In Search Of...

... concentration ...

2010-07-18T16:20:00.000-07:00

The daily running around can tangle your nerves. Leave you buzzing for days in aftershock. The one day a week to recuperate is usually spent in a state of uncomfortable jitters, frantically scurrying around the internet or channel surfing the endless abyss that is Direct TV.

What I need is a little relaxation. A little concentration. A little motivation.

Because before you know it, I'll have even less time to merely think the thoughts stored somewhere inside of me, let alone get them out.

I blame technology. Feeding my ADD to a point of obesity.

So today was a start. I am pretending my TV doesn't exist. And I am currently avoiding Gmail like the modern plague.

Perhaps, in a few hours, if I'm lucky, concentration will stop by for a play date. But until then, I think I'll make a few phone calls.

... art buddies ...

2010-05-25T20:56:00.000-07:00

Sitting on this Brooklyn rooftop, a new friend discusses his music, proclaiming:

No more waiting on other people. It's time to do it myself.

I raise my wine glass in agreement.

I have always been in search of art buddies. More specifically, one reliable, compatible, art buddy. Some of my best memories from high school include painting New Haven rooftops with Rebecca and fighting freezing fingertips for the love art in the back of Ellen's pick-up. But new paths lead to new states, new interests. The key is to keep going, even alone.

While in New York, I met a lot of promising leads. Held onto one. But nowadays, after playing the field for so long, I almost expect to be disappointed. I am not surprised when yet another artist proves to be all talk or all self or all out of it. Yet still, for a long time, I continued to hope that my own passion and drive to create would inspire even the most uninspired.

But friends, my tune is starting to change.

Now I say, f*^k 'em.

I say: what are you thinking?
I say: the general laziness of the human race, particularly of the artist population, is to your advantage.
I say: Your work ethic is what ultimately will set you apart from the bunch.
I say: Encourage the laziness of others!
Stay down there! You should say.
Affirm their thoughts of I'm not good enough or I'm too good and let them stay undernourished, in the dark, hidden.

Be aggressive!

Which unfortunately, is so not in my nature.

But I can learn to care less.

Belonging to a group of inspired, like-minded, motivated, passionately driven individuals remains one of my most desired dreams. And I treasure the few I know.

But for now... enough waiting on other people. It's time to do it myself.

... a good de-stuffing or clutter control (II) ...

2010-03-24T19:05:00.000-07:00

I keep my memories in boxes.

Photographs, ticket stubs, years of journals, snail-mail received, snail-mail never sent, (even some printed emails from when the internet was new), programs, playbills, business cards, birthday cards, thank you cards, valentine's day cards, easter cards, mix cds, mix tapes, various abandoned artwork, doodles, poetry on scraps of paper, ideas scribbled on napkins, dried flowers from important dances, weddings and other occasions...
The list continues.

Sometimes, I try to consolidate. Pair things down. But if I throw away my memories, how will I remember them? Without a record of all you've done, how quickly those experiences might disappear without hope of a good reboot.

Recently, I became more organized, creating four neatly edited scrapbooks of our summer European travels. (The remaining mementoes that didn't make the cut still take up too much space in my closet, but...

Now is the time.

I feel it in the air. Rebirth. New life. Springtime.

I'm ready to be liberated from all (or at least half) of my material possessions, ready to feel my shoulders lighten. And this thing called technology has promised to help out (part of the plan involves transferring cds to my harddrive -- brilliant!)

I've already been mentally cataloguing the t-shirts I can donate. The papers I can shred.

And yet again, friends, it's that time of year, and I, who pride myself on originality, find myself fitting into still another timely cliche: a good Spring cleaning is just around the corner :)

... a good de-stuffing or clutter control ...

2010-03-04T18:09:00.000-08:00

I'm stuck. My neck is covered in every necklace I own, my ears weighted with too many earrings. I am up to my neck in piles of dirty laundry, photographs, paintings, candles, books, memorabilia, kitchenware trying desperately to reach relief.

It's like doing the running man in wet cement.

Now Doc, what does this all mean?

After having this nightmare, I usually go straight to my closet upon waking and begin scrutinizing each item within. I start this endeavor with every intention of bringing at least half to Goodwill.

Oh.. but what about this?

Remember that?

I can't part with this one!

And before you know it, I've decided to donate two tops and one pair of shoes that never fit in the first place. I bag them up, put them by the door and a week later, when I still haven't made it to the donation center, I change my mind about the tops and hang them back up in a closet full of clothes that hardly ever make it out.

It's like a prison. For clothing. Free the Apparel!

Unfortunately, clothes are just the beginning of my clutter problems, but slowly, very slowly, I'm getting better.

For instance, there has been a Goodwill pile by the door for months now that I haven't gone back into.

Although...

now that I think about it...

... time ...

2010-03-02T20:18:00.000-08:00

Ah yes. The common human conundrum.

My dear grasshopper. My sweet little one. Everyone struggles with time.

Eminent mortality. No way around it. The unavoidable end. No one ever has enough. How quickly it passes.

And so how do you cope? The old saying rings true: so much to do, so little ... rest.

Many years of my life were spent in active protest. I locked myself in a concrete bubble of reading, writing, wine, laughter and friends. I made my academic deadlines, but other than that, time was merely a deity I did not believe in.

Then something changed. A link, once out of place, suddenly fell in and I started pedaling. Quickly. Incessantly. I made the decision to do it all, to take Nike's advice and just get it done. Traveling up a steady incline for some time, I have now reached a fairly flat plateau of frantic production.

Perhaps it is my biological clock screaming to be heard -- just a few more years of "my time" lady! Wake up!

Two part-time jobs, two part-time schools, two volunteer gigs, babysitting and an artistic thesis that keeps getting bigger with each new sketch. To top it off, I am socializing with the same mentality -- partying like I'm recently legal, never missing an opportunity to drink wine until sunrise, constantly in search of potential friends... something's gotta go.

And unfortunately, it's the time.

Time to go to bed.

Time to sleep, to relax.

For tomorrow is another day, full of potential productivity.

... tangible communication ...

2010-01-28T20:59:00.000-08:00

At the tender age of thirteen, I can remember talking to whatever boy I happened to be swooning over that particular week -- a reddening ear pressed tightly to my parents' high tech cordless telephone, tying up the lines for hours and thinking, believing, wishing all the while that if I squeezed the phone hard enough, pressed it tight enough to my lobe, he and I would be welded together for all eternity.

"Gee wiz," I remember thinking, (because we kids rolled with Howdy Doody in the mid-nineties), "I sure do wish we could be having this conversation face-to-face!"

Does anybody remember the "land-line"? The days of being unreachable for hours spent outside of the home? The days of making plans the night before, meeting at said location and trusting the rest to...? Good fortune? The gods? These days, God forbid you forget your cell phone when on the way to meet someone for coffee -- what if you can't find them? What if their car breaks down? What if she dyed her hair and you no longer recognize her even though you had coffee at this same local last week and everything worked out just dandy despite no actual usage of the cellular apparatus? What then? What if? What now?

These days I find myself using email and text messaging more than any other form of communication -- and really, so many misunderstandings could take place here! Beware technology friendly users! If you are joking, make good use of exclamation points, smiley faces and "hahas", because trust me, the receiver of said jokes do not hear the subtleties in your tone, the under the breath chuckle, the wink of an eye or the raise of an eyebrow.

And believe me, if you do not include such exclamations of humor, you will be taken seriously and you will offend the masses. Trust me. It's a whole new world out there.

:)

... subject matter ...

2010-01-09T19:34:00.000-08:00

... a resolution ...

2010-01-03T18:13:00.000-08:00

Yup, it's that time of year again.

That time when you sum up the passing year and decide upon your biggest flaw to date and vow in front of family and friends to remedy this giant goiter of a problem.

And so, falling in step with the rest of America, I too am caught up in thinking about my New Year's resolution.

Unfortunately, I'm having trouble narrowing it down to just one.

So I made a list.

Actually, more like a series of lists.

Resolution A
#1) Lose weight.
#2) Come up with an exercise and diet plan for losing weight.
#3) Don't beat myself up when I can't stick to the plan.
#4) Come up with an exercise and diet plan that will actually work.
#5) (see #3)

Resolution B
#1) Quit drinking.
#2) Don't beat myself up when I can't quit drinking.
#3) Moderate the drinking.
#4) Come up with a plan for moderating the drinking.
#5) Beat myself up if I can't stick to the plan.

Resolution C
#1) Pay off my student loan.
#2) Or at least, pay as much as I can to my student loan.
#3) Or at least, don't go into more debt.
#4) Or at least, don't go into TOO much more debt.
#5) Just make as much money as possible.

And so, here are my A, B and C resolution outlines for the New Year. But I figure, there's at least one resolution that I can foreseeably maintain:

Resolution D: Blog more. Every other day. Or at least every three days. Or every week ....

But don't beat myself up if I can't stick to the plan :)

... the end of awkward moments ...

2009-11-30T19:58:00.000-08:00

What would life be like without the multitude of awkward moments that make up my day?

No more moments of nervous fidgeting --
   pulling at shirt sleeves, hands in pockets, rocking on heels,
   pulling at shirt sleeves, tuck hair behind ears,
   hands in back pockets, rocking on heels, cross arms ...

No more moments of stumbling over, tripping over, stopping short of words.
No more losing words.
No more being halfway through a sentence and realizing the other person looks like they've just found a pebble in their lentils.

Without a vice, I'm a bit lost on the social interaction front.

As a smoker, the entrance was always well lit --

need a light? got a light? can I bum one? need one? let's go have one!

Imagine standing in a crowded bar and asking a potential friend:

"Want to step outside for 5 to 6 minutes and talk?"

Unless you're trying to jump someone's tonsils it's not exactly an ideal socializing plan.

But hey, here's to my health! And thank goodness for it!

And the truth is awkward moments are never going to end.
Everybody's different (yada yada) our thoughts are not the same (of course) -- if only communication could go telepathic!

So I guess what I really need is an end to the agonizing moments afterwards spent analyzing every minute detail of each awkward moment throughout each day.

No more wondering: did I say the wrong thing? did I say too much? not enough? maybe I shouldn't have said anything at all?

What a life it could be!

A life without anxiety?

What a life it would be!

... imperfection ...

2009-11-19T06:18:00.000-08:00

I had followed the mapquest directions exactly. Made every turn, marked every street name. I was here.

Supposedly.

I parked the car and walked up to the cobalt blue door. No sign. No welcome mat. I tried the knob.

Locked.

So I knocked. A round man with glasses peeked his dark head out.
   "Is this an art school?" He nodded and opened the door wide enough for me to squeeze in.
   "I'm here for an interview?" He pointed down the hallway to my right.
I later found out, as I embarked on my ten minute tour of the campus, that mapquest had steered me wrong again. The front entrance was on the other side of the building, along with the appropriate signage.
   I loved it. The gray cement walls and drafting tables flecked with paint. The modest skylights and basement studios. The faint smell of turpentine, linseed oil and must. Dented mismatched metal chairs and an easel held together with masking tape. A worn in feeling to settle into.

Sign me up, I wanted to say. I'm in.

I met with a gray haired professor who had a glint in his eye and an emphatic way about him. He complimented my portfolio and my personality.

"When you're accepted... and I said, when, because we are going to accept you

whether or not you accept us..."

I was in shock. Apparently the feeling was mutual. The school loved me at first sight too.
Taking the advice of my family and friends, I decided to play the field a little longer. See what else was out there before settling down.
   So the following week, I drove out to Old Lyme. The entrance was clearly marked, the lawns tidy and trim, each brick on the building seemed to sparkle. We toured the pristine campus. Every studio had high vaulted ceilings and plenty of natural light. Each chair and easel was in mint condition and the ventilation system was working all day to keep the air clean. And the view. A view many famous impressionists have painted. A pond, tall trees, long grass.... perfection.
   The admissions lady was very polite. She asked me about my work and told me the next steps to take. I thanked her for her time.
   As I drove away, I thought, what a nice school. Something to take home to mom and dad.
But no.
   Not for me.
   My perfect fit had a little more imperfection.

... unemployment ...

2009-11-16T18:35:00.000-08:00

Perfectly permed hair, pimple free olive skin, a Barbie doll body and not a speck of lint on her black pencil skirt, she taps her pen on the clipboard in her lap.   Looks me up and down. Scribbles something on my resume. Asks:

   "Where do you see yourself professionally in five years?"

I squirm. Begin to babble semi-coherent English -- something art related, maybe an art teacher, maybe an art therapist -- who knows, maybe I'll try my hand at advertising? I cross my cheap vinyl boots and unfortunately become acutely aware of all the gray lint my sweater jacket is leaving on my once black dress.

Ten minutes later, as I walk out of American Apparel, I realize... I'm walking out of American Apparel.

Albeit, I was really hoping this interview would lead to an easy part-time job to see me through my next semester of art school, and I am certainly not above retail, but really? Is there any need to feel like a lesser person because I'm not quite American Apparel material?

With many people taking being downsized as an opportunity to go back to school, you could say I took the opposite approach; I sought out my own unemployment.

That's right. You heard me.

Even in this economy ... (oh whoa is me -- the economy!) ... I decided to do this. I decided to leave my good job with good benefits to pursue a path that will yield potential (almost certain) poverty.

   But hey, it's about happiness... right?

Thankfully, my boss asked me to help out with one teacher's pregnancy leave until mid-December, so until then, I am officially employed. And with the end date fast approaching, I have a feeling I'll be okay. Parents always need babysitters and teachers always need the occasional substitute.

As I walk away from the store that didn't want me, I look back to rethink its sleek and simple facade. Who wants to be a part of that skinny girl's cool click anyway?  The store next door, however, catches my eye as its windows display multitudes of fun Fall hipster fashion -- perhaps Urban Outfitters would be a better fit...

   ... and the job search in this economy continues ....

... a hot toddy ...

2009-11-14T13:41:00.000-08:00

... H1N1 ...

2009-11-12T17:24:00.000-08:00

Sticky, slimy, green and running from the nose of this surprisingly still adorable three year old. He looks confused. Lifts the tips of his fingers to his lip and pulls out strings of gooey mucous. Like any good early childhood educator, I run for the millionth tissue to wipe his poor chapped nose and then (thanks to my thoughtful coworker), I reach for a quick squirt of Purell.

Ah. Thank goodness for disinfectants.

The potential health hazards from working with children are abundant. In my short 4 years (and counting), I have certainly run through the gambit. Of course there's always the common (and not-so-common) cold, the fever, the stomach bug, the runs, and my personal favorite, pink eye. There was strep (which was a doozy) and then the most recent lice fiasco. To live without ever having to plastic bag all of your personal belongings, chemically treat your infested hair, douse it all in olive oil, wrap it up in a shower cap and comb through it strand by strand daily -- to live without these experiences would have been too easy.

Thankfully now lice free, I acquired a post nasal drip and healthy cough, which seems to be turning into a sinus infection. But, good news. Thanks to my high risk working environment, my boss paid for my seasonal flu vaccine on Tuesday and my H1N1 nasal spray vaccine this evening -- so here's hoping for the best! Perhaps I'll end this year without ever having found the flu.

After wiping my poor student's nose, he beams up at me. "Thank you, Leeez!" he says before running off to bake some more cakes in the sandbox. I look around and realize there a few other noses that need wiping, perhaps a diaper that needs changing. But I have to laugh as one boy organizes a trip to Africa ("Let me just call and see if they're open!") and one girl composes a song with a flute and microphone made out of Legos ("I like to go go go, woo hoo hoo") -- the moments are endless.

And I realize, I love working with children. So much that I don't even mind wiping the occasional nose.

... a plan ...

2009-11-10T14:41:00.000-08:00

You know the type. The type with a plan.

The 5 year plan. The 10 year plan. The plan-to-make-a-plan plan.

The engagement, wedding, family plan. The college, double major, honors, med school, law school, MBA, high paying job plan.

The type whose clothes are always pressed, whose hair is always flawless, whose smile never crooked.

The type who has it all figured out.

The type who, if you're like me, you fell out of touch with until you joined facebook and found yourself perusing the pictures of afore mentioned perfect planners.

Thanks again technology! I am the ultimate loser.

Not only are you sitting at home on a Friday night flipping through facebook photos TO BEGIN WITH, but you now realize that many of your fellow high school graduates are beautiful people married to other beautiful people planning beautiful plans for beautiful futures.

So... what's your plan?

I am a 26 year old American female.

Still young. Still time.

Or so everyone says.

But it doesn't feel like that.

It feels like NOW is the time. The time to find the right career path, life path, family path and start jogging towards the finish line. To quote Elvis, (rather, to quote Aaron Schroeder and Wally Gold) "It's Now or Never!"

And so... what are you going to do about it?

Step One: Suck it up. Figure it out. Put on your big girl panties and quit your whining. Ask yourself:

What is it that makes you happy?