Hey everyone! It's been so long since we've been together. I apologize for the hiatus, but I've been teaching a fair amount, and generally feeling lost and confused about what I want in life. And about that. It's winter here in the barren wasteland that is January Chicagoland, and I'll tell you that the grey, darkened sky, the spittle and mist that smarts one with unshakable shivers, well: it all feels very fitting for my mood.
To be fair, I'm a melancholy person. I have always been this way, from as far back as memory will reach. Why? Who can say, with certainty. Chalk it up to science of the brain, chemistry as we call it. Blame it on personality. On modeling, environment, a low-income household, a melancholy mother, a passive father who wasn't around a great deal.* Maybe it's the sensitive nature of my soul, the fact that when people suffer, I do in kind. Maybe it has to do with that I pick up negative energy in others like a stud finder detects a stud behind a plastered wall. To be sure, we all have our own conditions for remaining sad types.
Being sad sort of sucks, but then again: aren't we all kind of sad? Don't we all have our own little islands of suffering? Those quiet places we go after a long day, a hard day, a day of general fatigue or disappointment? These days, when technology is ever present, and digitization complicates the way we communicate (see my upcoming post on technology and communication), we are saddened by feelings of rejection, by feelings of loneliness, by feelings of not quite satisfied with our personal connections, so on, so forth. But listen, reader: I don't want you to feel alone. You're not alone. Others feel like crap, too. All the time. They may just do a bang up job of hiding it. Many people are master hiders of generally shitty and sad feelings.
Have you asked yourself lately: what is the solely responsible circumstance, or reality, for my suffering? What is it that's really making me sad? Can it be minimized? Am I doomed to be sad forever? I'm pretty sure you're not doomed to be sad forever. My suggestion for you, is to embrace the sadness. Stay inside. Have a good cry. Get a hot bath going. Call a friend. Make some fresh, stovetop popcorn with melted butter, salt, and perhaps a fine hot sauce like Sriracha. Look at something that's colorful, like a 'wonders of the world' book or an African violet plant or hell, just get on the ole internet and Google anything like 'koalas in the jungle' (I'm pretty sure that's not where koalas live, but email me and tell me what you find). Anything to get pictures in your mind that might peak your imagination or general entertainment.
I'm not saying you shouldn't feel sad. Feeling sad can be grand. In my experience, the next day after a particularly crap day is aces; I might feel cleansed and 'reset' (particularly true if I allow myself to cry). What I am saying, is that you should allow yourself to be distracted from your sadness, if you've got it in you to do so. What I like to do when I'm sad, and even when I'm not, is turn on a candle, stare at its flame and generally zone out. It's fun for sure. It helps me think of my past and my future, and how breathing in the moment is actually pretty damn miraculous. Imagine! Some people actually strain to breathe--like old(er) people and people with heart or lung conditions. But if you can breathe without incident, well that's a marvel! Stare at the candle and celebrate.
What I could do in this post, is turn sadness into a common occurrence, and slap a bunch of labels on it like 'depression' or 'anti-social disorder' or 'acute anxiety.' Who knows, if you're looking for a label, they're everywhere. You might peruse the web for 'psychology and depression,' or 'how to treat my depression.' I'm not interested in labels, to be honest with you. They don't serve me. Melancholy behavior isn't so bad. And look, I feel way less melancholy now, after writing this blog post, than I did when I started it. Get your mind active, that helps, too.
Last weekend, I listened to a talk show on NPR that featured an accomplished, old(er) Austrian mystic. His voice was rasping and he rambled, but he was awesome. He maintains that the best way to handle anxiety, is to observe it, to yield to it (feel it), and then to move through it (act despite the discomfort). Sort of like a portal that has a sci-fiish bubble-like membrane over it. When you stick your fist through the portal, your fist gets taken into the membrane, until it pops, and if you move through it, you come out on another side. The mystic likened the anxiety experience to birth for a newborn. The little soon-to-be-person travels through that terrifying canal into this crazy-ass world, daunting and cold as it must be for a frail, vulnerable creature. When he gets here, situations commence, and the anxiety is behind him. Until a new anxiety begins, and such is the circle of life.
Not that anxiety and sadness are exactly the same thing, but typically, we feel sad because we're anxious about something. For example, yesterday, I broke up with this guy I had been seeing on and off for some months. Well, he sort of 'broke up' with me, as he declared that we were at an impasse, which we were, had been for some time. But my anxiety over dying alone seems to hang over me, a cloak that can't be doffed--like the black spider on the good spider in Spiderman 3. What if I die alone, because there really aren't good guys out there? Scary, indeed. But as a result of this anxiety, comes general feelings of sadness, and so it goes. If I apply the mystic's idea of the baby, or my updated version of the membrane, well, I learn a lot if I yield to the anxiety, but carefully push through it.
Who cares if I die alone? Weren't we alone when we came through that canal? Aren't we always alone? And isn't it sometimes the cases when we're with others, that we end up feeling most isolated and sad? Maybe that's just me. Point is, embrace the sadness, however you can. It could be a new birth, or at least, a really cool membrane journey into some other territory where jungle-dwelling koalas live with African violets all around them, and spiders as people to remind you of how good you actually have it.
*footnote: I'd like to add that each of my parents has offered an unyielding amount of support, and if it seems I'm doing them an injustice, it's simply to add context to my claim. They will always be acknowledged in the bigger body of my works.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
A tale of kings...past and present
Listen, I'm not any sort of Shakespeare buff or anything like that. I fa real respect that the dude was ultra celebrated for his time, and he certainly used some flowery, fanciful language. He's hailed, or his memory is, or legend or whatever you want. And fine, with good enough reason.
Even so, I'm more into the contemporary pleasantries of my day regarding all that is literary. Namely, when comedians and/or musicians use words or phrases like "dang--that's jacked up, y'all!" in their finely crafted products of art. Don't know why, but employing such vernacular seems to find me on my level or something.
And yet, I think of Shakespeare today because he wrote that play called, "A Midsummer Night's Dream," and I can't get its premise out of my mind. I'll tell you why in good time. But first, to get you on a level, I'll sum it up in my own words using my own names and preferred ideas: basically, some magical elf with magical powers casts a spell upon a bunch of foolish people, and thus a good game of cat and mouse ensues involving matters of the heart. Check it out:
Dude called Joey is in love with girl called Zooey, who loves him back. Trouble is, Zooey's dad is like this king, Steve, and he forbids Zooey to be with Joey because instead, King Steve wants his daughter to marry this joker called Brad (mostly because of Brad's elevated status, blah blah blah). But Zooey thinks Brad is a douche bag. Thus, Zooey and Joey fix to flee into the woods one night to be married by Joey's witchy-type aunt Kathy, who apparently knows how to hook up a legal marriage.
Because all girls have to tell at least one other girl about every single thing they do or think or feel, Zooey confides in her pal-ette (a girl pal, not like a profuseness of colors or something), Jessica. By the way, Jessica used to kick it with Brad (meaning, she would get naked with him and they would say incredibly kinky things to each other while so doing), and she's still not totally over that. Jessica follows into the woods to offer her support to Zooey (maybe secretly wishing Brad will follow too).
Alas, complication supervenes, as the magical forest elves also have their own king. He's called King Jameson. Jameson gets a kick out of ordering his lieutenant commander elf, Elijah to put herbal potions on the eye lids of silly people so that they fall in love with people they wouldn't ordinarily love.
Thus, Elijah visits Joey in his sleep, and Joey ends up falling in love with Jessica. You'd think she'd be flattered by that outcome, but she's not, because the plot thickens. King Jameson learns that Elijah flubbed up because it was really Brad he was supposed to put the potion on. And so to correct his ways, Elijah potions Brad as well, and then wah wah wah, Brad loves Jessica too.
Well Brad and Joey are now comprising this cavalcade of crazed lovers over Jessica, and she goes hysterical with paranoia, because like really, who the heck can get one worthy dude interested in a sister, let alone two? So she's like, this can't be fa real, and why is everyone playing pranks on me, so on and so forth.
Meantime, Zooey is hyper to the core jealous. She's all, this is crap, I came out to the woods to woo my man into my arms for all of eternity (or like seven years max, if we're gonna be realistic about it), and now he and that douche bag dude I am supposed to marry, but don't really want to marry, are all up in Jessica's grill? Jessica isn't even that hot. She only does pilates like once a month, she's pudgy in the mid section. I do that jazz like five times a week. Ugh!
A bunch of chasing and hollering and all around jealousy-type fool behavior is transpiring next to this huge, enchanted tree filled with lilacs and cherry blossoms. And then the wind blows at the perfectly crispy springtime or fall time temperature, and it starts to rain flower petals. And King Jameson is like fine, enough is enough, I've been inspired by the beauty that is nature: put these simpletons out of their misery. Everyone: back to your normal crushes!
Well other stuff is happening with other elves and other magical dealings, but short story long as it goes with me: peace is restored. And Zooey somehow convinces her pappy, King Steve, to let her marry Joey. She does so by secretly telling the king she'll hire a bunch of hookers for his yearnings, and then do whatever must be done to hide all the shenanigans from the queen. Namaste and love: The End.
But other than this super good opportunity for me to put this here tale in my own words, why was I compelled to write about this premise? It goes like this:
I'm serious, I think that King Jameson dude really exists. I'm pretty sure he's sprinkling some sort of special Artesian salts into the hair of appealing dudes to get them to like every other girl but the girl that wants them.
If we take into consideration the pervading ails of today's world: namely, that there are more women than men on a population level, that women carry the need-to-perpetuate-the-race gene, and that females are generally more interested in long term relationships, or, at the very least: more interested in deep connections with others (particularly men), then I'd say the woman has a shorter straw than any dude.
And hence, it seems to me: a syndrome in the world has followed; and the syndrome totally thrives in Chicago. It's called, if I'm moderately attractive as a man, I am in ultra high demand, and so am not available, even to you, general, moderately attractive woman.
I used to be all, this is hooey! That's not fair for moderately appealing women because then all those chicks who want to hang out with appealing men are in chick-without-fun-times-with-dudes world.
But now I know the reason for this bs. Now I think it's all in King Jameson's hands. I bet that dude sprinkled that buggered salt into the hair follicles of like 20 guys I've really wanted to have sex with this year, in the interest of turning their heads away from me and onto any other girl (and yo, don't go thinking it's easy for me to find a dude I want to sleep with, but come on, a year is a long time, and we're talking about mostly all looks. If we were assessing dudes I've wanted to sleep with this year based on their personalities alone, I'd say it was more like four dudes. Personalities AND looks, maybe two).
ANYWAY: unfortunately then, the salt was also sprinkled into the hair of this one dude I work with in favor of resting his eye upon yours truly. We'll call him Barney. He's not a dinosaur, he's actually a human. But not an attractive human. His hygiene is relatively low, and I'd gather he showers seldom. To boot, I try to gauge his age, but I'm guessing it's lower than I'd peg, because years are unkind to a person who doesn't shower or eat well or generally educate himself or attempt to preserve his age (drinking on the job is always discouraged for that type of goal).
Trouble is, Barney recently asked me to go out with him. So I guess, because of that crusty king and his crusty salts, it's down to lots of lonely nights, or Barney. Bollucks to you, King Jameson. And I'd like to punch you too, Shakespeare (maybe just lightly, in the arm--after all, you were smart as sugar).
Hugs and elf dust!
Even so, I'm more into the contemporary pleasantries of my day regarding all that is literary. Namely, when comedians and/or musicians use words or phrases like "dang--that's jacked up, y'all!" in their finely crafted products of art. Don't know why, but employing such vernacular seems to find me on my level or something.
And yet, I think of Shakespeare today because he wrote that play called, "A Midsummer Night's Dream," and I can't get its premise out of my mind. I'll tell you why in good time. But first, to get you on a level, I'll sum it up in my own words using my own names and preferred ideas: basically, some magical elf with magical powers casts a spell upon a bunch of foolish people, and thus a good game of cat and mouse ensues involving matters of the heart. Check it out:
Dude called Joey is in love with girl called Zooey, who loves him back. Trouble is, Zooey's dad is like this king, Steve, and he forbids Zooey to be with Joey because instead, King Steve wants his daughter to marry this joker called Brad (mostly because of Brad's elevated status, blah blah blah). But Zooey thinks Brad is a douche bag. Thus, Zooey and Joey fix to flee into the woods one night to be married by Joey's witchy-type aunt Kathy, who apparently knows how to hook up a legal marriage.
Because all girls have to tell at least one other girl about every single thing they do or think or feel, Zooey confides in her pal-ette (a girl pal, not like a profuseness of colors or something), Jessica. By the way, Jessica used to kick it with Brad (meaning, she would get naked with him and they would say incredibly kinky things to each other while so doing), and she's still not totally over that. Jessica follows into the woods to offer her support to Zooey (maybe secretly wishing Brad will follow too).
Alas, complication supervenes, as the magical forest elves also have their own king. He's called King Jameson. Jameson gets a kick out of ordering his lieutenant commander elf, Elijah to put herbal potions on the eye lids of silly people so that they fall in love with people they wouldn't ordinarily love.
Thus, Elijah visits Joey in his sleep, and Joey ends up falling in love with Jessica. You'd think she'd be flattered by that outcome, but she's not, because the plot thickens. King Jameson learns that Elijah flubbed up because it was really Brad he was supposed to put the potion on. And so to correct his ways, Elijah potions Brad as well, and then wah wah wah, Brad loves Jessica too.
Well Brad and Joey are now comprising this cavalcade of crazed lovers over Jessica, and she goes hysterical with paranoia, because like really, who the heck can get one worthy dude interested in a sister, let alone two? So she's like, this can't be fa real, and why is everyone playing pranks on me, so on and so forth.
Meantime, Zooey is hyper to the core jealous. She's all, this is crap, I came out to the woods to woo my man into my arms for all of eternity (or like seven years max, if we're gonna be realistic about it), and now he and that douche bag dude I am supposed to marry, but don't really want to marry, are all up in Jessica's grill? Jessica isn't even that hot. She only does pilates like once a month, she's pudgy in the mid section. I do that jazz like five times a week. Ugh!
A bunch of chasing and hollering and all around jealousy-type fool behavior is transpiring next to this huge, enchanted tree filled with lilacs and cherry blossoms. And then the wind blows at the perfectly crispy springtime or fall time temperature, and it starts to rain flower petals. And King Jameson is like fine, enough is enough, I've been inspired by the beauty that is nature: put these simpletons out of their misery. Everyone: back to your normal crushes!
Well other stuff is happening with other elves and other magical dealings, but short story long as it goes with me: peace is restored. And Zooey somehow convinces her pappy, King Steve, to let her marry Joey. She does so by secretly telling the king she'll hire a bunch of hookers for his yearnings, and then do whatever must be done to hide all the shenanigans from the queen. Namaste and love: The End.
But other than this super good opportunity for me to put this here tale in my own words, why was I compelled to write about this premise? It goes like this:
I'm serious, I think that King Jameson dude really exists. I'm pretty sure he's sprinkling some sort of special Artesian salts into the hair of appealing dudes to get them to like every other girl but the girl that wants them.
If we take into consideration the pervading ails of today's world: namely, that there are more women than men on a population level, that women carry the need-to-perpetuate-the-race gene, and that females are generally more interested in long term relationships, or, at the very least: more interested in deep connections with others (particularly men), then I'd say the woman has a shorter straw than any dude.
And hence, it seems to me: a syndrome in the world has followed; and the syndrome totally thrives in Chicago. It's called, if I'm moderately attractive as a man, I am in ultra high demand, and so am not available, even to you, general, moderately attractive woman.
I used to be all, this is hooey! That's not fair for moderately appealing women because then all those chicks who want to hang out with appealing men are in chick-without-fun-times-with-dudes world.
But now I know the reason for this bs. Now I think it's all in King Jameson's hands. I bet that dude sprinkled that buggered salt into the hair follicles of like 20 guys I've really wanted to have sex with this year, in the interest of turning their heads away from me and onto any other girl (and yo, don't go thinking it's easy for me to find a dude I want to sleep with, but come on, a year is a long time, and we're talking about mostly all looks. If we were assessing dudes I've wanted to sleep with this year based on their personalities alone, I'd say it was more like four dudes. Personalities AND looks, maybe two).
ANYWAY: unfortunately then, the salt was also sprinkled into the hair of this one dude I work with in favor of resting his eye upon yours truly. We'll call him Barney. He's not a dinosaur, he's actually a human. But not an attractive human. His hygiene is relatively low, and I'd gather he showers seldom. To boot, I try to gauge his age, but I'm guessing it's lower than I'd peg, because years are unkind to a person who doesn't shower or eat well or generally educate himself or attempt to preserve his age (drinking on the job is always discouraged for that type of goal).
Trouble is, Barney recently asked me to go out with him. So I guess, because of that crusty king and his crusty salts, it's down to lots of lonely nights, or Barney. Bollucks to you, King Jameson. And I'd like to punch you too, Shakespeare (maybe just lightly, in the arm--after all, you were smart as sugar).
Hugs and elf dust!
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Save negative reviews for those with a sense of pride
Dear reader,
I feel I have so much to tell you.
I didn't refer to you as reader because you're a general you, reader. I referred to you as reader because you're my only reader, my one and only. It's a romantic bond we've set up. I really appreciate you.
Right then. So one of the things on my docket of details to convey is this recent review I received, which was rather biting. A non-admirer, if you will, found that my writing was "instantly forgettable." He then went on, in his review, to convey that I, as a writer presumably, "have zero talent." What a sexy review! And yes, this was well after he called me a "remarkably rude cunt." Sultry and sexy indeed. It drove me wild. He found me remarkable! Made me think I should go on more unsuccessful dates. But then I digress, as I didn't tell you about the nature of my connection with the non-admirer--I'll come back to that later.
You see, reader: before I give you the context for which this shit review was sprung upon yours true as ever, let me tell you that this particular man was missing a distinct detail in his perhaps limited mind, which is that I simply do not give a shit what people think about my writing. Why, you ask? Because I am not proud of my work! No indeed! I've never assessed myself as an aces writer. As a lady of exceptional talents, a diamond in the rough. No no no!
It's rather funny, I find, how some people out there apprise artistic types to have fragile egos. "Ohh! If I really want to find a weapon against that cat, I'll just insult his art! That will get 'em good." Do these people not realize that to be a sensitive creative sort and survive, one must build about a thick skin? Instantly forgettable? Zero talent, definitely none at all? Oh truly you make me laugh, Mr. non-admirer.
It was basically one of those quick-style dates from an online site. I had recently been persuaded by a girlfriend of mine to give the site a shot. I'd never been much for online dating--I'd had a couple doozie experiences in my early twenties. And yet, I do like to keep an open mind. Plus, who likes to be single for so long? It's been months since I've been with someone, on top of Jesus--It's hard to meet people! And so it went...
ToBeCont, reader.
I didn't refer to you as reader because you're a general you, reader. I referred to you as reader because you're my only reader, my one and only. It's a romantic bond we've set up. I really appreciate you.
Right then. So one of the things on my docket of details to convey is this recent review I received, which was rather biting. A non-admirer, if you will, found that my writing was "instantly forgettable." He then went on, in his review, to convey that I, as a writer presumably, "have zero talent." What a sexy review! And yes, this was well after he called me a "remarkably rude cunt." Sultry and sexy indeed. It drove me wild. He found me remarkable! Made me think I should go on more unsuccessful dates. But then I digress, as I didn't tell you about the nature of my connection with the non-admirer--I'll come back to that later.
You see, reader: before I give you the context for which this shit review was sprung upon yours true as ever, let me tell you that this particular man was missing a distinct detail in his perhaps limited mind, which is that I simply do not give a shit what people think about my writing. Why, you ask? Because I am not proud of my work! No indeed! I've never assessed myself as an aces writer. As a lady of exceptional talents, a diamond in the rough. No no no!
It's rather funny, I find, how some people out there apprise artistic types to have fragile egos. "Ohh! If I really want to find a weapon against that cat, I'll just insult his art! That will get 'em good." Do these people not realize that to be a sensitive creative sort and survive, one must build about a thick skin? Instantly forgettable? Zero talent, definitely none at all? Oh truly you make me laugh, Mr. non-admirer.
It was basically one of those quick-style dates from an online site. I had recently been persuaded by a girlfriend of mine to give the site a shot. I'd never been much for online dating--I'd had a couple doozie experiences in my early twenties. And yet, I do like to keep an open mind. Plus, who likes to be single for so long? It's been months since I've been with someone, on top of Jesus--It's hard to meet people! And so it went...
ToBeCont, reader.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
The master failed writer
I write this post on behalf of failed writers. The definition of a failed writer is simple, and not so simple. A failed writer is one who claims he is a writer; he may even write regularly. Perhaps he writes every day. He might arise each morning at 6:00 a.m. to put pen to page. Let's say he comes up with as many as two thousand words in a sixty-minute interval. We don't care what he writes. Brilliant blog posts. Articles a propos endangered species. Interviews with high profile community figure heads. Full chapters toward potentially best selling novels. Comedy sketches witty and thoughtful enough to put SNL to shame. He dabbles into it all, in fact.
But though this lonely gentleman may be a very skilled writer, and quite a versatile writer (if he does say so himself), he is failing. Because nobody recognizes him as a paid writer. He has no freelancing gigs to speak of. He quit his job as an online newspaper reporter, where he was making a measly $200 a month writing about dog owners (an executed decision because he needed "something deeper"). He toils away at aforementioned materials, sends out resumes for part time this and that for a copy writer, a resume writer, a blog poster, a features editor. In return, he gets no response; in his mind, the sad man is a failed writer. A wordsmith who has thrown his hands in the air and shouted, there is no money to be made--meaningfully or otherwise--in this stupid business.
I know how the man feels. I ran into this stranger one night, late, at the Walgreen's in my Chicago neighborhood, coined Ravenswood. I was there on a mission for eye drops, given my unrelenting, late-summer allergies. And he was there, in aisle 8. His eyes were blood shot (I could relate to that detail too, as it were), and he looked as though he was going to cry (if he had not done already). He appeared drunk, but somehow I knew that he was not drunk. Call it a hunch. Now, I realize it might have been a writer-to-writer hunch. Writers can often sense things of other writers--a sixth sense of sorts--among their species. Is this true? Oh, I don't know.
In any case, this failed writer who appeared drunk but in the end proved only sad and confused and lost as a writer, painfully sober was he, managed to look up to face me. He forced a half smile, and then his gaze returned to what he was erstwhile eyeing: a Maxim magazine. A surge of sympathy--empathy, even--warmed my skin. A blast of raw, sanguine compassion deliberating through my insides. And there, in that moment, I really did feel his pain.
I had half a mind to say something to the red-eyed man. Ask him if he was okay. He certainly didn't appear okay: his hair was a-muck. Either he had recently been having love relations, had come to from a very long nap, had suffered the labors of an unskilled coiffeur, or had been pulling at his roots from frustration and mind chaos. I realized it was the latter--a feeling I know. All too well, in fact.
Many a night have I spent awake, as a writer, or a failed writer, or a not-yet-tried writer, wondering how I could dare put words to page. Words unlike those of the extolled greats, but instead phrases and fragments which read as hardly more than horseshit, really. None of the conjunctions or transitions or topics making sense in juxtaposition. Mismatched metaphors. Hyperbolic expressions, like a child would weave. Weak euphemisms swimming through my prose, like drunken sperm attempting to blindly fertilize an egg--all the while hackneying any attempt at a unified, authoritative voice. I wrote like a fucking child!
'Tis what I thought, when I was alone during those late nights. And so I felt this man's pain in that moment. But though I started to say something to the poor guy, nothing came out. I even tried a couple different times, in a couple different ways. Nothing. As I selected my eye drops and commenced to go, he said something: It's a bitch you know. But when he said it, he was looking down at the Maxim magazine. I didn't respond, but I didn't leave, which to him must have been the same as saying, I beg your pardon?
Avery Dushane, he said. This woman was featured on the cover, I surmised. Later, when I would go home and look it up online, I would learn the featured subject was indeed Avery Dushane. As far as I could tell, just another floozy model that had probably done a million other covers like such. And again, there in the moment, I refrained from an audible response. I only looked at the sad man, which must have conveyed to him, I don't know what you mean.
You know I dated her, he said, as he ran ink-stained fingers through his disheveled coif. It was a question, I guess. Still I didn't say anything; just stood there like a deer in front of a car at night. Long ago, he continued. I took photos of her, even interviewed her. I pitched the piece months after the fact. And this is the bitch of it, he added, his tone moving toward excitement.
And there was me. In a grimy, offensively lit Walgreens somewhere on the northeast side of Chicago. About to hear what the bitch of this man's run in was with Avery Doucheman or whatever and the sad man's business of pitching to magazines. There I stood, serving as listener to this lonely writer's tale. I could tell he was getting a big bang out of it. I'm sure that's how Holden Caulfield would think on the matter, anyhow. For a moment, I even felt like a kind of hero, revealing to this man a sliver of interest in his insignificant plight.
The bitch of it, he repeated, emphasizing the word bitch, was I pitched it to Maxim! We've featured too many European models these past several issues, the man said, in a nasally voice, like he was imitating a whiny child or something. Check back in two years, he mumbled, now in his own voice, and flicked the cover with his inky middle finger.
And then there was silence. Just me standing there, feeling kind of lost and naked and largely sympathetic still, and him shaking his head, surveying the magazine cover as if the opportunity to plunge into its pages and strangle the bodies which comprised the publication's masthead, or Avery such and such herself presented itself, he'd take it at the speed of a sonic boom.
Eh, who cares, it's just a stupid magazine, right? This was his revelation, the sad man's newest audible thought. But this time, I answered. Exactly right, I said, and I managed a subtle smile ... just a stupid magazine. Yeah, he said, nodding and putting the magazine back in its place on the rack. Just a silly magazine. After he said this, we looked at each other for a long moment, with all of the comfortable feelings silently exchanged between old friends. But we weren't old friends, not but for that final moment.
After our few shared seconds, I wondered if the man would be okay. But then it was time to go. I knew I'd never find out. And even now, I hope he is okay--or even writing about not being okay. Failed writer in his mind perhaps, but in mine, a master failed writer ... at least.
But though this lonely gentleman may be a very skilled writer, and quite a versatile writer (if he does say so himself), he is failing. Because nobody recognizes him as a paid writer. He has no freelancing gigs to speak of. He quit his job as an online newspaper reporter, where he was making a measly $200 a month writing about dog owners (an executed decision because he needed "something deeper"). He toils away at aforementioned materials, sends out resumes for part time this and that for a copy writer, a resume writer, a blog poster, a features editor. In return, he gets no response; in his mind, the sad man is a failed writer. A wordsmith who has thrown his hands in the air and shouted, there is no money to be made--meaningfully or otherwise--in this stupid business.
I know how the man feels. I ran into this stranger one night, late, at the Walgreen's in my Chicago neighborhood, coined Ravenswood. I was there on a mission for eye drops, given my unrelenting, late-summer allergies. And he was there, in aisle 8. His eyes were blood shot (I could relate to that detail too, as it were), and he looked as though he was going to cry (if he had not done already). He appeared drunk, but somehow I knew that he was not drunk. Call it a hunch. Now, I realize it might have been a writer-to-writer hunch. Writers can often sense things of other writers--a sixth sense of sorts--among their species. Is this true? Oh, I don't know.
In any case, this failed writer who appeared drunk but in the end proved only sad and confused and lost as a writer, painfully sober was he, managed to look up to face me. He forced a half smile, and then his gaze returned to what he was erstwhile eyeing: a Maxim magazine. A surge of sympathy--empathy, even--warmed my skin. A blast of raw, sanguine compassion deliberating through my insides. And there, in that moment, I really did feel his pain.
I had half a mind to say something to the red-eyed man. Ask him if he was okay. He certainly didn't appear okay: his hair was a-muck. Either he had recently been having love relations, had come to from a very long nap, had suffered the labors of an unskilled coiffeur, or had been pulling at his roots from frustration and mind chaos. I realized it was the latter--a feeling I know. All too well, in fact.
Many a night have I spent awake, as a writer, or a failed writer, or a not-yet-tried writer, wondering how I could dare put words to page. Words unlike those of the extolled greats, but instead phrases and fragments which read as hardly more than horseshit, really. None of the conjunctions or transitions or topics making sense in juxtaposition. Mismatched metaphors. Hyperbolic expressions, like a child would weave. Weak euphemisms swimming through my prose, like drunken sperm attempting to blindly fertilize an egg--all the while hackneying any attempt at a unified, authoritative voice. I wrote like a fucking child!
'Tis what I thought, when I was alone during those late nights. And so I felt this man's pain in that moment. But though I started to say something to the poor guy, nothing came out. I even tried a couple different times, in a couple different ways. Nothing. As I selected my eye drops and commenced to go, he said something: It's a bitch you know. But when he said it, he was looking down at the Maxim magazine. I didn't respond, but I didn't leave, which to him must have been the same as saying, I beg your pardon?
Avery Dushane, he said. This woman was featured on the cover, I surmised. Later, when I would go home and look it up online, I would learn the featured subject was indeed Avery Dushane. As far as I could tell, just another floozy model that had probably done a million other covers like such. And again, there in the moment, I refrained from an audible response. I only looked at the sad man, which must have conveyed to him, I don't know what you mean.
You know I dated her, he said, as he ran ink-stained fingers through his disheveled coif. It was a question, I guess. Still I didn't say anything; just stood there like a deer in front of a car at night. Long ago, he continued. I took photos of her, even interviewed her. I pitched the piece months after the fact. And this is the bitch of it, he added, his tone moving toward excitement.
And there was me. In a grimy, offensively lit Walgreens somewhere on the northeast side of Chicago. About to hear what the bitch of this man's run in was with Avery Doucheman or whatever and the sad man's business of pitching to magazines. There I stood, serving as listener to this lonely writer's tale. I could tell he was getting a big bang out of it. I'm sure that's how Holden Caulfield would think on the matter, anyhow. For a moment, I even felt like a kind of hero, revealing to this man a sliver of interest in his insignificant plight.
The bitch of it, he repeated, emphasizing the word bitch, was I pitched it to Maxim! We've featured too many European models these past several issues, the man said, in a nasally voice, like he was imitating a whiny child or something. Check back in two years, he mumbled, now in his own voice, and flicked the cover with his inky middle finger.
And then there was silence. Just me standing there, feeling kind of lost and naked and largely sympathetic still, and him shaking his head, surveying the magazine cover as if the opportunity to plunge into its pages and strangle the bodies which comprised the publication's masthead, or Avery such and such herself presented itself, he'd take it at the speed of a sonic boom.
Eh, who cares, it's just a stupid magazine, right? This was his revelation, the sad man's newest audible thought. But this time, I answered. Exactly right, I said, and I managed a subtle smile ... just a stupid magazine. Yeah, he said, nodding and putting the magazine back in its place on the rack. Just a silly magazine. After he said this, we looked at each other for a long moment, with all of the comfortable feelings silently exchanged between old friends. But we weren't old friends, not but for that final moment.
After our few shared seconds, I wondered if the man would be okay. But then it was time to go. I knew I'd never find out. And even now, I hope he is okay--or even writing about not being okay. Failed writer in his mind perhaps, but in mine, a master failed writer ... at least.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
My Letter to Michael Pollan
Hi Michael,
I could make this email quite long and explain how I've thought to contact you for several weeks now, after viewing 'Food Inc.' and then voraciously devouring your 'The Omnivore's Dilemma' and 'A Place of My Own.' I could yammer about how both your writing style and belief system have captivated me with a renewed inspiration as a writer, as well as hope that I might yet be able to find a journalistic niche as well.
But now I'm making the email long, so forgive me. I write because I'm attempting to puncture the world of freelance journalism. To do so, I am working on an essay about how the issues you raised in 'The Omnivore's Dilemma' have drastically altered my perspective, allowing me to "wake up," so to speak, to many of the world's issues. To carve my own path as a steward for these issues, as you have done.
But I can't yet get to the bottom of why this information is so fascinating for me. So I thought I'd ask you:
What was the defining moment (or set of events) which led to your unrelenting pursuit to dissect and reveal the Food Industry the way you so deftly do? In short, why food for you? Is it a pursuit that grew unforeseen? Or did you wake up one day and say, Ah ha! Now I know what I must do?
If by some silly chance you respond to this email, might I use your answer in my essay for publication? Either way, I'm ever so obliged, simply for you and for the work that you do.
Kindest regards,
Jinnene Foster
freelance writer/college writing instructor, Chicago
I could make this email quite long and explain how I've thought to contact you for several weeks now, after viewing 'Food Inc.' and then voraciously devouring your 'The Omnivore's Dilemma' and 'A Place of My Own.' I could yammer about how both your writing style and belief system have captivated me with a renewed inspiration as a writer, as well as hope that I might yet be able to find a journalistic niche as well.
But now I'm making the email long, so forgive me. I write because I'm attempting to puncture the world of freelance journalism. To do so, I am working on an essay about how the issues you raised in 'The Omnivore's Dilemma' have drastically altered my perspective, allowing me to "wake up," so to speak, to many of the world's issues. To carve my own path as a steward for these issues, as you have done.
But I can't yet get to the bottom of why this information is so fascinating for me. So I thought I'd ask you:
What was the defining moment (or set of events) which led to your unrelenting pursuit to dissect and reveal the Food Industry the way you so deftly do? In short, why food for you? Is it a pursuit that grew unforeseen? Or did you wake up one day and say, Ah ha! Now I know what I must do?
If by some silly chance you respond to this email, might I use your answer in my essay for publication? Either way, I'm ever so obliged, simply for you and for the work that you do.
Kindest regards,
Jinnene Foster
freelance writer/college writing instructor, Chicago
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Wake up and smell aware
Recently, I embarked upon a new mission to live awake. That is, to engage in ongoing education (of myself, and then hopefully, for my students) regarding issues in our economy, society and environment. "Sustainability" is the term our world has adopted to coin the trend to improve each of these vital sectors. For each of these systems suffer; not only among my own community in Chicago, but globally as well.
Phrases like "sustainability" and "going green" might unfortunately be apt to serve as reasons for turned heads against these enterprises. I know that, because in the past, these were the exact types of terms I would hear about in social circles, or catch a faint glimpse of in the occasional article, but also never paid much mind to follow up on. This could be due to my (albeit ever maturing) rebellious nature, and a desire to ignore all things media grabbing and seemingly complicated in nature. But I also attribute my ambivalence to just that: the sheer complication of what these issues entail on a community member level.
Going green, as far as I could recently understand, meant paying more mind to recycling, incorporating more LED lights into the household, being mindful toward the amount of energy and water we use at home and a cornucopia of very high-tech, scientific practices that someone on an aspiring freelance writer/part time college teacher's salary could never partake in. Like I own property, or if I did, would I have money to implement a green roof? If only.
But then, several weeks ago, my boyfriend Ian and I visited Nationwide video in Lakeview, for purposes of turning up a new title that might (if we were lucky) assuage our household entertainment thirsts for the evening. We found a couple of winners (the names of which elude me, so maybe they weren't superior winners), and I was pleased. It's always disheartening to leave the video store empty handed, if only because it reminds your cultural craving that a lot of crap film is produced in this world. That or the video store carries a limited selection. Or I simply see more movies than I probably should, as I don't much care for repeat viewings.
But before I checked out, for whatever reason, Food Inc. popped into my mind (it wasn't among the pair we'd selected), and I asked the clerk if the store carried it. The dark-haired, bespectacled and jovial sir looked it up and said they did. Always the compliment to my methods, Ian then graciously retrieved the small tab from where the film lived on the shelves of the section "Documentary/TV Shows" (to signal to future customers the film had been rented). I signed the slip that states I promise to return the selections, we three said our thank yous, exchanged smiles, and Ian and me were homeward bound.
What fun! I thought, as we walked north to the Ravenswood area. I had wanted to see the much talked about film since I attended Michael Pollan's lecture at the Harold Washington Library some years ago (the film is closely correlated with Pollan's work explored through his book, The Omnivore's Dilemma). But little did I know what was in store for me; or that the film would ultimately change my world view. I began to notice this change almost immediately when we arrived home and fired up the DVD. Over the next days, I would observe the change ever more each day as I digested more literature on the subjects explored through the film.
The film, for those who aren't familiar, approaches topics of the U.S. food industry. It delves into the simple, yet not so comfortable question to face: Where the heck does our food really come from? The answers are far less than glamorous. And yet, when you get right down to it, though it can initially be disheartening to learn about the perils of our food economy: that we mistreat animals to produce meat on a mass scale to name one, there is something inherently satisfying about knowing how food A gets from point X to point Y (where Y in this case equals my plate). This film, I would come to find, would set in a motion a quest for me to consider "the truth" behind our food.
Note to the reader: I understand that "truth" is an interpretive concept. Of course I took this material at face value. But believe me when I say that "Food Inc." makes a very compelling argument about the to and fro of American grub.
And so what about all that exactly happened to me--in my mind, and to my senses--in those initial moments of watching the film? It was like my soul was craving a message, and this message was the one to latch upon: Stare your food in the face. Really peer into how our food is processed before reaching our naive little plates.
I don't know about you: I'd rather be disgusted and informed, as opposed to oblivious and not disgusted. That's just me. Awareness is the most beautiful gift in life, even if it can be tough to embrace at first glance.
And more on this upcoming ... In the meantime: Watch Food Inc., and stay informed about what you put in your mouth.
Phrases like "sustainability" and "going green" might unfortunately be apt to serve as reasons for turned heads against these enterprises. I know that, because in the past, these were the exact types of terms I would hear about in social circles, or catch a faint glimpse of in the occasional article, but also never paid much mind to follow up on. This could be due to my (albeit ever maturing) rebellious nature, and a desire to ignore all things media grabbing and seemingly complicated in nature. But I also attribute my ambivalence to just that: the sheer complication of what these issues entail on a community member level.
Going green, as far as I could recently understand, meant paying more mind to recycling, incorporating more LED lights into the household, being mindful toward the amount of energy and water we use at home and a cornucopia of very high-tech, scientific practices that someone on an aspiring freelance writer/part time college teacher's salary could never partake in. Like I own property, or if I did, would I have money to implement a green roof? If only.
But then, several weeks ago, my boyfriend Ian and I visited Nationwide video in Lakeview, for purposes of turning up a new title that might (if we were lucky) assuage our household entertainment thirsts for the evening. We found a couple of winners (the names of which elude me, so maybe they weren't superior winners), and I was pleased. It's always disheartening to leave the video store empty handed, if only because it reminds your cultural craving that a lot of crap film is produced in this world. That or the video store carries a limited selection. Or I simply see more movies than I probably should, as I don't much care for repeat viewings.
But before I checked out, for whatever reason, Food Inc. popped into my mind (it wasn't among the pair we'd selected), and I asked the clerk if the store carried it. The dark-haired, bespectacled and jovial sir looked it up and said they did. Always the compliment to my methods, Ian then graciously retrieved the small tab from where the film lived on the shelves of the section "Documentary/TV Shows" (to signal to future customers the film had been rented). I signed the slip that states I promise to return the selections, we three said our thank yous, exchanged smiles, and Ian and me were homeward bound.
What fun! I thought, as we walked north to the Ravenswood area. I had wanted to see the much talked about film since I attended Michael Pollan's lecture at the Harold Washington Library some years ago (the film is closely correlated with Pollan's work explored through his book, The Omnivore's Dilemma). But little did I know what was in store for me; or that the film would ultimately change my world view. I began to notice this change almost immediately when we arrived home and fired up the DVD. Over the next days, I would observe the change ever more each day as I digested more literature on the subjects explored through the film.
The film, for those who aren't familiar, approaches topics of the U.S. food industry. It delves into the simple, yet not so comfortable question to face: Where the heck does our food really come from? The answers are far less than glamorous. And yet, when you get right down to it, though it can initially be disheartening to learn about the perils of our food economy: that we mistreat animals to produce meat on a mass scale to name one, there is something inherently satisfying about knowing how food A gets from point X to point Y (where Y in this case equals my plate). This film, I would come to find, would set in a motion a quest for me to consider "the truth" behind our food.
Note to the reader: I understand that "truth" is an interpretive concept. Of course I took this material at face value. But believe me when I say that "Food Inc." makes a very compelling argument about the to and fro of American grub.
And so what about all that exactly happened to me--in my mind, and to my senses--in those initial moments of watching the film? It was like my soul was craving a message, and this message was the one to latch upon: Stare your food in the face. Really peer into how our food is processed before reaching our naive little plates.
I don't know about you: I'd rather be disgusted and informed, as opposed to oblivious and not disgusted. That's just me. Awareness is the most beautiful gift in life, even if it can be tough to embrace at first glance.
And more on this upcoming ... In the meantime: Watch Food Inc., and stay informed about what you put in your mouth.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The Careering Uncareerer
It's a lot like trying to fit a giant tub of spaghetti into a tupperware that certainly is not big enough to hold these globby contents.
I know. I did it that time. Maybe not with spaghetti. But one night, on a whim when I made macaroni and cheese because I just had to have it, I also ate like seven bites and then said, shit this stuff is rich. But I couldn't waste it because all over the media, I'd see advertisements for renewable energy and greening our economy, and in the distant social buzz, I'd hear things like sustainability, which really I don't know what is, yet I think it must have a tiny, or big, thing to do with all this environment hoopla.
So I decide to go with the distant, foggy green program in my mind and opt for putting the macaroni ('character noodles' I hear is best) into a container for later. Will I actually eat it later? Who cares. But then I riffle through my container cupboard (because I own one of those specifically so should this situation come up), and I realize there are only two containers in this specialty cupboard: one is a tiny itty wee bit of a tub. In fact, this wee plastic cup contraption, once used by the food industry to transport sour cream of some sort, can barely hold half of a lemon. That, at least I can imagine going in there.
But this galactic portion of macaroni? Not a chance. And on with the riffling through to the other object: a container which was to once hold sour cream as well. Curious. Do I cook often with sour cream? In any case, same sour cream. Bigger container. Still, that mac and cheese character variety ain't going in there.
And there we are. But what's like this? I told you something was like this. Becoming a careering uncareerer. It's like being those contents of enriched flour shapes and cheese powder cream, and not being able to fit in the erstwhile sour cream tub. I want to. Fit, I mean. Because it would prove secure in there, safe from the microbes in the air (though they would find a way in), from the light of the refrigerator, from the garbage disposal or compost pile or dog jaws or whatever.
In there, I could make a living. A living as dead, used, aging macaroni. But at least I'd have a function. If disposed of, I wouldn't really get that, right?
I'm telling you that making a career out of being uncareerable feels like this excess macaroni must feel looking at the container of air, knowing it can't all go in there, despite its unyielding desire (to fit). Painstakingly searching all those search engines (Google typically suffices) and landing on countless job sites and thrusting what would be--save this wannabe sustainable economy, and the invention of emailable CVs--piles of resumes out into cyberspace. Crossing fingers with secret prayers for a response, yet knowing deep within that response will likely evade delivering to any of the players from my media gadget repertoire.
Or maybe this is what it's like to be a writer. Or like that green-going economy, of the wannabe variety. Stuffing a 32-oz box of prepared mac n cheese contents into a 16-oz cup. To be fair, I'm not sure how many ounces are in a prototype of mac n cheese. This, friends, is the mark of a proper lazy journalist. Would I deserve a fellowship of some sort, in that trade? I'm pretty sure McGee and Snee foundation would want a lazy journalist. A careering uncareerer.
You shouldn't wrap your head around it too tightly. To be sure, the careering uncareerer is a lot like macaroni and cheese and a comparatively microscopic sour cream container.
I know. I did it that time. Maybe not with spaghetti. But one night, on a whim when I made macaroni and cheese because I just had to have it, I also ate like seven bites and then said, shit this stuff is rich. But I couldn't waste it because all over the media, I'd see advertisements for renewable energy and greening our economy, and in the distant social buzz, I'd hear things like sustainability, which really I don't know what is, yet I think it must have a tiny, or big, thing to do with all this environment hoopla.
So I decide to go with the distant, foggy green program in my mind and opt for putting the macaroni ('character noodles' I hear is best) into a container for later. Will I actually eat it later? Who cares. But then I riffle through my container cupboard (because I own one of those specifically so should this situation come up), and I realize there are only two containers in this specialty cupboard: one is a tiny itty wee bit of a tub. In fact, this wee plastic cup contraption, once used by the food industry to transport sour cream of some sort, can barely hold half of a lemon. That, at least I can imagine going in there.
But this galactic portion of macaroni? Not a chance. And on with the riffling through to the other object: a container which was to once hold sour cream as well. Curious. Do I cook often with sour cream? In any case, same sour cream. Bigger container. Still, that mac and cheese character variety ain't going in there.
And there we are. But what's like this? I told you something was like this. Becoming a careering uncareerer. It's like being those contents of enriched flour shapes and cheese powder cream, and not being able to fit in the erstwhile sour cream tub. I want to. Fit, I mean. Because it would prove secure in there, safe from the microbes in the air (though they would find a way in), from the light of the refrigerator, from the garbage disposal or compost pile or dog jaws or whatever.
In there, I could make a living. A living as dead, used, aging macaroni. But at least I'd have a function. If disposed of, I wouldn't really get that, right?
I'm telling you that making a career out of being uncareerable feels like this excess macaroni must feel looking at the container of air, knowing it can't all go in there, despite its unyielding desire (to fit). Painstakingly searching all those search engines (Google typically suffices) and landing on countless job sites and thrusting what would be--save this wannabe sustainable economy, and the invention of emailable CVs--piles of resumes out into cyberspace. Crossing fingers with secret prayers for a response, yet knowing deep within that response will likely evade delivering to any of the players from my media gadget repertoire.
Or maybe this is what it's like to be a writer. Or like that green-going economy, of the wannabe variety. Stuffing a 32-oz box of prepared mac n cheese contents into a 16-oz cup. To be fair, I'm not sure how many ounces are in a prototype of mac n cheese. This, friends, is the mark of a proper lazy journalist. Would I deserve a fellowship of some sort, in that trade? I'm pretty sure McGee and Snee foundation would want a lazy journalist. A careering uncareerer.
You shouldn't wrap your head around it too tightly. To be sure, the careering uncareerer is a lot like macaroni and cheese and a comparatively microscopic sour cream container.
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