Right Brain Exercise

One thing that I find myself doing before telling any current information is tell a backstory. Maybe I just like the sound of my own voice, maybe I want to be understood, maybe I just think that I've seen/done a lot of crap. Today's backstory leads to last night and it's about art.

When I was in the 5th grade, the art teacher Miss Gerkin (I don't remember her name, but this will suffice. All I remember clearly is that she was young, not pretty with strange moles on her face, and could easily pass for the Wicked Witch of the West -- any other individual that went to Philip Murray Elementary School with me will agree. Plus, I like gerkins and they have weird bumps on them, too) asked me if I wanted to join up with weekend classes at the Carnegie Museum. The classes were limited to a few hand-selected kids that excelled in art and would be free to those that were chosen from submitted works. Miss Gerkin sent in some of my stuff, of which I do not remember/know, and I got a letter of acceptance. I was the only kid from my school that was welcome to attend. And so began my "formal" training.
Feeling out of sorts, I would sit on the cold marble floors of the Carnegie with 20odd other children and let my mind emerge onto paper or whichever medium we would explore for the week. We made pottery, drew with pencil, painted on easels, sketched with conti-crayons. All these things were far beyond anything we were doing back at Philip Murray, and though I didn't feel quite as confident about my work as some of the other kids seemed to be - I was exposed to things with which I may not have otherwise been.



When it came time to decide where I would go to middle school, it seemed that I had only one option which was to follow the direct path to Knoxville Middle School with the rest of the degenerates from not only my school, but two other elementary buildings. That is, until a neighbor mentioned that her grandchild went to a special school because he could sing. Then it came to be that his twin brother+sister would be attending the same school for their talents (singing/music). With PJ (the older sibling) as a reference, and a good one at that, I opted to sign-up for Rogers CAPA (Creating and Performing Arts) Middle School, then located in the not-so-safe neighborhood of Homewood. To "try out," I had to draw a list of things and integrate them into one picture. I remember using pencil on an 8.5x11 and the list included a building and a helicopter. I thought it was weird, I thought it wasn't very good, but lo and behold I was accepted.

Again, I was the only kid from my elementary school to go to this new place. And feeling out of sorts, I would get on the bus with other 6th, 7th, and 8th graders from the South Hills and travel to the ghetto for school. The Visual Arts class for 6th graders was less than 20. We had 8 girls in our class (I can still remember their names: Me, Nikki, Nicole, Jessica, Megan, Adrienne, Molly, and Caroline). We were all from different backgrounds and all had different technique to our talent. Our general education wasn't very strong, but the visual arts classes were focused on very much. Where gen ed classes took up the majority of the day, each art class took up half the day and we had art class three days a week. They then split up the art classes into three sections (while the rest of the classes were divided into the regular 4 semesters): computer graphics, figure drawing, and ceramics. Mouse Paint, 8headed people (the distance from top of your head to your waist is four heads, the distance from your knee to the ground is four heads, etc), and pottery. Again, I didn't feel quite as confident about my work as some of the other kids seemed to be - I was exposed to things with which I may not have otherwise been. We painted the window blinds for the main art "homeroom" with various mythological creatures, and I remember painting Medusa's skin purple (not my idea).

The school year ended and I left Rogers. I didn't get along with the other children and didn't want to get beat up every day - which was beginning to happen after being shoved into a locker and getting a titty-twister. But I did keep up with my Saturday morning classes at the Carnegie all the while (turned out, if I stayed, then tuition was free as long as I went to a Pittsburgh Public School).

For 7th grade, I transferred to a catholic school that was 3 doors away from my house. My parents paid for the classes at the Carnegie. Here and there, I would still draw, but it wasn't until I got into 8th grade, switched to the afternoon classes at the Carnegie, then in 9th grade took Visual Arts 2 (skipping the beginners section). A girl named Lori was in the same class and was also taking the classes at the Carnegie, so we were like partners. It was good to have a friend to share the creations with.

At Carrick High, we sketched figure drawings, did scratch art, painted, and made those boxes where you do all kinds of weird stuff to the inside and cover the box, then look through a hole in the side (I forget what they are called at the moment). At home at night, I would put on my walkman CD player and listen to Marilyn Manson while sketching pictures of him and the band, drew cartoons of them. I was also a fan of Brad Pitt at the time, so I drew pictures of him and made his abs 10x better than they were on the cover of Rolling Stone.







In 10th grade, I took Art 3. I don't remember much. It was the last of the classes that I took. Over the years, I would draw here and there (mostly figure drawings and portraits), but art seemed to lack in luster and my tools disappeared along with my mind.





Beginning with the sketches that I penciled for John back in Feb/March, it became clear to me that once I got going the old right-brain skills that I once exercised quite frequently would gather up and become visible. People would often tell me "Why don't you draw?" but something held me back. The sketches for John were just for fun, I would tell myself, that I didn't want to have to sit there and draw all the time just because someone told me to, or thought I was good.

One day I got an idea that the Tiki Guys that I drew for Anthony, John's brother, should become a painting. I set a goal that I wanted to paint them on canvas with acrylic (a medium that I never used before) and went to the craft store. There was a never-ending 40% off sale on the canvas with which I took full advantage and "stocked up" on 5 pre-stretched boards. I bought beginner paints and brushes, frightened that I would end up letting them go to waste should I invest in better quality. It would have to do.

The first day, I drew a basic placement of the dudes and began working on the "mean one" that evening. I had the base down and got comfortable with the brush in my hand and working the paint. For the next few weeks, I would sit for a little and bit by bit, the painting came to life (with my iPod on, mostly the same song by The Prodigy called Warrior's Dance. This was also one of the songs that I would put on repeat while I ran from the apartment to the fountain halfway to Diamond Head at the end of Kapiolani Park).



The guys each have different things that I thought would personalize their features. The Haole Huntah (green) is angry and is carrying both a torch and a spear-like weapon that is covered in teeth. The grass skirt pulled him together, I used a character on a Disney Nintendo game, Magical Quest for reference from memory. Da Kine Bruddah is smoking a doob with the state fish jumping around his inner tube.

With canvas on stock, I painted a few gradient backgrounds and began to slap things on them. All three paintings traveled with me from Hawaii. A jellyfish is still in the works, along with a bunch of sloppy metallic painted herring that will probably be seconds away from consumption by a whale (both currently sitting at John's mom's house). The last two didn't feel right for me, they just "didn't do it." I needed more and I needed a reason to paint again.

So being that we crashed at Virg's house (John's gram) and she made us coffee every morning, set up a little apartment for us, and made us feel right at home I naturally wanted to make something for her. Since she's a grandma and all grandma's collect things, I started paying attention to the little things that she decorated the house with. One thing that was a common theme: hummingbirds. BINGBINGBING!

Day One, I penciled the basic placement of the bird and paired it with another, albeit a flower (bird of paradise). Dissatisfied, I re-drew the things and made them bigger to create less background/negative space. Dilligently, while listening to the As I Lay Dying discography (with this song and this song on repeat a few times), I painted the flower first making as smooth a texture as I could. Last night, the bird came to be with surprising ease. I'm not sure if I simply have an affinity to feathers (being that I have more than I can count tattooed on me) but the bird emerged onto the canvas with little effort. Confident, pleased, I created a center burst of light and faded it outward to yellows and oranges to create a sun-lighting effect and slapped on my insignia for the final touch.







FINAL:



I know Virg will love it.

With these, I'm not sure where I'm going or what I'm doing. Initially, my burst of motivation came from the fact that I was bored and I figured that if I was going to sit on my ass I should get off the computer and do something with my hands that would be more satisfying than online "Bundy shopping" (look at everything, try it on, touch it - but don't buy it!). Fact is, I AM satisfied with having sat on my ass and to have created this thing. This STUFF.

Coastin'

It's been a tad over 2 weeks since John and I have reluctantly returned to our hometown. To answer the standard questions: Yes, it's cold enough for us; Yes, we miss Hawai'i; Yes, we plan on finding another place to go; Yes, its nice to see yinz guys again.

We came in on a Wednesday having just hopped from HNL to PHX (next to the exit door, which was very loud and rather nippy), had a quick bite and coffee, then PHX to PIT with very few zzzz's in between. Technically, we'd been up for almost a day straight and landed in 50* weather that greeted us with the immediate need for pants (PANTS?!?!). My dad scooped us from the airport and we FILLED his truck with our bags, had to detour around every area of town to avoid traffic/construction (as is Pittsburgh), and finally got to the quaint neighborhood of Munhall. We set up shop in his gram's basement gameroom, shoveled food in our faces, and took the first showers where we kept the door shut to prevent cold air from flowing in the bathroom.

Again, I need to stress on the term immediate for need of pants. I admittedly grumbled about the collection of hoodies that occupied (no kidding) one entire suitcase, not to mention the 30-odd pairs of sneakers between the two of us. However, one full day in Pittsburgh proved that our shopping had not, in fact, been in vain because we needed those hoodies/pants/sneakers immediately.

The ringing in our ears on the first night is all to blame on the exit row seats, but it was our own damn fault for jumping right into seeing a metal show the following day. Hot dang, Between the Buried and Me was worth it. That night, we also posted up at one of our favorite food places, The Library, and with their half-priced appetizers there's nothing not to love! Nothing tastes better than sweet-fries, nomnomnom and mmmmmmgood.

While the taller figure has been burying his arms elbow deep in re-building his Jeep (with good reason, no less), I've still been transferring those goofy hand-written journals from years ago. This time, I'm on what I call "The Vermouth Book" due to the Martini&Rossi image on the cover. The book opened with an incident revolving around the first removal of tissue on my foot in a vigorous battle I've had with re-occurring plantar warts and travels through my first few attempts at sobriety, all while dating a douchebag. Still, I find myself quite the dreamer using any chance to create images from fancy verbage in order to cover-up my internal struggle with creating myself. At that point in my life, I think I was falling in love with everyone and everything around me, thinking it was love, and realizing that I was just dating a douchebag all the while. AA seemed to touch my soul in a very prominent manner and on a few occasions I'd toss around experiences that reminded me of myself after listening in on a speaker meeting. I'd toss around the G.O.D. term (i.e.: Good Orderly Direction), which I acquired in AA and have since used to define my religious views in a nutshell, though I'm still quite Catholic, laddamercy. Also while reading this book, I've come to see how blinded I easily became to what is truly important in a young adult's life simply by paying attention to having been paid attention to. My social life often got the better of me. I'd relapse, I'd get down on myself and find myself alone in self-loathing and in grand retrospect - that's just no way to live. I see these things now and realize how vital it is to apply them to my life now in order to be more fulfilled. They are important lessons which I often lose track of as the days go by and still see the same behavioral patterns in myself. As my dear "seesur" often reminds me, I must love myself first in order for anyone to love me back. I must look in to me.

This brings me to what I'm reading.

Years ago, the aforementioned dear seesur sent me a book. I was living in Columbus, OH in a small apartment with my 5ft pet ball python and drinking myself into repeating the same drunk-driving mistake over and over when a package arrived from Amazon.com. Inside was the book Conversations with God, and was the first installment of Neale Donald Walsh's "trilogy" about a man who, you guessed it!, is having an ongoing conversation with the Big Man Upstairs. The ordinary guy was going through a rough time like all humans do and upon writing questions to himself on a notepad began to have answers come to him. And so it goes that God speaks to the man and through a conversational-style dialogue the book continues and carries the reader through enlightenment simply by learning to love himself because that's what God wants you to do. The guide explains the difference between the two key emotions that every human feels (love and fear), what relationships are all about (loving yourself, duh), and so on. Death, money, politics, and Jesus himself is made mention. This book is safely conducted without throwing Bible-vocab at the reader and gently causes one to reflect, to look inward, and to love.
Oddly enough, I was reading CWG2 when I was writing in "The Vermouth Book" and upon the decision to wave aloha to our life in Hawai'i came CWG3 falling into my lap. This book discusses universal truths; currently I'm reading through a section about the after-life. Seems that life and death are much in the same in that things happen if you want them to happen. Recently, much in part due to the whirlwind of events that have come upon my fiance and I, I have been getting stuck in my head. The book is helping me to change my perspective in that I must remember that if I want our time in Pittsburgh to suck: it very well WILL.
Thanks, seesur.

Couple of months ago, I was ranting off about my spa-job and boldly stated that I missed working at Piper's Pub and openly thanked my boss, Drew, for being awesome. Not once did I re-think about sending him a message to have me back at the Pub for our stay in Yinzerville, and with open arms he did. I've loved seeing the Pub Family again, and its warms my heart that the place hasn't changed other than it got better. Maybe it was my year away from the service industry? maybe its just a better Pub? Who cares! Having been asked to work a benefit for Gilda's Club alongside Drew, I got a great glance at what it takes to be a better person just by talking to women in fur coats who shopped for Coach purses at Saks Fifth Ave all in the name of a cancer research organization. Drew has a bigger heart that I can draw, and people really appreciate when you support them by showing up. Drew also may or may not have slipped in a compliment in my direction which helped me to better realize that simply by showing up at the Pub and doing my job, I'm a good person. It may seem silly to say, but I know that I'll always feel right at home at the little spot on Carson and that's perfectly okay with me.

Clocking in for the first time in nearly a year, I was greeted by seeing my maiden name pop up on the computer terminal. This meant that I truly needed to get on the ball and get things in order. Today included a trip to the DMV where after 2 hours, I was handed a new ID card with my maiden name on it. I cannot describe how relieved I am to be sitting at my parent's dining room table and crossing off places where I get to reclaim my maiden name again (until the tall-one and I get shit together and I have to repeat the process, harharhar).

The long and short of it is... I'm coastin' by. Pittsburgh may not be my desired place to be right now after life's recent curveballs, but if I just ease back and look inward... it's all smooth sailing in the grand scheme of things. Even if it's miserable outside.

The Truth Has No Photos

For the last 4 months, John and I have been doing what everyone else in the country has been doing: working and trying to squeeze in as much time to enjoy ourselves (together) as possible. Sometimes it would work out to our benefit, other times it did not. My camera collected dust, he lost the tanline from his surf leash. My freckles disappeared, the truck had less miles driven. Company came and went: Anth, Evan (for the 2nd time this year). Mom+Dad came in. The other Mom+Dad came in with a cousin in tow. For a while, having the bunch of 'yinz' here with us was a little dream of mine. I'd hoped for many months that the group of us would be in Hawaii together so that we wouldn't have to plan another trip for everyone and we could just wing it, tie the knot, call it a day, but still have our parents here with us for it.

But that's where the fun stopped.

If I were to type out a flow chart, the decend went like this: economy>tourism>ownership>accountability>pay. Beginning in January, the newspapers had been reporting that tourism was down 12% from last year; for Hawaii, that's HUGE. The entire island, whether the local kines want to believe it or not, is dependant on tourism and the money that outside people spend. Vacation packages, pineapple coffee mugs, model submarine ships, tshirts with shakas, surfboards, surf everything, bottles of sand that is supposed to be from the North Shore but really isn't (we all know that there is no hot pink sand on Sunset Beach), shave ice, and the 5c deposit on every soda can/bottle you can find - it all started to cost too much for folks to come and visit this paradisaical island. So began the suffering of the local business, one would have to be mighty creative in order to push their product, up the sale. The spa where I work had opened another location (the only Aveda salon in Waikiki) which should have easily increased the client number - but with service price so high and the folks that still don't tip their technicians - our client numbers didn't increase and our technicians started looking for new jobs. The front desk hours were cut, the guy that came to resurface the stone floor was owed $500, you get the picture. Same with John's company. This, that, and the other was making it harder and harder for us to make money and come home to one another, figure out an activity for the day, then to canoodle on the couch in bliss. Instead, we'd grumble and clench our teeth, take out our frustrations from everywhere else on one another, and there you have it. We were starting to realize our unhappiness. WTF?

Something wasn't right. We didn't deserve to be unhappy. Not this early in our relationship, not in this place. It was unfair to ourselves to be so wrapped up in the stresses of our jobs, it was unfair to each other for us to bring these home to one another, and it was more unfair for us to carry them into our daily lives to the point where (no kidding) we barely had anything to talk about. We didn't have days off together, we worked different hours. We were starting to really worry about money. Then like magic, $1600 was taken from John's pay right when his parents left and mine arrived in town. It was the 15th. Rent is due on the 1st. Even with my upcoming paycheck, there was no way we could make rent and make our bills. John's job = dunzo and in turn, so would be our stint in Hawaii.

There you have it. We're coming back to Pittsburgh next week.

Even though it will be temporary and will last only until we figure out the next move, I'm deathly afraid. The talk of the G20 and the terrible lies that it is forcing the city to enact is disgusting. The long-lost practice of wearing shoes will once again be enforced. Hoodies. Jackets. I'm dreading the threat of a scarf.
Moreso than anything, I know that my friends have changed. For the 10months I've been living elsewhere, I've bitten my tongue. Almost everyone has forgotten that I exist. There were, at best, five people that would touch base with me. Its rather perplexing that by slightly mentioning something in a sentence fragment on Faceboook, I've had more inquiries about the "move back" than ever before. Why do you care? Why didn't you care when I left? Why didn't you call or write me back? You're fair weathered sports fans and fair weathered friends, that's how you've presented yourselves. It's obvious to me that you just didn't care, and that really really fucking hurt.

Being with John has been... well, I can't seem to find words. It's just right. My pure opposite blended into just my type. He balances me, challenges me, and loves me back. There's more I can say but it doesn't matter to anyone other than us, really.
Coming clear across the world and leaving the only thing knew behind (just like he did) was, again, another wonderful thing. There has been something magical about this place. The smell, the sounds, the tastes, everything. IT balanced me out, IT challenged me, IT loved me back.

I quit smoking, I tried foods that I'd only seen on TV and otherwise thought were weird or disgusting. I stood on a piece of foam on top of moving water and tried to surf (meanwhile, my skateboard back in Pittsburgh has done nothing but collect dust in the last 12yrs of owning it). I wasn't afraid to go to the gym and lift something a little heavier, that took confidence that I've never had before. I haven't gotten tattooed since January because I just don't know what to do with this mess of blobs on my arm. I haven't had a haircut since the trecherous freak-mullet that was cut into my hair the night before I left Pittsburgh (it wasn't an intentional mullet, and trust me, I've been complaining about how much I hate that it happened since it happened). I don't know what's in style for fashion because I haven't had to care: I wear a bikini, shorts, and tank tops every day. I don't drink anymore, I don't even remember what any of it tastes like nor do I care to remember. I picked up a paintbrush and decided to create something on canvas that I saw inside my head for the first time since I was a sophomore in high school.
I think while I lived in Hawaii, I created the ME that I've always wanted to be.

I don't want to leave here. There's nothing in Pittsburgh for me anymore, other than just the presence of my family and the familiarity of street signs.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSH!!

Alrighty roo.

It's my day off and I'm claiming today all for myself. Tell you what, having a full time job with normal hours has really set up a lot of detours just in everyday living. I'm still up at the buttcrack of dawn with John, but an hour later when he's out the door is when my day begins. Hurryshowerfixfaceandhair in 45minutes, walk 20, and the workday begins. It ends exactly 9hours later, sometimes more with little downtime, several days without lunch, and texting?checking personal email? fuggetabbahttit.
So today, Courtney is outside on the lanai getting a special growing-boost of sun (she's my science experiment, remember?), I'm blogging, running, and sitting by the water in the direct sunlight for as long as possible. It's a cardinal rule that I cannot be pale and live in Hawaii. This means that I'm hoping hoping hoping that I don't get a call from work (usually happens) and I'm not expected to be inside the apartment to handle its upkeep.

John likes to keep the bedroom at a crispy 62degrees at all times, so the ACunit gets its workout. Not suddenly, but it seems that its been going on for a little too long. Rust has formed on the entire outside and INSIDE of the unit, its spurting flecks of water, and its dripping. But wait! There's more! The water is somehow leaking into our bedroom. Its not coming from the wall, its not coming from the interior part of the ACunit; we noticed it through the freakin' caaaaaarrrrppettttt. Imagine, waking up to a soggy step into thick used-to-be-light-tan wool woven carpet, and whats worse is the smell. The smell was so bad that John swore it was the stash of slippahs (flip flops) we have at the entrance to the apartment, I disagreed. Boldly, I charged into the bedroom, got to my knees, and purposely faceplanted my nose directly into the carpet. Instantaneous regret. As I quickly got to my feet and gagged down a lump of disgust, I pointed out "It's not the slippahs," realizing that I had almost vomited. The apartment doesn't smell, but this stuff did, BAD.

The building manager's interest in solving the problem wasn't very convincing but on Tuesday, we finally got the maintenance guy to come and look at the AC unit attached to the bedroom wall. Lariano showed just before 10am and went outside to the lanai. At first, I watched as he stared at it. I hope he was hesitating, because the clunker was wet, dripping, rusted, and chugging loudly as it ran. The guy kinda hammered at some things, and for a while looked like he was trying to pry at it with a screwdriver, but after a good 30minutes he came into the apartment and asked if I would be home because he wanted to come back. I bargained into being home at 1pm and dipped to the lanai to peek his handywork. This included some clear caulking at the front rusted corner, and moving two buckets underneath the ACunit to catch the now-dripping-much-faster water.
[fast forward an hour when I realized that I left my keys at work the day before, and couldn't go out anywhere without access to the house - which wouldn't be a big deal if I didn't have to be back by 1pm for Lariano to do more "fixing"... so I ran to work, was confronted with a new issue with a shipment of inventory, nearly got suckered into standing to listen to solutions, and then returned home]
Lariano ran an hour late for our date - I was beginning to think that he had stood me up. I had taken a piece of canvas outside to draw (pre-painting) and was missing an opportunity to be doing something else and was beginning to get pissed off in that it was my day off and I had been indoors all day. AND that the bucket outside was already 3inches full of water. But when Lariano showed up, my temper boiled. He put more (white) colored caulking on the wall, this time beside the ACunit so that it wouldn't leak into the house that way. I suppose? And then I confronted him. "What about the rust? What about it spitting out water onto the wall like that? Why is it dripping so much?" He somehow pulled together an excuse that sounded like "It's condensation. I'll build you a basin another day, to drain the water" in his broken English and left. Just like that.

Today, here you go. Our lanai and the mess.









(more photos here)

Yay. Just joy & rapture. The building manager should shove the tube of caulking right up his ass. The rent is too high for THAT kind of problem with the ACunit, don't you think?
And Yankee candles smell wonderful, but are too expensive to cover up the smell of the carpet.
To do list: confront building manager about situation. Again.

[pause in blog to run around the aquarium. literally.]
Realization #43. I'm getting fat. Not right now, but I will be in no time if I don't start moving around enough to break a sweat. If my skin goes floppy, I'm going to look hideous with all these goofy drawings on my skin (recently, I told an old man "I got drunk at a party and fell asleep, when I awoke, this is what happened!"). Carefully, I "no"-ed to about 16 pair of Nike Shox before I was okay with a Boys' Size 3.5 Turbo 9. I wanted the ones that don't look like running shoes (kind've like saddle-shoes), but the all black swift pair that cost me $97 are bouncy and indeed, magical.
The very next morning, neither John nor I had to be at work until (a much later than usual) 9:00am. He went surfing out in front, I went for a run. And by run I mean that I, who once smoked for 12 years at the average frequency of a pack a day, jogged along Kalakaua Avenue, cut off at the surfer-guy statue to the path along the beach, circled around the Waikiki Aquarium, then back along Kalakaua to our cross street intersection WITHOUT STOPPING. What did I tell you, magic shoes.

We went to the gym the other day and lifted biceps and triceps. I'm still sore from it (because I'm a sissified girl who never really focused on that stuff), but I had to make it a rule to not be fat. I can't be. Working out really sucks and its stupid to have to repeatedly lift and carry around weird objects so you don't get soggy. Its dumb to run around in circles until you sweat so you don't droop. But you gotta. Operation:GoAwayFlubber has begun.

Note: Eating is HARD WORK when you're trying to not be fat. Its especially hard when eating RIGHT eliminates some of the fun (you have no idea how badly I crave McDonalds fries every day of my life). But, with a little TLC and patience, dinner ain't so bad when it's these fantabulous nom-nomnom-lettes with chicken, spinach, and sweaty tomatoes.





And now, I go off to paint. For fun. Photos to come.