examining absence: what i've learned so far

I was feeling sad today. I thought maybe all the feelings of gratitude from Thanksgiving left me with a hangover, the way filling yourself with alcohol leaves you dehydrated, and disappointed with the reality you wake up to. But maybe it wasn’t that. One year ago today, I was supposed to meet a friend for coffee. Just as I was about to leave the house, he texted: “I’m sorry to cancel last minute but I’m feeling terrible.” He died that night from a heart attack. He was 39. And I miss him.

Most people close to me, or who follow my posts, know that 2016 brought a series of lessons in loss. It felt like a coming of age film in fast forward. 2017 seems to be continuing the trilogy. What might be an even more painful truth than having a loved one die, is experiencing that life goes on without them. I am still having trouble making sense of the world without the people who made it make sense, if that makes sense. It feels as if it goes against hope, against love, against time itself. When a person is an intimate part of your experience of life, no matter how much or little time you actually spent with them, their absence is not an end to your journey together. Their absence is a blank canvas for you to paint all your longings, regrets, secrets, and wishes. And like any work of art worth a damn, it’s fucking painful to create.  

It’s easy to walk through life thinking you will have another chance. In rare cases, we may have that opportunity. In even rarer cases, we may actually take it. But when people around you die, it puts all of those excuses on trial. All the, “Yeah, we should get together sometimes,” and the, “I’m sorry, things have just been so crazys.” I am as guilty as anyone. My phone is a graveyard of good intentions. Text messages lingering awkwardly by the snack table. Looking back, there are so many situations I would do-over in a heartbeat. But it begs the question, for whom?

If the person is no longer here, but I knew I had been kind, or gone out of my way to spend time, what difference would it make? Surely no difference to them, wherever they are, if anywhere at all. So then, is it really about them, or is it about me? Maybe regret is just a way to make sense of the crater our loved ones left behind, and how gravity isn’t the same without them. It’s an alluring idea, that we may have found relief in a parallel universe where we’d called back, or said I love you one last time. But more likely it’s that the pain is all too much. My heart crumbles in the vacuum of their absence, and my regrets eventually dissolve with the realization that it’s supposed to hurt, and the hurt is how much I love them.

This circuitous route to self-acceptance is one I travel often, and I don’t always reach the finish line. Forgiveness can be a wild beast. I have spent days replaying an exchange with my dad, as if through some loophole of modern physics I could change history with my mind. That by rejecting myself, I can somehow even the score.

I may not be able to change history, but I can change how history changes me. Does it make me kinder and more accepting? Or does it make me closed and more judgmental? It’s a fight. Perhaps one of the few worth putting it all on the line for. One of the few where surrendering isn’t defeat.   

One thing I can say about my journey so far is that I am definitely more affected. I don’t know if that’s the right word for it. I mean I am more easily moved. The same way someone who has never skied can’t appreciate a bluebird day, someone who hasn’t experienced loss can’t truly understand the space it occupies in your heart. I cry more. I hurt more. I laugh more, at least the real, deep, belly ones. I am more comfortable in the pain, and I roll up my sleeves instead of running away. I’ve lost the innocence that accompanies endless summers and bottomless sodas. I know now that everything comes to an end, and too much of anything is probably bad for you. With one exception: the ability to love and have compassion for this curious journey called being human.

worn threads

It’s been nearly five years since I last laid eyes on it, and yesterday, I had the unique opportunity to wear my BSG costume. Not a replica, not a spare, THE costume I wore on the show. It still carried the correct insignia and was covered in fake dirt, but it had the slight scent of something that had been sitting in a box for months. When I was approached with the idea of dressing up at New York Comic-con, I was thrilled and thought it would be a great gag. What I wasn’t prepared for was the landslide of thoughts and emotions that accompanied the simple act of putting on an outfit. At first it was surreal, seeing my name—Cally’s name—written on the tags of my tank tops, just like my neatly labeled gym clothes in elementary school. When I emerged from the ladies room in full garb, like a little girl playing dress up in her mother’s clothes, I couldn’t help but feel a little exposed and out of place. Ironically, a sci-fi convention is the last place to not fit in playing a character from a show, but I knew I didn’t have the same intent as the cosplayers around me. So what was my intent? Initially, it was simple: have fun, interact with people at the convention, and play with whether people would recognize me or not. Within a few minutes of walking around, that objective was met with ease. I even got asked to do an interview about cosplay, which I gracefully declined.

For the show I’m hosting now (more on that later), we filmed a few shots of me getting into character. I saluted and stood stiffly at attention. The memories bubbled up like a hot spring, and along with those memories came a certain pride and recognition of what it meant to be wearing that uniform. It suddenly felt like so much more than just playing dress up. I was representing my character, who she is and was, and I was representing a whole show, a whole piece of history that has impacted people’s lives far and wide. Suddenly there was a certain sacredness and responsibility to wearing my “greens,” dog tags and all. Not one person (that I know of) recognized me as Cally. I was first addressed as Starbuck, which I quickly corrected. I was later complimented on my cosplay and high-fived by fellow BSG’ers.

I mean, I am the first one to admit my highlights and pixie cut provide quite a contrast to the worn fatigues, but I can’t say I wasn’t a little surprised. I haven’t changed THAT much! But the reactions of people when I told them I was actually Cally were priceless. I wish I could communicate the expression on people’s faces. In those moments, the walls that normally separate people seemed to crumble, and all that was left was an appreciation for a story that helped us all connect more deeply to what it means to be human. I might be biased, but I experience a solidarity amongst Battlestar fans, that perhaps extends to sci-fi in general, and is palpable in their desire to express their fandom. Whether it’s in words, in dress, in art, or collections, the Battlestar family is tried and true. Just ask Edward James Olmos, Richard Hatch, or anyone else from the show.

As human beings (even dressed as cylons or storm troopers), all we have are our experiences, and the meaning we ascribe to what matters to us. Wearing a dirty costume may not seem like much, but it presented me an opportunity to reflect on the importance of holding things sacred in my life. My experiences on Battlestar, and all the ones that have come as a result, are truly precious to me. They represent many things: a time of growth, challenge, success, failure, family, expression and introspection. And while I may not always realize it in the moment, my honoring of those things through material and immaterial representations, can be as important as the experiences themselves. I feel like I'm beginning to have an understanding of the appeal of cosplay, of dressing up like a character and learning to appreciate their world, even if it’s only in spirit. Because in the end, our spirit is what carries us through.

here + then

Sometimes searching for an answer is all you have to stop, in order to find one. Sometimes letting go is the only way to have what you really want. Sometimes cliches are true, sometimes they’re cheesy, often they’re both. But words aren’t nearly as powerful as the moments that breed them. The silence between breaths that catches the glint off a soda can on the side of the highway. The light that multiplies as the world sets behind a water glass. I’m not sure if anything really ever changes, but I’m sure nothing ever stays the same. I often find myself comparing the present to the past, or rather an idea in my head I call the past, a fabrication of my current state in colors and shapes. My future self shakes her head, fighting for predictability, crying for vulnerability. Symbiotically, there’s solace in the word, comfort in being heard, freedom in every step toward a brighter unknown.

going home this year

Today I flew home from being home. I know, it’s confusing sometimes. Home is where the heart is. Make yourself at home. Home, Sweet, Home. Home is whenever I’m with you. Such a simple, benign, yet loaded word. When I was young, it was common sense that home was the  house where I lived—it was the place where my mom tucked me in at night, where I spent sick days watching tv on the couch, where my friends would come over to play, and where there was an infinite supply of toilet paper and Alpha-Bits cereal. Now, it’s not so simple. On nights when I explain where I’m going after a movie, it may mean the place I sleep and keep my stuff, but when I’m asked if I’m going home for Christmas, or “Where’s home?” it’s not so black or white. Today I walked through the Chicago airport, my flight delayed and running on empty, and felt this strange feeling, the kind that occurs when you mix black and white together, turning it into an unidentifiable shade of grey. I felt sad to be leaving home, but at the same time excited to be going home. My awareness sparked another color to enter the mix, a bright and joyful color. I realized that whether I’m in one city or another, one house or another, with family or not, the only consistent thing is me. If it’s familiarity that matters, then certainly the Chicago airport should feel more like home than some of the places I’ve lived, but I really don’t think “home” is a place in the traditional sense. It’s a state of being. It’s a feeling of comfort, of presence, and a complete acceptance of where you are in that moment in time—literally and figuratively.

In the end, it’s much less work to focus on building your internal home than trying to control everything outside, travel long distances, or buy lots of material things, just to get that feeling. Certainly places can inspire nostalgia or make living more comfortable, but if we practice being present and excited about where we are, then why can’t the whole world feel like home? Instead of setting a resolution that’s based on getting a result this year, I’m going to start building the biggest home in the world—so big it encompasses the entire planet (and maybe beyond!), yet is entirely invisible. A home where every person on Earth is welcome, and no room is off limits. A home where the only keys I need are an open mind and an open heart, and an open-door policy for new experiences. That way I’ll never have to worry about whether I’m leaving home or coming home, but simply being.

the gift of giving

I was surrounded. Freckle-faced, fidgety and uncomfortable in their frilly dresses, they stared with the focus of a predator before attack. I smiled cautiously and sighed in appropriate measure. And for a few seconds, I stared right back, after a not-so-subtle nod from my mother, and said “thank you.” And giggled. When I was a kid, I really didn’t like getting presents. Not because of some innate monk-like tendencies leading me to renounce the world and its material offerings. No, I loved getting shit! Who doesn’t love getting shit? To my still-forming kid brain it meant I was loved and special and deserving of all the wonderful goodies the modern world has to offer. I was just like any other first world brat in that way. But I also happened to be very picky and, let’s say, “specific” about what I liked. My mom might call that an understatement, but she’s not writing this. To the untrained eye (any grown-up), the line between what was cool and acceptable and what was a severe threat to my miniature self-image was a fine one—one oft misunderstood or just flat-out disregarded by others. But that’s not the problem per se. In fact, think it’s very good to know what you like.

The problem was being taught that in order to be “good,” one had to be polite, appreciative, grateful, nice. Okay, still not that big of a deal. I was a really sweet kid despite my temper tantrums when the peas touched the creamed corn. The problem was *drum roll please* that I was also taught to be honest. What? Who? How? Ah! I would say 80% of the gifts I got from other kids (ie. their parents) and relatives (sorry) were total bullshit. Which isn’t to say I wasn’t grateful. I really did appreciate the gesture and I really, really wanted to like them. But what can I say? I wasn’t into Barbies or books about babysitters. And yes, I liked socks, but they had to be the slouchy kind, and bonus points for neon. Parents don’t realize how important these distinctions are. They can mean the difference between being able to trade fruit roll-ups at lunch and having the sticky wrapper of one stuck to the side of your frizzy bangs.

Life is just less fun being not cool, so why make it harder on yourself? But I digress. I knew what I liked. I knew what I thought was “cool.” And when someone gave me a gift that didn’t fit the bill, I had a major existential crisis. Wow, you must be thinking, way to be dramatic about something that’s not that big of a deal. Just smile, say thanks, and give it to your cousin on her next birthday. And yes, that would make sense, but I just wasn’t that kind of kid. I took things very seriously. I took them to heart. I felt both hurt by people’s inability to see that I had my own unique wants and desires, and paralyzed by my inability to be honest with people and say, “Well, while I don’t like your gift, it’s okay, because I still love you as a person and very much the time and effort you put into buying it.” (By the way, my eight-year-old self speaks like an after-school-special pep talk, always.)

So now that we’ve established I was an intense kid who spent too much time worrying and not enough time getting play-dough under her fingernails, I want to switch gears a little bit. I was contemplating the act of giving the other day as I unwrapped a gift that ignited a similar slightly minor ethical dilemma. Without going into details, it was simply a product I wouldn’t buy for ethical reasons. But as I thought more about the nature of giving, I realized that receiving a gift is SO not about me at all. Giving is about the “giving” (duh). I had had it all backwards. As kids (and grown-ups) often do, I thought it was all about me, and like some sort of circus monkey, I was meant to perform the appropriate “gift-getting” ritual so as to please my humble subjects. But the reality is they already got their show. They got it through the whole process of thinking about the gift, buying or making the gift, imagining how great it is and how the person will love it. At the end of the day, if the person happens to love it, it’s just icing on the cake. The actual handing over of the gift is the final putt two inches from the hole; the joy is playing the game.

high-five yourself!

I was feeling inexplicably joyful as I walked to my seat down my first flight’s narrow aisle, trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible. Call it a habit, a good deed, an impulse, when I’m in a good mood, I like to share it. But before I reached my seat, something caught my attention. There was a person a few rows ahead pulling at her cuffs, fixing her bracelet, shrugging her sweater into place and brushing her hair back just like my friend Esther. Her yellow hair was so similar, and yet I had said goodbye to her the night before with full knowledge that she was leaving on an early flight the next morning and I wouldn’t see her again until the middle of next week. Yet the resemblance was uncanny. I waited. Hoped. And when she looked up and I saw it was her, a rush of excitement charged through my body. An EEG machine probably would have registered Christmas I was so excited! I felt like I had the funniest joke to tell and lacked the patience or self-control to spit it out in any articulate manner. I yelled her name and awaited her shock and excitement. It was there, but nowhere near mine. But then, I actually said, out loud, in front of a plane full of bored and indifferent passengers, “This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me!” As the words formed and eventually made their way through my vocal chords and out my mouth, even before I uttered the first sound, I was well aware that this was not, in fact, the best thing that had ever happened to me. Not really even close. But I decided to go with it because, quite honestly, who’s counting? In that moment, in a crowded airplane aisle full of strangers and reluctant travellers anticipating an uneventful and lonely journey, seeing the smiling face of one of my favorite people was the best!

I can’t help but think that in the end, all moments can be this awesome. Why judge and compare, or create hierarchies of awesomeness? All we have and all we know is what is happening right now, so why not let this very moment be the greatest thing that’s ever happened? Seriously, reading this, right now, is the greatest! Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Just enjoy it, no one else cares. So go high-five yourself and have an awesome day!

Editor's note: my friend slept the entire way and we barely talked on the other end, but I'm still smiling about it.

love in the time of villa carlotta

Most of the time nostalgia waltzes in of its own accord, like a sizzling waft of the neighbor’s barbecue, but sometimes I get this curious itch to seek out a particular time from my past. I’m not sure “time” is the right word. It’s usually an object, a song, a place or a person, but it brings me back to a particular time and, more importantly, a particular feeling. By no means am I one to dwell in the past, but I think revisiting these feelings is important. It’s easy to surround ourselves with certain situations and get lost in familiar patterns, sometimes losing sight of what got us there along the way. The memories might be painful, joyous, sad or exciting, but they are part of us nonetheless. Accessing those experiences is, I believe, a way to keep ourselves connected to all the different facets of ourselves and deepen our wisdom. This morning I saw a link on twitter to a celebrity’s favorite old building in Hollywood. Immediately I got a little excited hoping it was the same as my favorite building, the one I resided in for the better half of 2006: the Villa Carlotta. Alas, Moby’s favorite building is the 7th Day Adventist Church, but at this point my synapses had started firing and they weren’t about to stop. A flood of memories came rushing into my brain. The incredibly serendipitous way I got the apartment in the first place (people have been on the waiting list for years to get a spot) and the fact that I leased it from one of the celebrity carpenters on Trading Spaces, so it had all the latest appliances and was pretty nicely furnished. I began to wonder if there are still tiny bb pellets in the cracks of the aging floorboards. I had a birthday party where I was generously gifted my very own bb machine gun. The night started off innocently enough, with tentative and willing victims standing far from their shooter, and getting carefully pelted with equal parts pain and excitement. As the night wore on, however, let’s just say “don’t try this at home kids!”

When I moved in, the previous tenant (a cool young German writer who I became friends with and was working for Michael Bay, I wonder what he’s up to…) warned me about the neighbor below being a grumpy old curmudgeon who complained about stomping and too much noise. So before I had aforementioned birthday party, I slid a little card under his door warning him of the event and letting him know to call me if anything bothered him; basically an advanced apology. Even before the night came, he wrote me a note thanking me for my gesture and encouraging me to enjoy my party. From that experience, I learned that most of the time, grumpy old curmudgeons just want to feel considered and treated like human beings; and for the most part, there’s no such thing as grumpy old curmudgeons, just lonely people who want to feel cared for and considered.

I had heard rumours about the building being haunted, and certainly if there ever was a setting for a classic ghost story flick, this was the perfect place. There were odd noises, flickering lights and the decor likely hasn’t changed since it was built; added to maybe, but never redone. I’ve always felt a little nervous in new places I’ve lived for the first couple nights. I think there’s a natural reaction to unfamiliarity that breeds thoughts like, someone's breaking in my door!?! You need to acclimatize your brain to the noises and ambience so it doesn't trigger your fight or flight. Having said that, during my first few nights at the Villa Carlotta I had some pretty, I don’t know what to call them, “spiritual” experiences? I don’t know if I believe in ghosts or simply the power of the human brain to generate whole body sensory experiences, but I woke up (or at least entered that weird in between waking and sleep state) completely paralyzed. I couldn’t move. I felt petrified, and I became aware of another presence in the room, or what my mind perceived as such. The thoughts I had were in the vein of, “I need to show them I’m not afraid. I need to face this on my own. I need to make peace and they’ll leave me alone.” I immediately vowed not to have any overnight visitors (that lasted a little while) and face these demons on my own. Whether they were my own demons or those haunting the Villa Carlotta, I’ll never know, but it was a really intense experience, and made me ever the more fond of the place.

Another thing that made the building unique was the manager, Tom. He was incredibly friendly, jovial, mostly drunk, and would stop at nothing to give you a hard time (all in the name of humor, of course). I bond well with characters like this, so we hit it off immediately. I also paid my rent on time, so we were in good shape. I had numerous interactions with him during my stay there, but my favorite one was when he called me out of the blue months after I’d moved back to Vancouver. When I saw his number come up, I couldn’t even guess what he’d wanted. For some reason I decided not to pick up, but later I got this rambling message about how I hadn’t paid my rent on time and that he was upset with me and he wasn’t sure what to do, etc. I immediately called the guy I had leased it from, fearing that somehow they didn’t know I moved out and that some big misunderstanding had taken place, but he immediately burst into laughter and said, “He’s just drunk and fucking with you.” I was totally shocked. Not that it’s not completely in line with my sense of humor, but it was so random and out of the blue. I loved Tom a little more after that.

Living at the Villa Carlotta also amounted to many nights spent eating pasta and talking about poetry at La Poubelle, drinking coffee and "working” on my laptop at the Bourgeois Pig, spending whatever savings I didn’t have on used books from Counterpoint, waking up at 7 a.m. to move my car on street cleaning days (or getting tickets, I alternated), getting a constant view of the bustling and mysterious Scientology Celebrity Center, and being part of a small and eclectic scene of young actors, artists, musicians and writers. I used to be at parties with Katy Perry, who was working hard on some demo, I heard she had a good voice. Same goes for others, both previously unknown, still unknown, once known or flat-out famous. It didn’t really matter though, we were all just trying to make sense of our lives. Find meaning in books about philosophy, art and history and try to find a sense of place in a city that seemed to feed off superficiality and satiation. As you can tell, my nostalgia for the time is rich with fond and happy memories and laced with some of my richest moments of existential angst. I treasure all of them, and find it pretty frickin’ cool that I got to be part of a history that lives on not only in my mind, but in all the people and stories that weaved themselves in and out of that building.

bad news bears

Word of advice: decide within your family (ahead of time) what constitutes "bad news." My mom called me today while I was working at a friend's house. I answered the second time. It's unusual for her to call during the day since she's a teacher and typically gives me shit for making her look bad when her phone rings in class. I asked if it was lunch time and she sort of mumbled. There was something a bit off in her tone - either she was waiting to tell me something I didn't want to hear or she was having a momentary lapse in sanity and thought I was five years old again. I asked if everything was okay and she said no.

I don't remember if it was her who suggested it or me, but I said I'd call her when I got home; I only had a few things to finish up and didn't live too far. I told myself I was fine. And I was, except for the feelings that rose like smoke signal from my gut. I couldn't help it. I imagined what I was going to do when she told me something had happened to my dad. Who would I call? Where would I go? Would I get on a plane? Could I finish my work? I imagined how hard I would cry and my vision immediately blurred. But wait, they don't even speak, how would she know if something happened to him? The last time he was in the hospital, they called me directly. So was it my brother? He recently dislocated his shoulder, maybe he'd injured himself again. Oh god. I think of all the tough things I can handle in life, something happening to my brother just isn't among them. So my fears got the best of my brain and stopped those synapses in their tracks. Maybe it was my cousin. But why wouldn't she just tell me? I tried to snap out of it. I told myself to enjoy these last few moments of ignorance. The sky was beautiful, the trees were reflecting light off their melting branches. But just as soon as I would take a deep breath, another smoke signal would set off and collect like a fog in my mind. I tried to find a cheery song on the radio. It only made me want to push John Mayer down some stairs.

I started dialing before I even got up my steps, timing it so I had just enough time to open the door and take off my boots before I'd hear the news... It was Leeloo, my cat. I started to laugh and cry at the same time. I couldn't tell if I was actually feeling anything for poor Leeloo because I was so relieved I wouldn't be attending any funerals in the near future. Leeloo has pretty much been my mom's cat for the last seven years, so it's no surprise she'd project great upset at her loss. The darn thing barely said hello to me when I'd visit, yet she slept on my mom's head every night. I'll miss her though, most especially next time I go home to visit and won't see her hopping sideways down the stairs to greet me.

Still, as I mourn the loss of my little friend, and feel for my mom as she adapts to a quieter household, I learned something very valuable today: We are f-ing crazy, and it's always better to know the truth than to entertain our fear-fueled fantasies. To be honest, I remember thinking of it as a small challenge when she said she had bad news. I pretty much always want to know things right away - I want to open presents before Christmas, I want to know what people are saying when they're whispering, I just like to know. So I thought I was doing the responsible thing. And maybe I was. It's just so fascinating how our  fears can so quickly take over when we think something's wrong. How from one moment to the next, the slightest hint of vulnerability can turn the world into a scary place. I don't know, maybe I'm too dramatic, maybe it's an actor thing, or maybe I'm actually really lucky to have had the opportunity to feel those things without them happening in real life. Maybe if we used our minds to build compassion that way, it wouldn't be so scary when it actually happened. Maybe, just maybe, we'd even make better decisions in the present.

I don't know, it's just a thought, but I think I'll go call my dad and my brother now.

Happy Valentine's Day Mom!

This may seem strange, but my fondest memories associated with Valentine's Day are the treats and cards my mom used to give me on this otherwise benign and commercial holiday. She'd send me to school with a brown paper bag filled with goodies like chocolate covered almonds (my favorite) and a hand-written post-it note. I guess she never really stopped, just this morning she sent me a text saying "Good morning angel...happy valentine's day! I love you to the sky...lynda says hi:-*" (Lynda is her long-time friend visiting from out of town.) My mom is a really loving and caring person and has always made holidays a special occasion worth celebrating. So while I don't really buy into the greeting card mania or obligatory celebrations, I'm happy my mom made these days a little extra special, especially because now they make me think of her and how proud I am to be her daughter. Happy Valentine's Day Mom!!!

Gates as the Gateway to the Soul

“What is art?”  Anyone who’s ever strolled through a contemporary art gallery, witnessed a magnificent sunset, or stood in smiling awe over a child’s first painting has surely asked this question.  Some go to such lengths as writing books or dissertations, teaching courses or giving lectures, but in the end, in my humble opinion, it's beside the point.  I like to think of art as the expression of living – unique and personal to every individual.  Art can be found in the way we eat, the way we walk, the way we sign our names.  Of course, just because something is called art doesn’t mean it is valued as art, that’s a whole other story.  What makes art valuable is beyond my ability to comprehend, and beyond the level of mind boggling-ness I’m willing to withstand. In certain ways I’ve endured a love/hate relationship with art.  I love the idea of it: the creative expression of an experience, an idea, a feeling, and the mastery of a skill for the sole purpose of human expression.  However, my logical mind gets the best of me at times.  Walking through an exhibit at the Tate Modern Gallery in London, my focus was abruptly drawn from my internal spinning color wheel of death (mac users, you know what i’m talking about) by my friend’s gentle voice saying, “Are you alright?  You don’t look so good.”  I was pale.  No matter how hard I tried, I didn’t get it.  I couldn’t get it, because there was nothing “to get.”  This is a hard concept for someone who likes to understand everything, or at least feel like she does.  My friend, an art school graduate, successfully quelled some of my discomfort by teaching me about the movements that inspired the work and their reactionary roots.  I felt better knowing there was some logical basis for its creation, even if I didn’t know what it was, or if it was even true.  Still, I recognize this as a limitation.  Art is about the experience, about feeling, about connection, about seeing oneself in the creation of another.  It’s not about understanding or knowing why.

Last night I watched a beautiful documentary on two convicted and passionate artists who challenged me to revive my inner artist and accept it for what it is: an experience of awe and magnificence.  Christo and Jeanne-Claude are famously known for their controversial works around the world: the umbrellas (in California and Japan 1984-91), wrapped trees (in Switzerland 1997-98), and Pont Neuf wrapped (in Paris 1975-85), to name a few.  They take no money from sponsorships or donations, each (expensive) project is funded completely by the private sale of Christo’s preliminary paintings and sketches of the project to be, as well as previous paintings and works of art.  Their passion has no rational, no explanation, simply that they want to make it.  And they want to make it so badly that the project that was the subject of the documentary spanned nearly 30 years.

The film itself contained incredible 16mm footage of interviews with New York City officials in the 1970’s, meetings with angry citizens, and many a convicted opposition.  Next to Christo’s broken English and bumbling professor-like nature, the opposing arguments felt violent, irrational, and even mean.  Each person’s vested interests were illuminated and exposed (including the artists themselves), often appearing absurd in the face of the simple and undeniable beauty of the proposed project.  What amazed me most, and what still gives me a chuckle when I think about it, is this statement from one of the artists:

"I have unstoppable urge to do this project. The absolutely irrational, irresponsible, with not any justification.  This project is happening only because the artist likes to have them."

And why not?  The installation was up for two weeks, despite the public's pleas for a longer run, and all the materials were recycled, the park left just the way it was before - though perhaps never to be experienced the same way for those who witnessed The Gates.

I personally wasn’t witness to the event in New York City in 2005, but the film presented half an hour of (cut from an apparent 350 hours of footage) of the event.  Children laughed and played, some called it a big worm.  Tourists took photos, described their joy.  Runners and cyclists completed their usual routines, through the glorious gates.  From the myriad points of view, I got a sense of what it was like; I felt feelings of magnificence and wonder, the kind that art is made to conjure.  Beyond my better judgment, I was deeply moved by the orange colored steel gates with fabric flapping in the wind, the gates with no purpose but to exist, no meaning beyond the vision and perseverance of two human beings.

If you want to read more about the controversy surrounding their creation, here are some articles:

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2005/02/11/60minutes/main673489.shtml

http://www.nytimes.com/ref/arts/design/GATES-REF.html

http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/christo.html

If you want to find out more about the documentary filmmaker Antonio Ferrera, check him out here:

http://www.ferrerafilms.com/

a flower is worth a 1000 words

I wrote this in the summertime and for some reason never shared it.  But I’d like to share it now: i arrived at my car today to find two little pink flowers pressed delicately into my driver’s side window.  with surprise and curiosity i instinctively searched the empty parking lot for a giggling onlooker.  there was none.  as i casually placed the flowers on my dashboard, i made an index in my head of all the possible culprits, filtering for the most likely... and the most desirable.  as i scanned my brain for potential perpetrators, i realized i may be missing the point: someone in my life thought enough about me in a single moment to pick a flower and place it in my sight, for me to smile and reflect upon.  presumably, he or she imagined what i would experience upon such an encounter and was generous enough to want create that experience for me.  i was uniquely moved by this anonymous act of caring; as well i enjoyed my own projection of being the one to carry out such a covert operation.  whether the person did it impulsively, strategically or by accident (my care is pretty generic), i am grateful for the thoughts and feelings it inspired.  i began to reflect on what it means to ben in someone’s life, in his or her experience of existence.  it is quite an honor and should be treasured as such.  we are momentously more potent than we believe or could even begin to understand; and in those moments of awe and connection, we have an opportunity to create a better world.  i suppose i wanted to share to emphasize the importance of every choice we make, anonymous or otherwise, and how awareness can be infectious if we only took the time.  after all, how we treat others is the way we treat ourselves and since ultimately we’re all we have, why not be nice?

i heart flight of the conchords

i can't get over this song, i think it's so funny...  and sooo true... [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNGtY_gQiwo&annotation_id=annotation_319&feature=iv]