Faith, A Watercolor with Leonard Cohen

On three different occasions this week, with three different people, conversations led to thoughts on love, belonging, our past and what we keep from it, as well as the rational and irrational mind (the heart and the head that is.) After considering all the conversations combined and all the different opinions of those I’m close to, I decided that for me personally, it comes down simply to faith.

My own idea of faith doesn’t encompass religion either, and in fact I don’t believe in religion or the church and mostly organizations of any kind worry me. I do however, have a strong faith in humanity, in something greater than myself, in love and even in the irrational mind.

I had had the idea that I would write about the subject, but instead I sat and painted my depiction of faith, both in something greater, and something deeper than the rational mind might allow. The drawers of the chest represent all the little places and files we keep within our minds. Those places that challenge our faith.

And who better to speak of faith, but the great Leonard Cohen, with one of my favorite songs ever, Hallelujah..

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I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

There was a time when you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Maybe there’s a God above
But all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
It’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who has seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain
I don’t even know the name
But if I did, well, really, what’s it to you?
There’s a blaze of light in every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Modern Love

I’ve loved design and architecture for the whole of my adult life. While a Fine Art major in college years ago, I had considered studying design instead of scientific illustration (I ended up with a degree in Literature and Writing in the end…go figure..)

There are many different types of architectural design I like, but none so dear to my heart as Midcentury Modern – Desert Modernism to be specific. Brought on by a mixture of both the International style and Bauhaus Movement, each building has function, style and a grace that makes my heart go pitter patter.

There is nowhere else in the world you can find more mid-century marvels than in Palm Springs, California. Recently the Art Museum of Palm Springs (a fantastic place to visit if given the opportunity) opened the Architecture and Design Center in the historic Santa Fe Federal Savings & Loan building designed by renowned modern architect E. Stewart Williams.

Palm Springs itself (one of my favorite places to visit in the United States) has managed to keep its Hollywood flare. It wasn’t a place stars like Marilyn Monroe, Frank Sinatra and the likes went to bask on the beaches. It’s where they went to have dinner parties, lounge by private swimming pools like desert lizards. It’s where the cocktail hour was serious business…and still is.

I’ll not forget the residents of today though. They are as contemporary and modern as the architecture itself and I adore their flamboyancy. I’ll write about them in another post though. This post is strictly architecture and design.

I was salivating at the idea of the new museum so naturally this week I headed to Palm Springs.

Being a small city, I was able to walk to most places although I did rent a bike (a lovely city cruiser with a basket and bell) for three house early in the morning. This helped me cover more ground on my tour of homes. It was a sunny 75 degree and not a cloud in the sky. I had headed into the neighborhoods and downtown. I had wanted to view my favorite house – The Kaufmann Desert House. The Frey House II (designed by Albert Frey, another favorite of mine) sits on a hillside and is private so I was unable to see one of my other great loves..but oh well.

After my long ride, I showered, changed and set out on foot to the museum. First I stopped by the Art Museum to do some Christmas Shopping and see the exhibits. I then headed to The Architecture and Design Museum – saving the best for last.

Deep sigh….

It was quiet inside as it was mid-day and everyone else was having lunch or just waking from the last nights partying (they party a lot there.)

I was in heaven. The current exhibit, An Eloquent Modernist: E. Stewart Williams, Architect, showcases Williams’, as well as his sons, dedication to both good city planning and even better modern architecture.

I could go on and on here and I can’t recommend the exhibit enough. So for anyone interested, you can find more information at http://www.psmuseum.org/architecture-design-center/

With regards to my favorite Kaufmann Desert House, I was hoping the house, designed by Richard Neutra (http://www.ncmodernist.org/neutra.htm) would be open to the public in February during Modernism Week (February 12-22nd) but I believe it wont be (insert sad face here.) I will, however, be viewing the Frey House II (insert happy face here.)

Below are a few photos I took while on my cruiser. I’ve chosen not to convert them to black and white as I believe the desert colors are quite lovely. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

Every great architect is – necessarily – a great poet. He must be a great original interpreter of his time, his day, his age.
-Frank Lloyd Wright

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Process Evolution

“There’s kind of a process of evolution that goes on where the creative part of you adapts to whatever circumstances are available to you.”
-David Byrne

I spent a great deal of my adult life volunteering. Though the last few years I’ve been less selfless with my time and every once in awhile I’m reminded of it.

For many years I owned and operated a yoga studio. I wasn’t a very good businesswoman however. I paid my teachers well, although never myself. I didn’t charge my students if they were down on their luck and would give free sutra study sessions, free community yoga periodically and let fine art groups use my space for figure drawing classes multiple times a week for next to nothing. Again, a business woman I am not. But I liked what I did. Until I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t pay my bills on karma alone.

During those years, I volunteered extensively. For many months I would visit the woman’s prison each week, go through my pat down and metal detectors, and teach a small group of inmates the benefits of yoga and meditation. Eventually they needed the time slot for a new craft class and so I said goodbye to my students behind bars. I felt horrible. One woman in particular even sent me a gift via mail. It was a pottery bowl and quilt she had made. As it turns out, Jeanette was quite an artisan.

As life got in the way and changed so did my volunteering time. I then went five years (until now) being stingy with my once generous time. Sure I’d give whatever money I could to charities, but it never amounted to anything much. It was just all I could give, as my time wasn’t up for giveaway any longer.

Then, a few days after Thanksgiving I was cleaning my bookshelf and picked up one of my old yoga books and found a note inside.

“Dear Jennifer,
I wanted to thank you for coming out to the prison for the yoga lessons! I so appreciated your coming and the guidance you offered. You made me feel like I was a free person in a real yoga class!!!
I know I told you that I have a hard time shutting down my mind – my gifts to you are part of my mind never shutting down. There is always a new ceramic piece or quilt to do.
Namaste,
Jeanette”

“A free person.” Those words stuck with me and I felt a tinge of guilt. Not for not being at the prison any longer, but for not giving to my community or humanity for five long years. I sat on my couch and considered what I should do. Even though I practice yoga and will until I pass away, I didn’t feel I wanted to go back to that again. Although I’ve sat on a few historical preservation boards in the past I didn’t want to go there again either as it can be quite elitist.

But what about art? What about art and those less fortunate? I know they teach crafting classes all over, however I want to share my love for fine art and self expression. There was only one place to go for now….

Although this month with the Christmas holiday, I’ll be spending time volunteering serving meals at the local homeless shelter, next month I’ll be teaching still-life charcoal drawing classes for the same people in need.

As with any form of art, I see it as therapy. I know that the high-end art industry is alive and thriving but what about the artists not given a chance due to their circumstances? Like Jeanette and her being able to feel free for a few minutes a week even though she was behind bars. Yoga and art gave her new ways to express herself. It is my hope that those without a home to call their own can find the same way to express themselves as well, and I’d sure like to help in any way I can.

As David Byrne, an artist, writer and musician (Talking Heads anyone?) I respect greatly, recently wrote, in an interview with Salon.com, when asked about inspiration, “There’s kind of a process of evolution that goes on where the creative part of you adapts to whatever circumstances are available to you.”

So….what about the inspiration that those less fortunate than me have. Along with their personal artistic evolutions and stories that can potentially be transmitted via fine art. Why not..

I don’t have many material goods, but I do have a house, food, a loving family and friends, a camera to photograph my adventures, a computer with which to write my book and paints with which to paint.

Maybe I’m being selfish with my selflessness, as I get something from the joy of giving back to humanity. But okay, selfish I’ll be.

Autumn Snakes, A Photograph and Musing

“I like to hear a storm at night. It is so cosy to snuggle down among the blankets and feel that it can’t get at you.” 

– L.M. Montgomery

I woke this morning to the rain and wind beating on my windows and walls – as if the broken branches and leafs were begging to come inside where it’s warm. It was dark outside and I tried in earnest to go back to sleep, not wanting to rise. I buried myself deeper underneath the feather duvet.

It’s the reason I love Autumn so much. It’s a temperamental season – storms one day, sunshine and blue skies the next, and yet the next, possibly snow. Autumn and I have a kinship. I’ve been called temperamental more than once in my life.

Finally, sleep evading me, I rose and turned on my lamp. Maybe I’d write. Maybe not though. Even my dog looked annoyed at the early wake-up and from her resting place near my bed only gave a yawn and fell back asleep, deciding even her morning pee could wait until a more suitable hour. I apologized to her and went about my business.

Stumbling out of bed, coffee in mind, I felt my stiff, angry back protest with a shot of pain. Too many backbends during my practice this week left me feeling a tad old and more than a tad weary. I decided that today would be an “inside” day. I’d hunker down, protected by the wind and dark rain and finally finish “moving in” my new place. It’s been over four months and still I hadn’t hung curtains, the last item of my moving “to do list.”

Two hours later my back was still upset with me, so I grabbed my keys, warm goose-down coat, and headed to the International District for a walk-in reflexology and massage at a cheap little place owned by a Chinese man. I’ve been there a number of times and although only a quarter of the price of a spa massage, I’m consistently impressed with the service.

Of course I don’t get the entire spa treatment of soothing candles and mood lighting (I can do that at home anyway) but my limited budget doesn’t suffer either. Instead I hear a mixture of classical music and Chinese news programs in the background. There are no candles, but a small Buddha shrine. The spa talk of “what is ailing you today and how can I help you?” is replaced by the “therapists” chatter in Mandarin to each other. I am essentially filleted as a fish would be next door at the Asian Market. And I was in need of the filleting today.

Afterward, I slithered like a snake, relaxed and almost spineless, to the market for green tea, dried seaweed and a treat of kimchee-style fresh cucumbers. The sky, just as fickle as me, opened up, and the blueness overwhelmed my sensitive eyes.

At home I drew a hot bath, mixed a wonderful cocktail and soaked until slightly resembling a prune.

The sun is now setting, the wind picking up again, and the temperamental Autumn reigns.

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I smell…

“Ooh, but I still smell her.”
Giovanni Arpino, The Scent of a Woman

I smell…

Like a woman.

Although sometimes, when leaving my house, I’ll add one spritz of CoCo Chanel Mademoiselle or Dolce and Gabbana’s Light Blue (depending on the occasion) to my décolletage. But generally I wear Jennifer.

I like the smell of a man too. The natural scent of skin and sweat and all the good things that come with it and it’s something I miss about not having a partner near. Sure I have my favorite male cologne that I enjoy once in a while, but like my Jennifer scent, I prefer the natural scent of whomever I’m with.

As you can imagine, I was in shock when I read a NY magazine article about a new Silicon Valley start-up company who’ve created a pro-biotic strong enough to make a woman’s vagina smell like peaches. And I mean an actual peach.

I understand there may be women (and men for that matter) that have a strong odor and to that I cannot speak as I’ve not experienced it. So admittedly I’m generalizing here – using the average woman and her average smells.

But what about the scent of a woman? The average woman. And men…the average man.

Without a doubt, men have their own pressures. Soon they’ll be a pill that will change the smell of semen to something fruity. However, it seems as though society has gone a bit overboard on our gender pressures, both socially and physiologically.

When did smelling like a human become so utterly unbecoming?

When did smelling like a woman become passé?

For that matter, when did looking like a woman become passé?

Is it just me, or is all the customizing of us humans considerably dehumanizing?

I’ve not had my personal Jennifer scent critiqued, but I’ve had my body on the chopping block a few times. One partner thought that I was too fat, another I was too thin, and yet to another, I was just right; womanly. Yes, like Goldie Locks and the Three Bears. Interestingly enough, my “too fat” and “too skinny” were within only 6 lbs of each other. I realized later in life that if I tried to please everyone with a measly 6lbs of flesh, I’d confuse the hell out of myself. Therefore, I simply accepted my small but curvy frame.

Lord knows we’ve pressure to look a certain way and now it appears that we must smell a certain way as well. I’ve already written about the female genital mutilation so prevalent within Europe and the United States in my article “Barbie’s Vagina” so I won’t go on about that. However, doesn’t the idea of not allowing ourselves to have a lovely natural smell seem a bit absurd?

Would I be too off base to guess that the makers of the “peachy” product don’t like woman much, or the smells that come with loving one. Or would they say that, on the contrary, they love woman to bits, which is why they would like to control the way they smell….and look….and act….

Musician, A Photograph of Life

“He had a theory that musicians are incredibly complex, and know far less than other artists what they want and what they are; that they puzzle themselves as well as their friends; that their psychology is a modern development, and has not yet been understood.”
– E.M. Forster

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Tribal Intimacy

“Intimacy is the capacity to be rather weird with someone – and finding that that’s ok with them.”
– Alain de Botton

Hello? Intimacy? Are you here?

When I say intimacy, I don’t mean sexual intimacy between partners. Instead, I’m referring to the intimacy that friends, lovers and families used to share on a regular basis. The one-on-one discussions and even hugs are slowly being replaced with group texts, photos and Facebook tags. As a society we “connect” more and with lots and lots of people, and although we feel as though we are sharing (sometimes overly as in the case of the “I Love You” text) our thoughts, this “sharing,” is far from intimate.

In fact, Scientific American published a study on cell phone and intimacy and indeed, found that, “The new research suggests that cell phones may serve as a reminder of the wider network to which we could connect, inhibiting our ability to connect with the people right next to us.  Cell phone usage may even reduce our social consciousness.”

In essence, cell phones allow us to live in a sort of cyber fantasy world.

Sadly texting and emailing all day long has replaced the one long end-of-the day phone conversation or weekly coffee dates that bring us closer together on an intimate level. How can words on a screen ever replace hearing inflections, body language or perhaps, the admission of something too awkward to say to a cold screen.

And with that, just how many connections can we as humans truly handle? Our brains have grown throughout the years, yes, but not a millionth of the rate that the internet and technology has. And yet we try to keep up; to become just like the phone and computer we’ve grown to love so dearly. Like cyborgs, we use technology as a way of maintaining or developing intimate relationships.

But cyborgs aren’t intimate.

I recently read an interview with Dr. Robin Dunbar, an evolutionary anthropologist. In the interview, Dr. Dunbar discusses social order, group dynamics and our own biological need to belong to a group. I’ve always referred to my specific group as my tribe. So for the purposes of my article here, the term “tribe” and “group” are synonymous.

We, as humans, and our human brain capacity, are only capable of having 150 member of our tribes at any given time. And yes, we ALL have a tribe; people we feel an immediate kinship too. Have you ever met a stranger and knew that they were like you, deep in your gut you knew that person was capable of accepting you, that they were simply a part of your tribe?

This is not directly related to blood lines either, and quite honestly, there are maybe only 10 or so members of my own personal tribe that are related to me by blood (at least that I know of for now.)

My own tribe is scattered around the globe. (I often wonder if it’s due to my nomadic ancestors…) Although I may not talk to them on a daily basis, we always make time to talk on the phone or see one another when it gets too long. Personally, I keep texting and emailing to a bare minimum with my tribe, instead preferring to call and talk, or meet in person to catch up, to touch and to let them know that indeed, I am still a living, breathing, human.

Interestingly enough, I’ve no problem texting, emailing and Face-booking people who aren’t in my tribe. Although being with them face-to-face always seems like work. My desire for intimacy extends only to my kin, my tribal members.

Please don’t misunderstand though – I’m not cold nor rude to non-members and on the contrary, I like them all and enjoy chatting, but again, my brain, physiologically, can handle only so many members belonging in my tribe. And quite honestly, I have more invested in my own tribe succeeding, being happy and healthy. When my tribe succeeds, so do I.

And speaking of intimacy, cyborgs and our brains capacity to expand our tribes…

When asked how the role of the web played in our brains group capacity, Dr. Dunbar said this:

“Can we manage to have meaningful relationships with more than just the old numbers? Yes, I can find out what you had for breakfast from your tweet, but can I really get to know you better? These digital developments help us keep in touch, when in the past a relationship might just have died; but in the end, we actually have to get together to make a relationship work.

In the end, we rely heavily on touch and we still haven’t figured out how to do virtual touch. Maybe once we can do that we will have cracked a big nut.

Words are slippery, a touch is worth a 1,000 words any day.”

So call me an old fuddy-duddy, or technologically backwards, but I’ll continue my quest for intimacy within my tribe.

Reflection, A Photograph

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”
– Mary Oliver

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The American In Italia: Living: Lost in Translation – Bulls vs Apes

Below you will find a link to my column Lost in Translation and my latest article, Bulls vs Apes: A description of a Portuguese bullfight. Although the article is only a small portion of what I originally wrote about the “show” as I’m limited in length.  I wish the entirety of it could have been published as it best depicts the true disgrace of the “sport.”

http://www.theamericanmag.com/article.php?article=4490

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Exceptionally Quiet, A Charcoal Sketch

“I have often wondered whether especially those days when we are forced to remain idle are not precisely the days spend in the most profound activity. Whether our actions themselves, even if they do not take place until later, are nothing more than the last reverberations of a vast movement that occurs within us during idle days.

In any case, it is very important to be idle with confidence, with devotion, possibly even with joy. The days when even our hands do not stir are so exceptionally quiet that it is hardly possible to raise them without hearing a whole lot.”
– Rainer Maria Rilke

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Melt Down

“To be irreplaceable, you must be different.”
- Coco Chanel

“He didn’t text me today. That fucking asshole. I need a cigarette and a drink. Wanna go get some food? ” she whined on the other line.

I’d only just met her, my co-worker, and considering I didn’t know a soul in Fort Lauderdale I agreed. I was tired, hungry and strangely interested to hear her story – but although I felt bad for her, my gut told me to “watch out, it could get interesting.”

I said “sure” and we agreed to meet in the lobby and walk across the street to the restaurant/bar on the waterfront.

“Great. I’ll just throw on some clothes and meet you in 10.” she said enthusiastically.

I changed into shorts, a light sweater, and sandals. Then let my hair down from its bun to unravel in its usual tangled wavy mess. It felt great to get out of my dress and heels…and it was just for a quick bite to eat and a lending of the ear, right? Ha! Silly me.

I waited in the lobby, hunched inside one of those modern pod-shaped chairs that’s either made for tall people, or people with no spines – I couldn’t decide.

I looked up from my phone just as she was sauntering out from the elevator.

Suddenly I felt completely under-dressed and sighed an “oh well” to myself.

She wore a strapless dress that hugged her tall body and narrow hips. The top portion of the dress rested just above her nipples, allowing her ample and quite rounded surgically enhanced bosom to show proudly to the world. They didn’t bounce like normal breasts would though, instead, they sort of awkwardly jerked when she walked.

Her hair was smoothed back, her small handbag matched the grey of the dress and with grey eyeshadow and large silver hoop earrings she was the complete Florida package. The only off part was the shoes, which I didn’t understand. They were cheap rubber flip flops.

I wondered…what would my personal style idol, Coco Chanel, be thinking if she were with us (Besides telling me to shut up and go put a dress on.)

There was a nice table on the waterside and I walked towards it. However she pulled me back to the crowded bar where we had to squeeze in to sit down.

“Shit,” I thought.

Later that evening, when the men who’d been adoring her at the bar would ignore her chatter about expensive watches and how men play games and look my way (maybe for help,) she would give a drunk giggle at them and say, “Oh, she’s the serious, quiet one. Are you bored Dear?” while she’d play with my tangled hair and touch my back – for the attention of the men surrounding the bar mind you. Then she’d ask again if I wanted a “shot of tequila.” They would laugh awkwardy with her while staring at her breasts. She’d show off by arching her back on the bar stool while playing with her hair repeatedly.

I ignored them and her comments, turned away and continued my conversation with the couple beside me about local politics or something of the nature.

– Although for the record, I’m not “quiet”, it’s just that I don’t care about expensive watches or shots of tequila, that’s all.

A few minutes later she took a break from her fans and poked my shoulder.

“I don’t understand. I mean, we’ve been seeing each other for 6 weeks and all the sudden he doesn’t fucking text? I know his company isn’t doing great but what the fuck? It’s Friday and he hasn’t even reached out. I think he’s just really stressed and I know he still talks to his ex-girlfriend. I want to be the cool girl and not care, but I hate this. Want a cigarette? What would you do?” she begged between giggles and arching backs.

“Well, I don’t know. But I do think when a guy is into you that you’re kinda the bright spot in his day and he want’s to talk to you and only you. But hey, it’s only been one day, so don’t worry. Maybe he’s caught up at work,” I said encouragingly.

She opened her text messages to check to see if he’d written and I happen to glance at her phone. There was a long list of male names filling her text box. Interesting – it seemed she had an extended list of admirers at the ready to text should she need a hit.

She cursed again when she saw no message. It had now reached a boiling point – 24 hours since the last communication. Melt down would surely begin soon. Only her meltdown was different. She didn’t need ice water or a fire extinguisher…

At that point she had turned away from me, ordered another shot and put her arm around the pilot beside her who’d been taking selfies of the two of them (camera aimed directly at the cleavage I might add.) He flirted. She flirted back. And somehow her spirits were lifted once again…melt down was soothed, and all was back to normal.

As for me? I learned once again to listen to my gut.

Door Number 1A, A Photograph

“She had always lived her best life in dreams. She knew no greater pleasure than that moment of passage into the other place, when her limbs grew warm and heavy and the sparkling darkness behind her lids became ordered and doors opened; when conscious thought grew owl’s wings and talons and became other than conscious.”
– John Crowley

There was a time I had a large collection of photographs I’d taken of doors from wherever my travels had taken me. It took me years to accumulate. Last year, when my house was robbed and my computer stolen (along with all of my photographs) I thought my crazy door collection was gone for good. Months later, while walking the streets of Barcelona, I considered that the loss of my collection and computer was a good thing. Not only did it teach me that material things are just that….material and gone in the blink of an eye, but it also encouraged me to continue with a new collections of doors around the globe.

Although I’ll never get a chance to meet my home intruder, if I did, I might thank him for the lesson given of impermanence….and a new collection to start.

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Escape, A Photograph and Manic Episode

“Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I’m always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system.”
― Flannery O’Connor

So far, the process of writing a book is much like my own life – a roller coaster; manic, emotional, yet oddly fulfilling. There are days when I feel on top of the world and words flow seamlessly, one to the other, page after page. Although unfortunately, there even more days when the I feel my own black hole of insecurities and doubts take over and not a single word can escape.

Burdened by the reality of being a poor writer and artist, I often wonder why I’ve chosen such a “career” (if I can call it that.) After all, a nice high-paying job selling pharmaceuticals would surely allow me plenty of room to breath. Wouldn’t it?

Truly though, I suppose I’m experienced enough with in-authenticity to know that the air I’d inhale would be stifling, fake, and knowing me, I’d run for the hills. Boxes don’t suite me at all.

So instead I’ll remain here, on the fire escape, breathing in the manic and emotional air I’ve grown so accustomed to as I type away… and sigh

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