Saturday, February 22, 2014

Life Goals.

Travel the world. Travel some more. Write a book. Make a film. Fall in love. Stay in love. Get married. Travel with my love. Write a book of us. Sing. Learn a new language. Gain a few pounds from eating through Europe. Spend a summer in New Zealand. Have a baby. Have another baby. Have lots of babies. Maybe just a few. Travel with my babies. Kiss my husband. Make another film. Write another book. Have a gallery showing. Buy an RV. Travel across the US. Be honest. Live in another country. Make pancakes on Saturdays. Make pie on Sundays. Buy a house by the water. Sell extra things. Open up our home. Plant a garden. Learn to play piano well. Travel. Go wedding dress shopping with my daughters. Go to little league games. Live out of my gut. Write my grandparent's stories. Kiss at midnight on New Years in Times Square. Get good at yoga. Move cross country. Start over. Stay. Meet the girls my sons love. Photograph what I see. Watch my husband become a grandfather. Spend my anniversary in Paris. Make a movie. Sell my house. Drink good red wine or bad red wine with people I love. Explore. Live with less. Get a dog. Make lots of bread. Stop being afraid. Cook through Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Wear dresses more. Start a traveling library. Ditch the TV. Kiss a lot. Start traditions. Keep traditions. Make cinnamon rolls and egg bake for Christmas brunch. Say I'm sorry, I love you, I need you, I like you, I miss you. Understand they're sometimes the same.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

What would happen if the internet went quiet?


Social media's primary motivation is recognition, the cry of here, I am. See me. We are searching for understanding in the form of a larger network, because what is the point in churning out updates daily if not to attract and captivate an audience? Sharing our work and thoughts, connecting with people, opening up our metaphorical internet doors into our homes, these are valid reasons to check twitter. But more often, we share to share. Liking becomes less about what we like and more about the cultural recognition it gives us.

Meaning is often based on cultural context, so it becomes difficult to play the game of what would our ancestors have done? Yet, what would they have seen in social media, in the internet in general? The age that we live in allows for greater communication than ever before. We are able to affect change, to widen our reach, and in powerful ways, influence our cities and the world. Networking makes connection comfortable and easy. Yet, in constantly connecting, we are losing our ability to communicate without the web to clamor behind us.

The primary function social media gives us a way to say, look what I'm doing, regardless of whether we are doing it or not.

My friend Alex and I were laughing about instagrams (ours, specifically) and the behind the scenes prep that goes into a seemingly uncomplicated and straight-forward image . . . from location scouting, prop styling, editing, etc. I'm not saying that these are bad things, just that our realities are skewed. It's not just about sharing our breakfast anymore — now our breakfast has to be beautiful. Which is fine. Art becoming greater in the scheme of our daily lives isn't something I oppose, but why do we do it? Is this all one huge game of follow the leader? I don't have answers, just questions. What would it look like to go off social media? What would it look like to communicate solely via letters? What's the function of blogs these days? Do we need this network? What is the point of it all? It fascinates me in a sobering way that we even have to ask ourselves these questions.

Society has evolved to a pinnacle where the thought of not having an online presence and not sharing our work puts us in league with the dinosaurs.

I understand the appeal, perhaps too well! But it saddens me to think of the opportunities I've missed because I've been plugged into this changing, growing, controlling network. I saw a haunting photo series done on individuals looking at their computer monitors and thought, that's me. I wake up to the phone, check my email hourly. I take snapshots. My camera roll is full of coffee. I can talk to people without talking to them! Everything is an instagram opportunity. I should tweet that. Did someone comment on my blog? The irony is I'm plugging away at this post on my site.

Do you know what's sad? I've lost the ability to sit in silence. It's difficult for me to be still. I'm rediscovering how to read without interruption. I'm trying to simplify my thinking into one line, not twenty different avenues all begging for my attention at once. I removed notifications from my phone awhile ago, but I sit and suddenly I'm checking my phone simply to check it. Is it that I, or we, don't remember how to even exist without constantly reviewing the never-ending stream of forever updating information? As I write this, I have about twenty tabs open.

We're spending more time cultivating our online personas than our character and personality in real life.

I woke up the other day and resisted the urge to check my phone. As I put my coffee in the keurig (yet one more example of our fast-food culture), I had a sudden thought, strange only so far as it was frighteningly obvious. Ten years ago, this would not be part of my normal routine. Take 2004. Instagram was nonexistent and iPhones were a thing of the future. Facebook had come out only recently and blogging was starting to gain traction. Smart phones existed, but compared to our phones today, we would have called them illiterate. Yes, we had the internet, the next thing was coming, but everything was relatively quiet.

I romanticize the past, but there's a marked difference in how we operate as a people with the increase of technology and the ease of networking. Please don't thing I'm proclaiming a cry of abandonment of social media. I've said before, I enjoy instagram. Yes, somedays (too many), I buy into the allure that is pinterest (darn you, dark chocolate flourless cake), and my business would not be where it is today without the help of social media. But I don't want to mindlessly ingest and consume without question. What does the role of social media play in our lives and how will it continue to evolve as we as a people and society grow and change?

The thought of Google Glass terrifies me, and the promise of always being connected sounds like a nightmare.

Contrary to the trends of 2014, I feel most fulfilled when I am less connected. The more I am in the "real" world (how clarifying we have to make that distinction), the more inspired, well-rounded, and content I am. The less connected I am on social media, the more connected I am in real life. I think it's dangerous when we enter into social networking as a natural occurrence of daily life, and don't recognize the dichotomy between what is shared and what exists. The argument could be made that social media is part of ordinary routines, but that's the gist of this post. We're at a place when sharing is synonymous with existing, and to go without sharing is a kiss of death, or really a refusal to cry, look at me. See me.

What would happen if the internet went quiet and we all just lived our lives?

This is something I wonder about when my phone is dead.

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

today, like a promise.


This morning, I woke up late and ate a cold egg. It was panfried and slippery. My brother brought me a book and I read it to him, him little and round on my lap. I tickled him until his body shook with laughter. If you don't know, that's almost the best sound in the world. It's second only to listening to the slow breathing of someone you love.

This afternoon was a rainfall. I made a cup of coffee. I read the newspaper. I read a book. I played piano. The room was silent and I kept the lights off. It's nice to only sit under what comes through windows. A softness.

Later, I went to a coffee shop. I had a cup of chai. It's my staple though the sugar gives me headaches. This is a language I practice. The hot paper cup under my fingers, comfort. The quiet bustle of people, connection. A silent phone, stillness. I sat at a long communal table by myself, steadiness. In my hands, a book I love. That is called being. Everything was a study in solitude. A song from one of my favorite films came on, and I thought, yes.

How do you describe these spaces? A falling into place. A gentle nudge or a remembrance. That is called release. These moments mark me with rings. I see holiness in their wake. I will not call them serendipitous, but sacred. My ragged edges are softened by these places. The book was set down. I mouthed the words to the music and cried silently next to strangers. Yes. And again, yes.

Tomorrow may be a yellow sharpness in my stomach. My today was a promise. Yes, as it comes. That is called surrender. Another word is thankful, though we've forgotten. I'm carrying it like a prayer.

Monday, February 17, 2014

seven.

think



read

"It’s hard, now, to be with someone else wholly, uninterruptedly, and it’s hard to be truly alone. The fine art of doing nothing in particular, also known as thinking, or musing, or introspection, or simply moments of being, was part of what happened when you walked from here to there alone, or stared out the train window, or contemplated the road, but the new technologies have flooded those open spaces. Space for free thought is routinely regarded as a void, and filled up with sounds and distractions."
- Diary, by Rebecca Solnit

see


Daily Contradictions, by Katie Licht.

look


One Day in History, by Andrea Gjestvang

watch



listen



eat


Shaved Brussels Sprouts and Ginger Potsickers by Naturally Ella.

what are you enjoying + inspired by lately?

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Taking it all in, wide eyed.

For clementine afternoons and juice running down your cheeks and what summer means to you. For running barefoot on bad knees. For people waiting at a bus stop. For people waiting. For red singing until you are hoarse. For cupping fireflies in your fingers. For sloppy kisses. For goodbye kisses. For kisses. For goodbyes. For missing sour like curdled milk. For books with names of previous owners like a poem. For mint sharp in your mouth and wind in your teeth. For yellow tights. For the stillness of an empty movie theater after the credits stop. For leaving. For traditions wound tight like string around your spine. For flowers growing in your ribs. For graphite on the side of your hand. For lipstick smudges on cheeks. For silver exhales and silver moonlight and silver nights on snow. For photos that stay the same. For cities where no one knows your name. For cracked vinyl diner seats. For dancing slow, sweaty palmed with a boy you love and what his hand feels like on yours. For letting go.

Friday, February 14, 2014

three stanza.

your fogged breath like
fingertips on cold glass.
flushed.

the woods slow like
trees reaching sore arms.
upwards.

this morning like
water swallowing sand.
released.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

you listen and let go, let go.


Sometimes you know and bury that knowing underneath petitions like, I should do this, or this is expected of me, or people will be disappointed, and that process is called forgetting. Trying on faces and wanting them to fit. They don't and this is called confusion. By this time, you've forgotten what it is and wonder what is going on and why is this not what you thought, and small things trigger small thoughts that remind you of that thing, your thing, the knowing. Seeing an image in a perfect swell of music. Fresh raspberries. Always, the stars opening and closing. Red lipstick, yellow dresses, fuzz on a peach, the way things fit together. Hands moving, holding each other. Driving past yellow lights of windows in the black blue of night. A moment that triggers a dream you had, but before you can stuff it away, you grab the ends of it by the hands and say, wait. And, what was that?

This part of yours that knows is like an old friend that you lost touch with in coming and going, only now, you're remembering how things used to be and how you wanted them to be and how they aren't that way now, so you suck it up. You call her up. You apologize. You say, coffee? with a sad laugh. And when you get together, it's awkward, hesitant, neither of you look like you remember. You're meeting a piece of yourself that you pushed away for years and coming to terms with who you are feels like clawing tooth and nail and howling because you're looking yourself in the face and saying, I don't know you. But you sit there. You drink your chai. You drink your caramel coffee. You have another cup, get a strawberry scone, force yourself to be still. But most importantly, you listen. You don't interject what you thought, what you think. You listen and listen and not say a word, and when she is done talking, you are weeping. Shaking from apologizing. Waking up.

You have another cup of coffee. Calm down. Now what? And she's laughing and saying, well, you know now, you remember. So, go do, kiddo. And you're laughing, what, it can't be that easy? But she's got a smile borne out of waiting and shakes her head slow, sipping the rest of her tea. It's not that easy, but it's that simple. You know. Her smiles slips and she's serious now, holding your hands in hers. To not go after it now is to say your desires don't matter. That your authentic center isn't worth it. That your deepest beliefs and truest hopes and realest loves can't measure up. That your story, message, song isn't enough. Don't do that.

Now you're at the door and you can choose to part ways, say thanks for the coffee, let's talk again soon. Or, you can listen. And you can let go, let go, let go of what you thought, of all the shoulds and coulds and woulds. And you can be brave enough to start over and live out what makes you come alive. You know, a part of you knows, that the same part in your heart that stings listening to this music or cries from that film or feels lopsided and soft in your hands is the same part that knows what you're supposed to be doing, what you want to be doing, what's your thing. Maybe it's like finding out that you knew where home was the entire time, that it wasn't where you thought or what you dreamed, but upon discovering it, walking into it, you realize it's better than what you thought you wanted.

"We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us." - Joseph Campbell

And to that, I can only say amen.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

One of those days.


There's not much to say, except today was a two cup coffee morning. A second piece of peanut butter toast afternoon. A an extra chapter to read evening. You know those days. It was nineteen degrees when I stepped outside and I couldn't stop saying, man, this is beautiful. This is so nice. This feels so good. It must be thirty. And then we got in the car and checked my phone and it felt like a drumroll when the number pulled up. Because when you're used to negative nineteen, nineteen above feels like spring.

Life feels that way lately. Like it's pulling up boots and rubbing red hands together. Alright. Let's get this going. We've got work to do. I'm seeing that work outside. The snow melted in slush around my feet today, so that my socks were wet, but if that's not better than numb feet I don't know what is. I almost didn't wear a coat. I'm squinting and I might see buds on a branch, just maybe. Don't tell me otherwise.

Today has been an exercise in slowness and purpose and it has the feeling of waking up gradually. I'm telling myself that small things done well are enough, that to have a good day and work hard doesn't mean rushing, going full-steam until I collapse. I woke up at 6 and got up after the second snooze button. Finished chapter two of The Artist's Way. Wrote 3,540 words (so far) about a man in love and a woman he loses from illness and well . . . maybe I'll share it some day. I have letters to mail and websites to finish and a workout I really should do. The point is. I'm trying to find the balance between pushing myself and giving myself grace. Sharing and saving it for real life. Working hard and resting. But two things I know: I need early mornings like I need sun (two things which have been sorely lacking this winter), and if I'm not creating every day, my making muscles start to atrophy. So, here's to early rising and another shot of espresso in the morning and plugging away at a piece when you'd rather be anywhere but sitting in front of the page wrestling with words.

Off to finish that story. And maybe make a cup of tea, just to mix it up a little bit.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

this is my plan.


This is my plan: host a wild dinner, just once. To call it fancy is incongruous. If anything, it will be the opposite of elegant. Bare feet, old blankets to sit on, mismatched dishes and a guitar. Yes, a guitar, I think. I can't decide if it will be on the beach on hot sand in some rocky alcove, or tucked under tall trees with years like rings, or in the middle of a field with the sky spread wide. Wherever it will be, there will be fairy lights because I am nothing if not a romantic. I believed in fairies as long as I could, and I think I'd like a good light trail to settle under. I will wear a long skirt and bracelets on my arms and my hair will be long and down. I will serve homemade bread and a bowl of chocolate to dip the crusty end pieces in, and cheese, the melty, crusty, crumbly kinds. There will be fresh berries, mostly raspberries, and red red wine. We will have apple pie and strawberry rhubarb pie and the sweetest peach pie. Music, a guitar. I said that. Someone will play. We will sing, off key, perhaps, but we will sing loud and lusty and we will laugh. At the end, there will be a fire. I will dance. And you will be there. We will camp out there all night, drinking hot tea as the evening wanes and telling stories, true ones, the kinds that make your bones shake. And the stars will never look closer.

Monday, February 10, 2014

On finding the right words.

I've made a promise to myself to write everyday for the next month. (Yes, I realize it's nearly the middle of February. That's just how I work.) I struggle with where to start and find my ending is never anything related to the beginning. Don't get me started on the middle. The holy, what is this garbage I'm writing? pulsing, scattered, germinating modem. Earth shifting, shape forming. The middle is a breeding ground for thought (and a lot of bad writing).

My middle is always a mess. My mother taught me not to use qualifiers, don't say always unless it actually is always, but for me, the middle ground is overgrown, untamed, and unrecognizable. It's also where I figure out what I'm really trying to say. This is a process far less glamorous than I once imagined. It involves stumbling into things, nearly throwing out my pages, letting my tea go cold. Usually, the words are hidden underneath extraneous layers, unimportant details, flowery language. Metaphorically, it's like cleaning out your closet to find a specific shirt except you stumble into a letter hidden in a pocket. The thing is, you start and you realize that what you were looking for wasn't what you thought. But not if you stop. Figuring out what it is is a relentless search made possible only by the promise of clarity, understanding.

I'm going through The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, and it's changing my life. I feel silly saying that, but one of my promises to myself for this year is to let myself feel everything as fully as I can. I'm giving myself permission to be soft, to cry, to be okay with being seen as foolish if it means I'm being true to my emotions and where I am. I have unconscious triggers that quell the force of what I'm feeling and they go off as little blurts (as Julia Cameron would say), in my head.

That's too personal
People will laugh
Wow, that's stupid
You're unoriginal
Why are you even crying?


I'm tending to those ugly things I've planted. It's good for my health as an artist and a person. Pulling up the prickly growth that sprouted through years of unconscious neglect. It's a scratchy process but a practice that helps me return to good earth. Some of these weeds are blurts or thoughts I tell myself that are untrue, whereas others are practices I've slipped into out of habit. Dancing around the edge, side-stepping the issue, relying on adverbs, metaphors, and commonalities. That's what Morning Pages and a promise to write everyday, even if what I write is awful and said before, helps me identify and get rid of. Weed through the small, decrepit things that are choking out the seeds.

seed (siːd)
— n
5. the source, beginning, or germ of anything.


I don't want to kill off the growth before it has a change to grow. I don't want to harvest the plant until it's full grown, otherwise, how can I know what it is that I've planted? Yes, I will say things badly and repeat words, but through putting out work everyday I'll hopefully stumble into a new way of thinking. Understanding, perhaps? This is all a muddle, but that's okay. I write and hate what I've written. But I'm determined to keep plucking thoughts like apples, peeling away the outer layer to get the fruit of the seed. This is called, writing words down even if the thoughts galvanizes me with their utter horrendous ness, triteness, imperfectness.

"Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a sh*tty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it." ― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

I'm not a Kerouac admirer. I'm not a fan of his spontaneous prose. I tried to read On the Road and lost interest within seconds. Maybe I don't understand it and surprisingly, I'm okay with this admittance. Sidenote, it's intriguing how easy it is to "love" someone and their work when the general artistic community does as well. His writing is too lucid and lingering for me. It's a compendium of rabbit trails all with the beginning road of a real thought minus the follow through. He took a 4x6 snapshot instead of photographing a series, staying devoted to one message. Capote's dismissal of Kerouac makes me laugh. "That's not writing, that's typing." Yet sometimes (from what little of him I've read), he taps into inner thought and the artist's struggle like music.

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple."

Isn't that we're all trying to do? Whether we are writers or architects or dancers? Trying to take the clutter and clatter of all the extra noise and stuff and reduce it to the purest, clearest, simplest message? Untangle the knots until we're left with clean, direct lines? Discover the heart for everything What is that? What are our deepest reasons for creating? What are we speaking in our true voices? I wish there was a general answer yet I lift praises that it the answer is as unique as each person who seeks it.

So I keep writing bad drafts. I keep moving through the middle and believe that one day, I'll find the right words, I'll reach the final page, I'll understand. I hope for you the same.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

last fall on film.


I never shared my photos from my first few rolls. Shooting film feels like coming home.

Kodak Portra 160, 400, 800, & Fuji Neopan 400 CN