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    <title>Rendered Speechless</title>
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    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011-09-15://1</id>
    <updated>2012-02-13T10:26:16Z</updated>
    <subtitle>Blogging my way back to a three-dimensional life</subtitle>
    <generator uri="http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/">Movable Type 4.37</generator>

<entry>
    <title>Kodachrome</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2012/02/kodachrome.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2012://1.113</id>

    <published>2012-02-13T10:14:00Z</published>
    <updated>2012-02-13T10:26:16Z</updated>

    <summary>This isn&apos;t about Kodak. It&apos;s about music, and a dream, and the end of something really important.I didn&apos;t think I&apos;d be posting something again so soon, even though I&apos;ve been saving this one for some time. I didn&apos;t know what...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Dreams" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
        <category term="Sixth Sense" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    <category term="dream" label="Dream" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    
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        <![CDATA[This isn't about Kodak. It's about music, and a dream, and the end of something really important.<br /><br />I didn't think I'd be posting something again so soon, even though I've been saving this one for some time. I didn't know what I was saving it for exactly, it just seemed like as soon as I made the decision to write it, I couldn't make the connection. But now I know that if I don't write it today, I may never write it at all, and now suddenly that connection is there. Probably for the last time.<br /><br />I have Paul's camera.<br /><br />When I went to Oklahoma for his funeral, I borrowed my dad's car to get around town that week. The day I met my mom at the church to meet with the minister, I was already on the road when I decided to search for a radio station. I went through a few of them before I hit on one that was playing music from the 70s and 80s. Specifically, they were playing "Rosanna" by Toto. That song was a big deal to me when it came out in 1982. I LOVED it. It came out right about the time everything was drastically changing in my life -- I had moved six hours away, my dad was getting married again. And for some reason I heard that song every time I came back to visit him that year, so when I hear it today, it brings back a ton of really important memories and very vivid emotions. It's still a big deal. It reminds me of going home, at a time when I needed to go home the most.<br /><br />When I heard it that day, I felt body slammed. Nothing had affected me like that before, not even that song. I didn't know what was going on. Not until the next song came on, and then it was unmistakably clear.<br /><br /><i>Just remember I love you, and it'll be alright<br />Just remember I love you, more than I can say<br /></i><br />I lost it. I lost it all the way to the church. It was Paul. And I've been connected to him that way ever since.<br /><br />He loved to talk to me about music. He loved Pink Floyd and The Eagles and all kinds of bands. I started taking piano lessons last March, and he started the same soon after. And now he was gone, and using music to communicate with me.<br /><br />When I came back home after the funeral, the first thing I did was find a similar station here. And I've been listening to it ever since. I even changed my alarm from obnoxious beep to radio. Anything to hear him say something, anything, if he had anything to say.<br /><br />It's amazing how much you can tell someone just using Eagles songs. They were his favorite band. But he hasn't limited himself to that.<br /><br />One Saturday not long after the funeral, my mom and I were talking on the phone about Paul's camera, among other things. She had given it to him for Christmas a few years earlier. I was there when he opened that present and I have to say, I was pretty impressed. It's a Nikon D60 and it even came with a telephoto lens. She told me she wanted me to have it, because it was another interest we had shared. But she couldn't give it to me because his son had taken it, along with a lot of other things he took without telling her, while he had stayed with her at her house right after Paul died. Things she didn't know were missing until after the funeral, after he had gone home. But that was something she had given Paul as a gift, and in my family, the gift giver gets first choice when things start getting divided up. <br /><br />One of the other things we talked about that day was the movie <i>Ghost.</i> After death communication. We were sort of joking around about it and sort of not joking. We weren't sure what we were getting into but we already knew that this death experience was going to be different. At least I knew. I had lost all four of my grandparents long before and it was already very different than anything I had ever felt in my life.<br /><br />That was the day I realized that Paul was listening to our conversations. Because after I hung up the phone, I got in the car to go get something to eat, and before I got out of the apartment parking lot, "Kodachrome" came on.<br /><br /><i>I got a Nikon camera<br />I love to take a photograph<br />So mama don't take my Kodachrome away<br /></i><br /><i></i>I laughed out loud. I really did. That was totally his sense of humor, teasing me about taking his camera away. Like he could still use it! But what came on right after that song really blew me away. It was "Unchained Melody" by The Righteous Brothers. You know, THE song from <i>Ghost.</i><br /><br />As soon as I got home I called my mom again and told her he was listening to our conversations.<br /><br />Since then she has gotten the camera back and given it to me. And he has kept talking to me. He uses Eagles songs a lot, but not exclusively. There have been days when I have been really high strung and stressed out and I would get in the car to go to lunch, and "Take It Easy" would come on. One day they played "Hotel California," and the DJ even said it was dedicated to Amy. He always thought it was really cool that I followed my dream and moved out here.<br /><br />He's even used music to tease me. I have a friend at work who is quite a bit younger than me, and we go out and eat wings every week. He and I have been doing this for probably a year now, or close to it. And at least twice upon leaving the Wingstop and getting into my car, right after Paul died, I turned on the radio and heard "Mrs. Robinson." <br /><br />Very funny, Paul.<br /><br />One time he was trying to tell me something very serious, and I didn't get it for a long time. I went through a few weeks right after he died trying to figure out if there was more to his decision beyond just his health issues. Something else in his life? His relationship with my mom? I really wasn't sure. And all through that time I kept hearing "Margaritaville." I know this is going to make me extremely unpopular with a lot of people, but I can't stand Jimmy Buffet. I just can't. That song came on so many times right after Paul died, I actually thought he was doing it to tease me. I heard it ALL THE TIME for weeks. That damn song was playing almost every time I got in the car. I kept saying, "Paul, why do you let them keep playing that song when you know I hate it? Why? WHY???"<br /><br />And then one day I heard the words, I really heard them, and I felt like such an idiot. It was SO OBVIOUS.<br /><br /><i>Some people say that there's a woman to blame, but I know<br />It's my own damn fault<br /></i><br />I was in the CVS parking lot and I remember yelling, "I get it! I get it! God I'm such an IDIOT!" And I think I've heard the song maybe twice since then. In about six months.<br /><br />But whenever I wondered if he was around, or just needed to know he was still looking out for me, I would hear "Kodachrome." That's my favorite. One night I was lying in bed wondering what he was up to, if he was still around. And the thought occurred to me that it would be cool if he sent me that song to let me know. Sure enough, I heard it when I went out for lunch the next day.<br /><br />And I heard it again right before Christmas. I had just cleaned my house and when I dusted my radio, I screwed up the volume without knowing it. So my alarm went off the next morning and I never heard it. But I still woke up on time, and since I'm not a morning person (understatement worthy of its own entry), that's a miracle. I realized what had happened pretty quickly and readjusted the radio. And you know what was on? "Kodachrome."<br /><br />Right after Christmas I got a really bad cold. I took a day off from work. The day after that, I was lying in bed feeling not any better at all, trying to decide if I should try to go in. Then the alarm went off, and "Take It Easy" was playing. The Eagles again. I said, "Okay, Paul, I'll stay home. Thank you!" And I did.<br /><br />You might be wondering how I know the difference between just a song on the radio, and a song from him. It's hard to explain. It just seems to get my attention at just the right time when I need to hear it. Just the right words. It gets my attention in a way that the others don't, as if I somehow know I'm supposed to listen more closely at that moment. I can't really explain it any other way.<br /><br />About a month ago, I had a very vivid dream about him and that camera. There were two clear messages in that dream. One I had already suspected but wasn't sure of, and the other I was sure of, but I dismissed the urgency of it because I didn't want to believe it. It was a visually beautiful dream, like all the dreams I've had of him. He brings me some awesome scenery, because he knows I like to take pictures.<br /><br />This time I was living in a house with him and my mom. Not a house I've ever really seen before. Paul was there somewhere but he was someone I couldn't figure out -- one minute I felt like he was right there, alive. The next, he was there, but not for much longer. And the next, he wasn't there at all. My mom was there for sure and she was walking with a cane and limping. There was a distinct feeling that we didn't have much time left. None of us did. Like we were all going to die, except I remember thinking of death and how I suddenly wasn't scared of it. I just didn't understand it the same way anymore, so I couldn't be scared of it. And yet, the urgency was there. Time was running out. <br /><br />My bedroom had my old doll house at the head of the bed and a glass wall on the opposite side of the room. And out that window was a view of whatever town we were in. But it was completely destroyed, like from an earthquake. Debris everywhere, gray and lifeless. But just beyond the mess, in the yellow haze, was a carnival. I could see the top of the swings catching the sunlight in the distance.<br /><br />I had to grab that camera and take pictures of this. So I grabbed it and ran out there. First I took pictures of the destruction. Then I got beyond it and found the carnival. I wore the camera around my neck, and I went around taking pictures of the rides in the gleaming sunlight. But every once in a while I would look down and find the camera missing. Then suddenly, it was there again. Then I'd move to the next ride, and it was missing. Then I would find it. This kept happening until I got to the last place I wanted to take a picture, and it was gone. I didn't even remember picking it up to take a picture the last time. It had just disappeared from around my neck and I knew I wasn't going to find it again.<br /><br />I was devastated. I went back home, thinking there was no way I could tell my mom I had lost that camera. I went face down on the bed, trying to figure out a way to break it to her. Then I turned my head to the left, and I saw it on the floor next to the bed. And Mom was standing at the head of my bed, next to the doll house. She said, "Paul wanted you to have that camera, as a reward for following your heart."<br /><br />I had this dream on January 15th. I wanted to write about it immediately, and as soon as I made the decision to do it, it was as if I had lost the connection I needed to get the words down. I haven't been able to do it until now. I wanted to write about "Kodachrome" in particular, and the camera, but wasn't sure I should. And right about when I was thinking that, I woke up one morning and heard Elton John singing, "And you can tell everybody this is your song." I knew what that meant, but I still didn't feel the connection strongly enough to do it. I've felt like that ever since, like he was still here, somewhere, but not so close. Not close enough. I assumed he was spending more time with my mom, or his family, because they probably needed him more.<br /><br />Today, I got a message from my gifted friend back home that Paul had come to her in a dream last night and told her that he wasn't going to be here for much longer, that he was at peace and he was ready to move on. <br /><br />I wish my dreams were that clear. I get visual metaphors. She gets conversations. But then again, I don't sleep all that well.<br /><br />At my mom's request, I copied my friend's message into an email and sent it to her. When I did that, I turned on the radio. And I listened to "Peaceful Easy Feeling" while I wrote the message. That's when I knew it was true, and I really lost it. And I haven't really recovered.<br /><br />I always knew this day was coming, and I always knew it would be exactly like it turned out to be. I've been a mess all day. It's like I'm losing him for the first time. I can't talk about it out loud without getting emotional. I grabbed the camera and went to the beach today, and I talked to him all the way there and all the way back. I took lots of pictures of waves. It was cloudy and about 50 degrees. The surf was rough and I got slammed trying to run from it. I walked a mile back to my car soaking wet all up the backs of my legs. But I had to go out and spend a day with him, somehow, "make the best of it" as he would say, while I still had the chance. While he could still hear me.<br /><br />He was the first person I ever climbed down those stairs with to the beach below. Labor Day weekend, 2009. Come to think of it, there's only one other person I've ever taken down there with me. Usually I just go alone.<br /><br />I told him I don't know about this weird superpower I have. It's so hard to interpret sometimes. The default is to think that a message I'm getting is about me, if it's not clearly about something or someone else. And today that really upset me, because obviously that image in the dream was about him and I had missed it. I had thought it was about me, telling me things were about to get better for me. Maybe that's true in general, but that carnival was about where he was going, and it was going to be soon. What else had I missed, or misinterpreted?<br /><br />I talked to him about that all the way to the beach. And I started feeling pretty sorry for myself, thinking I had been so self centered I had maybe missed some of what he had been trying to tell me. But he didn't let me do that for very long. I snapped out of it as soon as I heard "Mrs. Robinson." It made me laugh.<br /><br />But I didn't want to miss anything else. I told him, "I want to know about you. You already know about me. I don't want our last day together to be about me. Tell me about you, while you still can, while I can still listen."<br /><br />I didn't know if I would get anything I could actually understand. There was nothing clear while I was on the beach. "Peaceful Easy Feeling" was very clear when I had heard it, and maybe that was all I was going to get. If so, that was fine, but at least I had tried. I got all the way home, soaking wet, and was about to turn toward the apartment when I decided I wanted a Jamba Juice. Yes, I actually wanted to walk into a freezing cold Jamba Juice store, and get a frozen strawberry something, while wearing soaking wet jeans. It defied logic, so of course I did it. And as I turned into the parking lot, I got exactly what I had been waiting for. One of my favorite songs of all time: "My Sweet Lord" by George Harrison.<br /><br />I don't have to tell you what that's about. But I knew right then, he's going somewhere great, and he wants to go. And we have no right to hold him back.<br /><br />While I was at the beach, my mom had taken the message pretty hard herself and had taken a nap. Before she went upstairs, she turned down the TV but left it on. When she came back down a couple of hours later, the TV was on a music channel and it was up very loud. I think he's telling her to listen as best she can, while she still can.<br /><br />I don't know how much more time we have. Tuesday is Valentine's Day, the anniversary of when Paul proposed to my mom. I feel like he'll stick around for that. But after that, I don't know. I'm pretty sure I know what's waiting for Paul, but I'm not sure what's waiting for me. This weirdness has been going on for me since before he died, and yet I feel like something is about to go dark. I just don't know how dark. I wish I did.<br /><br />I guess I'll know soon enough.<br /> ]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>The Comedic Value of (Redacted)</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2012/02/the-comedic-value-of-redacted.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2012://1.112</id>

    <published>2012-02-07T19:24:34Z</published>
    <updated>2012-02-07T19:30:07Z</updated>

    <summary>I don&apos;t write about work very much because it&apos;s difficult. There are vast amounts of rules and regulations to follow about what I&apos;m allowed to talk about and what I&apos;m not. For instance, I can&apos;t tell you what movies we...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Career" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    <category term="dreamworks" label="DreamWorks" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[I don't write about work very much because it's difficult. There are 
vast amounts of rules and regulations to follow about what I'm allowed 
to talk about and what I'm not. For instance, I can't tell you what 
movies we have coming out over the next few years. I can't show you any 
images of anything I do. I can't even tell you what software I use. The 
movie business is the most secretive industry I've been involved in 
since I developed radar simulation software for a living. And that stuff
 was export controlled. I think I even had to show someone a birth 
certificate once.<br /><br />I can talk about the DreamWorks culture all day
 long, like how we had funnel cakes last Wednesday afternoon. And then 
on Thursday, Groundhog Day, we had them again. And how I think whoever 
arranged the funnel cakes had seen the movie <i>Groundhog Day</i> too many times and thought they were being ironic. Not that anyone complained, of course.<br /><br />But
 when it comes to the specifics of what I do, it can get tricky fast. 
There's not much I can say. My job is already pretty funny sometimes. 
But without the context that would get me fired, it's downright <i>hilarious.</i><br /><br />I've
 been working here for two and a half years now. My first contract is 
almost up. In fact, it would be up at the end of this month, except 
we're in the middle of a show and they want to make sure I stick around 
until the end. So I've been extended at my current position for another 
two months, and then they say they'll draw up a new contract for me as a
 production lighter.<br /><br />I told someone that today and they said they
 didn't know what a lighter was. Fair enough. So I'll explain it as best
 I can without getting myself fired.<br /><br /> 

When we 
get a shot to work with, it's dark. So we put in these computer-based 
lights and position them, color them, tweak their brightness and 
shadow-making capabilities, and then render it, which is the process 
that turns all that 3D information into a 2D frame. Then you can see 
things. If you've done your job correctly, you've also created the 
correct mood, and lit things in such a way that the important things in 
the frame get your attention before the less important things do.<br /><br />It's
 amazing what can go wrong in a shot, especially during the setup phase 
when other departments are still finishing their work. I also don't 
realize sometimes how funny even the most mundane tasks are, until I say
 them out loud.<br /><br />Pretty much anyone: <i>"What did you do at work today?"</i><br /><br />Me (actual response #1): <i>"I set up a shot with a bunch of animals stuffed in a cannon and then I turned off all their butts."<br /><br /></i>Me (actual response #2): <i>"I
 asked my TD to figure out why there are 20 rat eyeballs sitting at the 
origin of my shot, completely unattached to any actual rats."<br />
  <br />
</i>Me (actual response #3): <i>"I turned off the front pig."<br /><br /></i>Me (actual response #4): <i>"Someone from surfacing came by and showed me how to pick the colors of my rats!"<br /><br />
</i>Me (actual response #5): <i>"I spent most of the day trying to figure out why some guy's pants weren't around his knees like they were supposed to be."<br /><br /></i>Me (actual response #6): <i>"I lit a zombie frog and a giant swamp cookie."<br /><br /></i>Me (actual response #7): <i>"Just wished they would finish with Shrek's kilt already so I can stop staring at his butt crack."<br /><br /></i>I'm really not kidding about that last one. Too. Much. Information.<br /><br />I'm
 currently working on a shot that has rats in it. I probably can't tell 
you why the rats are there or what they're doing, but they've been real 
troublesome over the last few weeks, as most rats are. The good news is,
 that shot is finaled, which means very soon I will no longer have to 
give a rat's ass about rat asses.]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Break</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2012/01/break.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2012://1.111</id>

    <published>2012-01-10T10:16:54Z</published>
    <updated>2012-01-10T10:25:43Z</updated>

    <summary>I guess the dam broke.I hit a bottleneck around the beginning of October. Paul&apos;s death had really made me think a lot about my life, about how short it is, and about what I really want. It made me think...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Process" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
        <category term="Transition" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    <category term="dreamworks" label="DreamWorks" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    <category term="nanowrimo" label="NaNoWriMo" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[I guess the dam broke.<br /><br />I hit a bottleneck around the beginning of October. Paul's death had really made me think a lot about my life, about how short it is, and about what I really want. It made me think about what I want and then think again about what I had actually given myself permission to have. When I looked at it that way, it wasn't as much as I thought.<br /><br />I've been writing a lot about relationships lately because this is one of the things I thought the most about. As much as I have said in the past year or so that I was ready for another serious relationship, it turns out that I was carrying around some really old anger from my childhood that was holding me back from actually allowing myself to have it. I had never actually given myself permission to <i>want</i> it. I had only allowed myself to <i>not</i> want something casual and shallow, which left "serious" or "alone" as the default alternatives. I had been trying to live against what I didn't want, instead of <i>for</i> what I did want.<br /><br />That being said, it's not something I'm desperate to have. I'm fine. I'm not in a hurry for it. I sleep better because no one is next to me snoring. I know exactly what's in my refrigerator at all times. There's nothing sticky on my bathroom floor because someone can't aim in the dark and won't turn on the light in the middle of the night. You get my drift.<br /><br />And as much as I talk about all these projects I want to work on, I'm not sure I've given myself permission to do much of that either. Although I'm not convinced it's a permission issue so much as an energy issue. I've been working very hard for the last few months at work learning how to be a lighter. It's not as steep a curve as it could be after two years at DreamWorks, but it's steep enough while keeping up with my regular job as a TA that I come home pretty worn out sometimes. And occasionally late. So more often than not, I find myself sitting there trying to decide which project is the most important, which one deserves what little time I have to spend on it at the expense of the others I want to work on. And I end up working on none of them because I can't choose.<br /><br />In fact, the only real creative pursuits I've allowed myself in the last year are piano and NaNoWriMo. It could be the fact that I'm paying for lessons that keeps me going to piano more than anything, although I always feel better about everything after I've practiced a couple of hours. I just never seem to remember that until I'm done.<br /><br />All this valuable thinking, all these things I wanted out of my life were stuck behind a wall of anger for months, not coming out, not being written or talked about, not doing anything.<br /><br />I remember the night Paul died, when I was driving home from my friend's house in the city. It was very late. He didn't want me to drive home but I insisted, because I needed to talk to Paul. And I needed to be in my own space, alone. I got in the car and the song playing was "They" by Jem. I had been playing the CD on the way out there, and it stopped in the middle of that song. When I started the car to leave, it hit me like a sack of bricks.<br /><br /><i>I'm sorry, so sorry<br />I'm sorry it's like this</i><br /><br />I said back, "You'd better be." And on the way home, we had a talk.<br /><br />I told him that I didn't know how this grieving process was going to go, but I knew there was an anger stage coming. And I told him no matter how angry I got, ultimately we would be okay. But that it would probably happen and not to worry, because it wouldn't last.<br /><br />It did happen, but not the way I expected. As it turns out, I never got angry at him. I'm not angry at him. And I've come to the conclusion that I'm not going to be angry at him. I get why he did it. I get that he felt like he had no control over his life, his health, his future, and he hadn't for a long time. This was the only way he could take control. To have any power at all.<br /><br />But I definitely got mad. Not at Paul, but at the fact that I was dealing with it alone. That's not to say I didn't have friends. I have a lot of very supportive friends. But I had spent almost eight years in a serious relationship, where I was used to having that one person to run to whenever there was a tragedy. That one person you lean on the most, who knows you the best, who is there with you every day as you work your way through it, beginning to end. I was angry that something like this had happened and I didn't have <i>that</i> to help get me through it.<br /><br />That's what got me started thinking about what I really want in my life and all the roadblocks I had created against it. By the time Christmas came, I had made a few good decisions, taken myself out of some unhealthy situations where I found myself chasing people who no longer had room in their lives for me, and put myself in better situations where I was able to make new friends and give something of myself. It was a good start. I had also written a script for a short animation about me and Paul. I finished it in late August, and then didn't do anything else with it.<br /><br />I was angry before I started the script, but I think I was more angry after I finished it. I didn't know why for a long time. I started to see ways to remove some of those old roadblocks, but they weren't easy. There's something about taking yourself out of an unhealthy situation that is empowering and yet angering at the same time. You wish you didn't have to do it. You wish you hadn't been driven to walk out that door. And if you leave the door open, you have to get pretty far away from it before you stop being angry that no one followed you through it. Sometimes you have to get to where you can't even see it anymore.<br /><br />I always leave my doors open. I don't know if that's a good thing or not, but I do.<br /><br />My anger at going through all this alone eventually transformed into anger that I had to make myself even more alone before I could have what I really wanted. I understand why, I know it was the right thing. And I'm a lot better off not having to watch what goes on without me like some kind of forgotten spectator. But it was only <i>today</i> that I figured out what was making me feel stuck there, like nothing was ever going to change.<br /><br />I had written this script for Paul, called <i>Break</i>. It's a cyclical narrative, like a lot of my work back in grad school. The main character starts in a particular place, goes through some stuff, comes full circle back to the same place but better for the journey, ready to go on. Changed somehow, maybe just enough. Stronger, for sure. Sounds reasonable, right?<br /><br />Except in this one, this little girl in a swimsuit and an inflatable floaty meets this giant, funny, gentle lifeguard wearing a funny mask and pulling an IV bag on a pole behind him. He leaves her to tend to the dam, but it's leaking in too many places and out of control. The dam breaks and he's taken away, only to reappear as an angel that lifts her above the deluge until it passes. She feels the loss after he leaves, shatters like a ceramic doll, and then reappears ready to bury the pieces in the sand and go on. She ends up better for it in the end, stronger, even with brand new water wings. But she still ends up <i>alone</i>.<br /><br />Tonight I changed the ending. She buries the shattered pieces and smooths over the pile, when a large hand print appears in the sand. She puts her tiny hand in the print. And then another tiny hand is placed upon hers. She looks up and finds a boy sitting right in front of her, wearing his own floaty. A kindred spirit. Someone who will stay with her for the rest of her journey.<br /><br />Now I think I can work on this. The dam broke for me over Christmas, when I finally stood in that place where Paul died, when I finally got mad enough over all I had lost, and I haven't been able to stop writing since. I feel like now I'm starting to see a way out of the maze. I can't say for sure that this will be the last entry for a while but it might be, because I think I know where I'm heading now. The anger is gone, and all the doors are still open, no matter how far I've walked away from them. I can still use all the friends I can get. I just have a lot of work to do.<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Sex and the City</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2012/01/sex-and-the-city.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2012://1.110</id>

    <published>2012-01-06T10:00:34Z</published>
    <updated>2012-01-06T10:30:07Z</updated>

    <summary>On New Year&apos;s Eve, I tweeted that if I wrote about that night at all, it wouldn&apos;t be in my blog. But I do want to put down a conversation that&apos;s been on my mind ever since that night, because...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Love" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[On New Year's Eve, I tweeted that if I wrote about that night at all, it wouldn't be in my blog. But I do want to put down a conversation that's been on my mind ever since that night, because at the time, it really bothered me. It bothers me less so now, and I feel like the process from there to here is worth sharing.<br /><br />Not only that, but I've been sick at home for two days with a vicious head cold and my brain is turning to mush.<br /><br />Simply put, I wish people would quit assuming that because I'm attractive and single and live in The Big City, that I want exactly what they want. I don't. I never did. And I'm sick of seeing that look of shocked pity when they find out I don't, and I'm sick of explaining myself to people who would rather think of me as some kind of old prude who can't have a good time rather than actually listen to the reasons why I've made the decisions I have.<br /><br />When I first moved here, I had lunch with an old friend who had lived here for a while. One of the first things he told me was that San Francisco was "a great place if you're single." I hadn't been single for some time before I came here. I was focusing on my own life in a way I hadn't in years, and I wasn't really interested in dating at all. Besides, when I thought about what dating really meant to most single people my age, I have to say I didn't really look forward to it.<br /><br />I'm "single" and I really don't consider this such a great place for someone like me. But I suspect San Francisco isn't much different than Dallas was, it's just that when I was in Dallas, I was in a relationship and insulated from the realities of "the single life." In fact, when I got into my last serious relationship, I really hoped I would never have to be a part of that life again.<br /><br />But here I am. And I'm not participating in what everyone else seems to think I should be. Because apparently I'm supposed to be all kinds of excited to be here just because I'm "single," and likewise I should be foaming at the mouth and looking at San Francisco as some kind of free for all hookup buffet with all fun and no responsibility to anyone's feelings but my own.<br /><br />"Single" doesn't just mean you're not in a relationship anymore. "Single" apparently means, looking for a hookup and ready to party like a twenty year old. To me, "single" still means, not in a relationship. And that's all it means to me.<br /><br />I went out on New Year's Eve with a couple of younger friends from work. I had a blast. I heard some great music and saw some very interesting things (some of which I could have done without). I got relentlessly hit on by a guy named Mauricio who incidentally was the first man to call me "beautiful" since 2004. I drank some wine, but I didn't get drunk. I decided early on that I didn't want to. And when I left that night, I felt great. It was 4am, I was wide awake, I didn't feel sick and I hadn't done anything I would feel embarrassed about the next day. I was easily able to drive home. I dare say I was in far better shape than my younger friends, who were just a little over half my age and yet exhausted from "letting loose and having a good time."<br /><br />I had a great time because I did it on my own terms. Despite the fact that I was grilled by one of my friends about why I wasn't drinking more, why I didn't do drugs, and then berated because I didn't want to pick some random guy and go home with him.<br /><br />"But Amy, I would be happy for you if you found someone to go home with."<br /><br />"But I don't <i>want</i> that."<br /><br />"But why not?"<br /><br />"Because I don't believe in using people."<br /><br />"But they <i>want</i> to be used!"<br /><br />"BUT I DON'T!"<br /><br />Why is that so hard to understand?<br /><br />When I got the eye roll and heavy sigh, I was done talking about it and so was he. He wasn't going to understand. But for some reason I was left feeling like the outcast, the one who should be judged for her behavior, or lack thereof, instead of him for his, and right after he told me what he wanted to do to that girl who just walked by and in how many rooms he wanted to do it. And that wasn't fair.<br /><br />Why do guys think we're impressed by that crap? I'm certainly not. In fact, the more you spread yourself around, the less attractive you are to me. I don't care if men have free reign in this society to act like selfish oversexed dogs with no consequences for their behavior. If you treat women like toys that were put here just to entertain you, then you disgust me just as much as the women who act like those toys. Period.<br /><br />I ended up thinking about that conversation for the next two days. And I came to the conclusion that maybe I envied those kids their freedom. That there was a part of me that wished I could throw caution to the wind, not worry about about the other person getting hurt, not care one lick about my own self respect, and just go out there and "have fun."<br /><br />And then as soon as I thought that, I was over it. I don't want that at all. What I really wanted instead was to be respected for my decision and then be LEFT ALONE. Or maybe what I really wanted was to be loved for it. Ultimately. I wanted to be seen as something special rather than something to be pitied or talked into something I clearly didn't want.<br /><br />Sure, I've had guys tell me they respect me for who I am. But they usually tell me that as they're walking away, and usually toward someone else. They tell me I'm classy when we break up. Well, thanks. Thanks for telling me I'm exactly what I always wanted to be, and that you have no use for it.<br /><br />Your loss.<br /><br />Because this isn't a game, and soon I started to realize that I shouldn't give a damn how anyone else feels about it. The only reason I did was because I was pushed to defend it, and I really hate having to defend the decisions I make for myself that aren't even anyone else's business. I didn't make this decision because I thought it would get me something specific from someone else. I did it because I have to feel a certain way about myself, and I did it many years ago, long before I moved here. Because if I go out there and start using guys to fulfill my own selfish desires and then throw them out like garbage when they ask for something back, then how dare I expect any better for myself?<br /><br />That's not to say I haven't ended up with the occasional douchebag anyway, but at least when I figured it out, I walked away.<br /><br />There are too many people out there who think they're entitled to get their physical needs met whenever they feel the urge. Period. And like my twenty-something friend, they think it's okay as long as the other party says yes. Yes means they don't have to think about their actions at all, that they're totally off the hook and doing nothing wrong. In some cases, maybe it really is okay. Or does it just mean that neither of you respect the person you're with instead of just you?<br /><br />Either way, it is not attractive.<br /><br />People tend to expect this behavior when you're twenty, or if you're a male of any age, but it doesn't make you any less accountable. All it means is, people really don't expect much from you in the first place. And that's pretty sad.<br /><br />But I expect a lot from myself. Because I have to be what I ultimately want in a relationship. Someone who can be trusted. Someone who sees the other person as more than just the sum of their parts. Someone who wants more than just a shallow experience for a night or a month or two, knowing there's always another one waiting around the corner if things get too serious. I have to be brave myself if I want someone to be brave for me. I have to respect them AND me if I want them to respect me at all. I don't deserve to have what I want if I don't treat others the way I want to be treated. <br /><br />People are not interchangeable body parts. You can't take all your memories of someone, all the parties you went to and the things you did together, all your intimate moments and then just hand them over to the next person in line like they meant nothing, reliving them all with a newer model in place of the old. You can't do this over and over again and then expect to find someone serious and caring and trustworthy just sitting there waiting for you when you're ready to settle down yourself. You want a good person, you have to be a good person. There is no other way.<br /><br />So I'm going to continue to live what I believe I deserve from people, and walk away from what I don't. And I'm going to continue making new friends and living my life for someone other than just myself. I joined a volunteer group recently that's allowing me to meet some really good people outside of work, people with more going on in their lives than just hanging out in bars and getting drunk on the weekends. I'm not doing it to find anyone in particular, but I do know now more than ever that I need friends outside of work and closer to my own age. And who knows, maybe there will be one guy in there who's not so busy trying to prove he can still keep up with the twenty year olds that he might actually know a good thing when he sees it. Just one friend like that would be worth it.<br /> ]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Government. We&apos;ll help so you don&apos;t have to.</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/12/government-well-help-so-you-dont-have-to.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.109</id>

    <published>2011-12-31T09:40:58Z</published>
    <updated>2011-12-31T11:28:40Z</updated>

    <summary>Obviously I&apos;m using this week to catch up on the blog. I&apos;ve been bottling up a lot over the past few months, and filing things away in my brain when my emotional state made it difficult to know what would...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Soapbox" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    <category term="nanowrimo" label="NaNoWriMo" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[Obviously I'm using this week to catch up on the blog. I've been bottling up a lot over the past few months, and filing things away in my brain when my emotional state made it difficult to know what would actually come out once I started writing. And then there was November and a 50,000 word novel that took up all my writing energy, which I completed to the satisfaction of NaNoWriMo, but not my own. I don't think I was even halfway through the story when I hit the finish line, and if I'm going to finish it for real, it needs some reworking from the beginning.<br /><br />I find lately though that I have a lot to say. I always have something to say when I come here (or else I wouldn't), but there was a lot I was trying to say with the novel, too. Fiction is difficult for me, and maybe it's the difficulty that's most enjoyable. I used to draw mazes as a kid, and writing fiction is like building a psychological labyrinth, at least if it's the kind of novel I really like to read. I still don't know where I want that particular maze to end, so while the idea simmers a little further, I'm catching up here and reading novels like crazy, because the more I wrote in November, the less I felt like I knew what I was doing. And unlike the first time I participated in 2007, this time I cared.<br /><br />This is a topic I've been saving up for a while, and fiction won't do it justice. Unless I try to write another <i>Animal Farm</i> or something like that. Not likely. But I'm starting to think someone should. <br /><br />I keep seeing this picture pop up on Facebook, and I'm going to write this now hoping that when I see it again it will better enable me to keep the friends I have left, because I will have finally gotten this out of my system. Because I'll tell you this: The last time I saw this picture, it almost got really ugly. REALLY ugly indeed.<br /><br /><img alt="socialism.jpg" src="http://blog.artful-i.com/images/socialism.jpg" class="mt-image-center" style="text-align: center; display: block; margin: 0 auto 20px;" height="293" width="320" /><br /> <div>My friends like to make it clear to me when I raise a fuss that this is directed at only the truly greedy, poor-hating conservatives out there, not to ME personally. Okay, so let me get this straight. You're telling people that don't believe in socialism that they're greedy and anti-Christian for that very reason alone. Well good for you, because you're making yourself look damn clever in the process, with that whole Jesus thing. Hitting them right where it hurts. Isn't that selfish right-wing conservative bastard's face red now. But at least you're not talking to ME. Great, thanks so much for the clarification.<br /><br />Wait a minute, are you also telling me that you have selfish right-wing money-hoarding conservatives who hate poor people as Facebook friends? No? Then please tell me again how posting pictures like this on Facebook is effecting the change you so desperately seek.<br /><br />Yeah, see, that's what I thought. It's not change you're looking for. It's validation. It is Facebook after all, and that's the reason we're all there. That's fine, we all need it from time to time. Just be honest about it. But don't expect to get it from everyone.<br /><br />See, the thing is, you ARE talking to me, because I don't believe in socialism. I mean if you're so self-assured as to post something like this, might as well grow 'em big enough to follow through and own up to your intended audience. ALL of it. But this isn't about me. This is about what socialism is, what Christianity is, both in my own opinion (because this is a personal blog), and why hating socialism doesn't necessarily translate into hating thy neighbor. <br /><br />In fact, I believe socialism discourages charity. Which means socialism is not an example of how to follow Jesus nearly as much as it is discouragement from following Jesus at all.<br /><br />In my opinion, Jesus' teachings were a model for how to live our lives as individuals, not as governments. The Bible is not a government document. It is not a constitution for a new country. This is why it's possible to be against socialism and philanthropic at the same time. Government gets involved because church and charity can't keep up with everything. I get that. But it shouldn't take care of everything either. It can't. It is not efficient. The fact that it keeps trying creates as many problems as it solves by burdening the productive class to the point that it is no longer productive, which causes them to give less or even turn away from being charitable altogether. Not out of greed, but out of necessity.<br /><br />Wealth redistribution is an implied judgement against the productive class that they don't deserve what they have, for the sole reason that not everyone has it. Burdening productive people with the obligation of supporting those who are not discourages that productivity, because it's like handing out participation awards to those who
 ran the race as well as those who just showed up. Why run at all if the rewards are equal? Or at least that's the goal, right? Economic equality? <br /><br />For example, I had a freelance job when I moved to California. The taxes here are so high that when I put that together with the double federal taxes I was paying for being self employed, after less than a year I decided I would actually rather move down to a one-bedroom apartment and put most of my belongings in storage than work 18 hours a day and weekends and still be rent-poor. And that's exactly what I did. I'm just as rent-poor now, but at least I can sleep for a full night every night and have some time for friends. How many others have made the same decision, to be satisfied with less because an increase in labor doesn't equate to an increase in disposable income?<br /><br />And why is it selfish to expect such a thing?<br /><br />If that sounds like a child throwing all his toys in the sandbox and leaving, maybe you're right. Call me immature all you want, but all I got from that endeavor was exhaustion, fewer friends and decreased language skills, because all I knew how to say was, "I can't go, I have to work." When increased ambition and harder work results in little to no increase in your standard of living, because you're being taxed to death to raise someone else's standard of living, exactly what is the point? Why should you keep doing it?<br /><br />The answer is, you don't.<br /><br />On the other hand, if you actually see the results of your labor as increased income, and you don't expect the government to take care of your neighbor on your behalf, you are more likely to choose to donate some of that income to a cause that means something to you. You're more likely to take that responsibility for helping your neighbor yourself, which I believe is what Jesus taught. Generosity out of the kindness of your heart is its own reward. Forced generosity through taxation and inefficient distribution is not. And yet there are many out there who believe that merely being "liberal" and believing in "socialism" makes them charitable people. But they're actually the least charitable people out there, because they do little to nothing on their own. They don't have to. Why should they when that's the government's job?<br /><br />This is exactly what bothers me about socialism. I'm a huge believer in personal responsibility, and socialism discourages that. People who believe the government should be responsible tend to abdicate their own responsibility for others, and then still call themselves charitable because they support socialist programs. Yes, it is important that people in need get help, no matter where it comes from. But the question is, what kind of person do YOU want to be? Can you use Jesus' teachings to berate others when you don't follow them yourself? Joe Biden made over $300,000 a year around the time of the 2008 elections. He donated an average of $369 a year. I make less than $60,000 a year and I donate about $100. When I made that same income in Texas, I was able to give more. Know why? Less taxes and a lower cost of living. Having more made me want to do more. I have more of an excuse now to donate nothing than he ever had to donate $369, and yet I don't believe in excuses for such things. I do it because I believe I have that responsibility when I'm able, and I certainly don't believe the government is there to follow Jesus for me. As long as I can afford a social life, an occasional set of Chicken McNuggets, or some new software for my computer, I can certainly do that.<br /><br />I find it ridiculous that anyone would use the Bible to support any government economic policy, no matter what it is. In this case, what exactly is Christian about letting the government be charitable for you? At the end of your life, will you be able to look back and say, I made a difference? Or will you only be able to say, I supported my government making a difference on my behalf?<br /><br />And as long as we're talking about what it means to be a good Christian, please also show me where the Bible says economic superiority is a sin but intellectual superiority can come at any cost, especially when you can appear clever at the expense of those who disagree with you. Can't find that one? Then maybe you should find another picture.<br /><br /><img alt="superior.jpg" src="http://blog.artful-i.com/images/superior.jpg" class="mt-image-center" style="text-align: center; display: block; margin: 0 auto 20px;" height="293" width="320" /><br /></div><div><br /></div>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Chasing Amy (instead of the other way around)</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/12/chasing-amy-instead-of-the-other-way-around.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.108</id>

    <published>2011-12-29T13:12:50Z</published>
    <updated>2011-12-29T13:13:44Z</updated>

    <summary>It&apos;s 3:50am and I&apos;m wide awake. Because I&apos;m on vacation. I have five days left. It will only get worse. But now that I&apos;m on a more normal sleep schedule (for me), I&apos;m all kinds of productive. Today I loaded...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Love" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
        <category term="Transition" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[It's 3:50am and I'm wide awake. Because I'm on vacation. <br /><br />I have five days left. It will only get worse. But now that I'm on a more normal sleep schedule (for me), I'm all kinds of productive. Today I loaded up the bike on my trunk rack and took it to the shop for an overdue tune up. I took out my car radio and installed an iPod adapter. I attached picture wire to the back of a door so I can hang it on the wall after I paint something on it. And then I put on the first coat of oil ground. I hope I only need one more coat. I hate oil ground. It's nasty, sticky, terrible stuff that never dries.<br /><br />I remember when I lived in Texas and I had... rooms. A house with rooms. One of them was the art room, and I could just shut the door and the cat would have the run of the rest of the house. Not so in a one bedroom apartment. Maybe this is why I'm still awake. It's almost that time of night where she gets some invisible B12 shot and runs around like a cheetah, tearing up my bathroom rug along the way. Picasso once said that if you get a hair from your brush stuck in your paint, paint a bird's nest. He probably never woke up to find a cat-shaped furball with green bath rug yarn in his painting, and I hope I don't either.<br /><br />Not that I've figured out what to paint in its place yet.<br /><br />But it's not just the sleep schedule motivating me, or the fact that I discovered tonight that Comcast plays 70s music on channel 953. (They do!!!) There's a very dark cloud that's starting to move away from me, just a little. Maybe just enough for now. Partly because of me, because I work hard at not staying in dark places for any longer than necessary (with varying degrees of success). And partly because of a very small but significant gesture from someone I didn't even know was paying attention.<br /><br />The last two posts have been about finally learning that I'm worth making an effort for. It seems like an obvious thing to say, but it's something that has never been obvious to me until very recently, which is why the revelation came through a lot of anger and hurt. There is a much bigger picture than just what one person did or didn't do in my life. Much bigger. There is a history of making the same choices, picking out the same people, but most importantly, a very long history of <i>me</i> doing the same things, setting the same patterns in motion over and over again. And that's the most important thing, what I've been doing.<br /><br />The fact is, when I get into a relationship, I assume that I will have to do all the work. I assume that they will not make an effort with me. And so when the door is cracked open, I go barreling through it, slamming it against the wall and knocking my new boyfriend unconscious. And then I do everything, all the reaching out, the appreciating, the compliments and the affection and the communication and the pushing things forward. All because I don't trust them to do it, and all because I never thought I was worth it.<br /><br />It's not that I keep picking selfish guys to date. Some of them are far from it. It's that I don't give them the chance to show me that they're not, because I'm so afraid I'll find out they are... because it tells me yet again that I'm not worth it. And so the cycle continues. Or at least it has, until now. There is a reason for this that is many years old, that I don't want to get into here. The bigger picture. The first person to not make an effort with me, and put all his effort instead into another relationship, teaching me that I must be lacking something important.<br /><br />It taught me that there must be something wrong with me that I wasn't worth the effort. But Paul, and a boyfriend from long ago that I didn't pay enough attention to at the time, taught me that I am worth it. And in the process, I learned that I have always been worth it. That the problem was never me at all. And all I need to do is start acting like it, and give someone a chance to be awesome.<br /><br />There have been some bad relationship choices in my life, no doubt about that. Pick a guy that's not really into you, and you have a challenge on your hands. Some people like a challenge. But many who pursue a challenge are doing so to rewrite history. Because if you can win the love of this emotionally distant, somewhat indifferent, not-so-into-you person, you can prove to yourself that you're so worthy of love that you can create it out of thin air. You can prove to yourself that all the hurt you got before really wasn't deserved after all. Your personal history says that it was you, but if you can perform this miracle, you can rewrite it, and finally have a reason to love yourself.<br /><br />But if you choose someone who loves you, appreciates you, is loyal and can be completely trusted, then your personal history can't be rewritten, meaning it will probably repeat itself, and it's unbearable. You must have deserved the hurt you've been given, and you have no chance now to prove otherwise because there is no work to do. Not with someone who already loves you. And if your personal history stands, you certainly don't deserve such happiness that comes so easily. And how long until they figure this out and leave? Because surely they will. Sure, you may enjoy the attention at first. But if they're too good to you, you eventually get bored, get uncomfortable having what you don't deserve, and leave.<br /><br />And maybe you even go back to some unhappy ending you were still hanging onto, keeping you at arm's length from that real love, back to some unresolved challenge where you may have a chance to perform that miracle and rewrite your history. I say this because I've done that too, and it ended in disaster. But that's another story for another time.<br /><br />The point is, most suffering is self-induced. The need to replay the same relationship over and over until we get a different ending is a need to prove to ourselves that we never deserved that unhappy ending in the first place. And we need to prove this with hard work because nothing else gives us a reason to believe we deserve better except a miraculous result. What you have to do instead is just decide to believe it, without proof. That's it. And then start acting like you believe it. That's the most important part, acting like it, because that's what makes it true. I have nothing to prove to myself anymore. I don't need to rewrite a history that never actually existed, right? Because it was them, not me. Never me.<br /><br />It doesn't keep happening because you deserve it. It keeps happening because you keep looking for it, so you can change it. But once you pursue a person rather than a challenge, and you stop trying to prove something to yourself, the whole world opens up, and you finally get out of your own way.<br /><br />Chasing the challenge is something I've done more than once. Sometimes I chose a really bad person. Other times, I chose a really good person at a really bad time, because if I could change someone's entire direction in life, I could prove to myself that I wasn't powerless after all. I also assumed he wouldn't work at it, because I knew what I was getting into, and so I never gave him the chance. Because I <i>had</i> to do all the work. That's the only way I knew how to prove to both of us that I was worth it, which my past made desperately necessary.<br /><br />Making all the effort to prove your worth effort you will never get, because you're making all of it and not giving them the chance. That's a mess. That's what gets you taken for granted, replaced and maybe even cheated on. And it has, all of the above. <br /><br />I don't have anything to prove to myself anymore. And so I'm not trying. I'm just leaving the door open for that guy who already knows how awesome I am to walk through himself. Now THAT is a vacation.<br /> ]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Buried</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/12/buried.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.107</id>

    <published>2011-12-26T10:48:38Z</published>
    <updated>2011-12-27T08:18:31Z</updated>

    <summary>I would say it&apos;s Christmas night, but since I&apos;m on Mountain Standard Time, I really can&apos;t. I haven&apos;t been able to say it truthfully for half an hour, and probably much longer by the time I&apos;m finished here. I&apos;m not...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Love" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
        <category term="Sixth Sense" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[I would say it's Christmas night, but since I'm on Mountain Standard Time, I really can't. I haven't been able to say it truthfully for half an hour, and probably much longer by the time I'm finished here. I'm not sure how important it really is, or how much it was ever really Christmas to begin with. What I can say truthfully is that I have a pain in my right temple, bad enough that I just took some five year old Tylenol that I found in a bathroom drawer. And then I got the hiccups. <br /><br />Altitude is a weird thing. There is no humidity here, and little oxygen. Denver is a mile high and that's enough to cause us sea level people some trouble. Add 3500 feet to that, and that's where you'll find me, in the basement of a three story house, unable to breathe, feeling as though I've been hit by a truck. But there's snow. Lots of it. And enough animal tracks to make you wonder if hibernation is an urban legend.<br /><br />For months after Paul died, I was afraid to come back here. The night he died I remember wondering how I could ever be of help to my mom knowing I could never set foot in this house again after what had happened. Over the last couple of months, I've somehow lost that fear. It went away on its own, replaced by a mild dread like a ringing in my ears, imperceptible when busy, deafening when quiet. It wasn't a dread of coming here but rather of feeling something I had barely managed to put behind me. I'm one of those rare people who is usually comfortable riding emotional waves, because you can't shut yourself off from the bad and still have the good. (At least not without using people.) And because they make life interesting. Waves keep you moving forward, learning, and going on to bigger and better things as a reward for your bravery. But this is one of those waves that I just really didn't need to ride again, and what's worse is, I didn't know how big it would be when I finally got here.<br /><br />Fortunately it hasn't been too bad, all things considered. Because he hasn't left the house.<br /><br />Christmas is like a relationship. It can be easily ruined by unreasonable expectations, causing anger and depression to everyone involved. To me, Christmas hasn't been the same since I lost my grandparents, particularly my grandmother. She added something to the holiday every year that I can't really put my finger on, but I definitely feel its absence since she's been gone. Every other year or so I go back to Oklahoma to try to get it back, whatever it was, and sometimes I can get somewhat close just by being near the house with the screen door where I would stand staring at the night sky, nose pressed against the cold glass, thinking every red airplane light was Rudolph's nose. I think maybe this year is the first time I've really accepted that that's as close to what I loved about Christmas as I'll ever get again. And I guess it's okay. It's not the biggest loss I've had this year by far, so it feels manageable. Unlike others that I am not quite resigned to just yet.<br /><br />Things are not right here, but not for the reasons I expected. The house feels like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, the holes being filled by pieces from another puzzle altogether. They cover the space but don't quite fit. But that's just stuff, things Paul added to our lives that were taken after his death because we had no legal right to them. Because that's what matters you know, at the end of things. The things. Well, that's fine with me. Paul is still in the house, and I would rather have him. His spirit. He chooses to be here. I know this because my superpowers lean toward the empathic, I know what "gone" feels like, and this isn't it. Not yet anyway.<br /><br />"Gone" doesn't feel like what's surrounding me in this house right now. What's surrounding me here is warm, and soft like a comforter. "Gone" feels like indifference, and I feel more of that from some of the living than I think I ever will from Paul, no matter how far away he goes.<br /><br />I can say without any doubt whatsoever, he loves me. For real. Even now. I can't say that about too many men in my life. The living will say in so many words, I'm here for you. I want us to be friends. They'll say what makes them look good, what alleviates their own guilt, what they think you want to hear. Whatever they think the right answer is. And then when they get something going for themselves, they'll disappear and hope you don't notice, if they even think enough of you to hope for such a thing at all. If they ever thought enough of you to make an effort in the first place. More likely, they were saving that effort for someone else, that special someone they let you think you were for about five minutes, who you can rightfully assume has come along and taken your place when things go inexplicably quiet. Today, I got a Christmas present from Paul, something that he bought for me many months ago. He's been gone for six months and still I know when he is thinking of me, and today I was reassured yet again that he always thought of me in life as well. He is nothing if not consistent.<br /><br />I'm finding that to be an incredibly rare quality.<br /><br />It still makes me sad that he is more willing to make sure I know he is thinking of me than someone who is alive and better able to do so. And it also makes me angry. But you can't force someone to grow up. You can't force someone to be what you deserve. You can only walk away when you finally figure out that they will never, ever try. I guess he knew that better than anyone, and I guess that's why he is the one who has taught me this lesson. Having had a few people in his own life who rarely made an effort, he was certainly the best man for the job.<br /><br />Paul may be the only man I know who was never afraid to love me back. Not for even one second. The only one who didn't run because I cared about him, as if he thought he couldn't live up to it. He knew he could, and he did, and still does. Because he knew deserving love was a choice, not something he was either born into or not. He's the only one (save my own father) who was brave enough to stick around for me, even after he was gone for good.<br /><br />His greatest gift to me this year is being that guy, and showing me how low my standards have been for the living. How much I've put up with when I deserved so much better, something I may never have learned had he not given me so much better to compare to. That lesson is what has led to other losses that I'm still trying to reconcile, but that were necessary. Because if there is one thing I will no longer tolerate, it is someone who takes me for granted. Who does nothing to reach out to me. Who does nothing to maintain a relationship, because he assumes that I will always want it bad enough to do all the work for him.<br /><br />There is no relationship on this earth that I want that badly. Not anymore. Paul knows I've made that decision and we both know I'm better off for it. But for the time being, the decision has left me alone. Raising your standards will do that, for a time anyway, until the universe can work out its next move on your behalf. And so here he is, keeping me company, making the house warm, making sure I get those sterling silver earrings from Tiffany's, filling the empty spaces with an invisible hug. And for now, that's enough for me, because I've adopted an all or nothing attitude. I can honestly say that I am fine with nothing if the alternative is less than I deserve.<br /><br />Today when I got up, I went looking for my mom, carrying her present in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. I found her in her bedroom on her bed, watching TV, looking like the excessive house cleaning before my arrival had left her for dead. I knew where I was. I knew what had happened in that room. And I walked in and sat on the bed far more easily than I ever expected I would.<br /><br />I looked around. A lot. But there was nothing there.<br /><br />Hours later I went back and I stood there, where he fell. I know exactly where he fell. I know where the gun was lying when he grabbed it. I know about where the bullet hit the ceiling. I know more than I probably should for someone who wasn't there, and certainly enough to have not gone in the room at all. But I had to stand in that place, alone, to figure out why there was nothing there, and I did. I stood where he stood, and where he fell, and that's when I knew why there was nothing there. Because he was not there. He was never there, not in a tragic way. He did not suffer, and so there was nothing left to feel, no lingering pain. He never even hit the floor, because he was gone before gravity even had a chance.<br /><br />What did hit the floor was no longer him at all.<br /><br />That's why the room is okay, and why the house is okay, and why he can be here now. That's why the house is in complete disarray and yet still full of love, and not tragedy. There is no tragedy here. If anything, there is peace. Not quiet, but peace. That peace you always hear people talk about on Christmas but never really feel. I feel it, and it's all his. <br /><br />The Christmas gift from him, specifically, made me emotional. It's always emotional when you feel love from the last person you expect it from, and know it to be real, when you're so used to being brushed aside for something you didn't even know you were competing with until you lost the game. And the truck that's hit me today is my own, a snowplow pushing all this loss back into a giant pile where I would rather it stay.<br /><br />Or maybe it's not a truck at all. Maybe it's an avalanche.<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Birthday Presence</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/10/birthday-presence.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.106</id>

    <published>2011-10-24T06:48:55Z</published>
    <updated>2011-10-24T08:57:18Z</updated>

    <summary>Technically I should be planning a novel right now. So I&apos;m going to write about my birthday instead. Because most of the fun of writing a novel is thinking about writing it. And then putting it off by writing something...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Dreams" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
        <category term="Sixth Sense" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
        <category term="Transition" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    <category term="dream" label="Dream" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[Technically I should be planning a novel right now. So I'm going to write about my birthday instead. Because most of the fun of writing a novel is <i>thinking</i> about writing it. And then putting it off by writing something else.<br /><br />Yesterday I turned 41. Big. Fucking. Deal. No, really, I don't care. As far as age goes, I'm fine with where I am in life. I'm 41 and I look, well, younger than that (although this year has definitely aged me). I'm 5' 8" and I weigh 123 pounds. I'm in the most creative and spiritual part of my life thus far. I have the job of my dreams. In live in one of the coolest places on the planet. I have a few very good, reliable friends, who give me as much as I give them. So really, I'm good. There's only one thing left that I want for my life and it continues to elude me. I'm not desperate for it, but I want it a lot. And since I keep failing at getting it, I've started to think it's because something is wrong with me, and I've started to attack myself as my latest overachievement to make myself worthy of it. Because if you're not getting what you want, you must not deserve it, right? <br /><br />That's why Paul showed up on my birthday. To knock some sense into me.<br /><br />At the beginning of last week, I wrote to a good (gifted) friend that I was under a great deal of pressure. Physical pressure, as in, it felt like someone was sitting on my rib cage. It was a new feeling but not an unexpected one. I keep losing the same thing over and over again this year. And this latest loss really dragged me down. I was feeling bad already. And then suddenly I was feeling crushed. Literally. Crushed.<br /><br />It lasted a couple of days and then subsided. I didn't think anything more of it, because the sadness underneath it remained and I assumed that was the real issue.<br /><br />Then yesterday morning I had a dream. I was in a large wooden cabin with my mom. There were long wooden tables inside the cabin. It almost looked like something you would find at a day camp. Outside this cabin was very bright sunshine, so bright you almost couldn't see through it. The door was open and I was looking out the window. There was a body of water that went to the horizon and an orange mountain sticking up from it on the right side of my view. My mom was on the phone with Paul, and I had a sense that he was somewhere on the other side of that mountain. It was as if he were still alive but had left because his health was 
failing and he knew he was going to die. In the dream, this seemed like a
 good reason to leave. It made sense.<br /><br />I don't know what they said to each other. And then she handed me the phone. <br /><br />I asked him how he was doing, if he was ok. I got a weird answer that I can't remember word for word. But the gist of it was, no he wasn't ok, his health was failing. This wasn't a nice vacation for him, you know? I didn't feel he was angry at me at all, just unhappy with the situation that caused him to be where he was. Very much like one of the very last conversations I had with him before he died.<br /><br />I woke up thinking that I must have had that dream because he had been on my mind. My mom had sent me a ring for my birthday, one she had made from the logo he had designed for himself and always used on all his work. I had worn it all the day before so it made sense that I would be thinking of him.<br /><br />Then I read my Facebook messages. I had one from that same gifted friend I had written to earlier about the weight I felt on my chest. She had also had a dream about Paul that night. Except he spoke directly to her in her dream... about me.<br /><br />He told her that the weight I had been feeling against my rib cage was him. He was trying to communicate with me. He was trying to show me by putting that pressure on me that I was putting too much pressure on myself. He said I had to pull back, "withhold all the stir crazies" in my head. Then he told her a joke, but it was too long for her to remember. That's typical. Few of us could ever remember his long-winded jokes, no matter how funny they were.<br /><br />They were always funny.<br /><br />When I read that message I realized, my dream wasn't just a dream either. He was showing me that he is communicating with me. And my mom. Even if we don't understand, he is talking to us and trying to help us. Not only that, but he's actually been telling me this for some time, and I've known it. He was a huge Eagles fan when he was alive. Since he died, I've been listening to a radio station that plays a lot of music from the 70s. And whenever I'm my most stressed out, confused, over-analytical self, the same song magically comes on the radio.<br /><br />"Take it easy, don't let the sound of your own wheels make you crazy." I always knew it was him. I just didn't always know what to do with his advice.<br /><br />I almost didn't make it to the Puss In Boots family screening on time after I read that message. I had to call my mom and tell her, and I had to think about what he meant. I had to recover from the emotion of finding out that although I haven't heard from him in a while, he is actually still here. What was I doing to myself? I really wasn't sure. I felt like everything about my life this year has been about loss and abandonment and my soul was just tired. It hadn't occurred to me yet that I was causing a lot of that pain myself. Not until Paul told me.<br /><br />I got to the movie just in time, and I watched it with this question in my head. What am I doing, and what do I do to stop it? I didn't know yet. I watched the entire movie unable to let it go. And then when the movie ended and the credits started, I felt a punch in my heart and I started to tear up. I remembered on this exact weekend last year, I was watching Megamind with Paul and my mom and the rest of my family. It was the first feature I had ever worked on. It was a big deal. But I didn't tear up.<br /><br />The moment passed. Then my name came up in the credits and I felt the punch again, and this time I could barely keep myself from crying. I really, really had to work at holding it back. That's when I knew what it was. It was Paul telling me he thought the movie was great and he was proud of me. He was there. He had watched it with me.<br /><br />I managed to get myself back together and get out of the theater and back to the car. And I started thinking again, what was he talking about? What am I doing? I stopped for tacos and thought about it. I went home and sat on my couch and thought about it some more. And that's when things started to make sense.<br /><br />I've been wasting a lot of energy giving love and friendship to people who don't want to give it back, as if the more I give, the more they will want to give me. When has that ever worked? Never. Somewhere along the way I had also decided that if I wasn't getting what I wanted in my life, then I hadn't earned it yet. So at some point I started trying to earn it. I started trying to be "better." Stronger. More classy, more mature, more honorable, more trustworthy, more generous, more in control, and therefore, more deserving. Supposedly.<br /><br />I had gotten myself into the same mindset I was in a few years ago in my last serious relationship, where I felt like I was broken and needed to be fixed. I thought, if I wasn't getting the love I wanted from this person, it must be because there was something wrong with me. He would love me more if I were less broken. So I set myself on a path to fix whatever I could find. It gave me a false sense of control over the outcome. And it drained me completely, because it was never my fault to begin with. I did snap out of it on my own and I gratefully thought that was the end of it. And yet here I was today in the exact same place.<br /><br />Somewhere in the last 12 months I had decided that I didn't have what I wanted yet because God didn't think I deserved it. And when I figured that out, I realized that can't possibly be true. I already deserve it. Making myself the problem doesn't give me more control over the outcome. I don't have it yet because it's just not right yet. It's just not here yet. That's all.<br /><br />That was the pressure I was putting on myself. That's when I let it go. Paul's birthday present to me.<br /><br />But perhaps the most startling revelation of all was when I realized the following:<br /><br />If a DEAD man has more of an ability -- and most importantly, willingness -- to show me the love and attention I deserve than some of the people in my life who are STILL LIVING, then I am DEFINITELY putting my energy into the wrong things. The wrong people.<br /><br />I'm very bad about making excuses for people when I give to them and they don't give back. "He's busy." "He has young kids that take up all his time." "He's got a girlfriend now." "He only wants what he can't have and I'm not enough of a challenge." "He lives 50 miles away." "He lives 9000 miles away." "He doesn't think he deserves love." "He has issues." <br /><br />Whatever.<br /><br />A DEAD MAN has shown me more love this weekend than a few of the live ones in my life have shown me in the last year, and in some cases, ever. The greatest gift of all was the realization that THERE ARE NO EXCUSES for these people not returning the love that I have freely given them. Whether it's romantic love, the love of a child, or just friendship. You don't let one side do all the work. There are no excuses for that. None.<br /><br />So my birthday present to myself is this: No more pouring my effort and my love down a black hole. No more making excuses for why the hole is black and in the process, giving it permission to stay that way. If the black holes in my life ever decide to cough up a little love or attention in return for all I have given them, I will be here. But I can't waste my energy anymore. I don't care how anyone really feels about me deep down. If you don't show it, it doesn't matter. There is NO EXCUSE for caring for someone and not showing them, not telling them. If DEATH is not an excuse, then there is no excuse in existence. And they are no longer getting any excuses from me.<br /><br />From now on, I only return the love I am given. Happy birthday to me.<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>The Occupy Brain Movement</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/10/the-occupy-brain-movement.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.105</id>

    <published>2011-10-15T01:48:10Z</published>
    <updated>2011-10-15T13:44:03Z</updated>

    <summary>Motivation. I finally got me some. I have no idea where it came from, but fall tends to do this to me. Good things happen to me in the fall. The new fall shows start, I crave cookie dough, I...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Process" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    <category term="dreamworks" label="DreamWorks" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    <category term="nanowrimo" label="NaNoWriMo" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    <category term="siggraph" label="SIGGRAPH" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[Motivation. I finally got me some. I have no idea where it came from, but fall tends to do this to me. Good things happen to me in the fall. The new fall shows start, I crave cookie dough, I buy myself "birthday presents" that I have to pay off for another year, and I get really creative. I have a ton of ideas bouncing around in my head right now and they will get done. Yes they will. YES THEY WILL.<br /><br /><b>NaNoWriMo</b><br /><br />November is <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/" target="_blank">National Novel Writing Month</a>. The idea is to write 50,000 words in 30 days. You can't start until midnight on November 1, and you have until midnight on November 30 to finish. Then you upload your "novel" to their web site, the words are counted by a program and then it's immediately deleted so it's not hanging around on the internet where people can laugh at how bad a writer you are. What do you win? Not much. A certificate, some web badges and oh yeah, a first draft you can edit to completion, if you like. And a sense of accomplishment. I'm all about that. It's pretty much an honors-system thing. I'm good with those.<br /><br />The point is to get it all down without editing yourself right out of the project. I've only done this one other time, in 2007. I got my idea within a couple of days of the start, so I did no planning at all. The main character was based on me as a senior in high school. The true story is rather interesting, because my mom got a job in Austin that year and I stayed in Richardson with people I didn't know until graduation. Cool, huh? Well, it was until I started to write about it. I had also just broken up with my first boyfriend at the beginning of that year, was immediately replaced with another Amy (yes we have the same name), and let's face it, I was pathetic. Oh man was I pathetic. So pathetic in fact that by the time I finished my 50,000 words, I was completely annoyed by everything the main character did. I didn't even care what happened to her anymore. I was looking for fictional buses to put in her path. Maybe a falling piano on the sidewalk. I couldn't wait to finish. I just wanted her out of my life.<br /><br />The cool thing was, I actually wrote 50,000 words in 30 days. So just think what I can do with some actual planning and a main character that doesn't suck.<br /><br />I decided I would do this again just a few days ago. And the other night after much mental struggle, I got my idea. Of course the main character will be based on me again, but the trick will be to change her enough so that I actually find her interesting and don't want to kill her by Thanksgiving. Yeah. She'll be cooler than me.<br /><br />The plot (so far) is to take this cooler-than-me person out of her awesome film job in San Francisco and move her back to Oklahoma to take care of her completely delusional grandmother when her mom, the only caregiver, is sent overseas. There will be side stories, probably involving men, and I have to be careful there. I've learned a lot from my relationships but there are people I don't want to spend another 30 days with, even to write about them. In any case, the delusional grandmother will ironically be the wisest person in the novel. This is the part I'm looking forward to.<br /><br />There will also be weather. I hope there's weather. I miss weather.<br /><br /><b>Break</b><br /><br />This is the animation I want to do in honor of Paul. I've already written the script and done a little work developing a rendering style. I've even talked to DreamWorks about legally letting me work on this project and put it in festivals. They want to see more of it before they can draw up the contract, but it is officially in motion. Slow motion, actually. It's going to be a while before I can do a storyboard and some render tests. Definitely after November. The concept is a little abstract (and personal) so it's hard to describe without giving away every detail. Suffice it to say it does him justice as someone who genuinely cared about me. And then some. And if the technique I've come up with actually works, it's going to be beautiful.<br /><br /><b>Piano recital</b><br /><br />Yeah, I'm actually going to be in a piano recital on November 19. With maybe two other adults and a bunch of kids. I'm doing two pieces, so I have to keep practicing regularly (perhaps even obsessively) until that time, while planning my novel until October 31, writing 1667 words per day starting on November 1, and oh yeah, working. For someone like me who never does anything the easy way, November is a beautiful thing.<br /><br /><b>Empathetic Mirror</b><br /><br />This is something I came up with at SIGGRAPH this year. What if I could create interactive wall art that took your picture, "read" your emotions and then showed you an artistic portrait of yourself based on what it saw? Yes I actually do have an idea of how to pull this off. Really, I do.<br /><br />Obviously I'm going to need an energy boost to get me to December. Cookie dough anyone?<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Reinvention</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/10/reinvention.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.104</id>

    <published>2011-10-02T04:50:37Z</published>
    <updated>2011-10-02T10:28:01Z</updated>

    <summary>A few weeks ago, my web host had a power outage. Apparently nothing they had in place to prevent the disaster this would create actually worked. The hardware was hosed. My site was obliterated and so was my blog. So...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Transition" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[A few weeks ago, my web host had a power outage. Apparently nothing they had in place to prevent the disaster this would create actually worked. The hardware was hosed. My site was obliterated and so was my blog. So I figured that was a pretty good excuse to start over. After a few days spent re-uploading all my entries from Google cache, I started a redesign. I also reorganized my categories to better reflect the path this blog has actually taken over the years.<br /><br />I started without any idea of how the blog should look. All I knew was that I had been looking at the same design since 2008, when I was trying to get a job in animation. Well, that happened in 2009 and I just left things the way they were, with very few updates to show new artwork on the home page. When I started the new design I went straight to my carnival photo collection and there it was, the Tilt-a-Whirl. Kind of a metaphor for life when you think about it -- the more you try to control it, the less it moves, the less fun it is. And this blog has become much more than the work-in-progress tracker it was intended to be. The work-in-progress went from my demo reel to <i>myself</i>, and the new structure and design better reflects that.<br /><br />The new categories are:<br /><br /><ul><li><b>Career</b>: Anything to do with work or working in the animation industry</li><li><b>Dreams</b>: A relatively new category I created because some of my dreams are awesome, some teach me more about myself, and some are premonitions</li><li><b>Love</b>: General thoughts on the subject, particularly the fear and bravery involved in finding the real thing, and how easy it is to chicken out<br /></li><li><b>Process</b>: Any artistic work-in-progress I have to talk about</li><li><b>Random</b>: Whatever doesn't fit anywhere else</li><li><b>Sixth Sense</b>: My weird, totally random and completely unrefined superpower<br /></li><li><b>Soapbox</b>: When I really get on a tear about something -- doesn't happen much</li><li><b>Stupidity</b>: Funny stuff, or just what I write when I'm feeling goofy</li><li><b>Transition</b>: Anything to do with change</li></ul>I've also added a php redirect to the home page of the main site that takes you directly to the blog, because I really have no idea what I want to do with that yet. But I envision something completely artistic, since I no longer need a web site to find a job. Obviously such complete freedom is paralyzing and I must procrastinate for as long as possible.<br /><br />And yeah, I know how to back up this puppy three different ways now. So don't even go there.<br /> ]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Beach umbrellas at the end of the world</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/08/beach-umbrellas-at-the-end-of-the-world.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.3</id>

    <published>2011-08-19T05:20:00Z</published>
    <updated>2011-09-22T07:33:16Z</updated>

    <summary>Me: You gotta see this picture from Vancouver. It&apos;s not right. The light is weird. Mom: Yeah... it&apos;s like the sun is too high for it to be that dim. Me: That&apos;s it. It&apos;s that weird northern light. This was...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Dreams" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    <category term="dream" label="Dream" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[Me: <i>You gotta see this picture from Vancouver. It's not right. The light is weird.</i><br /><br />
<img alt="beach.jpg" src="http://blog.artful-i.com/images/beach.jpg" class="mt-image-center" style="text-align: center; display: block; margin: 0pt auto 20px;" height="302" width="450" /><br />
Mom: <i>Yeah... it's like the sun is too high for it to be that dim.</i><br />
<br />
Me: <i>That's it. It's that weird northern light. This was taken at 6pm but it just doesn't look right to me. It looks sort of apocalyptic.</i><br />
<br />
Mom: <i>... What?</i><br />
<br />
Me: <i>I had a dream that looked like this. It was a beach and the light was weird, just like this. It had red and white striped umbrellas. It was at the edge of the world. I knew if I walked to the water, I would fall off the world.</i><br />
<br />
Mom: <i>... ?</i> <br />
<br />
Me: <i>Because it was at the very top of the world and you couldn't go any farther. Wait... the top of the world is pretty much north of here, isn't it?</i><br />
<br />
Mom: <i>Yeah, pretty much... when did you have this dream?</i><br />
<br />
Me: <i>Years ago, like high school or college. I'd never even been that far north, how would I know what the light looked like? I haven't </i>ever<i> been that
far north... until last week!</i><br />
<br />
Mom: <i>You scare the hell out of me.</i>
 

]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>&quot;You&apos;re on your own.&quot;</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/08/youre-on-your-own.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.5</id>

    <published>2011-08-16T00:35:00Z</published>
    <updated>2011-09-16T00:32:31Z</updated>

    <summary>I&apos;ve decided to add a category to this blog called &quot;dreams.&quot; I have them once in a while. Not as often or as vividly as I used to, thanks to a certain furry alarm clock who likes to comb my...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Dreams" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    <category term="dream" label="Dream" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#tag" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[I've decided to add a category to this blog called "dreams." I have them once in a while. Not as often or as vividly as I used to, thanks to a certain furry alarm clock who likes to comb my scalp with her claws at random intervals during the night, but every once in a while, one sneaks through. While I was in Vancouver last week without said alarm clock, in a very comfy bed at the Marriott, one snuck through. It was last Saturday morning, my last day in the city. I still can't get it out of my head.<br /><br />I'm not going to write
about the most personal ones or the dreams that aren't either beautiful or meaningful in some way. I'll just write about the ones that tell me something about myself, about the future (rare), or just look really really cool. I usually don't recognize the ones that tell
me the future until the future comes, so that will be a crap shoot. And that hasn't happened in a while. I don't think it has anyway. Honestly, I'm still trying to figure out if there's a connection between this dream and something that happened later that day, or if
it was just visually coincidental. I actually think it's the latter.<br /><br />I woke up Saturday morning around nine. It didn't take long for me to remember what I had been dreaming before I woke up. It was disturbing enough that it took me an hour to get back to sleep, and yet on my last possible sightseeing day I was determined to do
that. I had to sleep it off if I could. I slept a little after that, but it didn't help. The dream added a weird apocalyptic filter to the rest of my day, making me anxious, angry, and unwilling to be alone. It didn't stop me from doing anything that day, but it made me
weirdly detached from a lot of what I did. And pissed that I was having to do everything that day all by myself, and pissed that I was pissed about it because I'm not usually a needy person and it's the last thing I ever want to be.<br /><br />It went something like this: I was on the first floor of a brick office building. I worked there. There were about three floors above me. There was a bomb threat. They were evacuating the upper floors but for some reason they couldn't evacuate mine. We were just going to have to stay there and hope it was a hoax. I wasn't standing for that, so I left. I left the rest of my coworkers there, although I think they could have come with me if they had wanted to. Not sure. It was almost as if I'm the only one who knew we could leave if we wanted, no one else knew how to save themselves. I got as far away as I could and looked back, and the building exploded. I remember the smoke in particular as the building
collapsed. It was thick but faint, like from a great distance, almost like dense dust. I went back to the building to see if anyone was still alive. Everyone on the first floor was still alive but crushed by the floors above, moaning, screaming for help.<br /><br />Today I saw a video of the stage collapse in Indiana, which happened the same day I had this dream, and the dust rising after the stage came down on top of those people looked eerily similar. People getting crushed by a large structure also looked eerily similar. But I don't think that was the message I was meant to receive.<br /><br />After the building
exploded, I went back. I was my usual calm-in-a-disaster self, assessing the situation but with an obvious sense of urgency. I looked around and realized no one was there to help, no first responders of any kind. I called 911. And then everything changed: I
was hysterical, terrified, screaming on the phone for someone to come help as soon as they could. The response from the other end was a frustrated female voice saying, "We don't have anyone to send out there right now. DO NOT CALL HERE AGAIN."<br /><br />I woke up afraid of the images I had seen and mad as hell. I tried to go back
to sleep but it took an hour and then I only slept very lightly. It never went away. But it wasn't hard to figure out what it was really about.<br /><br />A disaster had occurred. Victims were everywhere. There was nothing I could do to help and no one was coming to help them. And no one was coming to help me. Probably because I didn't think I
needed any help. It was all for everyone else.<br /><br />Anger is a normal phase in the grieving process, and I always expected at some point I would start getting angry at Paul for how abruptly he left my life. And yet the anger I feel right now is not at him. It's not at any one person. It's at the fact that I am dealing with this by myself and for some time now, I've been past the point in my life where I want to be alone. Of course I have friends, good friends. My best, best friends are back in Texas and can only be here for me so much. In California, I have people in closer proximity but they're mostly acquaintances. The difference between a friend and an acquaintance is this: A friend says, "I'm here for you" and is there for you. An acquaintance says, "I'm here for you"
and is there for you if he doesn't already have other plans.<br /><br />The friends I have, and even many of the acquaintances, deserve a lot of credit and appreciation for what they have done for me over the last few weeks. What I'm talking about is a problem I think I've created myself by being as independent as I am and having a history of not
asking for help with anything. And by worrying too much about other people to even be a temporary inconvenience for my own sake. I'm an only child and I've handled everything myself for 40 years. I keep thinking there's no reason why I can't handle THIS, and THIS, and THIS OVER HERE all alone as well. And then I end up like I am right now. So maybe I'm wrong. Or something.<br /><br />When people ask me how I'm doing, I say "ok." It's possible that I need to revise my definition of "ok." I figure as long as I'm getting up in the morning, sleeping at night, eating regularly and going about my life in a relatively normal way, I'm "ok." Except that I'm unbelievably angry now that I can't really talk about what's happened and what's still going on. I am so afraid of burdening the
people I care about the most with the darker details of what I've been dealing with, I just refuse to bring it up and then bring them down with me. A small piece of the story will escape here and there -- probably out of necessity -- but except for one close friend I
work with, most don't hear more than that because I usually squash it and change the subject immediately. I refuse to lean on anyone too hard or for too long. I refuse to say "I need to talk about it" because I don't feel like I deserve to be heard by people who are normally happy and don't need to be brought down. I'm scared of what will come out of me and what it will do to my friendships when others become uncomfortable with what they don't understand and can't relate to. So I say very little. In some cases, nothing at all. I guess when someone says, "I'm here for you," I don't really trust it. Because I don't really believe they know what they're getting into and as usual, I take on the responsibility of protecting them. From me.<br /><br />And so I'm looking at the victims of this disaster screaming for help, and not even realizing I am one of them. That's
what the dream was trying to tell me. I am one of them and I need 911 to respond to ME. But unfortunately 911 is already occupied with something else. They already had plans, prior commitments, because I led them to believe I was already "ok." What else were they
going to do?]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>I don&apos;t believe in coincidence</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/07/i-dont-believe-in-coincidence.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.6</id>

    <published>2011-07-28T04:17:00Z</published>
    <updated>2011-09-22T07:32:05Z</updated>

    <summary>In my last post, I described a maelstrom I drew on the rocks on the edge of the bay when I went out for a walk around the office complex last week. I&apos;ve walked past that maelstrom every day at...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Sixth Sense" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[In my <a href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/07/maelstrom.html" target="_blank">last post</a>, I described a maelstrom I drew on the rocks on the edge of the bay when I went out for a walk around the office complex last week. <br /><br /><img alt="maelstrom.jpg" src="http://blog.artful-i.com/images/maelstrom.jpg" class="mt-image-center" style="text-align: center; display: block; margin: 0pt auto 20px;" height="300" width="400" />I've walked past that maelstrom every day at around 3pm since I drew it. Sometimes I stop and stand in the middle of it. Sometimes I sit near it for a few minutes, or I just give it a glance as I walk by. The time alone, exercise and sunshine have all been helping to keep my mood relatively stable. The drawing has rubbed off some, but really hasn't changed much over the last week and a half. Except today there was something new. A response, perhaps.<br /><br /><img alt="iloveu.jpg" src="http://blog.artful-i.com/images/iloveu.jpg" class="mt-image-center" style="text-align: center; display: block; margin: 0pt auto 20px;" height="300" width="400" />I didn't do that. It was waiting for me when I got there this afternoon.<br /><br />Now I'm not going to sit here and try to tell you that a "spirit" came and arranged those rocks for me. It's been my experience that a message is usually not something created out of the blue by some unseen entity for your eyes only, but more often, it's something that's already there, somewhere. The "message" comes when everything lines up so that you're in just the right place at just the right time to see it. If you're lucky, you see it right when you need to see it the most.<br /><br />My walk today was a relatively long one. I found some train cars with graffiti that I had to take pictures of, and that slowed me down. So when I got to the rocks, I didn't have any real time to spend there. I took the picture and then headed back to work. But those rocks pulled at me all afternoon. It was that same feeling you get when you look back on your last goodbye to someone you've lost, when you didn't know at the time that it was your last goodbye. That sense that you took it for granted that you would see them again, rushed through it and now you would never get that time back. The pull was strong enough that I delayed going out to dinner with a friend after work so I could go back there and spend some time looking at the words. It's a sacred space now, a place for me and Paul to meet every day. Even if he didn't arrange those rocks himself, I know he wanted me to see the message and think of him.<br /><br />I don't know if this is the last thing I will ever see that makes me feel like he's still here. I hope not. But I'm definitely not going to rush through anything. You never know when an experience with someone you love will be your last.]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Maelstrom</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/07/maelstrom.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.7</id>

    <published>2011-07-20T06:28:00Z</published>
    <updated>2011-09-16T01:22:12Z</updated>

    <summary>Yesterday I had a particularly bad day. It started with an 8-hour night with a 2.5-hour sleepless hole in the middle, followed by a dream about my stepdad, Paul, who took his own life on July 3rd, just over two...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Sixth Sense" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[Yesterday I had a particularly bad day. It started with an 8-hour night with a 2.5-hour sleepless hole in the middle, followed by a dream about my stepdad, Paul, who took his own life on July 3rd, just over two weeks ago. It's the first dream I've had about him since that day. Maybe the first ever, I'm not sure. In the dream, it wasn't suicide that killed him but an accident. He was trying to blow open an underwater safe and something went wrong. He was opening it so he could steal whatever was inside. The idea was that he was doing something illegal, dangerous, maybe even stupid, to provide for his family, to do right by us, and it backfired. And there was no fixing it after that.<br /><br />His actions were well intentioned, but misguided. And irreversible.<br /><br />I woke up very
sad and worked hard to hold it together for the rest of the day. In fact, I barely made it to lunch before I had to leave the building and go for a walk around the complex. I took my phone and my iPod and set out for the water. When I got to my usual sitting place, I saw a charcoal briquette on the ground and some child's writing on the rocks. I stared at the charcoal fully recognizing the sign that it's time to start expressing my grief in some way other than biting my friends' heads off and having an almost daily meltdown in isolation.
It's time to get creative and really process this tragedy, integrate it into my reality so I can go on. I took the piece of charcoal and drew a maelstrom on the rocks with a black hole at the center, then took a picture of it, put it on Facebook and called it a self portrait. "See if you can find me," I said.<br /><br />As of this moment, I still don't know how to express what I barely even understand. In fact, this is the most I've really been able to say about what I feel since this happened. And I really haven't said anything yet. I've talked endlessly about what I think happened, intellectualized everyone else's emotions and mine, rationalized why he did what he did, expressed sincere compassion for a man who couldn't face the rest of his life in miserable cancer treatment, burdening the people he loved most with his care (as he saw it). He was 68. He may have had a lot of years left. Odds are they would not have been good, but we will never know for sure.<br /><br />He had already lost so much of himself to his illness, a part of his identity that was most important to him. He found a way to have the last word, to regain some of that identity if only for a split second at the end of his life. A part of me actually respects the courage that took. I don't feel that way every day. <br /><br />He said in one of our last conversations, "I'm digging in my heels." He was angry. He had been told he was the poster child for his treatment's success. That the last six years of misery had been worth it and that he would be a very old man before he had to worry about the treatment
starting to fail. That ultimately he would probably die of something other than cancer (true that I guess). And then suddenly there was a tumor at least the size of his fist that hadn't been there even two months earlier. I would have been angry too. I was angry for him. And sad.<br /><br />I saw his despair, I knew he had a gun, and I didn't connect the dots.<br /><br />The day the doctor called and said "high grade prostate cancer," he was recovering from a procedure that revealed the problem quite by accident the day before. When I was told about the procedure a couple of weeks earlier, I had a strong
sense that it was not going to be the simple fifteen minute task they thought. I didn't know why, but I sensed complication on the horizon. "He's not going to die from it," I thought to myself, trying to make sense of the gut feeling that wouldn't go away. Again, true that. But I didn't know what "it" was. I just knew somehow that he was in for a long haul, uncharacteristic of what they thought they were going in for. When the results came back, my mom called me at work and told me the news. We went into soldier mode. I
told her, "Here's how this is gonna go. You take care of him, I take care of you." That was the plan. But I was worried about his emotional state and so was my mom. I went back to my desk and thought about him. Focused on him. And I saw something.<br /><br />I saw him lying on a bed, on his side, on what looked like a peach comforter. He seemed to be sleeping but there was much more going on under the surface. As I focused on him, I started to feel what he was feeling. In fact, it was so unbelievably clear I had to warn my mom.<br /><br /><i>I'm sitting here at work thinking about this (because nothing else is going on) and I can't get past the thought that I'm feeling what he is feeling right now. Like my feelings are his and not mine. And if I'm right, be sure you check on him while he's hiding away by himself. He's lost all sense of a future. That doesn't mean he doesn't have one but he doesn't know that right now and he doesn't know that his future isn't going to be pure hell. He's hiding away in an emotional cocoon that's stuck on the moment he found out something was wrong - shock I guess, in a way - his life has stopped right where he's at. It's like he thinks "I can handle where I'm
at right now but no more" and he's staying there and shutting out everything that might come after this. You'll need to draw him out a little, even if it's just to go out to dinner or something. It will remind him that things are still going on and he's still a part of it and there are things to enjoy. Right now he's not moving, which is ok for a while and probably necessary but you don't want him to get stuck.</i><br /><br />She wrote me back and said I sure had a way of hitting the nail on the head. And also, that my vision of him lying down was a little creepy because he had gone back to bed after the doctor called. The only thing that was off was the color -- the room he was in was green.<br /><br />This happened on Tuesday, June 28. On Tuesday, July 5, one week later and two days after he was gone, I saw something completely different.<br /><br />I finally left my apartment after two days of shocked stares at the walls to get cat food and
prepare for my trip to Oklahoma for the funeral. I got in my car and started driving. I felt the sky above me as if it were bigger than usual, a huge, bright, infinitely open space, free of every kind of worry or burden. It was an overwhelming, unmistakable sense of
relief. But it wasn't mine. It surrounded me all the way to my skin and stopped there, but didn't penetrate and certainly didn't come from within me. And then I saw an image of my mom facing the same huge sky, bright white... it was a clear image of a wide open
future.<br /><br />It was so impossible to ignore that as soon as I got home, I sent an email to a good friend (one who's used to hearing such things) explaining what I had felt.<br /><br />Two days later I found myself in the midst of funeral arrangements, in the middle of a room full of caskets. They leave you alone in the casket room, I guess because people get emotional and want privacy. It's a good thing because they don't know me and my mom. We're all about comic relief in a crisis and let's face it, so was Paul, and there's a lot more to make fun of in a casket room than you might think. For
instance, who thought plum and copper was a good color combination? Or what about the Liberace casket, blue inside and out, and not a good blue either. The kind of blue when it was the only color of eye shadow you could buy.<br /><br />"Well Honey, it matches your eyes!" Mom said, and we shared a laugh with Paul.<br /><br />But we also took care of business. The caskets in the room were not him at all. Mom found a really nice wooden one in a book, special order, and after quite a few phone calls from the director, one was finally located somewhere in Chicago. So then it was about how to get it to Oklahoma City in less than two days. It was perfect though. Paul designed and
built furniture (in addition to being a metal sculptor) and this fit his style. It was not cheap, but this was the last chance my mom had to take care of him like she had always wanted, and she was going to do the absolute best for him that she could.<br /><br />The plan was shaky though. Getting a casket on a plane from Chicago to Oklahoma
City isn't like sending something through FedEx. The director encouraged her to choose a backup in case they couldn't get it and she did, but she wasn't happy with it. She wasn't feeling it at all. So the director came in with a photo of an Italian casket that they
had on display at their other location. That wasn't him either, but we decided to go up to the other location just to see what else they had.<br /><br />Now strangely comfortable in rooms full of caskets, I circled the room quickly. One near the door had caught my eye
already, wooden with an interesting pattern around the edge, not frilly like so many of them. We came back to it thinking it might be a better backup. Then Mom started talking to the director about art deco style. Paul loved art deco. The director pointed to the same
casket we had our eye on and told us to look at the corners, which were sculpted in an art deco style. There we had it. That was our new backup, and we felt a lot better about it. So the director left and went back to work trying to get our first choice on an airplane.<br /><br />We relaxed a bit and started chatting again. As we talked, I noticed something about the lining of the casket and I walked up to it and felt it. Velvet. I felt the lining, the pillow, and everything was comfortable and soft. I had never stuck my hand in a casket before, and I'm sure I'd hoped I would never have a real reason to while I was still alive, but here I was smoothing out the fabric like I had just made the bed. And then it hit me like a full body slam BOOM I jumped back in horror and cried, staring at it. Mom ran up to me and hugged me, worried sick and all I could say was, "That color... it's peach... it's the color I saw him lying on... !" I looked around the room at the other caskets and not one had that color lining. Not one.<br /><br />I was terrified. And upset. And completely
confused. I couldn't wrap my head around what had just happened. Mom, however, was comforted. It was a small sense that as horrible as it all was, it was somehow supposed to happen. Somewhere, somehow, there was a plan. She canceled the order on the one in Chicago and we buried him in the art deco casket.<br /><br />I was glad I could offer
some comfort to my mom and help make a decision but to be honest, I'm still wrestling with that moment. In a weird way I had actually seen the end of his life and I didn't know it at the time. I am in awe of it, comforted in some way, grateful that I could help and yet deeply disturbed and saddened by it. I'm not even sure all of that comes close to explaining how I feel about that moment or about anything else. I had received information from who knows where that would only become clear to me because this man I loved so much was going to die. It was already set in motion before anyone could even imagine the possibility. Not that we ever really could.<br /><br />I'm the kind of
person that believes there is a reason for everything. Even if it's not obvious at first, it usually becomes clear further down the road. Things usually make sense to me eventually. Life is a linear thing: Something happens, which causes something else, which causes something else. In this case I had lost all sense of sequential time.
I saw things I couldn't interpret that couldn't be known or understood, and yet now I find myself seeing the messages so clearly in hindsight and struggling with the fact that I was given enough information to be of only minimal assistance here and there, but not
to prevent it. Sometimes I feel very angry that I was allowed to offer basic help but not allowed to save his life.<br /><br />And that's even taking into account that one of my sorority sisters lost her father three weeks earlier in the same way, and I saw that coming
too. Once again, I just didn't know what was happening until it had already happened. And who could possibly imagine in their wildest nightmares that it would happen twice within a month, within the same circle of friends? In a way, it's like it happened so that I
specifically would <i>not</i> see it coming for myself, not so that I would.<br /><br />The week before Father's Day, for 24 of some of most miserable hours of my life, I was the most overstimulated, anxious, agitated person on the planet. I couldn't allow anyone to touch me. I couldn't watch TV. I couldn't put away my laundry because the clutter of clothes on the bed made me want to jump out the window. I tried to settle the issue by taking a bath for over an hour in a dark silence. It calmed me enough to go to bed, but I woke up in a horrible mood the next morning and then it started all over again.<br /><br />I knew the entire time that whatever was happening was not me. It was coming from outside me, somewhere. I didn't know where until the next morning, when I was sitting at a stoplight on the way to work. I saw a license plate frame on a minivan that said "Alpha Phi." That's my sorority. You just don't see those out here. You don't see them anywhere, except maybe on a college campus, which I am nowhere
near.<br /><br />I remember saying out loud, "Really? ... <i>Really?</i>" But I still had no idea what was really going on until later that afternoon, when a sister I don't know extremely well but dearly love posted a message on Facebook asking everyone to drop everything and pray for her mother and sister because "the unimaginable has happened."<br /><br />I knew enough about my random weird feelings by now to reach out to her privately and ask if I could help. This was it, whatever it was. She wrote back an hour later with the
horrible news. Despite all my anxiety until that moment, I was in total disbelief. I had imagined something more like a car accident, not a suicide.<br /><br />I remember wondering why that happened at all, why did I of all people get a sense of that horrible tragedy before it happened? What could possibly be the purpose of letting me know
anything about that at all? I felt her tragedy so deeply, I was desperate to help her in any way I could think of. We all were. Looking back now, I see where I needed to be the one to reach out to her first, to rally the rest of the group around her, because a few weeks later I would be able to relate to her in a way I could not even imagine. And we would need each other. We are closer friends now because of our tragedies and always will be, and our mothers are now deeply connected as well, although they have never met. It's a hell of a club to belong to but I think we're both glad we're not alone.<br /><br />So that brings me to today. Today was a better day, at least compared to yesterday, even with the same sleep issues repeated for a second consecutive night. I took a walk after lunch and my black maelstrom was still plastered to the rock, although the remaining chunk of charcoal was nowhere to be found. I have yet to have a meltdown today, but of course the night is still young and the nights are the hardest. I don't know where I'm going from here. Often I feel like I'm going nowhere at all. One minute I'm angry at my
friends, at the world because my life has changed irreversibly and no one else's has even been remotely delayed. Then I'm angry because I know I have really outstanding, supportive friends and yet I'm more alone than I have ever been, because none of my friends knew Paul and ultimately cannot remotely understand what I have really lost. Then
I'm profoundly sad that I've lost someone I dearly loved in the most traumatic and violent way imaginable. Then I'm angry again that I'm living some kind of surreal life where emails about how much of my mom's bedroom floor had to be torn apart and cleaned by the disaster relief people are arriving in my inbox like the usual daily tales of doctor's appointments and grocery shopping. What the hell kind of life is this? I don't even know where I am anymore.<br /><br />I can't process my feelings until I make sense of the situation, and I can't even seem to do that. Nothing here makes sense. It is indeed
"unimaginable." Even after it all happens and you have the complete sequence of events in your mind, you still can't imagine it.<br /><br />I feel like I need to somehow start over at the beginning, on the night of July 3rd. I don't feel like I ever grasped what really happened. I wasn't there, I didn't see it, but the pictures are clear in my mind because I know enough to have pictures, and yet I feel like he's still here. Things have happened to make me think he really is. Papers have "fallen" off shelves, smoke detectors set off in patterns of three, songs on the radio echoing phone conversations with my mom just hours or even minutes earlier. Last Thursday I was "nudged" to go outside for a walk when I clearly didn't want to. But I did, and there was a ship in the bay, right at the end of my path. I had never seen that before. Paul always knew a great photo op when he saw one and loved to point them out to me.<br /><br />I know it sounds like denial, but I know what happened. I saw him in the casket. I know where he is. And yet he is here and I feel that so acutely that I dread the day he moves on for good. In the meantime, I know it's best that I fully understand this loss and mourn it, so that when he does move on I can wish him well and be grateful for the nine years he was in my life. So I can go on
with my own life. But until then, it feels like someone threw my jigsaw puzzle up in the air and I can't find half the pieces and what I can find, I can't place. I go about my daily routine because I don't have any better ideas but I don't feel like I'm really here half the time. Something is missing. Maybe it's not Paul. Maybe it's the part of me that he took with him.<br /><br />It may be the only thing I have to give him now, to remind him how much I love him. If that's the case, he can have it.
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    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Creativity is a California Freeway On-Ramp</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://blog.artful-i.com/2011/06/creativity-is-a-california-freeway-on-ramp.html" />
    <id>tag:blog.artful-i.com,2011://1.8</id>

    <published>2011-06-10T23:14:00Z</published>
    <updated>2011-09-16T22:20:04Z</updated>

    <summary>I know California is not the only state that has ramp meters, but I never saw this in Texas. In case you don&apos;t know, a ramp meter is a stop light at the end of an on-ramp before you get...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>Amy</name>
        
    </author>
    
        <category term="Process" scheme="http://www.sixapart.com/ns/types#category" />
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://blog.artful-i.com/">
        <![CDATA[I know California is not the only state that has ramp meters, but I never saw this in Texas. In case you don't know, a ramp meter is a stop light at the end of an on-ramp before you get onto the highway. It's supposed to regulate the number of cars trying to get on at the same time. It's a nice idea in theory. Does it work? Not so much.
I've been here almost two years. I have yet to see it improve the quality of my commute or anyone else's... unless you count the extra wait time I can use to listen to Duran Duran in my car.<br /><br />In Texas, people would just enter the crowded highway at 30mph, creating a stroke-inducing clot of cars in the right lane of what some civil
engineer dared to call a FREEway when it was still a doodle on a napkin at Starbucks. In California, there's a clot behind the red light and another at the actual entrance to the highway. If you're keeping score, take some aspirin because that's at least two strokes
before your commute even begins. This is because the meters are only turned on during rush hour, when the cars on the highway are not moving fast enough to let others in at the rate the meter allows them off the ramp. Not only that, but the line behind the meter can be quite long and create more brake wear than the dreaded who-goes-first four way stop you see on your written driver's test -- you know the one with the fire truck, the ambulance, the police car, grazing cattle, blind schoolchildren, a velociraptor and all those droids you were looking for.<br /><br />This is what the creative process has become for me lately. And it's all because of boredom.<br /><br />I don't do well with boredom. I never have. It's bad enough that it's way too easy for me to become bored even when I do have something to do. Once I've mastered something, it doesn't really hold my attention anymore. But lately I don't even have the luxury of being bored with what I'm doing, because I'm doing nothing. For me, boredom that comes from a complete lack of anything to do is a torture worse than waterboarding. In fact, ask me anything: questions of national security, my fried chicken recipe, who I know that dated someone with a third nipple. I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Because I'm in this weird limbo between shows where they're finished with me on one show and are not ready for me on the next. In fact, I don't even know what the next is yet. And my resolve has turned to mush.<br /><br />So in my ample spare time over the last month -- I think it's been a
month, but limbo has no wall clocks or calendars -- I've come up with a lot of ideas. Paintings, videos, self portraits, interactive toys of genius and deception. I want to do them all. I can't do any of them at work because I don't have my tools, so I simmer in my ideas with unbridled anticipation of the moment I can walk out of work, drive home, eat a chicken leg and get started on The Next Big Thing.<br /><br />My work days are full of hope for the future. The future itself, however, is full of random social activity, Instagram
photos of meaningless objects given the keys to the very universe by nifty retro filtering, discussions about What I'm Working On Next, piano practice, and then all that couch time spent thinking, <i>I bought component and audio splitters for my cable box so I could hook up a small TV on the kitchen cabinet that I could see from my desk, so I could get all this work done and still have something to look at... eh, I like this TV better. And the cat's in my lap.</i><br /><br />For me, boredom either creates a wealth of ideas all bunched up at my mental freeway ramp meter or the sheer pain of the experience deadens my mind completely. Actually having the time to do something is the absolute worst thing that can happen, given that my only true motivation to do anything is a complete lack of time to do it. Either way, the result is creative paralysis with a random toe twitch here and there: an unfinished self portrait (because I worked through whatever made me want to do it and then lost interest), a great painting idea of a carnival under a couch fort that should probably be painted on that paint-stripped door that was a coffee table two years ago, a clever line that's just begging to be the title of whatever image it conjures up (I carry a little notebook full of these). Few things are started, nothing is finished. Because once you're sprayed by the skunk of boredom, the stench follows you into every subsequent endeavor until all effort is futile.<br /><br />Any minute now I know my phone is going to ring, and they're going to tell me what they're doing with me for the foreseeable future, which could be anywhere from a couple of months to another year. And in the rush of daily work I'm going to have truly brilliant creative ideas that will never manifest because of overtime and exhaustion. And I'm going to look back on this gift of time and space and mass unproductivity and I'm going to be pissed.]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

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