writing

Can’t Handle the Hustle

I want to write. I want to make art.

No.

I need to write. to make art. to teach, to change minds and ways of thought. I crave input to generate output, but not in an industrial sense. I write better when I’m reading broadly, when I drink deep words and dream the books on my nightstand. I make better art when I hoard found objects and old books and bury myself in the work of James Castle and my former collaborator and artist-educator Troy Passey (both of Idaho).

My art, my writing, my teaching are a reflection of the world within and the world without.

and
I. Can. Not. Handle. the Hustle.

James Castle made books before bookbinding and bookmaking and altered books were a “thing.” My former elementary students (and some blind students within my school) made hand-stitched books last year, some of which have spent the last 12+ months touring the state of Idaho. I’ve been digging into these arts of late, and the more I learn, the more I feel crushed under the weight of performance, hustle, namedropping, and (dare I say?) circle-jerking.

I want to create, to share, to engage. I want to collaborate and build. Maybe I want to tear some things down in the process of creation. But I see my friends. The friends who put themselves into their art, whose souls I see on the page, the screen, the canvas?

Some of them are dying. We’re going broke in an economy that “corrected” itself this week, as talking heads talk percentages and investments and percentage points that are just numbers on a datastream of using money to make more money.  We’re going bankrupt in a morally bereft landscape trying to scream or throw paint into the void.

I went to the store for paint; that’s the only thing I really want to buy new. I had to wade through a lot of crap to get to the paint. I’m trying to learn from what I see, but I just sat through a 10 minute YouTube tutorial on a certain kind of bookmaking, and if I had made it into a drinking game for every time she had to a) Name drop another blogger/vlogger; b) name drop a product she “just loves”; or c) I don’t need C I am already dead.

My point here is that neither of those things were about creating art in community or collaboration. It was all consumptive affiliate linking and back-patting. Yes, artists need an audience, and hopefully we can sell a poem, or a story, or a painting, and I’d really like someone to pick up that chapbook I just poured my guts into. At the end of the day, however, I don’t want to do art for capitalism’s sake, or for the sake of consumption. I don’t do my job for the sake of the dollar, although I’d die without it. I don’t want to do this just so I don’t die; I want to do this because we live. I want to re-purpose this old shell of the Empire.

But we are dying. Our world is on fire; Idaho rejected (AGAIN, I might add), the science standards related to climate change and human impact on the environment. I don’t want to add to the demand for resources… even though I recognize my preferred media are paper and acrylics.

I can’t handle the hustle. I submit cover letters with no website, because I can’t keep up my blog enough. My health has prevented me from completing my thesis. I’m sick. I’m tired fatigued. I’m pissed, and yet I’m in a good enough place to make some noise. I just have to be my own writer and artist and teacher. Whatever the hell that means. I recognize the privilege I have to NOT hustle. And I will give credit where it is due, but I can not go in these circles where we keep blog linking and back-patting other Crafty Cathy types for making pretties.

James Castle made his ink out of spit and charcoal. We can make our revolution art out of something other than Pinterest-pretty faux-ephemera. Screw your capitalist bougie YouTube branded hustle. That might be the worst sentence I’ve ever published. It’s ok; I’m on steroids. You’ll forgive me.

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Migraine Monday: Everything is (not) fine

I’m teetering on the edge of hope and absolute nihilism. I guess that makes me a Millennial, amiright?

Life in the two years of blogging silence has been a glorious shitstorm. Phrased otherwise, some things have been glorious, and others have been shit. I couldn’t write, though. Every time I tried I was too angry, too traumatized, too defeated. My world was on fire, and I was impotent.

this is fine

Image description: “On Fire” from Gunshow by K.C. Green. Full comic available at http://gunshowcomic.com/648 Frame 1: Question Dog sits in a burning building, with a cup of coffee on a table. Frame 2: Question Dog says, “This is fine,” with flames behind him and smoke above him, ignoring his peril.

I have enough distance from some of it to know I was in a constant state of emotional abuse and gaslighting at the professional level, and varying stages of grief in other areas of my life. My feet weren’t on a strong enough foundation of reality to form a coherent narrative of, well, anything. 

I tried to act like everything was fine, while I felt like I was going mad.

Maybe going mad is the only way to stay sane in a mad world.

I know some may see this language as ableist, but I do not mean it colloquially or glibly. My college religion professor Dr. Haar ended each class meeting with the words “Stay sane out there,” and he meant it quite seriously. How do we maintain our grounding in a world that organizes genocide, kills black men and women indiscriminately, pushes queer children and teens out of their homes, and attempts to cut health coverage for the disabled?

It’s Migraine Monday, and the only thing I have a grip on is my migraines. At least that’s something. It’s a start. I can wake up to face the day, the battle, the world. I can see out of both eyes.

My fistful of meds and I are ready to write again. I hope you’ll join the conversation, add your voice, and and your feet, and your hands.

 

Writing Workshop Application Redux

I submitted my application for the Women Writing workshop at the Collegeville Institute. Eek. I guess if I ever want to be noticed or published, I need to get used to submitting my work for acceptance/rejection. Knowing me, it will never get easier and I will likely be a bit anxious every time.

I called my grammy a few times over the last few weeks to get some more details for her part of the story I submitted. I selected a chapter from my in-progress book April Showers called “The Dead Chicken Chapter.” It’s about a chicken. That died. And some other stuff, too. Because symbolism.

Now it’s time to wait… I am not good at waiting.

So many words

Today’s writing and reading task list:

  • complete the fine-toothed-comb search of the databases to make sure I actually have all relevant sources for my literature review
  • begin eliminating sources (and in some cases reeliminating sources) that turn out to be, in fact, irrelevant
  • call my grammy so I can ascertain details of the story I’m using for my workshop application
  • finish writing the prose for the workshop application
  • select my short (700-800 word) writing sample for the workshop application
  • finish reading book for next weekend’s class meeting
  • Spanish homework

Also on the agenda:

  • eat
  • shower
  • coffee

The thing about doing what I love is that I actually have to do it. So many words. So little time.

Writing Workshop Application

This month will mark the first time I’m voluntarily submitting my writing for acceptance/rejection. I’ve decided to apply for an intensive writing workshop for women at the Collegeville Institute in Minnesota. It’s specifically for women writing non-fiction prose, which is the genre of my current book project. It falls during the time I’ve traditionally gone home to visit my family back in North Dakota, and I have my timeline set up to be done with my first draft by my thirtieth birthday in April. This just seems like it fits.

I will be submitting a chapter from my book, titled “The Dead Chicken Chapter,” as my writing sample. I’ll post an excerpt here soon; it tells the story of my chickens and my divorce, and the story of my grandmother inadvertently killing a number of her family’s fowl during the Depression as a parallel tale. I’m quite proud of it.

Applications are due February 2nd; I will post a selected excerpt after that date. Mark your calendars!

Until then, please enjoy this chapter, which I shared on my personal Facebook page on what would have been my grandparents’ 72nd anniversary (three months after grandpa died).