Even though I click on the "add link" button and get some funny sequence of symbols around my link, I can't get this blog to actually add a link. Once I fixed my parents TV/VCR by manually coaxing the stuck open/close shelf back into place. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.
This "link" is worth copying and pasting. It's the Nietzsche Family Circus. Refresh again and again.
http://www.losanjealous.com/nfc/perm.php?c=69&q=259
http://www.losanjealous.com/nfc/perm.php?c=14&q=34
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Repulsive Yet Fascinating
Saturday, March 21, 2009
At what point is it no longer okay to talk about your students' asses?
I've recently started substitute teaching in the state of New York. A few years ago I worked for a half year as a substitute teacher in my hometown in California, where I have some fond memories (a whole gamut--high school agriculture, special ed P.E., remedial math, ESL, art history) and some not-so-fond memories (junior high school anything, especially woodshop). Because you have to have teacher certification to sub at public schools in NY, I've been going through an agency that deals with private and charter schools. Since there are more charter schools for elementary students, I've been called in primarily to work with the little ones. This week was exclusively kindergarten and first grade. Not my forte. I don't know how to speak to them. I'm getting over it, but after sexual harassment fears, I was really uncomfortable repeating phrases like, "put your bottoms in your chairs"--a necessary mantra, I've learned. We do NOT share the same sense of humor. I'm used to handling kids twelve and up by wielding sarcasm instead of detention. But try using sarcasm on a first grader? S/he will retort with a fart joke and send the classroom into stitches.
However, I do feel lucky to have these privileged glimpses into what must be the essentials of human nature, unmitigated by social pressure.
Little kids are uninhibited. One moment, they're hugging you--the next, they're bawling. They are completely unabashed in their pursuit of attention. Talk about wearing your heart on your sleeve. Six-year-olds, by and large, are incapable of concealing their true emotions. At what point did we all learn how to hide our feelings? Okay, sure, maybe having a temper tantrum gets in the way of some notion of "productivity," but why do we encourage kids to "express themselves" and then punish them for doing just that, whenever their expressions are excessive?
However, I do feel lucky to have these privileged glimpses into what must be the essentials of human nature, unmitigated by social pressure.
Little kids are uninhibited. One moment, they're hugging you--the next, they're bawling. They are completely unabashed in their pursuit of attention. Talk about wearing your heart on your sleeve. Six-year-olds, by and large, are incapable of concealing their true emotions. At what point did we all learn how to hide our feelings? Okay, sure, maybe having a temper tantrum gets in the way of some notion of "productivity," but why do we encourage kids to "express themselves" and then punish them for doing just that, whenever their expressions are excessive?
Friday, March 6, 2009
Where do I come from? Who am I? Where am I going?
Lately I've been wondering if writing has been a phase of my life. I went to get my MFA in creative writing from 2005-2008 at the University of Idaho, where we practiced the craft of writing, where we all were writers, where we prepared for a life of writing. I've hardly written anything since I turned in my thesis precisely a year ago. I don't feel like writing. Sure, I've had some other necessary projects keeping me busy--moving to California, then moving to New York, finding an apartment, an internship, a job, looking for a "real" job, trying to solve the enigma of my health. For a while, I was depressed because I couldn't get anything published...but now, successes are trickling in: two stories have been accepted for publication, at a lit mag run by people I truly admire as well as the anthology Best New American Voices 2010. Each time, I feel inspired to write. I think about writing, and I don't write. I think about other things I want to do: take an art class, take a trip. I'm tired of imaginary people; I can't fall in love with my characters. I just want to live.
Sometimes the other parts of my life feel like phases, too. Until I was eighteen, I was the dork. Then for four years I was an Ivy Leaguer, of the variety that was proud of my academic prowess but later ashamed of the wealth and privilege that was associated with such an institution (I was, after all, just a hardworking, glorified dork). Subdivded, my freshman year in college, I was a rower, and the rest of college I was a singer. The year after college I was the expatriate, the world traveler--I taught in Morocco, traveled Europe and West Africa. The year after was my year of odd jobs, in and around Boston, MA, everything from tour guiding to dog walking. Then followed the summer of wilderness, working at a camp in the woods, in a canvas-covered shelter, where I learned (but maybe not well enough, because I still feel the urge to leave civilization behind sometimes), that I am not a nature girl. Then followed the month of trying to write in New Orleans followed by the near-year of trying-not-to-be-ashamed at moving back home with the parents. I applied for MFA programs partly because I thought literature was noble, partly because I didn't know what else to do.
Do all these phases make up in integrated whole? Who is Claire O'Connor, really? I recently read an article in the New Yorker about David Foster Wallace, who was many people's favorite living author until he committed suicide last fall. DFW was not my favorite author, and I was touched to see that he feared "that he had been driven by a 'basically vapid urge to be avant-garde . . . and linguistically calisthenic.' " As I read the article, I became more and more entranced with DFW's life. His biography is amazing...to be cont...
Sometimes the other parts of my life feel like phases, too. Until I was eighteen, I was the dork. Then for four years I was an Ivy Leaguer, of the variety that was proud of my academic prowess but later ashamed of the wealth and privilege that was associated with such an institution (I was, after all, just a hardworking, glorified dork). Subdivded, my freshman year in college, I was a rower, and the rest of college I was a singer. The year after college I was the expatriate, the world traveler--I taught in Morocco, traveled Europe and West Africa. The year after was my year of odd jobs, in and around Boston, MA, everything from tour guiding to dog walking. Then followed the summer of wilderness, working at a camp in the woods, in a canvas-covered shelter, where I learned (but maybe not well enough, because I still feel the urge to leave civilization behind sometimes), that I am not a nature girl. Then followed the month of trying to write in New Orleans followed by the near-year of trying-not-to-be-ashamed at moving back home with the parents. I applied for MFA programs partly because I thought literature was noble, partly because I didn't know what else to do.
Do all these phases make up in integrated whole? Who is Claire O'Connor, really? I recently read an article in the New Yorker about David Foster Wallace, who was many people's favorite living author until he committed suicide last fall. DFW was not my favorite author, and I was touched to see that he feared "that he had been driven by a 'basically vapid urge to be avant-garde . . . and linguistically calisthenic.' " As I read the article, I became more and more entranced with DFW's life. His biography is amazing...to be cont...
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Artsy Fartsy #2, or The Lifestyles of the Rich and Not-So-Famous, or Ew. Really?
This week I had the pleasure of attending my second MOMA member affair, courtesy of my friend S., the member. There it was, the glorious open bar, and after we had guzzled our way through a few glasses of wine, we had perhaps less patience for art than usual. S. is less enthusiastic about modern and contemporary art, anyway, preferring the old stuff, and I mean old--classical, greco-roman. I luff contemporary art, but I was less thrilled about the pieces on display than about the Jack Daniels awaiting my return. The pieces that stood out to me the most (to my dismay) were photographs (by a British photographer) of street scenes in New Orleans. There was a photograph of a (seemingly) poor woman eating food out of a styrofoam container. A photograph of someone standing between a highway and a gas station, maybe, or maybe a fast food joint, or a Wal-Mart, I don't remember. The implicit commentary seemed stale, and the photographs themselves were dull, perhaps purposefully formless. As usual, I wondered if the people in the photographs even knew that they were on display.
As the clock ticked away and we hurriedly drank booze as freely as we breathed air, we ran into S.'s friend H., one of the duo of Mexican artistes we had met up with last time. H. introduced us to another friend, a young woman, whose name I have since forgotten, who was definitely pleased with herself and her ability to seduce anyone in any room. She and some others were going to a party at some swank hotel top floor bar, and we all simply had to go. This was a Tuesday, now circa 9:30pm, and I excused myself, explaining that I had to get back home to Bushwick (in Brooklyn, between Williamsburg and East New York), which might as well have been a foreign country to them. The enthusiastic girl, henceforth referred to as G., would not take no for an answer. "You must come," she said, only it didn't sound aristocratic, as it looks on the page. Her tone of voice was more BFF, which was more flattering than off-putting, one of the perks of being attractive--she sounded more generous than needy. "You must come," she said, possibly even taking my hand. Everyone was taking cabs. I asked how close the hotel was to a subway. I said I had eight dollars in my purse. She said not to worry, she would take care of anything if needs be. I didn't have to be at work until 5pm the next day, so I acquiesced. I was a little beyond pleasantly drunk. I was feeling a tad reckless, like the world needed to catch up to my expectations. I wanted to play reversal of fortunes.
The bar was nice, with floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded a sweet view. I mean, it was nice in a very expected sort of nice--mood lighting, polished counters. It didn't smell like beer. It didn't smell like anything. All the men were wearing sort of boring suits. The DJ looked like a 14 year old Korean boy who had watched too much Miami Vice. It was Mardi Gras, so some women at a table were hawking charity beads. G. pulled a wad of cash--and I mean a wad--and peeled out a twenty for two strings, one for her and one for me. Hers was gold and mine was purple, an inferior color according to her, so she tore it off my neck, marched back, and replaced it with a gold one. I asked her what the charity was far, and she marched me over to the table, asked the lady what the charity was for, and pulled me over to listen. "At least one of us should know!" she said, turning away, leaving it up to me. The charity lady said something along the lines of, "This money goes to help third world countries." No joke. She didn't even have to try. No one there cared what it was for. They just needed the beads as status symbols. G. proceeded to bully the guy in the boring suit (that she was getting to buy us drinks) into buying a string, too. While she was working him over, I sipped my wine, more out of having something to do, and somehow began talking to an objectively attractive guy, the kind of guy who might have played lacrosse in high school, the kind of guy who might have been the older brother of an Abercrombie and Fitch model, the kind of guy who has been groomed for a life of bars like this. I forget his name, but he was from Sweden. He was in New York on business. He was promoting wind turbines. Alternative energy--cool, right? Er, I asked him what his favorite part of New York was. He said the strip clubs. They didn't have strip clubs in Sweden. In fact, it wasn't just New York. He like the strip clubs in Chicago and Las Vegas, too. He didn't actually care about alternative energy. He could care less about his product, but he was a good salesperson. I asked him what tactic made him so successful, and he said the most insightful thing all night: that selling is more about listening than talking. Then he asked me if my friend (G.) was "with" that guy. "She's really attractive."
"I know," I said. For half a second I felt the sting of rejection. Worse--the sting of him assuming that I wasn't even in the game. Of course Mr. Swede wasn't talking to me for my sake. Five years ago, that might have devastated me. But then I realized, I was totally disgusted by him...I probably failed to hide my disgust at his dismissal of alternative energy (which was more offensive to me than the strip clubs, by far), why should I care that he wasn't interested in me? Hello, ego. My friend S. finally found us in the melee, and we took photographs of ourselves in front of the glossy window while H. chastised us on how the flash would be reflected, obliterating the city lights. Then we left, satisfied with poking through that membrane into how the other half lives, happy to tumble home to Brooklyn and Queens. As we made a beeline for the elevator, G. was talking to the DJ, coaxing him to play a song for her, but making him feel special, bathed in her affection, so in the end everybody won.
As the clock ticked away and we hurriedly drank booze as freely as we breathed air, we ran into S.'s friend H., one of the duo of Mexican artistes we had met up with last time. H. introduced us to another friend, a young woman, whose name I have since forgotten, who was definitely pleased with herself and her ability to seduce anyone in any room. She and some others were going to a party at some swank hotel top floor bar, and we all simply had to go. This was a Tuesday, now circa 9:30pm, and I excused myself, explaining that I had to get back home to Bushwick (in Brooklyn, between Williamsburg and East New York), which might as well have been a foreign country to them. The enthusiastic girl, henceforth referred to as G., would not take no for an answer. "You must come," she said, only it didn't sound aristocratic, as it looks on the page. Her tone of voice was more BFF, which was more flattering than off-putting, one of the perks of being attractive--she sounded more generous than needy. "You must come," she said, possibly even taking my hand. Everyone was taking cabs. I asked how close the hotel was to a subway. I said I had eight dollars in my purse. She said not to worry, she would take care of anything if needs be. I didn't have to be at work until 5pm the next day, so I acquiesced. I was a little beyond pleasantly drunk. I was feeling a tad reckless, like the world needed to catch up to my expectations. I wanted to play reversal of fortunes.
The bar was nice, with floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded a sweet view. I mean, it was nice in a very expected sort of nice--mood lighting, polished counters. It didn't smell like beer. It didn't smell like anything. All the men were wearing sort of boring suits. The DJ looked like a 14 year old Korean boy who had watched too much Miami Vice. It was Mardi Gras, so some women at a table were hawking charity beads. G. pulled a wad of cash--and I mean a wad--and peeled out a twenty for two strings, one for her and one for me. Hers was gold and mine was purple, an inferior color according to her, so she tore it off my neck, marched back, and replaced it with a gold one. I asked her what the charity was far, and she marched me over to the table, asked the lady what the charity was for, and pulled me over to listen. "At least one of us should know!" she said, turning away, leaving it up to me. The charity lady said something along the lines of, "This money goes to help third world countries." No joke. She didn't even have to try. No one there cared what it was for. They just needed the beads as status symbols. G. proceeded to bully the guy in the boring suit (that she was getting to buy us drinks) into buying a string, too. While she was working him over, I sipped my wine, more out of having something to do, and somehow began talking to an objectively attractive guy, the kind of guy who might have played lacrosse in high school, the kind of guy who might have been the older brother of an Abercrombie and Fitch model, the kind of guy who has been groomed for a life of bars like this. I forget his name, but he was from Sweden. He was in New York on business. He was promoting wind turbines. Alternative energy--cool, right? Er, I asked him what his favorite part of New York was. He said the strip clubs. They didn't have strip clubs in Sweden. In fact, it wasn't just New York. He like the strip clubs in Chicago and Las Vegas, too. He didn't actually care about alternative energy. He could care less about his product, but he was a good salesperson. I asked him what tactic made him so successful, and he said the most insightful thing all night: that selling is more about listening than talking. Then he asked me if my friend (G.) was "with" that guy. "She's really attractive."
"I know," I said. For half a second I felt the sting of rejection. Worse--the sting of him assuming that I wasn't even in the game. Of course Mr. Swede wasn't talking to me for my sake. Five years ago, that might have devastated me. But then I realized, I was totally disgusted by him...I probably failed to hide my disgust at his dismissal of alternative energy (which was more offensive to me than the strip clubs, by far), why should I care that he wasn't interested in me? Hello, ego. My friend S. finally found us in the melee, and we took photographs of ourselves in front of the glossy window while H. chastised us on how the flash would be reflected, obliterating the city lights. Then we left, satisfied with poking through that membrane into how the other half lives, happy to tumble home to Brooklyn and Queens. As we made a beeline for the elevator, G. was talking to the DJ, coaxing him to play a song for her, but making him feel special, bathed in her affection, so in the end everybody won.
Artsy Fartsy
So my friend S. has a membership to MOMA. The perks include occasional after hour events for members (and a guest—lucky me) in which you pretty much have free reign of the revolving exhibits and…can you believe it?…OPEN BAR. We’re not talking donated beer from some corporate sponsor, either—wine and quality liquor. I went to one of these events last November, at which point we also connected with S.'s artist friends, two men from Mexico City who split their time between Mexico, New York, and Greece. I don't believe they have ever had to work a day in their lives. Most of the night I made the mistake of thinking these guys were a couple. The art, what I saw of it, was underwhelming. I prefer MOMA's bastard little cousin, the edgier P.S. 1 in Queens. But the event was gorgeous with gorgeous people, all made up, from old lady elegance to stupid Brooklynites with carefully crafted, obscenely bushy beards. Afterwards, the Mexicans invited us to see a friend’s studio in East Williamsburg (never West Bushwick), which miraculously was near the same subway stop of another party, Mexican-themed, no less. We spent less time in the artist friend’s studio than upstairs in the two apartments in which it seemed a few other elite Mexico City natives dwelled. They were all reminiscing, and S. and I got bored until the neighboring couple’s children came over and began vying for our attention. There was a girl and a boy, approx. seven and nine years old? Maybe eight and ten? They were amazing. I’ve never wanted kids, but they made me reconsider. The little girl was really into drawing, and when she asked me to name my favorite animal, I said an okapi, an answer that rarely fails to elicit a puzzled frown. Well, she frowned for a second or two, but then she ran over to her crate of plastic animals and pulled out a miniature okapi (a shorter-necked relative of the giraffe, with zebra-esque stripes on its legs, a rare and shy creature). Then she proceeded to draw three okapis, two larger and one smaller that I assume is meant to be mom, dad, and baby. She wrote the title “Okapi” and flanked it with two hearts. It is my favorite work of art, ever. Meanwhile, one of the (original) Mexican men kept trying to get S. to make out with him, which is when I realized he wasn’t gay. And then I felt stupid because I realized his not-boyfriend hadn’t necessarily been so interested in my conversation for conversation’s sake. Oops. We finally made it down the three blocks or so to the Fiesta. Many of the partygoers were replete with sombreros and crudely penciled “Mexican” mustaches. My friend there, M. feared that the Mexican artists would be offended. I don’t think they cared less, but they were more interested in wooing young women in somewhat elitist settings than playing homemade skee ball in a converted warehouse. Tequila was imbibed, a piñata was busted, and we all warmed up enough to re-venture back out into the night and stumble home. I never stumble home, actually. I soar. The other day, I cleaned out my desk (well, I didn’t exactly clean it, but I was hunting through it in search my generic sleep-aid), and I rediscovered my okapi picture. The little girl and little boy had put their emails on the back of the paper, and I remember being tempted to email them, but then that seemed like a creepy thing to do. You can’t email children of people you don’t really know, right?
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