Voices

Nathan Bransford had a really great post recently on the temptation of abandoning social media. I've only done so when pregnant, because . . . you know. I threw up a lot and got reclusive and kind of crazy. But I've been tempted to leave again, because writing a book is kind of like being pregnant, the throwing up and the reclusiveness and the crazy.

I've been thinking about the culture with each account, though. My Art & Artist post was more in the vein of Tumblr, where we embrace righteous anger and are unabashed in our confessions of depression and anxiety and Netflix bingeing. Why I posted it to Blogspot, where we apologize before describing human emotions, I'm not sure. Probably because I don't have a wide audience. I know all of you personally and consider you my friends, where on Tumblr they're all my friends too, but I've never seen the faces behind the avatars. And Twitter's more like one big cafeteria where we all get to together to tell jokes and engage in that strange mix of cynicism and kindness.

But Tumblr allows itself to be honest and gritty because the culture is all about anonymity, and never handing out your handle to your in-real-life friends (which I've done . . . for some reason). Blogspot (or regular blogs in general) are more about marketing and promotion of your real self, and therefore require highlighting and censoring where appropriate. You have to choose your voice carefully, depending on which venue you choose. And you know what kind of voices to expect from each venue.

But sometimes the voices can be so overwhelming. The internet is just so many voices, and even when I agree with the anger, or join with the laughter, sometimes by the end of the day I feel jumbled and confused and can't find where I am mentally. And I still don't know where to add my voice, despite the years I've had to choose. Where can I discuss my frustration over my faith while having it still be understood that I'm faithful? Where can I post about my children and marriage without feeling like I'm revealing too much of my personal life? Where can I post about fear and anxieties without inviting eye rolls or cruel comments?

I don't know, man, I don't know. Sometimes I'm tempted to turn this blog into a cold, professional website where all the posts are gone and it's simply a basic listing of who I am, in the impersonal manner, and what I offer, and where you can contact me. And to dive into an anonymous Tumblr to satisfy that weird desire to publish my thoughts. I don't know, man, I don't know.

St. Vincent & David Byrne have a song called "I Should Watch TV" where the opening lyrics are:

I used to think that I should watch TV
I used to think that it was good for me
Wanted to know what folks were thinking
To understand the land I live in
And I would lose myself
And it would set me free

This is the place where common people go
A global franchise; one department store
Yes, there were many awkward moments
I had to do some self-atonement
Well, if I opened up
Well, it would set me free

I feel this way about the internet, but the difference is that TV is one sided; it talks at you whereas the internet engages with you. It's the screen you reach through and other human beings reach back in return. With that knowledge I don't want to give in to shyness or fear, I want to keep reaching.

It's good to lose and it's good to win sometimes
It's good to die and it's good be alive
Maybe someday we can stand together
Not afraid of what we see
Maybe someday understand them better
The weird things inside of me

The Dire Dash

I came across this photo while searching through some folders today. This photo was taken in a moment of desperation, while I was crying in a borrowed car.

This was just after I had dropped my camera during a wedding photo shoot. My grandfather had lent me a neck strap because I didn't own one at the time, and I soon found out that the strap was faulty. I had been standing on a chair trying to get an interesting shot of the bride having her make-up done when my camera fell from my neck and onto the floor with a thud. At least it didn't land on the bride, I remember thinking. But when I picked up the camera to continue, my lens wouldn't focus, the shutter speed wouldn't adjust, and I couldn't access the menu. The camera I had saved up for for a year was suddenly rendered useless, and I didn't have the means to repair it, much less get a new one. The next day I was scheduled to fly out for the sole purpose of taking my mother's author photo.

My uncle, who had invited me to shoot the wedding with him, must have seen all this cross my face. He tried to console me saying he'd been there before when he dropped his Canon in a stream once. He immediately offered me his car keys and told me to drive to a local camera shop to have it checked out, see just what the damage was, and get an estimate. Perhaps the mirror just needed to be adjusted, perhaps it was a simple fix.

I drove around Portland lost, not because I didn't know the streets but because I just couldn't get myself together. So much more had happened that day to lead up to that awful moment. Seve and I stressed about our finances, stressed about finding a job. Stressed about leaving Simon behind for the day for a photo shoot none of us were being paid for. Stressed over a thousand other things I can't even remember now.

I eventually found the camera shop where a kind man in a paisley shirt named Tom fiddled with my camera only to tell me he wasn't sure what was wrong, not specifically, but something on the interior must have been damaged and it would likely be cheaper to replace the camera than repair it. An estimate of about $1000 was given to open the body and find out for sure. Having held my emotions in check up until this point, I headed back out to the car where I locked myself inside. Cried. Felt stupid.

At that time everything felt so dire. It's weird to look back on it now. I remember praying, though I don't remember what I said. It wasn't all about the camera, but some group of words all blubbered together about everything I was terrified over. And after that prayer, I picked up my camera to take a shot, which actually took. The lens whirred and the shutter shutted and that's where the picture for this post came from. So, this shot, this boring shot of a borrowed car's dashboard, actually means a lot to me, as it was the revival of my camera in my moment of need. And my camera works fine to this day.

Thanks for letting me borrow your car, Uncle John. Thanks for the neck strap, Gramps, but unfortunately I'll just need to buy my own. Should have bought one a long time ago. And thanks for my answered prayer, Father. Things have worked out after all.

Art & Artist

I've had a few blog posts lined up, but have been passing on them since they were kind of abrupt and silly and I've had more serious things on my mind.

Have you guys heard of Woody Allen? Of course you have. Have you read that piece Dylan Farrow published in the New York Times? The one about Woody Allen sexually abusing her as a child? And how her whole life it's kind of been brushed aside because "it's Woody! Annie Hall was so good!" I've been thinking about this, about how easily media wants to debate/disprove her claim of abuse because they love the accused . . .

Anyway, it's been on my mind because I recently found out someone I knew was sexually abused by Stanley Marsh 3. For those who don't know, I grew up in Amarillo, TX and millionaire Stanley Marsh 3 is kind of our Andy Warhol. The rest of the world sees him as this inspiring and quirky artist (best known for Cadillac Ranch) but those of us in Amarillo know him as a pedophile. It was known in our community that he targeted young guys in the punk scene and would invite them to his mansion to become fellow "artists." Plenty of allegations had been brought on him before, but he always, always, paid them off. I remember laughing about it as a kid. "Oh, that Stanley, what an awful man!"

Why I ever found it funny is beyond me. After reading the previously linked article I sat in my room, alone, feeling dark and disgusting, thinking of my friend and all he went through. Looking back at our relationship, I know the time period it happened, when everything changed between us, when he started running with Stanley's crowd, how what was possibly happening to him always lingered in the back of my mind and I never said anything. How, after moving from Texas, people would ask where I was from and when I said "Amarillo!" they said "Stanley Marsh 3!" and I would say, "Yes, the terrible pedophile," and they would dismiss it, because no no no, he's a great artist.

"Separate the art from the artist."

We're more important than art, aren't we? Human beings and our experiences, more important than art? I had a friend once tell me she wouldn't read or go see Ender's Game because Orson Scott Card belongs to a church that doesn't support marriage equality, and no matter how good a story, she couldn't support him. And I respect that. I, too, struggle with my church not supporting marriage equality, because I belong to the same church Orson Scott Card does. And even though I want change and he doesn't, at the end of the day we still belong to the same organization, and if someone decides never to read my work because of that, I'll respect that decision too.

If you ever do decide to go see Cadillac Ranch, I want you to notice the group of boys lingering to the side in lawn chairs. They're there to spray paint the cars at the end of the day, so the canvas is fresh for the new set of tourists to graffiti tomorrow. That's what they do, maintain the art for Stanley. They've been there for years, faces always changing, ages always the same. Maybe they're not there anymore, now that Stanley's had a stroke, now that the pile of paid-off allegations has gotten too high. But the fact that they were ever there, instead of some professional, middle-aged paint crew . . . if you ever do decide to go see Cadillac Ranch, I challenge you to try and separate Stanley's art from Stanley's darker activities when they're standing side by side in front of you.
 
Andy Warhol's studio was called "The Factory" because he was able to produce several works of art on an assembly line. But, after reading a biography on Warhol, I think it was called "The Factory" because it treated people as nothing more than objects to be exploited, used, and recycled. I'm wary of the artist who uses people for art, and those who insist I separate art from people. Why? The artist doesn't.

Summer Session's Over

Some shots of Seve's students from the production of Cartoon.

I've kept this blog quiet for a long time, but I think all my close online friends eventually wandered away from their blogs too, save a few. About a year ago I wrote a post on loneliness, and how it was kind of consuming me ever since we made the move to Twin Falls. But the truth is loneliness has always been a constant companion in my life, an ugly shoulder-angel that I'd ignore until it was the only thing I could see.

I've never taken medication for anxiety or depression because I've been afraid to, and I've only sought counseling once. It didn't go well. I showed up 20 minutes early to an empty office where the receptionist finally popped her head in 5 minutes past my scheduled time; while I was filling out paperwork the counselor came out, angry that I was "late" and kind of took it out on me during our session. I'd made her late for dinner, apparently.

I'm not one to put myself out there. As mentioned in an earlier post, I made a great friend but she moved away. We now have some cool neighbors across the hall, but I still feel life a goof in my attempts to relate to them. 

So this past year I turned to writing, and made my book characters my friends. Writing helps to turn my depression off, though I know it's not the permanent answer. But writing is something I can do well and feel comfortable in. I've had short stories published in the past and I've read at art festivals and literary conferences (though getting up in front of all those people made me want to throw up all over said people). I'm currently submitting to writing competitions and more publications in an attempt to make a name for myself, and one day get an agent for my novels.

Thus the revamping of my site, and return to blogging. I could simply have a cold, distant professional website for all this, but I'd rather have an open blog where I attempt to relate to people and hopefully they can relate to me. That's why I write, anyway. To find like-minded folks.