Cirque du Malaise

Why I Actually Kind of Love Burning Man

outsideeye — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 12:07:21 PDT

For a long time now I’ve been committed to my definition of myself as an introvert. In the introvert versus extrovert game, I know exactly which side I am on. Everything I have ever read about the introvert personality type rings true for me, including that:

Introverts need a lot of alone time.
Introverts are exhausted by people overload.
Introverts have to figure things out internally before they share them externally.
Introverts thrive on solitude and creativity.

This latest article on The Creativity Post is no exception. It breaks down some common myths about introversion, like:

I am learning that the introvert to extrovert spectrum is more nuanced than I thought. A coach I work with recently told me that being an introvert versus an extrovert is not a black and white choice. Most of us exist somewhere on the continuum of intro-extroversion and, in fact, from a psychological perspective, it’s most healthy to be somewhere in the middle - needing a certain amount of alone time but also being able to socialize with people.

I used to work for a yoga “master teacher” who got to know my personality very well after spending way too much time on the road together and seeing closely, over time, just exactly how much it clashed with his own. He used to tell me that I was not, as I thought, an introvert, but a “shy extrovert.” That confused me, because actually, I consider myself more of an “outgoing introvert,” meaning that I am an introvert at heart, but at some point in this challenging life I figured out how to make friends and integrate myself into the world. When I worked for said teacher, part of my job was getting up in front of hundreds of people at a time, with a microphone on, and making announcements and things like that. I got to the point where this activity did not even make me nervous, and I am still kind of okay about talking in front of large groups.

But get me to a party, and I will melt down. My own amateur definition of introvert versus extrovert goes like this:

When someone invites you to a party, do you feel:

1) Excitement?

2) Dread?

Me? The latter. I have held countless conversations over the course of this lifetime about why I’m not crazy about parties. And I’ve had countless extroverts try to get to the bottom of “the problem” and fix it. It’s vexing to me that at this point in my life I am still having back-and-forths with more outgoing friends where they try to convince me that I just haven’t been to the right party yet.

My aversion to large unstructured crowd scenes is one of the main reasons I have never had even the slightest inkling of a desire to go to Burning Man and why, every August right around this time, I remember to feel extremely fortunate that I have free will and don’t ever have to go. And, furthermore, since most of my extroverted friends go to Burning Man (love you guys!), the end of August is an incredibly peaceful time in my life when I get even more down time than usual. I really cherish it. For this reason, I actually love and appreciate Burning Man.

Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie, by Bob Dylan

outsideeye — Sat, 14 Jul 2012 21:46:08 PDT

I happened upon this beautiful reading by Bob Dylan of a tribute he wrote for Woody Guthrie when Guthrie was languishing away in Brooklyn State Hospital, soon to die of Huntington's Disease, just like his mother had, and her father before her. Woody Guthrie, for those of you who didn't grow up with hippie parents and a serious vinyl collection of Americana, was a folk legend whose birthday centenial we are celebrating this weekend. He was the force behind a folk music revival in the middle of the last century and was considered the voice of the working man coming out of the Great Depression. He was a true troubador, traveling all over the country with a guitar on which he had painted: "This Machine Kills Fascists." The guy was no joke. He wrote "This Land is Your Land."

In 1963, Dylan (another American folk legend, of course) recited this poem at concert in New York City. Legend has it this was the only reading by Dylan of this poem. It is heartwrenching, haunting and universal. You can read it below, but I highly remember listening to Dylan's voice as well on this YouTube clip. (You can ignore the weird awkward video montage.)

(click here if it doesn't load)

Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie

by Bob Dylan

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind and losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hands to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterday's rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush

And all the time you were holdin' three queens
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life Magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin' with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin' on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
In this air I'm inhaling

Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm thinking
In the words that I'm writing
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know when they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
'Cause sometimes you hear' em when the night time come creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special

Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said and maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
'Cause you look and you start getting the chills
'Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it neither in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn ya in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all the rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
That stuff ain't real"

No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You'll find God in the church of your choice
You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital

And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown

An Open Letter In Response to “The ‘Busy’ Trap”

outsideeye — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 21:32:58 PDT

Occasionally something goes viral on the internet that really rubs me the wrong way. Which is why I want to talk about Tim Kreider’s “The ‘Busy’ Trap.” I know my perspective is not going to be popular with my Facebook friends, the great majority of whom posted a link to or quoted this article at least once in the last week. I, too, read the article, because I am a person who struggles with my constant “busyness” and trying to make the best use of my time and fit it all in. I’m forever having to prioritize and relegate and make sure I have a good Work Life Balance and that exercise doesn’t go by the wayside and that I spend enough Time With Friends and also, incidentally, manage to work enough to actually make money. I thought, it’s the New York Times, for God’s sakes; maybe they can teach me something new.

Like Kreider, I am a freelance writer, so I am responsible for my own time and how I spend it. But unlike Kreider, I haven’t yet cracked the code of how to make a decent living in an incredibly expensive area of the country by working only four to five hours a day, and only when I feel like it. For me - obviously a less evolved person than the author - 8 to 10-hour work days are a sad reality if I want to pay my rent on an hourly consultant’s wages. So there go those leisurely afternoons that Kreider seems to think are the dividing line between good people with their priorities on straight and “busy” people living an obnoxious lie. I don’t have the luxury of blowing off work every time someone calls me and asks me to do something random and fun at 11 in the morning on a weekday (which happens all the time, by the way; I have had to get real good at saying no).

Outside of my obvious bitterness at not being a successful enough writer to work only when I‘m really in the mood (does that ever even happen to writers?), there is something about “The ‘Busy’ Trap” that seems off to me on a much deeper level. It implies that time is only nobly spent when spontaneous and dictated exclusively by free will and compulsive urges.

I too was a “a member of the latchkey generation and had three hours of totally unstructured, largely unsupervised time every afternoon” while I was growing up. It was the 70s, and there wasn’t a lot of parental oversight, except for the demand that we spend most of our time outside and out of sight. My brother and I spent many hours in the woods behind our house, exploring, having adventures, getting into all sorts of mischief, and, when all else failed, reading. And reading and reading and reading. This training on keeping myself “busy” - sorry, I know that’s a dirty word now - is probably part of the reason why I am a huuuuuuuuuuuuuge believer in leisure time, reading time, down time, creative time, outside time and personal time. In fact, “down time” is probably the main theme of this entire blog and was one of the earliest categories I created. I have written about the healing and nurturing power of leisure time again and again and again.

But Kreider seems to equate personal time with making as few plans and commitments as possible. I disagree entirely. I’m a Virgo and a 6 and I like to plan ahead. I often plan my leisure time out far in advance. For instance, I can tell you right now that I’m going to be taking a hike-maybe with some friends, maybe alone- this Sunday from precisely 1-4. Here’s why I know this:

If I do not decide ahead of time what I want to do on Sunday, I will wake up Sunday morning and ask myself what I feel like doing, and the answer, always, will be: “Absolutely nothing. Sit on this couch with a hoody on and eat crap and maybe watch some bad television.” This will lead to a major spiral of self-loathing, guaranteed.
But if I get up on Sunday morning and insist to myself that the hike, as planned, is going to happen regardless of my current level of drive, then I will go on that hike, and I will have a great time, and I will get some exercise and fresh air and sunshine, and I will be absolutely feel better and happier for it.

There is great freedom in structure.

Another example: every month I take a Creative Hooky Day, where I skip work and do something creative, with and by myself, all day, that I would not normally take the time to do. I go to museums; I visit botanical gardens; I seek out secret coffee shops and work on my memoir. I plan these days out way ahead of time. They are not spontaneous. I organize my life so that I can take these days off without the stress of knowing that a thousand clients are pelting me with emails and expecting a response, STAT. Because my hooky days are planned and organized, they are enjoyable and fulfilling.

The down side of all of my planning and organizing is that I am constantly telling people “Sorry, I'm busy” when they ask me to do things last minute. Often, those plans are to go for a hike by myself, or watch a movie I’ve been wanting to get around to, or go to the library and read magazines in a big cushy chair with a view of the redwoods. And yeah, I could cancel my totally optional plans with myself. BUT I DON’T WANT TO. Kreider points a finger at those who “schedule in time with friends the way students with 4.0 GPAs make sure to sign up for community service because it looks good on their college applications.” Uh. I do that. I schedule in time with friends. I am not spontaneous. Really, I am not. Ever. And I’m okay with it. I don’t have that kind of personality that likes to shift gears quickly. Sue me. Or, just learn to love me that way I am and don’t judge me for it.

I feel like my life is rich with creative time, time spent outside, time with good friends, and that I simultaneously have the time to relax and become absorbed in my workdays as a freelance writer without having to worry about how my time will pan out. I map it out ahead of time; then I relax into it. This works for me.

It might not work for Tim Kreider. And Tim Kreider does, I must say, seem rather blessed in that he appears to be able to make a living without working very much, or have very many other responsibilities. Good for him. Tim, you can have your unstructured leisure time and I will keep being “busy” with my structured, nerdy, inflexible schedule! And never the twain shall meet.

And to my friends: I want to spend time with you, I really do. A week from Tuesday night. And if you acquiesce to make plans with me, I assure you that I will treat our date with reverence! I will cook you dinner! You will have my full attention for the entire time we are together! I will put my iPhone away and be totally present! But you have to… that’s right… make a plan with me.

Happiness is an Emotion

outsideeye — Sat, 26 May 2012 16:42:02 PDT

I saw one of my favorite writers, Augusten Burroughs, at a book signing the other night. His latest book is called This Is How: Proven Aid in Overcoming Shyness, Molestation, Fatness, Spinsterhood, Grief, Disease, Lushery, Decrepitude & More. For Young and Old Alike. I obviously would be reading this book even if a nobody from nowhere wrote it, just based on the title alone. But because Augusten wrote it, I am all over it. It’s a self-help book for people, like me, who hate self-help books and don’t like being bossed around.

Augusten was one of the first writers to take his harrowing, nightmare-of-social-services childhood and turn it into a funny, irreverent story (and make zillions off it, touché) with Running With Scissors. This was inspiring to me, and because the book takes place in Northampton, Mass, which is basically where I grew up, I related to it even more. I don’t think it’s dramatic to say that Augusten Burroughs is a literary hero of mine.

So, meeting him was exciting. And, like all exciting moments in my life, I panicked and shut down. In fact, after he did his book reading, I tried to sneak out the back door, but fortunately/unfortunately, my friend Leslie was there to force me to stand in line and have him sign my book. Here’s how it went, more or less:

Augusten: Hi

Me: Hi (looks down at shoe)

Augusten: What’s your name?

Me: Joslyn

Augusten: I’m sorry?

Leslie (standing off to side): Her name is Joslyn.

Leslie: You and Joslyn have something in common.

Augusten stares at me patiently while I turn beet red and break out in panic hives.

Augusten: What is it?

Me: We both grew up in the same part of Western Mass.

Augusten: No way! That’s so awesome! What town did you grow up in?

Me: (still avoiding eye contact) Ashfield. You probably haven’t heard of it.

Augusten: Of course I have. That’s so great!

Me: (takes book and shuffles away awkwardly)

There is something about standing in line to get a book signed by an author who I worship that makes me very, very nervous. The same exact thing happened to me when I had Miranda July sign my copy of It Chooses You and when I had Salman Rushdie sign my copy of Luka and the Fire of Life.

But listening to author talks is one of my favorite pastimes, along with going to Porchlight storytelling night and hanging out at the library. And Augusten was one of my favorites so far. At one point, a clueless audience member raised her hand and asked Augusten, “Are you happy?”

He was nonplussed. He looked at her with the deadpan eyes (which are different from the dead eyes, and quite different from the Marin County Glassy Eyes she herself was sporting). “Happy?” He said, “You know, I am often interested, or curious, or engaged, or stimulated. And yes, sometimes I am happy.” But, he went on to say, for him, “happy” is not an abiding state of being as much as it is an EMOTION. And emotions, as we all know, are fleeting.

Here in California, when someone says to you “Are you happy?” they are not asking a question about your current transient emotional state; they are making a demand on your ability to see life through shiny, rose-colored glasses all the time. There is only one correct answer to the question “Are you happy?” and if you don’t get it right, well, there is something deeply, deeply wrong with you. Personally, I cringe when people ask me this question. Like Augusten, I would never describe myself as “happy” in a blanket statement sort of way. Sometimes I feel happiness, yes. Particularly when I am cuddled under my red sleeping bag late at night with a delicious, elaborate dessert I spent an hour making for just myself, or when out on my mountain breathing fresh air, or while reading a really good passage from a book, or when completely absorbed in a scene from a riveting movie. Sometimes I feel happy when my cat deigns to honor me with her presence in my lap and actually purr for a second. I feel happy when someone gives me flowers (or lottery tickets; thanks, Leigh). I feel happy when something blooms in my garden.

Equally, if not more of the time, I feel other things like: bored, gloomy, melancholic, despondent, ragey, sorrowful, self-pitying, anxious or complainy. I also, like Augusten, often feels things in the range of fascinated, engaged or fixated. Sometimes, I actually feel nothing at all.

But “happy” is not a word I would use to describe my life as an abiding state. “Happy” is an emotion. Anyone who tells you that they are “happy” as a general, sweeping statement is lying. Or lobotomized.

Things That Will Disappear

outsideeye — Fri, 18 May 2012 18:18:10 PDT

A friend recently forwarded me a viral email called “9 Things That Will Disappear in Our Lifetime.” The things:

The post office
The check
The newspaper
The book
The landline
Music
Television
Things you own
Privacy

Whoever originally wrote this is probably right about 90% of it, but what I find really interesting is the insinuation that the loss of these things is bad.

As a lifelong letter writer, I do think it’s sad that the post office is on its way out, however, I have embraced email like the child I never had, so, I think I’ll probably live. And given my recent experiences with the post office - like the thoughtful package full of handmade things and a handwritten letter which I recently sent a friend, that just flat-out never arrived - I wonder if maybe the post office has already seen its heyday. There are a lot of things the loss of which would be more wildly tragic. Like antibiotics. Or heated seat warmers in cars. And if you never had to wait in another post office line or deal with another surly asshole who works at the post office - would your life really be worse? There’s always FedEx and UPS.

I haven’t read an actual paper newspaper in as long as I can remember. I have an iPad, and I get a lot of my news off Twitter, honestly. I haven’t had a landline in over ten years. Although I do have this old phone that I am using as décor:

I don’t own a television (although I do watch a lot of really, really terrible and mind-numbing television on the Internet and I have to say I don’t see that one going away anytime soon, nor commercials, as they seem to be the backbone of our economy).

Books, though - yeah, that makes me sad. Really sad.

I actually do enjoy reading on my iPad. Apple has this shiz dialed - you can adjust the dimmer so it has the same sheen as an actual book page, and the lettering is adjustable too. It does not bother my eyes, and the tablet is comfortable to hold. I read several books on my iPad when I was in Thailand last fall and I really appreciated not having to lug actual books around with me.

However, I still like to read real books when I can. I have a no-electronics policy in my bedroom (it’s a feng shui faux-Quaker thing) and so when I crawl under my down comforter, quilt and sleeping bag every night with my book that I checked out of the actual brick and mortar library, I am reenacting a ritual that I’ve been engaging in since I was very small. The density of the book, the smell of the pages, the tactile feedback about how far through the story I am… these things all contribute to the experience of getting “lost in the pages.” I don’t know about anyone else, but I read to get away. Reading - especially novels - is the most distracting, imaginative, relaxing experience I have in my life on a regular basis. I can’t imagine a life without books, but honestly, I don’t really expect to have to.

I read this recently in a Rolling Stone interview with George RR Martin, who wrote the books in the A Song of Ice and Fire series (in other words, Game of Thrones):

Oh - I get asked for book recommendations a lot. Here are my favorite books. I add to this list each time I finish a worthy book. The last one I added: No One Belongs Here More Than You by Miranda July. I loved this book of short stories. Miranda July is the best kind of weirdo.

Everything Doesn't Mean Something

outsideeye — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 09:42:37 PDT

On Tuesday I went to see Sally Mann speak at City Arts & Lectures. I bought the ticket as a gift to my 21-year-old self, who, once a lost and lonely art school student at a giant university, really adored her but could never have afforded to see her give a presentation at the time, even if she had come all the way to bleak, rancid Syracuse New York. Consider it a late 21st birthday present.

I haven’t thought about Sally Mann in years and meanwhile, my own photography is much more haphazard than it ever was before. These days, I only take pictures with my iPhone - although, arguably, it’s the best camera I’ve ever had. However, I was intrigued to see what Sally has been up to all these years, and curious if she would talk about Immediate Family: the series of photographs that made her famous in the early 90s and rocked the art world by bringing into question whether the National Endowment of the Arts should be allowed to give grants to whomever they pleased. For those of you that don’t remember this art world scandal, Immediate Family was a series of starkly beautiful black and white photographs of Sally Mann’s children and land in Virginia. In a lot of the pictures, the kids are naked and dirty, and although they were all under the age of ten at the time, certain people had a real problem with this. She was accused of child abuse and child pornography and all manner of lascivious and immoral behavior. It was a furor that rocked the art world and the NEA.

I went by myself to the event this week, which is something I like to do when I really, really don’t want to miss a moment of something, and I was glad I did. The evening consisted of a slide show of photos from her portfolio as well as snapshots from her childhood and life as an artist. At the same time, she read from her memoirs. The idea of a photographer writing memoirs might seem juxtaposey, but in truth she is an incredibly articulate woman with a charming Virginia accent, and it was quite lovely. She read about her childhood and her infatuation with horses, the farm she grew up on in Lexington, how she met her husband and his family, and finally, how Immediate Family came to be.

This series made a huge impact on me as a fledgling artist and the photos, viewed again 20 years later, are still just as viscerally beautiful and strangely creepy. She said that she is often asked if she would do it all over again if she knew then what she later learned about how the public (or at least right wing media) would react. And she said yes, of course she would. And she also revealed that a lot of the photos - which were deconstructed to mean dark, nefarious things by her critics, who searched for the symbolism and the hidden messages - were in reality just portraits of her kids in picturesque situations.

As someone who does not look for signs, symbolism or even the greater meaning of things, but believes that life is just like this, I was greatly relieved to hear an artist of her caliber say that sometimes she takes pictures simply because she likes the way the light is hitting something. That’s the thing that is so interesting about art: you have to interpret it from your own personal experience and way of seeing the world. Which makes it even more oddball that people who saw villainous intentions in her pictures pointed the finger at her for being the picture-maker. In truth, those stories were self-invented. As are most.

BTW I don’t feel comfortable stealing her photos to show you here, but I highly encourage you to check them out on her web site: sallymann.com

Memory is The Enemy of Wonder

outsideeye — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 08:51:48 PST

Memory is the enemy of wonder, which
abides nowhere but in the present.

Michael Pollan

I read an article in Wired Magazine the other day called “The New Science of Forgetting,” about how scientists are working on a technique that will basically enable us to Eternal Sunshine bad memories from our brains. This has all sorts of applications for PTSD and people who have been subjected to horrible traumas and abuse, but of course I read it from a personal and self-absorbed standpoint. I certainly have some memories I’d like to vanquish, and I’ve been waiting for someone to invent that machine ever since I first saw the movie.

Alas, the memory erasing technique they are hard at work on doesn't actually erase your memories as much as it does render them powerless by zapping them of their emotional charge. Something about proteins compounds and neuron networks. I don’t know.

What I did find interesting about the article was the description of how our brains actually form memories in the first place. They’ve done all sorts of research to prove that most of our memories are not static, and they are actually not necessarily wholly or even mostly accurate and true. Our memories are informed by our feelings about our memories (Marshall Rosenberg would have a field day with this) and we constantly reinvent our memories every single time we remember them. Different parts of our brain collaborate to keep a memory intact, aided by the use of savvy proteins, and each time you recall something, it takes on a new shape based on the random circumstances of your remembering moment.

So for instance, if you are reminiscing about your first kiss, and as you are taking a mental stroll down memory lane, you get crashed into by a truck, guess what? Next time you think about your first kiss, you’re not gonna have such fond feelings about it. No; there will be an ominous sense in the back of your mind that there is something not-quite-right associated with your first kiss. And before long, your memory factory has segued that good dream into a bad dream. This is an extreme and extremely novice translation (probably you should just read the actual article and not take my word for it), but I had long suspected that a lot of my memories were not, in fact, memories, but stories my mind had constructed based on memory seeds. And in fact, that’s exactly how “memories” are formed. They aren’t really about what actually happened, but how your mind translated it and which elements it decided were important to store.

Once again, science proves to me that creativity is really what makes the world go round.

Done Anything Creative Lately?

outsideeye — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 08:47:56 PST

The other day, a guy I hardly know asked me, in passing, “Done anything creative lately?” This question pleased me. More and more, I find that doing creative things is my sole raison d'être. (FYI I am learning French one overused cliché at a time.)

The truth is, I try to do something creative every day. I achieve this by having a very broad definition of what “creative” means. Basically, anything that I do from the right side of my brain counts as “creative.” (With the possible exception of watching mindless television, which is an activity that definitely takes place on the right side of my brain but is as uncreative as it gets - yet, still of value in its own way, I suppose.) So, for instance, here are some creative things I might do:

Read an article that makes me think (like the latest National Geographic article "In The Footsteps of the Apostles")
Take a snapshot of something I just happen to see
Invent a salad dressing
Have a crazy dream

Aside from my daily creative bursts and my monthly creative hooky days, I decided that 2012 was going to be the transformative dragon year of fire-breathing creative inspiration, with monthly themes. In January, I created something small every day for the River of Stones project. Leslie and I dubbed February “Cultural Awareness Month” and began to take advantage of the plethora of arts and performance opportunities here in San Francisco. We bravely joined the Chinese New Year Treasure Hunt and gamely sucked at it. We attended a Litquake event called “Love Hurts” in honor of how ridiculous Valentine’s Day is. This past weekend, we saw Miranda July give one of her brilliant creative performances at the JCC. March’s creative plan is still TBD, but I have some ideas.

Creativity matters. It’s the line between existing and thriving. It's the thing that makes each of us unique - not in a DNA way, but in an intricacies-of-the-human-mind way. Creativity is a practice, and it should be nurtured. It’s a way of looking at the world; it’s permission to turn your tragedies into stories. One of my favorite quotes opens the book Running With Scissors:

“Look for the ridiculous in everything, and you will find it.”
(Jules Renard)

What about you? Done anything creative lately?

Some Thoughts on Productivity Tips for Working at Home

outsideeye — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 09:56:50 PST

I recently read this article: 9 productivity tips for working at home. I work at home, writing, all day. It’s not easy, and I’m always interested in how other people manage to pull it off. Some of these so-called tips were like, dur. But the whole time I was reading the blog post, I was shaking my head “no.” Maybe I'm weird (I am), but what works for other people doesn’t seem to work for me.

For me, every day consists of a lot of pacing, peeing, stalling, cleaning, spacing out and waiting anxiously for the mailman. To be fair, I’m equally if not drastically more unproductive in an office environment. But over the years that I’ve been a freelance writer, I’ve started to learn what really works for me. So if you are looking for my advice (trust me, you’re not), here are my tips, amended:

They say: Track your time by hand.

My actual calendar

I say: If “by hand” you mean the genius, multilayered, complex Excel spreadsheet and iCal calendar (with 7 different embedded calendar subjects) that I spend my time obsessing over instead of doing actual work, yup, check.

They say: Pair up with an accountability partner.

I say: Does my split personality count?

They say: Work with someone else in your home.

I say: Oh hahahahahahahaha that’s funny. Right Michael? Remember the last time we tried that? I’m pretty sure we watched all 3 seasons of Arrested Development in a week.

They say: Leave [the house].

I say: You sound like my therapist.

They say: Dress for work.

I say: I do this! Well, what I mean is, I take the time every morning to put a bra on (under my sweats that I already was wearing) and to put my hair in a ponytail. If it’s good enough for the mailman, it’s good enough.

They say: Reduce web clutter

I say: Twitter actually helps me concentrate, and if you don’t believe me, watch this:

They say: Psychologically reinforce self-discipline. Instead of getting up in the middle of a project, reward yourself with a snack once you’ve gotten it done.

I say: I can’t concentrate when I’m hungwee so that doesn’t really work for me. I’m more into fanatically monitoring my blood sugar all day. This is also why I can’t work from the library. I have to be within 30 seconds of food at all times.

They say: Answer phone calls and emails in batches.

I say: I wholeheartedly agree with this direct quote from the article: “There are few things more distracting than answering your phone in the middle of the project. After hanging up, your concentration is shot and you have to start all over again.”

And that’s why I don’t answer the phone. Pretty much, ever. The telephone is the scourge of humanity, in my opinion. I have a lot to say about how evil the phone is. But I don’t find email distracting at all. In fact, as a writer, it helps me stay in the flow of writing, sometimes.

They say: Reduce physical clutter.

I say: I throw shit out.

Pottery Is Not Precious

outsideeye — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 08:50:49 PDT

I’m really into making pottery. I don’t talk about it all that much, partly because it’s hard to talk in words about something that happens purely from the right side of your brain, and partly because, well, it’s my thing, and I don't always feel like sharing it. Sometimes it’s nice to have just one thing that you don’t share with anyone else. I go to a pottery studio once a week and make things. And usually my favorite part of these evenings is putting in my iPhone earbuds, blasting some Chopin, and tuning everything and everyone else out.

Last night though, was different.

I was feeling sad when I got to class. I have terrible jet lag this week, it’s been rainy and glum in Mill Valley, and then, fuck it all, Steve Jobs died yesterday.

I know it’s a little weird to get emotional when a public figure dies. I did not know Steve Jobs and I really do have bigger problems to worry about. But Steve Jobs was that rare public figure whose existence actually did touch my life, personally, and the lives of those around me. He impacted my own life deeply with his brilliant product innovations at Apple, but also with his creative vision, in which way he was truly a role model. THINK DIFFERENT. He was a legend, and he really did the change the world. He definitely changed my own life. Everything I’ve ever done that matters, I did on a Mac.

So when I got to pottery, I was feeling heavy-hearted. I didn’t really want to be there. And I definitely didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to stay home and worry about what’s going to happen to the world without someone like Steve Jobs in it.

I put my headphones on, and I started throwing pots. But then, a funny thing happened. I somehow ended up talking to the guy next to me - a new face at the studio - and ended up having a really meaningful evening. He was a visiting ceramic artist who gave me a whole bunch of insightful tips about how to throw on the wheel. Some of them were useful practical tips: “Get in, get out.” “Keep your elbows in close.” Others were more philosophical.

I watched him give a demo on how to throw off the hump. This is where you take a huge pile of clay, sloppily center it on the wheel, and then make little objects (bowls, mugs, whatever) from just the very top part of the wedge. In this way, you can pop off a whole bunch of things really fast without having to keep wedging, centering, and cleaning off the wheel. It also gets you away from the rabbit hole of being obsessed with centering the entire lump of clay perfectly, which can be a real time consuming OCD endeavor.

My favorite part of watching him throw off the hump was that he kept spinning these beautiful creative pieces, cutting them off the hump of clay, holding them up for everyone to admire, and then smashing them on the floor.

He said: “pottery is not precious.”

And this is what I love about pottery. You can’t take it too seriously. It’s a transient creative format. You can focus everything you’ve got on the most brilliant piece of artwork you have in you, but there are a million things that can go wrong. Even if you manage to throw it successfully, cut it off the wheel without warping it, carry it to the shelf without tripping, and trim it without fucking it up, you never know what’s going to happen in the bisque fire, or the subsequent glazing fire, or when some silly person picks it up to admire it and then accidently drops it. There might be an earthquake, or you might put a glaze on it that ends up sucking. You might get it home, only to have it break in the dishwasher, or slide off the edge of the table, or maybe the handle just breaks off one day. The thing is broken before it was ever born.

You’ve all probably heard the fable about Achaan Chaa, the Buddhist master, who loved his tea cup. His disciple said, how can you teach us about non-attachment when I see you always use that same mug? In the words of Mark Epstein:

“You see this goblet? For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”

Pottery is all about nonattachment and it’s also about getting over yourself.

I left the studio in a great mood last night, grateful for a few lessons learned. And then I came home and watched one of the many Steve Jobs videos circulating around the Internet in memorium, the one in which he said:

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything - all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”