I hate those digital things you sign after you swipe your credit card. They make your handwriting look atrocious.

in a galaxy far far away

It's Saturday. Having decided we're tired of City boys, A and I head east for the evening, towards Cheyenne. We take a right near Heber and follow the road arriving in Oakley just before sundown. After a lesson on geology and quartzite from a six year-old, I'm sitting on the floor playing Scrabble. M, (age 6) is spelling words like "armpit," and "library," and O (age 4) is laying tiles down to make the word, "eek." For the most part, M is following the rules: using letters from other words to spell new words, and asking me about double word score squares, etc. O has started his own game in his own corner of the board, his own Scrabble Universe. He spends a lot of time in his own little world, conjuring up all sorts of things, like this:

Donning an orange t-shirt with the words "Little Terror" in big turquoise letters written across his chest, his chubby cute-as-can-be fingers place down, Y, I, and T. "Yit." he says, like M and I know what page to find it on in Merriam-Webster. M gives me an eye roll, as if to sceptically say, Amateur. But we'll let it slide. I acknowledge him by copy-catting his eye roll and telepathically transporting the thought: Yes, but just this once. O has occupied himself by making sure all the letters stay squarely in their place on the grid. I turn towards him. "And what, exactly, is 'Yit?'" I ask. "It's a new planet. I just made it up. It's in the Tenth Galaxy," nodding very matter-of-factly. My shoulders shrug in the direction of M, who, on planet Earth, in the only galaxy I know anything about, is sitting on the floor of his house on a Saturday evening enjoying a game of Scrabble. He returns the gesture, draws a tile and the game continues.

Now, it's my turn. I spell something equally as brilliant as "armpit." Next up, O. To the planet (proper noun, but, we're letting it slide, just this once) YIT, he adds a D, an R, and an E, making it DRYITE. He looks at me for approval. "It's actually the planet DRYITE. See?" He points at the letters. I nod, (un)knowingly (there's a tenth galaxy?), but oh so amused at his imagination. "Aaaand..." he goes on, "the Dryitians (said like Martians) only eat things that are dry. Get it? Dry? Dryitians?" his hands open, palms up in a "well-duh" motion. Thoroughly amused I say, "Ohhh! I get it. I get it." In an almost-whisper, as if he was revealing the secret to a long and happy life on planet Dryite, in a galaxy far far away, he says, "And...(eyes growing bigger and bigger)...They never eat liquid." M and I laugh out loud. "But what if they want to go swimming?" (I thought I had him.) "They just...just...blend in!" He says, eyes the size of flying saucers. Realizing the sentence "They just blend in" could, in four year-old, be translated to, "Do I have to tell you everything?!" I give him another "Ohhh!" and then winked at M.

Dinner followed Scrabble. Big M starts a Spelling Bee with the boys, something very routine at their Oakley dinner table. I ask O to pass the katsup. "They don't have katsup on Dryite, you know." (I didn't.) This leads to a discussion about the blood of the Dryitians. Something about solids and liquids, but I didn't quite follow. He lost me at YIT.

And just like that, I've decided to ditch City boys altogether and spend all my time in the Country, eating hot dogs, having spelling bees and learning about distant galaxies from a four year-old.

Drink Me

The fear of failure gets to me, you know. There are days (and often weeks) when I worry that I'll end up in all the rubble, on top of a heap of misshapen aspirations, a mouth full of soot from the fire of failure. I fear what I create will fall short of my own expectations and also, (maybe more so) how it will be received by others. In another gem from Suzan, it reads, "Making art can feel dangerous and revealing. Making art is dangerous and revealing. Making art precipitates self-doubt, stirring deep waters that lay between what you know you should be and what you fear you might be."

* * *

It didn't seem that big from the outside, but once I stepped in, back and back it went; and up and down. The doors grew upward, towards the large white expanse that is the ceiling, making me feel ever-smaller and smaller. We stood in the foyer as fear fetched all self-esteem and shoved it into the flames, and I could smell the burning. She was waiting. Waiting for me to respond. To spew forth ideas. But I had nothing. I had landed in a world of utmost vulnerability where fear extended its long, spindly fingers and snatched all my creativity, drawing it in towards itself. My vision raced ahead of execution and suddenly I was in a Wonderland, where everything around me was chattering and busy busy busy and late late late. I turned the path only to discover I arrived at the tea party with nothing to offer. I had taken the proverbial bottle off the table and done what the tag instructed: "Drink Me." With the last swallow, there I was, only I wasn't quite sure where there was, or who I was.

* * *

In the Cheshire Cat moments when we don't know which path to take, or when the Caterpillar is lethargically blowing smoke circles in our face while repeating, "Who. Are. You?" where do we turn to muster the creative courage to get ourselves back where we came from; the birthplace of our creativity? A childhood art class, a college lecture, an experience with a masterpiece on a museum wall. In these moments (or days or weeks) when inadequacy takes charge, when the capriciousness of creativity gets the better of us and we fear our own art -- the very thing we've been put on this earth to do, what are we to do?

happy weekend

{photo}

He's Back

Today, on Today, Mr. Matt was back in full force. Sling, dislocated shoulder, and all.

Now, if we can only get this guy feeling better. By May 9th, maybe?
{images and info here & here}

early bird

This morning I woke up at 5:30. (Too early). I counted the hours until Matt Lauer. (1.5) I did a bit of reading, I ate a bowl of Cheerios with sliced bananas, (mmm) and watched the local news (lame). Then, the blessed chimes of Today, but no Matt. (Oh deer*). At 7:15 I decided to make a Monday To Do (Ugh). I foraged in my nightstand for a post-it and pen and found a brand new Sharpie way in the back. (hip! hip!) Suddenly, I didn't miss Matt so much anymore.

**Call me crazy, but I love this weather! As long as the tulips come up on time, I'm good.

* Apparently, Mr. Lauer was in a bike accident over the weekend involving a deer. Wishing you a speedy recovery, Mr. Matt.

True Blue

A few months ago, I was driving up the hill when I caught an add on the radio. "Win a night with Kyle Korver," the annoucer said. Say no more! I simply had to text "Kyle" to some random combo of numbers and I'd be well on my way to dinner and dancing (that's what he does when he's not hoopin' it up) with that handsome Iowa boy. In a moment of utter selflessness, I sent Mern the text so she could join in. No need to worry, I planned on telling her if she won she'd have to share. If we'd won, you would have heard it here first, folks, (and/or seen pictures plastered all over this blog slash the Internet. We're shameless.) Needless to say, Kyle is still single, but we're not giving up the dream just yet.

Someone down at the ESA, perhaps Kyle himself, felt out pangs. The other day I caught the very end of another Jazz advertisement. The announcer echoed forth from the speakers, "...Text 'Jazz' to 1437 (or something like that) or go to utahjazz.com to enter True Blue." I pulled out my phone and dialed in a frenzy, this was my second chance. I didn't just enter twice. I entered several times. I was tempted to add an "I heart you, Kyle" for extra measure, but figured I'd save that for our in-person encounter. Just as I was about to let Mern in on the phone-fun, I got the following text in return:
"Which Jazz True Blue Job would you like? Rply w/ your choice #:
1) SECURITY
2) TV PRODUCER
3) GAME OPS
4) SUPERSCREEN
5) BALL BOY
6) PRESIDENT
7) PR
8) MUSIC
9) PROMOTIONS."
Not exactly a night with Mr. Korver. I sent back my reply: #9. All this time I thought I'd have to go through Jerry Sloan in order to get things done around here. Who knew it would just take a text message? I'd like to thank the folks at True Blue for such an opportunity. Things may start to look a little different around here. If you notice two sets of girls whiping beads of sweat from Kyle's pretty face on game night, well, that's just the beginning. As for the other jobs available, I think that's my decision now. Please rply w/ your # choice to this post. GO JAZZ!

happy weekend

weekend update: mernie mern got a new bike. we'll be cruisin' in the park soon soon soon.
spent nearly 3 hours outside the day before last. spring is here. it's official as of today!
AND...
come july, she'll be well on her way to weekend vistas like these. E, congratulations on the adventure of a lifetime.
Love you!

{photo}

the creative un-genius, part II

I had an art professor in college who, to this day, is still the most intimidating person I have ever come in contact with. I wasn't in the Visual Arts program as an artist. I was in the program as a designer...in training. So when I learned Observational Drawing was to be the first of many 3-hour studio classes, I was a bit anxious. When I walked into class the first day and learned my professor was German (as in spoke little English) I was about to head for the hills, and I'm not talking hills alive with the Sound of Music.

Speaking of music, that class was full of ipod-wearing illustration majors, pinkie fingers permanently pigmented with Staedtler lead. They'd stick their ipods in their ears, and stare with static wonderment at an egg, a glass of water, a banana for the full three hours, leaving the room completely silent. Professor Glockenspiel (that's the only German word that comes to mind at the late hour. Seems I've blocked his real name from memory entirely) would slowly circle the room, hands clutched behind his back, critiquing our every pencil stroke. I'd feel him over my shoulder before I could see or hear him. Then, in a moment of sheer German-influenced intimidation, he'd lean over and get within a millimeter of my work, as if his glasses were circa WWII. Then he'd whisper his petty criticisms with the thickest of German accents into my ear. Most of the time, I had no idea what he was saying, but I knew it wasn't of a positive nature. He'd swirl his finger round and round my sorry scratchings on the page. I imagine it was along the lines of, "Fix here! And here! Add shadow here! Can't you see there is more light coming from here?!"

When our final was due, we were to turn in all the drawings we had done during the semester. At my final critique, I could finally read him loud and clear. The one thing I could decipher all semester was his analysis of a semester's worth of work. I sat in front of him as he flipped through each page past an egg, a banana, a glass of water on a table. His eyes peered out from behind his thick glasses, eyebrows the same color of my HB Staedtler lead. Slowly, as if to be sure I understood every word, he said in broken English, "Your eye cannot yet see." That was my final review; in its entirety. Then he marked my whole drawing pad with a big fat B-.

It was my first taste of college failure. When I come across that pad of paper, I shudder. I don't see an egg or a glass of water reflecting light and shadow. I see failure. I see a big fat B-. And then a little German appears on my shoulder and says, "Your eye cannot yet see."

Sometimes that's how the creative process is. Under the pressure of a Professor Glockenspiel, surrounded by people with immense talent or people who seem to pop in some Pearl Jam and whip out a masterpiece in mere moments, something whispers failure within earshot. But artistry doesn't have to lead to anguish. The creative process is exactly that: a process. It doesn't come all at once. It takes practice. Eyes must learn to see. It comes in moments when we extend ourselves beyond the classroom; beyond objects in front of us or the current task at hand. When we step back and look at the big picture. Sometimes my best ideas come when I turn my back on a Goliath of a project. When I decide not to be creative at all. On long walks. During long showers. Days when I allow myself to head for the hills and sing. I come back with eyes that see, ideas streaming like light through a glass of water on a table, ready to be sketched on a clean sheet of paper.

living the dream, part one

I have the aspiration to write a blog or a book totally uncensored. To throw caution to the wind and with it, silly names such as, "Mr. Baseball," or "Photography Boy." Names conjured up for fear someone will decode my not-so-enigmatic way of coding things to hide my oh so important "identity." Once, thinking I was acting in perfect anonymity, I made a remark on some one's blog. It wasn't someone I know, and it was in response to something I felt strongly about. The comment was rather snarky (for me, at least). As soon as I hit publish, there it was. But the word anonymous, wasn't. In an effort to erase what I'd done, I went "private" for the afternoon. Then, in a to-hell-with-it moment, I thought, what the heck, and unblocked the blogging world. I'm me, mistakes and all. Take it or leave it. Sometimes I'm snarky. So there.

That said, here's the latest edition to the list of people-with-fake-names-on-my-blog. 'Twas the weekend last when I found myself in a conversation with a twenty-something guy who we'll call "Mr. Enthusiastic." (You would too, if you met him. And, as long as I'm getting things out in the open, honestly, I stole that name right out from under someone else who called him that. There are worse things in the world, right?) He's all live-your-dream-Guy-Smiley with hand gestures and eyebrow raises and eyes that won't stop enlarging at the thought of something even mildly enthusiastic or exciting. (For him, taking out the trash could qualify.)

In a hey-there-how-you-doing-isn't-life-SO-fantastic?! moment, he comes up to me and says, "So...tell me your dream. (Cheesy inhale, as if he's trying to sense my chi.) What's. Your. Dream?" After watching him work his way across the room, I couldn't help but play along with the kid, his hands on both my shoulders in utter sincerity. "My dream, huh?" I paused, thoughtfully (playing along, right?) and then gave him a short answer, thinking he'd move along to the next enthusiasm victim. "I'm doing it." I shrugged in the silence. Mr. E took his hands off my shoulders, thus ending my personal space invasion for a brief moment. Just when I thought I had him, there were those eyes again and the gestures and the frightening realization that he was so proud of my response he might shake me silly. If I'd thought about it, I could have scripted this next part, as I think these might be the only four words in his vernacular: "That is absolutely fantastic! Absolutely fantastic!" (Coming from a guy nick-named "Mr. Enthusiastic," I should have known better. I should have known that incredible, awesome, super, extraordinary, etc. --with accompanying hand gestures--can be substituted for the word fantastic at any given moment.) He said something to the effect of "I wish more women could give me that answer," followed by a few more positive adjectives (along the lines of the aforementioned incredible, outstanding, etc.) and then he was off and onto the next are-you-or-are-you-not-living-your-dream? interview.

I have to hand it to him. (Only per se though, cause if I really handed it to him, I'd never actually get that hand back, as he'd be giving me perpetual high-fives until next Tuesday.) I went home that night and started thinking about it. Perhaps in his I'm-so-proud-I-could-gather-all-the-silk-worms-in-the-world-right-now-and-have-them-weave-you-a-golden-ribbon-on-the-spot moment, he shook something in my brain. I mean, I wasn't lying to Mr. Enthusiastic. I'm doing what I've wanted to do since I was seven. But, am I honestly quote-un-quote living the dream? I will tell you one thing, I never, in a million trillion years thought that a Mr. Enthusiastic would be a part of it -- living the dream, or otherwise.

happy weekend

{image by the great rodney smith}

the creative un-genius

In attempt to tackle a Larger-Than-Martha's-Life project for work, I've been reading, watching and researching creativity this week. I've read about photographers setting their foot on never-before-seen islands going camera-cuckoo, their shutter snapping every millisecond. Writers who have holed themselves up in houses for months on end in a last-stitch effort to finish a project, finally able to unleash that writer's block-beast. TED has been my creativity cohort today. I've listened to lectures on the creative process, the creative genius, and why we creative people tend to put so much pressure on themselves. (Pressure?! Ahem.)

While I've been unusually inspired the past several days (for work and non-work, i.e. this blog), this creativity expedition has landed me on my own Writer's Block Island, of sorts. Instead of not being able to write, it's that I've done so much writing, I don't quite know where to stop and start.* So, if I write solely on creativity for the next two weeks, that's why. It's bound to be a jumbled mess, too. However, consider yourself warned. Until I decide where to go from here...signing off from somewhere in Creativity Wonderland,
M

{illustration from here}

*This is by no means an announcement that I'm halfway to a novel, nor that what I have to say will be novel, itself. It is, however, an announcement that I haven't been ignoring this corner of the web all week long.

today

1. i've had more soda than water today.
2. tonight we made homemade pizza. my side had tomatoes and fresh basil. yum, no? james' side: avacado and steamed cauliflower. weird.
3. dad just handed me an empty tin from designer's carpet showroom. "a useful box to put things in," he said. why does a carpet showroom give out a tin of mints?
4. i walked into rite aid tonight. it was empty but for five men.
5. i'm loving greg laswell, but it's not the first time i've mentioned that.
6. i miss k and the merph. boo.

happy weekend

It started snowing a few minutes ago. But, these colors are enough to drown out the dreary.
{image via flickr}

the red brick house

In the red brick house with the round table and the quilt with the big red square, my sister and I shared a room. We had matching bead spreads; white with blue and yellow flowers. We lined our stuffed animals up on the windowsill and at night, Dad would sit between our beds and make up bedtime stories. Sometimes he'd nod off, and from our twin beds we'd shout, "Dad! Dad! Wake up Dad!" There was a laundry shoot and we took turns dropping a bucket full of "surprises" down to each other.

Red tulips poked up through the soil in the spring. The droopy branches of the birch tree made for a shady spot and there was room to roller skate on the cracked driveway. Aunt B picked us up for teddy bear pancakes at Ruth's Diner on Saturdays. And, when the gardening was done, Dad gave us rides in the wheelbarrow, down the sloped driveway and across the street to visit Grandma and Grandpa. In summer, we'd pick mint leaves in the yard to flavor homemade lemonade. We'd set up shop on the corner, shouting at all passers-by and counting quarters when the red thermos was empty. Mom drove us to swimming lessons in the green Volvo. She let us stretch out in our wet suits in the back seat all the way home. In the fall, we walked to school with Emily and raked the yellow leaves that fell from the birch tree.

When we moved from the red brick house into the white house, our flower bead spreads came along. Sister and I no longer shared a room; she slept down the hall. Sometimes, when I was feeling brave, I would sneak into her bed just after she'd fallen asleep. The quilt with the big red square was still neighbors with the round table, as it had been at the old house. There was a bathroom with sparkly butterfly tile and a basement with lots of room to play. We hopped the fence to school, and after Dad got home from work, he'd take us to the playground to shoot hoops or run the 50 meter dash. For our birthdays that November, Emily made sister and me a swing to hang from the tree in the backyard. Dad helped us tie it tight around a strong branch above lots of yellow leaves. I met another girl named Emily who lived at the top of the street. I'd walk home from school with her sometimes. Her Korean nanny would make us Top Ramen for lunch on Fridays. We'd spend the rest of the afternoon playing American Dolls.

My parents don't live that far from the white house. Not far at all. The quilt and table are still the best of friends. The wood swing hangs from a cherry tree which drops lots of yellow leaves each fall. Sister lives in a house of her own, and our bedspreads are long gone. Soon Dad will give grandchildren rides in the wheelbarrow and tell them bedtime stories, perhaps about two little girls who lived in a red brick house.

stripes, herringbone, and side tables

Rather refreshing not to check email for two days straight. No, I'm not out of town, just in town and about town. Bustling about my own business, getting down to the to do's and crossing things of my list, spending time with dear friends in between. We took a long walk yesterday, the babes wrapped up tight for the toting. Unaware of time and distance it was nearly noon when we finished, and we'd traced five miles along Wasatch and down again to Bryan. I spent part of yesterday doing design research with N, and, following form and function, we went out on the town today to see what we could find. We sat at the big round table at Howells with A, sorting out the stripes and honing in on the herringbone. Oh how we wish the budget allowed for real RL 100 percent wool plaid. (If there's a will, there's a way, though, right?) We played musical chairs at PB, trying to pick what's best, bouncing ideas off one another. In somewhat of an unplanned expedition, we found ourselves on the hunt in our home town to find a certain paint color. I was happy to leave with more samples than I need and a new deck in-hand to add to my collection. Tonight, I met the girls at the Dodo for sandwiches. All RS things were off the table, all real Life things, on. I ended the night at the B's. We ate cinnamon bears on the couch as baby E fell fast asleep on her mama's lap. Now it's bed for me, too. Tomorrow brings more time with N, who makes work more like play.