Hello Dear Readers,
I am writing to let you all know that I am officially abandoning my post as a friendster blogger. I will, from now on, only be posting on my urban honking page. I hope that you will come visit my writing there. Thanks for reading my thoughts!
love, Amber
The other night I was barrelling down the city streets driving someone’s van, blasting The Cars like nobody’s business. My friend Melissa turned to me and said, I mean, I don’t have to explain, right, you just get how good this is, right? And I did. The Cars, the lights and darkness, taking wrong turns through burger king parking lots. It was a city night, and anything was possible. A bunch of us sat in an all night pancake restaurant and listened to soul music on the jukebox. We ate waffles.
The next night Ariana and I took a walk in the fruit packing district. We wanted to go to a gallery opening that we knew would be over by the time we got there. We walked anyway, and by the time we got there, the whole street was so empty Ariana couldn’t help but mention the fact that we were two girls on a very inadvisable stretch of road. As we headed toward home, it started pouring. Later, we refered to it as our walk up the mountain. Another face of living in a city.
I make my mountains out of rainy late night streets, and I ground myself in the security of my friends. Sometimes it feels like that’s all I have here. The bravado of newness has worn off, and it’s my challenge to take the risk of extending myself out into the empty space of a city where there are insanely rich people, and awkwardly famous people, and people who I will never, ever know.
You know how in Olympia you break up with your boyfriend and cry your head off in the balcony at the Capitol Theater, and you have the allot at least an extra half hour at the coop just to talk to people? You wear your workout clothes stumbling down the street on your way to the gym, and the boy who always gives you the eye at Darby’s smiles anyway, and that’s just the way it is. Everybody knows everybody’s business, and sometimes it just makes you want to disappear. But that same thing looks out for you, too. If there’s some person you’re a little interested in, you know their story. And if you don’t know it, guaranteed you know five people who do. If you need a job, you’ll have way better luck running into someone at the coop than you ever will by looking in the newspaper.
I’ve lived in towns all my life, and I’ve been sheltered and held in check by the entire web of the community. Now I live in a city where I can just go the store, and buy some food, and maybe I’ll see one person I know. It’s a novelty for me to simply buy my groceries, no conversations attached. But sometimes it gets hard to remember who I am, since there’s so few people around to remind me of what my own life’s been made of.
Hey, you guys, here I am! I exist, right?
1. Choose a profession wherein you are consistently exhausted, stressed out, and surrounded by five year olds.
2. Be very picky. Very, very picky. Strive for the imaginary, shun the slightly imperfect.
3. Move to a new city where you only know a few people. Spend all your time with them, at your house or their house.
4. Go to bars, where the music is loud and all the people there are either drunk, trying to be cool, or both.
5. Take out a personal ad. Make yourself sound slightly boring. Then don’t try to contact any of the other personal ads people, even if they sound a little bit interesting.
6. Indulge bad feelings about yourself. Let them show.
Lately I’ve been having writer’s block. To be more accurate, it’s not a block, it’s more of an insecurity about what I have written. (2 or 3 posts by now, and you haven’t seen any of them.) The ideas I have are all floating around without structure, substance, or conclusion. It’s very disappointing. They are ideas like; Well, in Switzerland, it was the farmers who began constructing watches, in the winter, when the fields were fallow- or; Here are some ways not to get a date- or; I sure do like This American Life. But none of those ideas are interesting on their own. In fact, they are not ideas at all. They are just starting points. The real ideas happen when those jump-offs are substantiated by the real ideas. The real ideas are what I’m having a hard time articulating.
Can’t get enough of my writing? Go to urbanhonking.com/fieldreport and read some more of my ideas. It’ll be great!
In the Portland Airport, I sat down at gate C7 and opened up my laptop. Across the aisle from me I noticed a guy with a trim red beard and a plaid wool shirt, working away on his laptop. A PC, I thought. Technically not on my team. (Which isn’t to say that I can’t have a PC user on my team, or that I’m SO brand loyal in general, but still.) As soon as we board, it turns out he sits down right beside me, and before we’ve left the airport, he’s asking me friendly questions about myself. Now, I am the kind of airplane traveler who doesn’t really like to talk to people while flying. I think people who talk to each other always end up sounding crazy, no matter what their conversation is. And of course, being the efficient multitasker workaholic that I am, I’ve already got plans for my activities on the plane; take aerial photographs for my art project, read Dan Savage’s new book, and so on. So of course, when the guy starts asking me where I’m headed, what I do in Portland, etc, I’m friendly, but really I just want to be taking pictures out the window of the plane. “Oh, what are you reading?” he asks, and I hand him the book, “The Commitment,” and tell him how funny I think Dan Savage is. Now, for some reason, even though I’ve already ascertained that the man is not on my computer team, I assume (from his shirt that looks just like my friend Calvin’s, from his beard that looks just like my friend Bryce’s) that he’s generally on my team. So I tell him how he writes a sex advice column, he’s written other books, he’s political, etc. You know, DAN SAVAGE. He’s looking at me a little bit blankly, but whatever. Then I happen to mention that the marriage he’s writing about in his book is a gay marriage. Just as the plane is taking off, while I am trying to be polite and get what I want at the same time, (poised with my camera at the window, ready to capture whatever cool patterns are created by the strangely designed suburbs below) he says, “let’s have a debate! What do you think about gay marriage?” uh, hold on, I’ll tell you in a second…
“Aw, man,” I think to myself as I wildly start shooting photos out the window, “now is my one chance to be well spoken.” And it was Dan Savage himself who asserted so clearly the need for us lefties to preach to the choir- to practice our arguments, to gather the information, to feel strong and certain about what we think is correct. I turn back to the guy, saying, “I think people should be able to marry each other if they want to make the commitment.” Yeah, but why? “Well,” I go on, and spout out some sort of jumbled but relatively organized stuff about tax breaks and health insurance. The more I say, the more I know, with a sinking feeling in my heart, that this nicely trimmed man sitting next to me is in no way on my team. Not on my computer team, not on my don’t-talk-to-strangers-on-airplanes team, and not on my gay marriage team. Eventually I get bored of my own points, and ask him what he thinks. He then begins talking to me about the history of marriage from 3000 BC, what the bible says, what Jesus would say. etc. (In my mind, I am thinking, wait, now what would Dan Savage say about this? He has something he would say about this. If only I’d been to the church of Dan Savage more than just that one night at Powell’s.) I do my best to listen. Even as my skin bristles. I try not to pick a fight. But as he goes on to say that kids in homes with gay people are brainwashed, no, brainwashed is too strong a word, how about conditioned, I just can’t keep my lefty-opinionated, kindergarten-teaching, critical-thinking mouth shut. I believe people can think for themselves, I say. No, I don’t think it’s a “gay lifestyle.” I don’t think it’s a “choice.” And I certainly don’t think that same sex parenting teams are abusing their kids, or making them gay for that matter, just by existing. As we speak back and forth, I notice the people in front of us whispering to each other, and I swear I see the woman peek through the seats to see who the crazy girl is behind her. But lunatic that I am, I still have to emphasize that I think people can and should be able to make their own decisions about their lives. A right-wing Christian should be able to choose not to be in a gay relationship, even if it goes against their own sexual orientation. But I don’t think they should be able to decide how other people carry on their relationships. It’s none of their business. Now, I believe my own beliefs, and strongly, but for some reason I felt stretched and challenged on this day to really consider a different view. This was because I wanted to be respected by this guy, maybe even have my ideas be considered by him, and I was wishing that the people in front of me were thinking I was intelligent, not crazy. What it all came down to was a debate within myself, and had nothing to do with the wool shirt beard guy. Somehow I thought our varying beliefs should be able to coexist. But however I spun it, it kept ending up that if this guy got his way, (gay people vanish off the face of the earth) my perfect world would be destroyed, and if I got my way (all people have equal rights and are respected) his perfect world would be destroyed.
My brain was swimming with my internal questions, and awkwardly, but not in an unfriendly way, I stopped talking to my Christian neighbor. “The Commitment” was burning a hole in the seat pocket in front of me. There was still an hour of flight time. I wanted to read that book so bad. But what seemed like candy to me 30 minutes ago now seemed very much like X rated porn. I didn’t care. I wanted to read my book. Besides, It’s going to be overdue by the time I get home, I have to finish it in the next three days, or I pay. I opened the book.
I’ve lived in Portland for 3 months now. Every time I ride my bike over the Hawthorne bridge, I look out over the river, and the freeways, and the skyscrapers, and the city lights, and I find it unbelievable that this is the place where I live. Nonetheless, even as I cross the bridge, I am following routines I’ve already established for myself here; the bike rides to the library, the internet sessions at the coffeeshop, the grocery store shopping. It feels settling to have routines, and yet…. Where’s the thrill? The promise of possibility is still elusive, and fades ever wider to the outskirts as I establish more and more daily certainties. I still want those things I don’t have. And I still don’t have them. What qualities do I need to embody in order to draw those invisible possibilities towards me? What actions do I need to take in order to construct my unknown life around me? It’s not so much more that I want. Just to be artistically successful, and to find those wide open arms. The steam on the windows. The protection and vulnerability of another person. That person is out there, roaming the undiscovered alleys of my landscape. And it is my job to find the tools to get there at the right time. And if I can’t find the tools, I’m going to have to forge them myself. Now all I have to do is figure out how to make something solid using burning hot, liquid steel.
Where have I been? Did I just move to Portland and drop off the map? Off the screen? Oh. no. I’ve been scheming. Now that I’m not teaching, there is a world of time and energy that has opened before me. And in that open space, I am putting my ideas. My mind and my future are filled with possibilities and projects.
The Projects:
-A new improved blog on urbanhonking.com. Look for it sometime very soon!
-A new product on buyolympia.com. Still in the development stage, but will hopefully exist by the holiday season. It involves felt, and magnets, and tiny clothes. Is anybody suprised?
-and for those of you who hate computers and technology, (even though you are a participant, just like me) don’t worry. I am also planning some good old fashioned quilt projects. handsewn.
This weekend I got out my trusty Singer and rooted through still-unpackes boxes to find my cutting tools. I set up myself up and began. My machine, after working on industrial mammoths for the last month, seemed small and slow and rattle-y. After I laughed my head off at trying to make a tiny 1946 Featherweight do what an industrial machine does, I got to work. I am a maker once again. Things are right in the world.
Ariana and I were lying on the hillside at Chapman School, watching the Swifts gather at dusk. We were discussing the idea of choosing one topic to make artwork from, then working with it for a long time. Is it okay to make art about the same thing for ten years? For the rest of your life? As we sat, lazily discussing the idea, the Swifts churned and wove through the air. They dove in groups of thousands at the chimney that holds their home, then swept back up, weaving off into the sky. A few minutes later, they would arc back, consider the chimney, and fly off again. It occurred to me that the process of making artwork is similar to the pattern of the birds. You approach something, make an attempt, then move off to get perspective. There is always the chimney, though, making itself available. Over and over again, you can come back to your idea from a different angle or in a different light.
Lone Twin utilized the Swifts’ technique when they approached their performance. Over and over, they would present an image, an action, or a phrase. Each time it would have a little more depth or a little more context. Gary and Gregg have apparently studied the birds well, as they spent the entire evening literally moving in circles, always coming back to the same ideas.
Lone Twin, like the Swifts, were riveting. Somehow, in their continuous revisiting of words and motions, they captured vast depth of a feeling. With their cattails, tape players, and rugged ponchos, they reached into the dirt and pulled out a throbbing heart with its failings, a heart and its blessings.
Sometimes, artists make work purely about themselves. Sometimes, artists make work essentially about some outside topic. Things can get incredible when the two come together. It’s like a venn diagram.
Allow me to illustrate. At Sunday’s showing of How We Investigate, Portland filmmakers presented a collection of work. Randall Wakerlin documented his entire twenty sixth year, one photograph per day. A quality example of self focused artwork. Andrew Blubaugh, in his film Hello, Thanks, went as far as to state that the only reason why anyone makes art is to hope that someone will find you sexually attractive. His film was an endearing narrative on writing personal ads.
Cassandra Jones approached her film from the other angle, creating a six minute sunset collaged from hundreds of still photos. The focus of the film was on the sun rather than on herself.
Mike Wilder foraged a steady path straight through the tangly heart of it all. From behind a podium, Wilder began a weighty history of optical lenses and Galileo that made my head spin. Although it was a challenge, I managed to hang on long enough to realize that what he was saying was not only well researched, it was carefully mapped out and funny, too. By the time Wilder came around to the 20th century, he was somehow making detailed connections between the reductive tendencies of technology, the apathy of children, and his interest in carnivorous plants. At the lecture’s conclusion, it was obvious that I was in the presence of a genius. It was as if he had shaken out a crumpled blanket with all its complicated crevasses and folded it neatly on the end of a bed. I will not attempt to recreate his carefully framed thesis. I will say that Mike Wilder’s writing achieved the perfect balance of broad reaching world vision and meticulous self examination.
