Windy City Enlightenment Part...um...

Uh...

Shit, guys.

Visualize with me a moment: A young woman, sitting in the center of a red room. All around her are miniature storms, thundering loudly, raining wildly, bumping into one another, but maintaining their strength. The wind is whipping her hair, destroying the objects in the red room. A lamp crashes to the floor. The bookshelf tilts to the right, against the television. Pieces of cushion are being ripped from the couch and futon, swirling in the mess of the mini storms.

Within these storms are aspirations, ideas, fears, roads less traveled--and they're fighting with one another, trying to win the woman over, this woman who is staying still, seated in the center of her red room, whipping hair, torn clothing and all. The world around her is falling apart, and she remains there, unmoved.

The question is... does she continue to stay still, and allow this destruction to continue while the storms brew, become stronger? She does love the chaos.

Or should she get up, and attempt to make something out of this torrential predicament? These storms are fighting with one another, but they all share something...

Her.

Perhaps she should use this knowledge and accept that each and every one of these storms is a part of her, take them in, and learn to work with them. It's one thing to watch a part of yourself go wild and take over, but it is quite another to control it, to dictate its direction, its strength, its affect on yourself and those around you.

It is time to take this mess, and bring it within. Only there can I learn to understand and manage its potential to be something beneficial, something beautiful.

Anyone who knows me, knows that my interests vary, and it makes it hard for me to make decisions when it comes to how I want to make money, how I want to be happy. In the past, I have seen it as a burden (as have others), continuing to feel frustration with my inability to be happy with any move I make. I cannot do that any longer, because the wide array of interests I have make me who I am, and without that, I could never be the well-rounded individual that I am now. What I can do, is attempt to apply a little more logic to my interests-- what is worth the traditional education? What can I learn on my own? What are other ways for me to learn than merely taking a class or reading a book? How can I experience other interests and aspirations of mine that would satisfy my need to learn about everything?

It's possible that I am just not going to have a Bachelor's, Master's or PhD. And let's face it; my need for those was strongly based on values placed upon me as a child--which I do not regret in the least, and I will be forever grateful to my parents for instilling in me the aspiration to be the best I can be.

I'm tired of people cringing at the thought of me NOT becoming some corporate professional whats-her-face. I'm a fucking ARTIST. A Musician, a Writer, Performer, you name it--if it's an art, I have either tried it, am about to try it, or am currently doing it. So when it comes to career paths, and how I make money, it will not be as conventional as some may hope. And I probably won't live above the Starving Artist line for a long time.

And if you're tired of me expressing another interest of mine, another aspiration, another way of thought, another path, well...

Deal.

This blog post is a message of self-acceptance.

This has been another installment of the Windy City Enlightenment Series.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Fourth (Fifth?) Time's a Charm!

Moved in, Kitty-fied, Working, Singing, Burlesque-ing, Writing.

And now it's time to go back to school.

Again.

I mean it this time. Don't laugh. Don't roll your eyes. I've got it figured out.

So while I work on my next Burlesque show and pending Number One Hit Single on the Pop/R&B/Trip Hop/Disco(?) charts, I have to continue my dream of becoming a Sexy Librarian. Yes, it is still a goal of mine, so now, I am hunting for local schools (Northeastern, UIC, maybe?) to obtain my major in English, and my minor in... Art History? It's the one sticking out at me. And then it's on to Grad school! For a Master's in Library Science!

Goddess, I am such a nerd. Envy me.

In other news... the webcomic is still going. I'd like to at least have a web host figured out by the end of a August, and as for panels... keep you posted.

I'm writing a new story, in the realm of uh... Drawing room comedy, I suppose? Look up the definition. I don't understand why I didn't go this route before. Although, I feel like my dreamer eyes will soon pop out of my head and I'll want to make it into a short film, or something. But right now, just words.

I'm racing against the clock writing this post (I have 4 minutes and 25 secs to go. No. 16.), so let's keep it brief for now.

Hey, have you checked out my songs yet? You know, the ones on Facebook? And Soundclick? And MySpace?

Until next time (which will be sooner than 4 months from now),

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

When in doubt, Get Distracted!

By everything else possible.

This is what writers do best. We get distracted, and procrastinate until backed into a corner. We'd rather clean the spaces in the bathroom tiles than come up with a new story idea, or continue with one that's already there.

Or maybe it's just me.

I'm trying to get settled into this whole 'full time job', '1.5 hour commute each way', 'why do I have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn', 'dammit, it's time to go to bed' lifestyle. Managing my time is about as easy as chewing tinfoil (try it; it's not fun. Nor is it easy.), and I just don't feel like micromanaging myself.

But if I ever want to write again, it's something I'll have to do.

On the upside, I've been finding more balance within myself when it comes to 'inner peace,' and that connection between mind and body. I've also been expanding the social circle at an increasing speed and it has helped me to learn some things about myself, this city, how I see other people. And who knows? Maybe that's more important for me before I can get back into my old grooves.

Or maybe I'm carving out some new grooves to follow... in which case, patience is key.

All I know, is that my quality of sleep has been terrible. Either I stop breathing as I fall asleep, or I anxiously wake myself up, neither of which are good. So my health (physical and mental) has been taking precedence lately. Perhaps writing can be part of the healing process...perhaps music, or painting, or dancing. Or singing? I don't know.

Or maybe I need therapy.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

"Them be thinkin words..."

I found this unpublished post among my blog entries, and it made me want to start a series of posts discussing my ideas on artistic abilities and mental stability.

(I began this in June of 2008)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was reading a Shia Lebouf article. And he was making the point that the really good actors are screwed up; they're in pain. I let that thought marinate, noticing how incredibly true it is for any artist.

In no other profession but that of the artist do the dark passages of life come through so clearly through their work. Art is about observance, interpretation and growth. We cannot observe the good without the bad in order to properly appreciate and interpret. Everything we create is an interpretation of what we observe, feel, think, sense. Growth is not possible without desires, pain, mistakes, disappointments. After all, what point is life without growth? We would all be stuck in this constant state of infancy assuming everything is fine (many are already in this state). And all of the great lessons, the great questions, the great theories would never have come to fruition if none of us desired to grow.

If you really think about it, growth itself is a pain. It is a hunger, a natural desire deep within each of us that makes us strive to know (become, think, act, have, give) more. And it is never fulfilled because we never have enough time. Maybe that's why people die. A philosopher once said (and it's a common theory now) that if we were to live forever there would be no motivation. But I digress. I was discussing the artist.

The really great artists were/are what I call 'lopsided' (a term coined by my mother). Their pieces are moving, intricate, poignant, meaningful and a plethora of other adjectives that describe greatness. They are able to show indescribable feelings so clearly to the point of being understood by the ordinary person who has never studied art a day in their life. However, such genius would come with a price. Such an overdeveloped right hemisphere overpowers the left, leaving the artist socially disparate, and subpar when it comes to critical thinking and problem solving. I think this is why so many great artists die young. They may be able to express themselves through their work, but they can't solve their issues, or they try to cope, and it doesn't last long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was the end of that entry. I have a ton of thoughts bubbling in my head about this, and it will all come out on here, little by little.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

All right, LOOK. (Warning: Mini-Rant. That's ALL it is.)

Something I wrote as a Facebook status:

"Absence makes the claws grow longer, the fangs sharper, the sarcasm venomous. Tread lightly."

Cute, right? I thought so. But why did I say that? I'm sure a few of you have your own interpretations, and some don't even know what the word "venomous" means, and that's okay.

Let me just say this:

I am a person that's all about the various forms of communication available to us today. We are NOT in the 1800's when all we could do was send a messenger out with a piece of paper and hope they got there before the milk spoiled. We have telephones, mobile phones, computers, and we STILL have letters that get to people a helluva lot sooner than a fortnight. And if you don't like to talk on your phone, you can Text. On the same phone that is in your hand. You can shoot emails, short messages on networking sites to get to a person. More than ever, our ability to get a message or converse with someone is absolutely possible.

So please, Fucking Use It.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Sometimes, Versatility can be a Hindrance.

Before you claw at my face in your post-modernist knee-jerk reaction and accuse me of not being an advocate of progressive thought, hear me out.

Have you ever thought, perhaps, just for a teeny second, that things would be easier if you didn't have so many choices? I mean, think about it. We can easily spend 10 minutes in the toothpaste aisle deciding between a gel or a paste, one with whitener with extra fluoride, or one that whitens and tastes like baking soda, one that is green, or white, spearmint, wintermint, and some random berry flavor, and either a plastic tube, or a pump. All for a two minute job in the morning and evening.

Or what about body wash? Toothbrushes? (Soft, medium, hard bristles? Ergonomic grip for those with carpal tunnel?) Razors? Canned vegetables? *sigh* Don't get me started.

But I'm not talking about the usually daunting task of grocery shopping for the overly cerebral (like me), I'm actually only referring to my own abilities. Here's what I mean:

I started out going to UofM auditioning for Musical Theatre. When that didn't pan out, I thought about Journalism. I left the school, and considered becoming a Paralegal, and a Private Investigator. I joined bands to become a Rock Star. I began reading up on Technology and considered a career in IT. I began teaching myself a programming language and messed around with computers. I considered the CIA for 3 years in high school. I decided on becoming a writer about 2 years ago, all the while looking up Interior Design and Event Planning. I thought about Culinary School as well, and am strongly considering getting a Masters in Library Science.

And now, here I am, reconsidering again. For... (drumroll please)... Advertising. You know, copywriting, mostly, but being the brainchild behind the successful implementation of a brand or cause in general. (It didn't come out of nowhere, Advertising has always been a possibility with me, I just didn't think I could cut it)

Now, I know everyone goes through these phases of looking at the possibilities, but aren't those desires supposed to fade away when you hone in on something that you know works for you? I mean, even just a little bit?

I was reading up on brain dominance, and remembered the quiz I took on FB that said that I had a balanced brain (Now, it is by no means a reliable source to cite, but, well, this is a blog. So biased writing calls for unreliable sources.). Now this sounds great, right? It means, I have the ability to solve problems using both hemispheres of my brain making me that much more creative during the process. However, it can make me quite indecisive, especially in the realm of choosing a career, because I am good at so many things...or at least, have a strong interest in so many things. It makes total sense!

So my problem is this: I really really want to be an author/singer/musician/private investigator/librarian/computer genius/scientist/dancer/copywriter. And anthropologist. And none of these wants have lessened, or died down for another to shine in any way. And for me to feel truly happy, I want/need all or most of these things to be happening in my life, because I have a constant feeling of missing out on something if they aren't.

How the hell do I combine those into my SuperCareer? That's what I need. A SuperCareer. Does anybody else have this problem? Is anyone else as crazy as I am? I know you are. Show yourself.

*shakes head*

Like I said, a Hindrance.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Either the wine and coffee helped me grow cajones...

Or I just genuinely have more confidence in my writing.

Whatever the reason, I applied to a CopyWriting gig today. I had to supply a couple of samples as well as do a write-up in the style they are hiring for, which just so happens to be a little up my alley. So maybe they'll see that and love me and hire me. Full-time with benefits? I'll take it.

Aside from that, I've been writing a little bit every day so far, and this is a huge deal for me. Usually I go on binges, and then stop for a month or more. No more Literary Bulimia. Time to treat my creative ink-well with respect. That being said, here's one of my Flash Fiction pieces I submitted to be considered:

"Panties"

As we ran from the cops, it occurred to me that I had left my panties in the back seat of my girlfriend’s ’92 Taurus. The wind and our running kept lifting up my skirt, revealing freshly shaved parts, chilled to the core. I struggled, purse falling from my shoulder, to hold my skirt down with my right hand, while she dragged me with my left. We quickly turned left into an alley, ducking behind a garbage can next to a dumpster. It smelled of old cabbage and dog shit. The two cops chasing after us careened around the corner, stopping. They looked around in the dark with their oversized flashlights, not moving from their spots.

“You saw them come down here, right?” The chubby one asked the other chubby one. I couldn’t tell the difference between them; they were both stereotypical white male policemen that had grown comfortable in their not-so-dangerous line of work and probably couldn’t even pursue a one-legged crack addict for longer than three blocks.

“Yeah. Maybe they’re hiding in the dumpster,” Chubby Cop Number Two said, stepping forward. I gasped, and she clasped a hand over my mouth. Number One stopped Number Two. He seemed to be the leader.

“Is it really worth it? They were just foolin around in the back seat anyway,” he replied, then turned around, walking away. Number Two looked down the alley for a second, then followed him back.

We stayed quiet for a few more minutes, then stood up. Following my girlfriend to the street, she checked the street signs, then the road.

“Let’s get a drink. I think you deserve one,” she said, giving my butt a firm smack. As we walked down the sidewalk, I continued to hold my skirt down.

“You think that’s a good idea?” I asked, seriously wishing I had remembered to grab my panties.

“Sure it is. You’ve still got it, right?” I nodded, holding my purse tighter to me.

We stopped at a bar that had a rainbow flag flying high above its neon lit sign, “The Druid Pub”. Walking in, the place was filled with smoke, chatter and same-sex canoodling. We took a seat at the counter, and she ordered two Stellas. The bartender, a jock-type with pink hair and a lip piercing nodded, disappeared, and reappeared with our drinks. She passed him a 20, smiling, while I took a sip.

“Hey, Carrie, I really appreciate you doing this for me,” she said, putting a hand on my thigh. I could feel her inch farther up and I smirked, leaning in.

“What, running from the cops or put--” I was suddenly interrupted by a large Italian man in drag yelling,

“Hey bitches! Did ya miss me?” The bar erupted into applause and cheers, while Gloria Estefan’s song “Conga” began playing over the speakers. The drag queen started dancing (mostly three-step turning) around the room lip-synching the words while men and women held out cash for him to collect as the song played. We watched him and three others do the same thing with different songs, and then she tapped me, saying it was time to go.

We caught a cab ride headed to our destination, and on the ride there, she began kissing me and stroking my legs.

“Baby, you have been turning me on all night, knowing you’re not wearing any panties,” she breathed into my ear. I felt a hand graze past my spot, sending a chill up my spine. I kissed her back eagerly, slipping my hand into her pants. The cab ride slammed to a halt.

“We’re here.” the driver struggled to say it nicely as she passed him his fare with an extra five dollars and we slid out of the back seat. As we walked up to the dingy apartment building decorated with glass bits and cigarette butts, she paused, holding my elbow.

“Why don’t you just give it to me here?”

“Right here?” I asked, feeling my muscles clench. She looked around mockingly.

“There’s nobody here. Come on,” I sighed, handing her my purse. Slowly, I squatted, pulling the piece of rubber I left hanging out of my womanhood. Thanks to our minor session in the car, it was much easier to remove than the last time. I handed over the condom filled with two ounces of marijuana. If only my mother knew.

“You might want to wipe that off a little,” I said.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~