Crying Wolf

So I came home from a somewhat hard (emotional) day at work to find headlines saying that we could be facing another Great Depression and Bush says that we are facing a certain and long recession unless we follow his new plan which includes (not surprisingly a Democratic party ideal of the superiority of federal entities) federal government intervention in the amount of $700 billion. 

Here's the problem, while the news feed of Bush describing his plan actually sounds like the most articulate thing he's ever said, and kindly explained our market crisis to me (as anyone who knows me knows that I am full of questions). However, this is the problem with being an awful and complete shit of a president: it's called the "Boy Who Cried Wolf" syndrome. After lying for years after the American public found out via the CIA/ FBI/ NSA/ and DOD that we did not have any hard proof of WMDs in Iraq; after lying about the supposed connection between Al-Quaeda and Iraq and Bin Laden; after assisting oil companies in gaining huge profits while the rest of us suffered, coupled by his many failures, I just can't believe what the president is asking us to do. Am I upset that my tax dollars will be used to bail us out of a crisis? Not really; I believe that if anything, our taxes to the federal government should assist us in staying a healthy and great country. I am more upset that a dipshit squandered our money to begin with and then insists he knows what the middle class (and struggling class: i.e. those of us who just graduated college/ homeless or impoverished) are going through. This is simply not true. When was the last time he personally filled up the gas tank? When did he last go to the supermarket? When did he last have college tuition to pay or a mortgage or a retirement fund to pay? Since he's been president his essential, and not so essential needs and wants have been met. 

No matter how bad a president he is, he'll leave office, do the whole tour-lecture circuit where some dumbass Southern, conservative (hateful) "Christian" fundamentalist group will pay hundreds, perhaps thousands per head to listen to him speak about his crises and his "successes."Financially, he's set, and we don't know if we are.

One of the MAJOR components of our current market crisis, according to Bush (et. al and other trustworthy sources) is the lack of financial institutions and others not lending credit because they are unsure they can get back their investment. 

In much the same way this is a lesson to all of us; that credit, whether literal or figurative is what this world runs on. It's not only important, but vital that we are people of our word. That we are honorable and do what we say and say what we do. If Bush was a person of his word, then I'd trust his plan and if credit was given to us when we earned it, instead of when we asked for it ("See election of Bush TWICE") we'd be in a better spot. 

Let's be honorable. Let's strive to mean what we say and to own up to our responsibility. Let's follow the golden rule of being truthful and not "crying wolf."

Life or Death?

Edgar Allen Poe once wrote:

  "The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and the other begins?"

    I think about this quote from time to time; not out of some dreary fascination with it, though it is a very scary thought put into a beautiful syntax. I think about this quote because it is very real. Relationships can die, either literally in that one person actually dies and leaves their body. Or relationships can die, not by age or illness but by a prolonging of time and distance or of anger and sadness. 

   Romantic relationships can straddle the blurry line between life and death. You can know that something will not work out no matter how much you want it to, but in that moment you could be engaging in an act with your lover that makes  you feel utterly alive in every sense of the word. It is possible to watch something live and die right in front of your eyes in the very same moment. 

   And the hardest thing is those people or relationships, that though physically or emotionally dead, refuse to leave. The living presence is gone but the memory is the thing that haunts with a fervor that has a life of its own. That's what is really hard with relationships. They can be detrimental to you and they can hurt you and you can see them wither away and die, but as long as the memory remains, they also remain as alive as ever, but always out of touch or reach. This is what makes the getting-over-someone process so hard. These relationships lie somewhere in that shadowy area between life and death, when the line blurs and becomes difficult to specify. 

Scars

 My recent trip to the emergency room has got me thinking over the last two days about the grand scheme of my life, and what scars have meant to me. 

I am guaranteed, at the least, a new faint scar on my left wrist, which though not on purpose, was self-inflicted. I wonder what that means. 

But that aside, here's the thing: I have accumulated another scar on a body already covered in them. 

What are scars but reminders of adventures and times gone wrong, of overzealous behavior and foolishness, of the combination of bravado and not enough thought. I've never been the type of person to think of scars as ugly. I remember when my senior portrait was developed and the sales lady at the photography business told me I had the option to airbrush the scar I bravely (and stupidly) earned as a five year old little girl who (once again inflicted a wound to herself) right above her left eyebrow. I really didn't even have to think about it before I said "no." 

I am not ashamed of my scars and this adds credence to my belief that I think people come into this world with their own beliefs and thoughts and personalities. Parents help guide and shape children into who they become, but children do not come into this world like a blank canvas; rather people come into this world with a canvas that's already prepped in a unique way. 

I don't remember my parents actually telling me to be proud of my scars and maybe they taught me this through example, I can't say for sure. But I do know that I have had and will have a strong sense of the history scars lend us. They might seem ugly to some, but I think they are a gift, a tangible and visible mark that shows us the trials we've survived and the adventures we've braved. I feel that they are like a souvenir that one buys, not with money, but with sense of self. Unlike the "I'm with stupid" t-shirt or the "My parents went to....and all I got was this crummy shirt" souvenir, scars actually mean something. They are living reminders, current histories that show us where we've been and this helps us figure out who we are now, and where we may go in the future. 

This is true of the scars that we do not bear on our skin, but also on our hearts. Recently I've accumulated another internal scar on my heart which has deepened since July. It hurts, I won't lie. But I'm proud I can look back on my history and boast that I've lived through the pain and enjoyed all the sinful greatness such scars bring.

Saved by Clarity

 It's called a moment of clarity. That fragment of time that comes to you and either moves you softly or slaps you straight in the face (but in a good way). 

Clarity came to me in a text message last night, two in fact. Clarity came to me in three steps, first softly with a phone call, then harsh with a text message and then softly again with a second text. All in all, it worked its magic and I was saved by doing something really foolish. 

 

This is not to say that if I am tempted again I won't want to fall, but I think in the end, at the last minute, down to the wire, I'm going to stick to my guns. 

Pushing Charcoal

  Last night I drew with a fervor, almost as if I was on a strictly timed schedule.

  First the crisp, white piece of paper, which I realize now is not acid free and after working so many hours at Aaron Brothers, I know that it is not the best paper to create on. But never mind that, I had charcoal to use. 

   First I pick up the graphite stick, one of my favorite tools. It's hard to pick up and I have to search my art box in the dim light to find it. My fingers grasp it and it is as natural to me as if I were eating with a fork. It is a natural extension of my hand. I look at the page, and then the Mac that provides me a picture of what I want to sketch. With quick movements the graphite slides over the paper in great narrow and wide lines and already, with nothing but light grey charcoal on the page, it looks good. 

  My movements only get faster and faster as I fill in the basic drawing with color. I put a mixture of black and purple pastel in the trees and buildings. I sketch the yellow into the blank spaces and get irritated that it's the wrong shade. Oh, well, I have to keep moving forward, a mantra that carries from art into my real life. 

   

   My favorite part of this process though is pushing the colors around, blurring them, mixing them and making them fill in the texture of the page. I love the feeling of charcoal on my fingers, a greenish and purple mix and the way it makes me feel that I am in the midst of art itself. It makes me feel that I've done work that can be tangibly seen; it's like a mechanic that comes home with oil and grime in his fingernails or a craftsman that comes home with callouses. It is visible proof that I have worked. It's also cool to walk around with my elbows held perpendicular to the floor, my hands and fingers in the air.

  I add in the hot pink, which will be the lightest and brightest hue on the page, being the sun falling behind the clouds and casting a pink/ red glow onto the page. 

   I bring the picture into my bathroom where I proceed to spray it with hairspray; a poor man's (woman's) art fixative. It works so poorly that I can still lift pastel from the page onto my fingers, but that doesn't matter to me so much. What matters is that my fingers got dirty, covered in dust and color, my nails, filled with color particles, and that I got to create something of beauty. 

   Looking back now, I kind of wish I hadn't rushed through it, but that's part of the excitement. I am just concerned about my pervasive and  perpetual forward movement-my un-abating impatience. It doesn't help that I'm listening to Townes Van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" as I write this. 

   Oh well, I have something pretty to show for the half hour I spent working on it.

How do I walk this life?

" I love you."

  

   Why do I feel as though my soul is wandering and will always wander, seeking and not sated until I hear those three words from a man? 

   I am a firm believer of a person, male or female standing on their own two feet and this quest has been especially close to my heart because I navigate the world in a variety of different lenses. I live in this world and try to create a life of my own as a highly focused individual; as an artist; as a tender-hearted and loving person; and most difficultly, as a woman. 

  I have no fear in saying that one of the hardest things I do in life is try to figure out what it means to be a woman. I also have no issue in saying that I believe gender remains on a spectrum and that I feel very masculine sometimes. As an individual I am highly aware that gender is one of the most complicated categories we are thrust into, because it pervades everything we do. And while I don't intend this piece to be some sociological study or expose or feature I will say that my egalitarianism and my sense of who I am as a woman add a hardness to my life. 

  Don't get me wrong, in the popular notion of what a woman is and how she feels I think I am definitely there, and this makes me feel good because I want to be average and normal in that way. But I also believe in seeing people without confines of sexuality or gender. I believe that our bodies are merely outward shells of who we really are, which is really a mind, a heart (both literal and figurative) intuition, thought and emotion. These have no confines of gender or genitals. Gosh...why am I going on about this....?

   Let me get back to what I really wanted to say. As women we are expected to walk a fine line between staying young, single and flexible, and solid, stable and domesticated. We are expected to want both the summer flings and the wedding day; the boardroom and the bedroom and I find this unbelievably hard to do. 

   It is hard for me to be almost 22 and not dating. It's hard for me to have such a clear purpose in my life and to be focused on what I want but not being able to get it. I want love, but that depends on another person, not me so no matter how hard I work for it, I have to wait until it finds me, which is really hard in a world that teaches men and modern women that anything can happen if you persist and work hard enough. 

  I've heard over and over again that people think it's so fabulous (especially for women) to be in your 20s. After all, for men and women your skin has the best consistency, you are at your sexual peak and healthiest years. But no one prepares twenty-something women that being in your twenties is hard. We often either feel burdened, unsure about a relationship or we feel lonely and sad that we don't have one. In a world that makes it seem as though 20 year old women should find it easy to be picked up and going out with men, I feel really left out. 

   I once wrote that I value, above all else, to learn the immensity of who I am. My number one priority and lens through which I walk this life is to find out about me; to see me in eyes that are 100% open to who I am. And if that is the case, then my life comes first and men are merely accessories to my life. But why is it that I can have a perfectly beautiful outfit and the missing necklace or bag can negate everything that is good about the entire look? Maybe it all boils down to the fact that my search and passion for love is as much a part of me as the scar that resides over my left eyebrow, or the tales of my many broken limbs. 

   I suppose all I can do right now is do my best to create and be happy with the life I'm trying to live. 

Memories and Mourning

  I've been thinking about my childhood lately. While it feels like I've aged as many years as I've been alive, and therefore I feel as though time hasn't gone by too fast, it's also strange to see myself so vividly in memories that started so long ago. Though 22 is a young number and I feel as though time hasn't gone too fast, sometimes I can't believe that I'm an adult. And truthfully I don't know how I can feel both really old for my age, really mature, possessing an old soul, and then childishly young. Perhaps that is why I'm so tender hearted, because the important things in my life seem so new. I often look at my recent accomplishments and achievements as though I'm looking through a child's large doe-eyes, open wide in amazement at the new things in life. And truthfully, I hope I never lose that sense of wonder. Often people have called me naive, and I am, but I think there is a certain beauty that comes along with that. I think hope is easier to come by and optimism comes daily and there are more surprises with naivete. It is not so easy to take things for granted with naivete and when things go well it is surprisingly pleasant. 

   Why do I bring this up? I don't know. I guess it's because when I look back at my childhood, most of it, especially the kindergarten and first few grade levels, I was blissfully happy. This is not to say that sad things didn't happen or that I didn't have rough days on the playground and in school, because I did. But, on the days that I was on the swings or with my mom on a day that she picked me up early from school and took me to the museum, I was so completely happy. In these moments everything I wanted was there and the simplest things fulfilled me with happiness. I was so enveloped in the moment and at that time my mind had a harder time wandering to an anxiety-filled future like it so easily does now. 

    I tear up, and don't really know why when I can see myself so vividly, almost like an out of body experience on the playground. I remember that the sky is greyish and overcast and the leaves are brown and slightly crunchy under-foot. I have my fingers entwined in the cyclone fence that separates the school yard from the street. My nose is pushed up to the metal and I am waiting for my mom to come and pick me up. I remember looking over at the rabbit hutch that I'm pretty sure sits vacant (this is the only part of the memory I don't know for sure is accurate). I can't describe it because so much of this memory is intangible. It's a memory emotion; the memory is nostalgic to me because it triggers an emotion that touches me. It is the feeling, not the memory or detail itself that matters. 

   This memory dates back to fall or winter in Los Angeles and I can tell this by the sky and the wind that blows across my face and the fence. I hold this dear because it is at this moment that I am at a threshold, waiting to go home and see mom, who often looks happy to see me. I remember I used to love smelling her and feeling her hand rub my back in comforting circles as she looked at me. She always had this wonderful way of saying "hi sweetie," and I still love hearing her say that, as much as she loves hearing me say "hi mom" in my squeaky voice. Though there was a forlorn feeling to my waiting for mom, there was also an exciting feeling too, because every moment before mom came to pick me up I had time to swing, which was my favorite thing to do. All I had to do in between that time was to swing and wait for mom, nothing else to do. 

    If only things were that simple now. Though time passes, something I'm too acutely aware of, I am happy that my memory-emotions remain as vibrant.

     

    I want to dedicate this post to a colleague of mine. She lost her best friend over the last few days. To an extent I can sympathize with her because I have a great imagination and I can imagine what that would feel like, if I ever lost Anne. Heartbroken would not even touch the surface of what I would feel. So Jodie, this is for you. I am so sorry and I hope you find comfort in these difficult times. I won't tell you that time heals all wounds because I know it doesn't feel that way right now. But I can guarantee you that when you love someone as much as you did your friend, death doesn't end your relationship, it just changes it. Your contact with that person never ends and she will always be a part of you. My thoughts are with you.