I haven’t written a blog post in a long time! Writing a novel, editing the crap out of it, and publishing it is exhausting. And truth be told? I don’t know when/if I’ll be doing it again. I decided this summer I’m going to do what I love for the sheer joy of it, not to try to sell things. I’m going to write and read…and yes, even PAINT. And I’m not an artist that way, not at all. The few classes I’ve taken at the MFA have gone virtual for now, and I’m not doing that. But I discovered someone old to many but very new to me. Mr. Bob Ross. Now I know. I KNOW, “real” artists say he’s no good. No depth in his paintings. No real meaning or artistic value, except maybe in his sky or clouds. But you know what? I’m throwing my middle finger up at those people. The same things are often said about certain styles of poetry or erotic writing. There are all levels of all things, and Bob Ross did something magical. He painted for the sheer joy of it. He shared simple techniques and color combinations and brush strokes for the everyday man who never in his wildest dreams thought of painting. Just watching and listening to him is a meditation. I can feel my heartbeat slow, my breathing deepen, and watch the world disappear into this 30-minute blissful surrender. Writing these blogs make me feel the same way. It’s a mental therapy of sorts. Whether anyone reads them or not makes little difference to me. His style, though poo-poo’d generally speaking, puts one right into the landscape, takes the watcher along his journey into the mountains or oceans or trails or high into the sky or trees or deep into the brooks. And it’s no wonder his voice has become synonymous with the phenomenon known as ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response).( You can learn more ASMR by clicking this link if you’re unfamiliar.) I find myself lost in his voice as he makes “happy” trees and tells us it’s our paintings and to do whatever we want with them… The saddest part, for me was learning how young Bob Ross died, and further, that he didn’t make one damn dime off his paintings. Now? They go for 8,000 to 10,000 US dollars at auction houses. Not too bad for such a shitty painter, huh? Of course the art elite will say it’s because of his celebrity not his talent. I say? Thank you, Bob Ross. You’ve inspired me to try your technique. You’ve inspired me to buy some supplies, sit out in the sun this summer, and just…paint. Not for accolades. Not for money. Not to impress people with statements. But for pure joy.
When I write—my poetry in particular—if I inspire one person to try free-verse poetry, which I’ve been told I have successfully done--then that is enough for me. I don’t need to sell it. There is something to be said for doing the things we love just because…they bring us some semblance of joy, or release, or surrender in the magic of the imagination. Do what makes your soul buoyant. Whether pen or paintbrush, tune out the static chatter of naysayers, and remember: “We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.” ~Bob Ross
6 Comments
Do you ever feel like you don't exist? Like you don't matter? It hurts, doesn't it? Today, I share my thoughts from a few recent trips I took and an event that happened. As I traipsed the city of Minneapolis a few weeks ago, going out to different parts, exploring as I often do, the scooter my best friend, I realized how the United States has failed and continues to fail on the issue of homelessness. Some cities seem to hide it better than others, painting a false perception with a simple police baton, or some, like Portland, go in the opposite direction, even embracing it as a separate subculture. It's no secret we have a serious issue here, so I won't bore you on what we already know. That we need change. That we need more social programs. That we need governments who make it a priority. That we NEED. But in NYC a couple weeks ago, the problem was even more prominent. And I still wake up some nights with that sinking feeling that we must to do better. In a park one morning, sipping my too-expensive coffee, I noticed a cluster of people surrounding somebody. Of course, I tried not to stare, and of course, curiosity got the better of me. How appropriate as it centered around a cat. A woman sat with her cat curled in her lap on a hot and smoggy day, and people gathered to give her some money, some lingering, some simply dropping coins in a can by the sign that read: Please help me feed my cat. After a couple days in the city, you become a bit desensitized to homelessness. The first day, you find yourself giving money, smiling, doing anything to try to be...well...human. And as time goes by, you just don't know what to do. I'm not proud of this. I'm just being completely honest. We start to ignore it. We stop making eye contact. We have little voices inside our heads that say --"What will they do with the money?"--or "Jesus, not again?" As more time goes on, you just ignore it. We walk by. We try to pretend we didn't see. But we see it, damn it. And we can say or hear or make every excuse in the book, but we are suddenly looking at the homeless as a thing and not a person. As a problem and not a worthy living individual. As if this PERSON doesn't even exist. Why? How does that happen? But this woman wasn't being ignored. Instead, people cared. They cared, not about her, but about her cat. That was the sticking point. I heard murmurs: 'OMG. That poor cat.' And yup, stupid me, I started to cry. Maybe I was exhausted. Maybe I was hormonal. But the point is, no one cared about her. She wasn't important. But her cat? Her cat was important.
And the hardest part of all this reflection is that while food and hunger and shelter and all that is vital, it's the emotional part that keeps us living. I know. I have a dog that wasn't supposed to live through a week and with love and care, is going on 14! And I also know first-hand what being ignored feels like. It's awful. It kills self esteem. It can make us have moments of the darkness of feelings, of self-loathing. Imagine that feeling every day? Now imagine that feeling times 50 or 100 or 1000. Imagine being ignored by EVERYONE. Every. Single. Day. Yes, America. We MUST to do better. I’m looking at a nest precariously sitting in a tall tree, and the birds look like floating leaves in the clear, blue spaces between the branches. And hear them, even with my windows shut. Spring is coming! And it demands to be noticed. It feels…different. It’s as if your whole body reacts to the change, and something shifts. That heavy winter, the one that made you drag your feet every morning in the dark cold, where coffee wasn’t hot enough, now shifts to hope, like those floating leaves, and something says, deep inside you—Clean up. Get it together. Shake that baggage. Simplify. Become lighter! It makes me want to strap on my Converse and walk and notice and breathe. That’s what spring is. BREATH. It’s the conscious inhaling and exhaling of breath. And that does more for our psyche than any drug or substance. It is a physical and mental warmth. It’s a meditation, if you let it be. You put your head to the sun and let it warm you, and FEEL it, not superficially. You feel less harried. Less stressed. You don’t want to rush the way you do in winter. There is no longer a need to rush from house to car to car to building to car again to get anywhere but the cold, running to get out of the pelts of snow or wind. Instead, you feel your neck removing itself from your ears. You let your arms hang in a natural rhythm by your side. You’re no longer freezing. It’s quite fascinating when you stop and really think about it. That tension of pulling coats close and tucking scarves into necks so they don’t move as you walk is gone. You don’t even mind standing in one place. You feel each muscle unfurling, the tension and aches--gone. You can…think. That blue is brighter than any color you’ve ever seen. So what will you do to stop and breathe? What baggage will you leave behind? Sit for a bit. Watch the birds-- for they are "the secrets of living”—and hear them, even if it’s the first time.
Some things are meant to be messy. Hair. Chocolate. Watercolors. But life? It shouldn't be a complete mess. I realized recently that my closet was a bit of a metaphor for my life. I needed to streamline some things; lose things that were weighing me down; get organized; prioritize in what order things should be; in short, I needed to pay attention to my mental health. So…I got myself a new closet, quite literally, and slowly, I’m finding my frenetic, rat-race kind of existence beginning to change. I’m learning those changes are not just about where I can find my favorite shoes or t-shirt or jeans, but it’s about finding what makes me thrive and happy and what people I want to keep around me in order to do that (and what people I don’t.) My closet woes were really just a manifestation of my real-life woes. And I don’t need to be loyal to a pair of shoes, who frankly, are too expensive. Holding onto “people” who no longer belong, who take me granted, or trying to fit too many things into such a small window of time, is taking a toll; they’re too expensive. And I don’t have to pay for them. Or feel guilty about it. I can get a new closet. Rearrange a few things. Finally get rid of the things that no longer work. And so I did. And so, I am. Friends laugh and say: “First-world problems,” and yes, it does seem a bit trite to spend money on a closet. But everything is relative, isn't it? The mess, the chaos, the last-minute searches for things was spilling over into everything else. Always late as it is, it only further agitated me, furthered my anxieties, furthered everything into a panic. I don’t need to live that way. The closet is the first step. I’ve decluttered, created a new work space, put on a new coat of paint, eliminated furniture, sorted boxes of junk, bought new artwork…and that’s just the outside. Next? The inside.
So if you don’t see me around as much, well..it’s because I’m cleaning out my closet. Not everything deserves to stay. Not everything belongs. Some things just simply don’t match anymore. I've had a few strange things happen to me lately, regarding my health. And of course, WedMD and the like don't help with hysteria. After some blood tests, I'm perfectly fine. Chalk it up to some sleepless nights and stress, and our bodies and mind are quite in tune with one another. Sometimes, we need to put ourselves first. And while many people have no problem doing that, many of us do not. I'm not sure exactly what molds a person that way. I think mine comes from my childhood, something I've written about before, so forgive me if I sound like a broken recording. Growing up with a brother whose intelligence was way beyond mine, perhaps I overcompensated in other areas. That my accolades often came from "doing" rather than "being." The good daughter. The good dancer. The good student. It took me a very long time to get to a place where I understood myself. I'm still on that journey. Perhaps I will go to the grave that way. Maybe it's not about childhood at all, but just how we're born, wired. Maybe my work ethic, the way I like to stretch my body till it hurts, work until I see blurry lines in front of my face, stay up way past reasonable hours thinking and perfecting and sighing when I feel I'm not there, is just who I am. Maybe a little pain lets me know I'm alive. When a colleague told me, "We missed you at our meeting," I was reminded that I do love life but I'm not afraid to die. Why is it that people don't like to talk about that? Or mention it? I explained to her that I had to have some tests done. She was shocked. "I don't know anyone healthier than you." Yes. I am the picture of health on the outside. But our minds. Our minds have their own health issues. Show me any person alive, and I'll show you another world within them we don't get to see or hear the way they do. It's a whole universe in there. Alive and thriving some days; barely hanging on others. There are landscapes and dreams and color and black and white and roses and dirt; and sometimes, all at once. Maybe that's why writers must write. Or painters paint. Or dancers dance. Or singers sing. Or musicians play. We have two worlds, two lives. Maybe that's why we become exhausted, keeping up with both. I said: "Well...we all are going to die someday, right?" She was shocked and horrified and said: "Perhaps while you're at it, you might want to talk to a psychologist." I smiled, not offended in the least. "Perhaps I should. My mind certainly has a lot to say." But really. Besides being a notoriously rude person, she really didn't understand that I don't fear getting sick or fighting the inevitable. It's foolish. Haven't we read enough literature by now to know that fate cannot be avoided. As Shakespeare's Caesar's said: Of all the wonders that I have heard,/It seems to me most that men should fear;/Seeing death, a necessary end,/Will come when it will come." I'm not suicidal for goodness sake. But for all my romantic notions, there lives a pragmatist in me as well--sort of exactly like the two worlds that inhabit my mind within the same body. Maybe, I'm just an old soul with healthy, young eyes. -I love to write blogs, and I still love to read them! It brings life into focus for me. I still peruse the internet looking for blogs that interest me on numerous topics. I enjoy it. I started writing my own blogs, because I needed a voice to record my thoughts as they were happening to me. Events of the day. Things people would say to me that made me want to scream or rejoice. Feelings. Relationships. Emotions. Basically in a word: Therapy. Or in another: Health. I found that writing down my feelings and thoughts, much like a journal, help me process. Lets me move on. Forces me to think, deal with my cauldron of demons, and exhale or heal or make sense of a world I sometimes can't. And maybe it helps someone else. I never thought to publish them here, like I have been regularly. Who cares? Who would read them? Most of the time, they're stream of conscious type rambles that I think will be about one thing and morph into another. It was friend of mine who said: "Publish these. And not just on your website." I'm still debating that. Probably not. But as I learned of a new feature here on my website, Categories, I started to update my posts into topics for people to find easier, and I realized, I've written about a lot of topics (see right-hand column), some more meaningful than others. From poetry and philosophy... ...to goals, religion, and sexuality... I've got shit to say! But who's reading them? Am I wasting my time sharing them with you, maybe a handful of people who might click over and see what I have to say? Again, I ask myself, "Who cares? Do people even read blogs anymore? Is blogging a silly thing of the past? Is blogging dead?" A co-writer recently said: No one reads blogs anymore. Stop spending your time of this crap. It's not like it's driving sales... No. It's probably not. But I guess it doesn't matter. I write these for me just as I do my poetry. I write them because I'm an emotional person. I write them, because if I don't, I might carry things with me far too long, and that's not who I am. I write them to forgive. I write them to love. I write them to discover who I am. Plainly, I write them, because I'm human, and if I didn't, I might implode. Does it matter if people read them or praise me or any other reason? I would love it if they did. But I've realized that's not IT for me like it might be for other people. It will NEVER be the reason I write ANYTHING. Fuck that.
I've written them because I don't have a choice. I've written them to improve. As a writer. As a person. And as a thinker. There are too many days I want to give up because of something someone else tells me. I didn't think I'd write a blog today, "too busy," I said to myself...and then, I found myself writing, without even a conscious decision to do so! And here I am, finding a way to process things on my mind. It's helped me work out my demons. And what I really discovered is that being a writer is happening all day long for me. It's a part of who I am. I can't shut it off even if I wanted to. I have a voice. We all do. And this is what I do. I write. So even if blogging is dead. This little ol' blogger is alive...the tree really does still make the noise, even if no one is there to hear it. Today I ask about vaping, the ever-growing trend that has risen over the last few years to a ridiculously high rate. What say you on this issue? We glamorize or romanticize photography where people smoke. Guys covered in tats smoking on bikes, chicks scantily clad on their backs, puffing out beautiful white images against black backgrounds. The old pictures of movie stars, using cigarettes as props. Sexy. Alluring. The old movies themselves. The artistry smoke makes in a darkly-lit world of cinematography. But that’s art, right? More fantasy. Not real. Not happening in front of us, our lungs, and our environment. Maybe we can argue that. But in real life, smoking is just…well...not only deadly, but nasty. It smells. Kissing someone after smoking is…not sexy. Walking into a room where someone has been smoking makes those of us, who don’t smoke, ill. Renting a car where someone has been smoking cannot be erased with a spray of the bottle. It seeps into fabric. It stays in the air, stale and unappetizing. The verdict is out. Smoking traditional cigs kills us, first-hand, second-hand, and third-hand. But what of vaping? Well…it’s a constant battle in my world, where fighting the vapers on a tobacco-free campus becomes quite contentious, and they make valid points. It doesn’t smell. I’m not ingesting it myself the way I would be forced to do so with regular cigarettes. And it harms (maybe) only the vaper. And this debate isn’t going to get easier as more and more people choose to vape. While traditional smoking has decreased exponentially, the surgeon general states that”e -cigarettes are very popular with young people” and that their use is “higher…than adults.” And it’s even increasing in middle school and especially high school students. 'How? Isn’t that illegal?' I ask myself. But I suppose it’s no different than how we all got our underage drinking gems, right? We were that young once. And these taboo things are still cool. Smoking “real” cigs isn’t anymore. Not by a long shot. But this? Cool AND seemingly harmless. The problem is that the verdict is still out on the health risks. It’s too soon for anything conclusive. Still, early reports are coming out. And it couldn’t be more contradictory. No one can deny that nicotine is addictive though. And so, “no matter how it's delivered, nicotine is harmful for youth and young adults” in regards to addiction. But, further, the surgeon general goes on to say that “e-cigarettes typically contain [chemicals]…that are known to damage health.” In addition, “Some initial research shows it may hurt…arteries. Some brands contain chemicals including formaldehyde -- often used in building materials -- and another ingredient used in antifreeze that can cause cancer.” But even then, there is more conflicting information. And no one can deny that if you’re going to choose to do one over the other, e-cigs are clearly not as harmful. In a 2015 expert review from Public Health England regarding smoking, it states, “Most of the harm comes from the thousands of chemicals that are burned and inhaled in the smoke…E-cigs don't burn, so people aren't as exposed to those toxins.” The study’s conclusion? “E-cigs are 95% less harmful than the real thing.” So I don’t know about you. Have you tried it? Are you a former smoker who quit traditionally smoking as a result? And all these reports I’m reading only mention young people. Does that mean it’s not harmful to adults? And why shouldn’t someone who wants to smoke not be able to do so wherever they are? They are not polluting the air in which I breathe. It doesn’t affect me. In fact, when I teach in long blocks, a student who vapes comes back calm, refreshed, and often able to concentrate again. Common sense tells us that anything foreign we ingest into our bodies that way can’t be good. We know better. But is it any worse than anything else we do to our bodies, both deliberately and by no choice of our own? Bad food filled with chemicals? Pollution we breathe every day? Taking over-the-counter meds to cure ailments and headaches? Milk filled with injected hormones? If e-cigs are legal, who am I to say? I’m on the fence on this one. I, myself, may not choose to do it, but if it doesn’t harm me, personally, who am I to judge? Would I encourage my students to start? Of course not. Would I encourage them to NOT pick up a bad habit? Yes, just as I might other healthy habits they don’t have. But will I NOT allow the donuts they eat on campus daily that we sell? Nope. Are e-cigs any different?
Like all bad habits, it seems by the time they get to me, it’s too late to change, not without them really wanting to. If we’re going to combat addiction, we have to start younger. But there’s the rub, the companies know that and have always targeted the young, from traditional cigs to e-cigs to sugary cereals, it’s the youth that always suffers. And that--THAT is the problem we should be addressing... Today I ponder Thanksgiving. How many of you celebrate? Or something similar? And do you love it? Or do you loathe it, the holiday of American gluttony? I know many of my American friends love it: Football, feasting, family, and all that jazz. But for me, it’s hard to pinpoint when I started to hate it so much, this obligatory holiday, where we celebrate things we really shouldn’t be (I won’t go all politically correct on you, but you have seen Peter Pan, right?), and where most have come to celebrate it as just a simple time to be with family and friends and pause and breathe and reflect on the gratefulness of our cornucopias aplenty. I think I can pinpoint it a few things. One was the realization of what a turkey is. Interesting, the birds are still called what they are whereas beef and pork are not. I get it, you can’t lie down and snuggle with a pecking chicken, but you sure can with a baby calf, and even the most enthusiastic meat-eater agrees. There’s something unethical about that eating that with which you can love so tenderly. Still, friends of mine who own farms now will tell you that you can, in fact, hang and enjoy the company of our feathered-friends, even the ones you choose to eat. Either way, it’s a very difficult time in most children’s lives when they learn the truth. Most can get over it, having been raised to enjoy its flavor and not having to do the deed him or herself. I just couldn’t seem to. Of course, no one says you have to eat any meat. There are plenty of options, make no mistake, from gourds to cranberry sauce to pies, no one is forcing us to wear sweatpants and unbutton our pants. And I do have very fond memories of being with my Nana, the woman I derived my name from, my tea-drinking buddy, the woman who introduced me to Twinings and Darjeeling and quiet moments where we’d go sit alone out on her enclosed porch and just talk and sip and where she told me I was beautiful, and I almost believed her. So I think I’ve pinpointed it to being an adult. There is something "unmagical" about Thanksgiving for me. It screams time-honored tradition of stereotypical roles, where the women cook and the men watch football, and where the main chef doesn’t rest, rising at 4:00 am to stuff and cook a bird so everyone can gorge and complain later about how full they are, and where she must clean up the mess everyone has made afterwards, barely having a moment to eat herself, all her hard work, cold and dry, by the turn of the setting sun as everyone leaves ‘grateful’ to be full.
And really, it reminds me of my mother. My poor mother, the cook, the forever-traditionalist who refused paper plates or plastic, slaving for the happiness of everyone else around her. And then I begin to miss her and lament at all the times I stayed at my high school football game with friends, procrastinating, not grateful at all for what she was doing, but complaining with my friends, and doing things I shouldn’t have been doing. Then comes the guilt, at not only that, but at the fact of how much I had to be grateful for in her when she was alive. And then I just get sad…because I miss her. And though I respected her greatly, I didn’t appreciate a lot of things she did. Sigh… I cooked Thanksgiving dinner once. After that, I refused. I won’t do it again. If someone else doesn’t host it, my brother and some family and close friends go out to a restaurant, come back somewhere to play games, and to have desserts only. But we don’t need a made-up holiday to do it. Or to say what we’re thankful for. Or to drive or fly on the busiest, most inane holiday there is. And so, we don’t. Often. And I? I--am thankful for that. And I wonder if someday, I realize how much I wish I had the people I love surrounding me on the Thanksgiving I once loathed. Are people moving too fast? Is no one having a real conversation anymore as a result? Is there any way to turn back? Or are you happy this way? Is this fast-paced world causing more and more disorders of anxiety and panic attacks and even agoraphobia? In one of my classes the other day, a student lamented that she was “docked” at work for not getting the customer’s order to him in a timely 60-second fashion and that if it continued to happen, down would the ax come, clean and swift. After all, the customer shouldn’t have to wait. It’s “fast” food for a reason. And heaven forbid, we can’t stuff our faces or slurp our drinks the moment we order them the way we can find out every ingredient that went into that drink within a 10-second swipe of our fingers across our phones. Weather today? One second. Top celebrity break up? Two seconds. Country with the lowest population? Maybe you’ll have to wait three whole seconds for your answer, but it certainly isn’t close to sixty. Slow Wi-Fi? Call in the National Guard! It’s a crisis! I thought about that today getting my coffee through the drive-thru and how recently I’ve been stressed out about finding my credit card or cash fast enough, wondering if the 18-year-old under the gun to get my order out in the fastest time possible, not bothering to make eye contact with me, would actually drop it onto my lap, thinking I’m holding it already when I’m not, and me making excuses to her (Oh, forgive me, I just need to find my credit card), because I can’t seem to get my act together fast enough! Worse, even, I begin to panic that the car behind me will start to honk its horn, forcing my credit card to sprout wings, fly into the air and onto the car’s floor, where I feel around to, desperately, find it in time all the while looking in my rear view mirror to make sure no one behind me is uttering obscenities at how slow I’m being! (And breathe.) It’s absurd. I, myself, will pull over to make sure I have everything ready to go, lest I be penalized for taking more than the allotted minute and hold up the line. Clearly, I’m not just discussing fast food. I’m discussing that we are now a society of fast food. We want it. We want it now. We don’t want to wait. We don’t want to take our time to enjoy things or learn. And we hardly want to think. We want our news in 280 characters of fewer, our poetry to fit on Instagram squares, and our god-damned purchases the next day damn it. Amazon is kicking everyone to the curb. I hear it everywhere. Well, Amazon can get it to me in two days. Why would I wait for the same thing elsewhere? Yup. Why wait when you don’t have to? The problem is…some things take the wait. Some things only happen with perseverance. And some things need tilling and nurturing to be the best they can be. Not everything can be "got" through a fast-food window. Some things are actually better when done a bit slowly. Love. The perfect apple. A sandcastle. A friendship. Music. Walks. A great play. And some things worthwhile only happen with hard work. We learn by going a bit more slowly. We make lots of mistakes when we rush things. And I’m seeing every facet of life hurt by our fast-food culture. Student writing. My writing. Conversations between people. Patience. Debate. So much thinking is regurgitation. Repeats of tweets. Black and white ideas vs. discussing the grey areas, seeing other point of views, that old thing of the past called listening. I’m not sure what we do about it. And it scares me. It actually scares me. And I wonder if we just need to blow ourselves up like the dystopian tales of the past to start over. But would anything change or are we cursed to suffer the same fate into infinity? I don’t have answers and perhaps that’s what scares me so much. So. I sit, cross my legs, take a sip of my maple pecan coffee, slowly, making that ‘ahhhh’ sound after I swallow, and I write an expanded moment, like the ones I try to teach my students…and I take my time... Today I ponder plastic surgery and social media filters. What say you on these topics? In news this week, there have been many reports about something the media is calling: Snapchat Dysmorphia. (Don’t you just love when they come up with these catchphrases everyone latches onto?) CBS reported: “Plastic surgeons are sounding the alarm on a disturbing trend that's emerged with the growing popularity of social media: patients seeking cosmetic surgery to resemble how they see themselves in Snapchat filters,” which has “people requesting fuller lips, bigger eyes, or a thinner nose in order to look like the filtered or photo-edited versions of themselves.” I have longed worried about this. Not the plastic surgery idea. I never in my wildest imagination thought that it would lead to plastic surgery increases to this extent, but I have worried about the foolish filters and annoying filter of Snapchat. (Sorry to those who love them. That is your call.) I remember when Snapchat first got popular, and I said to my hairdresser: “I don’t get it? What is the difference between that and other forms of social media formats?” And she responded: “You can make yourself look so much prettier and cuter. Look I’ll show you. Everyone looks good in these filters!” They do? Bunny noses? Or big ol’ Puss ‘n’ Boots eyes? Bubble heads? I didn’t get it. Still don’t. And refuse to get it. I’ve blogged about body image denial before and its devastating effects (SEE ARTICLE HERE ) as well as INTERPERSONAL ISSUES FROM SOCIAL MEDIA, but this goes even further. Altering one’s body and face to LOOK like the fake pictures is startling. Doctors themselves who make a living off plastic surgery are saying that these trends “lead to the development of body dysmorphic disorder, or BDD, a mental health condition in which a person is preoccupied with a nonexistent or minor flaw in their physical appearance.” We all dislike things about our bodies or faces. But isn’t that what makes us unique? Too-large breasts that hurt our backs or too-small breasts that make clothes shopping so disheartening we may fall into depression may be reason for plastic surgery. A deformity of some sort or a health risk may be other reasons. And maybe these things or others aid in people's self-esteem and so does a world of good for them. I don't know. But these Snapchat filter requests are for little things. Minute. Things only the "filter user" or "snapchatter" sees in him/herself. And the plastic surgery is to address these little flaws (real or perceived) with big consequences. It’s alarming to say the least. Why are we going backwards when it comes to appearances and looks? I thought we were moving in a more substantive direction, but this is proving the contrary. We're becoming more and more superficial, and I have no idea why. Is it technology? Is it that for the first time, we have ways to combat our physical insecurities? But. It's. Not. Real! Does any of that matter to anyone anymore? Are the lines of real and fantasy becoming so blurred that there is no difference? And this plastic surgery is no longer a thing for celebrities. The increase in plastic surgery is directly related to selfies and social media. “The number of people seeking plastic surgery because they want to improve how they look in selfies has been increasing. A 2017 survey from the American Academy of Facial Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery sound that 55 percent of surgeons report seeing patients who mention selfies as a reason for requesting surgery.” Further, something I echoed in my earlier blog above, a Boston University study stated that the “impact of digitally-perfected selfies may be especially harmful to young people… Filtered selfies especially can have harmful effects on adolescents or those with BDD because these groups may more severely internalize this beauty standard.” So where does that leave us? And where do everyday people get the money for plastic surgery? They probably can’t, and therefore, wallow in self-hatred behind filters and social media, becoming more and more trapped in a virtual reality. Will the future bring us only virtual interactions where we can use Snapchat to alter our noses and eyes? Will we ever meet people in person again, too afraid they won’t like our REAL noses and eyes? Or will the future basically turn people into perfect clones of each other, robots?
I do fear for the future and choose NOT to use Snapchat. I don’t show my face on social media because I can’t and because of what I write in a world of what I call: Erotica Judgmentals. 😊 (Like that?). I can't tell you how many times I've talked about that. (CLICK HERE for one.) So a big sorry goes out to all my students who will have to look at my mug for 15 long weeks soon. Oh well. Reality’s a bitch. Get used to it. Arti:cle used CBS News. https://www.cbsnews.com/news/snapchat-dysmorphia-selfies-driving-people-to-plastic-surgery-doctors-warn/. 6 August 2018. We all have personal and professional goals, aka, dreams, we’re trying to achieve in this go-around. What are yours? And at what point is a dream just wishful thinking? In short, when is it time to give up? We see all kinds of positive thinking and memes on social media about not giving up, about following our dreams, about staying the course, and on and on…but are some dreams absurd? Does the boy who wants to be a professional soccer player, for instance, who works tirelessly and hard to achieve that goal foolish when, say, he just doesn’t have the strength for it? Or the talent? Or that young girl who wants to become a veterinarian but who can’t pass a science class or understand the concepts as hard as she tries? Could the same be said for writers? Or any other goals and dreams? In short, are some dreams simply unreasonable and causing us more angst and depression? In an article in Psychology Today last year, the old adages of "Follow Your Dreams" and "Never Give Up" and "At First You Don't Succeed, Try, Try Again!" were debunked and a new study by Klaus Rothermund and Katharina Koppe actually said that such maxims as "Anything Is Possible" are harmful and even exacerbate or cause depression in people. "As we all know from our childhood experiences, the maxim “If at first, you don’t succeed, try, try again!” is drummed into our heads from a very young age. These type of pep talks may backfire if the goal is unachievable regardless of how much effort someone pours into his or her futile struggle to succeed.... Rothermund and Koppe found that people often develop clinical depression as a result of making a Herculean effort to achieve an unattainable goal only to realize that their efforts were pointless. No matter how hard the person tries, his or her goals will always be out of reach. This experience can lead to colossal disappointment along with hopelessness, a loss of feeling in control, and helplessness." Further, the research went on to say that "giving up," once such a negative phrase, can actually save someone from depression and instead can create "a sense of liberty and freedom" that "learning to let go of an unrealistic goal can...help to avoid the demoralization of hitting endless roadblocks and dead ends," and embraces a new adage: "The one, who gives up, wins." It's hard to give up on a dream. We've been taught that it somehow makes us a failure. We're used to looking to blame other people for the obstacles to our success, calling them "naysayers" and spending an awful lot of time proving those said naysayers wrong, telling ourselves things like: ~The only “yes” you need to follow your dreams is yours. ~You’ll regret it later in life, and if you’re delaying it, you’ll question yourself why didn’t you do it sooner. ~Not following your dreams makes you feel unaccomplished. Eventually, this will stop you from dreaming altogether. (GLOBOTREKS.com) And certainly, in some cases, that is very true, especially for we writers. Someone puts us down. Criticizes us. Tells us our stuff is shit. What's worse is when someone we respect or admire or who we think supports us tells us this. That's a hard blow. And any person who is self reflective takes these things to heart. But we hearken to the words of the best writers who were also told the same things, who leave us with advice, and it soothes our inner demons...for a time.
I'm not sure where I fall on this spectrum. I would ask you to ask yourself the same questions I've been asking myself before giving up on a dream: How do I feel when I hit an obstacle or failure, perceived or otherwise? Do I feel myself spiraling into a depression when things don't go as planned? Am I following the dream I get satisfaction from? Or is there no longer satisfaction in following that dream? Am I following someone else's dream for me? Am I happy following my dream? Have I set my expectations too high? Do I feel good until someone knocks me down a peg? Is my dream keeping me awake at night? Making me anxious? Insecure? Is my self esteem dwindling? Am I depressed because of it? The answers to those questions will give us the answer to whether or not our dream is worth following. We must remember: We are NOT one dream. We should have many dreams, many goals, and many pursuits. As a girl who once thought being a professinal dancer was the only dream worth pursuing, I know this. Mediocre at much; master of none was something I often heard. It's bullshit. Being well-rounded is NOT a flaw. This much I do know and HAVE learned. So set up a life with MANY goals and dreams, and take them one day at a time. Do what makes your soul feel alive, pumping with energy and spirit, not one drowned and suffocated. And for me, today, my goal will be to sit on a beach, under the sun, think about all the things I have to be grateful for and let life live through me. And that will be enough, for now.... Today I ponder what we eat. How many among us are moving towards a vegetarian or vegan lifestyle? Why is that? Why do many of us still eat meat? Is it simply because it tastes good? Is it a way to get the most nutrients and proteins as easily and quickly as possible? Do we HAVE to eat meat because of our diet restrictions as some of my friends tell me? Where do you fall into this spectrum? And why? My thoughts stem from a conversation that started with a “friend” of mine who used the word “fat” to describe someone at an environmentally-conscious-eating-healthy-and-organically event for lack of clearer description. When he used it, the whole table hushed. It was as if the word fat was a swear word, that to use it was offensive, insensitive. I remember as a child my mom saying once when watching a dance recital video back of mine that she couldn’t attend: “Who’s the fat one?” She didn’t care how graceful or perfected her form was…ballet dancers aren’t supposed to look like THAT. I’m not sure our perceptions have changed all that much. This friend (really friend of a friend) said it matter-of-factly, and people, after the hush, started to berate him as being judgmental, that he was being discriminatory against a group of people. He quickly rose to defend himself. He argued that being fat was a sign of unhealth. That it was a choice one makes. That “his taxes” were paying for "their" ailments. As the discussion got more heated (it’s a wonder, really, we all stayed seated at the table), we got onto other topics, topics of poverty and how our country makes it a luxury to be healthy. The impoverished communities having to rely on fast-food and cheap eats, and the rise of inner-city co-ops, which are a great idea, but which aren’t sustaining themselves, sadly. (at least not near me). That organic food is damn expensive. That eating healthy costs bucks. That THAT is the issue… The discussion progressed, morphed, spiraled, and it really made me think. This event I went to was all about gardening co-ops, healthy lifestyles, vegetarian eating and the alkaline charts, and living naturally with and on this Earth...and I heard a child ask: “But Mom, aren’t we killing plants too? Then what will we eat?” I stopped dead in my tracks as I often think about that too. The flowers in my vase, the many living things we kill for our aesthetics. But I thought on it and wondered how the mother might have answered. When we kill an animal to eat, that’s it. We take their life, and still, in some instances, in brutal, slaughterhouse, disgusting fashion. That's not about affordability. That's about greed. And we have evolved enough to know the intelligence and feeling capabilities of our warm-blooded friends. The pig. The cow. They cuddle. They think. They love. They feel. They are “sentient” beings. Plants are not, and science backs this. But further, some of our plant friends can bear us fruit year after year if we tend to them. That peach, for instance, grows back for us every year. The apple orchards, if tended, produce and continue to bear us fruit. And that rose oil can still bring us health benefits from afar as long as they are tended, preened, and fed.
It’s harmonious…and that, if it were my child, would have been my answer. Besides all the health benefits of going towards a more vegetarian life, it’s the ethical ones that have guided me towards my goals. I’m not hear to judge or have a contentious debate…I’m here to live my own life with my own conscience. And I ask you to think about yours consciously…after all, we're all here to grow. I asked a question on my new author page: R.B. O’Brien: Up Close and Personal last week, and now I pose it to you: Do you think orgasms beget the desire for more orgasms, like sugar or carbs, like a craving, especially in the form of masturbation, or is the opposite true—that the more orgasms we have the more we can go in between without having them and therefore, crave them less? What say you? What has been your experience in regards to this? But that’s not all I'm asking, so please, continue reading. I tried to see if I could find any evidence one way or the other, more than anecdotal, to answer this question, and sadly, I found out something I didn’t know, never being able to answer the question I was searching for. We all know orgasm-“ing” 😊 is an important part of life and health and happiness. Yes. We know this already. It’s true. The research is there. Orgasms are healthy in many ways. We all have read this by now. We’re less depressed, will live longer, orgasms relieve stress, help us sleep better, curb over-eating, and on and on and on. It’s not a revelation there. Why masturbation was (and still is) so taboo for women is a mystery. But what I didn’t know is that some women can’t orgasm. Not just during intercourse. No. Some women cannot orgasm. AT. ALL. The percentage is startling. And it could be hereditary! In an article in the UK mag Independent, it stated: “15 to 20 per cent of women are physically unable to orgasm, which is known as being ‘anorgasmic’.” This isn’t because their partners are clueless or they haven’t discovered how their bodies work yet or something happened traumatically to make them loathe such experiences. These women can’t climax, PERIOD, never mind the very large percentage (some studies as high as 70-80%!!) of women who say they’ve never orgasmed with a partner, or struggle to, something you can find in multiple sources. And the research states that this could be hereditary! This is absolutely new news for me, the idea that a woman may live her entire life and never experience the gift of orgasm. I cannot fathom a life sans orgasm. My. God. What would that be like? It makes me sad that this is a problem only affecting women, that while men may suffer performance issues, they have no problems when it comes to masturbation and climax. I find I absolutely benefit from orgasm as the studies state above with stress relief and sleep. They even help me concentrate. But, I suppose, if there's any downside, they can, sometimes, distract too…and occasionally (ahem), I am unable to do my best work until that little nagging…thing…you know that thing that has a mind of its own is taken care of…and sadly, without any research but anecdotal, I think more begets more…like anything that you crave, this is no different. And while I feel bad for those who can’t experience such release, I suppose, you can’t miss something you never had, right? Having it and then no longer having it would be far worse…I think. And selfishly, I, luckily won’t have to find that out.
Today I ponder looks and body image in today’s society and ask: Do you believe body image and looks matter less and less, that we are finally starting to see people and souls and energies behind the masks, or do you think it’s worse than it has ever been? Do people put too much stock into the way they look? Do you? I don’t know about you, but I think we all have body issues. Find me one person who is completely satisfied with the way they look, and I’ll eat crow. Perhaps it was something one person said a long time ago in childhood, or worse, during those awkward stages of braces or acne. For me, it’s always been my legs, that they aren’t dancer legs, long and lean, but instead, shorter and more defined. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to accept my perceived flaws a bit more. It’s a beautiful thing when you find love, and where those things you once dreaded or hated about yourself, say freckles for instance, have now become the focal point of affection, and suddenly, you’re quite proud you have them. And in a society where the Kardashians are “news” (gag), and where people watch this show like a religion to see what styles they will don now or what weight they will lose or what color their hair may be or what latest plastic surgery they can get to alter their looks, it’s hard to think we’ve come that far. Never mind all the book covers we see daily with perfect women or sculpted, perfect male abs. Heaven forbid a woman (or man) may not buy our books unless someone’s pectoral muscles are front and center. Show me a man in glasses reading a book, and I’m more likely to buy your book! But I know, I’m in the minority. I’m not naïve to think otherwise. Sometimes on social media, I find it to be a breath of fresh air in that many of us don’t know what each other fully looks like, and so, we base our decisions of “likability,” or as Facebook likes to call it, “friendship,” on not looks but instead, personality or work or behavior. A student made me rethink even that though. She proposed a thesis that stated: "Too many people base their self-esteem on the number of likes they get on social media apps where they can change their appearance to look different than what they are. I believe those false filters should be stated up front or banned altogether." I never really thought about that. I don’t have Snapchat and I only just started on Instagram, but I guess most people use it to show pictures of themselves and alter them, that the app allows that, to make prettier faces, cute bunny noses, hip sunglasses, and on and on. Still, I stuck to my guns regarding why people may “like” another. It’s their heart or soul, you know, that proverbial: “It’s the-inside-not -the-outside-that-counts mantra. After reading her thesis, I was reminded of when I went to see The Black Panther, and a promo teaser for the movie "I Feel Pretty" came on, and I wondered, as I watched it, if there would be backlash about it (of course, there is). I'm a huge fan of Amy Schumer --I must admit--and found myself laughing at the trailer and quite impressed with her candor to strip and show herself naked, with all her imperfections, unfiltered and unedited, that maybe we were getting somewhere, that maybe at long last, the quest to be the perfect size or to emulate the perfect look is a thing of the past. But in a NY Times article, it stated that the premise and message of the movie, that “looks don’t matter” is utter bullshit, a lie the media is trying to stuff down our throats, that looks matter more than ever, especially for women, today. Amanda Hess writes in the article: "The reality is that expectations for female appearances have never been higher. It’s just become taboo to admit that…This new beauty-standard denialism is all around us. It courses through cosmetics ads, fitness instructor monologues, Instagram captions and, increasingly, pop feminist principles. In the forthcoming book ‘Perfect Me,’ Heather Widdows, a philosophy professor at the University of Birmingham, England, convincingly argues that the pressures on women to appear thinner, younger and firmer are stronger than ever...Along with YouTube makeup tutorials and Instagram fashion influencers, beauty-standard denialism has exploded online...."
So I ask you: Is female appearance higher than ever as this article espouses? Or are the Dove-type commercials, and the like, slowly changing that stereotype? The NY Times article says no. Me? I’m not quite sure. Everything I wrote above could, very well, be what Ms. Hess has written in her article as “denialism.” You can read it in full here: Article here: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/23/movies/i-feel-pretty-amy-schumer-beauty.html On a hot, summer day this coming July at my family lake cabin, you might find me taking a hit of a joint, back firmly placed against the peeling wood of a floating dock, eyes closed, knees slightly bent, a contented smile hard to hide, the sun caressing my half-naked body as it welcomes the slight sunburn it knows it will garner, having been covered in layers of wool and cotton for too many New England months. Pink is such a pretty color. Perhaps I’ll roll over onto my tummy, hold my chin in the fists of my hands, elbows firmly placed on the wood to get comfortable. My legs might even cross behind me at the ankles to sway, and you might even hear me hum a tune, something like Weezer’s, “And it feels like summer,” as I take long, slow inhales and exhales, watching the smoke disappear up into the clouds like my stress. (‘course, I romanticize. You realize there is no way to get a joint out to a dock without, most likely, ruining it. 😉). Funny I’m thinking about this, isn’t it, with so much snow on the ground and sticking to all the trees this morning? It’s beautiful really. The snow is still even coming down ever-so ethereally, so lightly, and the trees, the huge pine trees, are weighed down by the wet, white wonder. It makes me wish I could paint. But not all the trees look so lucky. Some are bare but for the snow that sticks to them. And even that pretty white color can’t hide its pain. I almost feel bad for them. They look cold. Old. The one I look at right now as I write this has what appears to be a wound. I see the chipped wood of its protective outer layer gone, exposing what could almost be described as a slice in its soul, the bark, red, visible, even as I know summer will do its repair. But not all its broken branches will find their way back to rebirth. Even with all this romantic beauty around me, the picture only artists can do justice to or famous photographers, like Ansel Adams, and even with my fortunate life that allows a safe distance of warmth as I sip my coffee to marvel at it through my window, I’m beginning to feel cold myself. Winter out-welcomes her stay, and so, my mind drifts to that special summer place, where anything has always been possible. It’s where I wrote my first love letter, where, for one summer, innocence got gladly lost under a crescent moon, where, if you’ve read Ruin My Lipstick, I sometimes dared to swim to the deep part of the lake, where teenage girls shared one joint between eight lips and dared to tell our secrets. This summer, a new law will be in effect. I will be able to walk into, I’m assuming, a smoke shop in my cut-off, jean shorts, sun-kissed, messy hair, skin still damp, and buy a joint or a bud, or what will it be? I’ve never actually bought the stuff. It’s hard to fathom. Smoking weed has been such a taboo, secretive act for so long, to think about doing such a thing in the open air, makes me feel like that teenager who is finally able to drive for the first time alone. It’s a bit like masturbation. You’ve kept it hidden for so long, to share it freely, it just seems…well…odd or out of place, not something we brag about or share. That stuff is private. The funny thing is that I don’t smoke marijuana. Of course I have. I don’t mean that. I even inhaled it. ;) But I never really liked it. Not my bag. Anymore than a puff or two and I didn’t feel like myself anymore. Felt a bit out of control. Paranoid. I wonder if it’s because I was so self-conscious back then, worrying about EVERYTHING, if my legs were long enough, if my shifting eye color was too weird, if I was smart enough or good enough to get into the college I dreamed of. I wonder if I just wasn’t confident enough in who I was to alter my psyche, but instead it just highlighted my perceived flaws. I really don’t know. But this summer, I may, on a warm, July day, lie alone, in a newly-purchased bikini, much more comfortable in my own skin than all those years ago, and contemplate all the things I wish I’d done but didn't, and perhaps, too, blow a bit of the past in rings of smoke and see what words it writes across the limitless, night sky in front of me. Or perhaps, still, all these years later, I won’t have the urge to alter my state of being at all under a night sky, and instead, safely smile in the daylight of the blazing sun. Yes, perhaps, that will be quite enough. ~Ruin My Lipstick |
Details
I LOVE to write and read. I particularly enjoy reading erotic romance that has tons of emotion in it. I hope you will ask me questions and share your favorite authors and novels. I welcome all feedback.
Categories
All
Archives
November 2022
|