Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Inspiration Week # 1: Microcosmic Art

{This post marks the springboard for a series I hope to articulate weekly concerning, quite simply, what inspires me. Because, let's face it, no ideas arise in a vacuum.}




How lovely, when the art of published pages is transformed through a new medium: that of visual aesthetics. This collaborative project between Mia Cabana, a children's librarian (one of my career musings) and, obviously, an artist and her photog-taking boyfriend Oliver Scott Snure, reminds me that love breeds creativity. We look to literature to escape to microcosmic worlds, fascinating fictions reflective of the reality around us, and here, that seems to me literally depicted as diminutive figures interact with the books upon which they perch. That last one is my favorite: a delicate, female silhouette jumping to life from the page, casting shadows and reflections around her. Read more about this whimsically delightful project on Snure's tumblr, here.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Funeral Parlor


My room - thanks to the contribution of a gentlemen admirer, whose adoration is not extended to me, but rather, to one of the girls I live with - smells like a funeral parlor. And that assortment of blooms rests at the foot of my bed on her dresser top, as though they're a small offering of life at my viewing. (Aside: please cremate me. Flowers should not be associated with embalmed bodies in cushioned caskets.)

I remember the time when I had male devotees like her. It was during that era, not so long ago, that I was twenty five or thirty pounds lesser than what I am now.

I've always been a bit aloof to the opposite sex, cushioning myself in a bewildering nest of contradictions, a jarring set of values that somehow managed to entice.

Now, I'm lucky to have one, sole admirer. One boy who remained even after he was through examining all the twigs that form my roost, who even after stepping in the repulsive spit that holds it all together - my cruelty, depressiveness, ignorance, insecurities - wants to be a part of my aerie, doesn't mind being entrapped in a place of high altitude with a bird of prey.

That unflinching love, that undying insistence upon never flying away down south without me, upon always, without question, flying home, leaves me like an open-mouthed baby bird, completely stupefied, but crying out for more nourishment, tenderness.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Paddling back to YA Literature


As a girl, I was never discouraged that the kiddy pool closed up shop too early - no, as soon as I was barred from entry to the world of picture books and early readers, I dove eagerly into the waters of YA lit. No one told me in fourth grade that those olympic sized pools dropped off into deep, deep chlorinated vats of blue, so I taught myself to paddle through novels with mature themes, devouring the sex in Judy Bloom's Forever and the eating-disordered, depression-laden personae non gratae in The California Diaries.

But I remember foregoing those books that taught me the skills I needed to go on to be a lover of literature sooner than my friends around me. By middle school, I had burned through series after series and coming of age tales galore and was braced to move on to classics. I scoffed at the teenagers who followed Gossip Girl after eighth grade, and rolled my eyes in disgust at adult Twilight devotees.

And then something happened. In my senior year of high school, I took a fiction class with Suzanne Supplee, a published writer in the genre of Young Adult Literature, and she encouraged us to embrace the field as a springboard for our own work, our own careers. She made us exercise our voices as young writers, crafting characters close in age to ourselves. And I found that I took comfort in that place, that setting where I didn't have to embody the wisdom of an adult or the struggles of a middle-aged man, but instead, the very real, no less valuable, and inevitably poignant thoughts and endeavors of growing children.

All of this was just a jolty bounce in preparation before jumping off from the diving board and into my main point. I'm currently taking a class on Children's and Young Adult Literature, and one of our exercises was creative in nature, calling on us to personify the voice of character in a YA novel. (Remember when we had to do those sorts of book reports in middle school? Even then, they were my favorite.) Anyway, I based mine off of Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, and to be flat-out honest, my teacher was really digging my response, and I loved writing it, so I thought I'd post it here as a self-motivating force to linger in this genre more, especially when my own life can't seem to inspire me to turn out essay after essay about yours truly. (Please set aside my vanities here.) So here goes. Book synopsis tacked on to the end for those interested. Alexie's novel is an oh-so-enjoyable read, and no one, really, is too old for it.


Dear Sis,

So maybe it’s true – what Rowdy told me. Maybe I killed you when I decided to get the hell off the rez and be some sort of Founding Father of better lives for Indians. Maybe you never would have gotten all googley-eyed over some drunk, gambling Indian that lived states and states away if I had just stayed put. Maybe you never would have decided to pack up your life from the basement and voyage to an unknown land to marry an unknown man if I hadn’t gone the twenty-two miles every day to get to Reardan.

But then, sis, maybe you just never would have lived, you know? Maybe you would have stayed in the basement and let your brain shrink down to nothing. And then assholes would call us “Little Head” and “Big Head,” since mine is overflowing with water like some kind of giant oil spill, and since yours would be rotting away.

No, I think I’m glad you got off the rez, even if it was just to go to another one miles away from here. And I’m glad you started writing again, and that you rode horses across that beautiful, mountain backdrop, and that you started looking for a job, even if you never even got one before you died. I wish I could read your stories. You know what makes me feel worst of all of everything that’s happened? That your book, your little testament of hope, just burned up in seconds in that stupid TV dinner tray of a trailer.

But maybe some day people will find your home out there, and think it was some kind of rare, ancient Indian cremation ground. And maybe it will give people hope: hope about uncovering lost history, or hope about leaving a part of yourself behind to be remembered when you die, just some kind of faith or assurance in something.

But, okay, before I start trying to sound like one of those philosophers Gordy is always getting a boner over, I wanted to tell you a story of my own. Remember how much you loved cantaloupe, and how I’ve always refused to even go near that forbidden fruit since that stupid wasp stung me ON THE FACE in first grade when I was covered with cantaloupe juice? Well, I’ve started eating it again. Like as a memory to you. Like if I eat it, I almost feel like I can carry a part of you with me. I know, I know, I just sound like a crazy, weird, Indian. But it’s true. And you know what I noticed as I was shaking salt onto my little slice of cantaloupe the other day? By the way, I add the salt now to like, subtract some of the sweetness because wasps like to nest in one place and are hard to get rid of just like Indians on reservations. But anyway, did you ever realize that “cantaloupe” is like a play on words of, “can’t elope?” Except that’s exactly what you did: ran away and got hitched without telling mom or dad or grandma or me or anyone. It’s kinda funny that that’s how things work out. Or I guess I should say ironic. But that’s just how everything seems to play out around here. Grandma, who never drank a drop in her life, got killed by a drunk driver. When I threw my geometry textbook and broke Mr. P’s nose, HE apologized to ME and told me to get off of the rez so I could find hope and not give up on myself. And you, who lived in the basement for seven years and hardly saw the light of day, wrote romance novels in your spare time. And you eloped even though your favorite fruit told you not to! And when you died because you were passed out drunk and couldn’t feel the fire, everyone got drunk at your wake because that is the only way Indians know how to deal with the accumulation of death.

Miss you, sis. I’ll keep trying to figure out how to live my dream, for the both of us.

Love,

Arnold


Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian chronicles the trials and tribulations of fourteen-year old Arnold Spirit, an American Indian better known on his reservation as “Junior.” Born with hydrocephalus, Arnold is forced to struggle not only with the problems that accompany a crippling medical condition, but also with universal adolescent stresses, like figuring out how to fit in, warding off bullies, and acting on teenaged feelings of romance. Add to the mix the fact that Arnold has no choice but to face the many known problems of life on Indian reservations – alcoholism, depression, poverty, violence, few educational opportunities, and more – and you’ve got the basis for this first person, diary style narrative first published in 2007. Despite the conflicts with which he is faced, Arnold manages to fight them off with humor and with his drawings, which are scattered throughout the book. All the while, Arnold becomes more mature in his reflections and experiences as well as in developing and embracing his very idiosyncratic view of the world and place in it, however different (or perhaps similar, as he eventually learns) it may seem from the white kids he decides to join at Reardan High, a school away from the reservation that offers him a glimpse of life outside of “the rez,” and more chances for growth than he could have dreamed up. Perfect for the 10-14 age group, this young adult novel should appeal to both girls and boys alike, exposing them to the diversities of the world, as well as teaching them that differences should be celebrated, and that perseverance and creativity will take you a long way in the world.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

A + B = C

School is a monotony far deeper, far more complex, than the pure and simple couch canoodling lifestyle. It goes a little something like this: class, eat, nap, work, study, prepare, class, nap, eat, work, study, prepare. Notice there is no conception of "sleep" or "bed" in this continuum, only naps, because the scale does not allow for true inactivity of the nervous system. Even the weekend seems to usher in due dates for endless assignments, and most everyone has by now realized that drunken obliteration in itself becomes a tedious repetition.

Such is the predicament of college, of the proclaimed best years of our lives. It's ho hum and humdrum, and I'd rather be planning weddings or popping out babies or working on my memoirs.

I wonder when American universities and professors will realize that the steady increase of allocated readings and papers and presentations does not yield balance, productivity, or our supposed self-defined ideas about success.

There aren't even challenges anymore, other than that of fitting incalculable amounts of work into the twenty-four hours distributed to a day. Let's face it: excess no longer can solely be associated with our literal waste and lavishness. How long will it take for the world to be exhausted by its own intemperance?

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

The Teacher from the Black Lagoon


I told myself that I wouldn't do this anymore; that I wouldn't succumb to the grips of melancholia, that I had thrown that out in high school with my fat jeans and donated myself to a better cause: good, old fashioned, high quality living. I'm trying to approach my depression with a sense of humor, trying to imagine it as the Teacher from the Black Lagoon - an empty, harrowingly dark shadow that, in the bright light, actually turns out to be a overweight croc with red hair, bad lipstick, and a penchant for issuing math exams, who just so happened to swallow me hole. But here I am anyhow, trapped in the pit of her stomach, trying to hold my ground amidst the churning gastric juices and particles of yesterday's dinner.

Here, there is not much left for me. I polish my shoes. I make dinner. I cleanse and de-clutter my space. I watch sitcoms and a few worthwhile reality television shows. I read. I go dancing. Occasionally, I talk to people. I use my exorbitant amounts of free time to think about how little free time I will be left with once I return to school. I go down the checklist of glaring symptoms of depression: loss of interest - check, insomnia - double check, irritability - get the fuck away, weight gain - check plus star, et al.

What is different this time around, though, is that I am acknowledging it: I can admit its existence to my best friend and not feel like a piece of bruised, rejected fruit. Though I don't remember the ending to The Teacher from the Black Lagoon, it was a children's book, and I am therefore sure that it was a happy one. I don't write frighteningly masochistic entries in my journal, and I don't mentally vote on the most artfully beautiful form of suicide. No, that era of self-loathing, of wanting to press the delete button on my own pneuma and self is as gone as my teenaged acne and hopefully, with time and retrospective thought, will only seem to have lasted as long as I can last without hacking at my own bangs. Which is to say, not very long. And while I may not yet have the courage, the motivation, the want to roll out of bed and spear through this phase with a tribal war cry and proactive action like some Indian chieftess, I can, at least, begin to imagine myself applying the face paint, crouching in the depths of a colonial forest, on the verge of vaulting to attack this enemy.


Saturday, January 1, 2011

Happy New Year to You, Too

What a girl should resoundingly never do on New Years' Eve is get drunk off champagne and try to piece together what the History Channel has to say about The Knight's Templar and Free Masonry while all too comfortably sitting in her mother's recliner. What a girl should resoundingly never do on New Years' Eve is resolve that the oh-so-riotous sequined top she very decidedly bought to showcase at a holiday party on the night of December 31st is left better off to step out on the town at a later date.

I should've known that living room laziness on the birth of the fresh year would only propel what's made a week and a half rut drive even deeper, so that I have become like a wheel wedged in a pothole, unable to pry out of the chipped pavement no matter how much pressure is applied to the pedal in the dire attempt to achieve acceleration.

In the New Year, I've baked double batches of five different kinds of cookies and apparently made a resolution to engorge myself on as many different kinds of chocolate as I could possibly dream up. I've filed and painted my nails canary yellow and drawn myself a bubble bath to get my creative juices flowing. I've gathered all the materials to redesign my inspiration board for 2011, but am patently too uninspired to decide what inspires me. I've planned my wedding, right down to the cake topper, centerpieces, and table themes. I've discovered whitening strips gathering dust in my bathroom cabinet and applied them to my to my upper and lower teeth, something that I haven't done since high school. I've gone on an aerobic walk through my neighborhood, up all the biggest hills and past all my favorite Victorian houses. I've done arm exercises while sizing up Oprah Winfrey's new Network, OWN, whose initials worked for her, as I'm sure you've heard. I've even gone so far as to watch the Lifetime Movie Network with my mother, in the hopes that witnessing melodrama would make me grateful for flat-out monotony. I've bought impractical heels, gone to the movies, and eaten Mexican for the first time in four months. I've read all my favorite blogs, updated my own, and looked at more Facebook photos than dough I've formed into two inch balls on pre-greased cookie sheets. I've started and stopped all too many activities, like cleaning my room, loading the dishwasher, making a list of resolutions, and reading that book I've been meaning to get to for years.

All of this, and I feel utterly unfulfilled, like I'm furrowing myself deep into the supposed comforts of rest and relaxation, and before I can poke my head back out from underground to be greeted by sunlight, I've realized that someone's kicked dirt over my nest of doing nothingness, and I can't dig my way out.

Obviously, I need a hobby. Or maybe some friends. Or a prod in the ass with one of those wrought iron pit pokers, heated in the hearth of meaningful productivity.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

The Satisfaction of Reciprocal Action

In Venice, all the Gondoliers wear striped shirts, a funny way of alluding to their status as bandits on the go. They loiter on bridges thieving tourists, offering up the drug of pure romanticism for upwards of eighty euros: a ride down the Grand Canal, the liquid Lover’s Lane. And oh, how disappointed I was at the time that they didn’t have the occasion to pick my pocket! How nice it is, I thought, to sometimes succumb to clichés, even if costly.

The city is as one would imagine: a haven of art and gold-encrusted basilicas and palaces. A city, which in spite of its splendor, is nevertheless sinking, is perpetually flooded. Without effort, the place conjures up prototypically Italian images: people air out their laundry above the open waters and nearly all the churches cling tightly to their claim of possessing the relics of long-ago slain martyrs, two traits which are insoluble elements to be found in all the regions of the country.

I can catalogue all the tourist hot spots my friends and I paid visits to, and approximate the number of shops we toured, lingering to examine the Venetian glass and masks as though we were absorbing artifacts in a museum. I won’t ever forget that I visited St. Mark’s Basilica and admired all the mosaics or that I fed pigeons in the main piazza while listening to dueling musicians on opposite ends of the square. But what I hope will remain written in my memory is instead what may perhaps seem mundane, what events and interactions that made me feel not like a travel-guide gospel following, fleeting tourist, but instead connected, rooted when I was train hopping and wheeling around a suitcase for four months’ on end – the encounters that left me believing I was a fundamental part of something that didn’t and never would actually belong to me: a country foreign from my own – Italy.

While we were in Italy, my boyfriend, James, developed a ticking obsession with uncovering the dialects of the land, learning the variances of the language that were being forgotten and thereby, in his own way, learning to preserve them in their state as they once existed. His main form of self-education derived from the sought-out source of so many inquiries, curiosities, and knowledge: books. So when the rest of us were waiting in line at the tourist office to get our hands on a map of the warren canals and walkways, or looking through the myriad of postcards by the front desk, it didn’t surprise me that he was the one instead asking a local resident where he might track down “un libro nel dialetto veneziano:” a book in the Venetian dialect. The lady at the office gave us the name and locale of a place called “Libreria Fillipi,” which was his best bet for finding something obscure, even rare, like a dialect book; most of Italy has allowed its idiosyncratic linguistic sectors to be muffled by the universal, modern sounds of standardized Italian. Together, we used our unskilled map reading abilities, which were only worsened by the rather undetailed free map of the city, and more time than I can even recall to track down this peerless bookstore in efforts retrieve the souvenir James so coveted. I’m sure I yelled at him for wasting over an hour just so we could go in “yet another damned bookstore” that didn’t even cater to our native language, and that my friends rolled their eyes and criticized his inability to ever lead us in the right direction. Now of course, I am thankful for our bookstore stop-ins, because it left me thumbing through the items on the shelves, and my desire to become more fluent in Italian led me to buy some for myself, so that, when back in America, I would have the tools for maintaining my grasp on the language, perhaps even fine-tuning and improving it so that when I hopefully one day return to Italy, whether for work or for volunteer, I would be equipped to communicate and subsist there on my own.

When we finally stumbled upon the bookstore, however, in spite of his initial persistence on finding the shop, James hesitantly peered through the open doorway and said, “I’m scared. I’m not going in,” and I immediately pushed past him, mumbling, “Oh, we’re going in” and walked over the threshold, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to resist following me. This is one thing that I learned about myself while traveling: that being confronted with a language and customs foreign to my own, even after spending four years of high school studying Italian tongue and culture, is undoubtedly intimidating, and yet was able to force me out of shyness like a clam being broken out of its shell. To be extreme, it invoked in me a sort of fight or flight reaction, only about very petty problems: do I go in that shop in efforts of retrieving a book for my beloved boy even if we can only shakily tell the owner what it is we’re looking for, or do I leave, thereby leaving everyone in my party crabby because we would have spent away precious moments futilely, and risk never understanding the nuances of Venetian? Or, of more personal interest to me, because in spite of my proclaims of traveling to Europe to absorb cultures unknown to myself, I’d be a flat-out perjurer if I said I didn’t also go with the intention and hope of procuring some of Italy’s world-famous goods: can I muster up the courage to go into that boutique and ask for a size thirty-nine, which may or may not be my shoe size in Italian standards, in those perfect, knee-high, cavalry-style leather boots, or do I walk by the store front and risk not getting my hands on some classic leather wares? Obviously, both scenarios present dire situations.

But all frivolities aside, I learned how exhausting it is to try to communicate with a limited scope of a language, and that oftentimes, immersing myself in an uncomfortable situation is entirely necessary, not just so I can add yet another pair of boots to my ever-growing collection, or aid my boyfriend with his equally obsessive, yet more deeply valuable stockpile, but so that I can firstly realize that I am capable of handling situations – like communicating in another language and interacting with strangers in an unfamiliar landscape – which I never previously understood the difficulties of, and secondly, through this, understand that even though I’m not quite unconquerable in terms of facing anything, I can nevertheless manage unaccustomed affairs. That’s not to say that I previously had no awareness of my own ability to confront new circumstances or that I had never before been doused in the cold waters of alien situations, but that there’s something about traveling unaccompanied by adults to someplace other than Ocean City, planning entire weekend getaways alone, buying train tickets and learning how to maneuver that sort of public transportation alone, using maps and broken Italian to pinpoint destinations, and fumbling to be respectful and to learn more about another culture that is at once liberating and of course, that makes you uncover aspects of yourself that you never realized were buried somewhere at the center of your core.

Like this crux of the self, inside Libreria Fillipi, which we eventually made our way into, was the very essence, the very heart of what has always enchanted me about books: their history and age and physical composition. It was the retirement home of old hardbacks, published on-site vessels of printing press illustrations, Venetian words, and the smell of flattened wood. Sitting amongst the fortress of shelves was a man older, I’m sure, and yet as well preserved as the pre-historic fossils we later saw in the Museum of Natural History. We browsed, hardly able to bring ourselves to handle the books, because they seemed so ancient, so fragile, so unique, like artifacts from another time. The man in the shop assisted us in finding a treasure in the Venetian dialect, which James proceeded to buy, unable to resist the opportunity as was usual with him. When he finished making the transaction – he purchased a lovely anthology of folktales from the area with amazing illustrations made by metal plates on an old-fashioned letterpress – we asked the best place to buy,“Cibo che è buono ma economico,” (food that is good but economical,) and he explained to us some very complicated directions involving more turns than we knew we would be able to remember, and we figured we’d smile and say “mille grazie” and leave the store ready to go ourselves into the nearest place with cheap eats, since there was no point in trying to remember how to get to the recommended restaurant. But when we could only half-heartedly repeat the directions back to him, he decided to get up from his chair behind the counter, leave shop, and walk us himself to what he thought was most suitable: a small self-service sort of place with multitudinous amounts of pastas, stews, and seafood. He led us down bridges and around turns and was stopped along the way by an older woman who kept remarking that he was spending all his time with us young flowers – i giovani fiori – instead of her. And we were indeed blossoming, growing in ways I’m sure we never previously imagined, opening up our petals to receive the refreshing sunlight of a land other than our own. Of course, even with my previous years of Italian and James’ continuous studying, my friends and I were unable to adequately express our gratitude for this entirely unforeseen favor being paid to us, in part because the language was a barrier and in part because we were in sheer shock that someone would up and abandon work for a brief time in order to escort us to our dinner table across town. We feasted on the high of interaction, of kindness, digesting while conscious that transmitting messages and sharing with others was possible in spite of the problem of not sharing the same vernacular.

I came to Italy expecting all the mystique of the Grand Tour, completed by so many writers before me – anticipating the awe that ancient art and churches older than the heavens would inspire in me. I expected to always make notes in my journal, my creative impulse sparked by the stark differences between Italy and America, and the utter historical nature of everything before me. And of course, I expected to come back a worldly and all around aware woman, fluent in the romance language established in one of the supposed romance-breeding countries of the world. While I did manage to lasso a tighter grip on the language and have certainly changed from my experiences abroad, the alterations are not as towering and great as I had originally thought they would be, and in fact are more subtle shifts than even changes at all. In fact, in spite of my initial eagerness to gaze at all the art of Italy, after a couple solid months of stepping silently into cathedrals and admiring countless paintings in museum exhibits, I began to guiltily lose my desire to continue investigating the works of the skilled artisans of yore.

But then I came across the words of one of my favorite writers, Mark Twain, who likewise wanted to chronicle his times in the honored and ancient country of Italy in his Innocents Abroad, and ultimately came to realize that perhaps what is not important about traveling is making a checklist of all the revered places and art to be seen, but instead, the broader experience of globe-trotting, which of course encompasses the smaller aspects, like encountering new people and holding with them conversations that turn up smiles, or make your brain bend in a new way, or that are just pleasant interactions to be had. Twain says, “I used to worship the mighty genius of Michael Angelo — that man who was great in poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture — great in every thing he undertook. But I do not want Michael Angelo for breakfast — for luncheon — for dinner — for tea — for supper — for between meals. I like a change, occasionally” (Twain Chapter XXVII). Admittedly, one of my favorite visual experiences in Italy was viewing Michelangelo’s Davide in its nearly fourteen-foot glory, but the sentiment of the statement holds true for me. It’s not that Twain didn’t like Italy – in fact, it can be argued that his admiration for the country was deep considering he returned to live there with his family for many years – but that viewing its art continuously doesn’t exactly fulfill much internally; it’s more of a mandate for traveling to Italy than something that personally hits home. What I ultimately craved during my time away from home were relationships, connections, not pictures of myself in front of all the important monuments of Europe or postcards reproducing all the famous art of the region.

What I came to realize was that yes, Italians and Americans behave differently on the exterior: we downed our wine the way they took morning shots of expresso, instead of slowly sipping; there were bidets in all of our apartments in Italy, which collected lint and to us, made a good receptacle for dirty mop water; our dinners were leisurely two or three hour affairs, eating up the better part of our evenings, rather than quick, on-the-go, get-down-to-business meals; we dodged automobiles and mopeds racing down cobblestone alleys faster than most cars drive here on I-95. In short, we experienced all the stereotypes of the Italian-American dichotomy. But on the car ride home from the airport after so many hours on a plane, when my dad asked, “So what are the Italians like?” my best response was simply, “The same as us.” And it’s true, but I didn’t necessarily expect to come back thinking that, even as obvious as it may seem now. It goes back to that root question posed in so many of my classes, whether they be English or Anthropology or Philosophy or another subject entirely: “What does it mean to be human?” And perhaps a part of the experience of sentience is that it is never done in complete solitude, for there are always others around us, who, whether or not enduring the same conditions as us, are nevertheless undergoing conditions, undergoing something, which in itself can be a state that everyone shares, something that binds us together and is just one trait of the very broad and abstract characteristic that seems to be so often brought up in class, in literature, in life: universal humanness.