Sixteen Days Later

Sixteen days later: Same park, same shopping cart, same green tarp, same man in the same spot staring at the same trees.

Sixteen days later: Same dilemma, same broken heart. What did I do this time? Nothing.

Next Time...

I walk out the back door of my apartment building. As I push open the door, I am met with a rush of brisk air. It is cold. There is a man rifling through the building's dumpster--I assume looking for cans and bottles that can be returned for their cash deposit. I walk by; he doesn't look up at all. Just after I pass him, I stop.

I have ignored my neighborhood can-collectors too many times.

I turn around and tell him if he wants to wait a minute, I can run upstairs and give him the few cans and bottles I have. "Sure," he says, after realizing that I am not going to chastise him.

I come back down, hand him a small bag of bottles, probably worth less than a dollar, and I say, "it's not much but..." He replies with, "That's OK, every little bit helps. Thank you very much." I say, "You're welcome," and go on my way. I start off on my morning run. I can't stop thinking about him, feeling like I didn't do enough. And I can't stop recognizing that every time I start to think I'm poor, I get hit over the head with a dose of reality and realize that I am not. I am wealthy, in so many ways.

I think about how cold it is, how many people are without homes, without food, just simply without. I think about how I enjoy seeing the same street people on a regular basis in my neighborhood. Then I think about community. People talk and talk and talk--incessantly sometimes--about community. But I don't think it is regularly considered that people such as this man are also a part of our communities.

As I carry on with my run, naturally my thoughts drift to other more self-centered topics. At this point, I don't even know what I spent the time thinking about.

Toward the end of my run, nearing home again, I'm passing through the park. I'm daydreaming about when I can possibly make my next trip to Europe or elsewhere, and bam! I see a shopping cart. I immediately recognize his shopping cart for some reason--its green tarp carefully wrapped around, securing all his belongings. I look beyond the cart and I see him--the man I gave the cans to--sleeping on a bench.

Too many times I have ignored these people.

I go home and make him a sandwich. I put the sandwich and a couple pieces of fruit in a bag, planning to go back and set it on his cart while he sleeps. I arrive back at the park to find him awake, standing among the trees--either gazing at the park, or lost in his own thoughts. I don't know which. My plan to drop the food quietly is foiled. I approach him and say, "Hi, it's me again," to which he replies, "Oh, hi." I extend the bag of food and say, "I saw you again and thought you might be hungry." He replies, "Oh, wow, thank you so much. You're very kind." I say, "You're welcome; have a good day," and quickly turn away and take off.

My thought was that I did not want to make a scene of it. I didn't want to make him feel like it was a big deal. I simply wanted to give the man some food. But immediately after taking off, the guilt set in. Again. Maybe what would have been more valuable than just handing him the food and walking away--is if I actually interacted with him. Acknowledged him as a human being--rather than an entity, or a machine that needs to be fed.

Yeah, maybe that would have been much more valuable.

After mulling over my feelings about this situation, I acknowledge that I could have done better. But I also could have done worse. Doing something is better than doing nothing, but there is always room for improvement. Next time I will try to do better.

Sunday

For a moment, I wished every day were Sunday.
But then I realized Sunday would be like every other day.
Which prompted me to think: Never mind.

Loud Mouth

Sometimes it’s fun to state the obvious: You know, like saying I’m a loud mouth. In case you missed that: I’m a loud mouth.

The fact is I have a lot to say. I can’t help it. I’ve always had something to say about everything and I’ve never been able to keep my mouth shut. There are very few people who truly understand my motives and intent with my loud-mouth-ness, but those few who get it know that while I have opinions about everything, and freely express them, I don’t expect or even want everyone to agree with me. But that’s a complicated matter to explain, so I’ll just leave it at that.

What I really want to share here is this: I was recently rifling through files on my computer, in search of something (I now have no idea what it was—got sidetracked—ADD anyone?). In the process, I came across some documentation of my family history that I hadn’t thought about for a while, and I was reminded that I come from a long line of loud mouths. It’s in my blood, so you must forgive me. I’ll never again try to fight it. Instead, I will fully embrace it. It is part of me, it is part of my family, my history, my heritage if you will.

Floyd Ramp, my great-grandfather, was imprisoned for being a loud mouth. [Let’s hope it never comes to that for me!] He was a loud mouth with socialist/communist and anti-war beliefs, and he lived during a time when it wasn’t allowed to be a dissenter. He was put in prison for giving an anti-war speech to a group of soldiers. Following is the text of something he wrote while in prison, on a length of toilet tissue. I get weepy every time I read this, but there is something about the words, "on a length of toilet tissue" that really hit me. He had something to say and the fact that he had nothing to write on other than toilet paper would not stop him from doing so.

March 6, 1918: Never to see the sun come up or go down for 2 long years. In a cage, behind great gray stone walls—shut in from the beauties of a sunset, denied the inspiration of a glorious sunrise—could anything be more wrong? When the days are nice we are out on the bank with our picks and shovels, our bars and sledges, our cars and—I must not forget—our guard, too. But at evening when everything is so soft, so soothing, and at the same time so glorious, we are behind the iron bars.

The island is beautiful I know—I often look off across the little fields to the rolling hills behind, partially covered with timber, and think how I would like to wander out there and explore the rest of the island. I know that when the warm sun comes and the flowers are blooming there, my desire to go will be so much stronger. We are always kept behind the bars and the iron gate—the great high fence with its barbed wire.

Yes, we are always watched—sharp eyes and hard looks are always greeting us and that in itself makes us feel guilty. Never a smile—not one expression of sympathy—no manifestation of friendliness is ever our greeting. Always the cold, hard expressions and of course we grow to avoid even looking at our keepers. I sometimes wonder if they are really like they look or whether they are just carrying out their orders. Let us hope it is the latter.

I watch the gulls on the sound—they have freedom. The mud-hens float on the smooth surface, finding their meals, quietly and in peace. Sometimes the porpoises play in the sun out there a mile away—all seem so happy, so free from care; but we, who are in our “pen.” Penned up, away from the world, either being punished or striving to reform ourselves.

As I have said, this great nation, the greatest in the world, who is fighting for democracy with all their might, has failed to solve this simple problem of prisons. I am sometimes forced to wonder whether they are really in earnest about democracy. -Floyd Ramp

[There is a whole collection of documents called the “Floyd Ramp papers” housed at the University of Oregon that I plan to go through someday. For now, I’ve only located two documents on the web. Here’s a link to the above document, and one more, written after he was out of prison: "Workers, Free Yourselves!"]

I only knew this man as a young child, before he died at the age of 101. Yes, that’s correct, 101. Sorry to break it to you, but if my genetic history is any indicator of my future, this loud mouth is going to be around for a long time. So don’t expect me shut it any time soon. I’m a loud mouth, and proud of it. Thanks for reminding me, Floyd Ramp, my great-grandfather.

Time is...

Reality = Perception

I'm taking a writing class at PNCA (Pacific Northwest College of Art) for "fun" and mostly because I can't stand being out of school. I'm also tackling a style of writing I've never really done before, or felt comfortable with. It's a bit more creative; we use both literary and visual references--poetry, photography, paintings, and short stories--to inspire our own writing. I'm barely into it, but so far I love it. And coincidentally, there are a few other students who have recently completed degrees in other creative fields (painting, film studies) who realized their real gift and love was with writing.

Last night in class we wrote, on the spot, for five minutes in reaction to an image of a person set in some kind of background. Mine was actually a painting. Here's what came out:

A man weeping, head in hands. He sits in a pastoral scene, with beautiful trees, mountains, and paths that he will not even notice. He is beside himself, within himself--completely unaware of the world that exists around him. He is the epitome of a man lost. He is also a sad and pathetic reminder that we are all selfish beings. We cry over lost love, lost homes, maybe even something so trivial as lost shoes. Yet there is a world of hurt out there--beyond us--and if we can't stretch our gazes past our own shoes, what trouble we are in.

It's interesting where these "free-writing" exercises go. The mind, almost instantly, begins to transform, to interpret, to make stories that are based on our own realities. This leads me back to my position that there is no reality, only perception. And back to my own quote that I continue to repeat: "All in the world is relative, open to interpretation, very subjective--and individual perceptions are based on the clouded and deluded lenses through which we see."

Last Day of Summer: Part 2

2008's last day of summer ended with a bang for me: stormy weather, torrential rains, and emotional upheaval of epic proportions. 2009's last day of summer came and went without me even realizing that it happened: sunny skies, and a pleasant day of no monumental significance.

Or is it monumental in its insignificance? Hmmm...

The Italian Experiment

For some reason I’ve been asked by multiple people how I felt walking into my apartment after returning from Italy. Oh yeah, I suppose it’s because I’ve expressed discomfort and a bit of disdain for the fact that I like where I live! I’ve said this before: too much comfort makes me very uncomfortable. My desire to be unattached, ungrounded, free to fly, free to flee, has left me feeling that any attachment to place or space is simply wrong for me. Most people I talk to about this have a very difficult time understanding, or at least relating. All I know is that in recent months, I had begun to feel a slight emotional attachment to my home, and I didn’t like it. It made me feel weighted, limited in my choices, and less free. If I chose to take off, I wanted to be able to walk away feeling that I was leaving nothing behind.

And so I went to Italy. In some ways, it was an experiment. I didn’t know what to expect—how I would feel about this place that occupied so much magic and madness in my heart.

Well, the experiment ended with slightly surprising results. Not surprising is that Italy is still full and magic and madness for me. And it’s not that the magic outweighs the madness, or vice versa, but actually the madness is part of what creates the magic. I’ve definitely confirmed that I need a bit of madness in my life. Too much magic is simply…well…boring. And I’m easily bored. What was surprising about this experiment is that I found myself in Italy, at times, thinking fondly about home. I didn’t plan on this; I left Portland feeling like I wanted to get the hell out, even if only temporarily. I considered that perhaps my trip to Italy was going to be one of scouting—to see if I possibly wanted to make a move there.

Again, the results were surprising. I decided that Italy—Rome in particular—is a sacred place for me, and in order to keep it sacred I can’t make it my home. Reality has a way of quashing magic, and so for now, I prefer to keep my reality in Portland and my magic in Rome. That’s right—for now—because for me, everything is for now.

And in case you’re wondering…when I walked into my apartment for the first time…I liked it, and I was happy.

Rome's To-Do List

Things I did not do while in Rome:

• Go to the Pantheon

• Go to the Coliseum

• Go to the Forum

• Stand in line to stick my hand in the Mouth of Truth

• Throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain, or even see it

• Visit a million churches

• Go anywhere near the Vatican

• Ride a tour bus

• Take a taxi

• Visit any museums

• Look at a map

Things I did while in Rome:

• Wandered aimlessly for hours

• Sat at a café in Trastevere drinking prosecco alone, watching people

• Ate some of my favorite foods, sometimes in unreal quantities

• Visited what is probably the creepiest crypt in existence

• Tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to hear the chanting monks

• Spent many nights out drinking with friends until 4am

• Met new friends

• Went to Mussolini’s EUR

• Walked around a couple of my favorite areas: Aventino and Jewish Ghetto

• Talked about people, politics, and why I can’t speak better Italian with a cabbie, while eating dinner alone

• Got lost

• Found my way

• Got lost

• Found my way

• Got lost

• Found my way

• Spent a Sunday biking on the cobblestones of via Appia Antica

• Broke the Rome dress code, daily, and didn’t care

• Told several smarmy middle-of-the-night pursuers to fuck off

• Lived in filth

• Observed

• Pondered

• Laughed

• Cried

• Tried and tried and tried to wipe the perma-grin off my face

• Loved to hate it

• LOVED. IT.

Nothing. Yet Everything.

Traveling does not equal vacationing for me. Don’t get me wrong—I have vacationed, and I still will. But traveling is different. Now that I’m a couple days from ending this three-week excursion, of course I’m getting reflective about it, and I’ll definitely say it has included more traveling than vacationing. Of everything I’ve experienced during the last few weeks, the only portions that matter to me—the only pieces I will even remember—are of two kinds: (1) interactions with people, and (2) anything that has struck me on a sensory level.

For example, on this rainy Rome Sunday, I am perfectly content to spend a fair amount of time sitting in my apartment drinking coffee and writing. I’m not out sightseeing, but Rome’s noise and aroma are right outside my window. For me, this experience is no less valid than any other, and I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.

Yesterday I was returning from Germany back to Rome. I had an early evening flight, so I had most of the day to do whatever I wanted. What I chose to do is not likely what many others would choose, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I took a train from Bacharach to Mainz, which has a much larger station, and I sat there for several hours. I watched people come and go, in and out, as I remained in the same spot. An old man struck up a conversation with me. He was waiting for his son to arrive for a visit, and I heard all about his family and how he is coping with the death of his wife of 40 years. I’ll probably never forget his face, or sitting on that train station bench next to him. After a few hours in Mainz, I took a bus to the small Frankfurt-Hahn airport, from which I would be flying back to Rome. There, again, I sat for several hours, watching people come and go, in and out, as I remained. I met a young angst-ridden Italian guy, Gabriele, who sat next to me and told me that his life in the last few weeks has been like a book. And that it’s good if you’re the one reading the book, but not if you’re the one living it. I said, “I know, I’ve been there.”

I am certain—I mean utterly certain—that I will remember this day of sitting in train stations and airports with much more fondness than I would if I had chosen to do something touristy or see some sights.

In the last few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time in observational solitude, reconnected with old friends, met new friends, walked around aimlessly, sweated profusely in the uncomfortable humidity, dealt with banking issues, tried to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life, had the one traveling experience that really made me feel I’m not cut out for this (the hospital), slept, ate, drank, stared at the sky. Essentially, I’ve done a lot of nothing. Yet everything.

It’s sometimes difficult to see when you’re “in” it, but in my mind there are no “good” or “bad” experiences. There are only experiences, and no matter their form, they are an integral part of what shapes me and creates the ever-evolving person that I am. I look forward to more…

Infected or Infused

My senses are hyper-sensitive.

Every time I travel, I am reminded of this.

At times I am struck by I-don’t-know-what…but that thing that instantly makes me love a place or not. I usually can’t pinpoint it. I have trouble answering the question “What did you like about it?” or “What did you not like about it?” Sometimes there is no answer. It’s just a feeling I get. Or rather, the way I feel being in a place.

I have stepped foot in a few new-to-me cities recently, and have been overwhelmed by my physical and emotional reaction to them. I wish I could better describe this in words. All I can say is that it’s an extraordinary sensation to step off a train in a foreign city, walk for just a few minutes, and feel either infected or infused with the energy of a place. This thing, whatever it is, hits me so hard that it cuts to my core. I have been brought to tears both by the overwhelming love for a place, and the overwhelming dislike for a place. Instantly.

And the great thing about traveling alone with no real itinerary is that I just go with it. I stay where I love, collect what I can from it; I leave those places I don’t love, and don’t look back. There is no sense trying to force something that just isn’t there…

Return to Roma

After being away from Rome for over a year, and constantly dreaming of returning, I expected that my arrival back in this, my other city, would be nothing less than magical and perfetto. Knowing Rome like I do, I don’t know why I would even entertain such a ludicrous thought. I mean, I know that Rome is Rome is Rome…and Rome is a difficult city. It is inherently difficult to navigate, and more often than not, things just don’t go according to plan. Rome requires that you roll with the punches, be flexible, be adaptable, just be, and not attempt to force your way on Rome. It’s a futile task; Rome always wins. That’s what I grew to love about this city in the first place; living here taught me to be all those things—flexible, adaptable, open to change. Rome taught me how to live without all my usual comforts, to have different life expectations, and to live and experience the moments as they happen—both pleasurable and painful moments, that is.

I am now recalling, with a visceral fervor, the familiar feelings of frustration and angst that I experienced upon arrival in Rome last time. It is hard to adjust to Rome, after being away for over a year. I wasn’t expecting this re-integration period, but I accept it as part of the process. And of course it goes without saying that I “love” process! I’m only here for one day for now, as I head to Milano before coming back. The real test will be spending a week here, and seeing how I like it…or don’t…

Feast on this!

It sounds so cliché, but it’s undeniably true: Italy is a literal feast for the senses. It is visually stunning, for me mostly because it is so full of texture. It is aged, and it has aged well—cracks, crevices, crumbling stucco, cobblestones, colors that compliment the earth and the landscape within which they reside—it’s sometimes too much for the eyes to take.

And the smells—the sea, the food—mamma mia the food!! Espresso, cappuccino, pane, salumi, cornetti alla crema (this one in particular will make you want to pass out from pleasure), pasta, formaggi, granita limone, the best olives on earth, fresh produce and fresh seafood…I want it all!!

On top of all that, there’s the general visceral experience—it’s MFing hot and MFing humid. It’s a nonstop sweat-fest—no getting around it. As uncomfortable as it can be, there’s something about it that adds to the experience for me. It just can’t be that comfortable or I wouldn’t be happy.

Of all the sensory experiences, for me it is most about the noise. God, I love the sound of this place. This noise I’m referring to…some might call it traffic—I call it life. This is not your run of the mill freeway-hum traffic noise. It is the honk, beep-d-beep-beep, hooooooonk, beep, beep, honk; it is the waxing and waning of engines of all kinds—scooters, motorcycles, cars, buses—and they’re not just moving at a steady pace. They are moving with the flow of life, which isn’t constant. This sound is music to my ears. It is activity, movement, change, people living—not just existing.

I’ve been in Italy barely 24 hours as I write this, and already my perspective is coming back. That beautiful perspective on life I had a year ago. That one I lost after being home too long. It’s coming back. This place is magical for me, for some reason. Today I amused myself watching the terrified tourists walking precariously through the streets of the Amalfi Coast, scared for their lives…while I walked along confident that no one would run me over. Then I thought, maybe I just don’t care. This place literally makes me so happy that I don’t care if I die here. If I do, please know that it ended on a very good note!

Ciao, ciao for now…I’m gonna go eat and drink some more!

Ashamed in Amsterdam

I was truly a tourist in Amsterdam. I mean, truly. I’m so embarrassed to admit it, but I got on one of those canal cruise tours…with a bunch of old people. The excuse goes something like this: I was only in Amsterdam for a layover, awaiting my flight to Rome. I had six hours, and had heard that it is amazingly easy and quick to get into the heart of the city within that amount of time. This is definitely true. Within an hour of landing, I had gone through customs, stored my luggage in a locker, got on a train, and was at Amsterdam Centraal station. I got off the train, walked around for a bit, and then decided what the hell, I’ll get on the boat. Since I only had a couple hours, I figured a one-hour boat ride was probably my best bet to see the city. That it was…but…god I felt like such an ass! It’s a funny thing to say, but I was embarrassed to be on the boat, even though the only people who knew I was on the boat were those with me…on the boat.

Here’s my deal when traveling: I love traveling, but I hate being a tourist. Rarely do I even visit the “must see” places anywhere I go. I enjoy much more just being in a place, wandering around, seeing what I find. I do not want to travel with a checklist of things to do and see. Whatever happens is what happens, and that’s how I like it.

So during this canal cruise—which, by the way, was narrated by a recorded audio message telling my fellow cruisers and me what we were seeing—I found myself wishing I had earplugs. The city was absolutely beautiful. I mean, beautiful—so vibrant with color, really quiet, bicycles everywhere. But I really wanted the narrator to shut the hell up, because I didn’t really care what kind of roof I was seeing, or which government official lived in that house, or whatever else was said that I tried to tune out. I also wished I could say, “Stop, wait, can we stop here!?!?” several times. I move slowly when I travel, because I really look at things. I ponder colors, textures, buildings, people, activity…and I like to take photographs. I found myself crying inside as I passed by many things while in the boat, thinking, “Arghhhhh!!! I want to look at that more! I want to photograph it!” And not, “I want to snap a quick photo from the boat,” which I did because it’s all I could do.

All in all, I’m still glad I got on the boat. And I’m glad I bothered to go into the city at all. I debated whether it would be worth the trouble, thinking maybe I should just wait it out in the airport. But I decided to go for it, and am happy I did. The boat allowed me to see more than I would have seen otherwise, but I can’t help thinking that maybe if I’d just spent two hours walking around (hopefully not getting lost), I would have had a more authentically Audrey experience. Oh well…c’est la vie…lesson learned! Or rather, confirmed.

Here's to new and different!

Sometimes in life, the anticipation of something is better than the actual something. I hope that’s not going to be the case, but I can definitely say the anticipation of what’s to come feels pretty good. For many reasons, it is a really perfect time for me to exit regular life for a bit—experience a bit of escapism, a bit of a different reality, and hopefully gain a little bit of clarity. Traveling usually does that for me, and I am wishing for nothing less.

Going back to a place that was the catalyst for my entire life to change is a bit scary. And exciting. I don’t know what to expect. Everything is different this time around. I don’t even know if I’m the same person.

But one thing is clear: I’m so happy and feel so fortunate to be going back to Italy for a visit. It’s unusual for me to want to visit the same place again; usually I’m all for new and different. But I have a feeling that even though I’ve been before, this will still be new and different…

It's a Fake World After All...

Tonight I was having food and drinks with some friends—two of the three I had just met. As is typical when I am in the company of more than, say, one person other than myself, I was the quiet one. The one who sits nearly silently (somewhat uncomfortably so) as she watches the world whiz by, trying (albeit briefly) to contribute to a conversation that is likely about some topic to which she simply cannot relate. Every time I’m in the company of a group of people, I realize that the things I think about and care to talk about are just not those things most people talk about. At least not in groups.

Always, always, always, there is some mention of movies or television shows or video games (I hope that’s the proper term?) and again, I sit blindly staring, wondering what the hell these people are even saying. Everyone is laughing gaily as someone refers to David Bowie’s tight pants and genitals and something about puppets; and here I am getting the sympathetic look from the one person at the table who knows me…because she is well aware that I have no idea what’s going on. Then she brings it up: “Audrey doesn’t watch movies.” To which one of the newcomers replies, “Oh, did you grow up with parents who didn’t allow it or something?” Me: “Ummm, no, I just don’t like movies.”

The conversation continues along its (painfully and monotonously) typical pop-culture path, eventually making it to (what I later learn to be) the video game portion. [You see, they just start talking about these games and movies as if everyone already knows what they are. Oh yeah, because they do!] Well, apparently there is a “game” called Second Life, that essentially allows people to pretend to have whatever life they dream or desire, and it is so mind-altering and hypnotic that real life becomes extremely confusing and crazy-making when you stop playing. As in, people actually go nuts over this shit. Like, they lose their shit because they don’t know how to function in their actual lives. Are you kidding me?!?! I’m pretty sure that I don’t have the words to properly convey how disturbing this is to me.

I’ve been doing a lot of pondering recently, considering what I see as rampant fakery everywhere...

Someone mentioned to me today that 30 percent of the cost of a tire is due to its advertising budget. Then I think, wow, advertising. Hmmm…there’s this whole business, this whole industry, where people go to work every day, millions of them, and they make advertising for things, things that may or may not be things we need, but regardless they are things we will buy, and then we pay more for these things, just because they are advertised, which means by buying these things we are paying for the salaries of these advertising people, and are essentially using our money to create an industry that only exists so that we can pay more for the things we buy. Woah. It’s all fake. I mean, it’s so fake.

And then I learn of this Second Life game, this game of fake life. And I sit among a group of people who are using all these fake things—movies, television, games—to relate to real, actual life. And again, I think, woah, it’s all fake.

We live in a fake world.

Why don’t we actually talk about and experience the life that is right before our very eyes, instead of talking about all this fakery?

It’s madness. Madness I tell you!

Moral of the story: I don’t know. The world is fake.

Result of the story: It’s always the same. I am weird. I am awkward. I feel more alone with a group of people than I do when I am actually alone.

The Rising of the Sun

I love sunrises so much more than sunsets. I wonder if there is a fundamental difference between those who prefer the rising of the sun and those who prefer its setting. The anticipation of what is to come vs. the reflection upon what has been. For me, it is always the anticipation. Every morning, I wake with optimism. Everything is better in the morning. If I could live my entire life bathed in the early morning light, I am pretty sure I would never want for anything...

[Thanks for the sunrise, Mark. It's perfetto!!]

Timing

It’s all about timing. Everything in life—every collision, epiphany, occurrence, and encounter—is about timing. When the time is right, the time is right. And when it’s wrong, it’s wrong.

One thing leads to another

Ever seen the movie Sliding Doors? [Yes, I’m using a movie reference. If you know me, you are likely falling out of your chair right now…but…it’s true. I saw a movie once…or twice.] It’s a terrible movie, but the concept isn’t. It essentially offers a look at two parallel scenarios—one in which the main character catches her intended train, and the other in which she misses it. Viewers get to see her parallel lives played out in tandem, and it’s amazing how different they are. Amazing because the differences can only be attributed to whether she catches the train or not.

I think very often about how life can be altered by seemingly insignificant movements. Turning left or turning right can entirely change the course of one’s life. Every decision (conscious or not), every right or left turn, every yes or no, has led me to where I am today. The computer I’m typing on, the chair I’m sitting in, the shoes on my feet, are all part of the puzzle.

During one of my early days in Italy last year, my friends and I (literally) stumbled upon an interesting-looking café/bar/internet spot in our Roman neighborhood. We thought, “Hmmm…this place looks cool. Let’s come back here sometime.” And we did. Again and again and again. As a matter of fact, it became my “third place” while I was in Rome. I spent a lot of time there—using the free wifi, visiting with friends, looking at magazines, drinking copious amounts of vodka e tonica. Ahhh…those were the days.

Today I am sitting at my home in Portland—an apartment I never imagined I’d be living in—and I can say with certainty that if I had not visited that Roman bar, I would not be here, in this apartment, over a year later. I can take the trail back further, but it can go on forever, and that is the point. One thing leads to another.

But back to the Roman bar, better known as Circus…

When worlds collide: The existence of that bar and the crazy Roman who owns it, and my “random” stumbling upon it, literally shaped my entire three months in Italy. Every single person I met can be traced back to Circus, in one way or another. Many of these people don’t even know of Circus, or its owner, but they are still connected to him, via me. I now have friends in Rome and the Amalfi Coast who I am still in contact with today…and I would know none of them if it weren’t for Circus.

As I’m preparing my mind (and my liver) for a return visit to Italy—where I will enjoy the company of many of these people again—I’m feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the existence of Circus, and the pazzo Romano who opened it. Which, in turn, leads me to an overwhelming sense of gratitude for everything else—every left turn or right turn…even those that seemed like wrong turns. Because I know there is no such thing as a wrong turn. The only truth is that one thing leads to another.

Grazie mille, Paco!!! A presto…

One Year

I’ve been home for nearly a year. I’ve moved twice, finally settling into my own version of new and normal. I’ve finished my last year of school. I’ve completed projects, papers, and other work that I’m utterly proud of. I’ve graduated. I’ve done more than just survive. A lot more, in fact. In short, I’ve done what seemed, one year ago, daunting and nearly impossible.

And, whether I like it or not, I’m now faced with the next phase of my life. As much as I try not to dwell on the past or pine for the future, I must ask (and hopefully answer) the question: What now?

My fellow graduates and I are faced with a less than ideal economic climate; in some ways school was a bit of a safe-haven that no longer exists for us. I think many feel as if they’ve now been thrown to the wolves—and are just waiting to be chewed up and spit out by the “real world.” [Note that I hate that term. Real world. In my humble perspective, every day, every place, every thought, every action, every emotion—it’s all part of the real world. LIFE is the real world.]

Given this “difficult” situation, I feel that there is only one option: to view the lack of jobs as an opportunity, rather than an obstacle. Obviously we all have to find ways to make money and survive…but on the flip side…the non-existent reality of a 9-5 desk job (thank f’ing god!!) sort of forces us to create work for ourselves and express our creativity in other ways.

It is my intention to do just that. Many genius ideas are born out of situations like these; necessity is the mother of invention, right? So while I have no way of knowing if any of the work I make for myself will actually become relevant or not, I have to give it a whirl! So whirl I will…

Giving Birth

Today, I gave birth to a book. I swear that’s what it feels like. I’m sure anyone who has actually given birth to a human being will take umbrage with this statement but that is beside the point. This is the only kind of birth I will ever give so I’m calling it that! I carried it; labored over it; cried, smiled, worried, loved, hated, and everything in between…for the last nine months. So I’d say that’s comparable; what say you?

OK, so I finished a book. It blows my mind that this little pipe dream of an idea now sits in front of me as a physical thing that I can touch, look at, keep forever, and feel proud of (see, it IS like a kid!!). At this moment, I love it so much that I actually like to just stare at it, flip through the pages, and reminisce. I think it’s beautiful and I really, really love it. I love that I created it. OK, I’ll shut up about that. It’s probably just as annoying as people talking incessantly about how wonderful their kids are. I think I’m beginning to understand this thing.

Here’s the real reason I’m so happy with this book: because I had to fight so damn hard to make it happen. I feel triumph. I feel so completely glad that I didn’t give up, even when others discouraged me. Fortunately, I was born a fighter, and I haven’t lost that. Fighting is worth it, at times. Win or lose…without the fight, what is the point?

This little soldier is now home from the battle and ready to move forward. Because I’ve stuck to my guns, followed my passion, and not given up, I’ve been recognized. I’ve been asked to be a guest speaker at a Marylhurst University class this summer on architecture theory/criticism, and possibly a design studio class in the fall. I’ve been invited as an advisor and student representative to the “Mission Task Force” meeting, to develop a new mission statement for my university’s design program. They want my input on ethics, because that is my focus. WOW. Who knew this would happen!

This all leads me to the point…you know, the moral of the story…cause this is where I always go: FOLLOW PASSION. DON’T GIVE UP. I believe when we follow our true passions, very good things happen. How can they not?

Struggle of a Bug

An insect just taught me (or reminded me) something about life. I was taking a little mental break, staring out the window, and I watched this bug literally beating its head against the wall. All it wanted was to get outside, to feel its freedom, to fly away. But it had its body literally plastered up against the window pane—seeing its goal, almost tasting the freedom—yet just banging up against the glass…and getting nowhere. I observed as its movements became quicker, sharper, more frantic. I thought to myself: If only you would step back a little, you’re so close to freedom. You’d see it if you just stepped back a little and quit banging up against the window pane. It’s obviously not working…so why do you keep trying? Try something different, and maybe you’ll find the solution.

Finally, the insect was successful. It slipped down past the pane it had been fighting against, just slightly enough to find the actual opening…and from there it flew, flew, flew away. I only wish my process could go as quickly as the mere fraction of a minute it took this insect to get over its struggle. But maybe in the relative lifespan of an insect, that struggle was appropriately proportional?

I guess the deal is…life is full of struggles, whether you’re an insect or a human. Just when we think we’re done struggling, life comes roaring back. And sometimes being so close to something we’re fighting against essentially makes it impossible to find the solution. We can’t see the forest for the trees, so to speak.

I have spent the last several weeks fighting a fierce battle with my own worst enemy: myself. There is something about being so close to something that makes me feel so far from it. There is something about nearing the end of a long, hard journey that makes me want to turn around and run in the other direction. Give up. Quit. It sucks, royally. I've had to come to terms with the fact that (in so many ways) I seem to have to allow myself to sink into the deep, dark depths of self-loathing and feeling worthless before I can finally get my shit together, so to speak. I am no good without struggle. There is no good in me that comes from anything other than bad. I guess it’s a yin and yang sort of thing…

Mind Shift

My magnet board above my desk is filled with my favorite things: words. For the last several months I've had this posted:


I've just changed it to this:


I figure if I'm going to look at something every day, this is a more appropriate message...

Seasonal Disorder

My life has been very seasonal in the last year. The change from one season to the next has literally coincided with cathartic moments in my life and relationships. Here we are just about to enter Spring, and it’s happening once again. Good thing spring is [both literally and symbolically] a time of new life, new growth, new possibilities. A time to shed the death and darkness of winter, and embrace the buds of life that are spring.

Hale County Debrief

I’ve been trying to congeal my thoughts enough to write something cohesive here about my experience in Alabama, but it isn’t an easy one to wrap my head around, or express in a very succinct way. I’ll do my best to get to the heart of the matter though.

Hale County, Alabama is, in many ways, a place of contradictions. It is a place that seems to be in a time warp—still espousing the injustices of decades past—yet it is infused with an abundance of very forward-thinking people who are responding daily to what is literally a humanitarian crisis of pretty epic proportions. It is difficult to comprehend the dichotomy that is Hale County without first-hand experiencing its culture, understanding its roots, and speaking to its people.

After just one short week there, I feel very much that I have lived my entire existence in a well-insulated and protected bubble. I am grateful to have burst this bubble. I feel so naïve, so ignorant, so sheltered—because I had no idea that right now, in 2009, there are places in America that are essentially still racially segregated. To hear that a black child can’t go to the swimming pool, or play in his front yard, or that due to complicated Alabama property laws and white bank managers who won’t loan money to “those people,” blacks can rarely own property and therefore don’t have access to the means to live with dignity…well, this really burst my bubble of idealism.

I did my best to immerse myself (judgment-free) into the culture of the deep, rural South…even to the point of attending a church dinner. That’s right—I infiltrated the enemy camp. I’d like to think they didn’t know about my dissenting beliefs; surely they would be praying for my lost soul if they did.

It’s not really possible for me to go into detail here about my experience…but that will come later with the completion of my project. All I can say right now is that I had a wonderfully enlightening experience, and once again feel more aware, more informed, and in possession of a new perspective. Makes me love this journey we call life.

Adventure Awaits Me

Since I’m a true city girl at heart—and one who has never desired to travel to America’s south—I would never have believed I’d be excited to go to Alabama. But I am. After doing all the abstract research on Rural Studio that I possibly can, I’m making the leap into real, “visceral” research. I will see the impoverished communities of Hale County for myself, and see what Rural Studio is all about. I hope to gain a better understanding of why I am so enthralled with this program, and with the issue of poverty. Throughout this process, many people have asked me why I’m so passionate about this particular issue, and I don’t know how to answer. I guess I’ve always been one to root for the underdog, and I have a serious loathing for disparity. I also want to die knowing that I’ve used my life wisely, rather than frivolously.

I don’t yet have a specific plan for my time there, but through the graces of the Internet and an evolving and ever-growing grapevine of generous people, I’ve connected with some who are graciously offering to help. I’ve been constantly amazed by the generosity and hospitality of those I’ve been in contact with. As a matter of fact, I’ve been set up with a place to stay and have already been invited to dinner on my first night, with a group of people I’ve never met. I love it…reminds me of my favorite place—Italy!

I’ve also recently come into the knowledge that the faculty members in my program are paying close attention to what I’m doing with this project. They are very curious to see what comes of this; they want to use my insights to better connect the program with a new set of ethical values. That is a huge weight to bear, but one that I take as a vote of confidence in my ability to deliver.

I will update as it comes!

The Evolution of Audrey

For my Research & Writing class that is tied to my thesis project, I was required to write an "inspiration paper" that explained my personal motivation for choosing the project that I did. As I was trying just now to get myself a little more organized, I came across this paper. I read it, and I liked it, so I thought I'd share it here. If you wonder what I'm spending most of my time doing these days, this is it.
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The inspiration for my thesis project is a product of the evolution that has taken place within me, during my three-plus years at Marylhurst. I like to call this “The Evolution of Audrey.” I think it all began when I was first exposed to Samuel Mockbee and Auburn University’s Rural Studio, at the end of my first year. I was literally moved to tears by Mockbee and this program, and suddenly my eyes were open to the power that designers have to affect change—to make a difference. While I can look back at this moment as a very poignant one, “The Evolution of Audrey” was still a slow process. Gradually my beliefs about design and my yearning to be involved in something meaningful chipped away at my aspiration to be a designer, until last spring in Rome when it all came to a head, changing my life, forever. I began to look very critically at design and architecture, and its purpose. I began to wonder, “What is the point of all this?” At the same time, I was discovering that I felt much more passionately about writing than I did about designing.

What it has come down to is this, my personal manifesto: I believe that in many ways, design is far too full of superficiality and ego. This is a hard pill for me to swallow, and one that I vow not to participate in. I believe in the “other side” of design and designers. I believe in the principle that spaces affect people, and that design can be used as a vehicle to help people and to affect change within social constructs. I believe that all people should have the opportunity to occupy spaces that make them feel dignified. I believe that all people should have the opportunity to occupy spaces that are actually designed. I believe in designing from a place of heart, not a place of ego.

As I began to put these two key pieces together (the fact that I want to write and my desire to explore ethics and social justice in design), my project idea started to take shape. After many discussions in class and with advisors, it became clear that the purpose and content of my project would likely become watered down if I were to simply complete an interior design project. Therefore it was proposed that I do something revolutionary by not designing a space for my thesis project.

Being in the position of charting new territory is a rather comfortable place for me to be. I have never been satisfied with simply doing what everyone else does, nor with floating through life without making waves. It is in my nature to be a wave-maker. I like to present ideas that actually make people think, in a way that they may never have thought before. I am looking at my thesis project as my opportunity to do something that is personally fulfilling to me. Not only does it fulfill my desire to bring awareness and exposure to an often forgotten aspect of design, but also it acts as my foray into the world of being a writer. This is my chance to spend nine months (and likely more) of my life creating something that I can say with confidence and integrity, is a proper reflection of me, and what I am about. Anything else simply would not do.

Spring???

I know we still have a way to go, but I can feel it...it's on the way. The sun is shining, but more importantly, there is something about the changing quality of light that elicits a visceral reaction within my body, telling me Spring is coming. I like it.

Incomplete Thoughts

Yes, it’s been a while…and since I’ve been bugged from multiple people about my lack of presence here, I thought I’d do something unprecedented (for me, that is). I’m a little too uptight to post something I consider unfinished, but it’s all I’ve got. Random thoughts that I believed I would eventually turn into something more profound…but no, they just sit. So maybe this is all there is to it—nothing more necessary. Maybe they are complete in their incompleteness.


Entitlement
I keep hearing these words: “You’re entitled.” Am I, really? Am I entitled? Is anyone entitled to anything? When one feels entitled, they take, rather than give. I’m confused: is the concept of entitlement itself a problem? Or is it only a problem when entitlement gets out of control? But then…what’s out of control? You see, this could go on forever…


A Question of Desire
[Desire: to want something very strongly.] It sounds so simple, so basic. Yet wrapped up in this simple word, desire, is a world of complications. Is desire, most simply, wanting something we know we can’t have? And of course the bigger question, does the lack of attainability only make feelings of desire stronger? Of all the things we desire in life, how much do we actually need? And where is the line between purely hedonistic desire and what is reasonable?


The Magic of Snow
When snow first falls, it’s a beautiful thing—all fresh and quiet and lovely. Pure. Idyllic. Magical. But when the snow hangs on for just a little too long, it becomes an annoyance—a source of aggravation and deprivation. Then, inevitably, it melts. It turns ugly, messy, and dirty. It’s difficult to even recognize that this ugly pile of dirty slush was once its formerly beautiful self. Once it’s in this state, we either want it to disappear completely, leaving no evidence of its existence, or we long for the way it once was. Magical, idyllic, pure, and lovely. But once it’s gone, it’s gone. Until the next time the snow falls, and so the cycle repeats. My favorite theme: nature as metaphor for life.