Fractured Note To Anxious Creators

(Honestly, this is aimed at myself more than anyone else.)

The artistic choices you make are important. They shape your work. But you don't need to agonize over them. Trust your intuition--it's gotten you this far, hasn't it? If you decide to paint in yellow and realize later that painting in green would have had cool implications, then just remind yourself that the yellow painting is different, not inferior.

I am learning to write better. The question is always, "How can I express myself more simply and clearly?" What's complicated is figuring out how to use the beautiful bulky words that I love without alienating most audiences.

I am trying to write not only for the satisfaction of my own ego, but in order to have a relationship with my reader(s). It is very difficult, but the work is good.

// Beyond by William Struby //

It's starting to seem like the art I post isn't even related to what I'm talking about! Um...

I Drank Too Much Caffeine Again

When you get anxious, narrow your life down. Narrow it down to yourself, and even further. Reduce the material in your hands to just today. Stay warm. Sweat the fever out. Build up the fire with quick wood that crackles, and listen to how the wood snaps without being ordered to. You are not wood--instead you melt like wax, puddling and staining the surface you collapse onto. It's okay. Reach into the raw grain of the table underneath you and dig your oily fingers in; soak your presence into eternity. Be patient as you spread, and as you solidify. Cool wax will be pried up from where it slept, but the mark of your grip cannot be rubbed away.

(I know this doesn't make complete sense but an attempt to excise something doesn't have to.)

// Internet Archive Book Images //

Moonlit Midnight: Unwise Teenage Escapading

The following is a recollection that I wrote down spontaneously when someone on OkCupid asked me to "tell a story" about "any moonlit adventure". My response was lengthy:

I don't remember seeing the moon on this night, but here goes...

Once upon time, in the distant year of 2012, Sonya went to a karaoke bar in a mystical city called San Francisco. The establishment was set up so that groups could rent individual rooms, and then rock the night away for however many hours they had purchased. Sonya and her friend smuggled in a bottle of vodka (she was 18 at the time) and Sonya liberally spiked her soda. Alcohol turned the night into a window blurred with condensation, the wet mist too thick and persistent to wipe away.

Sonya's friend didn't want to sing. He wanted to listen to her self-conscious crooning, smiling as he sipped his own (lawfully ordered) beer. Sonya didn't know most of the available songs, but she delivered a decent rendition of "Call Me Maybe".

They left the karaoke place. Sonya remembers the streets as slanted and grey, tipping even more steeply than the San Francisco stereotype. Neon announcements and mellow traffic lights glittered against the pavement. Sonya talked fluently in the smooth endless sentences of inebriation, free-associating and unbound from the conventional rules of chronology. Her comments were excessive and effusive. Sonya assured her companion that he had captured her affections, that she thought he was Good and Worthy. It was not a romantic sentiment, nor a sexual promise, and he understood this. Regardless, the next morning would expose Sonya as fickle and false. But in the harsh city night she felt genuine, and let the words spill from her in the same cliche way that her drink had sloshed on the table earlier.

They walked farther than Sonya can recount or recall. Eventually the two passed those fierce swans that glide serenely as swans ought to, but will savage anyone who gets too close with a handful of dry bread. They wandered beyond the prickly topiary, following disco music. Sonya and her friend dodged faux-antiquated Grecian columns and came to an enchanted open place, where roller skaters spun with glow sticks in hand. Someone had brought a powerful boom box, or maybe there were speakers. Sonya felt prompted to dance.

After that point I blacked out completely instead of just fading and reappearing. But yeah, apparently midnight roller skating is a thing. We caught them at the Palace of Fine Arts.

// James Buck //

Sea Sculpture

Strolling on Baker Beach. Encountered this creature/creation:

Saturday Static

// Michael Dunn //

The train is rumbling from San Francisco back into the East Bay. We're passing through the Oakland stations, being cautioned over the loudspeaker to transfer now if ever. I can't concentrate on my book because I'm heading to a date, and the guy I'm going to meet keeps texting me. Even in the case of radio silence, I can never concentrate on reading before a date. Performance jitters, I suppose. I'm about to present a show of myself.

I would like to be freshly showered and wearing mascara, but I'm armed only with my tea-party outfit, picked for a brunch earlier, and the cheap lipstick that I keep in my purse. It's a surprisingly lovely lipstick, soft shimmery pink, and I tell everyone that it's magic. "Here, wanna try my magic lipstick?"

I've been going on a million first dates. "This is efficient," I tell myself, rushing from appointment to appointment, from disappointment to disappointment. "I am checking potential mates off the list quickly. Meeting lots of people. This is good. I'm proud of myself." I have cobbled together a caffeinated social life.

This morning I got up at 9:45 and left the house around 10. My outfit was slapdash: pink dress, pink headband, purple cardigan, greasy smoke-laden hair. In fact I went on a different first date last night, a horrible endless one. I resented myself for neglecting to set up an escape route.

Cynics Against Horatio Algers

Some people tell their kids, "You can do anything. Maybe one day you'll be the president, or a millionaire." That's the classic American myth: rags to riches, the regular nobody becomes a star overnight.

In reality, the chances of an ordinary person being wildly successful are negligible at best, slim enough to be statistically nonexistent. You can be the president or a millionaire if your father was, but without the familial launching point those ambitions are close to impossible. It's not fair to tell a child, "You can do anything." Life is not that simple. There's no single phrase that will explain the complex interplay of aptitude, tenacity, and pure chance that defines a person's future. Maybe the oft-repeated maxims that "life isn't fair" and "you can't always get what you want" come close.

I don't mean that parents should be harshly realistic with their children. Kids live in a world of broad possibility, and it would be cruel and stultifying to destroy that. But a soaring imagination can coexist with normal expectations. If a kid wants to be an astronaut, there's no reason to say, "That's unlikely. Only a handful of people get to be astronauts. Better not to even consider it." Go ahead and play with the idea. I just wish that people wouldn't tell their children, "You can definitely be an astronaut." It sets them up for disappointment.

Perhaps this seems counterintuitive on a blog about bolstering personal confidence. However, a source of my own crashing self-esteem was academic failure. It happens to a lot of kids who didn't have to try hard in grade school and high school. People expect you to be brilliant and constantly reinforce that you're a smart kid, but once you reach college, you find out that you only know how to cope with finishing homework in five minutes, not with demanding material that requires hours of study. My identity was built around me being good at school, so when I realized at Reed that I wasn't doing well, it devastated me.

Pessimists have a more accurate worldview, but optimists are happier. How can the two realities be combined? How can I pick the hopes that won't hurt me?

Stopping Time On The Train

I snapped this portrait on BART last weekend, on the way to SideQuest Gallery. (More on that here.) Human beings are so beautiful. I love taking photos of people; it fascinates me to see them frozen. We are constantly in motion, but a camera can preserve a moment, holding it still indefinitely.

These Are Not Fall Colors

Graffiti spotted in Oakland on a mediocre date:



Especially mysterious since at least orange and bronze are fall colors. Forest green probably qualifies as well. Maybe even teal. I don't understand.



Blue-obliterated guru. Should I recognize this bearded fellow and his insane fuchsia eyes?

Lastly, the ferry wake snapped from the back of the boat as we sped through the San Francisco Bay waters:



You can even see Oakland's Imperial Walkers, tiny faded silhouettes on the right.

Gazing & Grazing

Photos of collages don't adequately replace scans, but I've been making do anyway. I sent this odd little greeting card to my pen pal:



Because what goes better together than angels and llamas?

Hope & Apprehension

// Steve Jurvetson //

Look at that crazy retro Apple computer and the monitor! This picture is so hilariously dated; I can't get over it. Technology moves fast... although Elmer's Glue is still popular. Anyway, I picked this photo for the word processor.

Writing means constant fretting and indecision. "Did I phrase that well? Did I include enough description? Is this character distinct or do they talk just like me?" I second-guess every sentence. I read over the lines and they seem good, but I can't be sure that my opinion is accurate when it's so self-serving.

Despite my doubts, I keep going. I haven't missed my writing goal since committing to a daily practice. I'm sure I will at some point, because life happens, but I've done really well so far. I'm proud of myself for becoming a writer who writes, instead of a writer who agonizes over lack of inspiration.

The scary part is that now my identity hinges on this. If I'm dependent on writing for a sense of self-worth, then I will be devastated if I lose momentum. I'm not naive enough to think that I will always be as consistent and productive as I am now. Hopefully I will continue to improve, but there's no guarantee of that, and there's no guarantee that I can even keep up what I've begun.

The Ending

You broke up with me just outside of the train station. If you've got to be dumped in person, that's a good place--symbolic. Trains drop people off and move on without them, streaming through the tunnel into San Francisco like fat silver eels. All the same, I would rather open a devastating text than cry to your face.

The station is in a sterile part of Oakland, blocks away from any culture. But I could hear the echo of people getting off on life, loud and melodious. It was First Friday, and the party kids were revving up for a weekend street fair--"Art & Soul Festival" or something like that. Down the road a little, the evening was a mishmash of human celebration, everybody selling drugs and hobnobbing through art galleries, beer of different calibers being the ubiquitous element, from cheap 40s to $10 microbrews.

I was waiting for you to arrive, so I didn't move toward the liveliness. Dodging in the other direction, I found a quiet concrete bench where I could sit and read, thumbing through the Kindle app on my phone. This was a corporate installation, backed by a rectangular semblance of a garden. I was surprised by the cleanliness of the station surroundings, and the brand-name anonymity of the chain stores. Black-suited security personnel hung around, looking slightly bored. I sank into my book. But soon you were approaching. My phone dinged and showed me your message: "Coming up the escalator now."

I walked to you and found you and kissed you, enthusiastic. I put my hands on your ribs, noticing as ever that you emanated masculine warmth and your own familiar fragrance, and I kissed you on the mouth. The prickle of your mustache nudged my upper lip like always. I said, "Hi! I think we need to head toward 9th Street," and I motioned to start walking. We had a reservation for 6:45 at a neo-Italian bistro that got good reviews online.

You said, "No, I don't think I want to. We need to go somewhere we can talk." And then you took my hand, wrapping yours around it rather than entwining our fingers. Once again I noticed the heat of you, and I paused.

I must have widened my eyes like a cartoon caricature. "What's wrong? Can you give me the summary?"

You said it quietly, almost sheepishly. "I want to break up with you."

I should have dropped your hand.

This was a surprise to me. We had a date planned for that night. I had bought the movie tickets ahead of time. We were going to that nice-sounding restaurant, and then we were going to see Guardians of the Galaxy, which you had suggested. Furthermore, I was excited about the weekend getaway that we were planning for late September, in Los Angeles. I thought everything was going well. I felt sure I was in love with you.

You took me to the quiet area where I had been sitting and reading before. You chose a different bench, and even the air was strange; my earlier anticipatory mood had been dispersed entirely. There was a staircase to traverse, downward, and our clasped hands were severed. When you reached for me again I snapped, "You want to break up but you want to hold hands?"

"That's not okay?" Should I have comforted you? I flinched at the idea of it.

You told me that you didn't think of me as the just-for-now girl, the until-someone-better-turns-up girl, but then you negated those assurances. "I want to date other people." Here is the part that you didn't say: "Sonya, you are not good enough. You are not enough in any way. I am not satisfied with you."

You began to thank me for things, and your face was wet too. I did not look at you; I stared resolutely at the ground. I could see your tears because you pressed them into your fingers; my peripheral vision captured this. Your voice was rough and reluctant to come out. You said, "Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for helping me to grow." You even mentioned specifics, things that were almost humorous, things that were tender, and I wanted to scream. I pinched my face between my hands, squeezing the tear ducts and the bridge of my nose. You began to say consoling things: "You will be okay. You will find another boy," and I wanted to kill you. I could imagine myself crushing the palm of my hand into your face, saying vicious things, but my muscles were as sluggish as a dream.

I told you, "Just… please stop talking for a minute."

Invisible Guilt

Every American taxpayer is part of a terrorist state and technically complicit in its crimes. Myself included.

// Kevin Bond //

Of course, it's more complicated than that--taxes pay for good things too, and many of us participate in the system under duress, to preserve our own lives and livelihoods. That doesn't include me: I am privileged enough to have choices. If I were a true humanitarian, I would move to a less heinous country, or actively resist and reorganize the power structures in America. My family can afford to do so. Ironically, we're only in such a secure position due to generations of military service and business success. Less ironically, every day we continue our placid prosperity, fueled by genocide and slave labor overseas. Out of sight = out of mind, right? We are like infants, lulled by the simplest ruse.

Perhaps this seems overly harsh and moralistic, but it's just practical. Money and power are inextricable, basically the same goddam thing, and the US economy functions to endow itself with more and more of both. This country hangs onto its theoretical separation of church and state, but industry blended with government is the solid status quo. We criticize the state of affairs, but we still watch TV. (Every major news channel is owned by a corporation that allies with the military. I promise you.)

It's on my mind because I'm reading a dystopia at the moment--Little Brother by Cory Doctorow, set in San Francisco--and although I enjoy the protagonist's hijinks, I can't help noticing that the fictional, openly oppressive government is terribly inefficient. That's what I think of North Korea, too. It's a stupid way to operate your totalitarian human rights tragedy. For example, why interrogate with torture when you can cajole and get more reliable results?

Far better to give your populace the illusion of freedom and justice, so they won't resist. Cultivate public apathy, and you can have all the power that you want.

We Speak Webspeak

I want to quit the internet. This place does not cultivate personal serenity. I know that's a drastic move, one I won't take, and that even if I did it would probably turn out that the problems were within me, not within the fractious network. I get so anxious. The web is huge and uncontrollable; life is huge and uncontrollable too, but the physical reality of it leaves me lulled, feeling insulated.

It's ironic that I'm writing this on Blogger, that in a few minutes I'll click the "Publish" button and my thoughts will be accessible to anyone on my website. The internet makes me worried, but here I am communing with it, forever paying homage to the odd electronic entity that enables a thousand connections: mostly shallow. It is like a very wide body of water, large enough to have a horizon glow-line, but full with only an inch of muddy deep.

I have so many channels to maintain. Tumblr and various other social media, blogs, even email threads--all of this is supposedly contributing to something. I maintain all of it, a tottering behemoth of information, but to what end? The possibility of ad revenue? The reality is that I feel jaded and burned out and disillusioned.