Last Friday, I saw the film Bagdad Cafe (1987) for the first time, sitting with my laptop in the nook under the stairs in my apartment (the roommates call it the "Harry Potter corner," for obvious reasons). It's a wonderfully dark and intimate space for immersing yourself in the world of a movie. With this particular film, I was immersed in the American southwest, far away from the trees and snow of home. I won't describe all the details of Bagdad Cafe, other than the fact that it's a great film and you should see it, but it reminded me of the incredible things that can happen in life through unexpected encounters with strangers.
It's amazing to think about the possibilities that come with meeting someone new. You could be sitting on a bus, going to school or work as usual, or having a cup of coffee in some cafe in the middle of nowhere, when the seat next to you happens to be the only one left. The person who fills that seat might only converse for a moment and leave, but they could also change your life forever. They could lift and drag you to emotional heights and depths you haven't seen in years. They could break the chains on things you've bound, or they could make you question what you've always thought to be true. They could remain a part of your life forever, or they could suddenly vanish and leave you feeling lonely, thankful, or both. You really never know what can happen, and the mystery of it is thrilling and beautiful. I've had such encounters before, and even when they ultimately bring more sadness than joy, I'm still amazed that I could meet someone who would have such a big impact on my life by just being in the right place at the right time. I guess when you have thousands of small universes (aka humans) constantly running, rolling, and drifting down the streets of your town, they're bound to collide and cause incredible reactions. This explains my tendency to try to be in too many places at once--there are nights when I can't stand the idea of sitting at home because there's so much life outside. I love watching and experiencing these human collisions. They're what great stories are made of.
Unfortunately, tonight doesn't seem to be the night for life-altering experiences. You know money's tight when it's Friday night and you're sitting alone in your living room with sleeping guinea pigs and Guy Fieri instead of tearing up the town. On the bright side, I recently had some more writing published. This time, it's a review of the wonderful Clockwork Cabaret podcast. Also, I obviously have guinea pigs now. Not only are they cute and cuddly, but the fact that rodents can have such nuanced personalities is unbelievable. Hopefully I'll have some more exciting adventures as the weekend progresses, but for now I'll settle for watching the tiny lights in the distance from my apartment deck, wondering who or what is out there waiting to change my life.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Snow
I love snow. I know there's a lot to hate about it, especially if you live in Boston right now and have to use a bucket and a hockey stick stuck in a drift for a mailbox. I've also seen snow turn a typical rush hour commute into an exclusive sneak preview of Armageddon, but I still love it.
Snow purifies. It freezes the dirt on your car and melts it away in the sun. The best part is when it first starts to fall, when it cloaks the world with whiteness only nature can seem to achieve--there's a reason the old hymn goes "make me white as snow." With only the softest sound, it loosens the grip of everyday stress and pain for just a moment. Last week, I had to park my car a mile from my house and walk home just as the latest snowfall began, and something loosened in me as I trudged through the woods. The air thick with flakes, and tree limbs like the white legs of ancient spiders, revealed the holiness in everything. It was like watching manna fall from heaven, and it forced us all to slow down and take a breath.
This purifying weather perfectly symbolized the events of last week. I've finally moved into my new apartment, where the lights come on and the water runs because I earn the money that helps pay for them. It brings a wonderful sense of pride, despite the fact that I now see little dollar signs floating away every time I turn on a light. I feel like the master of my own tiny world and all its elements. It is tiny, indeed--perhaps, instead of the master of a small universe, I'm more like a monk in his cell. My mattress won't arrive for another two weeks, and I haven't had time to shop for a desk, so I've abandoned these vain delights and taken to sleeping and writing on the floor. This room really has its own kind of zen, which might be due to my roommates burning incense downstairs. However, it also has the feeling of a secluded tower, with its shape and upper story location. It's a humble, yet artistic space, where the only creature comfort currently allowed is that of self-expression. As the English saying goes, a change is as good as a rest, and hopefully this change will only improve my writing and musical pursuits further; I'm already halfway through writing my very first song, and currently beginning another short story. Maybe, now that I've untethered the balloon of my adult life from my childhood home, I can finally fill it with enough hot words to get it off the ground.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
In Love with Everything
“To sum it all up, if you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish for you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories—science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”--Ray Bradbury
I've been thinking about this quote a lot this Valentine's season, and about love itself. Last week, I wrote about regret as a major motivation for my writing, specifically regret over miscommunication. It's become so clear over the past couple years that this is true. Almost everything I want to do with my life, from directing films to loving someone, requires being an exceptional communicator. So far, I've made incredible improvements in my ability to lead and interact with people effectively, making my thoughts known in a clear, firm manner while also respecting theirs--last year, I managed to produce a documentary that was broadcast to millions of homes, and this year my freelance career is quickly taking off. However, I've also made painful mistakes along the way, some of which have already cost me at least one relationship.
But Ray Bradbury's blessing for writers, blazing with his usual vitality, reminds me of an even more powerful motivation for making art: being in love with everything, all the time. For a perfect description of this feeling, read Billy Collins' poem "Aimless Love." I know I've felt it before, and I wonder how many other writers and artists have too. It's a blessing to be so easily enamored with everyday things in that you seldom run out of creative material, but it can also be a curse in a number of ways. One is constant distraction--I've lost track of conversations because I was busy observing the movements of a person's eyes, the interesting shape of their nose, or a striking cloud formation behind them. Last night, I sat in a sports bar with over a dozen glaring TV screens, but the pretty swooping motion of car lights through the windows behind them was enough to distract me from whatever game was happening.
Perhaps another problem with being constantly in love with everything is that it makes finding romantic love more difficult. With your love spread over so many things, it makes sense that a person would have to be exceedingly incredible in order to stand out enough to catch your wayward attention. It's harder to find someone who shares what C.S. Lewis called "the same secret road" when your road is narrow and twists in all different directions.
This Valentine's Day, I spent the evening with friends and had a good time, but toward the end of the night, I couldn't help but notice the visual bitterness of my surroundings. I felt like I'd been dropped into a scene from a story someone had written after a breakup. I sat with my companions at an outdoor table with a bulging ash tray (the "butt table," as we fittingly called it), drinking whiskey and pulling my hood up against the cold and wind. Couples walked hand-in-hand to the steakhouse next door, men wearing sport coats and women balancing on spiky heels, the antithesis of my muddy sneakers.
Fortunately, life is starting to look a lot better than a pair of muddy sneakers, slowly but surely. I'm moving into a lovely, quiet new home next weekend with roommates who like Jefferson Airplane and seem to get upset only when they miss King of the Hill. I also just wrapped shooting on my first independently produced NC Weekend feature at the wonderful Fair Game Beverage Company, though much of the credit goes to a great videographer and production assistant. But perhaps most importantly, I'm writing more than I have in months. It feels like pushing a crank wheel on an old machine and watching the rust and dirt flake off. I still haven't had any new publications yet, but for now, it just feels good to be pushing.
I've been thinking about this quote a lot this Valentine's season, and about love itself. Last week, I wrote about regret as a major motivation for my writing, specifically regret over miscommunication. It's become so clear over the past couple years that this is true. Almost everything I want to do with my life, from directing films to loving someone, requires being an exceptional communicator. So far, I've made incredible improvements in my ability to lead and interact with people effectively, making my thoughts known in a clear, firm manner while also respecting theirs--last year, I managed to produce a documentary that was broadcast to millions of homes, and this year my freelance career is quickly taking off. However, I've also made painful mistakes along the way, some of which have already cost me at least one relationship.
But Ray Bradbury's blessing for writers, blazing with his usual vitality, reminds me of an even more powerful motivation for making art: being in love with everything, all the time. For a perfect description of this feeling, read Billy Collins' poem "Aimless Love." I know I've felt it before, and I wonder how many other writers and artists have too. It's a blessing to be so easily enamored with everyday things in that you seldom run out of creative material, but it can also be a curse in a number of ways. One is constant distraction--I've lost track of conversations because I was busy observing the movements of a person's eyes, the interesting shape of their nose, or a striking cloud formation behind them. Last night, I sat in a sports bar with over a dozen glaring TV screens, but the pretty swooping motion of car lights through the windows behind them was enough to distract me from whatever game was happening.
Perhaps another problem with being constantly in love with everything is that it makes finding romantic love more difficult. With your love spread over so many things, it makes sense that a person would have to be exceedingly incredible in order to stand out enough to catch your wayward attention. It's harder to find someone who shares what C.S. Lewis called "the same secret road" when your road is narrow and twists in all different directions.
This Valentine's Day, I spent the evening with friends and had a good time, but toward the end of the night, I couldn't help but notice the visual bitterness of my surroundings. I felt like I'd been dropped into a scene from a story someone had written after a breakup. I sat with my companions at an outdoor table with a bulging ash tray (the "butt table," as we fittingly called it), drinking whiskey and pulling my hood up against the cold and wind. Couples walked hand-in-hand to the steakhouse next door, men wearing sport coats and women balancing on spiky heels, the antithesis of my muddy sneakers.
Fortunately, life is starting to look a lot better than a pair of muddy sneakers, slowly but surely. I'm moving into a lovely, quiet new home next weekend with roommates who like Jefferson Airplane and seem to get upset only when they miss King of the Hill. I also just wrapped shooting on my first independently produced NC Weekend feature at the wonderful Fair Game Beverage Company, though much of the credit goes to a great videographer and production assistant. But perhaps most importantly, I'm writing more than I have in months. It feels like pushing a crank wheel on an old machine and watching the rust and dirt flake off. I still haven't had any new publications yet, but for now, it just feels good to be pushing.
Monday, February 9, 2015
February: When Bergman Eats Soggy Corn Flakes
I've never seen the point of February. It just feels like a filler month between January and March, a drunk Old Man Winter swinging his fists and cursing the coming spring. Maybe he regrets not quite conjuring enough blizzards this season; North Carolina has yet to see one. Or maybe he's depressed about global warming. Either way, there's an edge of sadness to February wind that leaves me feeling, as Leonard Cohen put it, "cold as a new razor blade."
For me, it's often around late January when things start to go wrong in the new year. It's the month my grandfather passed away, and when my childhood guinea pig went to the great bell pepper patch in the sky. However, at least January has a point; the year has to start somewhere. But by the time February arrives, I'm done with winter, ready for things to warm up and bloom and be hopeful again. I'm also not partial to Valentine's Day, though now that it seems cool to hate it, the contrarian in me almost wishes I liked it. I realized last Friday evening that the only thing I like about this month is a February sunset. Walking up Weaver Street in Carrboro, I saw rose and purple spilling through cracked clouds and spindly trees. It made the sky look raw and honest, and the buildings blush.
I looked down and saw the buttons on my coat hanging on by their worn threads, ready to drop off one by one like failed New Year's resolutions. The thought of failed resolutions led me to think about regret, and what makes it different from plain sadness. I'm beginning to wonder if regret is the most painful emotion in existence. It's one thing to experience sadness or loss, but also rest assured that you did everything you could to prevent it. For instance, it's easier to be rejected when you know you at least had the courage to tell someone you loved them. However, it's another thing when you're always wondering about what you could've done instead, or constantly replaying your mistakes in your mind. Regret is sadness with teeth. It's Ingmar Bergman and Werner Herzog sitting in their underwear, eating soggy corn flakes in an arctic cabin and listening to Nick Cave (I really, really wanted to make a cartoon of this, but my drawing skills just aren't there yet).
In a way, I think my desire to write is partially born of regret. My regrets often involve miscommunication, things I wish I would've said, not said, or said differently. I have a lot of trouble saying what I mean in person, but writing allows me to always articulate exactly what I think and feel, exactly how I want. It's a window to the real me. In fiction, I can create entire worlds with the sole purpose of expressing what I'm trying to say, every scenic detail and character gesture shining a light on my ideas. It makes writing a wonderfully freeing medium, this ability to reveal what so often gets lost in translation between thought and speech. In face-to-face communication, it's so easy for simple statements like "I love you," "I'm angry with you," "You're beautiful," "I appreciate you," or "Help me understand you" to get tangled in missed chances, misunderstandings, and poorly chosen words.
As I finish this post, I notice the world outside has thawed just a little, and small, green promises dot the branches of a few trees in my yard--change is coming. I'm listening to the song "Severance" by Dead Can Dance, and there's a great line in it that goes: "When all the leaves have fallen and turned to dust, will we remain entrenched within our ways?" I pray that, at the end of this new year, the answer is "no."
For me, it's often around late January when things start to go wrong in the new year. It's the month my grandfather passed away, and when my childhood guinea pig went to the great bell pepper patch in the sky. However, at least January has a point; the year has to start somewhere. But by the time February arrives, I'm done with winter, ready for things to warm up and bloom and be hopeful again. I'm also not partial to Valentine's Day, though now that it seems cool to hate it, the contrarian in me almost wishes I liked it. I realized last Friday evening that the only thing I like about this month is a February sunset. Walking up Weaver Street in Carrboro, I saw rose and purple spilling through cracked clouds and spindly trees. It made the sky look raw and honest, and the buildings blush.
I looked down and saw the buttons on my coat hanging on by their worn threads, ready to drop off one by one like failed New Year's resolutions. The thought of failed resolutions led me to think about regret, and what makes it different from plain sadness. I'm beginning to wonder if regret is the most painful emotion in existence. It's one thing to experience sadness or loss, but also rest assured that you did everything you could to prevent it. For instance, it's easier to be rejected when you know you at least had the courage to tell someone you loved them. However, it's another thing when you're always wondering about what you could've done instead, or constantly replaying your mistakes in your mind. Regret is sadness with teeth. It's Ingmar Bergman and Werner Herzog sitting in their underwear, eating soggy corn flakes in an arctic cabin and listening to Nick Cave (I really, really wanted to make a cartoon of this, but my drawing skills just aren't there yet).
In a way, I think my desire to write is partially born of regret. My regrets often involve miscommunication, things I wish I would've said, not said, or said differently. I have a lot of trouble saying what I mean in person, but writing allows me to always articulate exactly what I think and feel, exactly how I want. It's a window to the real me. In fiction, I can create entire worlds with the sole purpose of expressing what I'm trying to say, every scenic detail and character gesture shining a light on my ideas. It makes writing a wonderfully freeing medium, this ability to reveal what so often gets lost in translation between thought and speech. In face-to-face communication, it's so easy for simple statements like "I love you," "I'm angry with you," "You're beautiful," "I appreciate you," or "Help me understand you" to get tangled in missed chances, misunderstandings, and poorly chosen words.
As I finish this post, I notice the world outside has thawed just a little, and small, green promises dot the branches of a few trees in my yard--change is coming. I'm listening to the song "Severance" by Dead Can Dance, and there's a great line in it that goes: "When all the leaves have fallen and turned to dust, will we remain entrenched within our ways?" I pray that, at the end of this new year, the answer is "no."
Monday, January 26, 2015
On Rabbits and Romance
Last Saturday, after one week of severe illness, and another week of more emotional upheaval than I've dealt with in years, I had a spiritual experience: I held a rabbit for the first time. It seemed strange that I would be overcome with emotion just by holding a little black fur ball against my chest, but I was. Of course, the rabbit was soft and cute and had beautiful eyes. See for yourself:
But there was more to it than that. For a brief moment, my relationship with this rabbit represented what I want so desperately in a romantic relationship, but have never quite found: to be loved simply for loving. I didn't have to change anything about myself to please the rabbit, or constantly worry that it would leap into someone else's arms unless I did whatever it wanted. I also never had to to worry that the rabbit would say one thing and mean another--that it would gaze at me adoringly, tell me it loved the way I petted its ears, and then bite me on the nose (the fact that animals can't talk is one of my favorite qualities of theirs). No, all I had to do to earn this rabbit's love was to hold it securely, touch it gently, speak softly, and not let go. In other words, all I had to do was love it.
I know I'm reading way too much into this, but we all create narratives to comfort ourselves in hard times, so I think I'm only being human when I describe how meaningful it was to feel that rabbit's heartbeat relax and his nervous little body grow still, paws outstretched as if holding onto me. I wish things were that simple with humans and romance--earning another person's affection just by being myself, and treating them with love and respect, seems to be a less and less attainable goal each year. It's always so much more complicated than it needs to be.
Why does finding love require slogging waist-deep through a swamp of anxiety, ulterior motives, and miscommunication? When did honesty become so difficult, both for me and for people I've loved?
Why is being emotionally vulnerable no longer seen as a form of courage?
Why can't sex be something people earn instead of take or buy? Why can't it arise from love and trust, instead of being pressured out of people with guilt and fear? When did it become a status symbol? When did it become a substitute for love, rather than a supplement? When did we start feeling so entitled to each others' bodies?
Why do we take everything sacred, strip it of its beauty, and turn it into a commodity or a way to gain power?
When did mutual sacrifice stop mattering in relationships?
Why does asking these questions, or treating actions as if they have meaning and consequences, get a person labeled as immature, naive, or idealistic? When did acting like an adult become childish?
These are just some of the things I've been asking myself over the past few days. Other people have implied that I believe what I do about love because I'm young and female, and that I'll likely outgrow my opinions. While I can't be sure that all of these opinions won't change with years and life experience, I can say right now that what I believe about love is firmer than ever, and I can prove that it's not just a matter of age or gender with the following quote (though I have many other examples as well):
“Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.”--C.S. Lewis, God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics
C.S. Lewis, as an older man rather than a young woman, pretty much summed up exactly what I believe true love (not just mere attraction) to be in a single, beautiful sentence. Also read The Four Loves for more of his wisdom on the subject. In fact, I'd like to close this post with a wonderful quote from that particular book:
“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”--C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
 |
| The bunny in question. |
I know I'm reading way too much into this, but we all create narratives to comfort ourselves in hard times, so I think I'm only being human when I describe how meaningful it was to feel that rabbit's heartbeat relax and his nervous little body grow still, paws outstretched as if holding onto me. I wish things were that simple with humans and romance--earning another person's affection just by being myself, and treating them with love and respect, seems to be a less and less attainable goal each year. It's always so much more complicated than it needs to be.
Why does finding love require slogging waist-deep through a swamp of anxiety, ulterior motives, and miscommunication? When did honesty become so difficult, both for me and for people I've loved?
Why is being emotionally vulnerable no longer seen as a form of courage?
Why can't sex be something people earn instead of take or buy? Why can't it arise from love and trust, instead of being pressured out of people with guilt and fear? When did it become a status symbol? When did it become a substitute for love, rather than a supplement? When did we start feeling so entitled to each others' bodies?
Why do we take everything sacred, strip it of its beauty, and turn it into a commodity or a way to gain power?
When did mutual sacrifice stop mattering in relationships?
Why does asking these questions, or treating actions as if they have meaning and consequences, get a person labeled as immature, naive, or idealistic? When did acting like an adult become childish?
These are just some of the things I've been asking myself over the past few days. Other people have implied that I believe what I do about love because I'm young and female, and that I'll likely outgrow my opinions. While I can't be sure that all of these opinions won't change with years and life experience, I can say right now that what I believe about love is firmer than ever, and I can prove that it's not just a matter of age or gender with the following quote (though I have many other examples as well):
“Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.”--C.S. Lewis, God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics
C.S. Lewis, as an older man rather than a young woman, pretty much summed up exactly what I believe true love (not just mere attraction) to be in a single, beautiful sentence. Also read The Four Loves for more of his wisdom on the subject. In fact, I'd like to close this post with a wonderful quote from that particular book:
“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”--C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Addicted to Anger
I've had something on my chest for the past several months, but I've never quite found the words or the right time to say it. Today, however, I have no choice. The main reason I'm about to say this is the tragedy in Ferguson, Missouri; the relevance (and ugliness) of the situation is forcing the words out of me. A more selfish reason is that if I don't put this idea down on paper right here, right now, it will most likely spoil the taste of my turkey on Thursday. So here goes:
Anger is a dangerous drug.
In small, well-managed doses, it can do a lot of good. Those little pulses of indignation pricking your fingers as you type an angry blog post, like the snap of a lighter, can start fires of change--shedding light on problems and moving others to help fix them. But if left unchecked, this anger burns away everything in its path: progress, relationships, the ability to think and make rational judgements. It can drive otherwise sane, intelligent people mad. You can ride anger into battle, but if you don't hold on, it'll throw you off and leave you for dead.
This is old news, of course. Probably half the human race has already made this point in one way or another, in words more eloquent than anything I could express. But I say it again because in the past couple of years, I've seen this truth manifest itself in so many different layers of life that it's more vivid than ever. A group of political protesters outside my workplace waves angry signs, and the group across the street waves angry signs right back, all painted with various insults that only make the two groups more defensive. Two people try to talk on the phone, but neither can raise a concern without the other screaming at them. Instead of weighing different opinions, checking facts, and presenting an intelligent argument, a journalist winds up spewing biased, profanity-laden rage beneath a clickbait headline. Entire towns, even nations, are ravaged because some people are angry at other people.
Nothing is solved in any of those situations, because unlike tempered, controlled anger, which can streamline pathways to justice with its call to action, uncontrolled anger paralyzes. It shuts down discussions and keeps people stagnant in a pit of chaos and hate. And on top of all that, if anger is a fire, reading social media posts can feel like drinking lighter fluid (fittingly, I've heard drinking lighter fluid can make you go blind). In a world that seems designed to keep us hooked on a rage high, I'm convinced that anger management is one of the greatest skills that can ever be taught.
It won't solve the world's rage problem, but I'd still like to close this post with a proposal that we try to make this day remembered for something other than violence. If you have a quarrel with someone, try to examine and resolve it peacefully. If you've been meaning to do something kind for someone lately, do it now. Do something to broaden your perspective beyond your own tiny world. And, above all--when it comes to simple eloquence, you gotta hand it to Jesus--love your neighbor as yourself.
Anger is a dangerous drug.
In small, well-managed doses, it can do a lot of good. Those little pulses of indignation pricking your fingers as you type an angry blog post, like the snap of a lighter, can start fires of change--shedding light on problems and moving others to help fix them. But if left unchecked, this anger burns away everything in its path: progress, relationships, the ability to think and make rational judgements. It can drive otherwise sane, intelligent people mad. You can ride anger into battle, but if you don't hold on, it'll throw you off and leave you for dead.
This is old news, of course. Probably half the human race has already made this point in one way or another, in words more eloquent than anything I could express. But I say it again because in the past couple of years, I've seen this truth manifest itself in so many different layers of life that it's more vivid than ever. A group of political protesters outside my workplace waves angry signs, and the group across the street waves angry signs right back, all painted with various insults that only make the two groups more defensive. Two people try to talk on the phone, but neither can raise a concern without the other screaming at them. Instead of weighing different opinions, checking facts, and presenting an intelligent argument, a journalist winds up spewing biased, profanity-laden rage beneath a clickbait headline. Entire towns, even nations, are ravaged because some people are angry at other people.
Nothing is solved in any of those situations, because unlike tempered, controlled anger, which can streamline pathways to justice with its call to action, uncontrolled anger paralyzes. It shuts down discussions and keeps people stagnant in a pit of chaos and hate. And on top of all that, if anger is a fire, reading social media posts can feel like drinking lighter fluid (fittingly, I've heard drinking lighter fluid can make you go blind). In a world that seems designed to keep us hooked on a rage high, I'm convinced that anger management is one of the greatest skills that can ever be taught.
It won't solve the world's rage problem, but I'd still like to close this post with a proposal that we try to make this day remembered for something other than violence. If you have a quarrel with someone, try to examine and resolve it peacefully. If you've been meaning to do something kind for someone lately, do it now. Do something to broaden your perspective beyond your own tiny world. And, above all--when it comes to simple eloquence, you gotta hand it to Jesus--love your neighbor as yourself.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
One Year Later (Or: Where I've Been)
I think the reason I write, above all else, is to make myself believe things. Putting something on paper makes it more real and tangible. It becomes a thing that was actually created, no longer just a dream floating around in my head that no one else can see or feel. It's like watching a thought or sensation turn from a cloud of abstraction to a handful of substance you can squeeze or drop to the ground. Creating something other people can interact with also increases accountability and the drive to do better, at least in my experience.
This why I write about myself a lot. It's been about one year, three months since I graduated from college, and sometimes I need to go back and jot down everything I've accomplished since then, in order to convince myself that I can keep going, keep getting better. So, I apologize in advance for the amount of horn-tooting soon to follow.
The past year and a quarter hasn't been entirely glamorous. Many unflattering parts of my personality have been exposed, as if I've been playing strip poker with myself. I also accumulated six months' worth of meat and cheese on the bottoms of my shoes working at Harris Teeter. However, some of the more awesome things I've done include:
-landing a job at UNC-TV through my own hard work
-Producing my own segment for an Emmy-winning series (http://video.unctv.org/video/2365288554/)
-gaining hands-on experience directing, producing, writing, negotiating, and maintaining a website
-working at Trailblazer Studios in Raleigh
-experiencing the true meaning of Christmas (see my last Christmas post)
-getting to know the incredible city of Charlotte and some incredible people who live there
-driving on some of the most dangerous roads in North Carolina without getting killed (including roads covered in ice, water, and legions of crazed Bon Jovi fans)
-making new friends right in my hometown, one of whom is basically Jack Sparrow
-having a story published in a magazine (http://www.thricefiction.com/)
-working as a production assistant on a reality show
-discovering great places to eat, drink, and write about in my area that I didn't even know were there
-finally getting a haircut I love
-going from playing a few chords on the guitar to playing whole songs
-buying a ticket to Dragon Con
-trying venison (it was really good...sorry Bambi)
-going to a real, honest to goodness pig pickin' where we ate a whole dang pig
-seeing Ralph Stanley, Robert Randolph, Joe Pug, and Tinariwen in concert
-seeing a capybara in person
-getting a hug from Scott Myers of Go Into the Story
Maybe I can actually take all my crazy, ridiculous, dangerous dreams and hammer them into a reality someday. Stay tuned later this week for a new post with less back-patting, I promise.
This why I write about myself a lot. It's been about one year, three months since I graduated from college, and sometimes I need to go back and jot down everything I've accomplished since then, in order to convince myself that I can keep going, keep getting better. So, I apologize in advance for the amount of horn-tooting soon to follow.
The past year and a quarter hasn't been entirely glamorous. Many unflattering parts of my personality have been exposed, as if I've been playing strip poker with myself. I also accumulated six months' worth of meat and cheese on the bottoms of my shoes working at Harris Teeter. However, some of the more awesome things I've done include:
-landing a job at UNC-TV through my own hard work
-Producing my own segment for an Emmy-winning series (http://video.unctv.org/video/2365288554/)
-gaining hands-on experience directing, producing, writing, negotiating, and maintaining a website
-working at Trailblazer Studios in Raleigh
-experiencing the true meaning of Christmas (see my last Christmas post)
-getting to know the incredible city of Charlotte and some incredible people who live there
-driving on some of the most dangerous roads in North Carolina without getting killed (including roads covered in ice, water, and legions of crazed Bon Jovi fans)
-making new friends right in my hometown, one of whom is basically Jack Sparrow
-having a story published in a magazine (http://www.thricefiction.com/)
-working as a production assistant on a reality show
-discovering great places to eat, drink, and write about in my area that I didn't even know were there
-finally getting a haircut I love
-going from playing a few chords on the guitar to playing whole songs
-buying a ticket to Dragon Con
-trying venison (it was really good...sorry Bambi)
-going to a real, honest to goodness pig pickin' where we ate a whole dang pig
-seeing Ralph Stanley, Robert Randolph, Joe Pug, and Tinariwen in concert
-seeing a capybara in person
-getting a hug from Scott Myers of Go Into the Story
Maybe I can actually take all my crazy, ridiculous, dangerous dreams and hammer them into a reality someday. Stay tuned later this week for a new post with less back-patting, I promise.
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