Flannery O Connor as a child. Click for photo credit

This was written about a year ago…a quite smitten essay-in-progress telling of one of my greatest loves. Don’t be grossed out, ok??

I think I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. When I was young and imagining my grown up life, I tried on many roles but was most loyal to an ideologically indulgent portrayal of The Writer.I cast myself from the faint images of every literary heroine I knew: girls with wild spirits and ideas that they would share in well-worn leather bounded books. Their voices were feathery echoes during each late night spent filling notebook after notebook with the characters and places – borrowed and imagined – that I loved so much.

I wanted to be them and write like them, too, until my fingertips rubbed raw, until there were flickering splotches that jumped on and off the paper. It didn’t matter what I was writing about, or who I was writing for because it was the act in itself which entertained my young fantasies. In them, I imagined myself at my desk for hours every day, pausing every so often to stretch my tired limbs – fingers most of all - or to pace back and forth in deep contemplation, oblivious to things like dust mounds and hungry mice that, in my future life, would cover the most neglected spaces of my implausibly tiny apartment. I imagined the thrill of completing my first novel and holding the sum of its pages; the literal weight of my own words in my bare hands. Never did I imagine fortune or fame or even lukewarm admiration. I wrote for me, for the torturous and never quite complete pleasure that writing gave me.

There was no one else like me, I thought, or no other small human like me who would want to sit over a desk and think of words, and write words, and pour over them with delicate and delicious precision. Now I jadedly identify this cliche as a yet unjaded writer’s narcissism, a trait too typical and antiquarian to admit to, though I’ll admit, it still exists. Rarely is love like this void of ego. And I could compose an entire love story on my relationship with writing. I can say, unabashedly, it’s one of the longest, the most wonderfully fulfilling yet agonizing; and certainly, the most personal I have had, too. It grows with me, alongside me, and during work that’s felt like the most exciting thing I’ve come up with, it is a few big steps ahead of me.

Joan Didion at work. Click for photo credit.

photo via downtownfrombehind

Ordinarily I feel a guilty mix of glee and relief whenever I hear about the pummeling storms and temperatures that plague the Midwest each winter. But this year, I want to be right there in the mess of it! And obviously I’d be riding this bicycle with a gorgeous skirt and red hair and not having to even think about shoveling or wearing three hats or the gas freezing in my car…

I know that most of the country is getting attacked right now by the snow (look at that picture!) but I’ve still got a strong Minnesotan streak that makes me feel like throwing my hands up and going “So??” But despite this tendency, there have been a lot of wild stories from across the U.S., and I know it’s bad. And no matter how many times you live through one, a really gigantic snowstorm always feels somehow momentous, and in that way really exciting, too.

What’s even more hysterical to be watching from this dry patch of land is how the media and blogs have been blowing this story up to tsunami-scale heights. Hashtags and retweets up the wall! And SO many puns – or should I say “snow” many?

Friends, if you’re out on a stroll, why not give yourself a break and rest in this lovely snofa?

snofa in Brooklyn, NY via rachel in Brooklyn

To close this light and fun post is a slightly heavier, but no more burdensome thought on snowstorms and the manner in which we find ourselves and our surroundings uncontrollably frozen in their midst, in more than one way:

“At the very core of this ‘mess’, snow demonstrates that we can and should create situations that ask more of people, individually and collectively; that challenge, meaning and connection are often more important than ease…snow reminds us of how satisfying it is to use our full host of mental and physical faculties to solve a problem, learn or traverse the landscape at hand. It’s not just our children that need a permanently snowy city, we could all benefit from a little lingering snow.”

- Alex Gilliam, founder of design group PublicWorkshop, via Core77

via pinterest.com. click for photo credit

It feels a bit early in the lifespan of this blog to be sitting down for a “we need to have a talk” sort  of post. But I think we do. My reasons for blogging have changed drastically since I first began in 2009. They continue to change, which is the reason this blog’s adopted name lacks a certain…certainty. I swear it’s not pretension.

With individual bloggers and personal blogs gaining legitimacy in the online writing world and the writing world at large, there’s a wider pressure to be putting out polished, well-researched content that is concise, relevant, and entertaining to its readers. And why shouldn’t it be? If people are marketing their work and sharing it with an audience as large as the entire Internet, their work should be good. Better than good, even. Edited. Vetted by someone else. Edited again. But for the place I’m in with my writing – reacquainting myself with ‘the pen’ after a long, lonely hiatus, the blog feels too tight a box for my cramped up limbs.

What began as a sure pipeline to the writing mind has turned into something clogged by these pressures (mostly self-induced) and immobilizing. Part of that has to do with my own back and forth uncertainty over a theme which led me to adopt the hideously overzealous attitude and tone of other “life-improvement” bloggers. It’s not coincidental that I can barely recognize it as my own. Reading some of those blind rants, me rattling off vague ideas on vague pursuits, I can see how desperately I fed off the hope of someday, someway being fulfilled in my work. All of those Change-your-life-by-doing-what-you-love bloggers are dealing dangerous cards, placing high bets – and winning – on the ennui and discontent of the modern worker. It’s an easy path to profit, but a not entirely moral one. It’s taken me months to back away from that table, but now I comfortably am calling their bluff, and my own, on this form of reader degradation superficially masked as encouragement. The mentality that you’re not quite good enough, but almost, easily identified in women’s magazines, now perpetuated through those clever lifestyle blogs (even those run by respected ranks of writers) is not an idea I can subscribe to myself. So why would I expect anyone else to?

Now that I’ve picked up some discipline and consistency in my writing habits, offline, I feel less reliant on this blog to provide me those mechanisms. I still want to share the stories that provoke true inspiration, the good ideas and good organizations doing things of value, whether that’s social, personal, political, comedic or purely aesthetic. Finding and sharing these web gems is more than half of the fun of blogging for me, not to mention way less nauseating than a spew of tips and tricks for revamping your life.

So, if you’ve been able to sift through the heaping meta-mess of this post, thanks! If not, this part will sum it up: I’m going to be concentrating less on how “blog-ready” my posts are, “stop fetishizing output“, and just write! This may mean things will look a little funny around here, in an extra-limbs, two-headed kind of way. And I hope that’s ok with you.

End meta-blogging now.

What is essential is invisible to the eye

It took me a good full minute at least to spot the thing that was just slightly out of place on this subway sign. An excellent reminder of just how much goes on right in front of us, plain and simply, and so easily unnoticed.

The Subway Art Blog is full of hidden treasures like this. Sometimes we forget how the city itself, the pavement, street signs, old crumbly buildings, provides us with the absolute perfect canvas.

Finding our days draped in a gray, biting cold; nights pre-emptively pulling the shades down for what can feel like days unending, it’s no wonder we seem barely able to drag ourselves through January. The sludge and muck builds up outside our doors and somehow it’s an excuse to let the same happen inside. Even if you’re generally imperceptible to winter’s harsh ways, it’s not unlikely you’ll find yourself in various stages of disarray – overindulging in the quick comforts of certain things while ignoring the sort of self-care you could actually use for your seasonal blues. Time to think. To rest, really, without the distractions of beeping messages or flashing screens.

But to seek some written guidance in your mild melancholia is to be burned by a scouring set of tips and tricks for “beating“, “kicking”, or “fighting off“ the mid-winter blues. We must “escape” its icy grip before we become Ice Queens ourselves! From the words of our trusted dailies, you’d think we were facing a lethal army here, instead of some added sluggishness and a greater appetite for bad TV and chocolates. Of course, for those who have a more severe reaction to the season’s shortened darker days, the prescriptive plan for countering it might be necessary. But for the rest of us, there is some hope. And it doesn’t involve popping pills or tanning beds or shopping sprees to pep us up. Even though we might be watching it, we’re not out to become the latest goon on Jersey Shore.

Of course there are benefits to all of these commonly shared mood-busters. Buying flowers for yourself is a treat any time, and being active outdoors gives you a boost no matter what season it is. Playing upbeat music can help us feel cheerier on just about any occasion. Ditto for vacations, delicious and healthy food, and time with friends and loved ones. So doesn’t it seem like we’re the ones getting tricked, by overwhelming ourselves with advice no more catered to winter-time gloom than to post-breakup gloom or laid-off gloom?

There might be something to say for actually letting ourselves experience the quietude and deepening shades of these few months (three to five TOPS, that’s it!). Making it into a time in which to attend to the things lying indoors or in our heads, the sludge and clutter that we’ve let build up unknowingly or actively put off. Indulge the mini-energy crisis rather than taking the Joan Rivers approach of slathering on layers of products and quick injections in hopes of erasing it all. This doesn’t imply a permission to slack off or be listlessly cold in our relationships, but instead to take care of ourselves. Just that.

It may be with more trips to the yoga studio or the hiking trails. A schedule to write once a day or see a movie once a week. Pink of Perfection’s Sarah offers her simple story of making a big change. There are tons of ways to go about it, and it doesn’t matter which one you choose. Because marking the difference of seasons by heeding to its calls for adjustment is not only a better use of our extra time indoors, but a more solid way of readying ourselves for the buzzing profusion of spring and summertime action.

My favorite author Zadie Smith says it right in one of her novels,

“…I think this whole trend for round-the-clock bloom is actually very unhealthy for the garden and the gardener and particularly the soil…I think the winter should be a time of rest, subdued colours, you know – and then when the late spring does finally arrive the neighbours get a hell of a shock!…There it is, this wonderful explosion of growth. I think the deep winter is really a time for nurturing the soil, turning it over, allowing it a rest and plotting its future all the better to surprise the nosy people next door…and that’s really quite natural.”

Now go watch Portlandia and give your bangs a trim!

For some more smart inspiration from others making the most of winter’s slow crawl, click here and here.

Hello? Is there anyone out there, still?
After an eventful couple of offline weeks, that exit sign on the wall was looking sort of enticing. But I promise I’m back and dare I even say better than before? It is a New Year, after all, so we are obligated to pack in all sorts of promises and far-reaching goals. This, that, and the other thing. But a New Year means a new start. And so this time, rather than air bubbles, I intend to fill my year with action and a little thing called intent to back it up. But enough with the words, right?

A little bit of what I’ve been up to lately:

Wrapped up my first ‘freelance’ gig for a rad local coffee house
Celebrated the birth of dear friends and country icons
Bought a ticket and started planning for a trip here
Considered my new life as a Virgo…and then wondering what it all means, if anything!

Can’t wait to kick off the new year here. See you soon, pals!

These maps are re-prints of handmade die-cuts, with enough detail and personality built right in, you might not even want to leave the house! Above are the world and New York City, for my own domination purposes, but there are also London and Paris maps for a double dose of romantic nostalgia. I’m imagining what it would be like to create a die-cut of this caliber, and remembering with embarrassment my hideous attempts at paper snowflakes this month. Kudos to the map-maker and expert scissors-wielder.

Scratch off maps…perfect for the imperialist in all of us. Maybe world explorer sounds better…

These maps aren’t technically art, but I think they could easily pass. They depict the distribution of race and ethnicity in major American cities, where red is White, blue is Black, green is Asian, orange is Hispanic and grey is other. On the right is my current home of Seattle, and the left shows my future home of New York City. (each dot represents 25 people)

Happy Christmas and Holiday Cheers, everyone. Sit with your loved ones at least a little bit closer than usual, and maybe even tell them you love ‘em!

(I would do the same to my dear family, the 40+ people with who I am missing playing boot hockey, sledding, singing carols, drinking special punch and eating the best food… a whole lot, especially today. Someday soon we all will be together.)

Being that this is my very first Christmas holiday without a single family member to curl up next to with a cheery beverage, I’ve got some extra time on my hands to curl up, by myself, with a cheery beverage and reflect on the year’s end.  And if I may use my ostentatious claim about society card here, everyone else seems to be doing the same, in classic list form. It must be that unique joining of remorse over time lost with hope for time to come that must drive people’s frenzied lists each December. There’s self-focussed lists: to-do’s, resolutions; and other-focussed lists: gifts for family and friends, charities to give time/money to. And my favorite, the culture lists: The 100 Best Books, the 10 Greatest Ideas, the Top 10 Christmas Albums, etc.

I used to take year-end lists very seriously. The Best-of’s and the Worst-of’s and the Most Memorable of’s were something like the tv-dinner way of capturing another year gone by. Maybe it’s evidence of me getting older, or that I’m finally feeling capable of meaningfully capturing things on my own, but these lists no longer move me.

While I loved other people’s compilations, I’ve never been my own list-maker. Something about their sinisterly simple format always rubbed me the wrong way, like they were taunting me: Look how easy we are, so confined to one line and all-encompassing. To-do lists are not much better in this way, at least for me, always so misleading in their measly print detailing such complex and multi-stepped processes and ideas, while being all, C’mon, you can’t even check us off?  How slow are you…?

But this year, Santa and his elves aren’t the only one making lists. It seems I’ve caught the bug, making an ordinarily messy inbox dump resemble somewhat of a list…

Would this be called:

1) Obsessive compulsive disorder
2) Boredom
3) Extreme Organization and Preparation

Look, I just made another list! My email inbox has become a self-populating list of people (designers, bloggers, writers, filmmakers, nonprofiteers), places (wine bars, cafes, underground dance halls), and best-of everything (workplaces, streets)  for my upcoming move. It’s the cumulative lists of  who I want to talk to, what I want to see, where I want to go/work in the new year and the new city. And it’s pretty exciting.

What kinds of lists are you making this year? Are they swift and simple, or tedious and thought-heavy?

A while ago I wrote a little practice piece titled, “What we talk about when we talk about scrunchies”. It was an exaggerated satirical sketch of the dodgy 90s hair accessory, which after a brief and disgruntled reincarnation on Sex and the City circa ’02 or so, now seems bound and determined to make it back onto the heads of all womankind. Between AA’s revival mission in ’09 to the more recent and higher-browed lecture at the New Museum in New York, the things just won’t go away! Amidst all the discussion I’ve read/heard surrounding these horrendous bits of an otherwise awesome decade, generally contained to ladies’ circles, I’ve got to wonder, who is running this Scrunchie business’s publicity campaign? Is this a band of morally elastic 20-something interns, eager to re-brand a product so widely reviled it could be nicknamed Madoff, the latest challengers in a new spin of that Donald Trump competition? Questions abound.

I thought the November lecture bridging semiotics and scrunchies would be the last and final breath for the polarizing fashion piece; and I was fine with the idea of it becoming a cultural synecdoche, an object of critical debate, because at least that way, it would stay on the side of relic and out of our hair.  But then fairly new-hat hip website Cool Hunting goes and calls on a seemingly respectable company to come out with a line of the misshapen bands, and what’s more, they implore their readers to use them as stocking stuffers, calling them “well-made throwbacks”, “fun”, and “perfect”.

I’ll refrain from my argument on how there is no reason for any young woman after 1997 to be wearing a scrunchie, and how, if there were ever a time to really take to heart that idea of things to think twice about leaving your house in, because potentially, you could die while wearing them and that would be the worst-ever case of insult over injury – then this is the time. But I’ll spare you the rant. At this point, it would just be great if scrunchies could make up their minds whether they are staying or going, instead of this uncomfortable guests-in-the-doorway/threatening-to-break-up dance they’re making us do. IF they insist on staying, here are the options available to them in my house, repurposed and revamped for the 21st century Woman, of course:

-A decorative band for holding Farmer’s Market vegetables
-A decorative band for holding laptop, cell phone, iPad chargers and cords
-A replacement for the ‘poke’ button on Facebook that will be the virtual equivalent of flicking a Scrunchie at someone’s head, i.e. I like you
-A Nerf-like ‘weapon’ to flick at someone’s head (ok…this use already existed)
-An identifying tag for your beer/wine/spirits at a crowded party
-A marker on your door knob that informs roommates “Do not enter”
-Cheap, recycled ornaments for your Christmas tree