It's that time again. Time for egg nog and twinkle lights, decking the halls and kissing under mistletoe. And sending out Christmas missives to those we know and love and those we barely know but went to college with. And what better time to go way overboard on things. Like I did this year on my Christmas cards. And since they've all been mailed out, I can now blog about how they came together.
As a disclaimer, the steps are really truncated, but I wasn't thinking of a tutorial when I did it, I just wanted to sort of show the process.
Step 1: Brainstorm and draw desired image on stamp block, then carve:
Step 2: Stamp white cover paper with glue stamp, sprinkle embossing powder over design, then use heat tool to emboss.
Step 3: Choose quotes for inside of cards, cut quotes and glitter paper to size, affix white cover image to red matchbook paper, fold in quotes and glitter paper and set eyelets.
Step 4: Make envelope liners and glue them into envelopes.
Step 5: Mail and hope people love them.
Despite the fact that I am a total newbie to stamp carving, any type of printing, and embossing, this went pretty smoothly. It was time consuming, but enjoyable. The biggest challenge was that several people were a little confused as to how to open the matchbook, so I think adding some different formats would have been a good idea, but I was just really taken with the matchbook, so I went with it.
I think I'll continue to work on it until I can perfect it a little more, and then possibly sell my wares on Etsy.
I can always tell when I'm really, truly, good and exhausted. My blood seems to slow down, and I can feel my heart pounding. Just sitting still and it's there, tiredly churning blood through my veins.
Swallowing becomes difficult. Breathing feels like lifting a 400 pound weight. When you're this tired, automatic functions require thought, and trying to live is like watching someone in a blur. I begin to feel detached from myself, and rather than my brain kicking in to pick up the slack, adrenaline is the only thing that keeps me going.
Somewhere in my primordial core, my body knows that amping up the fight or flight response is the only thing to keep me from falling asleep.
And the more exhausted I get, the harder it is to get rest. I can hear every single noise, lights get brighter, and my heart.
It pumps under my wrists, in my chest, in my eyelids.
Each thud like a terrified rabbit stuck in molasses.
1. I wish that I had high cheek bones and a thin face so that when I puckered my lips it looked cute and impish, not as though I'm trying to imitate a fish.
2. I like songs with a strong drum beat. It makes movement possible.
3. It is possible for a girl to run on caffeine and stress alone.
4. Two words: Twitter-fiction.
5. There are crocodiles all over Baltimore.
6. Why is the laundry always dirty?
7. A dirty suitcase means it is time for a trip.
8. No matter how helpful they think they are being, cats are not good at cleaning the house.
So, I've been crafting up a storm. This year I decided to make my own Christmas cards. It's a good thing I don't know very many people. They're not done yet. Not even close. And afer I actually complete them, I have to mail them.
I also have plans to make a book or two more for x-mas presents. We'll see if that happens. I predict a glue and paper weekend.
In the past week or so, I've been all over town for various Christmas festivities (Mt. Vernon, Hampden, Little Italy, Fells Point, Medfield). I didn't go out to any last year, so I'm making it up now.
And then of course it's the end of the semester as well, so I'm trying to tie up the loose ends as far as that goes. Papers, journals, design projects. Yikes.
On top of it all, I killed my card reader, which means all my photos are trapped on my camera.
The point is that I'll be back with a more substantial blog in a few days after I have
a.) actually finished my semester and emerge from under the pile of homework, b.) found a replacement card reader for my camera, and c.) finished making/sending my Christmas cards. Trust me, I'm so in love with them they'll get their very own post.
I think accomplishments should be celebrated, no matter how big or how small.
I think minor mistakes and errors should be forgotten almost immediately, and turned into possibilities almost always.
I think forgetting perfection is imperative, because it is never going to happen.
I think embracing your own creative ebb and flow is the only way to stop yourself from going crazy.
And so, with those things in mind, break out noisemakers and funny party hats next time you make something, take a photo, draw a doodle. Because I know I will.
It's been a busy week. I had a wonderful visit with my sister. Because I'm nine years older than her and seven years older than my brother, I was more babysitter than sister when we were growing up, and I never really got to know who they were. As of late, that's been leaving me feeling sad, because they're growing up and I'm missing it. So I really (cheeseball alert) was thrilled at the opportunity to hang out with Rose for a few days. We watched A LOT of movies, went to see Twilight in the theatre, had a fantastic dinner at the Melting Pot, and went to the Botanical Gardens.
And then I sent her home and there was Festival of Trees. Which involves long days, crazy amounts of Christmas trees, wreathes, and gingerbread houses. And a serious need for margaritas. But it went off without a hitch and we had record attendance. And it wore me out so much I slept for 13 hours.
Today, on my one free day of Thanksgiving weekend, Avelino and I joined Leah and Amy for the Franz West exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art. It was really quite delightful. West's art brings the viewer in. It is art you can interact with, sit on, climb on, run around, and not a sound from the guards, not a peep, not till eager parent cameras come out to capture the kids, and then the guards leap into action, thankful for something to do, their nerves shattered, their reverie broken by the clunk of jumping feet landing, the giggles and happy cries.
And West did a lot of collages and things that remind me of the various journal pages I've seen all across Flickr. I had no idea who he was when we entered, and I left having fallen in love.
Of course I also visited the old favorites, like Zoe Leonard's "untitled" and Thomas Hart Benton's "Bubbles. I discovered some new ones as well: Grace Hartigan's "Elizabeth I" and Feliz Gonzalez-Torres' "Untitled (Water)."
Then there was the impromptu photowalk as we made our way through the drizzle to the car.
The umbrellas have led me to the start of a new project: photos of people with their umbrellas. Umbrella heads, I'm calling it jokingly. I'll be hoping for rain.
A busy, busy week. And with the end of the semester fast approaching, it won't be slowing down anytime soon.
Yesterday was my 25 birthday, and it was a wonderful day. My mom and dad sent me a cake at work (who knew you could have cake delivered?), my Grandma sent me 25 pink roses, and Ave sent me the most gorgeous gerbera daisies ever. My office smells like a florist's shop. Ave also came up from DC to hang out at my house and watch Get Smart and order in Indian for dinner, since I changed my mind and didn't feel like venturing out into the freezing cold world.
It also snowed. Yeah, I arranged that.
And best of all? Tomorrow my sister will arrive in Baltimore at noon. We're celebrating our birthdays (her's is Friday) together this weekend. She's turning 16. We're going to the Melting Pot and to see Twilight. I'm pretty much thrilled.
But to balance out the good, there must be some bad. The burn on my foot is still hanging around and looking all bubbly and red, but fortunately, it doesn't hurt and I'm able to wear loose shoes if I put on gobs of neosporin, big puffy band aids, and big puffy socks.
And then came tonight. I have a question for you. Would you park behind this sign? See, to me that sign indicates that if I parked in front of where I actually parked between 7 and 9 a.m., it would be grounds for a ticket. It also indicates to me that this used to be a bus stop, but we've changed our minds about that, but we're too cheap to take the sign down, so instead we put little stickers over both ends of the arrow. To me that says I can park there, because there are no arrows indicating in which direction I can't park. And yet I get a ticket. Two facts:
1. I'm paranoid about parking. I check signs obsessively. 2. I and a great many people have parked here before without receiving a ticket. (yes, I know that doesn't make it okay, it just means I got lucky. However, the lack of enforcement of the supposed no-parking zone just reassured me that I had, in fact, read the sign correctly.)
Grrr, I say.
But that's okay. I'm going to send in my picture and make them investigate it. Even if they still make me pay the fine, hopefully they'll be forced to realize the ambiguity of that sign and fix it.
But to end on a good note, I've been working on some serious bookmaking this week. Here's one of my finished products:
And now I'm off to bed. My sister will be here in exactly 11 hours and 59 minutes!
I dumped scalding hot soup on my foot last night. The pain was phenomenal. I've never felt anything like it. And it was exacerbated by the fact that I had my sock on. The sock held the boiling liquid in place, melting my foot as a I screamed and fought to tug it off. Now my foot is bright red and has some bubbles forming. I don't know how I'm going to wear a shoe today. I considered asking to work from home, but I don't think they'll believe me.
I have decided I would not choose death by fire. Thank you very much, Mr. Frost, but you can keep that. Although, given the very small taste I got of it, I feel fairly certain that anything more would just shut down your brain completely.
As I was folding laundry tonight in the dank, basement-like area that acts as my building's laundry room, I heard a rustling on the other side of the door that leads to the "backyard." My blood started pounding through my veins as I invented all sorts of reasons why there was a scratching and a scraping outside that door. I double checked the deadbolt and clutched the still-warm towel to my chest, frozen in fear. And then a small head appeared. A mouse wriggled under the door frame, saw me, and backed out as fast as he could in a whirl of fur and with much scrabbling and scratching.
All I could do was laugh, my face buried in the towel.
It's been a busy weekend. Saturday I spent working on a couple books and editing photos, then spent my evening out on the town. First stop was "Night of the Blackbird," put on by UB's MFA program and held at the Theatre Project (check out their website, they do some amazing stuff there). My professor read his poetry, and some friends of mine performed with their band. It was really wonderful, and I needed it.
Then I joined Leah and Co. for my birthday celebration, and although people slowly trickled away, Leah and I had a wonderful time at Bertha's Mussels in Fells Point watching June Star play. I don't think I stopped tapping my foot the whole time (which says a lot, since I'm not a dancer, and that's about as exuberant as I get at a concert).
Today I worked on cleaning up the apartment a little, did some more photo editing, and then headed out for a photo walk at Roland Lake and Druid Hill Park (home of the Baltimore Conservatory and Botanical Garden). It was a solitary afternoon, just me and my camera.
And in all the time I had alone this weekend, I thought a lot about the ups and downs I've gone through in the past year, and have walked away with two realizations. Realization the first is that I am bone-chillingly afraid of being "normal," which to my mind means having no artistic or creative life. I am desperate to do something with myself: photography, drawing, bookmaking, writing, painting, something. And I do those things. But I spend a lot of time feeling like a phony, which sends me spiraling into the thought that those are just straws I grasp at to feel a little bit more like there's something in me besides 9 to 5 working day drone status.
Realization the second was moderation. I need more of it. Ave made a good point the other day when he said (in so many words) that I tend to try to do everything all at once, and it's no surprise that it doesn't last. It just takes too much energy, and when I drop the ball it leaves me feeling miserable. So, I'm not going to "quit" doing anything, but I am going to take things a little more slowly, do what I can when I can.
And now, I need to go curl up with Langston Hughes and get some sleep, but I leave you with some photos from this weekend.
I had some spaghetti-o's (and they were off-brand, so probably really spaghetti rings) for dinner. With mandarin orange slices. It was a delicious meal.
Stumbled across some semi-old sketches in my journal for seminar in literature and writing, so I'm posting that here. There's something about trying to keep yourself awake in class that takes your mind funny places.
And then there's the self portrait. I was feeling uninspired.
I'm about to fall asleep where I stand, so I'm going to go crawl into bed, perhaps making a half-hearted pass at the painting I'm working on as I walk by, perhaps not.
Is not all it is cracked up to be. I also drank about 56 ounces tonight during class. Not the best idea I've ever had.
Have several new ideas for sketches/paintings, mostly drawn from Woolf's To The Lighthouse. It may not be easy to read, but some of her images are simply without compare. I hope to be getting a chance to work on those in the next few days. I also hope to clean my apartment. It's a pit.
This morning at 6:30 roofers showed up to rip the shingles off my apartment buildling. They made much noise, stomping all over the roof, slamming ladders up against the building, and revving truck engines. That led to today's self portrait, which I'm calling "Make It Stop":
Things are looking up considerably since my last post. I had a down couple of days, but I've achieved some inner balance.
It was a long weekend, and a good one, but not the one I had originally planned. I found myself in DC, hanging out with Ave since I had a photo shoot there this morning.
I made my first etsy purchase, much inspired by geelizzie's artistry. I purchased a necklace I'm going to be giving as a gift, so I'll just post a picture of the packaging, which was wonderful in and of itself. I hope to have my own etsy store soon, but first I need to build up a store of items.
Ave and I spent all day Saturday playing Spore, something like the Sims, but instead of little people wandering around, it's a creature evolving from a single-celled organism to a space-faring civilization.
On Saturday night, we made a trip to Paper Source, which is my most favorite store ever. I love it, absolutely and completely. Ave got me some birthday presents: book binding twine, text block paper, some gorgeous paper I'll be using for the covers of the journals I'll make with the text block paper, and what I thought was a gocco, but actually turned out to be an accessory for a gocco.
I was so excited about what-I-thought-was-a-gocco that I tore into it when we got home and was instantly perplexed. (I should perhaps explain that a gocco is small machine used for small screen printing/print making, which is something I've been dying to try. Here's an example of what you can do with a gocco.) There was no screen. No bulbs. No printmaker. Just a sponge on a plastic thing. I did a bunch of research, and what I have is an accessory that will allow me to use my gocco to print on fabric or other oddly shaped items that won't fit in the gocco.
So, when I come up with $400 to buy the basic gocco kit, I'll be able to print on fabric, too! I like to prepared.
On Sunday, Ave and I went out to breakfast at IHop with his sister after making a trip to Target. I love Target. I got my first new purse in two years, which I found greatly thrilling. There's something about having a new purse that puts a swing in your step.
We finished off Sunday with some marathon movie watching and Ave working on the box he made a co-worker as a birthday gift.
This morning, I got up and hopped the metro out to University of Maryland-College Park, where I was the photographer at a shoot for Potential, the magazine I am editor of for the Kennedy Krieger Institute.
And in between all that, I did a little sketching, a little bit of picture taking, and it was pretty much a great weekend.
But wait, there's more. The icing on the cake that was my weekend was the super cute dog Ave's roommate is fostering. Her name is Bonnie (Bonny?), and she's a Boston Terrier/Chihuahua mix. Too adorable. I'd adopt her in a heartbeat, but I don't have the space or the time, and I think the cats would eat her alive.
On a sad note, my beta fish, Nemo, died while I was away. I'm taking it well (considering the last time I had a fish that died, I was hysterical, bawling and distraught). I knew the second I walked in the house. It didn't smell, but I just knew. Things have been going downhill with Nemo for awhile now, so I was prepared. I calmly flushed him, said a little eulogy, and then rinsed out his little tank. He was a good fish, and he had a good, long life (more than 2 years), and he was quite the traveler (from New Mexico to Maryland in a UHaul). He also survived life with Nut and Squish, my two cunning (and often hungry) cats. All in all, he's got a lot to brag about in fishy heaven.
My own laziness astounds me. I just used Ave's toothbrush because it was too much effort to reach into the shower and get my own. Sorry, Ave. And yes, to anyone else reading this, I do know that's gross.
I fell off the bandwagon with all my projects, and I've started to get back on track with the self portraits, and I cling to Illustration Friday, doing that when the topic really gives me a good idea. I'm even working on a book. It certainly hasn't gotten done in a day, but it's a bigger book, with lots of signatures, and hand binding and such. But because I dropped the ball with all those things, some part of me felt guilty, and like I had nothing to blog about, and like I couldn't blog because I had nothing to report. Not that I have a plethora of readers (plethora of piñatas) or, for that matter, anything very interesting to say even when I'm on top of all my projects. (How many cliche phrases about (not) getting things done can I use in one paragraph?)
And worst of all, I'm feeling easily distractable tonight.
I've been in an odd place lately, one of those holes I occasionally stumble into. I sit in the hole for awhile, studying the roots and smelling the dirt, poking at worms with a small stick, and generally feeling sorry for myself. And then I stand up, dust off my butt, and look for the way out. This afternoon I think I started to make my way out. I sang along really loudly in the car. That's always a good sign.
Something I realize about myself: I'm very good at getting into ruts. Perpetuating things. Usually the things you don't want to perpetuate: like eating entire boxes of girl scout cookies, or not going to the gym, or giving up all the projects you started to keep yourself in a creative mindset. I've tried to get myself into a rut for the good things, like going to the gym, eating healthy, dying my hair and washing my face, flossing, taking vitamins. And I usually last a short while, but then it's like I run out of energy and I just can't do it anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if I should go back to school and get an art degree. I really want to learn how to make paper and I am dying to try out printmaking. I feel like there are all these things I want to do. And for so long I've been saying I wanted to write, and yet, I haven't written, and I don't write, and I always feel like a sham when I say it now because getting me to write is a little like trying to get a 4-year-old to clean up her room. She stomps her foot and says no. And then her mom yells at her and drags her to her room. And because she has no choice in the matter, she does it.
I want to blame that on my job. I really do. I want to talk about how I spend 8 hours a day writing, or at least editing, and how that makes me too tired to come home and write for myself. How picking up a pen or putting my fingers on homerow just makes me feel exhausted. That after all the drudgery, I can't stand the sight of a blank Word document, an empty page. But I'm not sure it would be true. There's a quote that says something like "writing is harder for writers." I believe that. But doesn't that mean that you keep trying even though it's hard? Because right now, I'm not even trying.
And then I think about my thesis, and this degree I'm getting, and that in two years, I'm supposed to have written enough poetry to fill a book.
And that leads to the bigger question: Then what? After I graduate and they declare me a Master of Fine Arts, what on earth am I going to do with myself?
I'm turning 25 in a couple weeks. It hasn't really seemed to affect me. I pretty much like birthdays, and I always joke that I'm really an 80-year-old on the inside, and that you're not old till your 100. But maybe it is getting to me. I'm blaming it on the five. There is something about the number five that I just do not trust. There's something about five that looks at you with a sneer and says, quite mockingly, "You really should have figured out at least some of this by now, you dolt." There's something about five that makes you feel three feet tall again, food-stained and chastised for your latest misadventure. Five knows something you do not know and refuses to tell you.
And yet, is there a better time to turn 25? I just lived through an historic election. I have a good man who loves me. I have a job I think is a good job on most days. I'm in graduate school. The economy may be going down the tubes, but I don't have enough money to notice. I have two ridiculous but entertaining felines. I'm on my own and, ostensibly, doing what I want, what I'm supposed to be doing. Doing it right, more or less.
But it doesn't always feel that way.
(And I know you're sitting there reading this thinking, "why won't she talk to me about it." I know you, and I know that's what's running through your mind. Even up here in Baltimore I can hear your mind churning away. But you gave me an invitation to get it out, and I took it, and it's been cathartic, and I thank you for that. And I will talk to you about it, but right now, I still don't have the energy to talk at all. To anyone. About anything.)
I miss the days when I could lose myself in a book and nothing else would matter. The days when I didn't have to get up and go to work everyday. The days when being chubby was cute. The days when I didn't have to worry about cleaning my apartment or paying my bills. The days when I had someone to drive me everywhere. The days when I could run through the house and right to my mom when I was unhappy about something.
But I want to end this on a semi-positive note. It's almost the weekend, and I have big plans for photowalking and reading and painting and drawing and laziness and activity. I plan to indulge. Without spending money. And I'm looking forward to it. So although something's got me down (Five, I see you there, with that snide look on your face), things are looking up.
It was a busy day at work, followed by fun with leaves and listening to a woman speak on being a literary agent for poets (she also did an interpretive dance to a poem). I capped my night off with homework and started a new painting. Now I'm going to bed.
Part of me wants to draw and update my blog and figure out how far behind I am on all my projects, but a bigger part of me wants to curl up in bed with Dracula. A hard-bound, Edward Gorey-illustrated version of Dracula, that is.
So, I fell off the band wagon with all my projects, including this blog. I've made some half-hearted attempts at self-portraits lately, I made one book in the last week, and I've taken about 2 photos.
However, I did finish the painting I was working on, so that means it's time to bust out another canvas. And seriously consider an easel.
And I'll be posting photos of the few things I've done soon, but this blog is motivated by idiocy. Specifically, my own.
For what must be the 5th or 6th time, when I went to turn on my heating and cooling system, it wouldn't come on. So, I run down my list of things to check: filters, breakers, intake, and overheating. I check all those things. I can find none of them to be the cause of the problem. So I call my landlord, who tells me to call the HVAC people. So I call them. The guy comes out this morning, takes one look at the machine and says "I bet it's the safety button."
SAFETY BUTTON?!
Heaters and air conditioners come with a safety button?!?!? Are you kidding me?
Ack. I have had a busy couple of weeks. And it's not slowing down any time soon. The question I pose for tonight is:
To pack or to blog?
I think the answer is obvious, if distasteful: to pack. A trip home to Missouri demands it.
But I promise (for all my non-existent readers. except you, Ave.) that I will be back with much catching up as soon as I possibly can.
One bit of news that can't wait: I've started a new project. I'm making a book a day. There are photos on my flickr page, and I'll be defining the parameters next time I blog.
That title is a cheap joke, but it is followed by a serious enough issue. I noticed that my brother, my sister, and two of their friends were having a mini debate about Stephanie Meyer's Twilight series on Facebook. I thought to myself "Ooh, ooh, I'm going to get involved in this literature debate. And I feel highly qualified to herewith enter in. I do, after all, have a degree in English; I am, after all, a writer; and I am, after all, getting a Master of Fine Arts in said field."
So, here we go:
Lincoln, you're absolutely right. The Twilight series is not and never will be great literature, much as Rowling's Harry Potter series never will be. And, unfortunately, Meyer's books do not have the same widespread appeal as Rowling's, (chiefly appealing, I believe I have every right to say, to teenage girls, and moreover teenage girls who are prone to like vampire literature. I was one of those teenage girls, and have grown into one of those adult women, so I don't think I'm belittling anyone here). As such, I do not know that it will even become classic young adult or children's literature (like Narnia).
BUT, and this is a big "but"...
I will side with Rosie and Christina in saying that I, too, have been absolutely sucked into Meyer's series. I have just (today actually) started Eclipse. I flew through the first book, Twilight, and absolutely loved it.
New Moon went equally as fast, though I kept thinking to myself, "Well, I did wonder how she'd keep this series going," and initially I could only shake my head at the obvious turn to werewolves. However, despite my initial reservations, she managed to keep me in by giving the werewolves a depth I've rarely seen, and presenting me (granted, I'm no vampire/werewolf scholar) with a newish twist on the mythology. Yes, we've seen vamps and werewolves fight before (think Kate Beckinsale a la Underworld), but the reasoning behind the fighting is new, as is the method by which one becomes a werewolf.
And this all goes without adding that I do find some of Meyers' foreshadowing and symbolism a little heavy-handed. If I wanted to, I absolutely could rip the book to shreds and point out all the reasons why it isn't "good literature."
But I am not interested in Meyers' books as "literature," said with phony British accent, either good or bad. I do not care to critique her style or use of technique. Meyers has latched on to a younger part of me, a part of all of us, that only cares about the story and how it affects us. It makes the question of "good or bad literature?" null and void.
As a caveat for both Rose and Christina, who are over 12, don't take that the wrong way; an important point he makes it that we fall into this category of YA lit until our mid 20s.
I'll quote a couple snippets, but in the interest of intellectual property, I'd urge you to click through and read the article in its entirety. Additionally, it is one of the best articles I've ever read, so much so that I cut it out and kept it. And there's no way I'm going to capture the whole sentiment in these few quotes. "We love these books [our favorites from childhood], dearly and uncritically, the way we love the smell of our first girlfriend's perfume, no matter how cheap or tacky it might have been.
... Let me put it another way: When was the last time a book changed your life? I don't mean offered you new insights or ideas or moved you--I mean profoundly changed the way you see the world or shaped the kind of person you are? If you're like me, it's been longer than you'd like to admit.
... About the last time in our lives when books have this kind of effect on us is in our early 20s, which not coincedentally tends to be the age of people you see poring over Nietzsche or that awful Ayn Rand. There's something alarming about this. I don't want to believe that our personalities ossify so much in adulthood that we're no longer capable of being changed by art. But part of the reason art loses its power over us, is, simply and sadly, that we get old; our personalities, as soft, impressionable, and tempting as freshly poured sidewalk cement when young gradually set and harden over the years with whatever graffiti passers-by scrawled there still indelibly inscribed on it. But when a 14-year-old gushes that the Twilight series are the best books she's ever read in her whole life, it's easy for grownups to forget that this is not necessarily hyperbole. At that age, we haven't heard any cliches, and even dumb ideas are new."
He goes on to talk about the importance of such books in shaping us as adults, in giving us a sense of the world, of right and wrong. And probably the most poignant point he makes (for me at least) is how incredibly comforting those books are.
Here I am, in my mid-20s, about to ossify and become unchangeable, and I have latched on to Meyers' books. Why? Because everyone wants a love that pure, that real, that heart-wrenching.
Because who doesn't want to fall in love with Edward, beautiful and unearthly, who cares too much for Bella's soul to turn her into a vampire?
Because there's something very appealing about the idea of living forever, particularly with someone you love.
Because vampires have a unique sensuality, and they terrify and intrigue us.
Because they remind me of the books I loved growing up, including the very first "vampire book" I read: The Silver Kiss. My love affair with Simon and Zoe led me to writers like Anne Rice and Laurell K. Hamilton.
Because part of me still wishes, bloodsucking aside, I could be a vampire. The strength, the power, the beauty, the escape from the nothingness of death. It is everything I do not have as a human, as a twenty-something who is realizing her limits, her mortality.
So I will keep reading Meyer's books, although some might look down their noses at Bella and Edward. I will wait in line at the theater on November 21, my stomach fluttering, to see the new movie. And I, like Kreider, hope desperately that this is not it for me.
And as an artist, as a writer, that is what I strive for. I don't want some critic, newly annointed and starving in an apartment, clutching a typewriter; or old and wrinkly, hidden away in some musty old office, to declare that my book is a great work, worthy of canonization. I suppose that would be nice, but what I really want, what really matters, is entirely different.
I want someone, somewhere, to feel my words, to fall in love with my characters, my images. To find out something about themselves by reading what I've written. That is what I strive for.
"Well, there's a piece of Maria in every song that I sing." ~Counting Crows
I've had the iPod on shuffle this evening while I worked on my painting, and when that song came on, I paused. I thought about what it means, what it could mean. In this context I'd say it's safe to say he's talking about lost love. But what if it meant that in everything you do, all your work, it's not just you. It's those you've loved and lost, those you still love, those who've touched you. It makes your art so much bigger than yourself. And I think I like that.
In class last night, my typography professor told us that art is an internal problem, while design is an external problem. I understand what he's saying, but I think that I know some designers who would disagree. And in many ways I disagree. I think every creative thing you do can't help but stem in part from an internal problem, because we take external problems and bring them into ourselves. That's how we solve them. We mull them over, we bring all our experiences to the table, and we come up with a solution that we like and that we hope others will like. That may even touch others.
Now, for Nutmeg, guardian of blogs and all things housed in my apartment:
In my very short career as a painter, I have learned an important fact: When you spread newspaper on the ground as a drop cloth, your cats will love you forever. They will not leave the newspapers in tact because they just know there is something they want underneath those big pieces of paper, but they will love you forever for their new toy. Another important fact: I need an easel.
I've been working on homework tonight, occasionally looking longingly at the painting I started. The creative suite has stumped me, so I had to give up on that particular assignment (I was working ahead and brainstorming) for the time being.
And now, for a letter of apology to Franz Kafka: Dear Franz,
I know that I have not been giving you the time you need; you might even say I'm ignoring and avoiding you. Please know that I love you. I even read "The Judgment" and "The Country Doctor" with some small amounts of relish. But I cannot bring myself to find joy in rereading "The Metamorphosis." I am too grossed out by Gregor Samsa as a bug, and am taken aback by his pure lack of concern for his situation.
It doesn't help that you follow on the heels of Hemingway. Ah, Hemingway. Next to Ernest ("My ideal has always been to love someone of the name of Ernest" ~Oscar Wilde's Gwendolyn), your prose feels overloaded, like an old woman with an armful of fruit. There is something beautiful about it, but you can see the struggle, know that pretty soon it will all fall from her arms and go rolling down the street.
Ah, Franz, you try to ply me with your surreal images, and I am constantly digging for the secret. And I suppose its all well and good that you've got my attention, but I just can't help it. You are like Death by Chocolate pie, and all I want is a slice of apple. Just too much, Franz, too much.
Sincerely,
Meredith
Now for the self portraits: Monday's, in honor of my activity of choice, is a paintbrush, which I "painted" using art rage, some new software I'm trying to figure out. Today's honors cold weather and staying warm.
Mt. Vernon United Methodist Church in Hampden, which was struck by lightning.
It's been a busy week. Wednesday was class, which was wonderful as usual. This week for typography I'm to pick a letter and write a short (very short) story about it, then design the story so that it wraps around the letter, or somehow fits into the shape of the letter. Seminar in Literature and Writing brings Kafka, delightfully bizarre.
Thursday was my first concert at Rams Head Live, Tegan and Sara. They put on a great show. Their banter between songs really is the best I think I've ever heard. And the sportingly put up with the bra and underwear that was pitched at them while they were on stage.
Friday was a friend's birthday, and it found me at the 13th Floor, a bar in the Belvedere. I think there may not be a better view in the city than at the 13th Floor.
Saturday, Ave and I spent all day watching Smallville. I also worked on the first of a series of sculptures (for lack of a better/more accurate word) that I have in mind. They all center on something having to do with birds. This first was a simple frame made of dowel rods and wire. I strung origami cranes on gold thread and tied them into the frame. It's a large piece (probably about 3x3) and I have nowhere to hang it. Ideally, it would hang free in the middle of a room or several feet away from a wall.
Saturday evening, we ventured out to see some friends of mine play at Golden West in Hampden. Katie and Adam, who are both in the MFA program with me, are the band Red Sammy. Their show was perfect. I have never actually heard their music, but I really fell in love with it.
Today, I delivered Ave to the train station and then spent my morning wandering around Hampden. I've been in Baltimore for a year, and I live just 5 minutes from Hampden, and yet I never spend time there. Today I was kicking myself for it. It's so alive. I stopped in for lunch at Puffs and Pastries. The apple-wood bacon quiche may have been the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. I also visited Mud and Metal, the Minas Gallery and Boutique, and a few other stores. Minas, who owns the Minas Gallery, and I chatted briefly. I asked about the possibility of selling my chapbooks there, and he suggested that I attend the reading series and consider reading there myself.
And all the while I was photowalking. I don't think there has been a more perfect morning. But my chat with Minas and my own increasing artful efforts have me thinking. I think it would be wonderful to get out more with my art, be it visual or verbal. I've been in Baltimore long enough to feel comfortable in the city. (I'm even learning to parallel park!) It's time to get involved. I've also been thinking about my commitment to the art I make. I've always been a learner, but I'm also lazy, and it's kept me from figuring out new ways to explore and take my work. But recently, I've felt an increasing need to seek that information out. I've been slowly picking up some new skills in photoshop, and then there's the MFA degree I'm working on. And I would love to take some art classes (if only money would fall from the skies).
I realize I'm rambling, but I guess it's made me start to question and wonder just where my life is going, and who I'm turning out to be.
And, in a partial answer to that question, here's today's self-portrait. I didn't want to overwhelm the post with all those I've missed, so should anyone be interested, you can see them all on my Flickr page.
