I just deposited my computer with the professionals who are said to be professionals, with a grumpy 29 year old, beer gut billowing over the counter, eyebrows low.
36 euros just to look at it. Then, we'll talk.
"Is there anything on it you need?"
"Everything."
Let's rewind two years ago, now, to a younger version of myself who had just returned from an adventure and had to get to the unpleasant task of unpacking a new apartment. I was standing in front of my bookshelves, ones that I'd bought, I don't know, four, five houses ago? And after putting half of the books up sat down on the wood floor and started crying. It just seemed so heavy all of the sudden, having so much stuff to carry around with me. It all seemed really pointless, the act of owning books, having a library, a big closet, two sets of dishes. I wanted to be free.
Slowly I started distributing things out, the way people do before they die. First the most treasured things went back into boxes. Children's book collection, old photographs, things that had been given to me by people who are gone. Most of it I tried to work seamlessly into my parents collection, so as not to make a glaring "my daughter dumped all her shit on us" impression on the attic or spare bedroom. Finally I was selling, until one day all of the remains were scattered out on the lawn and things I never thought I would see walk away did just that, and with my blessing. A vintage radio that my parents didn't have any use for, Chinese chests from my grandfather's house, books I used to think were sacred, art supplies I thought were useful - even now I'm trying to remember it, the scene of all of my earthly belongings on the lawn of Hazard Street in Houston, and I can't for the life of me remember something that I parted with and am feeling any loss.
I let it go, and it felt great.
I felt light as a..
swift as a....
free as a...
Wondering honestly if I could go through the rest of my life just like that. Everything I needed in a suitcase and a backpack and able to roll to where my heart lead me.
I'll tell you what made it a lot easier was that I had this little red laptop, a gift from my generous father, a Macintosh Airbook in keeping with the "traveling light" theme of the endeavor. I loaded up my artwork, music, old photographs, some creative writing I've never bothered showing anyone, phone numbers, photoshop (oh blessed blessed photoshop) and really I was very happy with it. It had a little camera and I downloaded Skype. Once every other week or so I'd find some hole with wireless internet and talk to my family, console my grieving mother.
When I was anxious I used it as my diary, just opening textedit and expelling my thoughts without censorship. I'd take a good look at them when I was through and, if it was my druther, hit DELETE and make them disappear. My own verbal zen sand painting.
Each leg of my journey could be seen by opening up iphoto. First, a few pictures from the last Thanksgiving I was at home, cutting then directly into Holland. Amanda and I. Us going to museums, eating bread in Amsterdam bakeries, standing in front of gray, drizzly canals. Then the pictures are all indoors, the weeks before Christmas spent with the Klaasens. Their children lighting the tree, Laura lying on her back and lifting them like airplanes. Then me on a train, the first pictures of Greece, my first walks around the city, my ongoing fascination with graffitti. Then the hotel I lived in. Then the people I was meeting. Next the ancient places I was being shown. The black bus. G. Greek road trips. My first trip back to Texas. The day we found out Erin was having a girl. New Years in Terlingua. Looking through these photographs, I start feeling like someone who was young and now am old.
I had a file on my computer called "fairy dust," used exclusively for special photographs and collected artwork that puts me into a great mood. There were assemblages and automatons and carousel horses suspended in midair, Victorian engravings, abandoned mansions,black and white pictures of 1920's opera divas..It was a collection of eye candy, the walls of my imaginary house, my Disneyworld.
I'm writing all of this because it's possible that it's all gone. Yeah, it's been a pain to not have my key into the door of the world via the www. It's put a real cramp on my work. Those photographs are really necessary, you know? For my new projects, for the unfinished projects, and just to keep my memory fresh even, but all of that I can do again. If, on the other hand, the little red laptop is dead, it's a bit like I'm letting everything go, again. Like in a crazy drunken fit of spontaneity I'd proclaimed, "This stuff which appeared worth saving, isn't," and handed it out to people on the street.
The artwork and writing I never showed will never be shown, the photographs that brought back to life what it was to be in a new environment are gone forever. My fairy dust is just plain dust. This time, I don't feel free. I feel helpless.
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sick Computer
Short post in an inconvenient place to let you know the little red laptop that could, couldn't, and now I'm without my security blanket.
Writing it longhand until I can revive her. Think good thoughts, huh?
Writing it longhand until I can revive her. Think good thoughts, huh?
Monday, June 21, 2010
Pics from my hood
Slide show time! These pictures don't exactly display my amateur photographer status, which I think is steadily climbing. But these are more of an informative, who's who and what's what for you, so that you've got some visuals, you know? It's nice to imagine things and all, but sometimes a picture is worth a thousand adjectives.
(Well, I mean sometimes.)
This is Voulis Street. I've mentioned it so many times, when you arrive in Athens you'll have it on the tip of your tongue. It's shady, narrow, close to everything, but still feels like an old Greek neighborhood. What a street.
*Honestly I was starting to wonder if they were automatons. They're ALWAYS there!!
I took a boot with a broken zipper and a sandal with an unglued pad to this shoe repair shop that's been here since the time of Hercules. He didn't charge me for either.
This is my corner desk by the window. I have beautiful folders and a Vera Bradley marker board. Fancy me.
The devoted Groupie...
This is where I'm cheating on Deseo's because their coffee is infinitely superior.
See how many different kinds of coffee they have? Ethiopia or Costa Rica? Mexico or Columbia? (And they serve it with a cookie!) You can count on this place being featured in NG in the not so distant future.
And to end, we have my new favorite poster, tacked on a column. Look closely now...
would
If someone would be so kind as to hand me a fat wad of cash, I would do the following things:
Buy a bus.
Build a Studio.
Have two sets of sheets.
Go to India to buy the sheets.
Send my fam back at home the things they need:
?
Wear dresses from Turkey every day of the week.
See an opera in the ancient theater of Herodes Atticus.
Fly baby Scarlett and her mother to see it with me.
I read somewhere that in the Great Depression, while everyone was jobless and going hungry, there was corn and cotton in the fields, eggs under the chickens, you get the idea. There were all of the resources needed except for money.
The comparison was made that it was like a baker who had eggs, milk, sugar, flour, and was told to make a cake. But she didn't have ounces or liters.
I know it's silly to feel broke, but I would still like to wear dresses from Turkey every day. Being a new-agey, "The universe provides all" kind of girl, I know that if my higher consciousness really wants to wear dresses from Turkey every day or see my sister and her daughter in Greece, it will happen. But if I had money, I could make it happen so much faster...
Buy a bus.
Build a Studio.
"Studio Matisse" by Rhoda Isaacson
Have two sets of sheets.
Go to India to buy the sheets.
Send my fam back at home the things they need:
?
Wear dresses from Turkey every day of the week.
See an opera in the ancient theater of Herodes Atticus.
Fly baby Scarlett and her mother to see it with me.
I read somewhere that in the Great Depression, while everyone was jobless and going hungry, there was corn and cotton in the fields, eggs under the chickens, you get the idea. There were all of the resources needed except for money.
The comparison was made that it was like a baker who had eggs, milk, sugar, flour, and was told to make a cake. But she didn't have ounces or liters.
I know it's silly to feel broke, but I would still like to wear dresses from Turkey every day. Being a new-agey, "The universe provides all" kind of girl, I know that if my higher consciousness really wants to wear dresses from Turkey every day or see my sister and her daughter in Greece, it will happen. But if I had money, I could make it happen so much faster...
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Getting lost in Nafplio (on purpose.)
Today I learned the difficult truth about getting to the best places in a city; you must always go up.
Greece is a place with a lot of “ups.” Even the ancient YiaYias are power hoofing their way up or down stone stairwells with their shopping bags, black-clad with rubber-thick stockings in spite of 90 degree heat; you get the impression that if you were in a race, you would lose. For those who are not daunted by an incline in the peak hours of heat, you will be rewarded.
On this day I strayed "up" in Nafplio, a beautiful port town and once upon a time a well kept secret. Now throngs of tourists and locals are enjoying the main square and seaside cafes throughout the peak season. I could have planted myself there in the middle of the commotion, of course. Get an ice cream and people watch until dizzy with speculations, but instead, instead...
I slipped away from my fellow men.
Went down the little twisting streets until I came to worn,
faded
steps
and
started
up.
How quiet things get. Even the buzz of a TV coming from behind a sunburned blue door in a two century old building can sound like the score of a sweeping, epic film. Even sighting a common house cat becomes touched with magic. An omen. A god in disguise! The ridge of the walls lead you to strange and mysterious tunnels. Where do they take you? Dart in, like Alice down the rabbit hole, and pop out to find another twisting path leading up to an impressive castle. Stop, look over your shoulder, and be granted a "suck-in-your-breath" "MY GAWD" kind of beauty with the village dropping down into Disneyesque, perfect turquoise, the Bourtzi fortress in it's isolated place offshore.
My gaping was timed because truth be told, I was working.If I hadn't been working, god knows. I would have maybe found some company. Maybe been invited for supper. Instead I had to go down and meet the jokers we came with and wipe all of that "awe" off my face in case someone got suspicious. Lord knows we can't be walking around with awe.
If they had caught me up there, they would have found me with my work shirt draped over my arm, sweating in my camisole and smiling. Smiling! It's all I need. Just a little mystery, a little adventure. Something to remind me I'm not in a box, doomed to suffer days upon days of repeated record playing and mask wearing.
If I could make a living off of living in amazement, my face dripping with awe...
Greece is a place with a lot of “ups.” Even the ancient YiaYias are power hoofing their way up or down stone stairwells with their shopping bags, black-clad with rubber-thick stockings in spite of 90 degree heat; you get the impression that if you were in a race, you would lose. For those who are not daunted by an incline in the peak hours of heat, you will be rewarded.
On this day I strayed "up" in Nafplio, a beautiful port town and once upon a time a well kept secret. Now throngs of tourists and locals are enjoying the main square and seaside cafes throughout the peak season. I could have planted myself there in the middle of the commotion, of course. Get an ice cream and people watch until dizzy with speculations, but instead, instead...
I slipped away from my fellow men.
Went down the little twisting streets until I came to worn,
faded
steps
and
started
up.
How quiet things get. Even the buzz of a TV coming from behind a sunburned blue door in a two century old building can sound like the score of a sweeping, epic film. Even sighting a common house cat becomes touched with magic. An omen. A god in disguise! The ridge of the walls lead you to strange and mysterious tunnels. Where do they take you? Dart in, like Alice down the rabbit hole, and pop out to find another twisting path leading up to an impressive castle. Stop, look over your shoulder, and be granted a "suck-in-your-breath" "MY GAWD" kind of beauty with the village dropping down into Disneyesque, perfect turquoise, the Bourtzi fortress in it's isolated place offshore.
My gaping was timed because truth be told, I was working.If I hadn't been working, god knows. I would have maybe found some company. Maybe been invited for supper. Instead I had to go down and meet the jokers we came with and wipe all of that "awe" off my face in case someone got suspicious. Lord knows we can't be walking around with awe.
If they had caught me up there, they would have found me with my work shirt draped over my arm, sweating in my camisole and smiling. Smiling! It's all I need. Just a little mystery, a little adventure. Something to remind me I'm not in a box, doomed to suffer days upon days of repeated record playing and mask wearing.
If I could make a living off of living in amazement, my face dripping with awe...
Sunday, May 23, 2010
November, Friendly Helpers and a worthy goal.
A beautiful morning. My underwear is flapping on the line like Tibetan prayer flags, to quote a comparison by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love and someone who I'm compared to frequently by both friends and acquaintances after hearing a little of my story up until today.
I've had two big dreams since I was a little girl. 1) To be an artist. 2) To write books. I used to write and illustrate books that I gave to my cousin. When I was six. In my thirty years I've probably started twenty, then left them there like marble statues not freed from their blocks. I've even contemplated what it would be to publish a book of book concepts. There would be so many chapters it would need to be in the reference section of the library.
So now, at half past thirty, where do I stand?
I've become an artist. Don't look at whether or not I make my living from it or how often I spend my days at the easel, in the galleries, mingling with the artsy crew... it's become integrated in me and my mind is always working even when my hands can't. When I wake up in the morning, it is with an artist's heart. When I look out the window, it is with artist's eyes. When I'm struck with an idea, I write it down. I draw it out. What is art? For me, it is the way you go through your every moment, looking for the spectacular and doing your damndest to communicate it somehow so the world can see it the way you do.
This is open for discussion because there will never be an easy definition for Art, or art, or a-r-t, but I believe it's arrogant and presumptuous to dismiss the simple woman who is constantly rearranging the tops of her table, using a critical eye and an aesthetic point of view specific to her, as anything other than an artist. The punks putting time and effort into their grafitti work, also artists. The cook arranging the beets around the cut cucumbers with love and attention, the man who adheres objects to a cement post for no other reason than he believes it's something that should be done... all of these are artists and the world is a better place for having them.
So, dream one, accomplished. The only thing lacking is steady, concentrated application, a little luck and a mustard seed of ambition. The hope is that one day I'll get to do it all day, every day and people will be knocking down my door demanding more. It would be nice, and it's not, actually, so unrealistic in my head. I'm still a little green is all. Only thirty? The little girl version of myself wasn't wishing to be a trendy up and comer. The eighty year old version of myself prefers to look back at someone who slowly marinated, progressed and matured with grace and in the end puts out something that is a window to another universe, one that gives sparkle and changes the way you see the little things, the forgotten things, the unseen. The eighty year old version of myself will probably still be doing it, should I and the world both make it together.
:
Last November, I got a mysterious email in my inbox from a supporter known only as "Friendly Helper." Friendly helper shows up in my inbox from time to time with just a message, a note, a link to an article, a photograph, a quote, a poem, an idea... and to let the mystery continue, these things are ALWAYS pertaining to what I am going through at that specific point in time. An example: I was deliberating making a drastic change of lifestyle, selling everything and getting the heck out of the USA.
THIS
when the blog writing had stalled, an email with just this as the subject:
........w.
and these links.
And last November
THIS
Something I didn't know about. An organization trying to pump up all of the would be writers in the world, get them to work at a crazy pace for the period of one month. While all of the rest of the world is preparing for obscene holidays of decadence and overconsumption, dope up on coffee, burn your retinas by the light of your laptop and write your bleedin' heart out.
I signed up, but I hadn't geared up. It didn't take and I said, "Next year."
My 100 day challenge began 38 days ago. That's 38 posts ago. I hear it takes sixty days to form or break a habit. I factored that in along with 100 days to form a plot and a little extra because I hate being crunched for time. This means I started my 100 day challenge 200 days before the month of November, when I intend to check into a little room (at this moment the thought is the village of Delphi where I get close access to the oracle, lucky me) until the 21st of November when I intend to fly to San Francisco and participate in a write-a-thon fundraiser to support creative writing workshops for children across the country (the American one.)
Those who know me are surely so staggered at the idea of my doing all of this pre-meditating, calculating and planning that they've started rereading... sure that they got something wrong, but it's a real dream, an attainable goal, and I've already sent out some emails asking for sponsorship.
So now it's really real.
By the way, FH had this to say about Elizabeth Gilbert in an indirect way:
I've had two big dreams since I was a little girl. 1) To be an artist. 2) To write books. I used to write and illustrate books that I gave to my cousin. When I was six. In my thirty years I've probably started twenty, then left them there like marble statues not freed from their blocks. I've even contemplated what it would be to publish a book of book concepts. There would be so many chapters it would need to be in the reference section of the library.
So now, at half past thirty, where do I stand?
I've become an artist. Don't look at whether or not I make my living from it or how often I spend my days at the easel, in the galleries, mingling with the artsy crew... it's become integrated in me and my mind is always working even when my hands can't. When I wake up in the morning, it is with an artist's heart. When I look out the window, it is with artist's eyes. When I'm struck with an idea, I write it down. I draw it out. What is art? For me, it is the way you go through your every moment, looking for the spectacular and doing your damndest to communicate it somehow so the world can see it the way you do.
This is open for discussion because there will never be an easy definition for Art, or art, or a-r-t, but I believe it's arrogant and presumptuous to dismiss the simple woman who is constantly rearranging the tops of her table, using a critical eye and an aesthetic point of view specific to her, as anything other than an artist. The punks putting time and effort into their grafitti work, also artists. The cook arranging the beets around the cut cucumbers with love and attention, the man who adheres objects to a cement post for no other reason than he believes it's something that should be done... all of these are artists and the world is a better place for having them.
So, dream one, accomplished. The only thing lacking is steady, concentrated application, a little luck and a mustard seed of ambition. The hope is that one day I'll get to do it all day, every day and people will be knocking down my door demanding more. It would be nice, and it's not, actually, so unrealistic in my head. I'm still a little green is all. Only thirty? The little girl version of myself wasn't wishing to be a trendy up and comer. The eighty year old version of myself prefers to look back at someone who slowly marinated, progressed and matured with grace and in the end puts out something that is a window to another universe, one that gives sparkle and changes the way you see the little things, the forgotten things, the unseen. The eighty year old version of myself will probably still be doing it, should I and the world both make it together.
Last November, I got a mysterious email in my inbox from a supporter known only as "Friendly Helper." Friendly helper shows up in my inbox from time to time with just a message, a note, a link to an article, a photograph, a quote, a poem, an idea... and to let the mystery continue, these things are ALWAYS pertaining to what I am going through at that specific point in time. An example: I was deliberating making a drastic change of lifestyle, selling everything and getting the heck out of the USA.
THIS
when the blog writing had stalled, an email with just this as the subject:
........w.
and these links.And last November
THIS
Something I didn't know about. An organization trying to pump up all of the would be writers in the world, get them to work at a crazy pace for the period of one month. While all of the rest of the world is preparing for obscene holidays of decadence and overconsumption, dope up on coffee, burn your retinas by the light of your laptop and write your bleedin' heart out.
I signed up, but I hadn't geared up. It didn't take and I said, "Next year."
My 100 day challenge began 38 days ago. That's 38 posts ago. I hear it takes sixty days to form or break a habit. I factored that in along with 100 days to form a plot and a little extra because I hate being crunched for time. This means I started my 100 day challenge 200 days before the month of November, when I intend to check into a little room (at this moment the thought is the village of Delphi where I get close access to the oracle, lucky me) until the 21st of November when I intend to fly to San Francisco and participate in a write-a-thon fundraiser to support creative writing workshops for children across the country (the American one.)
Those who know me are surely so staggered at the idea of my doing all of this pre-meditating, calculating and planning that they've started rereading... sure that they got something wrong, but it's a real dream, an attainable goal, and I've already sent out some emails asking for sponsorship.
So now it's really real.
By the way, FH had this to say about Elizabeth Gilbert in an indirect way:
"There is a difference between sounding funny, candid and likable and sounding petty, conceited and fickle. I was genuinely surprised by the lack of empathy Ms. Gilbert had for anyone. Every situation, every comment, every sidestory pointed squarely to herself and her personal problems."
"This book reminded me of a quote that's served me well in life: "It's a sign of maturity when you begin to fall out of love with your own drama." The author clearly hasn't reached this stage on her path to "enlightenment"!"
"You can get through this section of the book fairly quickly by skimming paragraphs replete with the personal pronoun. If you see a lot of "I" this and "I" that, you are in a section on spiritual insight and can just move on."
"She wants to appear as a hip, clever, wise soul-searcher. Instead she comes across as a self-absorbed, vain teen-ager. "
"I'm embarassed to have bought this."
"After then seeing her on Oprah and watching all these bored housewives talk about how insightful she was it felt cult like, like all these people needed to be told by some wack-a-doo that they are worth it? Please..."
The comparisons to Ms. Gilbert have started to make me wary...
My book will probably not be about myself. Or at least not intentionally. Rather, it will be a window to another universe to remember the forgotten and the unseen. Why change subject matter just because I'm in a different medium?
Because from my understanding the people reading this are friends and people who care, I really believe in your positive thinking. Would you keep it coming, please? On my honor, I'm returning the favor. My opinion of this place called Earth is not the glowy, promising one that I had when I was a little girl. Not even the one that I had when I was twenty, but when I sit back and admire some of the people I've collected around me as true friends, I'm astonished at my good fortune. Tomorrow I'm going to write about someone who hasn't been as lucky.
See you then.
Because from my understanding the people reading this are friends and people who care, I really believe in your positive thinking. Would you keep it coming, please? On my honor, I'm returning the favor. My opinion of this place called Earth is not the glowy, promising one that I had when I was a little girl. Not even the one that I had when I was twenty, but when I sit back and admire some of the people I've collected around me as true friends, I'm astonished at my good fortune. Tomorrow I'm going to write about someone who hasn't been as lucky.
See you then.
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