Spinning Circles

The Best and the Worst

2012-06-05T08:27:00.001-06:00

I'm not sure when it was that I was freed from corporate America, but as somepoint, it happened.

I'll just come out and say it: US Airways is the worst employer I have ever had. They are a horrible company with horrible service and even worse employee relations.

I won't continue with that particular tirade; this is about my departure from the rat race, not about the unethical existence of a corporation.

The thing is, most of my coworkers (and a large percent of patrons flying US Airways, I'm sure) agree with me, but their need for the cheapest flight or $13.75 an hour, or both, outweigh their unhappiness. I served in the union the way I did because no matter how much I did need that paycheck or the free flight, that need never seemed to justify the sinkhole despair of dealing with that company.

Maybe that was the moment. Or maybe it was when I realized I would face unhappiness every day of my life if it meant I could paint. Or maybe it was when I realized I couldn't paint if I was unhappy. No matter how often I escaped, no matter with whom, those glimpses of freedom just couldn't make up for the dread of having to give my precious time to something so undeserving. And since when was unhappiness worth anything?? Men are that they might have joy, after all.

I made a choice. It wasn't a money driven choice, neither anger. Not logic-driven either to be truthful. I just chose to be happy. And in that choice came my freedom.

An answer to a question

2012-06-02T21:24:00.001-06:00

A friend of mine, who has a tendency to be controversial, invited a conversation about a blog he stumbled across written by a member of the LDS faith who has very serious concerns about the practice, policies, and basic doctrines of the Church. This friend invites many of these conversations, and every issue is a bit different. However, I have found my reaction to all of them is very much the same.

My heart aches for their anger, pain and frustration.

I can't say I have all the answers. In fact, the culture of my chosen faith leaves me struggling--particularly within my chosen fields of study. The humanities in general are not necessarily spiritual, but they are instinctually human, prone to every good characteristic as much as the bad. And with the increasing ability to share everything with everyone, what is best and needful and of utmost delicate nature is not as promoted as something that would sell well. But what I can say is I see your troubled heart and I raise you a testimony.

At the end of the day, your relationship with God is your relationship with God. He is your Father, who knows you. No matter what your family, neighbors, bishop or prophet say or think, no one will know that relationship better than you. God knows when you disagree with a message at General Conference, just as much as He knows your favorite food. And since that is the case, if said "you" has a problem with the way women are treated by the administration of the LDS faith, it is logical to say He knows that as well. And He still loves you.

I'm all for questions, and I'm all for answers...and while I'm not all for blind faith, I do recognize the merit in basic testimonies offered as a place-filler until something more substantial appears.

Once upon a time I did have doubts. I was angry about the culture of my faith. But eventually, I just got tired of it. Not only that, but I found it was easier to enjoy and appreciate smaller things which did not offend me than to wage war on...well, a blanket everything. I'm not 100% solid on everything, like polygamy or church involvement in politics, and I don't have a desire to be. But at this current time, those things are not impeding the decisions I make everyday to maintain peace, balance and order within my spiritual (and thereby everything else included) life. I suppose when they do, I may pick a side and begin to wage war, or I may not. I currently feel that my war-mongering days are behind me. But Mormon felt that way too and it didn't last for him either.

To any of my non-Mormon readers, I appologize if you found this post rather exclusive. While the original discussion is directed to those within the faith, it certainly can be applied to anyone.

To close, a Bloch for good measure.

The first day of my new life

2012-06-01T10:42:00.001-06:00

There was a time when I never had any time for anything. Or maybe it's better to say I never had time for everything. I was always running from class to class, zipping through books, putting words on papers, taking them off, putting them back on, clocking in, clocking out, "did you want fries with that?" Pay this bill. There's a meeting at 8:30--the grocery store closes when?? How about next Thursday?

Breathe.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a city girl who loves city life. I like being busy. But I like being busy on my own terms.

There are 24 hours in a day. And somewhere I realized that everyone had the same 24 hours. So when I quit US Airways, I made a promise to myself: this is my time.

I'm not stupid, though I have been accused of being something crazy. Let's be honest for a moment. I did give up the easiest job in the world with the best benefits to come live in the middle-of-nowhere and work at a Cracker Barrel in a town called Springville and paint with a guy who is poorer and crazier than I am.

But as long as we're being honest I may as well add that while I miss my sisters and brother and best friend, and I miss fast trains and crowded sidewalks and gourmet food, doing without them for a year or so will never be something I regret doing. There's no where i'd rather be than right here, right now, living my life, doing the things I want to be doing.

How can I regret choosing to be free?

It began with a question...

2012-05-26T14:44:00.001-06:00

As I begin yet another move, I find myself pondering about how this all came about.

Many have heard me speak about the incredibly strange artist named Wulf Barsch and his bizarre teaching methods. It is a moment I have referenced many times. He is a great believer in the Aristocratic method of teaching and begins every class with "so, do we have any questions?"

Obviously there are many questions asked in those dimly lit classrooms, but the one that stands out came as an answer to a question I have since forgotten to a student whose name and face I simply can't recall. The question was: do you think God does things arbitrarily?

It's a simple answer, because it's a simple question, but because of the resounding truthfulness of that answer, I can't ever leave that moment behind.

No. I don't believe God does anything arbitrarily. (This is also the moment I stopped believing in coincidences.) Because of that, EVERYTHING has meaning. Every word, every line, every space, every pause, every tear. Nothing is overlooked or forgotten or even considered insignificant. It is simply the nature of God.

I'm going to Utah on Wednesday to learn to be a master painter because I learned the answer to that question. And for the record, I don't particularly classify myself as a religious artist, even though I am an artist who is heavily influenced by religion. My subject and center of discussion is humanity. I paint life, past and present.

A painting by Wulf Barsch, I believe titled Pliedes. Nibley wrote in his Temple and Cosmos: Was there ever an artist less inclined to show off than Wulf Barsch? He does not hesitate to try again and again to get through to us, not seeking novelty, but fighting for expression and perfectly willing to stay with a problem. It is that, I suppose, that gives his work the sense of deep sincerity that demands to be taken seriously. (552)

Open For Business

2012-05-20T00:35:00.001-06:00

I was not wanting to set up the shop until I had more to sell...but the overwhelming response to my soonish upcoming move has made me reconsider.

Truth is, life in itself has become a business, and with the appearance of social networking *ahem, Facebook* making a name has become that much easier. Or harder, since there is suddenly so much more competition.

My studio mates are purists. They are part of a movement to bring academic realism back into the mainstream...and I'm with them to a point. I won't lie: there IS structure to art. But there is also evolution of business, culture, technology, and most importantly, audience to consider. Currently Etsy.com is my happy medium--an attempt to begin what will become my "name" while giving me enough time and space to develop that into what I really intend it to be.

If anyone wants to see the small shop (with it's one item), you can find it at: emmablanco.etsy.com...

Similar upcoming goals to watch for: added sections to the etsy shop (and items of course!); foundations for Tracks, a comic book following an Elder Bleu--probably using Kickstarter.

Picture in a Jigsaw

2012-04-11T18:39:00.001-06:00

I've always liked jigsaw puzzles, for the challenge. 1000 pieces! Bring it on! The picture on the box is worth those hours, right?

Because even when you know what it's going to look like, the process of getting there makes it that much more appealing, even with the impatience and frustration.

I decided I wanted to paint. Becoming a painter is my picture on the box, and a year ago I dumped the pieces out and spread them across the world.

I started with the edges, scoping out the parameters of my task. Easier to find and build from than, say, a mass of various color that is supposed to be rippling water.

But now that that is done, where should I go next? The farmhouse on the left? The river across the bottom? The mountain on the right?

Oh! Decisions, decisions!

The line of a lifetime, or 4 hours

2012-04-01T13:13:00.001-06:00

As some of you know, I auditioned for NBC's The Voice Season 3 yesterday. It was pretty much like any other tv singing competition--long lines of crazy people. I'd never considered myself crazy before that point.

I guess that brings me to why I was there in the first place. I spend my time (about 80% I'd say) doing things that teach me more about myself. Who I am, what I can do, where my heart is...and I suppose you can say this was one of those things.

Don't get me wrong, I love to sing. But it's not a passion of pursuit. A girl I met in the audition line was recounting her similar experiences for American Idol and The X Factor. There were young hopefuls by the handfuls, and not-so-young hopefuls by the dozen. And they all wanted to be there. Every single one of them. If I hadn't flown to L.A. for it, I would have just gone shopping and forgot the whole thing. 4 hours in a line? Please.

What I found more interesting were the people in my group of 10 in the same 15-minute audition session with me. The weakest one there really wasn't bad at all. He just would have done better choosing a song in his range and wasn't so nervous. But they all had the ability to sing, and the desire to be there.

The one girl who was asked to sing again was 17, and she was good. I don't know if I would call her ability great, but she was solid with a distinctive quality to her performance, and it is a tv show. And what she gave said, clearly, that she deserved a spot on the show.

It was rewarded by a spot on a maybe-call-back list.

There were 2 other things that stood out in that 4 hour experience.

One was the words of the production judge. "You were all good, but the rest of you just aren't in the 1% the show is looking for. This is an extremely competitive show. But thanks for coming in!"

It's not the feedback that struck me, it's the competition part. But that's a long thought that deserves a different post.

The other was the walk out of the room, when the two girls who spent their line-time prepping for a rejection they were 98% sure was coming were shocked that I was just as silent after the room as I was before it. I guess they thought my silence was nerves. That I was quiet except to warm-up because I was too scared to talk and be warm and friendly.

I did smile and answer their questions, and listen to their fears and jokes and where they were from. I wasn't unfriendly.

In fact, I'm not sure what they expected. Crying? Relief? Resentment? Bitterness?

"Nothing?? You're so quiet!" Said one girl with a white sweater and very red lipstick. That one is very, very infatuated with her boyfriend. I think he is new, because she talks about him with everyone, every chance she gets. He is her life, as many new boyfriends are in the first few months. Perhaps she was waiting for my own boyfriend story. Or maybe for me to take my phone out of my bag and call someone.

There's always next year, they said before I disappeared out the door. For them, yes, I suppose there is. But I learned long ago that if I wanted something, I have to work for it. Dropping in and hoping isn't enough. For some, in a short distance, it is. But I'm not in it for the short distance, not anymore. I'm in it for eternity.

I think that is worth saying.

The Social Network

2011-01-12T08:24:00.002-07:00

The other day I was meandering through the lists of people I should know on Facebook, and after about 20 minutes I was wondering why I wasn't done.

On one hand it was a fascinating experience--there were people on that list I hadn't thought about for roughly 10 years! I've had 10 years worth of acquaintances! Get out! Is that the guy who said--and did they really get married? Who--why? What is he doing? What happened to her??

Then I realized what I was doing and the enormity of all the people I do not consider, but at one time did in some way, mounted to the full height of what it really was. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people that I used to willingly give the time of day to that I now did not waited for me to consider them once more. And quite frankly that seemed like a very steep dive in my attempt to over come my now custom mode of social recluse.

I don't talk to anyone anymore, and I like it like that. Life consists of me, and my family, and a few friends...and that's all there needs to be. My grandmother lived 90 years and I'm sure she didn't care about what the girl who sat behind her on the school bus when she was...(I was going to say 7, but I don't think they had school busses then...). Even Facebook didn't begin with this enormity. It had about 30 people from the collective freshman dorms at BYU when it started. And while it's extremely small potatoes to post up a couple pictures and a post every now and again, I find it extremely exhausting to think of all the people Facebook is asking me to think about catching up with.

But I suppose overall I would deem Facebook's evolution and commandeering of our collective American society as a good thing with a few dark faces. But no wonder life get's so complicated. The wonder is plainly in the magnitude. There are just too many people for one person to try and connect to. Is it our mind's new way of organizing? Classifying people into groups, by work place, by school, by interest, by time period...is that really how we connect to people? Have we changed as people so much that our hellos need to be broadcast to all who subscribe? Are we really so inept to not be able to keep up with those we consider friends? Are we using Facebook as a replacement for real activities with real people and not pages of representation?

I don't know. That's when I logged out.

The Eternal Round

2010-09-29T19:21:00.003-06:00

A certain freedom is cultivated by belonging to oneself. Don't be mistaken; that does not mean that life is best lived solo, without any other being or influence present. Not at all. But why belong to anyone else without belonging to your self first?

Yet we often do what breaks us for the sake of another. We idolize it--giving our self away to everyone and everything for every reason possible. Someone told me to. My parents did it. I was paid for it. It was part of a deal. He triple-dog-dared me on a times-infinty-pinky swear. Everything claims us, as we claim it, but when do we claim ourselves?

Most settle; staking down to a place, a job, a love. They stay put. Once it seemed cliché to stay put. So overdone, so common, so traditional, so over-appreciated. But at the same time, it's comforting, easy. Relaxing. You don't have to count; you can just follow the beat of the blaring boom-box felt through the floorboards. Some beautiful dance comes out of that.

I find myself dancing in spinning circles this morning. Much like a top on an unstable surface, I follow the heaviest pull. Without a purpose? I have a purpose: my purpose is to wander.

It isn't that I'm homeless--it's that everywhere is home. Spatial placement is a reflection of where your heart is, and well, my heart just doesn't stay in one place. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that it does, but it expands. A universal heart, which is everywhere yet no where all at once.

That's it; that's it. I am she who wanders, never to settle, always to have settled already. Yes. This is what happens when one belongs to their self.

Every once in a while the dance needs to create the beat. The pulse is given life through the string of yarn connecting beads of morning dew. Moment to moment, meaning is sought from one place to the next, every instance offering something incredibly timeless, fleeting and eternal all at once. Time becomes nothing but a plane of space for the exploration of the soul, and meaning is in the movement just as much as in the beginning and the end.

The King of Alabama Avenue

2009-10-21T10:18:00.003-06:00

"Jallow is from my country as well" Turay admitted as he went down his list of co-workers. Jallow looked up from his container of rice and smelly spinach and glared over his golden-rimmed glasses.

"Sierra Leone? Bah! I am not from Sierra Leone!" he dismissed over his shoulder in an angry sort of gesture. Turay continued on with his list then noticed his flight had landed and sprung out the door. "Sierra Leone" Jallow continued under his breath. "All they do is kill each other, fighting fighting all the time--who would ever go back there?"

"Jallow, where are you from?" I asked politely, piqued with interest. He sat down and arranged his pungent African dish in front of him.

"I was born right here in DC! Southeast! I am the king of Alabama Avenue!" he proclaimed, poking the table as if to show me on it's smooth landscape right where his kingdom was located. He shook his head. "Only yesterday I saw a girl who was pregnant and all these boys--they all just run around and do this and sleep there, and hit him, and for what??"

He spit disgust to the side of the board and slammed a piece into place.

"For what? I told them, they are fools! They know nothing! And as king I had to tell them so. You see?? I am king!"

I'm not sure he realized that Turay was gone and that the game was over by forfeit. Jallow crowned the piece himself then got up from his table. Without another word, he hunkered down the hallway.

My Work, My Story?

2009-08-31T21:59:00.005-06:00

The books pile around me, on the floor, propped open in organized structures to the pages I cannot highlight because I borrowed them from the library. The post-it notes correspond to the library I borrowed the books from, and the number on the ends indicate which interview their marked information corresponds to. My desk is covered in papers, notes, transcriptions.

"Are you going to clean this up?" my mother asks from the doorway. I look up at her with the most exasperated look in my repertoire, though not particularly exasperated about anything in particular. She glanced away from my expression. "Is this for your book?"

"Yeah," I admit. "I don't think Salieu has any idea how much work is actually going into this. And I wonder sometimes why I agreed to write a book about the Sierra Leone Civil War. You know, Festus is from Sierra Leone as well, and when I asked him to tell me what the Civil War was about, he waved it off and said he wasn't there, that it was over so there is nothing to tell."

"I don't know who Festus is" my mother replies in her pleasant voice, which means that she has lost interest in the subject. She wanders from my doorway, leaving me to the endless pile of research surrounding me.

When I gave Salieu the initial interview questions for him to prepare for the interview, he had been surprised at my preparation. "These are good questions" he observed with a smile.

"Well, it's an initial interview. They're vague. When we actually sit down to do the interview, I'll proabably deviate a little, or maybe ask more questions to clarify or make a comment to note for more research." I wasn't in a hurry to do the interview, so much as I didn't want to make Salieu uncomfortable if he wasn't fully aware of what I thought I had agreed to do. The look on his face when he pondered the questions again on the other side of the room told me that was exactly the case. Even though he had asked me to write his story, even though I had told him I was intending on doing a good job, the actual craft of writing had never presented itself to his thoughts. He thought he would dictate the story and I would simply write it down, make it a little coherent. Now he knew it was clearly something different.

I copy the reference to the quote I had found onto a makeshift bibliography I keep on pink paper, not to be confused with my notes and thoughts on the composition and theme of the story I keep on the yellow legal paper, or the notes on Sierra Leone culture I keep on white paper (in an ongoing outline format).

I'm afraid that though I have given all the rights to Turay to veto as he sees fit, he still will think that I have stolen his story. Every bit of it is his story. It is his name, his birthday, his family, his life that I'm telling. It is his culture, his heart, his soul. And yet it is my time and my education that is at stake. My name will be in the author slot and his will be in the title. Not willing to rescind the request, I see him hesitate as he realizes that even though it is his story, he has no idea how to tell it, or who he is talking to. He does not know why his story is being told.

"It's not about the money" I admit to DJ as he later peers over my shoulder at the pages and pages of notes. "It's about what Turay is trying to say."

"What is Turay trying to say?" DJ asks, his curiosity and confusion caught on his face.

"I don't think he knows quite yet" I answer with a sigh.

"So how will you know what to write?" DJ continues picking up one of the books that I had pushed aside into the ambiguous ready-to-return pile growing by the door.

"I'm going to write what I think he is trying to say, and he's going to say yes or no."

"So you're guessing what Turay is thinking?"

"No" I say with a dark expression of embarrassment. "I'm telling him what to think."

Someone Else's Story

2009-08-09T16:17:00.004-06:00

The thing about Salieu Turay is that he is a complete mystery, just waiting to be cracked open. Some people are open books, who have their entire life story written on the front of their t-shirt, white on black with some odd graphic in the middle. Some are a little more conservative than others. But the good stories, the ones that you really want to hear, are sometimes the ones that cost and arm and a leg to acquire and after that it becomes an very high-level security-invitation-only affair.

On the one hand, Turay claimed his story with a bullet to the head, which happens to be a price that most people aren't asked to pay. In all senses of reality, he has every right to keep his story as personal as he chooses. Yet I've discovered at the cost of my pen, he will gladly sell you pieces of his story for about $15 a piece--$25 if you want it in hard cover.

When Turay suggested teaming up to write his story over a game of checkers, which he won, I was taken back. It had taken me weeks for him to tell me what he had so far, and it was clearly something he wasn't going to express lightly. Why in the world would he let himself become subject to that?

"We'd make so much money--I'll make sure to show you what's going to sell it" he says, glancing around to see who was paying attention. Other than the people watching the checkers game itself, no one had heard, and those observers were less interested in our conversation and more interested in Turay's nonchalant style of draughts. ("That's what you call brutality" said Festus as Turay cleared five pieces from the board, a move that had also given him a king early in the game.)

Ah, I sensed, that was it. I was going to write what he had to say, which may be something, and it may be nothing at all. As I thought about the project I had agreed to I realized that while his goal was to make some money, he certainly wasn't about to let just anyone learn what he had learned without them also taking a bullet to the head. I shook my head, knowing that while they story may be a prime opportunity to make some money, the real reason for telling the story would remain a mystery. If Turay ever let me tell his story, I could win a Pulitzer Prize. But that's thing about telling other people's stories--it's not yours to tell.

They Could Be Kings

2009-04-07T17:07:00.003-06:00

There was a guy sitting right there on the bus, dressed in business-gone-casual. That means that it began as business and became casual as he rolled up his sleeves and adjusted his collar. He looked tired, and he sat like he was unemployed. Actually, he was holding an unemployment guide, and he had a hole in the bottom of his shoe, I noticed.

He probably had a rather decent job until recently, I gathered as I watched him. He reminded me of George.

George is tall and loud. He sleeps when he wants, and pokes and prods for fun. One of those people who naturally could put someone on edge by an unexpected glance. George isn't happy. When he sits and watches you, he is like the man on the bus--contemplative. Measuring.

People always say that eye contact is so important to communication, yet there is more to that. Eye contact is communication, from one soul to another. I've seen most people flush; embarrassed at what other people will see. There are a few who don't though, who gaze back steadily, opening themselves to you to gaze upon, hiding nothing. George did that today--as he does often to make people squirm.

I watched his eyes move behind his sunglasses. Lloyd and SB watched, waiting for me, the rookie, to bow to George's will as everyone else had; but I did not. Rookie, yes, but nothing less than George--what did I have to bow to?

George, I thought as I came to my conclusion, George in another life could be a king. He isn't--king of the rampers maybe. And the man on the bus--who knows what kind of life he has been dealt? What kind of situation put him on a bus with holes in the soles of his shoes, when he could be a king?

"George may pick on you, but in his heart, he's really got your back; if there is anyone who will look out for you--you especially--no matter what kind of trouble you've managed to get yourself into, George will take care of you" Kevin explained, as if I was afraid of George.

"I know that" I answered.

Bread and Butter With a Kick

2009-04-07T16:21:00.006-06:00

There is something fulfilling about coming home from a hard day's work. Nostalgic even, I suppose.

"How do you like it?" Jallow asked me that first week over my first game of draughts. Draughts, not to be confused with grade-school checkers, is a science. These old men and their games, I thought to myself, watching as Jallow quickly moved over the majority of the board, sweeping a full 75% of my white pieces from the board. "Did you see your mistake? You left yourself completely open. You need to pay attention! Protect yourself. Now, what was your move supposed to be?" he went on, as if he had heard my thoughts.

I pointed and he laughed at my blush.

"Don't worry, if you won me, you would be champion. Many, many people loose to me! Everyone looses, because I always win!" he crowed in his thick foreign accent.

"His name is carved on the board" Lavar pointed out.

"It's not a hard job" Jallow continued, returning to his previous question, absent-mindedly slapping at my hand making another foolish move. I stared at the board. I saw his move, but I didn't want to make it. "Gotta eat!" Jallow urged, taking the piece and slapping it into place, then slapping his own token down and sweeping another two of my tokens I had forgotten about into is palm, out of my play. I had three pieces left.

These old men insist on finishing the game, even after they essentially win in four moves.

I looked up at the monitor and hastily stood.

"You have to go? Go! I don't want you to get in trouble" he said, then just as quickly as his questions floated from subject to subject, his eyes came to rest on Lavar, who had been enjoying the exchange in appreciation of my being new.

I later played against Lavar, as he filled the spot of another newbie who was loosing badly who was called away to attend to a Boeing 737. He sat down, studying the board, then realizing that in one more move his army of black would be reduced to three tokens, he sighed and sat back in the chair, making the inevitable move to spark the bloodbath.

To be honest, he played well with his three pieces.

I cornered him, finally, when suddenly a weathered hand reached over his dreds and slammed the black king down a couple rows over. "Chance! Always take the chance!" he reprimanded Lavar, who was studying the placement of the king. I looked and realized Jallow had simply picked the piece up and slammed it down out of the way of my attack.

"How are you allowed to--" I began to ask.

"When in doubt--cheat!" Jallow pronounced, before pushing Lavar from his seat for another round. I sighed.

I was rescued that time by an airbus. Between you and me, I don't really like the airbusses, but I dislike the Embraeyer, period, so I wont complain. Work is work, a job is a job. Who can afford to not like their bread and butter--not matter how uncomfortable its cargo bin is? And since when was it ever acceptable to not be hungry?

Gotta eat, gotta eat--that's the name of the game. But the real punch on the clock isn't the checkers, it's the sweat. The sore muscles itching for more. Bread and butter with a kick, I decided. None of this bland stuff.

"Want some?" Kevin asked me, passing a spice bottle of some kind of seasoning. "It's got habanero--do you like hot stuff?"

"Not particularly" I admit. That was always John's forte--bread and butter with a kick. Like he couldn't taste it without that physical punch. I guess I see what he meant all those times. Kevin offered me a french fry covered in the mystery dust. I winced as it went down.

"How do you like it?" he asked, watching my facial expressions with withheld laughter.

"I like it" I admitted, punching back. He nodded as Jallow's loud laughter echoed through the room. I fully agreed; when in doubt, cheat.

Entering a Cucoon-Like State

2009-03-21T11:20:00.006-06:00

The hallways are always long, do you realize that? With the same tiles in the same pattern. They are always extremely long when you're nervous, though not so long when you're not--just long. Never short though. The room that holds the rest of your life is always the last room on your right.

"Why do you think I should give you this job?" the recruiter asked with a smile. He liked me, I could tell. He was a rather jovial person, this Tim, I had decided. Genuine charm, which is something more felt than learned. Sparked interest in people was his bread and butter, that was for certain.

Yet despite all this he has asked the inevitable question that always comes, like the last room on the right, at the end of job interview. This question is the gateway to the long hallway with your future being held captive in the last room on the right. The last pit of fire before reaching King Kupa, if you will.

Why do you think I want this job? I wanted to ask. A job is a job.

But instead I had smiled and shrugged. He waited, wanting to hear why it was I wanted this job. He knew what I thought. Some people actually say the first thing that comes to mind. But I thought about it. Was there more than just the want of an income and a way to spend my days that had brought me into Arlington's recruitment office?

Then I realized that wasn't the question. Why should he give me the job?

"Because I work" I said out loud, both to him and myself. His smile widened to a grin and he jotted down the answer, the grin tapping into laughter.

"That is the best answer I've ever heard" he admitted, offering his hand. "You're hired."

The beginning was really the fingerprinting though. I shed my life on those papers, documenting every apartment I had lived in, every job I had held in the last ten years. Apparently I move more than most people because I ran out of space and they had to add extra papers onto my background information packet for some contracted agency to go and check. Everything I had done.

"Here," the girl said as she traded me packet of paper for packet of paper. "You understand that having a conflicting job will subject you to possible termination?"

"Yes" I answered, stepping into the realization that I was signing my life into something new. From student, from office worker, from writer, into ramper.

I let everything happen around me as I sat and waited to clear. Every morning I got up, and every night I fell asleep, waiting. Memorizing city codes, and waiting. Doing push ups, and waiting. Watching the world pass me by, and waiting.

I stood in the mirror, watching as my mother trimmed my hair.

"How much should I cut?" she asked.

"Just chop it all off" I sighed.

"No, I wont. Rampers are rough people. It's a man's job. It's hard work that means having muscles, constantly moving. They don't sit around and think. They work. And the only thing feminine about you will be your hair."

I frowned but didn't answer, letting her cut six inches, leaving the other ten or so to hang just past my shoulders.

"I'm not going to be able to recognize you" John protested over the phone.

"It was only a trim" I reminded.

"But you had such long beautiful hair" he lamented.

"It's nothing; my hair is still relatively long" I shrugged.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" he asked hesitantly. "I mean, it's a good job and all, and the benefits are really good, but do you really want to be a ramper?"

Minor editor's note

2009-03-11T12:43:00.003-06:00

So because I think this story is absolutely hilarious, I'm posting it in the words of Miriam. I was thinking, as I write this, that this would make a hilarious comic strip. Maybe that's how I'll earn some extra cash...

One day, me and Missy caught a ride home with the whole McDonald family. Camden, age 7, was filling out an application to the LA Film School. He became quite puzzled when it asked him if he had been charged or convicted of violating any federal or state law, and aloud, asked what it meant. Missy's response: "It's asking if you've ever been to jail. Have you? Say no, or else they won't let you in." Heather (Camden's mom) then said: "Missy knows from personal experience." My input: "She believes in trial and error." End of the story is... Camden continued with his application until he reached the final essay portion. "What do I put in this box?" Jarom (Camden's dad) responds: "You write and tell them why they should pick you." Camden, disappointed, shocked, appalled, and completely blown says: "What?! I was just gonna draw a picture!"

From left: Camden, Easton, Heather, Jarom, and Brighton

A Glance at Home

2009-01-29T22:05:00.005-07:00

There is a woman in black over there, where she is every morning. Low lights flash at her feet to signal the arrival of the train, like they do. She carries a newspaper under her arm, bought on her way into the station. It's cold, and her breath colors the air in steady streams, in and out, in and out. It's cold but bright. It'll be a frigid morning, and even though everything is dead in the winter air, it's alive. Sleeping.

Hibernation happens when the body cools down. The higher temperature becomes, the more the particles move around. But when they stop, there is no heat. There is no energy given off. And things sleep.

Hibernating, that's what this is. Potential energy seeps out of everything, because even though you can't see it, you can feel it, the slow, relaxed breathing induced by sleep.

"This is the Red Line to Glenmont station; train boarding on your right" says the faceless man to the woman in black. She doesn't hear him; she simply steps through the open door, as if she were walking from room to room.

The comatose lifts, as if woken by the whistle of the slow breathing against the moving train. She opens her paper, eyes lighting from subject to subject. Men, women, police men, children, dead or alive in black print. They dance and talk ethics, they dance and talk politics, they dance and talk religion, to the sound of rumbling train wheels, bump bump bump, whiiiiiiiir.

"Now approaching Metro Center, this is a transfer stop for the Orange and Blue Lines. Doors open on your right, thank you for riding Metro Rail, have a nice day." The nameless man says, his voice crackling in the old speakers.

The woman stands, shaken into alertness, her eyes seeing nothing but light in the dark tunnels, deep underground.

"Excuse me" she says as she bumps into a man, who is hurrying the other way, feeding the crowd flowing in and out, like blood in vessels to the brain. He flashes a smile to say no harm is done and hurries, already gone in presence and thought.

She walks, they walk, we walk into buildings, down the streets, laughing, waiting, crying, alive, alive in the sleeping city, alive for the paradox of cities and nature.

Tomorrow she will stand in the cold, not seeing her breath, newspaper tucked in her armpit, maybe with a cup of coffee. "This is the Red Line to Glenmont Station. Doors opening on the right."

All I Wanted Was A Life of My Own, Part 2

2009-01-09T11:35:00.002-07:00

As a battered old man I sat there and waited. Death was coming, or it had come and gone, and I still sat here, by the window. Color flashed, and there was pain. Pain that reflected in the window. I smiled and laughed when the visitors came, but just like that they were gone, and I remained by the window pane.

And then one day, she came to me. She came and showed me pretty things, which I reached out for and she let me hold, sun-catchers, dream-holders, things I used to know, but had since forgotten, belonging to the life that wasn't mine to have. And the power in them, oh, the power. Something in me longed for it, for it to course through my being, like it had before.

And why not? If it had once been mine, why not?

So I, in my flannel and jeans, stood before my window and reached, with all my might. And it came, everything, all at once. The power coursed through me, beginning in my feet. I ran with the wind. Faster and faster, higher and higher, my old wings brought me to the heavens, where I ran out of air.

I grasped at nothing, burning more and more power to stay adrift, and with a final burst of everything I had, I reached again, just to stay, and I fell. Death became me as I burned, falling, falling, ever falling, until there was nowhere left to fall to. I burned and burned and from my ashes, I moved.

Here I am, new. I spread my wings and lifted. Here I am, again. New. New. Up, I knew. Up up.

And in my hands were my dream-holders. And in my eyes were my sun-catchers. I was the power I sought, and I was all the time.

"There'll be that crowd to make men wild through all the centuries,
And maybe there'll be some young belle walk out to make men wild
Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies,
But not the likeness, the simplicity of a child,
And that proud look as though she had gazed into the burning sun,
And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray,
I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will be done,
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day."

-from "His Phoenix" by W.B. Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole, 1919.

All I Wanted Was A Life of My Own

2009-01-09T11:22:00.003-07:00

Consider the homeless man. No one wants him around, and so he sleeps wherever he wants, whenever he wants. He goes and comes as he feels. And is he miserable? Maybe.

It's the same as Huck Finn I would think. Someone who never had much to care for can never find themselves caring about more than that, even when it is handed to them. They appreciate the gesture, or so I would assume, but how often is it that they change to be something new?

And then consider the suburban housewife who runs around all day trying to make meaningless ends meet. Soccer practice, PTA meetings, groceries, and finding time for Ellen or Oprah (depending on preference of course). And she is probably just as miserable as the homeless man!

Which is why I went back. I stood outside in the cold, letting my hair freeze, waiting for that big, tall, insanely politically incorrect punk to open the door and smile and say "Welcome back." And the moment I picked up that pencil, facing my grey Stonehenge, I could simply smile and consider everything that I had just gotten back. And there is nothing else but me, right here, right now.

Consider the point, the line, the plane. Consider how in this space, there is really one true placement, one true gesture, one true size. From point a to point b, there are infinite possibilities, once you know the rules. And what are the rules? Would you know? Can you tell?

"It's just like riding a bike" Ryan said, looking over from his canvas. And I smiled and considered. Yes, yes it is.

On Family

2008-10-23T09:49:00.006-06:00

While I dearly love my brother, I have to admit he is at a loss being a boy and all. I think I already wrote on him, so I wont go on about him. I actually was going to talk about my sisters.

We came in pairs. First there was me and Camille. The two extremes that you could have using the same pairs of genes. I mean, really, there aren't two people more different than me and Camille. And I love her for it. But the age thing, that is really a big thing because it means we shared a) the same parents b) the same teachers c) the same schools d) the same groups of people (we managed to have different friends for the most part). And in talking to Makayla, I think it all comes down to an observation: comfortability doesn't mean close. Being around Camille isn't comfortable. Comforting sometimes, but hardly comfortable. And yet, Camille and I are close-because we came in a pair.

Then there was Miriam and Clarissa, who are also opposites, but not in extremes. They are a captivating pair actually. And if Camille and I are extremes, these two are the opposite of that. As liberal as I am, Clarissa is less so. As conservative as Camille is, she is matched by Miriam. Ironic, that they are the most mixed pair, the most intertwined.

Then there was Rae. And Rae, though part of a pair, is very very distinct. Her other is Ben, and obviously he doesn't really count as being part of the group of girls. Not only that, their pairing is as distant as the space between Camille and Miriam. So in actuality, they just coexist as separate factions. But Rae is the moderator. She sides with nobody and relates to everyone. She, in her being the youngest, has inherited the insight of both pairs of sisters. While she is attracted to my distinct eccentricity, she also is admires Camille's class. While she laughs with Miriam, she can run with Clarissa (or play ball as is normally the case). She not a fencesitter, but the point. The point that is both included in the group, but is not because she is alone. And it is that strength to be alone that I admire. While it takes strength to recognize your pairing and make it work, it is far harder to be alone. Far far harder.

But Rae will never be alone, because we will never leave her. None of us will, because she completes us. She is our center.

And the even more important thing to note, besides our differences, is the fact that we act as a family. We are a unit that exists to build and sustain the others. Is that not so? It is an empowering notion, when it works. And it is one that depends on our individuality. Because all our smiles are not the same.

To see what Camille said about the sisterhood, check out her blog, at http://cacacamille.blogspot.com/.

The lack of a brush

2008-10-14T07:57:00.003-06:00

At 3 in the morning, my cup of paintbrushes sit by the lamp, not being used. I knew they should be. That's exactly why I was up and I knew it. I wanted to paint. I wanted to paint so badly. Yet here I am, in front of a computer, typing away about Marvell.

Colin met me on the train. Just paint, right? he said. I laughed and took the can he was holding out to me. It's just paint. Colin shrugged and we passed into the burbs. I tucked the can gently into my bag, hoping it didn't make too much noise. It's just paint.

Carmen was in China that week. They didn't catch her, again. They never did, the dumb kids. Even I knew that the Nile was in Egypt. I sighed and picked up a book.

Camille's flute got stolen yesterday. Matt stole it and hid it in the lab. She loved him, or would, I knew. I knew the moment I met him. I hope he never meets her I told Javier in the workshop over diagrams of cardboard chairs. Javier laughed as he picked up a can. I looked at it. It's just paint, he said, handing it to me.

I looked at the canvas in front of me. You know, I said to Mully, all painting is is pushing chemicals around on a canvas. It's all about illusion. This isn't anything but cloth and chemical right here. Crazy huh?

She looked at me like I was stupid, but I was right. It's just paint.

But not at 3 in the morning. At 3 in the morning it is my heart's desire, and that is exactly why my paper is only a page and a half after five hours of doing absolutely nothing.

Stunning Blue Eyes

2008-10-07T19:39:00.004-06:00

You joke about exposing yourself and then you look at me. "I'm sorry, we're offending you."

"I'm from DC, I've heard worse" I answer. From Brad, Jack, Will, Colin, Josh. It's a life I left. But you don't know that. You don't know that you are just like them. Down to your gorgeous blue eyes and your two parent-less children and your long record of transgressions.

And when I say that I can't take a break and ignore the customer, you say "You work at McDonalds."

"Apparently you don't know me at all" I say to you. What does that even mean, other than I am getting paid by a corporate presence to take food orders from insomniacs like myself? No, Mr. Hyde, I do not work at McDonalds; you do. I stay awake at McDonalds, I wash dishes at McDonalds, I schmooze people under the name McDonalds. But I also leave McDonalds. I do homework. I paint pictures, I play the piano, I write papers, I sing songs, I hold meetings, I read. And you sleep. You don't even leave to sleep. You work at McDonalds and you sleep, and I do not presume to know anything about that life.

So, my blue eyed monster of a man, what now? It is far more offensive for you to apologize for your crudeness than it is for you to be crude at all. Because while you are foolish and rude to make such a response, you are arrogant to sum my individuality into a stereotype.

3:31 AM

2008-10-05T06:59:00.003-06:00

"Can I get a double cheeseburger, plain with mac sauce on it?"

"I' m sorry sir, we're only serving breakfast right now"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes"

"Ok, then can I have a medium chocolate milkshake?"

"I'm sorry, our milkshake machine goes into an automatic cleaning mode at 2:30"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes"

Explicitives. "I need a minute then"

"Ok, tell me when you're ready"

Pause. "Can I have two sausage burritos and a hash brown?"

"Do you want to make that a meal?"

"No, just the burritos and hash brown."

"Ok, your total is $3.22; please pull forward to the first window."

"Thanks."

10 minutes later. "Excuse me, sir, what was your order?"

"Two burritos and a hash brown."

"Oh, it'll be right out. Do you want any sauce?"

"Sweet and sour?"

"That costs 15 cents extra"

"Never mind. Hot sauce please." Pause. "How is your night going?"

"Same as usual."

"What time to you get off?"

"5"

"That's the graveyard alright. How long have you been a night owl?"

"All my life"

"Really? Is that why you work here?"

"I have nothing better to do." Shrug and smile. "Here you are, sir, sorry for the wait."

"It's all right. Have a good night."

"You too sir."

At least the burritos were hot.

To Serve a Higher Cause

2008-09-24T10:49:00.006-06:00

One would think after six months of intense mental, spiritual, and intellectual workouts the fat would all just fall off. All that strain, all that labor, pressured into a blade that just slices all the undesirable stuff right off.

And yet for some reason the enigmatic paper proposal goes half written. I waded through all of my collections of knowledge. I purged it forth, supporting my ideas purely with legitimate quotes and about seventeen opening lines later I come to the real Maleficent, enchantingly beautiful despite the green skin. Why in the world am I writing a paper proposal for a cause that can be answered with one drawing?

How, in the light of the Restored Gospel, do we portray the Divine? With respect, in its purest form. Points. Lines. Planes.

So give me something to believe 'cause I am living just to breathe. And I need something more than what I'm breathing for, so give me something to believe.*

While sitting here in my sweats, channeling Carrie Bradshaw with an unblocked writers block, one has to wonder: when will the believing really kick in.

Then I realize that it already has. And while I may not really care to finish the paper proposal, I do care to find out exactly what prompted me to begin one in the first place. The girl working the graveyard shift at the local McDonalds would not care to deal with a subject so obscure. Kandinsky. Human Bodies. Why would anyone care about one or the other?

But the girl who will not settle for the lesser attentions of a man, the girl who shows up to work five minutes early, the girl who will give anything for what real relationships she has created her entire life. That girl I shake my finger at, for she is trouble. Man-eater, heart-breaker, untouchable copy of what has been, will be, and simply is somewhere other than here. I sigh at her, at the notion of extreme cost. Breaking, broken, raw. Raw in its pinkness, bloodiness. Raw in an open wound gaping in expression of pain, joy, ecstasy.

She is waiting impatiently for me to retch my guts out and return, water bottles, Tylenol, blankets and all. More, more, always more. There will always be something more. Is it enough to breathe? Never did anything require such a high price. For what must give for a single shallow breath? How many people lie in beds selling their souls for just one more? How many hoarde it in anticipation, fear, selfishness?

In, out, one two three four, in, out, one two three four.

It will not be wasted, not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

*From "Believe" as performed by The Bravery

Housekeeping Notes

2008-09-22T10:35:00.002-06:00

There are now two blogs. This particular blog is for writing exercises. The other, found at http://jakofalltrades.wordpress.com, is for academic thoughts ranging from classes to other projects that make me seem entirely precocious, like paper proposals, etc. There will not be any posted assignments, such as papers...because I feel like that will do nothing good for me.

Happy reading. And better yet, happy thinking.