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Is it possible to be celebrity in a town of 100,000 people?

Is it possible to be a famous when you are homeless, or a person who spends his days walking the streets?

What kind of town has a celebrity that survives off free meals from local cafes and diners?
A town that cares more about giving a free meal to a local homeless person than reserving a table for an out-of-town celebrity.

What kind of town runs news stories and letters to the editor for a week to commemorate a man who owned no property and held no job?
A town where the residents proudly purchase CDs and bumper stickers sporting the character's iconic face.

What kind of town has a parade for a man of the streets?
A town that supports art in the streets.

***

Post Script: It's interesting to consider. What makes the celebrities of Hollywood who crash and burn different from the people of the streets we get to know around town? They are all down on their luck, living off the kindness of strangers. They all have stories we whisper upon seeing them. And maybe they all want a parade just for them. In this town, however, I love the fact that it's small enough, funky enough, remembers enough—to get to know that person, that character, regardless of the reason for their fame--their appearance, their antics, their talents, just as long as they were THEMSELVES--and remembers them all, in their own way.

Festivals: A space for another culture

Festivals seem to be the place where the ignored, hushed, and often ostracized people of counter cultures can spread their wings and be themselves. In the "real" world, they're covered with suitable clothing or thought to only work in head shops. But once they've pointed their cars towards Dixie Highway, the kilts, fairy wings, swords, corsets, wands and dragon jewelry become visible. Through the gates it's perfectly acceptable to say, "Good day my lady" and banter with passersby about dragons that don't enjoy being dipped in chocolate. Perhaps more people need to banter and interact in this jovial way in public.

Of course the cell phones clipped to petticoats and sword sheaths are a bit of a clue that you haven't been hit over the head and woken up several centuries in the past. Still, it is nice to have a land where these personalities can come out. Where pretending to be a fairy or a wood nymph is perfectly acceptable, as is wearing leather wrist guards and expecting to pay a price to the troll in order to cross the bridge. Sure there are people who wonder what the man who swallows fire does during his day job, or see huge butterfly wings tattooed on a woman's back and think that it's excessive. But the ticket takers don't seem to mind, nor do the hundreds of artists who make and sell their renaissance world, or the hundreds who make yearly pilgrimages to this seasonal fantasy land.

More people could use a good dose of imagination.

A Day

What was my day like? Let's see.
Boldly pointing out hostility.
Watching a problem miraculously solve itself.
Trying to coordinate the not-so-well coordinated.
Slowly getting to know the others in this work space.
Feeling awkward as a participant in team-building activities; it's hard to do activities for their bonding and growth purpose when I know the "trick" to making the activity "work". Nonetheless, there were some interesting metaphors that the activities uncovered about the group that gave me some interesting insight. I wonder if others caught it too.
Sometimes it's hard to follow rather than facilitate. But isn't that in some ways what facilitating is? Not always leading, but rather following the group and herding them in the direction that they're probably already going.
Finding a small, not so well known sandwich shop for lunch, and beating the rush.
Eating lunch on the diag between a boy reading Italian who looked like he stepped out of a Jack Kerouac novel, and a fan club recruiting members.
Hearing the facts, myths, and legends that I've heard a hundred times from the tour guides passing by. I can't help but smile.
Meetings need action. Otherwise we're just talking at posters, and posters don't often talk back, or change their tune.
Calling people out about needing to follow through with their responsibility, and then of course having them get upset, understandable I suppose.
Wondering if I was in fact too hard on them, and wondering if it will roll off or unfurl itself into a problematic plume.
Sticking my feet out the window.
Inspecting the maple tree for signs of fall.
A person crying in my office.
A broken fax machine.
A quick switch and a problem (hopefully) solved.
A friend in need of a ranting outlet.
An ever-growing "long-term" list.

This is my rambling purge.

There are days when I feel like a social worker. One that wants to clock out at six and have someone else hear the highs and lows of my day. And to hear theirs. Why is it somehow easier to take on the weight and stress and joy of someone else's ordinary and extraordinary when they stand in front of you and ask the same, "how was your day?" Maybe it's talking over food. Maybe it's tangenting off into hilariously random jokes and stories and banter, only to wrap back around to something heard on npr this morning. Or maybe it's just having a place to express the things that can't necessarily be said by words.

Stalking the Church Lady

Driving to Southgate today, I got stuck behind the Church Lady. It was the icon Dana Carvy strived to be. Floofy, almost beehive hair, huge sunglasses, deep creases in her skin from her face being pulled into a perpetual grimace. Beside her in the cross and rosaries decorated car was a small woman, with darker hair and glasses. I could just picture this Church Lady, driving the needy to Meijer, all the while emitting a constant stream of commentary about the "sinners" on the road.

She was one of those annoying drivers that is going about two miles per hour too slow, but there never seemed to be room or time enough to pass. That off-green/blue laSabre that just wouldn't go away.

Now Church Lady wouldn't be all that memorable, except for this. After losing her at a Meijer in Taylor, continuing on to my meeting in Southgate, then heading back to Ann Arbor over an hour later, Murphy's inevitable happened; Church Lady pulled out in front of me. And I was stuck behind her again. For ten miles.

Seriously, what are the odds?

Two Feet Planted

I hobnob with the hoity-toity at invitation-only tailgate parties,
my arms and hands still covered in paint I wasn't able to scrub off an hour before, hidden by my ratty sweatshirt.

I schmooze with deans, regents, and high-rolling donors,
but open doors and step back to let others through the way the wait staff is expected to do.

Parking lots fill with RVs and custom-painted vans with plasma screens tvs,
while a man in a Harvard shirt pushes a grocery cart full of cans along the sidewalk.

Fans who have been on waiting lists for years to get season football tickets
walk past varsity volleyball players handing out stickers, trying to get people to come watch their team.

111,000 people spend 3+ hours of their lives cheering, singing, being angry and being happy,
all in the spirit of the game.

Fresh mozzarella and nachos.
Guest lists and bleacher seats.
How expansive our lives (even in a microcosm) have the possibility of being.

Covered in Paint

It's 12:30 a.m. on a Friday night, I haven't been home since 7:45 a.m., I'm covered in paint, and I'm completely fine with it.

I miss being messy. Doing something physical. Making art.

And the moral of the story is...

.
.
.
Sometimes, when you try to hold on to everything,
.
.
.
you risk losing everything.

Snapshots of thoughts

There are so many things I would like to consider, wonder about, explore here. And all simply from today. Unfortunately it is late, and I am sleepy, but nonetheless here you are, snapshots of today’s thoughts.

-Wondering about this teasing fall, willing me to shut my windows, and pull out jackets. With the windows shut I feel so much more isolated, for better or worse, the noises of the street and neighboring yards no longer wafting through my rooms. And subsequently, the sounds of my own apartment, from npr to silly songs to the snippets of conversations I have with myself, they are more protected from the listening ears of others. Is this good, or is this bad? Must it be one or the other? Either?

-I love pulling on coats after they've been packed away, hibernating in the closet for a season, and seeing what sorts of treasures are still hiding in the pockets. Pens. A quarter. A clothespin/bullet/C-47 (did we really call them that?) from working on the 24 hour theater in the spring, the nights still chilly, not unlike this one, and when I was somehow nominated to be sole set and lighting designer and crew. A bonfire burning in the back yard. A night sky made from trash bags and pin pricks. An audience of friends and neighbors, and passersby.

-I value the fact that I can still remember what it was like to be a different age. The excitement and anxiety of being a five-year-old on the first day of kindergarten, or a first year college student being required to master a public bus system for the first time in her life. Or remembering professors and instructors simply not realizing that a student's schedule does not operated from 9-5. I hope I can continue to remember these perspectives, learn and work from them.

-The fall chill, the Garden State soundtrack, and a Ford Focus hatchback in front of me during the solitary drive from Flint this evening had me thinking of T., on his meandering journey across the continent, accompanied only by his dog and several dozen CDs. I am fascinated by this lonely exploration; the sights he sees and the experiences he has, all by himself. I do not think I would find the moments of such a wandering trip as valuable, or rather maybe they would just seem more fleeting, if they were not shared. But, I am intrigued by the people who also manage to be happy doing it alone. Are they more at peace? I don't know.

-And finally September 11th. Again, I had meant to write an entire reflection on just this, but then the day got busy and suddenly it was September 12th. Is it because we have started to move on, or are we starting to forget? Are our lives getting so cluttered that we no longer take time to remember, or do we memorialize by living in the present and looking to the future, not "dwelling" in the past?
Does it only take six years to heal?

Flickers of Fall

This morning I woke up to a chill in the air, heavy gray clouds, and wet, bright yellow leaves scattered across driveway, and stuck to the car. Two days ago we were playing at a lake, another almost stolen summer day without a care in the world. How quickly the seasons can change, and remind us that really, we're just along for the ride.

Profundities

While enjoying a lazy paddle down the Huron River on Saturday, my dad asked me our usual birthday question: "any profundities?". I ask everyone this question on their birthdays, but naturally had not thought of a proper response for my own. So, after a weekend of lazy and energetic enjoyment, and of course a bit of busy-ness, here's what I've come up with:

1) Simplify.

2) Personal willpower, or mental confidence, that successfully manages the balance between struggle and blind (and sometimes irrational) habit is perhaps one of the hardest things to maintain. (So much for simplifying, eh? :-)

3) Resiliency is one of the most amazing and least appreciated of qualities.

4) Hugs should be more freely shared.

5) Smile.

6) Life is like cooking; there are certain rules and guidelines that should generally be followed (baking soda should NOT be replaced with soda pop), but it's far more exciting when the recipe is a map, not a doctrine.

7) Life should be lived without regrets.

8) Every possible moment in life should be fully enjoyed.

9) Find the things that you enjoy--making art, dancing, playing music, being surrounded by the peace of nature, going to crazy sports events, sitting on porches with friends talking the night away, whatever--and do not save them for special treats, do them often.

10) Risk. I was about to say, "take more risks," but I caught myself, thinking about the risk that Clark took, being a navy SEAL, considering "calculated risk" instead, but his risk was calculated, and he lost everything. But did he? He took the risk, and it cost him his life, and yet, he loved the life he was leading. Had he not taken that risk, would he have been as happy? He loved being a SEAL, he loved pushing himself. Perhaps I should say this: Take the risks that allow you to live a life you love.

Well there you are. Ten profundities, considered by a waterlogged (and thoroughly happy about it) 25-year-old while driving down tree-lined roads with the windows down and music blasting, and considered again through writing, and building, and rewriting. In many ways they're more resolutions than words of wisdom; I recognize them as important and true (generally, from a certain point of view I suppose). Now I just need to take my own advice, stop getting bogged down in the details, and see what happens.

Here's to the hope and potential of year 25.

petty need

I need music. I need to dance. I need to run and run and run away and not be worried about how much time my run is taking. I need more smiles that aren't just polite and more laughter at things that are actually funny. I need more than five hours to live my life. I need to get away from the lists. I need people I don't have to maintain professional boundaries with. I need to find some way to express myself. I need to unwind in a way other than constantly pressing buttons on a remote for five minutes until I realize that the whole of television is stupid. I need to stop feeling like I'm constricting myself. I need to stop having to wonder if these highs and lows are legitimate or simply a result of my choice of foods for the day. I need to stop these tirades that likely freak out the few people who read this and care.

I just need to get things done.

Afterword:
In so many ways I'm embarassed to put these sorts of rants out there. But they do no good bottled up either. So here they are. Someday I'll learn to do the balancing act.

A soft panic

It's silly really. Why should I feel panicked?
I do, though, silly or not.
I seem to get nothing done. The lists are piling up, and I feel like I've dropped the ball on at least four things, and that's only what I can remember. I feel disorganized, unsettled, rushed, and somehow I can't manage to get as much done as I used to. What's wrong? What happened?

I'm still figuring this all out, how to balance it all, without panicking.
But I've balanced more before. Why does it seem so hard now? A simple item on the list is so easliy deferred, or forgotten.
Just do it Avi, why do you put it off?

And then I reality check, and feel stupid for panicking over things that, in the grand scheme of things, are pretty petty. There are far bigger issues out there, and I am embarassed by these feelings of uncertainty, of fear, brought on by something so mundane as my own, safe, life. And yet, I can barely bring myself to recognize the much larger issues. Too big. Too painful. Too overwhelming to thing about, much less address.

Not exactly the good mindset for someone expected to change the world, eh?

Maybe these tremors of panic are merely a warning, an indicator to be wary of what is lurking on the horizon if things aren't addressed soon.

Small bites and balance. Take things in and let things out.

This is going to take some practice.

In the Twilight Hours

In the twilight hours
a soft haze settles over the fields, and hush the shaded streets.
The pinks and greens of the sky and grass slowly dim,
and yet, become more visible to the quiet eye.
Dogs and owners step forward from the shadows
relinquishing leashes as dogs run free,
and no one seems to mind.
Clouds of small birds swarm in circles,
deftly catching the late summer's 'skeeters.

In the twilight hours
couples take an evening stroll,
turn their faces towards the sky, the birds, the slowly appearing stars.
Their children at home, just a step away,
dutifully complete the first day of school's homework,
and for a moment their parents are not only seen as parents,
but rather sweethearts, walking side by side, hand in hand.

In the twilight hours
the lines between family and community become blurred,
the safe spaces of living rooms and dens becoming visible to the outside world,
and while still safe, reading on the couch or ambling up the sidewalk,
we catch glimpses of one another's worlds,
and smile as we imagine what they are like.

In the twilight hours
the world seems more manageable, more understandable, more peaceful.

In the twilight hours
the world softens.

Random Bits on Femininity

Sidenote: Why does discussion of femininity always make me feel superficial? Is this a commentary on society--that many things predominantly affiliated with women are often materialistic? Makeup and handbags seem to get more glossy coverage than nurturing instincts and organizational thinking. But I digress.

1. Ms. Massy was back in town, having returned to the state for her first medical rotation (should I be weirded out by the fact that someone younger than me will be assisting with surgery this year?), and just like clockwork, as we walked down the street to dinner (even WITH a male friend) the calls came out. From people in cars driving by. From people sitting and standing on the sidewalk. At 7:00 on a school night. She claims people never holler at her when she's not with me, and I know I never witness such ogling and tongue wagging unless I'm with her. With our pheromones combined, however, we are Captain...Everyone Flirt With Massy.

2. I'm not sure how I feel about this blue nail polish. I was tired of the dark reddish/purplish/burgundy-ish nails, but I don't know about this one. Maybe it's too connected to past concerns from being out in the marshes and fens with wet feet in the middle of winter and fearing frostbite. Or maybe the color's just too light.

and 3. I've discovered that I am getting progressively worse at this whole dressing pretty thing. I used to be able to make the switch from sweaty, muddy, firewood-hauling cross-country runner to Winter Ball court pretty easily, and even look pretty decent if I do say so myself. I almost kind of liked being able to, on the rare occasion, dress up. Now I feel like a firefighter in a tutu. Shoot, I practically AM a firefighter in a tutu, only with slightly less Nomex, and much less tulle. Usually my aversion to dress clothes is based on practicality; any time I'm in heels and a skirt I inevitably end up having to climb up ladders or carry something heavy. Now it's grown to affect even my perception of beauty, specifically my own appearance. Is this a bad thing? I'm not sure. I don't like the way I look in dresses. I'm too tall, or maybe too stocky, built for moving and doing and adventuring, not being looked at. And I actually feel prettier in pants. Less out of place. Less awkward. What on earth would Glamour and Disney say? Who cares.

Maybe if I had more occasions to dress up I would get used to it. Maybe. Maybe not. Do I want more occasions when and where I have to/get to dress up? Maybe. Maybe not. Hmm...

On Rationality, a.k.a. "knees need to evolve"

My knee gave out on me today, for no apparent reason. One moment I was running down the tree-lined street, and the next my knee would have none of it, halting me right where my foot landed. Usually I can deal with these sorts of issues, while running or otherwise; identify a cause, and work through it. With this one though, there was no solution (mental or physical) to be had. Sit on the sidewalk or walk home. Those were my options.

I've never been good at irrationality. Topics of logic I can unpack, consider from different perspectives, try to understand, and determine a course of action. The illogical, the irrational, particularly for those I long to fix, those are the moments that trouble me.

I'm generally good at what I do because I can usually find a logic, a reason for the way things work, or the way they should. And yet it is often the irrationalities, the things that can't be explained, that make life, life. Why do certain events turn out the way they do? Why does a coin land on heads versus tails? Why does certain music captivate us? Why are we drawn to beauty? How do we define beauty? Why do we feel what we feel?

Strangely, this lover of logic is trying not to always be interested in all the scientific explanations. I suppose I will always search for the reasoning behind moments and experiences I don't like, that I wish I could change. And I certainly over think mysteries that are probably best left outside the realms of scrutiny. That mystery, that magic, that enigma of why life twists and turns and brings us to those glorious happenings, those wonderful moments, I guess in some ways, I like being able to marvel at the beautiful absence of logic. Perhaps, sometimes, I like not having to consider the rationality.

In someone else's words

I came across this little game, which many others have blogged about before, and I thought, what the hell, I might as well.

So here's the deal: pick a band/singer/songwriter/what have you, and answer all of the following questions using only titles from his/her/it/their songs.

Enjoy.

Band/Singer: Paul Simon

1.) Are you a male or female? The Obvious Child

2.) Describe yourself: some days... I Am A Rock, others... Slip Sliding Away

3.) How do you feel about yourself? Further to Fly

4.) Describe where you currently live: My Little Town

5.) If you could go anywhere, where would you go? Graceland

6.) Your best friend is... A Most Peculiar Man

7.) Your favorite color is... Under African Skies

8.) You know... Kodachrome

9.) What's the weather like? Hurricane Eye

10.) If your life was a TV show, what would it be called? Still Crazy After all these Years

11.) What is life to you? Bridge Over Troubled Water

12.) What is the best advice you have to give? She Moves On

13.) If you could change your name, what would you change it to? You Can Call Me Al

14.) What's the worst situation you could be in? Boy in the Bubble

15.) What's the best situation you could be in? Have a Good Time

16.) What do you want most right now? Something so Right

Architectural symbology

I was sorting through my snapshots from Europe, Paris specifically, and something caught my attention. It's amazing how many the various architectural feats of the city represent the power of different aspects of culture and humanity.


Notre Dame (or any cathedral in Europe for that matter); the power of religion (or maybe just belief in a higher being) to drive people to build such enormous, such detailed structures, literally for generations. With no safety nets. Or in many cases electricity.


The Eiffel Tower; the power of science and engineering, and a good dose of pride and ambition to blatantly show off at the World Fair. Imagine building such an enormous structure, with the intent of it only being temporary.


The Statue of Liberty (the smaller version in Paris made me think of the one gifted by the French that now stands in New York); the power of the drive and desire for freedom from oppression. The power of possibility.


The Louvre; this is perhaps the most intriguing. The building itself, with it's old stone and new glass, it has always been a battle. The current generation of traditional Parisians claim that the pyramids are, "a scar on the face of Paris." That's the same thing people said about the gargoyles a hundred years ago. Perhaps this one is the power of innovation. Of imagination. Of art. So much space, and so many beautiful buildings, dedicated to the preservation and presentation of art. Histories told (and mis-told) through the expression of individuals. The power of those willing to express, to push boundaries, to record.