Dreams

I had an odd dream last night that I was going to go back to school to become a botanist, but that was only after I dreamt of thinking about going to get my teaching certificate.  That part of the dream was disturbing to me...  I visited a school that was pretty much a series of motor homes.  I went to the rv where my niece had kindergarten, and was greeted by the teacher, an early twenties-something woman, who coincidentally had no nostrils to speak of.  After climbing aboard, I noticed the obvious flaw between the volume of the coach verses what appeared to be the volume when I had viewed it from outside-- it was much more massive than the width of a single lane.  Further surprising was that inside of this massive mobile classroom was my grandfather.  He's been dead for over three years now, which isn't really surprising at all; but, I don't commonly dream of dead people, or people in my family.  He was smiling around all the children, but he was like he was just before he died.  He had had a fever that damaged his brain a few years before he passed, and it left him in a state of mind where he always reminded me of a child.  His entire memory of everything after 1982 had been almost entirely wiped clear.  I always thought he pretended to know me because of the way he acted when he first had recovered from his fever.  I think in truth, if he did remember me, he was probably embarrassed that in all the years I lived in his home and visited, that he honestly knew nothing about me, but rather only knew the idea of who he wanted me to be.  When I was a senior in high school, he had to give me a ride home from his house.  With traffic, it took nearly 45 minutes to traverse the five miles to my father's house.  In that 45 minutes, my grandfather held me captive to his lecture on me going to college for computers.  I responded to him that I wanted to do something with art, but computers kept flowing from his mouth like winged razor blades into my ears.  Once we arrived in my father's driveway, it only continued for another 45 minutes.  I sat there with my hand on the door handle, giving off every possible polite indication that I was ready to exit that tiny saturn and leave that one-sided conversation inside it, but it just kept going.  Knowing freedom was a mere 15-20 feet from me, and being able to see it, was truly tormenting.  My point is that he didn't have a single clue.  Oddly enough, it wasn't until after his fever that he would randomly offer up compliments and support for my chosen career.  the dream made me feel awkward for many reasons, but mainly because it made me remember that incident, and because of how many opposites there were.  All of the children were sitting in a horse shoe formation in front of him, and he was smiling the way he did after the fever (a genuine, unforced smile).  He was occasionally clapping his hands when he laughed and getting tested by the children.  I had to wake up for work at this point, but I just remember walking around them and staring at him, because he's dead, but he was there.  he was exactly how he looked pre-mortem, down to the curly side hair and every liver spot, like it wasn't a dream-- I felt like I could reach out and poke him.  I'm not going to get into the semantics of our relationship, but having him show up in my dreams that vividly is enough to bother me for weeks.  Even more so that it was in a dream where I was thinking about going back to school. 

A little low and feeling out the world

I haven't written in this for a while.  Strange enough, it seems like six months of my life have melted away into some meaningless notion of empty adulthood.  The more I become introspective about it, the more it bothers me.  I've known people who have gotten into this pattern and never come out.  I can't do this for very much longer.  I guess one could say that I am not cut out for working mundane jobs or just always having the same thing happen to me. 

I started taking chantix two weeks ago, but I keep slipping up.  I've cut back on smoking by quite a lot.  I can go the whole day without anything.  I just keep buying cigars in the strange hope they'll make me feel better when I feel depressed (a growing trend these days).  I want to smoke more when I have some emotional turmoil.  It's sort of like a checks and balances type thing-- I think smoking is to me what scissors are to a cutter, which makes quitting so much harder.  The pills make it taste horrid, and I no longer get the comforting rush anymore.  It smells terrible as well.  I can't believe I didn't notice how gross it was while I was doing it.    I could say the same for some people I've dated. 
And I leave you with some mogpoj gibberish:

Turn away, turn away my only son.
You've had your fun, now the damage is done. 
You can love her and leave her, but you can't make her stay--
Oh son, spare yourself and just turn away.

You turn your cheek when you hear them say,"it'll get better some sunny day"
They spat in your face and you just smiled away.
It can always be worse, then night turns to day.

Turn your cheek and just look away.
My son, better things are coming your way.
They may laugh in your face, but it's better that way.
Turn your cheek son and find your own way.

Moments are measured in blood and mistakes made of fear. 
When the time comes, we all fall as hard.  The unknowing means nothing when it's known to be variable.
son you're as big as a mountain-- no man you will follow.

And to discredit any hint of seriousness, I've included a Mowgli pic. 

So much waiting!

My new job is going well.  It's a little stressful at times, but that's any kind of assistant job.  I'm well on my way to getting a studio together.  My best friend said she'd loan me her two kilns, which will be awesome because i'll get to retrofit them with electric kiln sitters and so some maintenance on them.  I love messing with stuff like that!  I'm starting to look around for used wheels.  After that, the search for local studio space is on.  I can't say just how frustrating it is to not be able to do what I want, but after I get everything together, it will be more rewarding.

Among other things, the last 2 months have started to get to me.  Last night I went out with two of my lady friends to go see some industrial bands.  Serendipity smiled upon us, and I once again remember how wonderful life can be.  It's so easy to forget when you're somewhat in between a rock and a hard place.  I'm just hoping the after glow will stay with me for a long time.  Joy, even when exposed in small amounts, should never have a half life.

New Job 2012

I just started a new job as an administrative assistant today.  I like it a lot so far.  It keeps me so busy that the time just flies.   The building that I work in houses a branch of the FBI as well.  Apparently someone in my office went to the men's room and found a holstered gun sitting on the back of the toilet.  He went back to the office and was talking about taking the gun to the FBI's office...  The other staff thought that was a risky plan...walking through the door of the FBI with a gun in your hands...  hahaha.  He ended up covering the gun with some paper towels, then went down to their office to tell them.  The part that really kills me is that a federal officer not only left his gun in a bathroom, but didn't even realize it until someone came to tell them.  I can't even begin to imagine how much flac that guy got from everyone else in his office for that.  It's almost as hilarious as the Simpsons episode where Henry Kissinger's glasses fall off in the toilet and Homer reclaims them from the bowl. 

Hellllo Dolly!

I'm pretty excited about having a job for the first time in two years.  I'm doubly excited that it's not in retail or fast food.  Within the next couple months, I'm going to start looking for equipment to start setting up a studio.  I never had a kiln or a wheel of my own before.  The thought of it is pretty exciting...  I can only imagine it's similar to the feeling of buying your first house, or having a kid... or something.  I've been doing some sleuthing around town and in STL to see what kind of studio space I can get within my budget.  There really isn't a place in my home to set up shop.  The whole basement has a coating of super-fine saw dust on everything.  I'd be afraid to fire a kiln here-- the whole house would go up like a tinder box.  

^^Life^^ (it tastes good like that)

I was wondering when I'd hit the point in my career where things stall out, and apparently it's now.  I really don't think of it as an occasion to get upset, but more of a time to pay my dues and take my licks.  Getting this job has really been awesome for keeping up my moral.  It's nice to feel like a long term goal is actually attainable.  In the grand scheme of things, another year really isn't that big of a deal.  As long as I follow through with my plans, everything will be gravy.









I couldn't sleep the other night, so I partook in my normal "lay there with the television on hoping that it will make me fall asleep by shooting my insomnia with plasma rays--but i know that's not why they call it a plasma tv..." ritual.  For some reason, the screen froze, so i started changing channels to see if they were all like that.  Only half of them were.  I stopped on Turner Classic movies, and had just enough time to snap this image before the television world started turning.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Sorry for the insanely long haitus.

Fig. 1  Easter Egg #2 (intergalactic travel)

Things have been really crazy around here since i've come home.  The holidays, welcome home parties, seeing missed friends, and being miserably sick... And on top of all that, I've been chiseling away at filling out applications for grad schools.  I actually went out and picked up some literature on writing application essays, and so far, my favorite book has been Graduate Admissions Essays by Donald Asher.  The book is geared toward more typical masters programs (e.g. business and medical schools), so the examples and samples aren't really art related.  However, I still found this book to be extremely helpful.  It helped me to have a better idea of what I needed to write, and more importantly what I didn't need to write.  Before I read it, I was pretty nervous and was completely lost on how to arrange my thoughts.  But by chapter 8, I had a second draft written and ready for proofing and editing.  I know I sound a little like a commercial right now, but I usually like sharing when something works very well, especially if it may help out someone else some day. The book itself wasn't a bad read, and had occasional easter eggs of unintentional hilarity in it.

Fig. 2  Easter Egg #3 (The presumptuous Author speaks)

So for a little back tracking-- I had a very nice christmas back home with my family.  I was bestowed a lot of kitchen gadgets, and in all the colors of the rainbow!  I got so excited about my new set of spatulas and spoons, that I put away most of what dad had in his utensil pot and put my own in.  I also got a set of prep bowls, a submersible mixer, a couple of fancy knives, and an awesome silicone whisk (which is also rainbow colored). 

NOM NOM NOM!!!

I've been cooking a lot more since I've been home as well.  I've been making a lot of things involving whole chickens and have been tinkering with turnips.  I've made home made chicken noodle soup twice, once for myself, and once again for a friend I accidentally made sick.  I also made a horrendously delicious roasted chicken.  I highly recommend both recipes, especially the soup if you're not feeling well.  It takes some time to make the stock, but it's all worth it.  You feel amazing after eating it.  If you like rice in your soup, you can cook a half cup of rice with 1/2 cup water and 1/2 cup stock, (but just until chewy) and add it in with the vegetables.  Every time I use a whole chicken now, I think about two things:  How it's nice that all the insides and the neck have been removed for me, and how the little fat chickens remind me of Marvin.  I can't help but feel bad, like I'm terrorizing fowl everywhere.

Surely this race of giant pop tarts will rise up and destroy us all!!!

I've also tried my hand at baking Hindbaer Snitter since I've been home.  It was pretty close, but I think I need a little more practice.  I think I'm also saying that so I'll bake it more often to feed my addiction, haha.  The picture was before I cut it.  It looks like a massive pop tart, but I can assure you, it tasted way better.  It never made it past day 2.








And for those of you who made it this far and wondered about the whereabouts of Easter Egg #1,

I present to you Fig. 3:

Fig. 3  Easter Egg #1 (The "Grad school gets you more sex further down the line" argument.)

Summarizing, Reflections and Aspirations

It's been weeks since i came home from Denmark.  Getting off the plane in Chicago was a trip in itself.  Hearing the strange, yet familiar voices and even more strangely alien accents.  I had heard them dozens of times before-- on tv, in person, on the phone and in movies.  Something just felt off.  After a month and a half of living in Scandinavia, everything seems bizarre.  The air smells different, feels different.  you can even feel everyone around you.  It's all so busy.  It didn't take me long to realize that i was experiencing a form of reverse culture shock.  I remember when my dad dropped me off at the airport how scared i was to be going so far away on my own.  I actually started crying a little bit.  The TSA woman in Lambert thought i was acting unhappy for someone who was going to Denmark.  The plane took off and there was no going back, no more reason to be scared--There's no crying in baseball, so there surely isn't any such thing in traveling.  16 hours and 2 extra flights later, I arrived in Copenhagen, in one piece, exhausted yet extremely excited about the new sounds, smells, and sights.  Foreign airports alone are intensely interesting places.  The people were all smiling and courteous, forgiving me for my ignorance and helping me to survive the perilous last leg of my journey.

I started this trip years ago, in my mind when i first attended NCECA.  In my head, it was an exotic place i knew really nothing about other than where it was and that it was an amazing opportunity.  I knew i wanted to go, but i never thought the occasion would actually arise.  It was a table with a white cloth and brochures and smiling faces behind it.  Now, I spend every day thinking about the trip: the experiences I had, the people I met, the way in which it changed my work, and how all of it changed me as a person.  I went there scared and alone, afraid that I would mess up everything and the streak of bad luck in the studio would continue.  I left feeling sad that i was leaving so many wonderful friends, but feeling great because i met all of them.  For a month and a half, I worked with these people, made dinner once a week for all of them, sat down to dinner with them every night, watched movies in the library, shared wine and cheese and exchanged stories and food from our lives back home.  Together, we went to town to shop for groceries, second hand treasures, pastries, and to explore.  They became my family and that quiet little scandinavian town became our home. 

I spent about 2 days handbuilding a sculpture before it died.  I reclaimed the rich red clay and made a decision to throw it on the wheel and let the environment i was in influence the outcome.  The fog was so thick, water fell from the trees.  In the distance there were the smoke stacks of the brewery chugging away.  The environment you work in truly does inspire your work.  I threw a cylinder, started pushing, poking and pulling.  I was a machine.  I made almost an entire table set for two.  It wasn't what I came there to make.  I didn't think i could do what i intended to in such a short time.  Fortune smiled on us all, and due to a miscommunication, we had one of our guest artists come extremely early.  Talking to Richard Launder was an amazing experience.  It changed the course of my work for the rest of the time, as well as my construction methods.  I cleaned everything and started throwing porcelain and began the painful process of learning to think and build in a way previously alien to me--the results of which were a dramatic improvement to the sculpture i had handbuilt previously.  

Going to Denmark has done so much for me.  It's helped me grow as an artist as well as a person.  I spend every day treasuring the relationships i have here in the states, as well as wondering how everyone else is back in europe.  I look forward to the future, where I'll end up next, what kind of adventures are waiting for me, and who i'm going to meet while i'm there.  I am more whole, more optimistic, and entirely sure of how i want to live my life.  I left scared and came back reinvented, reborn and rejuvenated-- unafraid of what is to come and ready to live.  I've taken so much from the people I met and the experience of being at Guldagergaard, it just seems impossible to live the way i was beforehand.  To anyone out there thinking about applying for Project Network, or even a resident artist program at Guldergergaard:  Don't think twice about it.  It's worth every penny you spend and more. 



I was inspired to write this entry due to terrible news I received this morning in my email.  Among the people I met was a wonderful English woman named Liz Krcma.  Liz was a hilarious and cheerfully outspoken lady.  I enjoyed her company very much while she was at Guldagergaard.  She had suffered a stroke about 3 years ago, had to relearn how to do everything, and bravely returned to ceramics and used the clay as a medium to tell her story.  She came to Skaelskor for a residency, and ended up moving into a flat in town with her Danish boyfriend Henning.  She had found a studio to keep working in up the street from her new flat.  She had another stroke 5 days ago, and died in the hospital surrounded by her family and friends yesterday.  She was an amazing and brave woman with a spunk and zest for life that inspires me every day.  She understood she had limitations, but kept pushing ahead regardless and was still living as amazing of a life as she was before her original stroke.  She had no regrets and didn't feel sorry for herself.  I can only aspire to have the grit that woman had, and I'm extremely thankful for knowing someone that strong and wonderful and having her as a friend.  Rest in peace, and forever live in our memories.

Liz's website