Easy Street doesn't even run through MY city.

A good friend and I had a long conversation last night on the telephone.  A couple of different points were established that I think are blogworthy:

1) This was probably the biggest eye-opener for me- "normal" people (we must accept this term "normal" as the whole, majority, most people- to get this rationale) don't feel like they want to scream loudly and flail their arms wildly and in the middle of some public socially constructed arena, do something completely and undeniably inappropriate.
     Really? Am I the only person to whom this wild gesture of toxic release appeals?  Sometimes I feel like nothing I can do (not the usual vices of painting, poetry or even sex) will liberate me from myself like this imagined scenario I know would.  Being a rational human being- which is being "appropriate" most of the time, understanding how to act in different situations, maturity, discernment, practicality- and the adult words just keep pouring out... (Does this means I'm officially adult that I can name so many big girl words?  Please, let me know)... means NOT doing this. Besides, what is a gesture?  It is so empty- a symbol for something else.  A metaphor.  A simile.

So, what you're saying- or what he was saying, rather- is that to feel like this is ABnormal: something must be wrong.  I think it's a perfect example of one artist submerged in a suburban setting of solitude without inspiration to whet her palette, and without motivation to travel far and wide to find it.  Self-defeating, I get that.  How does one make art where there is none? 

To make the mundane magical (?)

2)  Those who struggle less are at an advantage.  I quickly refuted his idealized notion that less struggle could possibly equal more reward.  Those handed things in life are left helpless (like me being a daddy's girl who learned only recently the different parts to my car engine).  We can only even really know things from our own perspective, and those spoiled by others without working hard, hardly wish away their fortune to understand the plight of the lower middle class. 

And I guess it is as well my idealized notion to think that the way I went about things, the only way available to me (student loans, a few jobs and a lot of hard work), was the best way.  I guess what I really mean by this is that I am exceedingly happy with the person that I am.  I understand that I would not be the person I am, were it not for the hard work I had to put in.  And if any other route would change me to be someone else, assumed to be less appreciative of their situation, I'd pass.

Everyone is blessed.

So, even the slight delusional thought that it would be good to feel just for a minute how life is on Easy Street, is a wasted thought. 

I was blessed with a struggle.  Blessed with a restlessness that makes me want to unlace the thick black tar that intertwines my blood as it surges throughout all my body's veins.  Blessed with a desire to be something better.  To make something better of everything.  To want to understand the plight of those who have had to work for their bread and butter.  To work as hard and harder than I ever did to ameliorate the struggles people must endure to make ends meet.  Somehow I will find a way to do this through the legal system.  Public interest law?  All I'm saying, Universe, is those law schools who've yet to admit me would be better off to have me in their entering class for my restless passion in the public's interest.

Easy Street is a cookie cutter suburb to the diverse urban city that overflows with the arts and culture of a people who work and breathe their struggles; who eat their struggles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and are left hungry.  Their insatiable hunger is as well in me- my restless, my passion, my commitment to community.




I wasn't nearly as eloquent when I had the conversation.  And I went off on some bitter rant about Valentine's Day, which probably discredited everything I had to say thereafter.  Figures.

My EDGE

Today, I made a choice to be my very own person, at whatever the cost.  I can't lose my edge.  My daddy has always used the word "sassy" to describe me.  A great lawyer whom I professionally admire told me I am "full of piss and vinegar," and that's why I would make a good lawyer.  Sometimes being with someone means compromising to a fault; to avoid conflict; to avoid drama. 
Today, I decided-

I can never lose my edge.
My FIERCE...
My FIERY...
My PASSIONATE...
My SHARP-
Edge.

Teetering though I do on the edge of the abyss, I go between restless and apathetic, passionate and then lack of motivation.  It's easy to let the system kick you down.

But, NO.
The edge of the abyss is where I get my edge.  It's a precarious balancing act, but worth its weight in gold.  I wager everything I own on it.  That edge does not compose me; I compose it.  I'm safeguarding it better this time. 

Fortunately, nothing is irreversible. 
Moving forward, I know that I could lose and find myself ten times in the same week. 
But, what next?


You'll have to check back in and find out.

Did you say BLACK? Speak up.

I understand that some people are developmentally slower than others (while biology boasts that no one person is more or less evolved based on evolutionary trends... too slow for us to see- like the turning of the earth on its axis). I always thought I was "more evolved," a lie my mother told me to make me feel better about having been born (though it has since been removed) with an extra thumb.

What I'm really referring to though is when white people tell me stories (in Long Island, where most of these story tellers have not ever experienced diversity, and have no friends of other races). If, in the story, one of their characters is BLACK/black/black they whisper the word when describing that character.

First, they look around to be sure it is only an inside story amongst us white folk, and then the secret is shared in mouthed almost inaudible whispers... Does this character's race matter to the story? Is your punch line derogatory? Am I in on the secret because my skin color makes you believe our shared history is that of homogeny and lack of cultural diversity; incorrectly?


Black is not a bad word.

You don't have to whisper it.

(I shared this story with a friend, since this occurrence has come to pass several times since being in a setting with little to no people with skin colors that differ from my own. She asked if I said something. I hadn't. I, too should speak up.)

Ushering in a NEW YEAR, to surpass the last

As I mull over the spectacularly lengthy list of tasks I need to complete, I am overwhelmed. This usually leads to an activity not on the list, not particularly important, and not at all productive. I should be attending to my ridiculously messy room, doing one of thousands of loads of laundry to clean clothes I never wear anyway, not just because they've been dirty for months. I wrote myself a brief list of New Year's Resolutions, and I'm counting on the dropping of one big ball in major cities all over to indicate the end of me dropping "the ball" on every project I start but never finish. I am famous for this, though hardly renowned outside of my family for this awful ambitious, not manifesting head of mine. Will this new year be any different from the 22 I ushered in each year before? 

Living with ones' grandparents should be a ticket to spend more time focused on ones' self; time is fleeting and eventually you get old and don't have the energy to do the things you could when you were younger. However, I feel myself slow leaking as I am forced to wait things out. Apply to law school, wait. Work hard, wait to move. Save money? This is a concept I have yet to master- source of anxiety, distress, general unhappiness at times. I get used to at least a dull feeling of gloom that comes from too much work and not enough hours in the work day, so many lists transferred but not shortened, and money made equaling, if not surpassing money spent. Is this adulthood?

I had a wicked stomach flu this weekend that put me out of commision entirely, floored me to the bathroom tile. My head spent the better part of Saturday and Sunday shoved into a porcelain throne and tiny bathroom wastebasket. I couldn't remember feeling lower. And today I returned to work with a new resolve! Dilapidated, though I am, I sluggishly made my way through one of few days I was alloted to "get caught up." It's only a hypothetical concept, however, and the work hardly diminishes, though I work diligently filling a day with tasks, client phone calls, and translation. Are my efforts made in vain? Do I work for myself or solely for others?


Who will answer these questions I posit?

In my distraction, I wander to one of my favorite search engines: yahoo.com and discover an article about a 7-year old who "paints like an old master." He is not driven by any burdensome task of self-discovery. And he is not laboring over a canvas to pay FPL or keep his water running. He's just painting because he likes it. He doesn't feel guilty when he doesn't paint.

So on top of my generally discontent, half-sick, weary ushering in of yet another ephemeral Tuesday evening, I see this kid who admittedly makes me feel even worse. How do we peel back and experience that simplicity? Is it even possible?

I ask these questions of you, my probably non-existent readers, one of my three followers maybe, and of you, the Universe. Answer them in whatever form you see fit. I am open to signs; I will try to keep my eyes open and my senses alert for the answers to seek me as I have asked them of You.

These are two paintings by the 7-year old prodigy, Kieron Williamson:

 

Ushering in a year to surpass the last, I wish you well. And I wish you inspiration not just to write about it, but to be about it. I am closing my laptop to take my very own advice...

My moment/ your moment too.

I felt a moment of inspiration today- Which is remarkable, though it does not seem to be.  I'm holding on to that moment- squeezing it tightly, smothering it like I wish I could do to some people, without being suffocating.  I remembered again how ART warms my South Floridian heart even in the gloomy winter of Long Island.  Though I have yet to really locate the arts & culture scene out on this long, unfriendly island, I still attempt to make the most of my time here.

I am always so focused so much on my next steps I almost trip over the things directly in front of me.  Periodically, I commit to becoming more lucid and aware- sort of how Buddhists do.  But I'm still almost in exactly the same place every time I commit to this again.  And then I become inspired as I did today, hoping maybe this time I will hitch a ride on my fleeting idea- a project that never manifests, a list I transfer without crossing much off, an ideal- hoping it will fly me out of this stuck feeling, awkward phrasing, and raw, unrefined existence.

I used to enjoy this struggle more, but my formerly romantic ideas now only exhaust me.  The mundane squeezes the passion out of me, and instead of gasping for creative air, I pass out, wake up, repeat.  Yet, I am always pleasantly surprised when a poem sneaks up on me.  A painting manifests before I give it any conscious thought.  I sing a song in the shower that I wonder if I composed, or if I had just heard the melody somewhere.  And as ephemeral as that moment is, it is the best moment I've had all day.

Let me share with you my moment today:

I wish I could do graffiti art (though I have never actually tried- other than once on the streets of Vina del Mar, Chile while studying abroad).

I also wish I had been at Art Basel in Miami this last weekend, where these pictures were taken.

I wish a great many things.

Now I'd like to start planning.


Overly ambitious? Overly critical? Overly analytical?

Who will even read my rants, none the less appreciate them? An online blog is a strange concept...

Anyway, hope whoever does stumble upon these raw thoughts can add them to their toolbox, maybe refine them a bit... or let them shape you, even.

I live even for a moment's inspiration in my otherwise wholly uninspired day.

Hope this is your moment.

Still an ARTIST...

Is an Artist one who creates art? One who has creatED art? Or a lifestyle?

I see things differently because of the art education I have received. My aesthetic sense has been heightened, my eyes opened, and my heart expanded. My artistic well is not dry, but stagnant; my artistic palette whet with the experiences of everyday life. I accumulate tools with which to shape my work, to lead me to something meaningful. I love art. I live art.



I painted this one last week, and drew the picture of the sleeping old man last month.

I wonder as I wander...

Stick to it.
Stay focused.
Keep your head in the game.
Eyes on the prize.

Countless aphorisms direct us toward single-mindedness. This "goal oriented" or "task oriented" person we are supposed to be is pulled in a million and one different directions by the complexities of everyday life. If you can't multitask you might as well not procreate. Or step outside of your house. Because in the real world, we're forced to throw ourselves from one activity to the next hoping our body remembers to take big breaths, we remember to eat, and that we are above all BLESSED.

I've always felt torn. Torn between going to art school and an academic career (UM grad 2008). Torn between painting and poetry. Torn between practical decisions and idealism. We're supposed to suck it up and choose, right? A real man makes a decision and regardless of how terrible its outcome, sticks with it, takes accountability for his wrong-doings; counts his losses. Bullshit. These clever one-liner responses to complex situations only serve to keep you unhappy. Why would you stick with something that didn't completely fulfill you? Why are such ridiculous cliches perpetuated that back young, ambitious individuals like me into some imagined corner? Why should we accept the advice of others when anyone who's really lived has already admitted "they had to learn the hard way"?

So please, let me.
Let me divulge in activities that make me happy. I can paint and write. I shouldn't have to choose. Being an adult doesn't mean being bitter because of the poor choices you've made. It just means making your own (however) stupid choices. I am recently beginning to truly understand the headache money gives you- or rather, the headache of not having it; the headache of unpaid bills. No one is even pretending it gets better from here on out.

But if I change my mind a thousand times, let me.
If I only focus on one activity long enough until it leads me to the next, so what?
I understand that with adulthood there is no required declaration of laissez faire because at this point you answer to no one (only respectfully allowing others to know of the decisions, not to make them).
And I was told recently, by someone I deeply respect, that being a grown up is far better accomplished by not referring to (however milestone) activities as "grown up" ones.
In my art, and my life, I tend to be very process-oriented.
It is about the journey and not the destination.

No, I won't "stick to it." Adventure waits off the beaten path. Wander around a little, you might just find it. Another silly cliche goes:

Not all who wander are lost.

So maybe I'll just take some time to check out the scenery. Don't come looking for me.