Facebook Fast

So I'm fasting a bit from Facebook.

And it's hard. Really hard. It's hard because my sister just had her teeth removed and that's so many excellent FB statuses (like I am 100% honest when I say that she woke up in the recovery room and began reading the instructions on the side of a wet wipe container with great detail to her recovery room roommate in a very loud voice). It's hard because I'm living at home and there's not much going on except what my parents have to do etc. I'm an extrovert. I get energy from others. It's a bit difficult to get human interaction when I have no friends to feed my emotions. It's strange strange strange to have nothing to do when you're terribly bored. But if nothing else, I've figured out just how much I'm addicted to FB. I AUTOMATICALLY type in "f" in the bar at the beginning of the day, in the middle of the day, at the end of the day... whenenever I'm doing nothing else. It's almost disturbing how often this happens.

Do I need to know what Suzy Lou Freebush just had for lunch and then Instagramed it? No. Do I need to see the new, organic 100% post consumer fedora that Hipster Chipdougal ironically bought at the local Farmer's Market? No. Do I need to know that Joebob Jones just got married to Jane Doe-Smith? Maybe... if I see Joebob and Jane in the next 5 days... or the next 5 years... or if I ever see them again... ever.

There's a big wide world of "people, lookatmes" who make their social platform Facebook. I'm pleased that it IS a social platform on which most people attempt to spell well, be informed, and try not to be TOO insulting. There are, of course, exceptions to these rules, but for the most part, everyone is pretty well behaved and polite. This is probably because your picture is RIGHT THERE. There's no anonymity with facebook. I KNOW who you are. You know who I am... based on my "maps" you know around where I live... and if you check out a person's statuses and information long enough, you can figure out where they go to school, went to school or where they work. Anyone on facebook has the potential to become a stalker. We all trust each other enough not to become a stalker. I'm not sure we SHOULD be trusting each other this much, but as I have gathered from personal experience, the things we should do are usually not the things we actually do.

FOR EXAMPLE. I should not have wasted... 6 years of my life... on FB. But I probably did. These are years I'm not getting back. These are hours and hours I could have spent sleeping, talking to friends, sleeping, doing homework, looking for jobs and sleeping. Did I need that sleep? Yes. Yes, I did.

So I'm not staying off of FB for too long. I'm going to see how long I can last... I might make it to the 40 days I should have given up for Lent. Though giving anything up for lent is just so cliche... and I can never do it. I've never given up a single thing for lent that I've been able to maintain for 40 days. It's tough. I know a guy I've been talking to on FB that I really want to keep talking to... but I also don't want him to think that I'm stalking him.... on FB. < Read this sentence... for it shall be deleted in a week.... if I remember to delete it.

My Ex-Lover

"Lately, I have been having the overwhelming urge to create. It itches in my very bones. I sit through class and the only thing I can think of is that I have these collagraphs in the printmaking room that I could do at least a dozen more prints off of, or that I have a terrible looking coil pot in the ceramics center that desperately needs help. I want to draw everything, and everything I don't draw, I want to paint. I want to paint on everything. I want to paint on my computer, so the white top isn't white anymore. I want to find spiderwebs to draw. I want to take pictures of everything and everyone. I want to spend hours with friends, taking dozens of pictures of them.
I imagine that this is what it feels like to be head-over-heels in love. Nothing matters much anymore, just me and my art. I was so happy, so elated today, just looking at my prints and thinking about doing more printing. So many ideas chase themselves through my mind, it's hard to keep track of them anymore."
~ January, 2009~

Oh, what have I done? I think I know now what it feels like to fall out of love. My Art, where are you now? I wish you were here. We'd make beautiful children together. I used to love that feeling, that my art was something special... that no matter what I did, everyone would at least feel value in it and people would love it. Now, I feel as if I still love Art desperately, but he ignores me.

It used to be that he was abusive. He'd coerce me into spending hours and hours with him, ignoring my friends, sometimes forgetting to eat, just so I'd stay with him. He was a selfish monster, but I was happy, and he was happy and I think we were happy together. Then time changed. I couldn't communicate with him as well as I wanted and he stopped trying. He no longer keeps me captive for more than a few hours a week at most. We hardly even talk. I don't know what holds this relationship together anymore except for my undying envy of his other lovers.

All Artists Are Arrogant

It's true. Look at almost any great artist. Hang around with great artists. You'll realize they are mostly all arrogant snobs.

There are the few exceptions, of course. I've met a great many an artist who is far from any even hint of arrogance; while they're exceptional artists, I think it is doubtful too many of them will ever be famous. I suppose I'm referring to the great artists. Many of the great artists are well known for being egotistical jerks. And those who are not egotistical jerks, hung and hang around with egotistical jerks, making them egotistical jerks by association.

Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso, Paul Gauguin, Diego Rivera... even Michelangelo... fantastic egos.

Many excuse artists for it.

"Who can understand such genius?" They ask.

It's not that I have a problem with egos. I wish I had one, a fantastic ego, that is. My ego is small. It lives in a box with many shiny objects. It keeps to itself and runs on a hamster wheel every once in a while just to keep busy. It hides when others come to pick it up and play with it. They want to see what tricks my poor little ego can do. But all that poor little ego wants to do is hide in the corner of the box, buried under wood shavings and sleep, pretending that no one can see it. It doesn't want to be an arrogant jerk. It doesn't want to be noticed even. It bites the hand that's holding it and runs away.

Oh these woodchips are so safe. No one will find my little ego here.


Little Ego, don't you want to come out?

No.

Not even for a little bit?

No.

We could paint a little while... you could show people how good you are at it.

No. No I'm not.

But you are! Honestly, you are. I promise you are.

No. No, I'm not. I don't want to come out. I don't like people looking at me. I don't want to be noticed.

But you do want people to notice how good you are, don't you?

Yes. Well, maybe. No.

But how will people know?

They'll find me.

No they won't, Little Ego. They don't know where to look for you if all you're going to do is hide under woodchips all day.

If they want me, they'll look for me.


And they leave because they're tired of trying to negotiate with someone who won't listen.

I wish, my friends, that this was far from the truth, but I don't think it is. I guess everyone is a little like this sometimes. We want people to notice us but we don't want to have to go out of our way to have people notice us. But me? I like to sabotage myself. Even when people DO notice me, I still try and make myself as small as possible, shivering in my little box, scared to death someone will try and make me come out.

I'm not a recluse; I just can't stand the rejection.

I am terribly insecure. I don't think I'm a very good artist. I don't think I'm a very good anything. It's crippling. It's like someone has taken a baseball bat and clubbed both my knees. It's very difficult to deal, I understand, with people who are so full of self-loathing. Van Gogh... Freida Khalo... self-loathers.... difficult people. No one wants to be around someone who doesn't even want to be around themselves.

It might have started on the playground, when some "well wisher" chose to inform me that I was not the most unpopular girl in school anymore at there was someone who was more unpopular than I. It might have started when that kid Dominic Whatshisname could always draw better guns than I and I lost a contest on who could draw a better science fiction based guns. What I hadn't grasped at the time was the power of shading.

But anyway, these insecurities still feed me, like an evil wife only after my life insurance policy, slowly feeding me arsenic so that it looks like I just have terrible stomach cramps until one day it ends in my foaming at the mouth in agony as my internal organs shut down. Who knew insecurity could be so malicious? It looks so docile in the store window. Who would have known the kitten to have claws?

I want to be free of my insecurities. I want my little ego to grow up big and strong and become a large insufferable ego. I want my ego to be so loud and obnoxious, everyone will want to hang around with me to perhaps glean some gold from my shimmering. My desire to be this is greater than my fear of becoming a self-absorbed brat as most artists are, needing an entourage of those less talented at self-absorption to tell them how absolutely wonderful and beautiful and talented they are at everything.

That's how artists are, you know. They are so full of themselves.

I've been having dreams

dreams that rock you awake going, what on earth was that? Dreams in the literal sense, not MLK's metaphorical sense. I know, because I've started a dream journal. They're so disturbing some of them it's as if they have significance, as if they might come true at any time; so I feel compelled to write them down. It's almost as if they have more significance than anything that goes on in my daily life, which is monotonous and repetitive and currently seems to be pointless or at very least, aimless. But my dreams... my dreams are fantastic and strange.

They're fantastic dreams of flying over Mayan Temples and plunging into water hundreds of feet below me. I can fly in my dreams, but I'm always scared of the landing. Sometimes, they're so real, when I was younger, I almost convinced myself a few times that I really could fly. All I needed to do was run and jump and I wouldn't have to touch the ground for at least few minutes. I can't remember if it ever actually worked (of course not, right?) but I'm sure I tried. I didn't make wings or anything like that. I didn't need them. I don't need them in my dreams.

I've been dreaming of friends lately.

I've dreamed of meeting up with old friends and dreaming that they are as they once were but are no longer. I dreamed that they had decided not to change and to remain who they were, and I loved them for it.

I've dreamed of dear friends with whom I have not spoken in months, but know and love, being sorely mistreated and my needing to protect them. I dreamed of having to hide them from Nazis in huge mazes of empty rooms. I dreamed of hiding them from people who would abuse them. I dreamed of them being heartbroken.

I've dreamed of falling in love, in being in the arms of random strangers and feeling more affection than I have ever received in real life from any real man.

I dreamed that I was the leader and liason of a "Occupy-some-big-city-without-any-real-goals-any-real-leaders-and-no-plan-in-how-to-accomplish-said-lack-of-goals" movement between the people and the FBI.

I don't understand them. I don't know what they mean. They are an escape from reality to a world where I am still surrounded by friends, loved and important if for no other reason than saving another from grief, but at the same time, how much more I desire to live a life with such significance than just to dream of being significant.

Greeting October

Hello October,


My beloved, my wonderful friend! Where have you been all year? Hiding under rocks and in caves and in the shade of trees. I've been smelling your wonderful arrival all week. I've got to say, September made a glorious exit and you've got some big shoes to fill. I suppose September just wanted me to like him as much as I like you. We'll see, won't we, October?

September said good bye with a thunderstorm that shook foundations and heavy rain followed by sunshine and blue skies, proving that to every raincloud there's a silver lining. September ended brilliant sunset of baby pinks, peaches and purples. Its moon was a huge silver bracelet in the heavens. It finished with a musical full of singing and color and joy and life.

But October! You're here, after being away so long. Let's curl up on a sofa in a coffeehouse somewhere and chat about Octobers long past. Let's make butternut squash soup and plan our Jack O' Lanterns. Let's carve pumpkins all month long. Let's walk hand in hand and stomp on only the crunchiest of leaves. Let's watch the rain fall outside. Let's jump in puddles and get our pants wet up to our knees. Let's watch scary movies and scream together when we know the ax murderer is going to pop out. Let's watch the classics. Let's watch Frankenstein, Phantom, Dr. Jekll and Mr. Hyde, and Nosferatu all in dramatic black and white.

Oh we'll have fun, won't we, you and I?

Come, let's munch on candy while we wait for the Trick or Treaters... I hope they walk as slow as their little feet can carry them. 

Depression like a train

Waiting to take me away. I stand there at the station, waiting for something to happen. I check my watch every second until I resign myself to sitting on the worn wooden seats, staring at the big clock hands. I hope they aren't five minutes off. What if they're five minutes off? I look at my own watch. No, they're not five minutes off. What if my watch is five minutes off? Could my watch and their clock both be five minutes off? What if the train already came and left? I'll ask a guard. Did the train already come and go? Yes. It did twenty minutes ago. When is the next? In half an hour.

How did I miss that train? I was sitting right here. Wasn't I? Maybe I got up for a few minutes. Yes. That's it. I got up. When did I get up? Maybe I dozed off? Yes, that is much more likely.

They all got on the train and left me here. Because I dozed off. I was tired. I can't keep up with all of them and all of their pushing. I want to do things my way. I don't know what my way is, though.

A train pulls up, finally. What train is this? I don't know. It will take you South, though. South? Yes, I want to go South. South sounds right. I get on my train.

The hum of the train is so loud it turns into white noise, drowning out every impulse to talk to anyone. I put on my earbuds, even if I can't hear the music playing. Ignoring everyone is better than having nothing to say.

They're going places. Where am I going? I don't know. I'm returning to familiarity, but that doesn't mean I'm going anywhere. All of the telephone poles following each other, one after the next, like a line of thin, tall elephants, holding on to each other's tails with their long, thin noses, like something out of Disney.  They move at an incredible speed.

We're stopping. An announcer announces that we're stopping. That's how I know. Everything lurches a little, even though we've slowed down so much that I can hear my music again.

Why am I listening to Gilbert and Sullivan? Isn't there something better to listen to than music that is a century and a half old? It seems odd that I should be listening to it on something that is just a few months old. I should be listening to it through a gramophone in a parlor with a beau who has been walking me home from church for the past month, not alone on a train.

I would have been wonderful dating material then, you know. I can cook. I'm plump. Surely, my curves would have screamed sexy then. Not like the emaciated plastic surgery blondes of today. No, my brown eyes and dark hair would be exotic. I would be the height of sexy. I can knit. I'm sorry, I can't sew. But I can learn. My dad would have been a farmer then.

I'd be a good farmer's wife, I know it. I'd have been getting up at 4 AM to milk the cows since I was nine or ten. I'd know how to make my man a good breakfast and we would have at least four boys. I'm good and sturdy. I could survive. I know it. But I wouldn't listen to Gilbert and Sullivan if I was on a farm. That's city music.

You know, if I got off right here, I would be some place I'd never been before. How wonderful would that be? It's sunny here. Maybe I'd meet someone. Who knows who. Maybe someone old and who would tell me a story of when they were my age and they just moved here. Los Angeles would have been so much smaller. Maybe someone young who would smile at me. We could be friends. They might have a place for me to stay for the night. For the rest of my young life. Maybe I could get a job here. Why, I'd have to. I don't have any money and a person needs money to eat and to breathe.

A person doesn't need money when they know that someone else will give it to them. That's why I'm living at home. That's why I can say all the things I can say about Social Security. I know my hand isn't out, but if I got off here, my hand would be out. Well, I've missed my opportunity. The train tugs forward.

I'm so depressed. This train isn't going where I want to be. Maybe if I jumped off the train. They don't let you do that anymore, I know. There's no place for me to jump off on these new trains. I say new, but I've never been in a moving old train, where someone could jump off of it while it was moving. I should jump off. I'd make the evening news. Woman Jumps Off Moving Train. I don't know what would happen if I jumped off of a moving train. It could be like the movies, where the action star jumps out of the train but rolls when he hits the ground and he's alright, like nothing happened. He doesn't even have a scratch on his face or a broken ankle or wrist.

With my luck, I'd end up like the bad guy who jumps off just at the wrong moment and gets caught on barbed wire or something and dies and the screen pans out on my dead body. I guess bad guy bodies don't deserve close ups, unless it's a horror movie. And then it's just so they can scare you one last time. But when they're really dead, it's always panning out. Or a switch over to the good guys saying their last lines or hopping on a horse to ride away into the sunset or into a car to drive away. They don't spend much time on that bad guy. He's dead. I guess they figure they gave enough time to him as he was cruelly laughing at the plight of the good guy.

They don't focus on his wife who's crying because her husband didn't come home. He said he'd be gone a few days. He's not back. She doesn't know until the Sheriff comes by with his hat and gun and tells her what a bad sort of man he was. Well, I guess that didn't happen too often anyway.

Anyway, my dead body would be all over the newspapers and people who didn't even know me would pile up flowers and teddy bears where I died. All the flowers would die after a few months and the candles would stay there and collect rain and the teddy bears would fade or be taken away by dogs. But something would still stay there and collect dust and everyone who flew past in that train for months, maybe years, would go I wonder who died there?

Someone died in a motorcycle accident outside my house on the last day of High School. I'd just had my last class ever and was coming home. I missed the accident, but his leg... I'll always remember when the ambulance came. He wasn't dead yet, but they were trying so hard to keep him alive. I can't remember if they took off his helmet. I guess they must have, but they were covering his body with blankets to keep him warm. That's what you're supposed to do when someone is in shock.When the ambulance came, they threw off that blanket that someone had lovingly put there as if it was an annoyance. Who dared cover this dying man? We have a job to do!

They moved him onto a stretcher. That's when I saw it. His leg flopped sideways and his foot moved at an impossible angle, like his leg was made of rubber. That's when I knew he wasn't going to live. His parents come by the house and place flowers and a candle where he died. They sit there for a long time and just stare, as if remembering. I'll bet they come there every year for the rest of their lives. I'll never ride a motorcycle as long as I live.

So I guess I'll just ride this train, that is taking me back to familiarity. I'm beginning to hate familiarity. It is as much freedom as it is a jail. Rather, it is a jail with all the illusion of freedom. It's a cage. A beautiful cage. It has everything a bird can need. It has water. It has bird seed. It even has a little mirror so that I'll never get lonely, right? Who can get lonely with the reflection of one's self as one's companion? Surely this won't drive a person insane. There's nothing beyond this cage. Just a window. Just a window where there's blue sky and telephone poles like elephants.

Who would want to leave this cage? There might be cats out there. Big, scary cats that would just as soon eat you up as look at you. There will be storms. Lightening and thunder and you have no home, little bird. You don't even know how to make one, little bird. You don't know where to look for food. You've grown up in a cage all your life; I'm not even sure you know how to fly, little bird. No, you can stay here and sing for us. You can stay here and eat all the food you want and get nice and fat. You're a beautiful little bird.

I do want to stay here. It's warm. It's beautiful. I can't fly very well, anyway. I've never been very good at flying. I can sort of flap about and make a racket and maybe copy a few words people say to me, but I'll never be like that bird that can sing the Star Spangled Banner or even the Andy Griffith Theme song. I won't be like that eagle that soars down and catches a fish in midair as it was jumping over the waterfall on its way upstream.

The train lurches to a stop again. Again and again. And I'm falling asleep, again. That loud Big Brother voice keeps announcing where we are and where we will be next. I hope I miss my stop.

I don't have a wide audience so...

Haha, well one thing that always cracks me up is the Protestant Church and their ideas on art. They don't have a very good grasp on it. The Catholic Church, before the Reformation, had an excellent grasp on it. It pissed off some people so much that when they split off from the Church, they did away with all of this artwork that the Catholic Church was so fond of funding. This, of course, has left us with A. not very much good art and B. no real attempts to do anything about it. A lot of big churches or churches which are "seeker friendly" do pay the big bucks to hire a "media director" who is trained in either video arts or some form of media. It is their full-time profession.

If unfortunately, this does not fit the bill of the church, both financially and stylistically, usually any "art" done in the church, I suspect, was put together by well meaning retired women who used to like art, yet doesn't really have much talent or someone who learned a little bit of Photoshop in a community art night class and is eager to make use of their small bit of knowledge.

I'm blessed that the art program I was in through college was not only technically based, but had a strong emphasis on the philosophy behind art in general (the philosophy of aesthetics) and philosophy behind art for worship. This should lend perfectly to creating art for the Church. Unfortunately, it's just such a huge task. The average everyday Sunday church attender, just as they're used to pre-digested Biblical lessons, (yeah. The average christian doesn't know their Bible from Adam... yes. I just made that joke.) they're also used to pre-digested artwork. That's how you get these sort of monstrosities.






I mean... here you have a lovely winter scene... White Christmas... someone may have taken that picture. It looks nice. But we see that someone probably just downloaded it from the internet and then they threw a bunch of wrecked cars onto it to make a moral lesson. It. Makes. Me. Sad. The only moral lesson I'm learning here is how NOT to Photoshop garbage onto an otherwise nice picture of trees.

This is a harsh judgment, and I almost feel bad writing it except for the pang of truth that goes with it. I don't think many people who create art for public worship are trained in art. This needs to change, my friends. Art and God, to me, are inseparable. God is, first and foremost, an artist (at least to me.) God created everything (how this was accomplished is widely debated, but I'm not going into that here). And God is constantly creating. I believe God has a strong hand in every creature on earth. He knit us together in our mother's womb. He has a HAND in each day, each sunrise, each unseen blossom, each insect, each fish in the ocean, each cow in the field. All of that is His work. Conceptually, I'm sure for every million miracles of creative genius we see daily, there are billions of works that He has not yet finished or finished and we will never see in this life, or even the next.

It's more than appropriate, when you think about it, that Jesus was a carpenter. He spent his life building things with his own two hands. Jesus was a true craftsman.

Not only that, but God is a masterful storyteller, writer, advertiser, mathematician, philosopher, lawyer, physicist, engineer, chemist, psychologist, doctor... any (honest) profession you can think of, God has done it. (Any dishonest profession, God witnessed and created the beings that carried it out... so...)

I'm off topic. Anyway, I was trying to say... there needs to be a revival of Christians in the art world. I'm seeing traces of it.  I saw a show recently that was devoted to spirituality, and it had a lot of Christian themes to it. It made me excited.

Let's get some more funding for Christian art out there, folks. Let's get those good artists doing good artwork for God.