, been thinking about the economy in a different way. What is the economy, anyway, when you get right down to it? It's a bunch of people who need stuff (like food), "need" stuff (like bobble heads), or need other people to do stuff for them (like take out your appendix) that they themselves don't know how to do or can't be bothered with (washing my car or walking my dog). Sometimes these things are combined into one transaction, successfully or unsuccessfully (for example, my crappy cell phone that doesn't work because the phone company can't get it together...oh wait, am I in the right blog entry?). And the cost of something is basically what society thinks something or someone's services are worth.
That brings me to my question: What is an artist worth to society?
I heard someone say recently that an artist's true worth lies in their ability to interpret society in a way that most people wouldn't normally do so. Artists don't just document what has happened, or what exists, but they have a way of infusing it with meaning in a way that the average onlooker wouldn't even think about. Another way of saying this is that artists take the "raw" data of the world and synthesize it. A good artist will communicate not just the information, but something that is more than just the sum of its parts.
Example. I have a poster of a painting done by Modigliani that by a basic analysis is...boring. A woman sits sideways on a chair, with her elbow resting on the back. Her head is tilted. Her hair is up in a bun. she is wearing the previous-century version of a mumu. She is...normal. She is posing for a portrait painting. She doesn't even have a name, as far as I can tell. But there is one thing different about her. She has no eyes. She has eye-holes, but no eyes. The space where her eyes are supposed to be is not overstated - small in comparison to her large, oblong face. The space is a neutral grey.
I really have no idea what Modigliani was intending to communicate by it, but I know what I read in the painting. Maybe he just forgot to paint in the eyes. Maybe eyeballs weren't his strength and conveniently neglected it. Or maybe he wanted to make a statement about this woman, or women everywhere, based on the idea that the eye is the window to the soul. Is it a warning? Don't let this happen to you: don't let your soul die. Perhaps, on the other hand, the artist is communicating about how complicated women can be: you don't ever really know what's inside. Women are closed books, perhaps even to themselves.
This painting is more than a sum of its parts. It is a prompt for my imagination. It speaks to me. My silent friend "watches" me at my desk each day, but really, she symbolizes my own thoughts about myself - who am I? What is inside of ME? She inspires me to reflect on myself. She makes me question the mundane, and reminds me that there is much more to the mundane than what can be seen with the naked eye. All of this in one boring painting.
There are, of course, also more important things for artists to do than help me reflect on myself.
At a recent conference, Bill McKibben, environmental activist and author, besought people of faith not to forget the importance of what he called "symbolic witness". Acts that symbolically deomonstrate what we believe, what we envision for our lives and our children's lives, what we hope towards, and what in fact will one day become reality are perhaps the most powerful artisitic works. 50,000 people singing the same song at the same time across the nation calling for justice - that is symbolic witness, and artistry. Dr. King's speech during the Civil Rights Movement became famous, not because he had a dream, but because his speech was a piece of art: he encapsulated generations of history's sins and hopes into one synthesized vision, moving people towards action. He wrapped up the past, present and future into a few sentences, that when sowed, reaped justice in the world.
There are so many examples. Rachael Carson's book, Silent Spring, the statue of liberty, DC's Vietnam War memorial. They all tell stories that at once mirror who we collectively are to ourselves, while glimmering who we may aspire to become.
This is the type of artistry that our economy needs. We need someone to interpret our own humanity. We need artists who will tell us the story of what was, and inspire us to what can be.
I have, however, been thinking about the economy in a different way. What is the economy, anyway, when you get right down to it? It's a bunch of people who need stuff (like food), "need" stuff (like bobble heads), or need other people to do stuff for them (like take out your appendix) that they themselves don't know how to do or can't be bothered with (washing my car or walking my dog). Sometimes these things are combined into one transaction, successfully or unsuccessfully (for example, my crappy cell phone that doesn't work because the phone company can't get it together...oh wait, am I in the right blog entry?). And the cost of something is basically what society thinks something or someone's services are worth.
That brings me to my question: What is an artist worth to society?
I heard someone say recently that an artist's true worth lies in their ability to interpret society in a way that most people wouldn't normally do so. Artists don't just document what has happened, or what exists, but they have a way of infusing it with meaning in a way that the average onlooker wouldn't even think about. Another way of saying this is that artists take the "raw" data of the world and synthesize it. A good artist will communicate not just the information, but something that is more than just the sum of its parts.
Example. I have a poster of a painting done by Modigliani that by a basic analysis is...boring. A woman sits sideways on a chair, with her elbow resting on the back. Her head is tilted. Her hair is up in a bun. she is wearing the previous-century version of a mumu. She is...normal. She is posing for a portrait painting. She doesn't even have a name, as far as I can tell. But there is one thing different about her. She has no eyes. She has eye-holes, but no eyes. The space where her eyes are supposed to be is not overstated - small in comparison to her large, oblong face. The space is a neutral grey.
I really have no idea what Modigliani was intending to communicate by it, but I know what I read in the painting. Maybe he just forgot to paint in the eyes. Maybe eyeballs weren't his strength and conveniently neglected it. Or maybe he wanted to make a statement about this woman, or women everywhere, based on the idea that the eye is the window to the soul. Is it a warning? Don't let this happen to you: don't let your soul die. Perhaps, on the other hand, the artist is communicating about how complicated women can be: you don't ever really know what's inside. Women are closed books, perhaps even to themselves.
This painting is more than a sum of its parts. It is a prompt for my imagination. It speaks to me. My silent friend "watches" me at my desk each day, but really, she symbolizes my own thoughts about myself - who am I? What is inside of ME? She inspires me to reflect on myself. She makes me question the mundane, and reminds me that there is much more to the mundane than what can be seen with the naked eye. All of this in one boring painting.
There are, of course, also more important things for artists to do than help me reflect on myself.
At a recent conference, Bill McKibben, environmental activist and author, besought people of faith not to forget the importance of what he called "symbolic witness". Acts that symbolically deomonstrate what we believe, what we envision for our lives and our children's lives, what we hope towards, and what in fact will one day become reality are perhaps the most powerful artisitic works. 50,000 people singing the same song at the same time across the nation calling for justice - that is symbolic witness, and artistry. Dr. King's speech during the Civil Rights Movement became famous, not because he had a dream, but because his speech was a piece of art: he encapsulated generations of history's sins and hopes into one synthesized vision, moving people towards action. He wrapped up the past, present and future into a few sentences, that when sowed, reaped justice in the world.
There are so many examples. Rachael Carson's book, Silent Spring, the statue of liberty, DC's Vietnam War memorial. They all tell stories that at once mirror who we collectively are to ourselves, while glimmering who we may aspire to become.
This is the type of artistry that our economy needs. We need someone to interpret our own humanity. We need artists who will tell us the story of what was, and inspire us to what can be.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Everything I learned about hope, I learned from my mother
Not usually being one for poetry (read at your own risk!), I tried it out tonight:
-----------------------------------------------------
Hope in all its flashy glory
and its faith in human pride
never waits, it starts out early
save for mothers' lullabies
In the dark room with a nightlight
one lone voice eternal rings
singing life to a small body
ne'er asking what results may bring
Across the world their voices chanting
hush now baby, go to sleep
life is harsh and, yes, keep trying
but tonight it's time to dream
Burn the ember, keep it going
don't you tarry, burn it bright
sing to keep your future's life blood
in the world another night
Hope keeps pushing us to capture
life's true promise being lived full
wake tomorrow, though it's tempting
to push onward by the moon
Wait, child, justice sometimes comes
to those who watch with baited breath
sleep and rest a few more minutes
gain your strength for tomorrow's test
Hear your mother's sweet voice calling
hush, sweet baby, please don't cry
though it seem that time is wasting
dream now dear, lest your hope may die.
-----------------------------------------------------
Hope in all its flashy glory
and its faith in human pride
never waits, it starts out early
save for mothers' lullabies
In the dark room with a nightlight
one lone voice eternal rings
singing life to a small body
ne'er asking what results may bring
Across the world their voices chanting
hush now baby, go to sleep
life is harsh and, yes, keep trying
but tonight it's time to dream
Burn the ember, keep it going
don't you tarry, burn it bright
sing to keep your future's life blood
in the world another night
Hope keeps pushing us to capture
life's true promise being lived full
wake tomorrow, though it's tempting
to push onward by the moon
Wait, child, justice sometimes comes
to those who watch with baited breath
sleep and rest a few more minutes
gain your strength for tomorrow's test
Hear your mother's sweet voice calling
hush, sweet baby, please don't cry
though it seem that time is wasting
dream now dear, lest your hope may die.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Bus (in progress...)
It was silent on the bus that day but for the bus driver, rushing people to their seats. He was behind schedule. As people stepped onto the bus, he barked at them to sit down and come back when they have their fare ready. Subsequent attacks on passengers consisted of yelling at them to hold on while standing. "You can't just stand there like that!" snapped the driver. I suppose he was worried that if someone fell down, they would sue the Metropolitan Transit Authority, which was already embroiled in impending lawsuits involving a tragic train accident that had happened a couple weeks before. I had been sitting in the middle of the bus on the left side row, next to the window, for about 20 minutes, fighting motion sickness. Each halt sent me flying forward, halfway out of my seat, and I was thankful that there was a seat in front of me to catch me from falling onto the floor completely, as unsuspecting passengers in the very front rows were experiencing from time to time.
Each roar to the next stop began with a thunderous acceleration and an abrupt screeching halt, followed by the usual barking. Many people just submitted to this bus driver's yelps, and...
Each roar to the next stop began with a thunderous acceleration and an abrupt screeching halt, followed by the usual barking. Many people just submitted to this bus driver's yelps, and...
Is Marriage Important?
"Do you think it will change things?"
So many people asked that when I got married. I guess I knew some things would change between Ian and I - how could they not? There are superficial things - we live together now, we see each other every day, we eat most of our meals together, and finance our life from one bank account. I am introduced as "wife".
One surprising thing is how much I absolutely LOVE doing more traditional "wifely" things - cooking and baking, washing Ian's laundry, cleaning the bathroom. Yes, seriously. I don't see it as something that I'm doing because I'm a "wife", but because I love Ian and I am happy to do these things for him. Maybe I love this because the whole experience is still new, and after 10 years I might resent it. Maybe since he is so appreciative, this is reward in itself. And, well, he also does them, so it's not a burden on me.
And then there's the 'our'-ness of life. There's no more having belongings in different places, or having to work around each others' schedule to spend time together, or trying to figure out who will pay for what, or having to talk on the phone from our respective places of residence. I thoroughly enjoy the commonness of our life - our time, our things, our schedule, our money, and our decisions. Perhaps best of all, people respect our privacy and our time together more than ever, which is a blessing that I did not anticipate but have enjoyed more than expected. Freedom.
These are some of the things that have changed in our life, which I will always remember from our early time together - our daily routine, evolving into a family life.
And then there are other things - the deeper things. We have to love each other no matter what, and by this I mean despite how we feel about the situation at hand, we expect of ourselves and of each other to do what is best for the other person. This is substantially aided by the fact that we already feel love for each other. However, these two things are different - love as feeling and love as action do not necessarily always go hand-in-hand, and perhaps the highest calling in life is to try and make these two work together in perfect harmony and balance.
It's hard to explain why, but I have noticed that this commitment to loving each other is different in marriage. There is an understanding that this person will be in my life for as long as I have consciousness, and so everything that I do bears more weight. Everything I do and say affects my partner, and will ultimately affect me as well. I am still my own self, but I no longer only belong to myself - and our claims to each other are not imposed as much as necessary for the closeness that we share. It's a human symbiosis that brings more life to both of us than if we were alone. It's a strange and powerful force, this marriage, and I am wonderfully and terribly subject to it.
I think many couples try to have their cake and eat it too. They want the closeness of a loving relationship in all its forms, but they want to be able to get out, too. Or, they think the commitment to each other can be solidified without the paper. After all, it's just paper. Yes, but is it? I doubt it. It is paper, but it symbolizes something much more profound. In our communities, these types of paper are a type of social capital, or "money" for navigating relationships in our lives. Marriage is a way of saying to yourself and your community, "I'm committed to this person, and I am willing to put my 'money' where my feelings are, and because I am an imperfect human being, I am allowing my community to keep me accountable to our commitment. " Herein lies the paradox, and I think this is why I believe in marriage: you can't have true union with someone until you voluntarily close the door to all other possibilities. At that point, it's full steam ahead. At least in a romantic relationship. You can't have one foot out the door and still be all inside. You can't hold back two chips and be all-in.
I know lots of people will disagree with me, and even take offense ( I apologize in advance). I guess I've just been thinking about this subject lately and trying to figure out why marriage is important, and even if it is important for society. This is what I have come up with so far, having only just begun this journey. Of course, I'd love to hear other people's perspectives...
So many people asked that when I got married. I guess I knew some things would change between Ian and I - how could they not? There are superficial things - we live together now, we see each other every day, we eat most of our meals together, and finance our life from one bank account. I am introduced as "wife".
One surprising thing is how much I absolutely LOVE doing more traditional "wifely" things - cooking and baking, washing Ian's laundry, cleaning the bathroom. Yes, seriously. I don't see it as something that I'm doing because I'm a "wife", but because I love Ian and I am happy to do these things for him. Maybe I love this because the whole experience is still new, and after 10 years I might resent it. Maybe since he is so appreciative, this is reward in itself. And, well, he also does them, so it's not a burden on me.
And then there's the 'our'-ness of life. There's no more having belongings in different places, or having to work around each others' schedule to spend time together, or trying to figure out who will pay for what, or having to talk on the phone from our respective places of residence. I thoroughly enjoy the commonness of our life - our time, our things, our schedule, our money, and our decisions. Perhaps best of all, people respect our privacy and our time together more than ever, which is a blessing that I did not anticipate but have enjoyed more than expected. Freedom.
These are some of the things that have changed in our life, which I will always remember from our early time together - our daily routine, evolving into a family life.
And then there are other things - the deeper things. We have to love each other no matter what, and by this I mean despite how we feel about the situation at hand, we expect of ourselves and of each other to do what is best for the other person. This is substantially aided by the fact that we already feel love for each other. However, these two things are different - love as feeling and love as action do not necessarily always go hand-in-hand, and perhaps the highest calling in life is to try and make these two work together in perfect harmony and balance.
It's hard to explain why, but I have noticed that this commitment to loving each other is different in marriage. There is an understanding that this person will be in my life for as long as I have consciousness, and so everything that I do bears more weight. Everything I do and say affects my partner, and will ultimately affect me as well. I am still my own self, but I no longer only belong to myself - and our claims to each other are not imposed as much as necessary for the closeness that we share. It's a human symbiosis that brings more life to both of us than if we were alone. It's a strange and powerful force, this marriage, and I am wonderfully and terribly subject to it.
I think many couples try to have their cake and eat it too. They want the closeness of a loving relationship in all its forms, but they want to be able to get out, too. Or, they think the commitment to each other can be solidified without the paper. After all, it's just paper. Yes, but is it? I doubt it. It is paper, but it symbolizes something much more profound. In our communities, these types of paper are a type of social capital, or "money" for navigating relationships in our lives. Marriage is a way of saying to yourself and your community, "I'm committed to this person, and I am willing to put my 'money' where my feelings are, and because I am an imperfect human being, I am allowing my community to keep me accountable to our commitment. " Herein lies the paradox, and I think this is why I believe in marriage: you can't have true union with someone until you voluntarily close the door to all other possibilities. At that point, it's full steam ahead. At least in a romantic relationship. You can't have one foot out the door and still be all inside. You can't hold back two chips and be all-in.
I know lots of people will disagree with me, and even take offense ( I apologize in advance). I guess I've just been thinking about this subject lately and trying to figure out why marriage is important, and even if it is important for society. This is what I have come up with so far, having only just begun this journey. Of course, I'd love to hear other people's perspectives...
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Clumsy Explanations of Very Important Things
What is it about some women? They seem to exist more seriously in the world than the rest of us. When they are in the room, they are IN THE ROOM. They don't mind talking, in turn or out, with their chin up and eyes steady. And yet, it's not a celebrity act. They do not mean to steal the thunder, but the rumble is unmistakable. These are the type of women that rule the world. This is the type of woman that I want to become.
I met someone like that. I sat in a coffee shop with her for the first time on Westwood and something, in the village. I told her about my project, and wanted to know her thoughts. In return she taught me something that had nothing to with the subject matter, and more about how to exist in the world. As I chattered on, I had the suspicion that I wasn't saying much. How she got anything out of it is beyond me - all the hand gestures and eyes darting back and forth and cutting off my own sentences. And she was so patient, asking pointed questions that I tried to answer. Even as I began these sentences I realized I had much more thinking to do about all of it to even come to a place where I could answer. I understand what she was trying to do - to get to the root of my questions. What is the motive? Why are you trying to do this project? Her tired, burdened eyes seemed to lighten a little the more we talked. She was drawing a heavy bucket out of a deep well.
The subject matter of our conversation is not important. What is important is the way in which the very framework for my questions was repositioned. Like getting a new pair of glasses, the view is the same, but the lenses changes the focus. I was not surprised by my own unsettledness, as I often get nervous when trying to explain myself to anyone. Moreso, there was the abrupt shock of being in the glow of someone infinitely wiser than me.
Here is someone who has seen it all, and has actually gained wisdom (that is rare to find now-a-days). The calm firmness in the manner betrays this. The lack of distraction, too, along with the genuine giving of oneself. Had fighting against the monsters of injustice done this? Years of activism can make people bitter and crude. Has she escaped this tragic fate? Or was it something else? A surrender to letting the world flow as it must. The understanding that not everything can be articulated, or controlled.
How are women like this made? Do they form themselves, dragging themselves up out of life's soil by their sheer will? Are they shaped by divine forces? From whence does wisdom come?
Maybe wisdom is like sand; The tighter you try to hold it, the more it rushes away from your hand. Maybe all I can do is go along and just live, praying I am provided with the fire to burn off the dross. Maybe I can never know my fate. Maybe in 40 years someone will write a blog about this anonymous me, and I will never know. Maybe they will not.
At this stage in my life, what is my place in the world? I get very excited about things, especially if they have to do with changing the world. Sometimes I lay in bed at night and feel the energy rushing through my veins and I can hardly stand it. Those times I contemplate promptly leaping out of bed and working through the night until I can't keep my eyelids up any longer. That day in the coffee shop, I noticed my woman friend left more energized than when she came in. I like to think I infused some kind of energy and hope into her life. Maybe my role is to energize the world now, and someday I might know enough to steer young wild ones towards their future.
There is a clumsiness in describing my new friend, but isn't it true that these things must be so? If they were easy to talk about, I suppose they wouldn't be so important.
I met someone like that. I sat in a coffee shop with her for the first time on Westwood and something, in the village. I told her about my project, and wanted to know her thoughts. In return she taught me something that had nothing to with the subject matter, and more about how to exist in the world. As I chattered on, I had the suspicion that I wasn't saying much. How she got anything out of it is beyond me - all the hand gestures and eyes darting back and forth and cutting off my own sentences. And she was so patient, asking pointed questions that I tried to answer. Even as I began these sentences I realized I had much more thinking to do about all of it to even come to a place where I could answer. I understand what she was trying to do - to get to the root of my questions. What is the motive? Why are you trying to do this project? Her tired, burdened eyes seemed to lighten a little the more we talked. She was drawing a heavy bucket out of a deep well.
The subject matter of our conversation is not important. What is important is the way in which the very framework for my questions was repositioned. Like getting a new pair of glasses, the view is the same, but the lenses changes the focus. I was not surprised by my own unsettledness, as I often get nervous when trying to explain myself to anyone. Moreso, there was the abrupt shock of being in the glow of someone infinitely wiser than me.
Here is someone who has seen it all, and has actually gained wisdom (that is rare to find now-a-days). The calm firmness in the manner betrays this. The lack of distraction, too, along with the genuine giving of oneself. Had fighting against the monsters of injustice done this? Years of activism can make people bitter and crude. Has she escaped this tragic fate? Or was it something else? A surrender to letting the world flow as it must. The understanding that not everything can be articulated, or controlled.
How are women like this made? Do they form themselves, dragging themselves up out of life's soil by their sheer will? Are they shaped by divine forces? From whence does wisdom come?
Maybe wisdom is like sand; The tighter you try to hold it, the more it rushes away from your hand. Maybe all I can do is go along and just live, praying I am provided with the fire to burn off the dross. Maybe I can never know my fate. Maybe in 40 years someone will write a blog about this anonymous me, and I will never know. Maybe they will not.
At this stage in my life, what is my place in the world? I get very excited about things, especially if they have to do with changing the world. Sometimes I lay in bed at night and feel the energy rushing through my veins and I can hardly stand it. Those times I contemplate promptly leaping out of bed and working through the night until I can't keep my eyelids up any longer. That day in the coffee shop, I noticed my woman friend left more energized than when she came in. I like to think I infused some kind of energy and hope into her life. Maybe my role is to energize the world now, and someday I might know enough to steer young wild ones towards their future.
There is a clumsiness in describing my new friend, but isn't it true that these things must be so? If they were easy to talk about, I suppose they wouldn't be so important.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Running
I hate running. No offense. I absolutely admire people who can not only make it through more than half a mile without stopping, but can go beyond the mere physical action of putting one foot in front of the other and actually enjoy it. "Hey you, with your headphones and perky, energetic steps, how do you keep that smile plastered on there?"
Not that I have much to complain about. My running venue could probably inspire many a deadbeat marathoner. Coming down the hill towards Main Street in the early morning, the grass and gardens in the yards next to the sidewalks are dewey. Main street itself is fairly deserted in the early hours of the day, except for a few transients and some cars lazily making their way towards downtown. The town is sleepy in this blue light, and I hear my own breath moving through me in a pattern, drowning out the quietness of the morning around me. I pass familiar places - the coffee shop on the corner where people clearly enjoy painting their pathetically mediocre copies of other people's artwork. The bank ATM that often is overseen by a security guard in his bringhtly colored jacket with the warning "SECURITY" embroidered on the back. He usually smiles at me in the hours when the sidewalks are full. World Cafe - the restaurant that plays music all night and into the dawn-ish hours - someone always seems to forget to turn off the music in the frenzy of cleaning up after mid-night festivities. The perennial Christmas lights hanging over the courtyard accompany the tunes, making the place look like a magical, invisible party. Perhaps there are fairies in this place, or ghosts. Bob Marley encourages me to not worry as I jog past. "Easy for you to say" I am thinking, feeling the burn in my legs which are already feeling gooey.
Past the commercial zone now, I push my complaining body past a series of medium and high-density housing units next to the beach - ahem, condos and apartments, I mean. I always try and figure out how much they're worth. I fantasize that they cost about $200,000 (what I could probably afford) in this market with an ocean view and washer and dryer INSIDE. Ha ha. There are a series of older folks walking their dogs. I always get the unfortunate gift of getting to watch the pooches relieve themselves while the caregivers stand by, hands ready with a plastic bag over their hand, like an ill-fitting glove. Good thing I own a cat. Or does the cat own me? She doesn't ever really do what I tell her. And she always mews while my alarm clock has gone off. "Get up! I'm hungry!" I imagine her saying as she looks at me earnestly from her perch next to the clock. The least she could do is push that damn button and turn it off. But, no. Just a crackled "mew".
The beach now...with its long and winding cement boardwalks moving north and south along the shoreline. One for wheels, one for feet. Homeless people sleep on the beach side, under the lip of the knee-high barrier between sand and concrete. "I'm not here". They don't bother anyone. You gotta sleep, right? In the distance a few lone surfers with their wetsuits half-pulled off to the waist walk back towards civilization from the water. They never walk next to each other, even when they are clearly paired. Why is that? The horizon is layered blue to red, bottom to top, in the earliness, except for a layer of brown cloudiness right at the horizon line, a blanket of smog? It feels better to be in this open place, where sound trails off into the expanse, and although my own discomfort is so very real, I continue panting, my nose dripping, as I move slowly down the long boardwalk towards the Santa Monica Pier and the brightly lit ferris wheel at a standstill. I appreciate the beauty of this place.
I made it to the pier this morning, partly running, partly walking. A mile and a half? And back! Tomorrow, who knows how far I will make it.
As I stretched at home, I thought to myself, "Yes, I hate running...but somehow, I love it, too."
Not that I have much to complain about. My running venue could probably inspire many a deadbeat marathoner. Coming down the hill towards Main Street in the early morning, the grass and gardens in the yards next to the sidewalks are dewey. Main street itself is fairly deserted in the early hours of the day, except for a few transients and some cars lazily making their way towards downtown. The town is sleepy in this blue light, and I hear my own breath moving through me in a pattern, drowning out the quietness of the morning around me. I pass familiar places - the coffee shop on the corner where people clearly enjoy painting their pathetically mediocre copies of other people's artwork. The bank ATM that often is overseen by a security guard in his bringhtly colored jacket with the warning "SECURITY" embroidered on the back. He usually smiles at me in the hours when the sidewalks are full. World Cafe - the restaurant that plays music all night and into the dawn-ish hours - someone always seems to forget to turn off the music in the frenzy of cleaning up after mid-night festivities. The perennial Christmas lights hanging over the courtyard accompany the tunes, making the place look like a magical, invisible party. Perhaps there are fairies in this place, or ghosts. Bob Marley encourages me to not worry as I jog past. "Easy for you to say" I am thinking, feeling the burn in my legs which are already feeling gooey.
Past the commercial zone now, I push my complaining body past a series of medium and high-density housing units next to the beach - ahem, condos and apartments, I mean. I always try and figure out how much they're worth. I fantasize that they cost about $200,000 (what I could probably afford) in this market with an ocean view and washer and dryer INSIDE. Ha ha. There are a series of older folks walking their dogs. I always get the unfortunate gift of getting to watch the pooches relieve themselves while the caregivers stand by, hands ready with a plastic bag over their hand, like an ill-fitting glove. Good thing I own a cat. Or does the cat own me? She doesn't ever really do what I tell her. And she always mews while my alarm clock has gone off. "Get up! I'm hungry!" I imagine her saying as she looks at me earnestly from her perch next to the clock. The least she could do is push that damn button and turn it off. But, no. Just a crackled "mew".
The beach now...with its long and winding cement boardwalks moving north and south along the shoreline. One for wheels, one for feet. Homeless people sleep on the beach side, under the lip of the knee-high barrier between sand and concrete. "I'm not here". They don't bother anyone. You gotta sleep, right? In the distance a few lone surfers with their wetsuits half-pulled off to the waist walk back towards civilization from the water. They never walk next to each other, even when they are clearly paired. Why is that? The horizon is layered blue to red, bottom to top, in the earliness, except for a layer of brown cloudiness right at the horizon line, a blanket of smog? It feels better to be in this open place, where sound trails off into the expanse, and although my own discomfort is so very real, I continue panting, my nose dripping, as I move slowly down the long boardwalk towards the Santa Monica Pier and the brightly lit ferris wheel at a standstill. I appreciate the beauty of this place.
I made it to the pier this morning, partly running, partly walking. A mile and a half? And back! Tomorrow, who knows how far I will make it.
As I stretched at home, I thought to myself, "Yes, I hate running...but somehow, I love it, too."
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
We Campaign - 100% Renewable Energy in 10 years?
A little about this campaign:
"The We Campaign is a project of The Alliance for Climate Protection -- a nonprofit, nonpartisan effort founded by Nobel laureate and former Vice President Al Gore. The goal of the Alliance is to build a movement that creates the political will to solve the climate crisis -- in part through repowering America with 100 percent of its electricity from clean energy sources within 10 years. Our economy, national security, and climate can’t afford to wait."
I've heard people say that climate change has been put on the back burner in this country because it is not an enemy that we can see. To some extent, that may be true. We can understand what climate change is doing to the planet, but because we can't hear it or see it or touch it (or watch the culprit on TV) perhaps it is harder to feel the urgency of the ever heightening effects of climate change that will impact our lives.
...but it is imperative that we address this problem, not only for practical reasons, but also for ethical reasons. Climate change will have the most impact on people who can least afford to be affected. Diseases may become more rampant. Agricultural growth patterns may change and challenge our ability to continue providing food as we have in the past. So much of the foundations of our lives (and livelihoods) depend on a solid and relatively predictable climate pattern, and that is in jeopardy.
I'm sure you've heard this all before. I'm sure this sounds like the same ol' thing. We must try, if possible, to picture what climate change looks like, to move our society to action. Picture coastlines, ones bustling with activity, in their watery shambles due to sea level rise. Ghost towns. Picture Iowa with dead corn crops, mile after mile after mile (after mile). Picture the price of food at the check-out coutner at Ralphs - the bill four times the price it was just a few years ago! Picture women and men and children suffering from deadly strains of viruses, lying under tents in the middle of fields, in quarantine. There are no rooms at the local hospitals, and medical care is too expensive.
We need to see our enemy. Of course, we also need hope. We can, collectively, take hold of it - we can make changes to our economy, however painful. Individually, we can begin to create a culture of responsibility for our actions in our own lives and in our neighborhoods. Invite a neighbor to walk to the grocery store instead of driving. Bring a wagon. Demand better public transit in your town and use it. Get educated about climate change. Yes, we are all busy, but can you take 15 minutes a day to read an article on the internet? It's easier to access information than ever in history! Don't just sit there! Do something!
We need to stop making excuses, and change. I'm on board with the We Campaign. WE need to do something. WE need leadership. WE can make a difference for the future.
We Campaign: http://www.wecansolveit.org/
"The We Campaign is a project of The Alliance for Climate Protection -- a nonprofit, nonpartisan effort founded by Nobel laureate and former Vice President Al Gore. The goal of the Alliance is to build a movement that creates the political will to solve the climate crisis -- in part through repowering America with 100 percent of its electricity from clean energy sources within 10 years. Our economy, national security, and climate can’t afford to wait."
I've heard people say that climate change has been put on the back burner in this country because it is not an enemy that we can see. To some extent, that may be true. We can understand what climate change is doing to the planet, but because we can't hear it or see it or touch it (or watch the culprit on TV) perhaps it is harder to feel the urgency of the ever heightening effects of climate change that will impact our lives.
...but it is imperative that we address this problem, not only for practical reasons, but also for ethical reasons. Climate change will have the most impact on people who can least afford to be affected. Diseases may become more rampant. Agricultural growth patterns may change and challenge our ability to continue providing food as we have in the past. So much of the foundations of our lives (and livelihoods) depend on a solid and relatively predictable climate pattern, and that is in jeopardy.
I'm sure you've heard this all before. I'm sure this sounds like the same ol' thing. We must try, if possible, to picture what climate change looks like, to move our society to action. Picture coastlines, ones bustling with activity, in their watery shambles due to sea level rise. Ghost towns. Picture Iowa with dead corn crops, mile after mile after mile (after mile). Picture the price of food at the check-out coutner at Ralphs - the bill four times the price it was just a few years ago! Picture women and men and children suffering from deadly strains of viruses, lying under tents in the middle of fields, in quarantine. There are no rooms at the local hospitals, and medical care is too expensive.
We need to see our enemy. Of course, we also need hope. We can, collectively, take hold of it - we can make changes to our economy, however painful. Individually, we can begin to create a culture of responsibility for our actions in our own lives and in our neighborhoods. Invite a neighbor to walk to the grocery store instead of driving. Bring a wagon. Demand better public transit in your town and use it. Get educated about climate change. Yes, we are all busy, but can you take 15 minutes a day to read an article on the internet? It's easier to access information than ever in history! Don't just sit there! Do something!
We need to stop making excuses, and change. I'm on board with the We Campaign. WE need to do something. WE need leadership. WE can make a difference for the future.
We Campaign: http://www.wecansolveit.org/
Monday, October 6, 2008
Holy Guacamole!
I moved here roughly 4 months ago, and haven't looked back. Once upon a time I turned my nose up at Santa Monicans, feeling them to be whimsical, all hopped up on yoga and perhaps a hint of some illicit drug. I felt that the city sidewalks were dirty and neglected, full of last night's party mess and splattered with the broken dreams of urbanites who have no where else to go, the ocean being the last frontier. And then...AND THEN. I found Holy Guacamole. Yes, this entry is indeed about food. Holy guacamole is a taco shop. THE taco shop. It is one of those places that is always there, even when you wish you weren't. It's open late. The back door is always unlocked. It is a constant hum of activity even when the place is not full. The whirr of the fans create a sort of alternate universe where time stands still, and suddenly, the general dinginess of the place combined with the quiet eagerness of the cooks and glint of real glass soda bottles waiting in the fridge to be chosen all combine to create a place of comfort. Ahhh, rest.
It is one of those places where people go when they've just met their boss for drinks at one of those fancy-pants restaurants on Main Street that serve food in increments that are indirectly related to its price. So the more money you pay, the less food you receive. After shmoozing, you go to Holy Guacamole. Holy Guacamole doesn't discriminate in its serving size based on price. You can also walk into Holy Guacamole under any circumstance. Half naked from the beach, dressed for church, a night out, or for bed. Holy Guacamole is indeed the clearinghouse for hungry locals of all shapes and sizes, physical and mental states. I imagine individuals with tear-streaked faces after breaking up with their mates exiting with clear faces, feeling better about the world. In that long, narrow hole-in-the-wall, post- carne asada, life seems a little more doable after a hard day. I myself enjoyed the healing powers recently over a burrito and a high-pitched conversation (the music is just loud enough, you know) with my husband. Spilling onto the quiet street that night, I had the sense of comfort that comes when you realize that today has enough trouble of its own to worry about tomorrow.
Come one, come all. Beware, though, of the place's local-ness. It seems to hide from out-of-towners. "If you blink, you might miss it." There is no sign on the outside of the building. A small neon sign outside the front window buzzing the word, "TACOS" in bright red will do the trick. For this native Californian, that word means...home, at last.
It is one of those places where people go when they've just met their boss for drinks at one of those fancy-pants restaurants on Main Street that serve food in increments that are indirectly related to its price. So the more money you pay, the less food you receive. After shmoozing, you go to Holy Guacamole. Holy Guacamole doesn't discriminate in its serving size based on price. You can also walk into Holy Guacamole under any circumstance. Half naked from the beach, dressed for church, a night out, or for bed. Holy Guacamole is indeed the clearinghouse for hungry locals of all shapes and sizes, physical and mental states. I imagine individuals with tear-streaked faces after breaking up with their mates exiting with clear faces, feeling better about the world. In that long, narrow hole-in-the-wall, post- carne asada, life seems a little more doable after a hard day. I myself enjoyed the healing powers recently over a burrito and a high-pitched conversation (the music is just loud enough, you know) with my husband. Spilling onto the quiet street that night, I had the sense of comfort that comes when you realize that today has enough trouble of its own to worry about tomorrow.
Come one, come all. Beware, though, of the place's local-ness. It seems to hide from out-of-towners. "If you blink, you might miss it." There is no sign on the outside of the building. A small neon sign outside the front window buzzing the word, "TACOS" in bright red will do the trick. For this native Californian, that word means...home, at last.
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