Play for Pay - The Lowell Creative Economy Census
“Find something you love to do,
and you’ll never have to work a day in your life.” - Harvey MacKay
In Lowell, art is the axis around which the entire city revolves. Our very motto reflects this devotion to the humanities: Art is the handmade of human good. Lowell owes its revival in large part to the artists who centered their life and work here over the past twenty years, and helped to foster a sense of community and vitality in the city. Art can be isolating however, with many hours spent in concentration on one’s craft. This is even more the case for artists who make a living by their work, who invest late nights and early mornings running a business while developing ideas and working on projects for commissions, gallery inclusions, and community outreach. In a city built on art, much of the time the artists are behind the scenes. While this is an act of supreme love and dedication to one’s craft, it needs to be recognized and celebrated by the community!
In an effort to bring the artists of Lowell front and center, take the temperature of the local arts and culture industry, and connect consumers to the city’s creative force, Suzzanne Cromwell of the Lowell Film Collaborative has developed the Lowell Creative Economy Census. Not only is it a great way to offer the community a comprehensive report on the creative scene in Lowell, it will connect the artist community as a whole with opportunities to share and sell their work, “by providing a quick “one stop shop” for consumers to connect to Lowell’s creative industry.” (cultureiscool.org)
Suzzanne is a prominent supporter of the arts in Lowell, and through the Lowell Film Collaborative has brought education, awareness and fun to our local scene. Hardly a week goes by where the LFC isn’t hosting an event, planning a film series, or reviewing a new film or festival. Suzzanne is the embodiment of what the arts scene is to Lowell, and she brings her knowledge of film and her enthusiasm for community involvement to us every day. Plus, bumping into Suz around town is basically guaranteed to make your day. You’ve never met a more cheerful gal in all your life!
As with any census, the success of the initiative hinges on the participation of the whole community. Artists are encouraged to provide their information and feedback through a centralized site, which will be aggregated and used (in totally non-evil, privacy-friendly ways) to connect the artist to the community, and the community to the artist!
As if recognition and community awareness weren’t incentive enough, Suzzanne has also coordinated a kick-off event for the initiative. The evening meet-up will host tummy-tempting refreshments, and a chance to network, get out of the workshop (or studio or writing room or darkroom) and visit with other members of the creative community that make Lowell a special and incredible place for all of us. So, if you’re an artist, or just want to hug an artist for making our home so awesome, drop in!
Creative Economy Census “Kick-off” Event
Thursday, October 14 @ 6:30 p.m.
Brew’d Awakening Coffeehaus
67 Market Street, Lowell
If you are a creative professional in Lowell, please take the time to fill out the survey, and connect with the community you serve. Lowell wouldn’t be the special city it is without your talent and your devotion!
The Play’s the Thing
I’ve come to like my developing habit of self-challenges. A few years ago, I challenged myself, as a New Year’s resolution, to read a book a week. It seriously changed the way I live my day-to-day life. I turned off the television, and never really turned it back on.
Recently, I was thinking about some of the poems and other pieces of literature I love that I’ve committed to memory over the years. A few of Shakespeare’s sonnets, Frost’s “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.” There are many where a hazy recollection exists, just waiting to be solidified with a bit of practice.
Recently on a car ride, I thought of a line from Hamlet’s soliloquy in Act III, and started trying to see if I could piece together the rest of the monologue. I mostly had it, but it was all jumbled, parts were missing. So I decided, what the hell! I’ll see if I can commit it to memory. Before I went to bed that night, I read through it line by line, trying to get a few more pieces in the right order each time. While doing some boring office stuff the next day, I returned to the exercise, rattling it off in my head to see if I could get all the way through it without any mistakes. By the end of my little task, I had it.
So I gave the idea some thought, and I think I’m committed to the idea of another self-challenge. I’d like to commit the sonnets to memory within a year. It’s goofy, the sort of stupid-human-trick quality caper that has little use and marginal appeal. But I like it! There’s 154, so putting down one every day or so, with a little margin for laziness and other projects, shouldn’t be too difficult. I figure, I’ve memorized the lyrics to every song in my iPod, so 154 snippets of information shouldn’t be a huge issue. Much like song lyrics, I’ll benefit from a dedicated rhyme scheme, pattern of syllables and stresses.
Maybe I’ll keep a checklist of the ones I’ve “completed” and test myself for retention. What do we think of this? Crazy? Dumb? Exciting?
….Anyone want to do it with me?
Wait for it… waiiiittt forrr ittt. ::::cue the crickets::::
Play It Again, Jaws
When we decided to get a cat a few years ago, I had the typical daydreams: A little fluffy creature to sleep in my lap on the couch, snuggle on cold winter mornings in bed, and occasionally play a rousing game of “chase the ribbon.”
What we got… was Jaws.
This should have been my first indication that the “cat” we got was not what it said on the tin.
Isn’t she precious?
My furry landshark still lives up to her name every day. She strikes at any moment (typically from under the bed), and circles her territory looking for opportunities to sneak up on an unsuspecting victim and -
PLAY! PLAY FETCH! PLAY KILL THE MONSTERFEET! PLAY PLAY PLAY!
Our cat has a problem, in that she’s not a cat. We think she got mislabeled at the factory. She’s a dog, for sure. She can outfetch, outbeg, and outkeep-away any Labrador retriever you’d care to put in her path. She’ll then ride that Labrador like a circus pony, and send it away with a therapist bill.
I’m not sure how it happened, but our cat needs to go to Play-play-play A.A. My day goes a little like this:
Are you awake? It’s two a.m. Not getting out of bed? No problem, I’ve got a ball with feathers on it. Very low-impact early morning workout. Throw! Okay… :::run run run::: Now, again.
Hey are you in the bathroom? I’m waving! Can you see me waving? Under the door? Hey. HEY! Okay, now throw me a Q-tip. I can make due.
Ooh! You’re in the closet? Cool. I seee you. I’m behind the door. See me? Through the little crack? I seeeeeee you. :::BAT!::: Tag, you’re it!!! Aww too slow. It’s 7:30 a.m. Still not bringing your A-game. What’s up with that?!
Are you getting up off the couch? Perfect! Here, drag the string around for me. C’mon DRAG! Man, it’s like I have to do all the work!
It’s gotten to the point where shifting position on the couch means she snaps awake, leaps from her bed, falls over dead in front of you and cries, like you’re killing her with your lack of enthusiasm. This happens… about thirty times a day.
We tried “auto-play”. There was one contraption strapped to the door that fluttered a ribbon around on a motorized belt. Jaws decided it was more fun if the ribbon was detached from the device. Greater range. There was another toy that swiped a stick through the air, with a ball and feathers on the end. The base is now a paperweight, but the stick (denuded of its once glorious plumage) is still her favorite. She drags it around the house with her like Linus’ blanket.
Anyone ever had a cat that’s not a cat? We do 
Plllllllay Ball!
No, I’m not watching baseball. If I’m ever watching baseball, it’s fair to assume I’m a pod person and you should run. The invasion is afoot.
Eddie’s mom was kind enough to get us a season pass to the Merrimack Repertory Theatre as an early Christmas gift. We live walking distance to the theatre, so it’s a great night out on the town for us, and this was a gorgeous night for the walk to the show. The first show of the MRT season this year is the Reduced Shakespeare Company’s The Complete World of Sports. (See how I did that? With the “play” theme? That’s why I get the big bucks. I’m going to make it through this month yet.)
RSC’s shows are always awesome (we’ve seen The History of the World (Abridged) in the past) and this was no exception. The guys covered everything from baseball and soccer, to cheese rolling, golf, and even some sports they made up just for the hell of it. The show was brilliant, enjoyable even for someone like me, who wouldn’t know it were football season if the guys in the IT department weren’t taking bets on it. The humor is intelligent and fast-paced, and per usual they got the crowd roaring even when they were riffing on local politics and sports. (They picked on the Spinners, and made it out alive. That alone tells you how good these guys are!)
And of course they had a heckler! She was dealt with masterfully. She wasn’t about to let the guys pick on Scott Brown (needless to say, she was the lone voice crying in the wilderness. Sorry lady). They let her have her fun, mostly so “Austin” (the intellectual whom, by their own admission, bears a more than passing resemblance to Al Franken) could call her a “Feisty yankee dame” and get a few more miles out of the joke. There was actually quite a few audience participation moments… mostly planned. It goes without saying, Ed and I were very happy to have balcony seats and leave the fifteen minutes to those who ordered their tickets earlier than yesterday at lunch! We’re fairly sure one of the guys was either a plant, or just a total ham, as he was almost a little too comfortable getting on stage and into the action. (There were big hand gestures involved.)
If you get a chance to see these guys before they head on to their next stop, I highly recommend it. Time is off the essence, however, as they’ve only got two shows left. The first show starts, well.. now. Sorry for the short notice. But you’ll have one more crack at it tomorrow. The Sunday matinee runs tomorrow, October 3rd, 2pm at the Merrimack Repertory Theatre, 50 E. Merrimack Street in Lowell.
The rest of the Rep’s season promises to be as wonderful as always. Tickets to the next offering, Four Places, are on sale now at the MRT website. Support local theatre and plan a great date night out!
All Work and No Play
I shouldn’t be writing this post.
I should be doing some homework, or (holy hell) cleaning my long-suffering house, doing the laundry, or perhaps even sleeping. I’m not. Instead, I’m piling one more thing on the plate. I’m signing up for Nablopomo and committing to a blog post a day for the month.
I’ve updated my blog three times in the last ten months. One post didn’t even count really - I posted a paper I wrote for school because I wrote it scary-fast and it got an A. I’ve just fallen out of the blogging habit. Full-time work, (more than) full-time school, a renewed attempt to read fifty-two books again this year, and just the regular old schmeg of life have taken up any bits of free time I might have been able to scrape together for writing.
Despite the toll this takes on my social life and my “fun” time, I don’t regret a bit of what I’ve taken on. I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past year, specifically just how much I’m capable of taking on. I’d never have known how little sleep I can actually function on. I’d never have known I could take two years of school and jam it into sixteen months, and still graduate with a GPA I can be proud of. I will never be able to say “I don’t have time” or “I don’t have the energy” for something small. If I want to get done, it can in fact get done. I am capable of as much as I set my mind to.
It hasn’t always been pretty. I’ve had a lot of blessings to help get me where I am. I have a stellar husband who puts up with the less-than-stellar moments of temper; the disastrous house and strange mealtimes; the wife who sometimes runs on caffeine, catnaps, and sheer force of will. I still have friends who love me, even though (as it’s been pointed out) I’ve seen them about a handful of times since the beginning of the year. I’ve been forgiven over and over for skipping basically an entire year of Wednesday night family dinners that were my idea in the first place (I love you Missy! Sorrryyyy!)
Now all of this insanity is coming to an end. December 11th, I send in the last paper of the last class of my Bachelor in English. I will have the piece of paper, and (for a little while) I will have a WHOLE lot of time on my hands. More time than I’ve had since I was twenty years old. I’ll be able to ring in the New Year without the lingering dread of class starting on the 3rd (just after the departure of the last holiday hangover!) I’ll be able to lay on the couch when the snow is piling up and read the latest Ken Follett without an ounce of guilt, knowing I should be reading chapter three of some Gods-forsaken textbook about operant conditioning. It will be a little like breaking free of the Skinner box and the damned little button, actually!
So… what the hell am I going to do with myself?!
PLAY!! PLAY PLAY PLAY!!!
I’m going to finally finish the stained glass fireplace screen I promised my in-laws two years ago. I’m going to read books because they’re awesome, and not because they’re assigned. I’m going to edit the three books in pitiful draft form that have languished in my hard-drive, and work on new projects! I’m going to finally learn how to knit (Really knit. Not BS knitting like I do now, than ends in tears and stubs of scarves.) I’m going to sleep in until noon on weekends, wake up, eat Cheerios, then take a power nap directly after, rousing only to snuggle with Indiana and stick my tongue out at Eddie.
It won’t be all fun and games (although, there will be a lot of fun AND games). I’ll still be “studying”. The GRE and the MTEL (if I don’t take them before graduation) will be right around the corner. I’ll be hunting for a grad program, and jumping right back into the fray. But it won’t be the hell-ride my undergrad has been. Hopefully, anyway.
So here’s to big dreams about “life on the outside.” Dreams filled with stained glass, good books, hand-knitted slippers, writing, editing and long, glorious naps on the couch.
And of course, some blogging.
Hurrah!
Horrified… and yet… proud…
I wrote this paper tonight. I thought of the idea this morning. It took me four hours. I wrote this basically off the top of my head. This is why I’m a nerd and need a classroom:
Psychoanalytic Literature: Dostoevsky to Woolf
Between the late 19th and early 20th centuries, mental disorders and diseases began to play a more detailed and significant role in world literature, as information and understanding about the role of these subjects became known. Perhaps the most commonly recognized example of this shift is seen in the work of psychologists such as Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud, who advanced this understanding through the development of the psychoanalytic theory. Despite this “household” recognition of psychoanalysis and human behavioral study, this school of psychologists had literary sources upon which to draw, and long after their initial clinical exploration, authors continue to examine the essence of the human psyche through the development of fictional characters.
In 1865, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” was published, and is today recognized as the one of the world greatest works of literature, and the first “psychological” novel, revealing the murderer Raskolnikov not through the clues he leaves behind, but through the killer’s inner monologue. Freud himself recognized Dostoyevsky’s influence into the field of psychoanalysis. “Dostoevsky’s great works, considered individually or holistically, though fictional, established him as one of the forefathers of psychoanalysis, and a predecessor to Freud. Indeed Freud himself acknowledged that “the poets” discovered the unconscious before he did, stating further in a letter to Stefan Zweig, “Dostoevsky ‘cannot be understood without psychoanalysis- i.e., he isn’t in need of it because he illustrates it himself in every character and every sentence.’” (Cantrell) Nearly sixty years later, Virginia Woolf would approach the character Septimus Warren Smith using many of the same methods as Dostoevsky, influenced by the Russian author, as Freud had been. She said of the author in her essay The Russian Point of View, “There is something proud and superb in the attack of such a mind and such a body upon life. Nothing seems to escape him. Nothing glances off him unrecorded… And what his infallible eye reports of a cough or a trick of the hands his infallible brain refers to something hidden in the character, so that we know his people, not only by the way they love and their views on politics and the immortality of the soul, but also by the way they sneeze and choke.” Despite Woolf’s appreciation of these talents, and the similarity of her method, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov and Septimus Warren Smith embody two very different facets of mental disorder and its effects upon the individual, born of the experiences of their creator.
No doubt influenced by Dostoevsky’s experience with the penal system in Russia following his incarceration in a Siberian labor camp in 1946- a result of his involvement with political liberalism - the author first wrote “Crime and Punishment” as a serialized novel published in The Russian Messenger, later compiled into its familiar novelized form. It follows the descent into madness and criminality of Rodion Raskolnikov, a Petersburg student plagued by the debilitating effects of paranoid schizophrenia. Raskolnikov, laboring under delusions and hallucinations, murders a pawnbroker and her half sister with an axe. The novel focuses on Raskolnikov’s formulation and execution of the crime, his subsequent self-involvement in the ensuing criminal investigation, and his eventual confession, incarceration, and redemption. Although rife with themes from a modern-day detective novel, the primary focus of Crime and Punishment is the mental and emotional state of the main character, and the moral and religious implications of his actions.
In 1925, Virginia Woolf’s publication of Mrs. Dalloway delved with equal aplomb and tenacity into the intricacies of emotional and mental health. Woolf’s novel introduced of Septimus Warren Smith, a young soldier irrevocably damaged by the debilitating effects of mental disorders, a subject largely influenced by Woolf’s own battle with mental illness over much of her adult life. Woolf suffered bouts of depression and mood disorders, which degenerated into more serious symptoms such as auditory hallucinations in the last years of her life. Fearing this degeneration of her mental state and its effect on her marriage and writing, Woolf committed suicide by drowning in 1941. Similar to the manifestations of Raskolnikov’s illness, Septimus Warren Smith exhibited bouts of prolonged agitation, hallucination, and delusional thinking. The similarity ends there however, as the results of their respective illness both on the world and on their own lives, differ considerably.
The first major area in which the two characters differ is the mitigating circumstances of their illness. Septimus’ catalyst is clearly defined in the novel: A soldier in the First World War, Septimus saw firsthand the atrocities of the battlefield, chiefly in the death of his friend, Evans. Returning from the war, shell-shocked and despondent, an already deteriorating Septimus marries Lucrezia while living in Italy after the war, and returns with her to England. Even in this early stage of what would now be called Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD,) Septimus lacks emotional response.
“Even taste (Rezia liked ices, chocolates, sweet things) had no relish to him. He put down his cup on the little marble table. He looked at people outside; happy they seemed, collecting in the middle of the street, shouting, laughing, squabbling over nothing. But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the tea-shop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him-he could not feel. He could reason; he could read, Dante for example, quite easily (”Septimus, do put down your book,” said Rezia, gently shutting the Inferno), he could add up his bill; his brain was perfect; it must be the fault of the world then-that he could not feel.”
This lack of feeling is not present in most of Raskolnikov’s private thoughts. To the contrary, his emotions reel from the most tender feelings of affection (for Sonia, for his old schoolmate Razumihin,) to rages and moments devoid of care.
In Raskolnikov, there seems no clearly defined catalyst for mental breakdown, but for the extreme poverty that plagues him. Before the opening of Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov had been a student at the university, but because of money and social issues had dropped out, becoming so poor as to have little with which to feed or clothe himself. While not so pronounced a reason as Septimus’ war experience, the onset of schizophrenia is often precipitated by some change or stress in the life of the sufferer. Whatever the cause, Raskolnikov’s deterioration into homicidal thoughts is present from the first chapters of the novel, and in fact the character spends much of the opening of the book preparing to murder the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna, visiting the woman on the pretext of pawning some items as a way to examine the scene of the future crime.
Where Septimus presents a more acute public face of “madness” (talking to oneself, insisting upon the presence of unseen figures and unheard voices) Raskolnikov manages to remain high-functioning throughout most of the story - a fact of course out of step with the functioning ability of most paranoid schizophrenics. Where Septimus rambles and collects his thoughts in incoherent missives (either self-written or dictated to his wife,) Raskolnikov collects his thoughts and formally presents his belief of the “Ubermensch” theory to the world, through a publication submitted while he was still a student. Although their level of sophistication in collecting these thoughts varies, it is in this instance where the two characters find their greatest commonality. The idea that they are of a class of human above the common man is a theme that features heavily in the delusions of both men. Raskolnikov meditates heavily upon the idea of the Napoleonic figure, the individual who once in a generation moves beyond moral and legal bounds to achieve greatness (Interestingly, Woolf visits this idea in To the Lighthouse, with Mr. Ramsay’s meditation upon “reaching Zed.” Although this refers to intellectual, not moral superiority, the emphasis upon its rarity is the same.) Increasingly, Raskolnikov comes to believe that he is one of these “great men,” and in fact ultimately admits that his murder of the old woman was an act to “prove” that he could progress beyond morality and law, believing “if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood.”
Septimus, on the other hand, presents a much less formal characterization of his human superiority. He seems to be guided by the apparition of Evans, continually concerned with “saving” others (most likely an idea ingrained in him during his service.) Here there ”Now for his writings; how the dead sing behind rhododendron bushes; odes to Time; conversations with Shakespeare; Evans, Evans, Evans-his messages from the dead; do not cut down trees; tell the Prime Minister. Universal love: the meaning of the world. Burn them!’ he cried.” Here the reader gains a full perspective on the level of incoherence present in Septimus’ fractured reality. Where Raskolnikov is calculating, cunning and works to maintain control over his reeling emotional state, Septimus gives completely over to the delusion. His assertions of superiority come to nothing, however, as his actions, as explored in the following, are primarily self-concerned.
Perhaps the largest divide between the two characters is in their ultimate fate. Where Dostoevsky’s aim in creating the figure of Raskolnikov is to move a figure from a state of moral decrepitude to one of redemption, Woolf uses Septimus (semi-autobiographically) as a symbol of emotional separation, lonliness, and the pervasive influence of mental illness upon the sufferer. Raskolnikov ultimately is liberated from the darkness of his mental illness by his involvement with, and eventual confession to Sonia Arkadeyevna, the prostitute who took pity on the murderer, loving him and even following him to Siberia to wait out his penal servitude. Here Raskolnikov is not saved by medicine (for medicine had not yet begun to explore the causes and remedies for organic mental defect) but by absolution. He becomes aware of the nature of his crimes, and through confession and penitence, is redeemed to a new life after his servitude. Themes of redemption played heavily into Dostoevsky’s work, chiefly due to his return to religious orthodoxy during his own servitude.
The fate of Septimus Warren Smith is not so bright. Haunted by apparitions, terrified and abused by the doctors who attempt to “cure” him with the slapdash practice of medicine, Septimus ultimately succumbs to the weight of his illness, leaping from a window to escape the perceived assault by the “enemy” doctors. Septimus’ fate is largely a commentary on Woolf’s own views of mental illness, and her struggle against them. Woolf, like Septimus, would eventually succumb to the weight of her mental disorders. It is perhaps for this reason that she is able to produce a character, while so obviously disturbed, is also pitiable, walking the fine line between our aversion to madness, and our deeper fears of living under such a state. We do not think less of Septimus for his end, and in fact understand the weight of such a burden through his inner monologue. Absolution for Septimus comes not from those around him, but form the reader.
To look at these two characters is to appreciate how, in the hands of a master craftsman, the same tools and materials can produce vastly different results. The influence upon Woolf’s work is clear, and her understanding of the human soul on terms with Dostoevsky.
Sources:
1. Cantrell, Dan. “Dostoevsky and Psychology”. Accessed June 27, 2009. http://community.middlebury.edu/~beyer/courses/previous/ru351/studentpapers/Psychology.shtml
2. Dostoevsky, Fyodor. (1866) “Crime and Punishment” Translated by Constance Garnett (2004) Collector’s Library. London.
3. Woolf, Virginia. (1925) “Mrs. Dalloway”. Harcourt. London.
The Breakdown (But not the one you’re thinking of…)
So… yesterday I did a trial run of this little housework resolution of mine, to see how much I could actually get done in an hour. Would there be a visible dent in my crud factor? Would that geiger counter we bought stop shrieking in horror every time we pointed it at the fridge? Most importantly, would the cats notice any change in household quality?
I decided to do a trial run. I did as much as I could in an hour, without breaking my ass, but while trying to successfully multitask. I started by bagging up some laundry (three loads to be exact) and taking it down to throw in.
Ten minutes* to do this. Okay. That’s a dent.
I scooped the kitty boxes, and fed them. Five minutes, if you count the minute shooshing them out of my way to get to the food dishes in the midst of their gastronomical excitement. I emptied the trash, kitchen and bathroom, and ran it downstairs to the bins. Ten minutes more. Minor successes abound! I decided while killing time waiting to flip the clothes, I’d empty the dishwasher.
Thirty minutes later, dishes are put away, sink is emptied and cleaned down, countertops are wiped down, a few stray objects are put away, and the glass cooktop (a housewife’s arch-rival if ever there was one) is scrubbed and looking less like the black blob that ate Tasha Yar in Star Trek: TNG.
I flipped the clothes into the dryer, went to get dinner with Eddie, and then folded and trundled the clothes back upstairs. This took another 30 minutes total. I also took a few minutes to wrestle errant ribbon away from both cats, and spent a few minutes hunting for other ribbons they hadn’t yet eaten. I booked five minutes for this. Say what you will about this.
I set out to spend sixty minutes cleaning my house, and ended up with half-again the progress. Better yet, it actually LOOKED like I had done something! I had a clean kitchen! Clean enough that Eddie made sure it stayed that way when he baked cookies tonight.
If this is what my most recent New Year’s Resolution challenge will yield? Bring on the excellence. Sorry Former President Zipperhead… you’re going to have to find your fifty quid somewhere else.
* It is important to note that I only count time spent doing laundry when I am ACTUALLY HANDLING the laundry. Gathering, sorting, throwing in, flipping into the dryer, folding, putting away… None of this “throw it in the wash and dry and call it an hour and a half” bullshit. That’s Peg Bundy math.
So This is the New Year…
First of all, let’s just get this out of the way…
OH MY GOD HOLY SHIT YOU POSTED ON YOUR BLOG WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD AND WE WERE JUST WAITIN FER UR DOMAIN REGGY TO EXPIRE SO WE COULD ST33L UR AWSUM URL!!1One
Okay, with that done. Hello! I know. It’s been like a month or more. It’s been busy around here lately. But that’s a story for another post (or three.. since the Bloggening just started back up again and I’m already four posts behind. Damn you, Ian and Tom.)
Now for a word from your sponsors…
I am a slob. Actually, saying I’m a slob is like saying the second term of the Bush Administration was kind of a lame party. I cringe at the thought of pop-ins, I am comfortable with a level of “artistic disarray” that would make Martha Stewart loose her bowels into her neatly ironed chinos. I am… Godzillaslob. The best evidence of this came this Thanksgiving. We cleaned the house neat as a pin in anticipation of dinner at our house. The place was stunningly clean. Unaccustomed to such conditions, our two cats wandered the house crying mournfully and refusing to cuddle with us until the place regained its usual patina of hapless clutter.
To be fair, I’m a busy girl. Anyone who knows me personally will agree that I take on WAY too much. This year, in addition to work, I took three classes, wrote the first 50,000 words of a novel, and joined a Christmas choir group. Holy. Crap. How much laundry got done in this house? I bet you can guess.
At the beginning of this year, I made the New Year’s resolution to read/listen to a book a week for the entire year. It was more than I’d read in years, but I thought it was an attainable goal, so I blogged about it and started a Goodreads account to chart my progress. I’m happy to report that as of today, not only have I completed my fifty-two book spree, I’m actually working on books fifty-three and fifty-four at the moment.
With my first “NYR Challenge” out of the way, I thought perhaps my love of self-competition could cure my vile hatred of housework. Maybe, if I came up with a NEW New Year’s Resolution Challenge TM I would keep my house clean, my clothes laundered, and my sanity intact.
And here you have it: The “Enemy of the (Feminist) State” Homemaker New Year’s Challenge.
I hereby challenge myself in this public forum to commit to one hour of housework… every day…. FOR A YEAR.
Oh. Shit.
Here are the rules, both to keep me honest, and in case any of my six or seven dedicated readers would like to follow along at home:
1. The victim… um.. competitor… uhh… Sexy Domestic Goddess (YES! That works) will commit to one hour of housekeeping per day for the period January 1, 2010 to December 31, 2010.
2. The SDG will record said housework (basic description of housekeeping prowess and time) on a blog, Facebook, Twitter or other place fit for public scrutiny.
3. If an hour of housework is missed, it must be made up later within the same week. *Yes, this will occasionally mean seven miserable hours of solid housekeeping on a Sunday, as punishment for six previous days of doing f#%k all and stoning out on Warcraft.
4. Hours may be banked within the same week. If the SDG does two hours of work on Monday, she may sit on her ass without shame on Tuesday. Bon Bons optional.
5. Banked hours will disappear on the Monday after a given week. Put those Bon Bons to good use, girls.
Here is the part that will basically ensure that I keep my house as neat as a pin for the next 365 days.
6. If the SDG fails in this attempt to bring domestic order to her humble abode, the sting of failure will be felt in the form of $50 of her hard earned cash going to a cause she f#%king despises.
My anti-charity? As if it would be anything else…
The George W. Bush Presidential Center
As if that alone were not sufficient reason to keep to this resolution, here’s a little added incentive culled from the donation page of the site:
“With your tax-deductible contribution, you will take your place as one of the first to stand with President and Mrs. Bush as a Charter Member of the George W. Bush Presidential Center. When you contribute $50 or more, your name will also be included in the Freedom Registry on permanent display at the Center.”
Think of it: My name, forever scrawled in the pages of an unholy guestbook, alongside names of people who actually LIKE that guy.
I don’t think anyone reading this wants to see me fail this thing now.
The Time Traveler’s Scribe
This past Thursday night, Eddie and I had the pleasure of attending a lecture by Audrey Niffenegger, visual artist and author of the best-selling novel The Time Traveler’s Wife. Ms. Niffenegger gave a reading from her new book, Her Fearful Symmetry, opened the floor to questions and answers from the audience of about 100, and followed the lecture with a book signing for those in attendance.
We settled into our seats with five minutes to spare, excited to hear what such a celebrated author has to say about her life and work, and to have the chance to meet her in person. We were not disappointed.
Audrey Niffenegger took the stage quietly and immediately thanked us all for attending, relating her “standard-issue anxiety” of showing up to a lecture and finding that no one has chosen to attend. This drew a chuckle from the crowd of devotees, and broke the ice nicely before she treated all to a chapter of Symmetry titled “The History of her Ghost,” in which Elspeth Noblin becomes accustomed to her non-corporeal form as she involuntarily haunts her former London flat after a death from cancer at age 44. I found it an interesting juxtaposition of theme that in Time Traveler, Niffenegger’s main character is forever disappearing involuntarily, where in Symmetry, Elspeth is held fast to her familiar surroundings by unknown spiritual barriers.
The question and answer session proved to be interesting not just for the answers Ms. Niffenegger provided, but the content of the questions themselves. The very first question actually had nothing to do with writing. A gentleman in the front row asked, “Do you lucid dream?” Ms. Niffenegger confessed that she had never experienced lucid dreaming, but felt that it was an interesting phenomenon. This warmed up the rest of the crowd of course, and hands started appearing from the audience. Throughout the Q&A, the author was a gracious host, drawing out the more tentative hands raised in the audience, devoting and genuine attention to each question and questioner, and candidly talking about her writing process. “How do you structure the time you write?” asked one participant, earning a self-deprecating giggle from Niffenegger. “Well, there are people who do it properly, like a job,” She said, “I am not one of them.” “I’m a bit of a chaos kitty.” the author admitted, saying she has no set time to write, and sometimes finds it hard to get started, but (much like other authors who have admitted similar habits) says “Once I’m in my chair I’m okay.” She did say one helpful structure for productivity was having a writing partner. They meet in a café once a week to write and eat until they physically can’t eat any more.
Given the very recent release of the movie adaptation of The Time Traveler’s Wife, a common subject of interest was the author’s views on the outcome of the adaptation. I had read before the lecture that Audrey Niffenegger refrained from seeing the completed film version, from a desire to “let go” of the experience of seeing her work interpreted by others, in a different medium. As she explained, while writing a novel is in some ways “writing instructions” for the story, she had a different version in her head than any filmmaker could ever produce. Many echoed their approval of this sentiment. Henry and Clare are different for everyone, based on the theatre of one’s mind.
What fascinated me most about the evening was how incredibly normal Audrey Niffenegger was. A gracious host, funny and candid, making sure that any raised hand got a chance at the microphone, so to speak. I got the same feeling from my recent lecture with Dr. Drew Pinskey, but remember Dr. Drew has made a career and name for himself listening to people ask increasingly bizarre questions. Niffenegger was an artist and teacher long before she ever became a national name. Seemingly, she is unchanged and largely unaffected by this massive shift in her fan base.
After the show, the author took the time to sign a few copies of her recently released Her Fearful Symmetry, and again I was struck by the fact that she took a few minutes to get to know each person who came through the line, genuinely delighted to meet this group of strangers who have followed her rise so closely. Picking up on a trick I learned at Dr. Drew, I had my name on a slip of paper bookmarking the page. This makes it easy to get from one person to the next.
“Oh, I like your name!” she commented. “I’ve developed an eye for unusual spellings. That’s unique… very elegant.” I joked that it was my blessing and my curse, because while I get a lot of compliments on it, no one can ever spell it. I was a little starstruck, and forgot to tell her she could borrow it the next time she was looking for a placeholder. You never know, my obscure spelling might yet make it into a future New York Times Best Seller (hell, even if I don’t make it on the list as an author, finding it somewhere between a binding would be equally as gratifying.)
Ed made the gutsier move of bringing his Kindle to be signed. “I don’t know how you feel about these things, but would you sign my Kindle?” Ms. Niffenegger got such a kick out of this! “Hmm… Now how is this going to work? She pondered, looking at her ball-point pen. Ed was ready with a Sharpie “I came prepared!” He laughed. She was thrilled to be the inaugural ink on the device. “I’m the first! I’ll sign it right under the Amazon.” And there you have it. Audrey Niffenegger endorses the use of electronic media. Her assistant seemed equally amused by the unusual signing. I can’t really say how the Barnes and Noble rep felt about it, he stayed out of the way. I’m sure he felt better that husband and wife had at least one dead tree between them. I panicked at the last moment and bought it in hardcover, remembering the failing wi-fi service of Ed’s Kindle. To hell with sending a device loaded with signatures back to Amazon for replacement, never to be seen again. We have a back-up in paper and ink!
The whole evening was really nice, and it was fascinating as always to see how a writer so advanced in their career discusses the art form, as well as handles the influx of adoration. I hope that if fortune knocks on my door some day, I’ll be as thoroughly cool about it as Audrey Niffenegger.
My Signed Copy of "Her Fearful Symmetry"
Pimsleur? More like Pimpsleur…
I’ve been watching InuYasha lately. Actually, I’ve been watching a lot of InuYasha. More than I should be comfortable fessing up to in a public forum. Because of this recent revival in my love of Japanese animation, I’ve also experienced a revival in my love of - and desire to learn - the Japanese language.
I know, I know. Stupid gaijin wants to learn to speak funny, hectic language way beyond her ken. Then she’ll go to Japan and get VERY politely laughed at by every native speaker she comes into contact with. I don’t care. When have I ever cared about looking stupid? I have my Ph.D. in looking stupid.
I decided to use my drive to work to listen to the Pimsleur Intro to Conversation Japanese CD course. It’s only 4 hours long, so it’s more an appetizer of the language basics just to get you interested (and let’s face it, to get you to buy more shit.) Apparently, the Pimsleur course is the one used by government officials who need high-speed immersion.
I never realized by “high-speed immersion” they actually meant “language basics to get laid.”
The course starts out innocently enough. I can now say “It’s nice weather, isn’t it?” and read it in butchered Romaji (E-otenki desu, ne?) I can also say that I am American (Watashi wa Amerika-jin desu!) and tell you the obvious, that I speak a little Japanese, but I’m not very good yet. (Watashi wa nihongo ga skoshi hanashimasu, demo mada jozuo ja arimasen.) This sounds WAY more impressive when I babble it out loud.
This is where we get into the seedier aspects of the Pimsleur Method. After the self-deprecating niceties of Volume I, the second half of the course focuses primarily with getting your newfound friend drunk and getting them back to your place (For cake, right??)
Are you going to have something to drink? (Nani ka nomimasu ka?)
At my place. (Watashi no dokoro desu) or at your place? (Anata no dokoro desu ka?)
So now I can effectively proposition the opposite sex in Japanese. This will come in handy, since if I’m running off to Japan to have an affair (why do that when there are perfectly good prospects in Tampa!) I won’t really have much to say beyond telling them that I can’t scream affirmations of their prowess in their native tongue, as Watashi jozuo ja arimasen at nihongo ga yet… I mean.. madda.
