Living in Frames, by meshing the lyrical moments of life with the captured images of experience. This is a reverie, a journey, the fork in the road, and the never-ending story....

Monday, January 28, 2013

dirty thirty..whatever that means...

I know this much: I will embrace turning thirty, despite what everyone tells me it should be. I guess I'm preparing for anything, which says a lot, because I have never been much of a planner.

I'm a seat-of- the-pants, forgot-the-umbrella, don't-look-back kind of girl. I am every bit impulsive, as I am consistent in certain behaviors. The truth is, the only thing that grounds me are certain dogmas, and this damned moral compass that always seems to point with my heart, rather than my head:

"You're too smart for that. So, why do you do it?"

photo accredited to Wikipedia
---Hey, I don't know, I had a feeling. I couldn't walk away. I'm stubborn. I wanted to find out for myself.

Yes, I'm still a tad bit naive. Yes, I'm still learning as I go. Too quick to forgive, and yet I remember most details--isn't that what it means to be a true masochist?

Shall I grow out of these traits? Probably not. Shall I finally be settled? It's highly unlikely.

When I look ahead, I wish I could see some clear evolution. But every day is open to possibility, and every day presents new obstacles or choices to make.
Why should waking up at thirty be any different?

I find that when I attempt to set into motion the things I want most, the results are almost always unpredictable. So, I've stopped trying to implement reason as a form of control over my life. After all, we don't live in some vacuum, infallible to human error and dependent on what's 'right'--we take risks all the time, and our mortality is fragile.

Maybe I should just stick to the questions that I know I can find answers for, and continue to appreciate the simple joys, rather than trying to translate what it means to be 'happy'. The people who are always so concerned with finding this life-affirming happiness: do they ever really find it? Or is the present moment a glaze-over for them--a long drawn-out wait?

And if thirty means acting my age and taking myself too seriously (something I swore I would never do), then I have to say: keeping with my 29-year-old mentality will suit me just fine.

Perhaps, being unapologetic about one's true nature, is what being Dirty 30 is all about.

Saturday, January 26, 2013

Thursday, January 17, 2013

animal brains.

Art by:
I've noticed this shift in my attitude about books and literature: what I deem acceptable reading material, and what I just want to throw against a wall and curse everything that is unholy.

For a long time I believed that one's preference for genre or author or subject matter, simply came down to subjectivity, or purely taste--and to a degree it does. But when some literate friends of mine--those who I was sure had a handle on the current publishing trends and yet could still comprehend a classic every now and then--began recommending to me books like Fifty Shades of Grey, I had to question why.

It is one thing for someone I have just met to ask what I enjoy to read--this is usually upon them discovering that I attempt to write here and there. However, it is another thing to have someone who knows what my reading list looks like, actually recommend to me a mass-market seller.

"Just read it to see why it's so popular," they tell me. "Analyze it. Learn the formula."

Frankly, I think we should all be offended. There is something completely vulgar about what is being pushed in the markets today, and for me, again, it begs the question of "Why?"

I'm not a snob or a prude. I have read Eat, Pray, Love and The Alchemist. I appreciate the Nick Horbys, the Chuck Palahniuks, and the Bret Easton Ellis' of the world. This is not the type of reading I naturally gravitate toward, but these writers and their writing serve a purpose. They appeal to audiences that are explicitly aware of his or her own taste. If you enjoy one of their books or a certain voice they use in telling a story, you are bound to go back for another helping or two.

I am also not one to believe there is a division between art and entertainment. The very act of creating art is to, in turn, entertain the senses. But at what point does a book become something so incredibly lewd it actually mocks a society's intelligence and overall appreciation for humanity?

Lawrence Durell in an interview with the Paris Review, talked about vulgar roots: food, sex, and good living. We are drawn to certain themes subconsciously, even when they are hidden beneath layers of garbage. We still look for the basic truths, and try to connect. We are so hungry to find something we recognize, to understand our fellow man's plight, we ignore the glaring reality that there are things out there that we consume, that are bottom line: shallow and superficial--where we gain nothing, and lose a level of integrity in the process.

"I don't want to have to think," seems to be a common saying, when someone refers to entertainment that lacks depth. Well, if that were true, then none of us would partake in any act at all. We would wall ourselves up, shutting out all stimuli, all art, all "things" that have ever existed.

Every "thing" has its place, right? Of course. But at what extent do the "things" we encounter and consume, become toxic? At what extent do we need to say: "We are better than this." Or, "We can do better than this." ????

Anything we create is a reflection of mankind, and man is meant to evolve. So please tell me how we are  still stuck on ideas that would titillate a neanderthal?

I'm sorry, this kind of "literature" does not get my rocks off, nor does it feed even the slightest part of my animal brain. I demand something more from my fellow man. We all should.

And please, for the love of God, do not buy me that damned book!

Monday, January 14, 2013