The Art of Avoiding.

Lately I've been an asshole, or at least I've felt like I have been behaving like an asshole.

Mainly because I have been working really hard on avoidance. Particularly avoiding things that have been happening in our world, like in Japan, in Tunisia, in Wisconsin. Anywhere really where something dramatic has happened, I have been at my desk trying really hard to not notice. It's actually pretty difficult, when on the internet (especially twitter) to go around these matters.

It took me until today to look at pictures from the Japanese situation.

And I wish I hadn't.

I don't know why I do it but it feels like a human trait to not want to know about bad things I can't fix.

Which is why I also haven't watched the documentary Bag it! Which is about how bad plastic bags are. I know they're bad, but when I find out how really really bad they are I'll probably have a panic attack in the grocery store if I forget to bring my tote. And I can't handle making a scene, thinking about having a panic attack sort of makes me feel like I could have a panic attack.

So, yes, I've been avoiding this stuff.

But I also feel like maybe I shouldn't be. I should probably be paying super close attention so I can decide whether I need to build myself an underground shelter or stock up on food.

I just don't know anymore.

Or maybe I never did.

Maybe I'll just stay in bed and read fiction until 2012...when the world ends.

(though the theory now is that it will just shift...whatever that means.)

On Actually Being Sick.

So I wasn't being a hypochondriac the other day, I was though, being a bad speller, but that's no surprise. Anyway. I actually did come down with a cold which got me thinking how much I couldn't handle anything major happening to me. I am over-dramatic when I am sick.

But I also don't care.

And that's so nice.

I'm taking this time to really soak in the feeling of not caring. I mean, my body is too tired to exert that kind of energy anyway.

I really hope I can stay in this calm a bit longer. The sickness can go away but the rest can hang around for awhile.

Maybe this rest will allow a new "me" to blossom.

Sometimes it's good to get sick, get all the bad stuff out. Become again.

The Art of: Not Getting It.

Art is not a mirror to reflect the world, but a hammer with which to shape it. -- Vladimir Mayakovsky

I believe art may have the greatest impact for social transformation because of its ability to impact people on multiple levels--emotional, spiritual, rational, political, physical, or any such combination. And through that ability it creates dialogue and inspiration to become better people. It can be thought-provoking and yet also be the voice for people who are unable to communicate their own ideas. It connects.

Perhaps that's why artists are the sexiest people on the planet. They are sensitive. They are dedicated. They are vulnerable. They are expressive and creative above and beyond the average citizen. And for most of them they are trying to make a difference.

And that's hot.

But I think it's time for me to come out.

I want to be perfectly honest here.

Most of the time, when I go to a gallery I just don't get it.

Presumably many people are like this. Maybe that's what makes art so important. Because a piece that speaks to me may mean absolutely nothing to the next person and vice versa.

But often I am afraid that by admitting I don't get something I will come off looking like an ignorant asshole. Someone who just doesn't "understand" high art. And I guess, one of my all-time personal fears is being seen as an idiot. Which is why, sometimes at galleries I just look at the art, raise my eyebrows, sigh and then go get a glass of wine.

I don't want to continue skimming through galleries acting like it's all okay.

If I must, I will admit that I'm an idiot when it comes to art and ask people to explain.

But in general I would like my gallery experience to change.

For one, I want to quit going to galleries that are set up like high-end clothing stores. I'm not going to buy the art, but I'll buy the "idea" that the art is trying to sell.

Secondly I'd like more touching, more feeling, pieces off and on the wall. It's about community now. Anyone can look at art any time, but not everyone can be in the same space and feel something together.

Finally, going back to my first idea about art being transformative...I'd like it to reach beyond the gallery somehow. This is why I find street art compelling. Now I am aware that not all of it is good. But I like the "idea" of it.

You're going along with your regular day, you're on the train, or the bus, or walking down the street and you notice something that normally is doldrum suddenly transformed, a wall, lamp post, a window, it alters one's sense of place, it shifts one's mode of thinking, it disturbs the everyday--usually in a good way. It's very D.I.Y. It's very punk in a way, in that it doesn't conform to a particular space or need to be in a gallery or need to become a commodity (unless you're one of the "street artists" who are now doing it as a commodity, but that's a different story, I believe it's now a documentary).

But that rebellion, that juxtaposition between art and everyday. That's what I'd like to see more of. That's what I'd like to see explored. And it doesn't have to fit the confines of street art either, it can be something else entirely as long as it's making waves, creating dialogue, conjuring inspiration in others.

That's why I love and hate art at the same time. Because I want to understand where the artists are coming from and I want to take away something from their work.

I guess I just need to come to the conclusion that it's not all out there for me to get. And that's okay.

Maybe someday I will "get it" all but maybe I won't.

In the meantime, I'll just have to go, look, ask, and enjoy.

I will soak in the feeling of not understanding. I will linger in that space for awhile and take pleasure in the unknowing. I will accept both and all that is in between in an attempt to make my art experience more fulfilling, more rewarding.

Pretending doesn't give me room to grow. And that's what art, in my opinion, is supposed to help do.

Kittens in Space? New Art by Me.

Sneak Peak at my Upcoming Series.

Sky Rockets in Flight 1

Mixed Media 8" x 10"

Pickles for Patriarchy!

Mixed Media 8" x 10"

Deep Space Exploration 1

Mixed Media 10" x 8"

(I apologize for the crappy photo glares)

The Art of Competitive Sharing

Ryan and I do this thing, like, if I have five chips and he has five chips and then he eats another chip, well, then I eat another chip. I like to call this game: competitive sharing. Where we are so insistent on equality that we must compete to make sure neither one of us gets any more than the other. I don’t know if he knows he’s in on this game, but he’s a major player. For example. If he goes for a bike ride and while on his bike ride I stay home and drink a beer, when he gets back we have to get more beer and he has to drink quicker so as to catch up with the one beer I had before him. Or. If we have left-overs, LEFT OVERS, and I start eating mine before his gets done in the microwave, well, once his IS done he eats faster than usual (which is really fucking scarfaliciously fast) and tries to get done before me so he can do the dishes so he can use it later to say that he did the dishes when I want him to, I don’t know, clean the toilet or whatever. Because we wouldn’t be sharing the household chores if he did the dishes AND cleaned the toilet.

I don’t really know the point of my discussing this except that I wonder if any other couple behaves this neurotically. I mean, I highly doubt that when one partner puts her book on the table that the other partner MOVES it to the other end of the table, or perhaps, hides it so the first partner can’t find it unless she asks. I mean, surely, no one else has to deal with that shit? He claims to be slightly OCD. I don’t know, how about taking a slight of a pill for that? Because I want my book to be where I put it, when I put it, where I want to put it.

*gasp*

I’m just saying he is much better at competitive sharing than I am. As in, he actually is okay with sharing, and as a narcissistic egotistical maniac, I want it all! Okay. I don’t want ALL of it. I want all the fun stuff, so, like I could drink all the beer while I watch Ryan do the dishes and clean the toilet. Is that so much to ask. . .?

The Art of El Riding

While on the El yesterday I got this major urge to be the annoying one. 93% of the time I get on the train there is at least one person being obnoxious. I wanted to start singing really loud, I wanted to start dancing up and down the aisles asking people for money, asking them if they wanted to hear a poem I wrote. Of course I didn’t do any of these things, but it got me thinking about why certain people stay composed and calm while others are ridiculously out of line in public spaces. Obviously it has to do with some sort of personal etiquette, some inner knowledge of respectfulness. Or maybe just socialized common sense.

It’s interesting to examine these ideas by looking at our current technological advancements—there is no real facebook etiquette for example but many of us have adapted basic social skills on that particular media site such as not posting secrets of another person’s on their wall, actually responding to inbox messages, de-friending people who are not really our friends and who we do not actually want in our lives, etc.

Yet, is this sense so common, take the El for example, that the CTA has to tell people that they should let an old or disabled person sit first; the CTA has to tell people not to talk to loudly on their phone, not to let their music volume get out of control etc. I’d like to say that I can’t believe these things have to be said over and over again, but I’ve seen the people on the El and sometimes I wonder how they could even make it to the train stop without tripping over the sidewalk and dying.

Anyhoo. Sometimes I would like to just let it all go, to pretend that I don’t know better and dance and sing through the train cars, but then I don’t because I don’t know if there will be an even crazier person who will shoot me for annoying them. Therefore I stay seated, with my iPod at a low volume level, all my belongings on the seat with me, my mouth shut, my eyes staring forward until I reach my final destination.

The Art of Losing

The other night a certain person who is very close to me divulged a secret informing me that he never tries to win when he plays games. He in fact does not like to win and when we play board games and the like he purposely doesn’t put in 100%.

Immediately I have an ethical problem with this. Granted I am a sore loser, I can in fact be rather bitchy when I do not win BUT the only way for me to work on becoming a “good sport” is to occasionally lose WHEN someone gives it there all AND plays the game correctly.

I know my poor sportsmanship comes from a deep-seated competitive family. I do find it odd that I still suffer from such a subconscious need to be the best. To be better than. Even after all these years of learning how to critically examine, to dive deep into the theories of oppression, to understand our engrained system of capitalist control, I still am not able to lose gracefully.

I do not take any pleasure in seeing the happiness of another’s victory over my own. Perhaps it’s the only-child syndrome. I do not have the selflessness of the oldest sibling. But selflessness in a competitive game is well, fucked up. What is the point in playing at all if one of you is purposely trying not to win, the only way this would even work is if you both were trying to purposely lose, either way you might as well not play at all. It’d deceitful at it’s best. I am not a 7-year-old child who needs a board game self-esteem booster. Granted I may need a self-esteem booster but I’m not going to get it playing Cranium or Twister that’s for sure.

In the end, I told this certain person that I refuse to play any more games with him until he chooses to actually play to win. I need to know that my victories mean something, that they are genuine. That I am a 100% winner, because I know deep in my heart I am.

The Art of: Falling, Hard

We were in Ottawa IL yesterday for Elizabeth and Aaron’s wedding, afterward Monica, Ryan, Cortney, Tim and I all decided to go check out Starved Rock—we were ten minutes away, we really couldn’t not check it out.

We were all in dresses and dress shirts so we already looked and felt out of place walking around in the woods, but there were walking paths so it wasn’t that big of a deal. Or so I thought.

I believe Mother Nature has a way of always coming around at just the right time to put me back in place. A few weeks ago for example, I was making fun of white trash people and fat families while Ryan and I were sitting in the park and then a bee stung me. I’m sure I deserved that one.

Yesterday though, I wasn’t behaving too badly. I hadn’t really been making fun of anyone except myself for wearing a dress in the forest. But then I had to walk up a waterfall so I could look at the bigger waterfall behind that waterfall. It was spectacular. Almost awesome in the true sense of the word. I was wearing sandals but had taken them off and had walked up the waterfall just fine. Coming down was an entirely different story.

My life did not flash before my eyes. Though I think it should have. I could have easily died by slamming my head against the rocks, never to be my snappy anger-filled—critical self again, or I could have hit my head and turned into a totally new (mentally disabled) person in my old body. But alas, I made it out alive. (obviously)

So I was sliding down this waterfall. My ass hits the ice cold water my dress flies up, all the strangers stare. Their mouths hang open. They wait for my next move; they wait to see if I will move. In my mind I jump up out of the giant stone slide, but in reality I sort of fall back up like a 98 year old grandma would. The strangers are still staring.

“It’s okay. You can laugh,” I say. “If I saw someone fall I would.”

Then this dude says, “We just want to make sure you’re okay.

“Yeah I’m fine. Really.”

“Oh and you ruined your pretty dress.”

Aghugher!

My dress!

My pretty dress!

Do you think I really give a flying fuck about my dress right after I just almost DIED!!!!!! You’ve got to be kidding me.

I keep walking.

“It’s just a dress,” I say as I ring the water out. And move onward with my life. They’re all still staring. I would have preferred they laughed.

I will admit I was pretty shaken up. I think it was my pride that got hurt the most, but again that’s why Mother Nature is around to kick my ass sometimes. To remind me that I am not perfect. That I will fall. That I might dirty up my dress, but at least I will, as long as I am alive, always be willing to climb up the littler waterfall to see the bigger one. (even if it means a bruise or two.)

The Art of : Egalitiarianism

Here's the deal, several people that I know and love dearly are getting married, or have gotten married recently. Today is not the day for me to go on my anti-marriage rant but besides me personally not wanting to do it if other people feel the need more power to them. And when I say more power to them, what I really mean is whether or not you're married or in some other sort of monogamous relationship it should be egalitarian. This does not mean that there is always perfect harmony, but it does mean that a balance is always sought after. It's sharing responsibilities both domestically and capitalistically; both cleaning, both getting some sort of income.

This does not mean that every month the chores have to be split right down the middle; if one of you actually enjoys washing dishes and the other one of you doesn't mind vacuuming then why trade?

An egalitarian relationship does not mean that you both have to bring in the exact same amount of income (because really how can anyone control that) but I do believe that bills should be split accordingly. If one of you eats more than the other one--that person should buy more groceries. If one of you is online more, or takes longer showers or whatever the case may be, balance it.

I do not find this theory hard to practice. I think it helps with the power dynamics of the relationship where no one feels they are taking advantage or being taken advantage of.

According to some statistic I read awhile ago: (sorry I am not going to go look it up for you because I memorized it.)

Married men live longer and are happier than single men.
Single women live longer and are happier than married women.

BUT people who live the longest and are the happiest are couples who practice having an egalitarian relationship.

(I do not know how they measured happiness, but I guess if the person in the study knew immediately that they were generally unhappy that would be a good clue. )

In any case, whether you decide to legalize your relationship through a government document or you just keep pushing on, I believe the way to a more complete existence is by always striving for harmony; whether it is achieve or not is up to the couple and the circumstances, but it can be done.

The Art of: Wording

I haven't been blogging for that long. Not even a year. But I've already noticed my own writing habits, such as I think I'm going to write something everyday, thus I am really good at spitting something out at the beginning of the month, then the middle comes around and I slack...big time, so by the end of the month I hop back on the writing train so as not to disappoint myself by not doing what I told myself I would. But does it really matter, what we tell ourselves we're going to do? And why do we tell ourselves we're going to do these things? What is our obsession with doing? Why can't we just be. The only thing I can think of is that even on days when I don't think I have something to write about but then I make myself sit down and churn something out, on those days I often times end up with pretty interesting ideas or thoughts--thoughts that were lurking subconsciously just brewing, stirring, waiting for a day when they could gurgle out of me.

But why do I need to even get those thoughts out? Is it to better understand the world around me? Is it to connect to other humans through our interlocking word comprehension? And if words are our main source for communicating what if there is something we need to express beyond that? Obviously body language isn't read as easily by most--which is why I often exaggerate my postures or my eye rolls to get my point across better. Well. Are we just stuck with what we have then? 26 letters rearranged in different patterns over and over again to make one persons idea interchange between another. So that we are not left just looking at each other, grunting. But why these letters? Why these words? How is it that we can all be so compliant in our language? That we just let words be, that we rarely interrogate, investigate, negotiate their meanings, their symbolicalness.

Only really weird literary types sit around contemplating and arguing over the coolest word, the most annoying sounding word, the most beautiful, the most grotesque, the most spine-chilling.

When was the last time you said a word out loud repeatedly until it lost it's meaning?

Maybe we should all do that more often?

Here are some interesting words to think about:

ball-sac

sponge

heteronormativity

hegemony

moist

leakage

advantage

success

obsess

The Art of: Drinking to a Perfect Drunkness

Last night while drinking margaritas, Lizz said that when she drinks gin she gets mean. When I drink gin I also get mean but it's only because i'm wondering why the fuck I am drinking such nasty liquor. But, the comment sparked me to think about our bodies and how they react to alcohol. After drinking several margaritas I noticed how much my buzz differed from when I drink beer. And I wonder how is it that different forms of alcohol not only affect ones own body differently, but how different forms of alcohol affect different people differently? We get a different type of buzz from beer than from liquor than from wine, yet each person seems to feel it in their own little way. And to go even more specific, we get a different type of drunk from PBR than from IPA. An alternative buzzness between vodka and tequila.

But here's the psychological kicker... if I go into a bar and have the option of drinking anything I want and I pick rum and coke fully knowing that rum turns me into a bitch, do I pick the rum and coke because I want an excuse to bring my bitch out, or do I pick it because that's what I'm just craving to drink? Am I craving to drink it because I have been repressing the bitch in me and it's just a subconscious reaction?

And how does one particular form of alcohol develop seemingly liquid traits i.e. rum makes me mean= rum is a mean liquor.... Is it because the first time you drank the rum you were having a bad night? The rum just seemed to highlight everything wrong and thus the rum became a liquor that brought out the "the bad" in your life every time you drank it after that first time? IDK.

If one wants to get the perfect buzz, how can one purposefully make that happen, especially if ones mood, body mass, food intake, reaction to, changes every day?

We all have to design our own formulas. This can take years. One may never each reach the desired results--which can also differ from person to person.

For example my desired results would be to consume the least amount of calories to the highest level of buzzness (the level before pure drunk obnoxiousness). It would entail not having to take shots of any kind. And of course, not waking up in the morning feeling as if my entire body has been stuffed with cotton and thrown into a mega-dryer for several hours.

But alas, this is only a desire. I have yet to find this perfect equation. But don't worry, I'll keep experimenting until I have the solution. . . even if it takes years upon years of testing. You're welcome to join me any time.

The Art of: Motivating Myself

I came up with idea for a fictional bizarro feministy satirical story. I started outlining it and I have come to the conclusion that it is not going to be short, in fact it will probably be at least a novella length. I shy away from saying novel because if I say novel then the story will never get off the ground. I am making this idea public for one major reason. I need YOUR help. I need you to bug me occasionally by asking me how my writing is going.

I have a major problem of coming up with all sorts of ideas. This may not seem like a problem to you but the issue is that I will come up with something, start it, then fail to follow through, because along the way I came up with something I liked more and decided to switch ground and work on it instead.

That being said I have several writing projects in the works, but only 1 almost to a send-off point. Since one of my goals in life is to be a writer and since the only way you can claim the title of writer is if you have gotten something published (or at least send work off in hopes of it getting published) I need to push myself a little harder.

I have two essays that should be sent to literary journals by the end of April.

I have this bizarro story I just came up with.

I have a project that consists of a collection of essays written in the "purgatory stage" of my life between undergrad and graduate school when I worked at AppleBees and drank enough to forget that I had to work there.

I also need to write songs for our next Pervertable Tongues album.

That being said. I have piled a lot on my plate and would love it if you made sure I ate it all.

Call. Text. Email. Comment. Do whatever. If you do I may put you in my dedications---how much of an incentive is that.... oh yeah, that's worthwhile of your time!

Also if you have a preference for what you'd like to read, let me know and I'll focus my attention on those pieces first...

Thanks

Tomorrow my blog may be more entertaining than this... we shall hope and we shall see.

The Art of : Krystal Fawn

Art Reflection

For most of my life I hated abstract art. Upon entering a gallery and seeing colors and splats with no obvious relevancy I would get extremely pissed off. It seemed so easy, like the artist was trying to pull some big joke on everyone. But, over the last few weeks I’ve been trying to calm down. I’ve been trying to not think so much.

I decided to start painting and my style is decidedly abstract. At first I thought, perhaps I’m being a hypocrite. But, I always said that “I could totally do that” and so now I have. It’s taken a lot of time and energy for me to realize that it’s okay for a painting to be based completely on the pure feeling it exudes as opposed to what it makes you think. It doesn’t have to make you think anything and not thinking and just feeling for a slight moment in time can be quite amazing.

I imagine these pieces as metaphorical clouds. Pieces of art where individuals can interpret they’re own feelings and thoughts onto the works. It is out of my hands now. It is up to the viewer. Enjoy.

Click here

The Art of Me!

I will be revealing my first ever art collection tomorrow. It is an online exclusive. I'm very excited about this--I hope you are too!

The Art of Apparel

Has anyone actually stepped into American Apparel? It looks like the Jane Fonda Workout threw up all over the place. My God. Did people forget that scrunchies aren’t actually cool? And they don’t make you look clever or funny when you wear them, actually they make you look silly and make it seem as if you are attempting to be hipper than you probably are. Even when you put them with your matching fanny pack—which I agree with my friend Jess that the fanny pack would come in handy while dancing at a bar or concert or whatever--but if you’re putting it with all the other 80’s Fonda-wear--it’s a little hard to handle.

I know, I know, the clothes are made in America and are “sweatshop free” blah blah, but you would think that someone from America would have a bit more creativity and be able to muster up something new in fashion instead of retreating back into decades that already experienced several fashion disasters—shoulder pads as an example--probably the most unflattering and ridiculous looking item of clothing. But still, expect American Apparel to return the shoulder pad to the American public with a strong utter vengeance that makes women everywhere start perming and feathering their hair to make their heads look bigger than their now monstrous shoulders.

Don’t expect me to be purchasing them, I already look like a line-backer thanks to my fabulous strong-armed mother.

But seriously… what the fuck is up with fashion? I am at a loss. I can’t pull off the tuck-in shirt pulled=up skirt look. Those weird scarf wrapping handkerchief neck ties also make me look like an idiot. And leotards and body suits? AHHHH!

The world is coming to an end.

And I blame the hair scrunchie.

A Sneak Peak at the NEW Art of RW Ruehlen

Today my lover/artist/musician/partner/boyfriend returns. He was missing. For an entire month. Okay. He wasn’t missing as much as he was hiding. Hiding in our creative room, aka guest room, painting his little soul out. And now he’s back! Because the paintings are all done. All ten of them (yes TEN NEW PAINTINGS) and I got to see them first (as well as critique and question him muhaha). In any case, I am writing to inform you of their awesomeness and to let you know that you too could have the opportunity to see them (and even buy them if you’re extra special) this weekend at the Fall smART Show located in the beautiful Wicker Park area of Chicago at Sapere Art 341 in the Flat Irons Building 1579 Milwaukee Ave. The Show Friday starts around 7. We’ll be getting there around 8—if you want to meet the talented artist (and his muse, haha).

There’s a $5 entrance fee but if you go here you can print off a coupon:

www.sapereart.com/specialoffers.html

And don’t worry there are 150 other artists displaying there work so there will be plenty to see, as well as music to hear and weird looking people to gawk at.


For more info on the smART show go here:

http://smartshow.org/

For more info on Ryan go here:

www.rwruehlen.com

The Art of Pornography

I don’t know what came over me, well nothing came over me, but last night after discovering I had no Netflix movies left to watch, no shows on television worth bothering with, and no internet working, I decided to observe porn. Over a handful of pornos have been floating around in the bottom of a secret drawer since before Ryan and I have moved in to this apartment, they belong to the previous owner, along with a framed photograph, a one-use camera (that I really want to develop, but am scared to) and a server’s apron. When we found them, there was a debate about what to do—calling them up and saying “hey you left your porn here” just seemed a little, well, weird. So we left it, unopened except when we gave tours to good friends and wanted to make them laugh and feel awkward.

Finally, last night after 3 martinis I decided “fuck it”, I’m going to watch one of those dirty nasty movies, but which one? There were so many options, among the selection was one called The Resort another by the name of Talk Dirty to Me #5, along with Model Behavior, Little Darlings (which is just too damn creepy to even consider) and a few others. Besides all having vague names it was pretty difficult to decided which one would be the best considering all the pictures on the back were generally the same cocks and pussies getting it in some form, either orally, anally or intercoursely. I divided them up and even though he wasn’t going to watch it with me made Ryan pick a hand until it came down to one. Masterpiece: A Portrait in Perversion. Perfect. A porn about an artist/painter and his manager. It must have been fate. Ha. So I put on that server’s apron that was in the secret drawer thinking they must go together somehow and sat down for the show.

Anyway. I guess I just don’t get porn. I don’t know why they even bothered trying to have a story line. I could barely follow it with all the dick and vagina close-ups. Also, why are ALL the guys absolutely ugly? I mean, by god how disastrous. I couldn’t even imagine wanting to look at those guys let alone let them stick something in me. One guy was fat. The other guy had this big gap between his two front teeth as well as some skin complexion issues. Interestingly enough, they barely showed the guys’ faces. I guess, it’s not that interesting as opposed to obvious and they did a lot more eating out then I would have thought. I generally thought porn was made for a more male oriented fantasy land where all the women love to suck dick (because as we well know in real life only a small percentage of women love that and I think some are actually mentally ill).

Which brings me to my next point regarding porn. What the hell is up with the spitting? In ever oral scene there seemed to be a contest as to which person could spit on the other person’s genitals from furthest away. Ew. I am sorry but that is no way to lubricate. I mean it is a way, but it’s disgusting and completely un-classy. I can’t figure out why it turned me off so much besides the fact that spitting on something generally indicates a distaste for it as a opposed to something you want to stick in your mouth. But there it was, in every scene making me want to have sex less and less each second.

Oh and that apron didn’t really do anything to help make the porn better either. I’m not sure why it was in the drawer with it, but I have put everything back in there and plan to keep it that way—until I give another tour that is.

The Art of Winning the Lottery

Finding that lottery ticket on the ground yesterday gave me a flash back to my time working at the Chicago Tribune. We had a work pool, everyone would put in a dollar a month and my boss would buy a ticket every week. She’d make copies for everyone so we could check the numbers ourselves if we wanted to. Every time I got a copy I would write what I would buy if we won.
I hoped that if I came up with really good things to spend all that money on, I would win.

It seems like the typical “American” dream—contemplating what you would win if you won the lottery, even if you’ve never bought a ticket you’ve probably imagined what it would be like to be rich. To me, it’s impossible to understand. I know I don’t need to have that kind of money, but I also know that if I had that money better things would be happening in this world. Not that I would be a do-good donator giving it all away, but I would use the money creatively to better our surroundings.

Here’s basically what I’ve come up with idea-wise regarding my winning ticket aka getting really rich somehow without trying too hard:

1) The obvious choice for everyone who is poor—pay off bills. My bills are my student loans in which I will be about $80,000 in debt to once I finish this final year (feel free to send me your own donation to my college fund, I will not deny anyone’s free money).

2) Go on a shopping spree. Let’s be real here. I find clothes in the dumpster. I’m not picky about what label I wear, but it would be nice to be able to go in a store and not look at the price tag before deciding to even try it on. I did that once with a $60 purple silk halter-cut shirt thinking if I tried it on it wouldn’t look good and I would feel better about not buying it… it looked ridiculously awesome and was more upsetting than ever to have to put it back on the rack, thus I never do that now (besides the fact that I don’t go shopping anywhere where the clothes actually costs money…).

3) I would spend most of the money investing it in artistic endeavors of both myself and Ryan, including: a) Promoting and getting shows for Pervertable Tongues (also hiring a drummer since we can’t seem to find one) b) shaping up the Feminist Creative Alliance into something solid, powerful and evocative c) either opening up our own art/music venue/bar or creating an Art Co-Op out in the country somewhere where we grow our own organic food and have lots of artists running about cultivating their work and the land. Or perhaps both…

4) I’d get a dog. I can neither afford to have one nor actually literally have one here in the city and really really want one.

5) I’d give away a bunch to my parents and grandparents so they could buy whatever they wanted and I’d make my mom restore that road-runner sitting in the garage (that has been sitting in the garage and sitting and sitting).

That's about it.

Honestly. I can do all of that without winning the lottery. The lottery really only makes accomplishing those goals extremely easy and perhaps with that easiness comes a feeling of lack of accomplishment. If my band made it because we had more money and the ability to pay people to like us, then it wouldn’t feel as good playing, it wouldn’t feel real.

Or perhaps that’s just what poor people tell themselves to make themselves feel better about not having much.

I really can’t complain…. yet. I have a great apartment, amazing friends, a charming partner, a beautiful family.

BUT. It's the American day dream and if I won the lottery, that’s what I would do—how about you?

The Art of Aldi

An Aldi just opened down the block from my apartment. Aldi is a chain grocery store that carries incredibly cheap products. Though, there is a hidden cost. Fatness to be exact.

According to their philosophy they carry “only 1,400 or so of your most frequently purchased grocery and household items, of which nearly all are ALDI select brands. As a result, we get the lowest prices from our suppliers—and pass the savings on to you.”

It’s interesting to walk through the store and see what the 1,400 or so products actually are according to what’s on the shelf. Upon entering I am bombarded with a whole aisle of different types of chips, good healthy choices. Along another aisle, cereal—all containing large amounts of corn syrup while none upon my searching included whole wheat. There is also the baking aisle with its many different kinds of frying oils, corn syrup in giant containers and multiple cake and cookie mixes. Unlike other grocery stores this is the mecca for bad eating and bad choices.

As a shopper who wants to generally eat as healthy as possible going to Aldi is like walking into the store of gluttony. How can poor, I mean real honest poor people, eat like “everyone else”. Unless we consider that “everyone else” generally chooses to eat this shitty as well?

“ALDI was founded on the belief that people, wherever they live, should have the opportunity to buy everyday groceries of the highest quality at the lowest possible price.”

Great in theory, but it would be nice if more of the 1400 products contained greater nutritional value than they do.

Now to save even more money I have to go to three different grocery stores. The Devon Market to get all my fresh products; Aldi to get canned goods, and Dominic to get cereal and soy milk.

I’m sure in this capitalistic society it would be difficult to have one store that possessed everything a person needs at a valuable price—I suppose that would defeat the purpose of neoliberalism—or we’d all be stuck in the monopoly of a Wal-mart tyranny (as if we’re not close already). Which I am still thankful has been erected anywhere near me, because my wallet would overtake my conscious and I’d end up shopping there again, even though I am aware of their pure evilness.

Maybe I should just quit being such a cheapskate.

I did find a Mega Millions Lottery ticket on the ground while buying a few of the 1400 selected items at Aldi… perhaps I’ll win the jackpot on a free ticket. The irony would be amazingly beautiful and I’d never have to go back to that store again. . . strange.

Readers please send me good vibes my way so that I may actually be in possession of the golden ticket to magical capitalistic happiness. I’m just six numbers away. . .

The Art of Productivity...

Every night before I go to sleep I tell myself that I am going to be productive the next day. I am actually going to use the hours that tick around the clock wisely and accomplish something grand. I make lists. Long lists. Lists that detail every thing I will do the next day and how long I will spend on said items. When I get up in the morning. Two hours after I told myself I was going to wake up. I look at the list and realize that there is no possible way I’m going to get all that shit done. So I pick and choose and usually end up doing about three things, eating breakfast, watching a Netflix movie and checking my email. If I’m not even going to get to the shower how am I going to get to the part where I am supposed to write for 2 hours on my book idea that’s slowly never getting finished? And what happens to all those hours that seem to disappear from the day without me even going through them—it’s like they never existed.

And I feel so guilty. Because I have all this time and because I have no “job” and because I sort of, well completely love not having a “job” and yet I feel all this pressure to find some stupid paying schedule that tortures my soul because everyone else has to do it and so should I. But why? I know what I don’t want to do and that is conform to capitalism. I don’t have a problem with hard work or even daily work, but I do have a problem with useless time consuming creativity sucking bullshit cubicles and CEO robot soul eating money grubbing power hungry lickshits.

People ask me what I want to do when I get done working on my Masters. As if I will and can only do one thing. I tell them I want to write. As if I can’t do it now. Although I can, but I rarely do because, perhaps, I am scared of success. Or failure. Or a mixture of those.

And every piece of advice I have read about successful writers consists of them mentioning that they treat it like a job, they make it a routine, and FORCE themselves to do it. I don’t want to capitalize my creativity.

Maybe I don’t possess as much sadomasochistic instincts as these people because I can not force myself into creativity or squeeze out words when they aren’t ready.

Oh, but there are techniques. The old, sit in front of the computer and write about nothing for 15 minutes trick, which gets me to write about nothing for 15 minutes and then think wow that really worked I wrote something today…and then I go watch t.v. or drink a glass of wine to celebrate.

Why all this guilt about lack of productivity. Is it innate? Is it socialized? Have I just had too much caffeine? I can’t afford chill pills, not having a job and all. So why all this anxiety? Can I blame the media—Oprah for having 5-year-old millionaires on her show or women who make billions selling muffins—it seems like a fair assumption. T.V. makes me feel inadequate. I can’t measure up to the successes of strangers. Do I need to? Can I be comfortable with the fact that I didn’t really accomplish anything of any value today, no novel got written, but I got the laundry done. No screenplay outlined, but I bought groceries. No new band songs, but I rocked out the old ones.

I guess it comes down to me writing lists.
I need to stop.

They make me feel depressed and unfulfilled if I don’t get to cross everything off by the end of the night. Then I lay in bed thinking about how the next day, I’m going to do better. I spend the whole night thinking about what I’m going to do the next day, I don’t sleep, then when I get out of bed I’m too tired to do all that I didn’t dream about.

And the cycle continues.
And the pages never turn.
And the lists keep piling up with the same goals.
And the night creeps back over.
And the pen slips out of ink.