Pens and Art do NOT go together like Beans and Cornbread

A few Fridays ago at the Art Institute (free Thursday and Friday nights until Labor Day!). I was motivated to write standing in front of the Sol Lewitt-inspired piece, but I didn't have a writing utensil. Urgh! I zoomed through the museum to the gift shop and bought myself one, grabbing for the pencils first, but I didn't want a pencil, I wanted a pen. So I bought one. It clicks.

Hit up the contemporary wings, I made a plan before I got to the museum that this is where I would spend my evening. The entrance to the first exhibit was a large gold-beaded welcome. Had I been alone in the wing, or perhaps more courageous, I would've spent hours, if not minutes, dancing through them - I did take my time in passing, dragging my fingers through the golden strands. After the bead curtain I was unsure of the exhibit, as the first piece I encountered was a series of line graph drawings terrifyingly reminding me of high school math. Then the graphite wall drawing in the third room captured my full attention. Inspired by Sol Lewitt and applied directly to the wall. Scribbles made to appear like a 3-D entrance into a mysterious pencil-drawn world. Recalled images of MC Escher. Also, I enjoyed the thick acrylic work of Gerhard Richter. "Ice 1" and "Ice 4," the layers of horizontal and vertical paint lines and scrapes changed through and through as though the real frozen tundra abstractly defined - green and floral colors lay barely exposed under the cold harsh blues, purples and grays.

Hairy Who: Imagists from Chicago's Hyde Park area in the 60s. Wow. Fascinating and bizarre stuff. Cartoony. Garish, political images and satire. Bright, brilliant colors.

The room right next door had Keith Haring and David Wojnarowicz, representin' NYC's East Village. Haring is always wonderful, and I had never experienced Wojnarowicz that I remember. His "Queer Basher/Icarus Falling" was heartbreaking and it gave me the chills... A father came in with his two young children, attempting to explain the importance and design of KH. They were uninterested to say the least. To that he said, "This is very important and you will understand that one day when you are older."
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On the train, an hour later, recalling... a security guard kindly asked me to put away my materials, informing me that pens weren't allowed in the museum. He said this very politely, but still I felt the sting of sadness fill my throat and burn my eyes - maybe he saw this because he quickly noted that he was sorry for the inconvenience, but pens just weren't allowed. Pencils were okay, but no pens. It makes sense, pen rarely ever comes out, even with multiple washes it's tough - granted if you washed the art it would be ruined. I murmured, "Sorry. No worries" quickly, fearing that if I said another word, tears would flood down my face. I don't know why, that's just how I felt. I thought about how pencils should be banned too, because they can scar when pressure is added. I didn't say it, but I thought it. That happens a lot, I think of things all the time, but I never say them because I know they wouldn't come out right, they get all jumbled and confused on the path from my mind to my mouth. Such is the curse of a writer, I suppose. My hand is my medium.

Also, I spent a few minutes in front of Dali. Blew my mind away, as always. "Inventions of Monsters" and I think it was "Visions of Eternity." (Much better in person)

Vvrrrrrooooom! Off the train to sit in Wicker Park, by the fountain. It's a lovely Summer evening.

I was overwhelmed with loneliness and I walked around listening to everyone's conversations wishing I had someone to share my musings with. Particularly in the Abstract room. Joan Miro's "Abstraction" and Picasso's "Man in a Button Down Vest, Top Hat, Smoking a Cigar in an Armchair" - or something to that effect, it was long, clever and I couldn't write it down. Abstraction is such a bizarre art form - and I love it! I wish I had been able to write what I thought about it as I thought about it, but I didn't want to break the pen rule, even though I was no longer standing by the same guard. I knew the rules and I wasn't feeling rebellious.

My recalled thoughts on Abstraction. The Picassos especially made me think about this. We are the sum of parts

***Oh geez! A homeless man is very offended right now as he just came and sat next to me on the bench - there are many other benches that are not occupied. He chose mine. Then, he being muy barracho, sang a sad garbled song, swayed and attempted to lay his head on my shoulder. If he even comes back I'm going to - he's walking this way, I'm clenching my jaw tight to show my displeasure of the situation - I wish I could understand Spanish - he did come back. He's back. New bench. He's back. I moved again, next to a normal-looking couple. They said, "Hey. Come sit by us." He was offended, again. And I told them I wish I understood Spanish better, and the guy joked, "I don't think that's comprehensible in any language." He sadly walked away, probably didn't even know his own name. The barracho was lonely, too. It happens. This world is lonely, but I'm alone and I don't speak his language and I was startled and I'm busy writing, no time for entertaining bagged, homeless men.***

that surround our everyday life. The man was pieces of everything he touched. As he touched something it became a part of him. Just like the barracho with his black garbage bag and his blue stocking cap pulled over his eyebrows.

Abstraction. The subtraction and addition of parts and people coming and going through our lives. The paths we take and cross by ourselves and with others. The impact of humanity on one single being has ramifications on the whole society. The arts, they capture this, allowing the work to be interpreted, generation after generation, if they are so lucky to help modern man realize that, "Hey. We've always been this way, and I guess things will never really change." People make mistakes, try to fix them, make them again. Wars, genocides, love affairs. It happens. We forget. We grow old. We grow tired, but we keep on going and we keep on doing. Life happens and it is wonderful! Wonderfully maddening, wonderfully brilliant, wonderfully sad and devastating, but from it all we grow and try to teach ourselves and others of the pursuit to make it the best you can, while you can.

As Bob Dylan's grandmother said, "Happiness is not on the road to anything. Happiness is the road." And as Kurt Vonnegut's uncle Alex said, "If this isn't nice, I don't know what is." And as my brother Alex said, "Do not underestimate the degree of impact your life has on the lives of others."

I never want to be so miserable that I don't want to get out of bed in the morning and see the bright, beautiful sunshiney world.

Turn it around, bright eyes.

You know how the proverbial ‘they’ say that you write what you know. Well, one day I was out running, my way to take myself out of the chaos of my world, listening to Modest Mouse’s “One Chance” and I started thinking about chances in life. Life is a succession of big chances, and whether you take them on or miss them completely… then came the dialogue of a person A, “I was never given a chance (in life)” and person B retorts, “When have you ever taken a chance?”
(CNF course 2006)


Alright. May resolution: buck up, buckaroo! I need a job, yo.

I was putting some writing samples together for a job interview yesterday (oh, how fun! except I got there and they had already filled the position that I really wanted, and the other position that was open seemed way too tech savvy for me, or so they seemed to think, as with the ending they reminded me they had a few more interviews to conduct. Oh, thanks a lot guys, for wasting my time, and yours. Apparently I'm not very good at tricking people. Shucks.) and it made me slightly depressed to realize my naivety in the whole scheme of real world job market. This is a lot harder than I thought it would be, though I'm not really sure what I thought was going to happen. The world hasn't been handed to me on a silver platter as of yet, and right now it sucks, but maybe it's going to help me in the long run. Although, that's a little tough to think about right now, with the school loan officers getting closer to my door... one month. I want a desk job, or something where I don't have to serve people and laugh at their stupid jokes in order to make $18 an hour. AHHHHHH!!!!!

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I’ve had friends tell me that nothing’s going to happen unless I allow it to, and that reminds me of that saying, “Everything happens for a reason.” Does it really? Does it really? Or do we just learn to adapt to the change and therefore require it to be reason and based on fate? I go back and forth on the issue of fate and faith and all that heavenly jazz. I’m getting far too far away from the initial topic, which is people giving me a job. Oprah, specifically. My God, - excuse me, my Oprah, how wonderful it would be to work for her. Or, would it be some hell-fire lower level of the Harpo Studios where Steadman drove everyone with a whip until they sweated [blood] to death? Regardless, I think it’d be fantastic! She might be a little demanding, but she’s Oprah. Although I do question her on a couple things, such as her support of Tyra Banks, and her crazy madwoman rant to Mr. James Frey about his fictionalized memoir. Dude. He was on drugs. Maybe he thought that was what happened. Leave the man alone.
(3/24/08)


Quick note: I do not approve of pandora.com's playing of Dave Matthews Band on my Grateful Dead station. BOOOO!


Other past writings....

From playing “Sleeping Beauty” with my brother when I was three to performing as the Captain in “Anything Goes!” and lip-syncing an interpretive dance of Seal's "Kiss from a rose on the Grave" in the back of the bus at summer camp when I was ten, I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. My life in theatre goes back from before I can remember. When I was a kid, I was positive that I was going to be the next leading lady in Hollywood – I would be the new starlet of the silver screen, the next big thing. Turns out, I came to the harsh realization – not until my sophomore year of college – that the “overnight success” phenomena doesn’t really exist. I’m not going to be walking down the street and have some producer shout at me, “You! You there! In the galoshes! You! You need to work with me, be in my next film!” Isn’t that how it happened for John Travolta, maybe sans the galoshes, so why not me? Apparently, everyone else in the theatre department had been working toward their dream since before they could remember, while I’d only been imagining it

It was a rocky journey to get where I am today. I have horrible stage fright – horrible. I cry in auditions. I can’t do it. I don’t like when people don’t trust or believe in me, I get scared that I won’t be able to prove myself good enough. It’s silly, but something I still can’t seem to get over. When I was ten, the same summer I acted in “Anything Goes!” (The head nun sang “Blow Gabriel, Blow! Why don’t you blow Gabriel Blow I’ve been a sinner I’ve been a saint, but now blah…” and little Jake stood up confessing his sins, getting into the act.), my father took me and my brother to “Grease!” on Broadway, starring Sally Struthers. Before the show, the DJ invited all the kids onstage to dance and have a sock hop. I really wanted to go, but I was nervous to do it by myself. I tried to get my brother to go with me, but he thought it was stupid – he was three years older than me and into sports. So, sadly I sat in my seat watching all the other kids have a great time, wishing I could get up there. My Dad told me that if I didn’t go up there then he didn’t want to hear me talking about being an actress ever again. I suppose it was his way of trying to encourage me, but I didn’t see it like that and I decided that I would never again talk about theatre or being an actress.

......That Spring Break (sophomore year - college) I went back East to visit my Dad with my friend, Alli, and we went to Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” starring Kathleen Turner and Bill Irwin. It clicked. Everything fell in place. I always got that feeling seeing plays before, the magic of the theatre, if you will. But this time was different. An epiphany. The light shined on me and the angels blared their trumpets. I wanted to write plays, I wanted to create worlds. And it continued from there, playwriting instantly became my passion. I love theatre and I love writing – put them together and I can die happy.

I’ve never experienced anything as great as the theatre world. You have the dramatic; the activists, the eccentrics, the artistic; wonderful, crazy, thoughtful people - on all levels and in all areas of theatre. No other profession is so creative, in my opinion. The goal of it all is to entertain, to teach, to provide an escape from the ordinary. It’s extraordinary. Theatre and entertainment is something that mankind can’t live without, it stands the test of time, it provides an outlet to try and comprehend the complexity that is life.

I chose Theatre as my major, with an emphasis in playwriting, and Sociology as my minor, because I want to understand people; who they are, where they came from, where they’re going, why they do the things they do. I want to connect in ways that most people think isn’t possible, to cross borders and find that underneath everything and behind everything, we’re really not that different from one another. I want to tell stories that would otherwise not be told. I want to change the world. I want to open eyes. I want to write plays. I want. I just hope I can do it. (Capstone 12/2007)



IN terms of life, love and war, we always learn too late. And you can never undo something that’s done, so you have to try to cope the best you can. It’s never so easy, and you always think coulda, shoulda, woulda, but really, what good’s that goin’ do? Still you keep doing it all the same, time and time again. Ooh! Wonderful feelings this human being’s dealing with.
(3.18.08)


I kind of like sleeping on the floor (preferably on a mattress, or a cushy sleeping bag - my back is getting worse with age) it's like camping, but inside, so you don't have to worry about the bears.
(2-29-08)


I've been told that
"What if"s won't change the world.
They don't.
But,
What if they could?
What if they do?
I'm sure it's true.
You only have to believe,
and perform the execution.
....................
He sang, "Why don't you love me anymore?" Over and over as he trodded through the empty wooden hall. Smashing his fists through the glass, he cried. As his knees hit the porcelain he wished it all would end, but a knock echoed through the dark silence and its unrelenting cry was impossible to ignore. He rose, tired and sore. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he opened the door. There was no one, but a note that said, "Have faith and go forward in the direction of your dreams. Happiness is best when shared."
(4-7-08)


There’s something about humankind, and the striving, driving force to be a magnificent minuscule shining among the masses.
(CNF course 2006)

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PS - one more thing before closing. I have this list written down in one of my journals, "Bob Parsons' 16 Rules for Survival" (maybe it was from a brother sent email, which is most likely), and let's hope #3 is true:

"When you're ready to quit, you're closer than you think. There's an old Chinese saying that I just love, and I believe it is so true. It goes like this: 'The temptation to quit will be the greatest just before you are about to succeed.'"