Un-join me

As I slide down the dark tunnel toward winter, I'm embracing my inner curmudgeon by de-connecting from social media. I started with LinkedIn groups, ruthlessly clicking the "Leave" button with a sense of relief and hope that there would soon be less in in my box. After un-joining half my LinkedIn groups—just the ones swamped by ubiquitous discussion posts from desperate small business owners who write pleading blog posts with titles like “The ten ways using LinkedIn will make you a content marketing star!”—I moved on to my modest roster of Meetups, wearily choosing "Leave this group," and then typing in the subsequent box exactly why I was un-joining: I'm tired. My feet hurt. I can't stand people. Your inane networking sessions at crappy Chinese restaurants are killing me.

I know it's not much, but it's a start. Next I'll take the hatchet to Facebook. Every time I get an email that says, Joe posted a new photo to their timeline, I cringe at the bad grammar and vow to de-friend everyone. Well, from experience I know it's as hard to leave Facebook as it is to rid your computer of AOL. The best I can do is un-follow everyone (except Carlita and members of my immediate family, of course. My sister is in Europe. Can't miss those photos of Paris and Lyon. Can't breathe, wish I was there).

Today, as my stomach roils with the remains of almost-raw onion eaten at a networking Meetup I went to last night, I find that indigestion and general dissatisfaction with life feel much the same. I fear I've learned to associate nausea with networking. (Have you noticed that Meetups seem to find hospitable homes in the backrooms of Chinese restaurants? Wonder why that is.)

My friend Bravadita is bravely downsizing in preparation for her impending move to Gladstone, a suburb of Portland about 20 minutes south on I-205. As she described her desire to have less stuff, I found myself yearning for something similar. Except for me, rather than unloading my books at Goodwill, it's more of a jettisoning of social baggage, a conscious uncoupling, as it were, from the faceless groups of rabid networkers swarming Meetups and after-work networking parties all over the city. Hey, networkers, back off. You met me, you didn't care to genuinely know me, so stop pretending. You can keep your tar-baby emails.

Argh. I confess, I'm as much to blame: Did I try to know anyone deeply? Not so much, especially not if the place was noisy and crowded. Did I wall myself off in my introvert suit of armor and exit at the first available moment? Yes, mostly, I guess I did. Is my current dissatisfaction evidence of my chronic malcontentedness, or is it just a special case of non-digesting onions? In fairness, I must say, not all networking events are the same; I'm learning to be discerning (no more Moxie mixers for me). And not all networkers are the same, either. I have met some smart, strong, interesting, and determined women in the past year, people I respect and admire. I fear the stinky truth: I'm just ashamed to admit I'm as desperate as the next hungry shark waving a business card at a crowd of fellow sharks. Rather than admit I can't compete in that pool, I'm disconnecting by choice. I'm following the artist's way: If you build it, they can come or not, as they please.

The Chronic Malcontent succumbs to shameless commerce

Well, I did it. I've been thinking about doing it for a while (thanks to the encouragement of my sister and my friends), and I finally did it. For the past month I have been compiling posts from the Hellish Handbasket blog, in preparation for turning it into an ebook. Yep. A compendium, call it a handbook, maybe, of dissertation-related posts for aspiring doctoral learners. Yesterday, I did it. It's done. I've officially gone over to the dark side of shameless self-centered commerce.

All I've ever wanted to do, since I was nine years old, was write and illustrate my own books. Sometime during elementary school, evil powers convinced me it was an impossible dream, so I pivoted toward painting. Equally foolish pursuit, I was told. Thus, in college (the first of many attempts at higher education), I gave up painting for graphic design (or "commercial art" as it was known in the x-acto knife and rubber cement, layout and paste-up days. Wow, I'm old.)

Unfortunately, I sucked at graphic design. But I loved fashion! I used my hazy vision of taking over the fashion world as a fashion illustrator and designer as an excuse to take a geographical to Los Angeles, where I fell awkwardly into costume design, started my own business, and got into debt. The rest is the boring history of me crawling out of the various holes I dug for myself over the ensuing 20 years. But you can't take the dream out of the girl, apparently, even when she's middle-aged, sagging, and growing a mustache. All I ever really wanted to do was create my own books.

It just wasn't the right time, it seems. Until now. All it took was for the world of technology to catch up to my vision and make it possible. Yay.

Of course, the world of technology also has made it possible for millions of other would-be authors to realize their visions of publishing, too. I find I am a speck, invisible in the vast and swarming tide of people who can also proudly claim they are ebook authors. Anyone can write and publish an ebook. (Even my mother could do it, and she just might, who knows! My scrawny 84-year-old mother just relaunched her online presence! Look out, Internet!)

As part of the gigantic and vibrant marketplace of ebooks, odds of being found are not in my favor. Especially considering my ebook is (more or less) an anonymous entry. Some marketing ploys to boost awareness of the new ebook may be undesirable, if I want to stay anonymous. Am I really hidden? No...anyone who wants to find me, can. I'm not well hidden, I'm not really anonymous. Who cares? Once again I find myself questioning my identity. Who am I? Who am I now? On so many levels, I'm still so confused.

But I finally got something done! Something is now present in the world that wasn't present before, and I was responsible for making that happen. That is the victory for me. If the universe wants to take note of it, so be it. If not, whatever. I'm on to my next ebook. My car may have a layer of moss on it, for being parked in the same spot for so long. But not me!

If you are interested in ordering or sampling the ebook, you can find it at Smashwords. And if you want more info, check out the Welcome to Dissertation Hell: the ebook page on this blog.

Who is responsible for this crazy life? Uh.. not me.

There is a fly in the Love Shack. Security! The cat in charge of security sleeps with his nose on his paws. Slacker. I can't bring myself to smack the fly. If I wait long enough it will circle lower and lower and eventually die on a windowsill somewhere. A metaphor for life, I guess.

Speaking of life, I had a fun slice of it today. I met Bravadita for coffee in Northwest Portland. Now that she lives downtown in a 3rd floor walk-up, she's taken on an aura of cosmopolitan glamour. She is utterly 100% cool. I mean, she was 95% cool when she lived on the East side, since she was only nine blocks from the River (I'm sixty-nine blocks from the River. At 82nd you are officially in the armpit of Portland. That is coolness of zero percent.) Now Bravidita is 100% cool as she walks everywhere with a stylish bag slung rakishly over her shoulder. So cool she wears a beret!

Time out. The security cat heard me tapping on the keyboard and came over to check it out, spotting the fly on his way to sit on my keyboard. A half-hearted swipe, wait, is that all? Come on! Security!

Well, anyway. Sitting at a wobbly metal table outside along 21st Avenue, Bravadita and I bemoaned the plight of artists and creatives who don't get things their way (us). There was plenty of commiseration to go around. The coffee amped me into high gear. I had an idea every ten seconds, followed by a plunge into darkest depression. Of course, all my ideas were for Bravadita's career, not my own. (Why is it so much easier to fix someone else's life?)

The security cat has failed to capture the fly, which continues to infuriate me by meandering in front of the computer monitor; the cat, however, has slyly captured my chair, so now I must stand while I type. Sigh.

I've conveniently chosen to prune the artistic part of my life so that it fits into a tiny box: this blog. I draw while I sit in meetings. If anything funny comes out of it, I scan the images and upload them here for your amusement. That is the extent of my art life. There was a time when I was positive, beyond any doubt, sure as only a ten-year-old child can be, that I would spend my life writing, drawing, and painting. And to a large extent, that has been my reality. What I didn't foresee, though, was that I would have a great deal of difficulty getting paid to do those things.

Hence... the jobs. Long jobs, short jobs, fun jobs, depressing jobs, I've had many jobs. I can say truthfully that there is not one job I would willingly go back to if I had a choice. Not one that I can say, wow, that was a really great job. The fault, I admit, lies more with me than with any of the jobs. A few were bad because of a particular person or a few people, but mostly they weren't bad at all. It was me. I didn't fit. I wouldn't let myself fit. Because there was somewhere else I wanted to be. Always somewhere else.

I feel lucky now that I've chosen to pursue a self-employment field that interests me. No, it's not art, but it's still interesting. I'm not a victim. I'm choosing it. I don't know if that will make it any more successful than any of the other jobs I've had, but if it fails, I'll know who to blame.

There goes that pesky fly again. Should I let him live? Or is it curtains for the fly? Text your vote to 3330 within the next seven minutes to determine his fate.

If you don't bring forth what is within you, what you don't bring forth will destroy you

Today I dug out some old art supplies and started making a gift for a friend. The gift has two parts. Part of the gift is old art, two little paintings I made 14 years ago in a painting class. The other part consists of a wooden frame, a panel of quarter-inch particle board, and some modeling paste. How does it all go together, you ask? Well, we have yet to find out. I am hoping a coat of paint will cover the flaws. Isn't that the story of my life, eh?

I think the real story here is the fact that I dug out my old art supplies. I haven't painted since about 2003, when I got the teaching job at the career college. That job represented a turning point for me, a new direction toward something stable and respectable. Away from my so-called art career, the unstable and not-so-respectable path I've trod since childhood. But even as I embraced my new career, I kept my paints, stored in a box on a high shelf. I kept the jug of modeling paste, part of a group of paint cans enlisted to support a book shelf. I kept collecting wooden frames and other art-related paraphernalia, tucking them away into nooks and crannies, waiting for some day when I'd be ready to paint again.

So today it felt good—odd, but good to sand the dried gunk off my old palette knife. I popped the top on the jug of modeling paste with a screw driver and found the paste fresh and lovely and white as sugar frosting. I smoothed it on the frame with the palette knife like I was decorating a birthday cake. It is my friend Bravadita's birthday this week. I hope my gift is dry by the time I visit her at her downtown digs.

Fooling around with modeling paste makes me think about making art again. That thought makes me wonder if the past 15 years have just been an aberration, a detour away from my true calling. That thought makes me feel a little sick, because I've invested eight of those years and about $50,000 in a frustratingly stalled doctorate. Luckily before I could stick my head too far down that mental garbage pail, I remembered that there are always more than two choices. It's not either-or, it's and, and and, and and—as many ands as I want, as many as I've the guts to pursue.

Maybe I'll paint again, who knows. Although I'd have to give the stuff away: I have no room in the Love Shack to store paintings. And no room to store any more furniture, should I decide to convert my art to shelves and end tables like I did with my last batch of paintings. Art that became functional, I guess you could say. I don't even notice them anymore, old wooden paintings screwed together and obscured by stacks of t-shirts, books, the collected detritus of my life.

I was thinking about pleasant art versus... would I call it unpleasant art? What would you call it, the kind of art that makes you cringe or feel uneasy or squint? The kind of art that makes you work a little bit, or maybe a lot. Compared to the art that looks really nice over a couch or hanging in a stairwell. If I had stuck with making pleasant art, I would probably have had an art career selling stuff to interior decorators. Instead I made unpleasant art that was a little too... raw? Picture in-your-face nudes with no heads, arms, or legs. Yep, 'fraid so. Sadly, not what people wanted hanging over their couches. At least not people in my circle of family and friends.

Some part of me thinks that if I had just kept painting what I wanted to paint, I would eventually have succeeded in making a respectable art career. I wouldn't have felt compelled to sell my soul to stay alive. It's a small part of me that believes that. A much bigger part of me knows it's likely that if I had tried to paint what I wanted to paint, I'd be dead of starvation by now. But one thing I know: if I had tried to paint the pleasant stuff, the butterflies and flowers and rippling brooks, I'd for sure be dead by now. Rest in peace, Thomas Kinkade. I live to paint another day.

The artist's futile lament: I gotta be me

It's almost 11:00 p.m. I've spent much of the day grading student work. I haven't even been outside today. The cold winter sun came and went, and I missed it, hunkered in my cave. It's midterm time. Instructors are required to submit midterm grades, in case they get run over by a truck before the end of the term. Or get fired. Or they quit because they found a  better job with a better company. (Dream on.) It takes time to do a good job grading. I joked with someone today that I probably could just throw darts at a dartboard. Ha ha, I'm sure my students wouldn't think that was funny.

Actually, once I see some writing samples, I can pretty accurately predict the grade each student will earn by the end of the term. We don't grade on the curve. It's all about points. Everyone can get an A if they do all the work satisfactorily. I have no problem giving everyone an A. Considering that my job security depends on how students evaluate me, I guess I'd say giving all As is part of how I keep my job. Kidddddingggg. No, really. I'm kidding. Just because I work at one of those low-life for-profit colleges we all love to bash doesn't mean I don't provide the best learning experience I possibly can. I'm sure I can do better on any given day—who couldn't?—but I really do try to show up and do a good job for these students. Most of whom don't give a rat's ass about learning, I might add. They just want to get out and on with their lives.

This term I have fewer computer classes and more business classes. That means more stuff to read. Two sections of Organizational Management (four students total), two sections of Professional Selling (three students total), one section of an introductory level Marketing and Finance (two students). One section of Access (five students, one of whom refuses to do any work, so he won't be around much longer). And two sections of Keyboarding, with about 25 students total). Do you wonder how this career college stays afloat, with such a low student/teacher ratio? I do.

I often complain about Keyboarding as a reason I want to poke my eyes out with a stick. I use the word “teaching” very loosely when speaking of Keyboarding. Teaching isn't exactly what I do as I stroll around behind the students, peering over their shoulders, poking at their monitors with an accusing finger. This is how you set a tab stop! Center the table! Vertically! Which way is vertically? Google it! I'm the Keyboarding drill sergeant from hell. Most of the students find me very annoying. But how else can I stay awake in class, I ask you?

After nine years, I can say with some certainty that I have pretty much perfected the job of grading keyboarding. I have developed a very colorful Excel spreadsheet that does all of the calculations for me. All I have to do is plug in the numbers. It's a thing of beauty, but unfortunately, I still have to review many documents for accuracy and formatting, a very repetitive and boring process. Letters, memos, reports, just kill me now. I've seen these documents so many times in nine years I bet I could recite them out loud. Especially the medical transcription documents. These are the documents the medical students must type from dictation files. They hate typing big words like... salpingo-oophorectomy, acute suppurative streptococcal infection, drippy gooey pus-filled tonsillar exudate (I embellished that one a little bit), as much as I hate reading them. This is why I am earning a doctorate? To teach medical keyboarders how to transcribe dictation? Where's that stick?

After nine years, am I done? Am I ready to finally admit I've done all I can do at the career college, and it's time to move on? I think I'm almost ready. Soon, very soon. Within a year, I think. On to what, though, is the question.

The cat just settled into the chair behind me and now has somehow managed to take over the entire chair. There isn't room for both our fat asses. I guess that means it's time to stop and take a nap or something. When in doubt, do what the cat does.

Who cares: We are so screwed

Usually I write a post and then I choose some drawing to go with it. This time I'm doing it backward: I'm choosing the drawing and letting that direct what I write. Look at me pushing the creative envelope in the new year. Whoa.

I notice I had a hard time figuring out how big to make the nose. Look at all those extra lines. It's like the shape kept growing more and more bulbous. I could have tried to photoshop out all those mistakes. (Isn't it odd how photoshop is now a verb? I don't even have Photoshop anymore. It's like xeroxing on a Konica. Or putting Kleenex on your shopping list when you always buy Kroger's generic not-so-soft.)

This drawing reminds me of a show I saw on PBS about a newly discovered Leonardo da Vinci painting. A stylish gal narrated the story of how the painting was authenticated. She spent a lot of time walking around Milan and Paris. I wish they had spent more time filming the art and less time filming her strutting the cobblestone streets in her tight lemon yellow dress. Despite her apparent role as a fashion plate, she was impressively fluent in Italian and French. Anyway, whatever, the point is, they authenticated the painting by infrared light, which showed that the painter had changed his mind about the position of a thumb. First he painted it bending one way. Then he painted it bending another and covered up the older version with layers of paint, something a copy cat artist would never do. That is one compelling reason for believing the painting was an original da Vinci. All this to say, the drawing you see here is untouched. It's authentic. I have integrity: I leave my mistakes for the world to see.

I saw another show on PBS, possibly the same night. I don't remember, because the second show scared the bejesus out of me. I forgot all about the new da Vinci painting until my drawing reminded me just now. Who cares about art when the world's most deadliest volcano is about to erupt! Yep, I'm talking about Katla in Iceland. Holy moly. We are so screwed. That is what I kept saying to my cat as I watched the story unfold, getting more and more terrified. Who cares about art, even a new da Vinci? Who cares about dissertations? When Katla blows, none of that will matter. We should be heading south now. Argh. We are so screwed.

Iceland has many volcanoes. Some are scarier than others. The scientists on the show introduced Laki, followed by Hekla, and then Katla, all of which are worse than the one with the impossible name that erupted a couple years ago. We are talking a mile-high plume of ash blocking out the sun in the northern hemisphere for a year, covering the ground with 15 feet of inert non-fertile material, and coating the land (and your lungs) with sulfuric acid. And like a cranky possibly pregnant teenager, Katla is late.

I thought the earthquake off the Oregon coast was going to be the Big One, but Katla makes our imminent rumble look like a re-run of Dancing with the Stars. Ho hum. Our local disaster will be over in five minutes. Sure, we'll be picking up the pieces for a while, but when Katla erupts, the potential damage will be widespread and long lived. Of course, it all depends on how high the plume goes and how much material is emitted. Maybe it won't be so bad. Yeah, maybe it will be a walk in the park on a slightly rainy day. Annoying but not a catastrophe.

Well, you can imagine, a story like this gets the Chronic Malcontent amped beyond all reason. Yes! Another excuse to claim every worthwhile pursuit is pointlessly doomed. Yay. Now can I retire to that adobe hut in the desert? (I can practically hear you say, What's stopping you?)

Wow, who knew all this verbiage would be inspired from this one drawing?

Words can hurt

Today I took time to take a trot in the park. A lovely spring day is not something to ignore around here, because we won't have one again for a while. Probably around July 5, if past performance is any indication of future events.

While I was standing by one of the open reservoirs, peering into the viridian water, wondering how well the filtering system screens out duck shit and tennis balls, I heard a voice berating someone for singing along to a Lionel Richie song. While I'm not a big Lionel Richie fan, I still am in favor of allowing a person to sing along to whatever music he or she enjoys. In this case, the singer was a boy, maybe ten or twelve, not yet pubescent, a bit on the pudgy side, with headphones and glasses. He and about six other boys were sitting on the warm pavement, resting beside their skateboards.

The berater of the singer was much older, a weathered, blonde man wearing a weird skateboarder wetsuit type outfit. He stood over the group, and made fun of the singing kid. And he just wouldn't quit. He called the kid a girl. (Horrors, god forbid anyone should be called a girl.) He said, “That song was shit the first time around!” The other kids laughed. The singer was obviously mortified, humiliated by the group leader in front of his peers.

I stood nearby, stretching my legs and glaring at the blonde man, wishing I could say something to him that would make him shut up, make him apologize to the group for being such a thoughtless jerk, but realizing that the boy whose creative self-expression I was wanting to support would not thank me, a pasty-legged middle-aged female, for intervening on his behalf in front of his crew. So I just walked away in disgust.

The incident got me thinking about turning points in the lives of young people, and how a few misplaced words can derail dreams. I can remember moments in my life when something someone said changed my trajectory—and not for the better. For example, I remember when my father told me, “Learn how to type so you'll have something to fall back on.” I was in my late teens, I think, still believing I could be an artist, still thinking the world was a friendly place for creative people. I didn't believe I would need a skill like typing. I rebelled. I didn't take typing in high school, but his words planted a message in my mind: Your art will not support you. Be safe, learn another skill. Why couldn't he have suggested welding, or horse-breeding, or something else outside the proscribed world of women? Sadly, I did eventually learn how to type, a skill which led to my impressment into the bitter estrogen-clogged army of administrative assistants, also known as secretaries.

Another crossroads moment came in college. It was 1975. One of my fellow painters told me painting was dead. It was all about conceptual art now, didn't I know, hadn't I heard? The tired world of physical canvases covered with paint was so pedestrian, so the opposite of avante garde. I was a very young 19. What did I know? Not myself, that's for sure. When I heard painting was a dead art form, did I think, hey, artists have been painting since the beginning of time, no way are they going to stop now? No. I had the same reaction I had when I was ten and my friends told me Mike Nesmith was the ugly Monkee. I tore all his pictures off my wall and cried my eyes out. When I heard painting was dead, I switched my major from painting to graphic design, and the rest, as they say, is the sad sordid history of my miserable art career.

I'm not blaming my dad. I'm not blaming my fellow classmate. I'm just pointing out that there are crossroads moments in the lives of young people, moments that offer them a choice, and if they are at all unsure about who they are, the words people toss out so carelessly can have a lasting impact. These people and their thoughtless words can change lives, and not always for the better.

So the next time you have a chance to tell a kid something, even if you think she isn't listening, please be careful what you say.

Thanks for the condolences

I'm feeling a little fragile. Thanks for the condolences. First Davy Jones and now Thomas Kinkade. I can hardly write, I'm so overcome. With what, I'm not sure. Something, I'm feeling something, anyway.

I got home from work on Thursday and found a manila envelope on my front porch. Inside was a recent copy of People Magazine. On the cover, you guessed it—Davy. Sigh. My brother's girlfriend expressed her condolences by giving me something to remember him by, a sleazy tabloid magazine. So thoughtful. I called to thank her. Speaking through my brother (after fourteen years together, they have a polished ventriloquist routine), she said I would probably like to hang them on my bedroom wall. So perceptive. That's what I did when I was ten, so probably I would still do that now. Right.

The day after Davy died, my former significant other from Los Angeles emailed me to offer his condolences. He was being snarky. (I don't blame him, we didn't part on the best of terms.) But I took it at face value and wrote back a short acknowledgement. It's funny, I felt sort of sad when I heard the news, but not all that upset. After all, Davy was never my Monkee.

When I was a kid, there were four girls in the neighborhood gang. Four Monkees, four girls, what could be more perfect. Since Karen had all the Monkee records and the hi-fi stereo, she got first pick, and she chose Peter. Laurie was oldest. She got first dibs on Davy. Susie, her younger sister, chose Mickey, so by default, I ended up with Woolhat. At first, I was disappointed, but like with any disappointment, you learn to accept it and eventually love it. In time I came to believe that I chose Mike. And yes, his pinups were on my bedroom wall for awhile.

Once we all settled into our roles, we never switched. When Laurie wasn't around, the role of Davy was played by my younger sister, Diane. It didn't occur to Karen, Susie, or me to give up our characters to play Davy. We identified with our Monkees. So, when I say Davy was never my Monkee, that is what I'm talking about.

Having said all that, though, I confess that when I heard a Monkees song on the radio, sung by Davy Jones, I shed a couple tears. Not for him, but for my lost childhood. Davy was only eleven years older than me. I wept for the days when I was still ten and my little world embraced my creativity. I cried for the days before I was relegated to the role of second-class female. The days when my body was still my trusted friend. When I was confident in my conviction that I knew exactly what my life was for: to write, to make art, and to deliver it to the world.

Which brings me to the second death, that of Thomas Kinkade. I disparaged the man's art in a few of my earlier posts. He was apparently on a mission to bring light to the dark gloomy Satan-infested corners of the secular world. That deserves some respect, I guess. I certainly can't lay claim to such a lofty ambition. Most days, the closest I come to a mission statement is “Survive, then die.” So, while I can't say I'm feeling terribly sad that Thomas Kinkade, my personal nemesis, is gone, I am feeling sort of bereft. Who will I denigrate now? Who can I hold up as the bane of artists? There is a void now. Maybe it's my turn to carry on the legacy. Maybe I'll start painting on velvet.

Down the rabbit hole: What happens when you go off the food plan

Today I met my colleague and now friend for tea and talk. Let's call her Braceletta, no, how about Bravadita. It is hard to choose a pseudonym for her: she's a subtle soul, deep with winding turns like a Colorado desert canyon. Brava and I met in a tall light-filled cafe and talked about our blogs, our half-written and non-existent writing projects, and our dreams for our creative futures.

I put a tablespoon of half-and-half in the bottom of my tea cup, and poured in the Morning Sunrise tea. Or was it Mountain Sunrise, I can't remember. It sure gave me the jitters, though. Great stuff. We talked for three hours. The time went by in a blink. I wish I had taken notes. We were in the meta mode, where the moment seems like a work of art. The intermittent sunlight, her oatmeal scarf, my delicately flavored tea, my too-tight jeans, her big brown eyes... it felt like we were in a painting. Or a documentary about artists who were talking about making a documentary about artists who... Or a sitcom, minus the laugh track.

When I got home, I cooked and ate breakfast, the usual four eggs and pile of gelatinous onion, zucchini, and beet greens. The combination of food at an unusual hour and that little bit of dairy put me into a drugged fugue. Despite the sunshine and my compulsion to update my blog, I went to bed and slept for two hot, hazy hours. I dreamed the silly things you dream when you are too hot: finding shoes that turn into skateboards, driving roads that change in mid-block and toss you into a new unfamiliar neighborhood, walking on the top deck of the Marquam Bridge, you know, the usual.

Was I drugged by dairy or overwhelmed by the roaring creative demon inside me? Much easier to blame the half-and-half than admit that I was prostrated by the pressure of my creativity. It's not a muse sometimes; it's a monster.

It's so much easier to listen while Brava bemoans her creative blocks. It is easier to offer lame solutions to help her bring her art to life than it is to actually sit down and bring my own art to life. Why is that? When I'm too busy to work at my art, all I do is dream about what I will do when I finally have time. Then when I finally have time, I do nothing. Now, while I'm waiting to find out if my dissertation concept has been approved, is a perfect time to write and make art. And what am I doing? Updating this stupid blog. Again.

I often say I'm a dreamer, not a doer, but watching myself ignore my creativity is like watching the self-centered parent ignore the demanding child. Ignore her one too many times and she becomes a serial killer.

One of my former sponsors would suggest I get over myself. Get a life and live it, Carol. The world doesn't care about my angst. Nor does it treat dreamers kindly, not when they are 55, female, and chronically malcontented. People expect artists and writers to make art and write. Otherwise, why not just call us what we are: bums, wannabes, and whiners. I'm going to peruse my vast library of silly drawings to find one to go with this post, and then I'm going to use the rest of the evening to work on one of my many unfinished writing projects. Progress, not perfection. Here's to us, Brava, the few, the proud, the creatively challenged.

If you don't bring forth what is within you, what is within you will destroy you

I believe this is paraphrased from a Biblical reference. Not being a Biblical scholar, or even a Christian, I have no idea whether that is true. It sounds ominous enough to have come from the Bible, but what do I know. I'm just a poor white trash atheist. What appeals to me about the concept is the somewhat comforting affirmation that it's okay to acknowledge my creative urge to self-express. More than okay, it's imperative.

Nothing can stop me from expressing who I am!

Lately I have been feeling an upswell of creativity. It seems to have reawakened during the time I spent waiting for my Chair to respond to my first concept paper submission (only to discover she didn't actually have access to the paper, another story, see previous rant). All that time on my hands waiting, what to do, what to do. I know. I'll create something.

When I was a kid, I was always writing, painting, drawing. It was my natural state. All kids are creative. I was no exception, but I think I might have been more intense about it than my friends or classmates. I felt the urge to express like a physical wave coming over me, forcing me to sneak away to be alone with my tempera paints and Prismacolors.

In the beginning my creativity was like breathing air. Had to have it. But over time, things changed. I changed. As I grappled with the painful realities of survival in Los Angeles, my desire to create got entangled with my urgent need to earn money. I fell into the trap of believing that my art was obligated to support me, instead of the other way around.

My mantra was: I am willing to earn doing what I love. As if it were simply a matter of mind over reality. Sadly, it is not that simple for me. In my experience, this is not a society that supports artists, unless you follow the party lines and make acceptable art (see previous rant on Thomas Kinkade).

Artists are subject to the same laws of supply and demand as other producers. I'd like to think that art is exempt; it goes against the very definition of art to condemn art-making to the whims of the market. The truth is, I'm just cranky that the demand for art never included the kind of art that I made. My art was acceptable—I was acceptable—when I painted landscapes and flowers. When I graduated to painting lush images of nude females, the titillation and embarrassment in the family manifested as ridicule and feeble pleas to paint something "nice."

My desire to force my art to support me led me down the dark path of art "made-to-order," which isn't art at all, but a perversion perpetrated upon dreamers by a cruel and unsophisticated society. Well, I'd like to blame pretentious collectors and creators of "art," but truthfully, I lost my sense of self and sold out to the almighty dollar. Yes, I did paint a canvas for someone to hang over her couch. Yes, I drew pictures to go on greeting cards. Yes, I sketched space costumes of transparent vinyl for topless Vegas dancers. Yes, I drew a pen-and-ink caricature of my friend's daughter's chihuahua wearing a basketball uniform.

Art made-to-order, also known as commissions, spells doom for an artist like me. My art is self-expression. I can't express someone else's self through my art. It is psychically and physically impossible. When I succumb to the siren call of money and make art to get some, I can't call it art, and I can't claim to be an artist. It feels odd to recognize that, in these days of "all but dissertation," I am feeling strangely creative, and more and more inclined to arrange my life to support my art. More to be revealed on that, I'm sure. And oddly enough, the more I write in this blog, the more I want to create. That old feeling of "must express" has started to return at odd moments. After I write a blog post, I want to keep expressing. It is like something I thought long dead is opening its eyes and stirring its wings.

The art I make now is for me. As pure as it has ever been. And now I know my job is to bring forth what is within me, no matter what. I don't care if you think it is in bad taste. I don't care if you are offended. I don't care if you would rather see butterflies, mushrooms, and fairies. Go buy a Thomas Kinkade. Go buy a velvet Elvis. Put any stupid thing in a frame and call it art. You'll be in good company. But you cannot have what is uniquely mine. I'm closed. The sign says Shut. Not for sale, not at any price.