Putting it out there

I've always admired people who create something and unabashedly put it out there for others to see and critique. Whether it be a painting, a film, a poem or a hand-carved wooden chair, the fact that the craftsman behind it took the steps to produce and then showcase the piece is worthy of recognition and respect, even if it's complete shit. Especially if it's complete shit.

I have stacks of paper, both physical and virtual, that I keep hidden and never intend for anyone to see. To an extent, I'm very careful about the things I let others view so as to craft my public persona. I'm not editing my interests and expression to become something I'm not, but the whole of my being is layered and complex, and much of the work I do- my writing, specifically- is not in a place where I feel I can share it. Sometimes this is because I'm afraid of hurting people, or of shocking them. Sometimes it's because I know it's not very good.

I was sitting in a cafe last week and was working on a self-promotional advertising piece for my portfolio. As I played with fonts and the way certain elements of the piece came together, I was painfully aware of the young man beside me, catching glimpses of my work out of the corner of his eye as he tried to read some terribly boring looking financial spreadsheets on his computer (I too was catching glimpses at his work). There were moments when I wanted to turn to him and say, "Look, it's not done yet, okay. It's not ready, so don't judge it," which is silly seeing as I spy on other people constantly. I try to read the scribblings of fellow train passengers, whether they be writing notes for their novel or their grocery list, I watch girls in the library retouch photos from their weekend out with friends, I watch boys in school draw cartoons alongside their notes in class. I admire these people for just doing it, for exposing their talents and letting others view their work while it's still in the process of being completed, even if it does just get shut up in a notebook never to be seen again.

I've always known, but have been loath to admit, that I am afraid of being bad at something. It is for this reason that I never learned to tap dance, play an instrument or seriously take up skiing. When I start something, I want to be good straight away, and fear or failing, or of not being spectacular right off the bat, has held me back. It's time that I start sharing my creativity, I think, and stand behind my work knowing that it's not the best, but it's at least a gallant effort.

And just for the hell of it, here's a picture of Ernest Hemingway in a bathtub. How's that for inspiration?

A Marvelous Day for a Marathon

After sending off one of my beautiful friends who was here for a terrific weekend visit, I find myself relaxed and solitary on this Patriot's Day. A few blocks away, incredibly fit men and women are running the Boston Marathon, an event I usually celebrate with a beer. As they pant and sweat and lose feeling in their legs (I refuse to believe in runner's high), I sit in my sun-filled living room and contemplate the types of marathons in which I am willing to actually participate.

• Project Runway Marathons- I will gladly watch any and all episodes from any season with the exception of this past one in which the Kardashian look-alike won, because that season sucked.
• Jack White's Projects Marathon- Night or day, rain or shine, I will happily listen to and watch the myriad of projects Mr. White has contributed to over the course of his career without ever tiring of his greatness. (New Dead Weather album out May 10/11- thanks for the heads up, Eric!)
• Mad Men Marathon- Speaking of which, have you seen Christina Hendricks on the cover of Esquire?! Like, okay: in my humble opinion the photo's a little too retouched, but she's still one of the most attractive women roaming the planet. And yes, I'm totally dyking out right now, sorry.
• Book Reading Marathon- I just finished The House of Sleep by Jonathan Coe. It was such a gripping story that I lost all sense of myself whilst reading and at one point even got on the wrong bus, found myself not at the Logan Airport (my desired destination) but rather an industrial park off the waterfront, and had the pleasure of being the only passenger for about ten minutes as the bus circled back on its route and took me to familiar territory. It was awkward, but I was enjoying my reading and didn't mind being stupidly lost so long as I had the book.

Now that I have successfully made myself out to sound like a terribly lazy person, I will go and do something productive with my day, like eat a hamburger as I cheer on the real marathoners! BYE!

One Day, Perhaps

On days when I'm feeling brave, I tell myself that I'll move to Nashville, Tennessee and have a peacock farm. I'll write books, smoke cigars, and admire the flamboyant prancing of the peafowl- the rare albinos like snowflakes, and the standard peacocks colored like toxic puddles of fuel and water, or bubbles floating in a summer breeze.

One of my favorites

The Canonization

FOR God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honour, or his Grace,
Or the king's real, or his stamp'd face
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drown'd?
Who says my tears have overflow'd his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.

Call's what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find th' eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it;
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tomb or hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for love;

And thus invoke us; "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes;
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize,)
Countries, Towns, Courts: Beg from above
A pattern of your love."

- John Donne

Somethin' like a Terminator

She is so thoroughly cool. And the typewriter at the end is gorgeous.

Strangers are Strange

The lease for my wonderful Brookline apartment is over come June. This means a myriad of strangers have walked through my apartment and seen my dirty laundry (literally), typewriter, bookshelves, and the contents of my closets. Some have undoubtedly noticed the dust under the couch, the dishes piled in the sink, or the way my bedspread isn't perfectly smooth.

Out of curiosity, I would love to ask prospective renters to write a paragraph about the kind of person they think I am based on the contents of my apartment. Snap-judgements are rarely indicative of anything more than the viewer's own biases and values and I bet I could learn a lot about the people viewing my apartment just by reading their interpretation of me and my home. If only I could- I'd find reading the responses hugely entertaining!