Honestly

I've found myself working some very interesting jobs lately, in my work as a freelance studio assistant. Helping a therapist pack to potentially move out of state (or not), and now packing up an entire lifetime of art journals to send to the Smithsonian as the artist has been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. This woman is phenomenal, so open and frank about her situation, and her life. Courageous. She displays an honesty and sense of humor I find really refreshing and rare.

Although I have a reputation of being trustworthy- a reputation I am proud of, something I know I've earned honestly, I notice a distinction between trustworthiness and honesty. I find myself very trustworthy, and loyal, but not completely honest. This irks me. I lie... mostly by omission or just to myself... mostly just little white ones to justify something or to ease some kind of minor discomfort- but I find this kind of dishonesty particularly upsetting to see in myself because it's so cowardly. So meaningless. Sometimes we need to feel- or to let others feel- and experience the kind of discomfort and pain that honesty can bring with it. Sometimes it's necessary. My kind of dishonesty is based on fear and avoidance. I want to be bolder, able to tell it like it is. And maybe, once I cross that bridge, I'll learn to tell it like it is without cringing horribly.

Recycle, Reduce, Reincarnate and Close the Loop

I have always been entranced by the idea of reincarnation. After all, as the saying goes (a quote by somebody famous I believe) "Nothing which has been made can be unmade," and I believe this whole heartedly. What better use of a created and creative consciousness than to be recycled, an old spirit- a new body. For every death I experience (and boy, have there been quite a few lately) this belief gives me a sense of hope and passage, and I am comforted by the idea of death as downward arch in this beautiful and repeating cycle- like an ancient ritual. All very much along the lines of dream catchers and crystals and burning sage and the like...

I see the distinct possibility of reincarnation when I look into the knowing eyes of this amazingly sharp and perceptive child whose family I work for. Certainly this soul knows so much more than one expects from a four year old. Is it all just a perfect blend of nature meets nurture? Is it natural smarts, and prodigy level wits? Or has this soul been here before- has it maintained a grasp on the knowledge it's accumulated?

I do have an issue though, with the idea of reincarnation. If we've all traversed such a span of time, why haven't we got more solutions, only more problems. If we've recycled our very souls- our essences- why have we not reduced ourselves back to the basics, back to what's truly important and what works. For, to quote a lyric from Jewel- beloved by yours truly circa highschool- "What's simple is true." This is all my speculation, mind you, but according to this template of reincarnation, have we simply become overwhelmed by the experiences we've accumulated or maladjusted to the changes over the centuries? Why haven't we applied what we ought to know, and our we doomed to reapeat mistakes each lifetime, and flounder in these repeating patterns?

There is still so much doubt and waste and ignorance and hedonism and pride. In all of us, like it or not. And those who overcome these things. Maybe the more ignorant, the cruel the wasteful ones among us are simply newer souls, they haven't yet experienced the cycles enough to learn productive habits. Maybe the wiser and the kinder people among us are the truly old souls. They are our Saints our Prophets our Saviors and our Bodhisattva's.

Blushing up the 405

I'm on my way to a job yesterday, and while switching lanes I drive over a long, undulating piece of plastic wrap type of material. Packing material or something that must've just blown off or out of a truck. "Whoah!" I exclaim as it flies at me, then as it passes under my car it soon fades from my mind. But as I near my changeover to the 710, I keep getting these fleeting glimpses of something swooshing around my car, in the corners of my eyes.
Sure enough, I finally catch a better look at the right time in my rear view mirror. This plastic bag- or whatever- is caught under my car, and trailing behind me! How embarrassing! It was the automotive equivalent of having toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

Maybe it's Just Boredom Talking...

Maybe dissillusionment.
Or maybe I'm tired of playing by the rules, when the rules seem not to apply to times like these or people like me. So, my dreams of becoming a hobo may have faded over time (boxcars are a vertical leap only a foot shorter than me, and I've too much common sense... or too strong the will to live... to attempt to board a moving vehical of that size and weight. I've seen what pennies look like when they've been run over, and I'd be a lot messier and not nearly as shiny and pretty).

But I am giving careful thought to becoming an urban adventurer. Let's face it. I haven't much more to lose financially, my life plans have not all worked the way I've expected, and as an artist- with the right people, timing and wording- any controversy could easily be made into publicity. (There are other reasons why this may not be a terrible idea, but these are the ones that come to me at 2 in the morning.)

And what is more art than the mundane, the out of place, the unexpected, the whimsical in life?

Soda Jerks

I know it's not just at various Panera restaraunts that this occurs, but for some reason it happens here either with greater frequency, or for some reason I am most conscious of it here. "It" being other patrons' quirky, if not erratic, sometimes irritating soda-dispensing behaviors.

Press ice button. peer into cup for a moment wondering whether one has chosen appropriate amount of ice (this is crucial.) Dispense soda. Stop. Allow fizzing to subside. Dispense more soda. Pause in thought. Realize amount of ice was insubstantial in conjunction with amount of beverage. carefully dispense more ice. Gasp in shock when soda splashes out of the cup. Recover wits and manage to lean over to reach a napkin without seceding your spot in front of the soda machine to the next guy in line. Sip soda. Oops, that's diet! You didn't mean to pour diet! Repeat process and leave with satisfaction, remembering suddenly not to make eye contact with any of the ten people in line behind you.

I may be an intensly boring, petty person. Or people's soda fountain personalities may just be intensly fascinating, and I've only now discovered exactly how fascinating. But just about any time I get in line for soda (especially at Panera), I find myself wishing I had a tiny legal pad and pen to play documentarian.
Then when it's my turn:

Press ice lever. Shake cup. Investigate ice level. Dump out 2-4 ice cubes. Check ice again. Press soda button. Let fizzing subside (sometimes tapping cup on counter to speed this process up). repeat aforementioned step 2 or 3 times... scuttle sideways apologetically towards lid and straw department...

Free Bird in Borrowed Nests

My mind is narrated these days, not unlike Guy Madden's "Brand Upon the Brain." A mysterious voice echoing the haunting utterings of the film's repeating lines: "Secretssss... secretsss!" And "The past... the past..."
Not gonna lie: it's fucking exhausting. (side note: I am slightly appalled to notice that spellcheck did not correct "gonna")

I entered 2009 with such purpose, such ambition, and even more direction than I've had in my entire adult life. So empowered. But, as I near my 25th birthday, I've felt a dwindling of my inside force. I've let my Id take control of me one too many times to feel in control and balanced, in so doing I've given certain others power over me, in my own mind.

I started the year such a free spirit, but I've sabataged my efforts by attempting to tether myself to someone or something I sometimes mistakingly feel I need. But the realization is, that would never make me happy, and instant gratification is just that: it only gratifies for that one tiny instant. It punches a hole inside of you that wasn't there before, and now the hole will ever grow, like a tear in a sofa cushion, and need to be filled unless you can transcend it. Only then can the hole self-mend.

I am restless, pacing, only in cages I've built myself.
But on the other hand, even a free spirit gets weary, and needs a place to land, a nest to crash into.
Now. Where was I?
Ah, yes. Moving on...

Vocabulary For My Continuum

Due to recent work projects involving much internet research, primarily through such sites as thefreedictionary.com and wikipedia, plus some definition-heavy book art by my mentor, I have become something of a vocabulary enthusiast. That's right, the joke about one being so nerdy he or she reads the dictionary for fun? Yes sir, I have been browsing the online dictionaries for entertainment. Well, infotainment... and inspiration.

Add to all of this that I have recently begun talking with an artist I admire who is also a psychoanalyst. Ever interested in psychology, sociology, anthropology and other people-related ologies, I have become increasingly sensitive to our delicate ties to one another, and the delicate threads that bind ourselves and our lives together.

Hating math, I nonetheless enjoy graphing things in certain ways. Pie charts, venn diagrams, continuums...
Implementing all of the above with my natural predisposition to overanalyze myself and my surroundings, I've come up with a continuum of vocabulary I feel holds relevance.

Address-->progress-->undress-->regress-->ingress-->aggress-->digress-->redress.