A moment of honesty to bring me back into the game -- I'll be the first to point out that it's been weeks since my last post

I haven't posted in a while because [insert lame excuse] and also because [yet another generic excuse that means nothing]. In any case, that won't happen again, because I made a handy-dandy blogging schedule.

To make up for my absence, I'm coming back fierce, returning with a vengeance: I'm having a moment of naked honesty. It is not easy, particularly among a group of smart, eccentric, and passionate artists, and especially because this blog is not intended to be a personal journal, and of course because I'm exposing myself. But it is a must: the last time I had the opportunity to talk about "what inspires me," regrettably, I presented a plastic bag full of random mementos that looked jumbled together at the eleventh hour, at 3:30 a.m., hours before class.

While it is true that I'm a self-taught (or natural??) writer, artist (if I ever call myself that??), technician, and that I'm often guided and inspired by my senses (a good dancing song, amazing sex, delicious food, a sunset, color), I need to be me--I need to be honest. My motivation, my ass kick, my reminder, my guide, my inspiration: money. Not just money. My drive, too. Not necessarily the playful curvature of a letterform, not some artsy-fartsy artist, not the way writing feeds the soul, not some profoundly and poignantly deep artistic or spiritual "thing." Drive and money.

Technicians make money. Design, writing, whatever I'm doing: started as a means to make a decent living, as oppose to working like a slave, stressing for capitalist pay, stuck in the depths of the barrel's bottom, living the life, as a receptionist, of the working poor --little money and lots of bills, scant food, basic clothing, no pedicures, and certainly no "high-grade"; it is now shaping up to be a fulfilling choice, the right choice. Even still, can't deny that my original motivation is still a central motivation. I want to make money without selling my soul, doing something that is helpful, honest, and, truthfully, not strenuous, tedious, or otherwise dreadful.

Design is hardly dreadful. I love it. Not only that, but I have skills, innately, that apply to the work. And it's interesting--layered and textured. The profession requires its technicians to consume, produce, criticize, edit, observe, discern. Drive inspires me to move forward with this, hone (or find) my voice. There's lots to do...and see, experience, read, watch, feel. It's fun to see where my drive takes me, almost in an out-of-body way. I enjoy the push. I enjoy the mystery of the ride.

With all due respect and gratitude to money and drive, design won't pay the bills or fund my never ending leisurely, vacation-style life unless its good. Good design isn't magic. It's problem-solving -- designers are puzzle-people, but it's also passion, which extends beyond inspiration in my eyes, because I'm inspired to earn enough money for getaways to Belize, romance and wine in Paris, and clear green Caribbean waters and whatever else I want on a whim that money buys. Passion, and I mean real, tangible, well thought-out, deep-seated reasons to design, wins. Do I lack passion? What does that say about me as a designer?

Because that was the point of the show and tell, right? Who are you as a designer?? <<------ The ongoing question...that I've been answering for the past few years. Slowly I unfurl a more complicated response. For now, I'm a designer who enjoys a field that is booming, in demand, hip, intriguing, but most importantly, lucrative -- not free, because drive is the key to having a prosperous design career.

August 21, 2005
9:21 PM - A Random Note I Found While Cleaning My Room

When I am inspired to write, it seems like I have no means to write. Here I am, with crappy pens using a notebook designated for work, in a cold room filled with trash. Of course this is not where I want to be, alone, thoughtful but zombied, worried about an art project for class I whipped together in a half-assed way (that, still, I am a little proud of).

Mostly, I am not comfortable with these means because I'm stifled by the coldness of lined paper. It is not just the texture that irks me, but the emptiness that follows each completed word on this page. Paper is an adhesive--sticking to thoughts, holding them, capturing them permanently. The questionable, or disenchanting, aspect of using this notebook is that it is a little too tacky. My thoughts will remain here.

As a driver, I am allowed to go anywhere, see anything, confront it all, fully experience. With every component in gear--keys, gas, destination (or pen, paper, emotion) the sky is the limit. On this journey, I can joyride, speed, park, or go cruise control. The journey (or novella or blog or notebook) I rightfully own.

But the autonomy of the trip is weighed down by speed limits, cost of gas, and cops. Such is the case with writing my personal missive. What is otherwise known as freedom of expression is compromised by my sudden brain fart and, of course, this shitty-ass paper.

July 22, 2005 4:42 AM - My Date was Okay

Inhaling the smoke from my quarter-inch roach, it hit me that I'm a writer again. Just now. I don't think the gray cloud floating around my lungs and head enticed such thoughts, no. I'm really a writer again.

There is something about the sound my fingernails make, clitter-clatter, against the keys of my laptop that makes me feel like I am producing, creating, giving birth, composing something wonderfully beautiful that eyes other than my own want to peruse.To compare myself to a visual artist, the screen is my canvas. Okay, I guess we've all heard that cliché before. So then, adjusted, the screen is still my canvas, my words are the tools. Nouns are the formal elements: color, line, shape, texture, and value; my adjectives are like the seven principles: harmony, variety, dominance, balance, movement, proportion, and economy.

So why do you care?

I'm not sure. That seems to be the biggest component of being a frustrated artist. Either one does not know who the audience is, or it is understood clearly, but an intimate connection with said audience does not exist. In this case, demystifying your purpose of caring is a daunting task.

On my new favorite website, Boston's craiglist, I recently posted that I'm a frustrated writer. Overwhelmed with response, one in particular caught my eye. My CL friend told me that he is frustrated with his craft because he feels undervalued in his artist community. Like he is not good enough. That his work lacked the "oompf" others had. My response, fuck that, naturally being so as I swear like a truck driver, was meant to instill within him a belief that his work can be good enough. Produce from the heart, I continue. Art is not about competition. I suppose, to some extent it is, if you intend on being profitable. Until then, stop worrying about others and inwardly focus. Do what you can. Feel good about it.

After saying all that to him, I started on a journey to try and uncover the authenticity of my comments. Was that genuine advice, or words to fill up space, like those that are commonly spoken to people who are in need of consolation, when real thought or creativity lacks?

Just as that train of thought traveled through my subconscious, I received an e-mail from an "artist friend," the typical well-traveled, multilingual, chai tea drinker she was. I always enjoyed our cyber banter, hoping that a budding affair would emerge. She wrote: Process is part of what I find enjoyable about writing--it can be painful, it can be compelling, it can be consuming, but there is always a process to it, a whole experience. I used to describe my relationship with writing as one of unrequited love, me being the ardent lover endlessly pursuing a love who will play with you, come near, go far, tease and taunt, make love, evoke anger, passion and many other things.

In reading this e-mail, then thinking back to all her others, I realized that I'm in the same boat as my craigslist artist friend in that I, too, feared mediocrity and competition like him. After seeing her e-mail, I started thinking about all the artists I know, jealous of the zest with which they approach their work. This particular friend confirmed that I'm "passionless" in my writing. Without passion, am I to be considered a writer? Sure, I answered. But reluctantly, as deep inside I disagreed.

Granted, I had not written in over a year, aside from routine papers for classes. But I'm constipated. Writer's block happens to even the best of them (except maybe for John Irving, who recently churned out his eleventh book, slated to be his best ever). All I need to do is keep the writer's equivalent of Pepto-Bismol handy: weed, mary jane, 402--name irrelevant, as long as it keeps the juices flowing.

Though words, as of late, fail to manifest into something tangible, I was certain that my inner writer self neither had been abducted, committed suicide, or in a coma, nor was she fasting, sleeping, or on strike. Melting down into a pile of laziness or procrastination, maybe. But then again, I've got hemp papers in my underwear drawer, so the latter are moot issues.

Nevertheless, I have never compared my writing to or thought of my habit as a relationship. Truthfully, it seems that if unable to take the form of a lover, writing is pointless, for naught, useless, and not worthy of an audience.

Then, it is something I do, yes. A hobby, for sure. A way to pass time, especially when dining alone or sitting on an airplane. The classic method of curing ennui. A relationship, a mutual game of teasing and playing, no. So then I figured, if not like a lover, perhaps like the "so-so" date.

At this moment, after the joint and right before the cigarette, the "so-so" date epiphany is born. I decided to stop focusing on what level of zeal I possess, on external bullshit that hampers my craft. My conversation with frustrated craigslist guy taught me that competition is nothing to ignore. Applying that to my dilemma, this would mean that another person penchant for words and stories combined with brimming enthusiasm would make my stuff, in comparison, seem dull, commonplace, uninspiring, probably yielding a flat out "no thanks" from my audience. So, when these types of anxieties surface their nasty little selves, I need to find comfort in the "so-so" date. On such dates, the couple in question recognize compatibility, and thus decide to pursue a relationship, but at a slower pace than that of "a lover" because of the level of neutrality towards a potential "situation." The pace, however laggard, is persistent because it would not make sense to give it up, on the basis of patience, curiosity, and open-mindedness.

So, instead of jumping the gun and rushing into love (in my case, thinking that writing a Pulitzer Prize novel for future lit classes is easy and getting annoyed when unable to get past the opening line), the best approach is to take it one day at a time, agreeable, not desperate, for a second and third date. Still, writing is not like an amative lover, but it's fun, so I'll do it again. Yes, that trusty so-so date.


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I see you bubbling all over the place -- you're yeasty, and I think it's grand!