Say that you are parting ways with a friend after an evening of intelligent conversation, working together, binge drinking, whatever. In America, we say "I'll see you." In Mexico, they say "Nos vemos." Literally translated, this means roughly "we'll be seeing each other." I like that. In American English, the subject is you, the selfish article that your friend gets the pleasure of seeing sometime in the future. There is a clear delineation between you and another. The Mexican Spanish equivalent just feels so much more equal when you break it down. It's also more economical to say.
Mexican Spanish is filled with all kinds of formalities, such as addressing an unfamiliar person in the third person "Usted," or the hierarchical system of addressing those older, more experienced, or seemingly above you in both age, status and (for native Mexicans) even ethnicity with respect and dignity. There are many idioms in the language south of the border to keep very clearly defined social roles in order.
But "Nos vemos," with its equal and eagerly divided attention between friends, its warm tone and affected surety, is a phrase I can really get behind.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Trash Humper Trauma
Last night I watched a film called Trash Humpers, written and directed by Harmony Korine. I'd read an article about Korine in Juxtapoz magazine once, and knew that for better or worse, I was curious about his films and just had to see one eventually. The most commercial one you may have heard of was Kids, written by Korine. It is about sexually active underage teenagers in early 90's New York City giving each other AIDS.
I'm not setting out to write a review of Trash Humpers, but rather just to record, document and examine my own reactions to it. It is easily one of the most disturbing and quietly traumatizing pieces of motion picture you can set your eyes to.
Trash Humpers, for those of you who have not seen it, is about a group of four elderly peeping toms who amble across the quintessential butthole of the American terrain: redneck's houses, train tracks, in dimly lit parking lots, fields near the sides of highways with signs of the recently departed homeless.
A good portion of the movie is easily written off by a discerning, logical viewer. These are actors. The things they do with their bodies (especially near the beginning before they really "inhabit" their characters) are far too youthful and it seems obvious their faces are masks. Eventually, however, something about the aesthetic of the VHS recording, the incessant yammering of the off-screen characters yelling "Git 'er done!," or simply screaming and laughing maniacally, eventually get to you.
There is one truly disturbing image. In a field of grass and strewn litter, we see something vaguely beige. The camera operator starts singing in an eery falsetto, "Oh, Devil, done lopped off his head..." As we move in on the object I began to realize it was a human body. Still, unmoving, not breathing. The prolonged take never gets too close to the body, and is followed by pretty shots of water in the nearby creek and plants in the vicinity, almost as if the camera operator is looking for something beautiful to counteract the horrendous image it just laid eyes upon. I'm not sure as to whether it was faked or was an actual dead body, as their is nothing in the interviews on this movie about it specifically. If it is indeed fake, kudos to Korine, because I am convinced in favor of the latter.
It is a good thing Korine did not leave copies of the film lying around on the street like a "found art object," as he had once thought about doing. If I had found this tape and watched it, I would have told the police there were four very old looking, very depraved lunatics parading through our cities somewhere that we had to stop.
This movie is a lot like Natural Born Killers. Like that under-appreciated Oliver Stone classic, Trash Humpers examines the sociopath, in particular the American sociopath. However, where these films differ is on the grounds of morality: Natural Born Killers expresses one, if a warped one, while Trash Humpers plainly has none at all. There is an amount of sense and order I don't think I will be getting back after viewing this movie. It was because of this, and a sensible need to fall asleep last night, that I went searching for answers.
My first inclination (being a brainwashed follower of the auteur theory) was to direct my attention towards the man in charge, the fellow with this strange and warped vision: Harmony Korine, writer, director, cinematographer, and star of "Trash Humpers." Before I feel asleep, I sought out interviews and behind-the-scenes footage, the kind of stuff I usually use to wrap my head around a film. Since I heard about Korine, I knew his work bent more towards the avante-garde/arthouse inclination. I wondered whether Korine had a fucked up childhood, to make him make movies such as Gummo and Julien Donkey-Boy, or whether he had a far too crispy-clean early life and was now lashing out against it. I think almost all the things we put passion and soul into come from our childhood. I have no answers in regard to Korine's childhood, though I certainly have ideas, but the interviews proved enlightening and, like the film itself, even a bit disturbing.
Harmony Korine is no dummy. He is a self-proclaimed provocateur. The lack of a moral slant is purposeful. It is clear that he sees the film medium differently than any other traditional storyteller/film-maker. The production involved the actors (which included himself, his wife, and two other actors) to actually live the lives of the people portrayed on screen: for the two weeks of filming they ambled through American suburbs, slept under bridges, and destroyed shit. Korine's process is one of discovery and tied closely to film as an artistic exercise. Things occur on the location that Korine uses, "If it feels right to me. If there is some strong, palpable, raw quality in the moment then I won't question it." To his credit with such disturbingly weird subject material, he intentionally titled the film Trash Humpers because he wanted to "to give people a heads up because I don’t want to damage anyone."
Even with the background knowledge I still had some very strange dreams last night. Some of the vignettes of my mind: Watching Pulp Fiction for the first time in HD Widescreen, showing a previously "unseen" version of the movie revealing that Sam Jackson is actually entirely naked in the car in the opening scene. Being invited over to a house by unsophisticated teenage girls and accidentally peeping in on their grandmother in their underwear, while their obese mothers rushed to embrace me and offer me pie in their grease-stained Mickey Mouse and Eeyore sweaters.
I woke up at 6am, searching through familiar pornography clips, a seemingly horrible idea after watching a movie about sociopaths humping trash cans. I wanted some familiarity and human connection, however unreal it was. At that deep evolutionary level the lure of sex is about pleasure in creation, the antithesis of pleasure in destruction with which I was over-run by this film. Perhaps I really needed someone to hug, but unfortunately as adults we must fight these battles ourselves.
After I fell back asleep I kept thinking I needed to get up, I really should get up. I had a dream of my sister and our father lying on a bed in a hotel room, many stories up. My father was recalling a time (that did not really happen) of when he led me and my sister on a treasure hunt, tricking us into a pristine grove where a showing of My Neighbor Totoro was taking place. He was describing his manic mood at the time and how everything was just clicking, and he was glad it had worked because it had given my sister and I one of our fondest childhood memories. As he was talking, I saw a passenger plane pass by tall skyscrapers, twisting its wings to avoid it in ways I didn't know a plane could actually handle. The next plane wasn't so lucky. It was desperately trying to bank up out of the way of the buildings, but hit it in a dramatic vertical belly-flop, from which the plane began to fall backwards into the street below. Suddenly adrenaline kicked in. "We have to get out of here," I said, knowing the destruction that falling plane could reign on the base of our own hotel tower. That was when I opened my eyes and knew it was time to get out of bed.
Trash Humpers find me desperately clawing to find some sort of moral compass, some sort of meaning behind the madness. That, however, is pure fantasy. There is not much to explain. Korine may have a differing opinion, having said: "With this film I was really interested in making something real with a tangible message." But to me, Trash Humpers comes from that same raw place in which animals inhabit, struggling to survive in the wild, driven by that keen instinct to kill and be superior.
Actually, no, I take that back. The characters in Trash Humpers are not like animals. Because animals, like humans, have very strict rules by which they play in order to stay alive. Even animals only kill out of necessity. An animal thinks of survival every waking moment of its fragile life. It adheres to precedent set by nature, and creates social rules and hierarchies to instill an order so as to continue propagating its species. The characters in Trash Humpers are below animals (if you care to think of it hierarchically like that, as I tend to do). They occupy the same branch of humanity as Stalins or Hitlers. In fact, they aren't even there. They are not seeking power. They wallow in the squalor of vandalism and destruction. They are not hinged to, and care very little about, the societal rules that keep everyone in check from doing something morally reprehensible and punishable by society. They don't even really seem to care if they continue to survive. And although they are horrible, depraved people, there is something awe-inspiring and deeply arresting about their nature.
Because Trash Humpers is also about something very noble: freedom. You wouldn't expect it, I suppose. But these people (like Mickey and Mallory in Natural Born Killers) live out the extreme version of freedom. The death-wish mentality is even expressed by one of the people they encounter, a strange down-and-out trumpet player, in terms of civil liberties: "I have the right to die if I want to." Near the end of the film, the perennial cameraman has the camera directed towards him and gives a meandering speech about how much "free-er than them folks we are" and how he "feels bad for them, going to work everyday." Korine surprised and disturbed me with a few words attributed to him on the Trash Humpers Wikipedia page:
"I have a real deep love and admiration for these characters. Not for what they do, but for the way they do it." [link]
And Korine has wondered "whether this might make mainstream society envious of their social freedom." [link]
Again, perhaps it is futile to try to explain a movie as strange and raw and visceral as this one. However, I'd like to point out once more (to you as well as myself) that this is not about making sense out of the movie, but rather my reaction to it.
In the ever unproductive but stimulating and self-inflating debate that concerns "what is art?," this film has made me examine my morals, question my perception of the world, and made me wonder just who the hell Harmony Korine is. It seems a little ironic that a man named "Harmony" focuses much his creative energy on creating the equivalent of motion pictures to symphonies of discord. Whatever his intentions were with this film, it certainly made me think.
Korine is a self-proclaimed and gleeful provocateur. This film of his sank me deep into questions of moral ambiguity that I am not sure are helpful but I am very glad he stirred in me. And he is a far more courageous film-maker than I ever have the intention of being.
I'm not setting out to write a review of Trash Humpers, but rather just to record, document and examine my own reactions to it. It is easily one of the most disturbing and quietly traumatizing pieces of motion picture you can set your eyes to.
Trash Humpers, for those of you who have not seen it, is about a group of four elderly peeping toms who amble across the quintessential butthole of the American terrain: redneck's houses, train tracks, in dimly lit parking lots, fields near the sides of highways with signs of the recently departed homeless.
A good portion of the movie is easily written off by a discerning, logical viewer. These are actors. The things they do with their bodies (especially near the beginning before they really "inhabit" their characters) are far too youthful and it seems obvious their faces are masks. Eventually, however, something about the aesthetic of the VHS recording, the incessant yammering of the off-screen characters yelling "Git 'er done!," or simply screaming and laughing maniacally, eventually get to you.
There is one truly disturbing image. In a field of grass and strewn litter, we see something vaguely beige. The camera operator starts singing in an eery falsetto, "Oh, Devil, done lopped off his head..." As we move in on the object I began to realize it was a human body. Still, unmoving, not breathing. The prolonged take never gets too close to the body, and is followed by pretty shots of water in the nearby creek and plants in the vicinity, almost as if the camera operator is looking for something beautiful to counteract the horrendous image it just laid eyes upon. I'm not sure as to whether it was faked or was an actual dead body, as their is nothing in the interviews on this movie about it specifically. If it is indeed fake, kudos to Korine, because I am convinced in favor of the latter.
It is a good thing Korine did not leave copies of the film lying around on the street like a "found art object," as he had once thought about doing. If I had found this tape and watched it, I would have told the police there were four very old looking, very depraved lunatics parading through our cities somewhere that we had to stop.
This movie is a lot like Natural Born Killers. Like that under-appreciated Oliver Stone classic, Trash Humpers examines the sociopath, in particular the American sociopath. However, where these films differ is on the grounds of morality: Natural Born Killers expresses one, if a warped one, while Trash Humpers plainly has none at all. There is an amount of sense and order I don't think I will be getting back after viewing this movie. It was because of this, and a sensible need to fall asleep last night, that I went searching for answers.
My first inclination (being a brainwashed follower of the auteur theory) was to direct my attention towards the man in charge, the fellow with this strange and warped vision: Harmony Korine, writer, director, cinematographer, and star of "Trash Humpers." Before I feel asleep, I sought out interviews and behind-the-scenes footage, the kind of stuff I usually use to wrap my head around a film. Since I heard about Korine, I knew his work bent more towards the avante-garde/arthouse inclination. I wondered whether Korine had a fucked up childhood, to make him make movies such as Gummo and Julien Donkey-Boy, or whether he had a far too crispy-clean early life and was now lashing out against it. I think almost all the things we put passion and soul into come from our childhood. I have no answers in regard to Korine's childhood, though I certainly have ideas, but the interviews proved enlightening and, like the film itself, even a bit disturbing.
Harmony Korine is no dummy. He is a self-proclaimed provocateur. The lack of a moral slant is purposeful. It is clear that he sees the film medium differently than any other traditional storyteller/film-maker. The production involved the actors (which included himself, his wife, and two other actors) to actually live the lives of the people portrayed on screen: for the two weeks of filming they ambled through American suburbs, slept under bridges, and destroyed shit. Korine's process is one of discovery and tied closely to film as an artistic exercise. Things occur on the location that Korine uses, "If it feels right to me. If there is some strong, palpable, raw quality in the moment then I won't question it." To his credit with such disturbingly weird subject material, he intentionally titled the film Trash Humpers because he wanted to "to give people a heads up because I don’t want to damage anyone."
Even with the background knowledge I still had some very strange dreams last night. Some of the vignettes of my mind: Watching Pulp Fiction for the first time in HD Widescreen, showing a previously "unseen" version of the movie revealing that Sam Jackson is actually entirely naked in the car in the opening scene. Being invited over to a house by unsophisticated teenage girls and accidentally peeping in on their grandmother in their underwear, while their obese mothers rushed to embrace me and offer me pie in their grease-stained Mickey Mouse and Eeyore sweaters.
I woke up at 6am, searching through familiar pornography clips, a seemingly horrible idea after watching a movie about sociopaths humping trash cans. I wanted some familiarity and human connection, however unreal it was. At that deep evolutionary level the lure of sex is about pleasure in creation, the antithesis of pleasure in destruction with which I was over-run by this film. Perhaps I really needed someone to hug, but unfortunately as adults we must fight these battles ourselves.
After I fell back asleep I kept thinking I needed to get up, I really should get up. I had a dream of my sister and our father lying on a bed in a hotel room, many stories up. My father was recalling a time (that did not really happen) of when he led me and my sister on a treasure hunt, tricking us into a pristine grove where a showing of My Neighbor Totoro was taking place. He was describing his manic mood at the time and how everything was just clicking, and he was glad it had worked because it had given my sister and I one of our fondest childhood memories. As he was talking, I saw a passenger plane pass by tall skyscrapers, twisting its wings to avoid it in ways I didn't know a plane could actually handle. The next plane wasn't so lucky. It was desperately trying to bank up out of the way of the buildings, but hit it in a dramatic vertical belly-flop, from which the plane began to fall backwards into the street below. Suddenly adrenaline kicked in. "We have to get out of here," I said, knowing the destruction that falling plane could reign on the base of our own hotel tower. That was when I opened my eyes and knew it was time to get out of bed.
Trash Humpers find me desperately clawing to find some sort of moral compass, some sort of meaning behind the madness. That, however, is pure fantasy. There is not much to explain. Korine may have a differing opinion, having said: "With this film I was really interested in making something real with a tangible message." But to me, Trash Humpers comes from that same raw place in which animals inhabit, struggling to survive in the wild, driven by that keen instinct to kill and be superior.
Actually, no, I take that back. The characters in Trash Humpers are not like animals. Because animals, like humans, have very strict rules by which they play in order to stay alive. Even animals only kill out of necessity. An animal thinks of survival every waking moment of its fragile life. It adheres to precedent set by nature, and creates social rules and hierarchies to instill an order so as to continue propagating its species. The characters in Trash Humpers are below animals (if you care to think of it hierarchically like that, as I tend to do). They occupy the same branch of humanity as Stalins or Hitlers. In fact, they aren't even there. They are not seeking power. They wallow in the squalor of vandalism and destruction. They are not hinged to, and care very little about, the societal rules that keep everyone in check from doing something morally reprehensible and punishable by society. They don't even really seem to care if they continue to survive. And although they are horrible, depraved people, there is something awe-inspiring and deeply arresting about their nature.
Because Trash Humpers is also about something very noble: freedom. You wouldn't expect it, I suppose. But these people (like Mickey and Mallory in Natural Born Killers) live out the extreme version of freedom. The death-wish mentality is even expressed by one of the people they encounter, a strange down-and-out trumpet player, in terms of civil liberties: "I have the right to die if I want to." Near the end of the film, the perennial cameraman has the camera directed towards him and gives a meandering speech about how much "free-er than them folks we are" and how he "feels bad for them, going to work everyday." Korine surprised and disturbed me with a few words attributed to him on the Trash Humpers Wikipedia page:
"I have a real deep love and admiration for these characters. Not for what they do, but for the way they do it." [link]
And Korine has wondered "whether this might make mainstream society envious of their social freedom." [link]
Again, perhaps it is futile to try to explain a movie as strange and raw and visceral as this one. However, I'd like to point out once more (to you as well as myself) that this is not about making sense out of the movie, but rather my reaction to it.
In the ever unproductive but stimulating and self-inflating debate that concerns "what is art?," this film has made me examine my morals, question my perception of the world, and made me wonder just who the hell Harmony Korine is. It seems a little ironic that a man named "Harmony" focuses much his creative energy on creating the equivalent of motion pictures to symphonies of discord. Whatever his intentions were with this film, it certainly made me think.
Korine is a self-proclaimed and gleeful provocateur. This film of his sank me deep into questions of moral ambiguity that I am not sure are helpful but I am very glad he stirred in me. And he is a far more courageous film-maker than I ever have the intention of being.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Living Alone (Far From Lonely)
I've come to find that living on my own really suits me.
Since I started college, the first big move of my life and my first experience with independent living, I have shared rooms. For the kind of lifestyle I wanted to live, i.e., the kind where I don't make a lot of money and had time for friends and art, it is rather difficult to find living situations that don't pair you up into a shared living space. I don't mean sharing a house with my own room, I mean literally for 5 years I have shared a room with another person.
Luckily the people themselves have not been bad. In order, they were:
Chris LaRuffa, the one exception to the rule. He was my college roommate Freshman year. We were as different as a cow is from a peapod. He was a model, a fratboy, and showed little to no interest in the larger questions of life. Though my appearence changed many times that year, I will always remember the stark contrast between us when we first met: him, a pedigree face with perfectly straight teeth and a perfect smile, the kind that implied he was better than you. Me, a long-haired, beard-faced hippie kid from the north, trying to figure out where I could score some weed. I had a long-distance girlfriend who I was desperately in love with, he brought over a new floozy every weekend (often waking me up in the middle of the night). We got along fine, over cheap beers and Halo tournaments, but we never ate together, shared classes, or interests.
Next of course was Steven Ray Morris, who would prove to be the longest living-together relationship I've had outside my family. We shared a small two-bed dormitory, and the next two years a studio apartment. The first night in The Studio we sat on either side of the room (a good 10 feet or so) and marveled at how much space we had. Straymo was always moving (still is, really), and was a raucous case of creative energy. It was tiring some times, coming home to hear about every new thing he had done, but it was enjoyable and our conversations were filled with an artistic passion and philosophical bent that to this day bolsters our enduring friendship. There was a stint where Steven left for New Zealand, and I picked up Mossimo, the Pancake-Loving Italian. He was by far the chillest and most easy-going person I've ever lived with. Things were usually quiet. I would enjoy introducing him to aspects of American culture and he enjoyed eating his pasta and watching the History channel. I introduced him to pancakes and he never looked back. He must have had pancakes every breakfast after that.
Then of course was Jackson, the first friend of my late adolescence. We met in 8th grade and were best buds by the time high school started. Kyle, Jackson and I moved in together, or rather, Kyle and Jackson moved in together, found James, who moved in as well, and I came in later. Sharing a room with Jackson was at times a trying experience. The situation was also new having to live in a house of four people- four very large and independent male personalities. Jokes flew around the house like spitballs in a 4th grade classroom. Clothes, bikes, and toiletries piled up on each other like a third world country. It was a manic scene, to say the least. Meanwhile, in the backroom was Jackson and me, him working away at the computer and me doing the same, or working on art. It was a cramped place for two people (my bed was in the closet, JaX's closet was in the stairway), but we made due.
Also exacerbating in its own way was this last summer, that saw me with now permanent home in the city I was making my living in, but rather commuting from Santa Rosa to San Francisco, living off the good graces and couches and floors of my friends. It was fun to not be tied down to one place. It was also hard on my back.
It's too bad it's so hard to have your own space in California. California really is the shit. A friend of mine was paying $1250 for a studio apartment in downtown San Francisco that was barely big enough for her bed. Housing prices have been steadily rising in the U.S. for as long as anyone has cared to keep track. California is where the "international boom in housing prices has been most pronounced," according to Wikipedia. The median property price in the San Francisco Bay Area has been $650,000. This is, of course, before the economic dive bomb we have settled into, but that is really only good news for home-buyers who still have money, not apartment-renters who never had any in the first place.
This is all a very long-winded way of saying: I like having my own place. Each morning I can get up and make my own breakfast. I have the amazing, new-found capacity to sit and meditate, just thinking about myself and my day. I have a stretching and exercise routine I'm doing every morning. And if I want to just walk around the house stark naked, dammit, I can let it all hang out. I am very slowly leaving behind the frantic mentality and preoccupation with my life goals. Or rather, instead of worrying about them constantly (which I am still doing plenty of but steadily decreasing), I am seeing ways to accomplish them.
The other day, I went or a walk in the Parque Hundido, a really lovely park just a few bus stations away from me. I sat at a cafe with a beer and food, reading "The Autobiography of Malcolm X." Then I walked through the park. It's easy to forget where you are when you shut yourself into working or worrying about where the next dollar will come from. But walking through the park, I was dazzled by how truly dfferent the Mexican flora and fauna are. It made me feel like I was truly somewhere completely different and yet right at home. Plants have a way (in human-organized symmetry, anyway) to just make you feel right, no matter what they are.
As I strolled through the warm afternoon warmth and gazed at the sun through the treetops, I recalled strolling through Central Park with Alexandra. There is really nothing better than being out on the town in New York City with a beautiful woman at your side. Hundido brought back those memories of warmth, attention, affectionate laughter, and companionship. Only this time my companionship was directed at the stunning world around me.
Having the ability to really grab my life by the balls and direct it at my whim is probably what really lures me to living alone. The house is so spacious, but even then it allows me to get out of it, so long as I convince myself it is okay. Above all, it cannot be denied how good it is for us all to relax, take a deep breath and just slow down.
Since I started college, the first big move of my life and my first experience with independent living, I have shared rooms. For the kind of lifestyle I wanted to live, i.e., the kind where I don't make a lot of money and had time for friends and art, it is rather difficult to find living situations that don't pair you up into a shared living space. I don't mean sharing a house with my own room, I mean literally for 5 years I have shared a room with another person.
Luckily the people themselves have not been bad. In order, they were:
Chris LaRuffa, the one exception to the rule. He was my college roommate Freshman year. We were as different as a cow is from a peapod. He was a model, a fratboy, and showed little to no interest in the larger questions of life. Though my appearence changed many times that year, I will always remember the stark contrast between us when we first met: him, a pedigree face with perfectly straight teeth and a perfect smile, the kind that implied he was better than you. Me, a long-haired, beard-faced hippie kid from the north, trying to figure out where I could score some weed. I had a long-distance girlfriend who I was desperately in love with, he brought over a new floozy every weekend (often waking me up in the middle of the night). We got along fine, over cheap beers and Halo tournaments, but we never ate together, shared classes, or interests.
Next of course was Steven Ray Morris, who would prove to be the longest living-together relationship I've had outside my family. We shared a small two-bed dormitory, and the next two years a studio apartment. The first night in The Studio we sat on either side of the room (a good 10 feet or so) and marveled at how much space we had. Straymo was always moving (still is, really), and was a raucous case of creative energy. It was tiring some times, coming home to hear about every new thing he had done, but it was enjoyable and our conversations were filled with an artistic passion and philosophical bent that to this day bolsters our enduring friendship. There was a stint where Steven left for New Zealand, and I picked up Mossimo, the Pancake-Loving Italian. He was by far the chillest and most easy-going person I've ever lived with. Things were usually quiet. I would enjoy introducing him to aspects of American culture and he enjoyed eating his pasta and watching the History channel. I introduced him to pancakes and he never looked back. He must have had pancakes every breakfast after that.
Then of course was Jackson, the first friend of my late adolescence. We met in 8th grade and were best buds by the time high school started. Kyle, Jackson and I moved in together, or rather, Kyle and Jackson moved in together, found James, who moved in as well, and I came in later. Sharing a room with Jackson was at times a trying experience. The situation was also new having to live in a house of four people- four very large and independent male personalities. Jokes flew around the house like spitballs in a 4th grade classroom. Clothes, bikes, and toiletries piled up on each other like a third world country. It was a manic scene, to say the least. Meanwhile, in the backroom was Jackson and me, him working away at the computer and me doing the same, or working on art. It was a cramped place for two people (my bed was in the closet, JaX's closet was in the stairway), but we made due.
Also exacerbating in its own way was this last summer, that saw me with now permanent home in the city I was making my living in, but rather commuting from Santa Rosa to San Francisco, living off the good graces and couches and floors of my friends. It was fun to not be tied down to one place. It was also hard on my back.
It's too bad it's so hard to have your own space in California. California really is the shit. A friend of mine was paying $1250 for a studio apartment in downtown San Francisco that was barely big enough for her bed. Housing prices have been steadily rising in the U.S. for as long as anyone has cared to keep track. California is where the "international boom in housing prices has been most pronounced," according to Wikipedia. The median property price in the San Francisco Bay Area has been $650,000. This is, of course, before the economic dive bomb we have settled into, but that is really only good news for home-buyers who still have money, not apartment-renters who never had any in the first place.
This is all a very long-winded way of saying: I like having my own place. Each morning I can get up and make my own breakfast. I have the amazing, new-found capacity to sit and meditate, just thinking about myself and my day. I have a stretching and exercise routine I'm doing every morning. And if I want to just walk around the house stark naked, dammit, I can let it all hang out. I am very slowly leaving behind the frantic mentality and preoccupation with my life goals. Or rather, instead of worrying about them constantly (which I am still doing plenty of but steadily decreasing), I am seeing ways to accomplish them.
The other day, I went or a walk in the Parque Hundido, a really lovely park just a few bus stations away from me. I sat at a cafe with a beer and food, reading "The Autobiography of Malcolm X." Then I walked through the park. It's easy to forget where you are when you shut yourself into working or worrying about where the next dollar will come from. But walking through the park, I was dazzled by how truly dfferent the Mexican flora and fauna are. It made me feel like I was truly somewhere completely different and yet right at home. Plants have a way (in human-organized symmetry, anyway) to just make you feel right, no matter what they are.
As I strolled through the warm afternoon warmth and gazed at the sun through the treetops, I recalled strolling through Central Park with Alexandra. There is really nothing better than being out on the town in New York City with a beautiful woman at your side. Hundido brought back those memories of warmth, attention, affectionate laughter, and companionship. Only this time my companionship was directed at the stunning world around me.
Having the ability to really grab my life by the balls and direct it at my whim is probably what really lures me to living alone. The house is so spacious, but even then it allows me to get out of it, so long as I convince myself it is okay. Above all, it cannot be denied how good it is for us all to relax, take a deep breath and just slow down.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
11.11.11
I participated in a YouTube-based world-community-style documentary last year called "Life In A Day." Me and my dear friend Christa Curtin made a rather artsy entry, and unfortunately didn't get picked for the final big-screen version.
But there is still hope! Another great Life-On-Earth documentary project is currently in the works, called One Day on Earth, following the exploits of the citizens of earth on November 11th, 2011 (or 11/11/11). Here are my submissions to this year's undertakings. Enjoy!
"One Day on Earth in Mexico City"
"Strange Talk"
"Final Thoughts"
Now, this one is me tipsily describing my day, and it goes on for awhile, but watch it and imagine you're indulging your mentally ill cousin making his first video blog, pontificating on life and I think you'll be pleasantly surprised with a few of my morsels of un-wisdom.
But there is still hope! Another great Life-On-Earth documentary project is currently in the works, called One Day on Earth, following the exploits of the citizens of earth on November 11th, 2011 (or 11/11/11). Here are my submissions to this year's undertakings. Enjoy!
"One Day on Earth in Mexico City"
"Strange Talk"
"Final Thoughts"
Now, this one is me tipsily describing my day, and it goes on for awhile, but watch it and imagine you're indulging your mentally ill cousin making his first video blog, pontificating on life and I think you'll be pleasantly surprised with a few of my morsels of un-wisdom.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Not a Travel Writer
I have to face up to the fact that I am just not a travel writer. My least favorite part about all the research papers I had to do in college was the part you have to devote the most time to: research. I'm not a big fan of looking up dates, names, citing sources, and all that malarkey. If Wikipedia was a credible source then I, like the rest of every campus community, would probably jump on board and let it be our one-stop information shop.
What I am interested in is recording my reactions, feelings and outlooks on events and activities in my life. I love learning, be it from reading a book or exploring a new culture. But once the experience has been lived, it feels so tedious and boring to go back and recollect it, and to point to all the things I learned about it for other people. I have started numerous blog posts, waiting to be published, about the things I have done. But lacking the interest to go and regurgitate facts about them (and a keen interest in having the posts seem "legitimate"), they have remained only a few lines long, with notes like "add interesting historical facts here." I guess it's good this is a blog, and not something more respectable.
I hoped to keep this blog as a way of getting some travel writing under my belt. In case I ever wanted to get a job where I could travel the world and get paid to do it, this seemed like a pretty legit way to kill two birds with one stone as it were.
But unfortunately I'm just not into it. I'm really into storytelling, honing a visual narrative and creating universes. The real world, thank goodness for it, gives me inspiration and holds my interest every day. But you're not going to get much more out of me other than how I "feel" about it.
Yesterday I was coming down with a good deal of self-doubt over being an artist. I continue to have trouble categorizing what I want to do. Do I want to be in the world of film? Video-Games? Comic illustration? Music? Writing? Acting and performance? Stand-up? Animation? I admire and have a desire (and occasionally a knack) for all of these activities, with a deep respect for all of the mediums. But the world seems to want us to be categorized and rigid in these desires.
I was watching "Inside the Actor's Studio," a truly great show where various celebrities are often interviewed about their craft. I watched the two on Robin Williams and Steven Spielberg. Whenever I watch these things, about celebrities discussing how they became successful, I always feel like I've started too late, or I'm not in the right place. Mostly I get an overwhelming fear of success, and an overwhelming sadness at what I will become if I don't try to overcome it. I'm already 24. Its about damn time I got over myself and started being part of this big world.
I inherited a lot of wonderful things from my parents, but two rather detrimental ones too: From my mother, a constant anguishing preoccupation with money and trying to have enough of it; from my father, a stern insistence that art made in the pursuit of making money was not truly "art." Along with these preoccupations being melded with some insistent fears of my own, I have grown up thinking that doing the things I want to will not get me anywhere. I have grown up seemingly in the shadow of giants, people I could never see myself becoming. But there's a fault in logic there, right? If I beat myself up for NOT being like Steven Spielberg, or Bob Marley, or Bill Watterson, why don't I ever praise myself for also NOT being like Adolph Hitler, or Jeffrey Dahmer, or any number of drug abusers et. all? It's a great blessing to not be like anyone else, because everyone is a total individual if they just let themselves be one.
Luckily, the great thing about watching "Inside the Actor's Studio" is that eventually the feeling turns the other way. Hearing the stories of the people I admire gets me thinking about doing the things I want to do for the sheer pleasure of wanting to do them. In his interview Steven Spielberg said that most of his movies are personal therapy sessions, and that the great responsibility an artist has to society is to get to know themselves. When you let yourself into the process, and allow yourself to be seen through your art, whatever medium it may be, is when magic stuff begins to happen.
So this morning I meditated on where this puts me. The truth is, I don't want to be a travel writer. I don't want to be a concert pianist, or an architect or a volunteer relief worker in Africa. I want to be a storyteller, and I want to use whatever medium fits my standards of that story. I want to be able to make a comic book, make a movie, write a song, write a book, and not worry about how I'm presenting myself commercially because that doesn't matter. That shouldn't matter. I'm ready to throw myself into letting people know who I am. Though it may not seem to have much good to do in the wider world, I really hope my capacity to understand the world's pain, its laughter and its humanity transforms into something that can help make someone's life a little better.
I'm ready to take the reins and do whatever it takes to allow me to continue doing this.
I'm also ready to say this is probably not going to be a blog about much traveling. There will be plenty about MY travels. But I'm not a travel writer.
What I am interested in is recording my reactions, feelings and outlooks on events and activities in my life. I love learning, be it from reading a book or exploring a new culture. But once the experience has been lived, it feels so tedious and boring to go back and recollect it, and to point to all the things I learned about it for other people. I have started numerous blog posts, waiting to be published, about the things I have done. But lacking the interest to go and regurgitate facts about them (and a keen interest in having the posts seem "legitimate"), they have remained only a few lines long, with notes like "add interesting historical facts here." I guess it's good this is a blog, and not something more respectable.
I hoped to keep this blog as a way of getting some travel writing under my belt. In case I ever wanted to get a job where I could travel the world and get paid to do it, this seemed like a pretty legit way to kill two birds with one stone as it were.
But unfortunately I'm just not into it. I'm really into storytelling, honing a visual narrative and creating universes. The real world, thank goodness for it, gives me inspiration and holds my interest every day. But you're not going to get much more out of me other than how I "feel" about it.
Yesterday I was coming down with a good deal of self-doubt over being an artist. I continue to have trouble categorizing what I want to do. Do I want to be in the world of film? Video-Games? Comic illustration? Music? Writing? Acting and performance? Stand-up? Animation? I admire and have a desire (and occasionally a knack) for all of these activities, with a deep respect for all of the mediums. But the world seems to want us to be categorized and rigid in these desires.
I was watching "Inside the Actor's Studio," a truly great show where various celebrities are often interviewed about their craft. I watched the two on Robin Williams and Steven Spielberg. Whenever I watch these things, about celebrities discussing how they became successful, I always feel like I've started too late, or I'm not in the right place. Mostly I get an overwhelming fear of success, and an overwhelming sadness at what I will become if I don't try to overcome it. I'm already 24. Its about damn time I got over myself and started being part of this big world.
I inherited a lot of wonderful things from my parents, but two rather detrimental ones too: From my mother, a constant anguishing preoccupation with money and trying to have enough of it; from my father, a stern insistence that art made in the pursuit of making money was not truly "art." Along with these preoccupations being melded with some insistent fears of my own, I have grown up thinking that doing the things I want to will not get me anywhere. I have grown up seemingly in the shadow of giants, people I could never see myself becoming. But there's a fault in logic there, right? If I beat myself up for NOT being like Steven Spielberg, or Bob Marley, or Bill Watterson, why don't I ever praise myself for also NOT being like Adolph Hitler, or Jeffrey Dahmer, or any number of drug abusers et. all? It's a great blessing to not be like anyone else, because everyone is a total individual if they just let themselves be one.
Luckily, the great thing about watching "Inside the Actor's Studio" is that eventually the feeling turns the other way. Hearing the stories of the people I admire gets me thinking about doing the things I want to do for the sheer pleasure of wanting to do them. In his interview Steven Spielberg said that most of his movies are personal therapy sessions, and that the great responsibility an artist has to society is to get to know themselves. When you let yourself into the process, and allow yourself to be seen through your art, whatever medium it may be, is when magic stuff begins to happen.
So this morning I meditated on where this puts me. The truth is, I don't want to be a travel writer. I don't want to be a concert pianist, or an architect or a volunteer relief worker in Africa. I want to be a storyteller, and I want to use whatever medium fits my standards of that story. I want to be able to make a comic book, make a movie, write a song, write a book, and not worry about how I'm presenting myself commercially because that doesn't matter. That shouldn't matter. I'm ready to throw myself into letting people know who I am. Though it may not seem to have much good to do in the wider world, I really hope my capacity to understand the world's pain, its laughter and its humanity transforms into something that can help make someone's life a little better.
I'm ready to take the reins and do whatever it takes to allow me to continue doing this.
I'm also ready to say this is probably not going to be a blog about much traveling. There will be plenty about MY travels. But I'm not a travel writer.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
La Palaza Del Bellas Artes and El Museo del Caricaturas
Sundays in Mexico City are relaxed and easy-going. One of the best ways to spend time on a lackadaisical afternoon is to visit the national museums around El Centro. An excursion to the national museums, such as La Palaza Del Bellas Artes and El Museo Nacional de Arte, is made even easier because they are free on Sundays.
So I found myself last Sunday, heading out to La Palaza and the Museo de Caricaturas (because it is not owned by the government, this institution does require a fee on Sundays). It was a whirlwind tour of the rich cultural and artistic heritage Mexico City has to offer.
La Palaza del Bellas Artes began construction in 1904. The President of Mexico at the time, Profirio Díaz, was the driving force behind its creation. However, the start of the Mexican Revolution would hold off its completion for another 20 years. This gap in construction is why La Palaza owes its exterior design to the school of Art Nouveau, while the interior is thoroughly (and extravagantly) Art Deco.
Many of the permanent collections were closed off on this first visit, but the halls offer quite a lot to look at. Perhaps most famously is Diego Rivera's "El Hombre En El Cruce de Caminos," a mural depicting Capitalist society on the left, and Communist society on the right, with "modern man" standing in the middle. Originally commissioned by the Rockefeller family for the building of their namesake in New York City, they had it subsequently destroyed after determining it an unsatisfactory representation of Democracy. Rivera was re-commissioned to paint it here on the third floor some years later.
A pleasant surprise awaited my departure: just as I made to leave, the entire building blocked the exit down the stairways. Everyone inside the building was eagerly snapping photos of a woman descending the main staircase. I turned to a Mexican friend of mine to find out who this woman was. It was Christina Pacheco, a famous journalist in Mexico known for investigating and reporting on the struggles between the Mexican economic gap. She is considered "a voice of the people here in Mexico," as my friend put it. How appropriate to learn about her, a voice of the modern Mexico, as I was taking in the culture and art of the old Mexico.
Next I made my way to El Museo De Las Caricaturas, or the "Cartoon Museum." As a cartoonist myself, I wanted to spend hours in here. Lining the walls are editorial cartoons dating back to before the turn of the century. The cartoons are appropriately organized by the political movements of Mexican history, starting with Mexican Independence, the Mexican-American War (with plenty heroic caricatures of Pancho Villa), the Revolution, and moving on into more modern times. Smaller rooms showcase other facets of Mexican life, such as luchadores (what we would call Mexican Wrestling), family life and political parties.
In my opinion, a cartoon is one of the most direct facets to the character of a culture. Perhaps this is because once one understands the humor of a culture, one gets more significant insights into how a people think. In just a simple image and a few words, cartoonists can poke fun at life in a way no other medium has found quite as succinct a way to pull off. This museum gave me plenty to laugh at, and plenty of names for my future study: Victor "Vic" Benitez, José Guadalupe Posada, and Luis Carreño, to name just a few.
The day at the museums gave me plenty of art to think over, and quite a lot to laugh at as well. The Mexican art culture is a full and vibrant one that has been going strong for a long time now, and it doesn't show any signs of slowing down.
So I found myself last Sunday, heading out to La Palaza and the Museo de Caricaturas (because it is not owned by the government, this institution does require a fee on Sundays). It was a whirlwind tour of the rich cultural and artistic heritage Mexico City has to offer.
La Palaza del Bellas Artes began construction in 1904. The President of Mexico at the time, Profirio Díaz, was the driving force behind its creation. However, the start of the Mexican Revolution would hold off its completion for another 20 years. This gap in construction is why La Palaza owes its exterior design to the school of Art Nouveau, while the interior is thoroughly (and extravagantly) Art Deco.
Many of the permanent collections were closed off on this first visit, but the halls offer quite a lot to look at. Perhaps most famously is Diego Rivera's "El Hombre En El Cruce de Caminos," a mural depicting Capitalist society on the left, and Communist society on the right, with "modern man" standing in the middle. Originally commissioned by the Rockefeller family for the building of their namesake in New York City, they had it subsequently destroyed after determining it an unsatisfactory representation of Democracy. Rivera was re-commissioned to paint it here on the third floor some years later.
A pleasant surprise awaited my departure: just as I made to leave, the entire building blocked the exit down the stairways. Everyone inside the building was eagerly snapping photos of a woman descending the main staircase. I turned to a Mexican friend of mine to find out who this woman was. It was Christina Pacheco, a famous journalist in Mexico known for investigating and reporting on the struggles between the Mexican economic gap. She is considered "a voice of the people here in Mexico," as my friend put it. How appropriate to learn about her, a voice of the modern Mexico, as I was taking in the culture and art of the old Mexico.
Next I made my way to El Museo De Las Caricaturas, or the "Cartoon Museum." As a cartoonist myself, I wanted to spend hours in here. Lining the walls are editorial cartoons dating back to before the turn of the century. The cartoons are appropriately organized by the political movements of Mexican history, starting with Mexican Independence, the Mexican-American War (with plenty heroic caricatures of Pancho Villa), the Revolution, and moving on into more modern times. Smaller rooms showcase other facets of Mexican life, such as luchadores (what we would call Mexican Wrestling), family life and political parties.
In my opinion, a cartoon is one of the most direct facets to the character of a culture. Perhaps this is because once one understands the humor of a culture, one gets more significant insights into how a people think. In just a simple image and a few words, cartoonists can poke fun at life in a way no other medium has found quite as succinct a way to pull off. This museum gave me plenty to laugh at, and plenty of names for my future study: Victor "Vic" Benitez, José Guadalupe Posada, and Luis Carreño, to name just a few.
The day at the museums gave me plenty of art to think over, and quite a lot to laugh at as well. The Mexican art culture is a full and vibrant one that has been going strong for a long time now, and it doesn't show any signs of slowing down.
Shut In
From Friday November 4th until pretty much this last Friday November 11th, I shut myself in the house and didn't go out. Being here got me very scared. I was thinking: "What the hell am I doing here? Why did I decide to do this to myself? How am I going to make this work?"
I came here without a plan, thinking that I could get by on just good graces. Not having a plan really works my mental gymnastics out.
This is only natural for people in a new place. My friend Alexander said he went so far as to travel to the mall and cried into a food court Hamburger for an hour. I'm a more reclusive person I suppose, and shutting myself into the nice house (that I'm paying for, dammit) seemed the most appropriate solution.
Thursday November 10th I decided I wasn't going to let a new place bring me down. I went ahead to accepting that there were going to be times that I didn't do anything. I started reading the guide book that was left in the house, learning about Mexican culture and coming to a better understanding of the place I'm in. Trying hard to learn Spanish from TV or conversations, and of course, delving into my art as much as possible.
So I'm better now. This last weekend has gotten me over the hump, and I think everything's really going to be okay.
I came here without a plan, thinking that I could get by on just good graces. Not having a plan really works my mental gymnastics out.
This is only natural for people in a new place. My friend Alexander said he went so far as to travel to the mall and cried into a food court Hamburger for an hour. I'm a more reclusive person I suppose, and shutting myself into the nice house (that I'm paying for, dammit) seemed the most appropriate solution.
Thursday November 10th I decided I wasn't going to let a new place bring me down. I went ahead to accepting that there were going to be times that I didn't do anything. I started reading the guide book that was left in the house, learning about Mexican culture and coming to a better understanding of the place I'm in. Trying hard to learn Spanish from TV or conversations, and of course, delving into my art as much as possible.
So I'm better now. This last weekend has gotten me over the hump, and I think everything's really going to be okay.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
La Casa Azul and Día de Muertos
Yesterday I went to La Casa Azul, the family home of the famous Mexican female painter Frida Kahlo. My friend Patrícia took me as a tour guide to the house. It's a pretty typical colonial house, built in a large square with an interior courtyard. The main difference between it and a typical colonial house was just how damn big it was. After examining the rooms and the expanse of the house, I thought to myself "Damn, these guys must have had a lot of money."
While it is uncertain whether the Kahlo family was actually wealthy, it seems certain that they were at least pleasantly above the poverty line. Carl Wilhelm Kahlo, who renamed himself Guillermo Kahlo when he emigrated from Germany to Mexico at the age of 19, worked as an accountant before becoming enamored with photography. He ran a studio as part of his practice. Later in life, when Frida Kahlo was immobilized due to an accident on a city bus, Guillermo encouraged her interest in painting and was able to support the habit. In the house Frida developed a taste for self-portraits. The bed where Kahlo spent most of her recovering days is located in a tiny room next to an open door, so she could enjoy the sunshine and participate in family conversations taking place in the open courtyard. Atop the frame of her bed is a large mirror, which she would use to reference herself for her compositions. Now her death mask resides on the bed.
The house is filled with Kahlo's paintings, and a number of Diego Rivera's paintings as well, the husband with whom she had a passionate and often tumultuous relationship. Another room on the opposite side of the building contains "retratos de milagros," small paintings on pieces of metal or wood commissioned by Mexican peasants to celebrate and remember prayers that had been answered for them. This folk art caught me by surprise and intrigued me far more than Kahlo's or Rivera's work. Kahlo and Rivera obviously found them special as well, as the ones displayed were from their personal collections. Inside each painting is a short story describing the miracle. It is immediately obvious that these were not pieces of "high art," as they range in quality of draftsmanship and usually contain many grammatical and spelling errors.One such painting caught my attention. A very simple picture showed a body resting underneath a pickup truck, with three women kneeling over it. The story told of a man who had been run over by a truck on a road near a peasant town. The man laid there, seemingly dying as his mother, wife and daughter rushed out and began praying over him. A saint in the upper right corner of the image came and saved him, granting the wishes of the three women.
The Casa Azul is located in the obscenely pretty neighborhood of Coyoacán (the "Land of Coyotes"). After the Casa Azul, we caught a taxi to the "centro," where the neighborhood's main plaza is located. The place was hopping this Wednesday afternoon, for it was November 2nd, the second day of the Mexican national holiday "Día de Muertos."
"Día de Muertos" originated from traditional indigenous celebrations, believed to be Aztec in origin, and usually in honor of the goddess of the dead, Mictecacihuatl. The indigenous pre-hispanic peoples believed that the souls of the deceased resided in Mictlan, the land of the dead, and could be coaxed back at a certain time of the year with ofrendas, or offerings. When Spanish conquerors came to Mexico spreading Catholicism, they found many similarities in customs and traditions between All Saint's Day and the indigenous traditions. The assimilation of the two holidays in Mexican culture became the "Day of the Dead" we know today. The goddess Mictecacihuatl the Aztecs once prayed and offered sacrifices to morphed into the modern day "Calavera Catrina," seen almost everywhere around Mexico during these celebrations.What I was not aware of is that Dia de Muertos tends to be celebrated with much more gusto in smaller towns. In Mexico City, there were certainly celebrations, but nothing as elaborate as I have been made to understand I would see in a place like Mixquic, where apparently family members will spend all night around the grave sites of their families, remembering them in fond stories and even picnicking on their tombs.
My own experience of the Days of the Dead was rather different than I expected. For instance, I went with a friend of a friend to meet his family in the largest cemetery in Mexico City. While I got to see the graves of many famous Mexicans with elaborate tombstones (including Diego Rivera), we got rather lost in the place and ended up not being able to find the family plot. We left shortly after to get some tacos. As we walked I saw little children taking up the more American Halloween traditions, donning store-bought ghost and skeleton costumes and trick-or-treating. A lot of Mexican children were waiting at the turnstiles of the subway, holding tiny pumpkin baskets out and asking for candy as commuters rushed past them. In contrast, the plaza of Coyoacán (where I was visiting after seeing La Casa Azul) was certainly in full swing, with young ladies in Catrina costumes, skeleton sculptures created by various schools or organizations on display and sidewalk art in the shapes of ancient Aztec symbols being made out of ground-up cornmeal flour of many vibrant colors. There was even an "Occupy Mexico" camp in the main square (perhaps a topic for a future post). People were standing in line for ice cream and sitting in cafes eating lazily and happily. The whole affair felt like a welcome respite from work for most of the people in the streets, in the same way city-dwellers in San Francisco might treat the Fourth of July: taking their children out, enjoying the sunshine, taking a moment to relax.
What is really striking to me about my short time in Mexico so far is just how colorful everything is. Houses are painted brightly, the memories of the dead are laughed at instead of somberly respected, and people have a general air of helpfulness. Also striking, however, is how much American culture seeps into the lives of the people here. I hope that those aspects that make Mexico unique, like the Casa Azul or Día de Muertos, can remain intact for some time to come. I for one would like to make it to a smaller pueblo next year and laugh myself silly as I drunkenly pass out on some dead Mexican's grave.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Falling into Place
I was positive the nervousness would go away when I bought the ticket. After much deliberation, nail-biting, and pacing up and down the floors of the apartment I was crashing in I finally sat down in front of my laptop. The Southwest airlines page was still open on the ticket options page, the cursor hovering ominously over a large button that read "Proceed >>." Still biting my nails and performing the mental equivalent of pacing, I did as the button told me. I gave over my credit card information to the internet gods, submitted my personal info, and let the powers that be process my order.
Did I feel relief? A sudden wave of emotional well-being; a voice from deep inside that calmly soothed me, saying "you did it, now everything is going to be all right"? Hell, no. In fact as the e-mail receipt dropped nonchalantly into my inbox I was overcome with a nervousness and angst of the most profound order. It finally hit me, as the digits of my confirmation number suddenly made it terrifyingly clear: I was going to Mexico City.
It all started out innocently enough as an idea, as so many big plans do. Life after college was getting slowly and tenaciously more lackadaisical. While I hardly ever heard the words "what are you going to do with your life?" from any authority figure of important note, the question seemed to be gaining more importance in my own head. Since the beginning of this year, I had been finding ways to get out of my comfortable surroundings. In February of 2011, I embarked on a month-and-a-half-long road trip to the grand city of New Orleans and back. In May, I traveled to Europe with my mother and sister. At the end of the summer, I went to the Nevada desert for Burning Man. All this time, I had been considering a drastic change from the easy-going Northern California life I had grown too accustomed to and comforted by.
I never kicked myself (metaphorically or literally) for not studying abroad in college. At the time, I was wrapped up in my goal of becoming a film-maker at the University of California, Santa Barbara. I was dead-set on going to Spain, which I had fallen in love with on my first trip to Europe and was the only place I was stubbornly willing to consider. No university in Spain had a good film program, though. The best place to be for film was of course Southern California, where I already was. I set aside my passion for travel under the auspices of dedicating myself to my film studies and film making, but the truth was I was worried about leaving one place and becoming immersed in a new one, with all the troubles of loneliness, finding new friends, and learning a whole new language. I had already had enough of a problem with that going off to college in the first place.
I suppose I've always been a solitary kind of person. I remember very often being a solitary kind of kid. My sister and I were both home-schooled until 8th grade. Growing up, I had friends, but no consistent playmates besides my sister. By the time I graduated college, I had played a thorough amount of catch-up in terms of learning to be a social person with my peers. But somehow, at the beginning of 2011, something told me it was time to remind myself of who I was, something I have always done best on my own. I considered teaching English in Asia for a long time. Many of my friends had taken off to some completely foreign country right after college, in able to work and have some time to themselves. I considered South Korea for a long time, where supposedly one can make a lot of money after a year of teaching English. But I wasn't crazy about locking myself into a whole year worth of anything. I also knew that, while I would make a dynamite teacher, my true passion was in furthering my skills as a storyteller. Writing, drawing, music... these are the things I find challenging, the activities that I relish with great enthusiasm. Travel always made me need to express myself. The excitement of new places, new people and things helps me break down my thought process. The best way I have found for this is art.
Mexico was right next door, and it was a totally different culture. It was cheap. And I had always loved Mexican people. My friend Alexander had mentioned back in the summer that he was moving to Mexico City where his father lived. Somehow, his words about it caught my interest.
It was at Burning Man that I finally came to my choice. I could keep putting off living in a foreign country forever or I could accept that the one life I get to live goes by pretty fast, and being young is the best time to go on a crazy adventure. I remember telling my friend Kyle I would have to put my participation in our band on hold. I had to go spend some time on myself and really get serious about my storytelling.
Which is not to say that after I made The Decision it was easy. An idea, no matter how seemingly simple, still requires execution. It was in the execution that the gravity of leaving my comfort zone finally got to me. Suddenly I realized this was a large step in my life. Moving off to a completely new place and being responsible for my own money and well-being meant I was finally moving into the realm of adulthood. I have always needed to do something drastic when I feel it is time for a change, its like I need definite "endings" to the chapters of my life story. I'm glad to see I haven't let myself down yet.
The experience has been a lot like the first (and only) time I went skydiving. It's a funny sensation. You are nervous all the way up. You leave the ground and aren't too freaked out. Then you start thinking "Well, we're really high up now, aren't we?" You keep thinking "Oh, we must be leveling off now," while the plane simply continues on its chillingly steep ascent. All possible scenarios run through your mind of what could possibly go wrong, mostly about at what part of the incredibly fast vertical drop you discover the parachute is not actually going to open. You start sweating, thinking "please, just level off now, now would be fine, just don't go any higher," as if 1,000 feet less would make much of a difference to the intactness of your body once it hit the cold, hard earth at 100 miles per hour. So your trained skydiver takes you to the hatch as they open it, and a cold rush of air flies in your face, and you look a very, very, VERY long way down and think to yourself you are surely looking at the site of your impending doom. But then a funny thing happens. As you jump out of the plane, you feel light as a feather, free falling into a kind of euphoria as you gaze at the majestic sky through which you are plummeting. Perhaps it is the extremely thin atmosphere at 15,000 feet, but you reason that if indeed the parachute fails to open, there's really not much you can do about it, so you might as well enjoy the ride down. And guess what? The parachute does open, you get a magnificent view and a lovely high of simply having done something so incredibly fun and beautiful to behold, and you don't even hit so much as a bird on the way down.
And so it seems to be with this particular endeavor as well. I am here now, and everything seems all right, even quite pleasant and elating. To the credit of myself and the universe, so far everything has fallen into place. I found a painting studio apartment on the Mexico City craigslist. I sold my truck and have enough money to survive in a sedentary lifestyle for at least three months. I wasn't robbed, stabbed or killed the moment I stepped out of the airport.
My father, a man I often find myself comparing myself to, said to me that Mexico tends to be a serendipitous place, that things tend to fall into place once you think of them. It's time for me to let things happen to me, to follow my passions, to not try so hard to follow in the footsteps of those before me, and to let it all just fall into place.
As a way to remain interested in getting out of the house and making sure I force myself to discover plenty about this great city and country, I will be using this travel blog to write about the various sights I visit, the cultural differences I observe, and the occasional stray nagging and nervous thought that happens to get caught on these pages.
Here's a good "bueno suerte" to myself, and a very real hope that you will keep coming to read this blog as I post about the museums, historical sights, cultural observances, and personal changes I will have the truly great pleasure and luck of experiencing.
Did I feel relief? A sudden wave of emotional well-being; a voice from deep inside that calmly soothed me, saying "you did it, now everything is going to be all right"? Hell, no. In fact as the e-mail receipt dropped nonchalantly into my inbox I was overcome with a nervousness and angst of the most profound order. It finally hit me, as the digits of my confirmation number suddenly made it terrifyingly clear: I was going to Mexico City.
It all started out innocently enough as an idea, as so many big plans do. Life after college was getting slowly and tenaciously more lackadaisical. While I hardly ever heard the words "what are you going to do with your life?" from any authority figure of important note, the question seemed to be gaining more importance in my own head. Since the beginning of this year, I had been finding ways to get out of my comfortable surroundings. In February of 2011, I embarked on a month-and-a-half-long road trip to the grand city of New Orleans and back. In May, I traveled to Europe with my mother and sister. At the end of the summer, I went to the Nevada desert for Burning Man. All this time, I had been considering a drastic change from the easy-going Northern California life I had grown too accustomed to and comforted by.
I never kicked myself (metaphorically or literally) for not studying abroad in college. At the time, I was wrapped up in my goal of becoming a film-maker at the University of California, Santa Barbara. I was dead-set on going to Spain, which I had fallen in love with on my first trip to Europe and was the only place I was stubbornly willing to consider. No university in Spain had a good film program, though. The best place to be for film was of course Southern California, where I already was. I set aside my passion for travel under the auspices of dedicating myself to my film studies and film making, but the truth was I was worried about leaving one place and becoming immersed in a new one, with all the troubles of loneliness, finding new friends, and learning a whole new language. I had already had enough of a problem with that going off to college in the first place.
I suppose I've always been a solitary kind of person. I remember very often being a solitary kind of kid. My sister and I were both home-schooled until 8th grade. Growing up, I had friends, but no consistent playmates besides my sister. By the time I graduated college, I had played a thorough amount of catch-up in terms of learning to be a social person with my peers. But somehow, at the beginning of 2011, something told me it was time to remind myself of who I was, something I have always done best on my own. I considered teaching English in Asia for a long time. Many of my friends had taken off to some completely foreign country right after college, in able to work and have some time to themselves. I considered South Korea for a long time, where supposedly one can make a lot of money after a year of teaching English. But I wasn't crazy about locking myself into a whole year worth of anything. I also knew that, while I would make a dynamite teacher, my true passion was in furthering my skills as a storyteller. Writing, drawing, music... these are the things I find challenging, the activities that I relish with great enthusiasm. Travel always made me need to express myself. The excitement of new places, new people and things helps me break down my thought process. The best way I have found for this is art.
Mexico was right next door, and it was a totally different culture. It was cheap. And I had always loved Mexican people. My friend Alexander had mentioned back in the summer that he was moving to Mexico City where his father lived. Somehow, his words about it caught my interest.
It was at Burning Man that I finally came to my choice. I could keep putting off living in a foreign country forever or I could accept that the one life I get to live goes by pretty fast, and being young is the best time to go on a crazy adventure. I remember telling my friend Kyle I would have to put my participation in our band on hold. I had to go spend some time on myself and really get serious about my storytelling.
Which is not to say that after I made The Decision it was easy. An idea, no matter how seemingly simple, still requires execution. It was in the execution that the gravity of leaving my comfort zone finally got to me. Suddenly I realized this was a large step in my life. Moving off to a completely new place and being responsible for my own money and well-being meant I was finally moving into the realm of adulthood. I have always needed to do something drastic when I feel it is time for a change, its like I need definite "endings" to the chapters of my life story. I'm glad to see I haven't let myself down yet.
The experience has been a lot like the first (and only) time I went skydiving. It's a funny sensation. You are nervous all the way up. You leave the ground and aren't too freaked out. Then you start thinking "Well, we're really high up now, aren't we?" You keep thinking "Oh, we must be leveling off now," while the plane simply continues on its chillingly steep ascent. All possible scenarios run through your mind of what could possibly go wrong, mostly about at what part of the incredibly fast vertical drop you discover the parachute is not actually going to open. You start sweating, thinking "please, just level off now, now would be fine, just don't go any higher," as if 1,000 feet less would make much of a difference to the intactness of your body once it hit the cold, hard earth at 100 miles per hour. So your trained skydiver takes you to the hatch as they open it, and a cold rush of air flies in your face, and you look a very, very, VERY long way down and think to yourself you are surely looking at the site of your impending doom. But then a funny thing happens. As you jump out of the plane, you feel light as a feather, free falling into a kind of euphoria as you gaze at the majestic sky through which you are plummeting. Perhaps it is the extremely thin atmosphere at 15,000 feet, but you reason that if indeed the parachute fails to open, there's really not much you can do about it, so you might as well enjoy the ride down. And guess what? The parachute does open, you get a magnificent view and a lovely high of simply having done something so incredibly fun and beautiful to behold, and you don't even hit so much as a bird on the way down.
And so it seems to be with this particular endeavor as well. I am here now, and everything seems all right, even quite pleasant and elating. To the credit of myself and the universe, so far everything has fallen into place. I found a painting studio apartment on the Mexico City craigslist. I sold my truck and have enough money to survive in a sedentary lifestyle for at least three months. I wasn't robbed, stabbed or killed the moment I stepped out of the airport.
My father, a man I often find myself comparing myself to, said to me that Mexico tends to be a serendipitous place, that things tend to fall into place once you think of them. It's time for me to let things happen to me, to follow my passions, to not try so hard to follow in the footsteps of those before me, and to let it all just fall into place.
As a way to remain interested in getting out of the house and making sure I force myself to discover plenty about this great city and country, I will be using this travel blog to write about the various sights I visit, the cultural differences I observe, and the occasional stray nagging and nervous thought that happens to get caught on these pages.
Here's a good "bueno suerte" to myself, and a very real hope that you will keep coming to read this blog as I post about the museums, historical sights, cultural observances, and personal changes I will have the truly great pleasure and luck of experiencing.
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