Carried away (I'm so punny!)

Let’s put aside our holiday stress for a moment and think about an oft-overlooked holiday tradition in many major cities, and especially here in New York: carriage horses. The ones in Central Park are a year-round tourist attraction, but at the holidays they’re done up in their drivers’ finest, with garlands and tinsel strewn about on the carriages they pull families of tourists around in. I’ve been hearing rumblings lately about these horses, comments from New Yorkers packed onto the crowded sidewalks with tourists on Central Park South: “Those poor horses. Out in the cold like this!” and: “It’s cruel what they do to those animals!” And so on.

I don’t claim to be some kind of expert on animal psychology, nor do I know much about the living conditions of these animals when they’re not in the park pulling carriages, but I do know a decent bit about horses and what they like. Actually, I love horses. I’m one of those annoying semi-priveleged girls that got to take riding lessons when she was younger and now gets all giggly and big-eyed every time she sees one. I think they’re fantastic.

But that does not mean that I have any illusions, like many others do, about horses. They are not some sort of sparkly fairy creature that will die in captivity. They are not magical unicorns. If you’ve spent any time around them, you know what I mean, and if you don’t, please, please, just listen. This may be tough on anyone who grew up reading Black Beauty or playing with My Little Ponies or even who saw Seabiscuit, but it’s true.

Horses are big, strong, smelly animals. They poop a lot, and they roll around in it, and in dirt, and they stink. They have big brown eyes and long eyelashes, but they are also very willing to bite and kick if they’re in a bad mood. They are beautiful and graceful, but they are also gigantic animals that can weight over a ton. They have been bred for thousands of years to be big and strong enough to carry people and things on their backs, or to pull them behind them. Pulling carriages is literally what most of the horses in Central Park were born to do. In fact, most draft horses can pull up to six times their own body weight easily; it hardly bears mentioning that the carriages in question, even laden with whole tourist families, don’t weigh nearly six times a 1600 lb horse.

PETA (http://www.peta.org/MC/factsheet_display.asp?ID=135), that ever-screeching bastion of wisdom about the animal kingdom, is running a campaign right now against the “abuse” of the carriage horses, maintaining that the animals live miserable lives in terrible conditions and should be taken off the streets. While I appreciate their compassion, I want to point out to each and every one of them that it’s extremely misguided. These horses were born and bred to work, and while I’m sure there are parts of their lives that are less than ideal, that is true of every living thing. While it would be great if all horses could run free in meadows full of daisies, there just aren’t that many meadow-filled daisies these days, and very few people who can afford to support horses who don’t work for a living.

PETA insists that carriage horses will “inevitably” have hoof problems leading to lameness after walking on pavement. While it’s true that they are not meant – biologically – to be treading on paved streets most of their lives, these horses are cared for by professional ferriers who outfit them with specialized shoes to protect their feet as much as possible. PETA also argues that the horses suffer from breathing car exhaust, which I can’t deny, but I beg PETA to remember that so do all of us humans, and we’re doing all right. They maintain that the stalls the horses sleep in are “restricting” and small, but I feel compelled to inquire whether any PETA member has ever been in any other horse barn. Certainly some racehorses live in giant stalls like kings, but the majority of the world’s horses spend their indoor hours in small stalls where they can turn around and take a few steps, but not much more. “And,” PETA members cry, “the horse stalls are dirty! The animals are stepping in their own feces! It’s despicable!” To which I answer, once again: Horses are animals. They poop freely whenever and wherever they want to, including in their bedding. If you are in a horse stall, no matter how big or small or dingy or clean, there is at least a 50% chance that there will be manure in it, and the horse will not be offended in the slightest. It’s a horse.

And therein lies my entire argument. “It’s a horse.” I love horses, as I’ve said before, and of course I want them to have happy and enriching lives, but pretending that they are immaculate, highly intelligent, pseudo-human creatures that somehow need to roam free in fields of grain helps no one. In fact, it just feeds further into the already existing metropolitan ignorance about animals, which in turn leads truly cruel behavior toward our four-legged friends. For instance, I’m sure I’m not the only who has seen Manhattanites pushing dogs around in strollers rather than letting them walk. Taking a dog for a walk does not mean pushing it, people. It means letting the dog walk, because it’s a dog and it needs exercise to be happy and healthy. And even many of the dogs I see walking are wearing fur coats and booties! I’ve read articles on people who spend tens of thousands of dollars getting their cats spray-painted (http://www.whypaintcats.com/). There are rumors that this is a hoax, but the idea has been planted and I wouldn’t be surprised if it starts happening in reality. We’ve all heard stories or known someone who knew someone who had a pet pig that they kept inside in a diaper and fed beer. Or seen specials on people who keep chickens in thousand-dollar houses and take them swimming. The list of atrocious behavior toward animals goes on and on, mostly because people refuse to see animals for what they are: animals, that do not want to be treated like people.

From all I have seen personally, the carriage horses in Central Park want to be treated like horses, and they are treated fairly well as such. They are taken back to the stables to rest when the weather is too extremely hot or cold, are fed several times a day, and are rested for long periods of time. They get adequate exercise, are madly adored by children on the street who feed them treats, and have the company of other horses most of the time. I have never once seen a driver use his whip to urge a horse on, mostly because the horses have walked the route a thousand times and know exactly what they’re doing. Most of them are well-tempered horses who are used to the sights and sounds of the city, although there have been a few incidents of horses spooking at car horns and such and hurting themselves; one did, in fact, die this way a few years ago. And there have also been cases of horses being dehydrated during the hot summer months, but measures have been taken since then to provide them with better access to water.

If we allow PETA to brainwash us into thinking that because what carriage horses do looks less than appealing to us as people it must be wrong, we will only be adding to a culture of ignorance about our fellow creatures. Just because we don’t want to pull carriages and eat oats out of a bucket does not mean that it’s not a perfectly suitable thing for a horse to do. I’m sure there are aspects of their lives that could use improving, and I hope very much that, if nothing else, PETA’s public outcry will push the carriage horse industry to improve all conditions for the horses as much as they can. But shutting them down because we think we know what’s best isn’t going to help anything; it will only put a lot of good horses out of a job and probably out of a good home.

The (Not) Comsuming Culture

Working at an office populated mostly by attractive young women (our boss is an old French guy who gets what he wants) is strange in many ways, as I'm sure you can imagine. I'm simultaenously blessed and cursed to be seated in an area that is completely cut off from most of the activity in the gallery, so whatever strange female issues may be going on in the offices is mostly unknown to me. I am alienated very physically from any camaraderie that might occur, but I'm also ignorant about any catfights, back-biting, etc. It's kind of nice.

But there's one thing that I have definitely picked up on from my year and some change here. The women all seem to be putting on a show about what and how much and how often they eat. It's fascinating! I'm sure it's possible that some, maybe even most, of them really do eat salads with no cheese or meat every day, or refrain from all sugar, but I just don't think it's very likely. Yet, while at the gallery, they consume fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and unsweetened beverages, almost to a woman. There are a few of us here (not necessarily me - I'm a sucker for peer pressure, it seems) that allow ourselves to occasionally be seen with a cookie, or a big fat juicy something delicious, but most of us stick to the "we are so perfect we never eat french fries" song and dance. It's bizarre.

Actually, no, it's not bizarre. Because try as we might to be one big happy estrogen-producing family, women are catty bitches, and we will go to ridiculous lengths to look better than one another, for stupid, stupid reasons (mostly men's attention, but that's another blog entry). Especially here, where most of the women involved are thin and beautiful and young, there is a strong urge to try to be the thinnest, most beautiful, youngest, etc. And apparently that means rabbit food. Because God forbid we allow ourselves to enjoy food, or independence from super-model skinny expectations, or sex, or anything visceral. We're women. In order to be respected we have to look like the cover of Vogue and experience as little emotion and pleasure as possible. Ice Queens, all of us. It's ridiculous.

Now, don't think I'm immune. As I said before, I'm a peer pressure floozy. I rarely eat big juicy anythings at work, mostly because I don't want anyone to see me. I'll admit it. But then again, I'm the receptionist and if clients come in and see me taking dripping bites out of Big Macs all the time, well, I might lose my job. (Which in itself is pretty stupid and reinforces the idea that we have to behave in a certain way to be successful, but that's another blog entry entirely.) Also, I have to stick to things that are easy to eat behind the desk, so that if the phone rings I won't drop my sandwich or difficult-to-approach falafel wrap, or whatever. So for practicality's sake I tend to stick to soups, salads, and other small dishes I can hold , whether I recognize my reasoning as faulty or not, I fall right into the "I can consume fewer calories than you in public!" war that seems to be going on in the office psyche.

Sure, I'm certain that there are lots of ladies here who really just enjoy being healthy, but you can't convince me that they don't all go home and chow down on greasy Chinese food and cookies. I sure do.

Really cute moment.

Yesterday as I was trying to keep myself awake after a night of fitful sleep, and putting an old friend on a plane in the wee hours, an elderly lady came into the gallery. She was very nice and asked to see a catalogue of Michele Oka Doner's work, which she had never heard of before she saw a picture on my desk.

She took the catalogue aside and looked at it for a while, then up at me and said, "This is the most exciting thing I've seen in a long time!"

She was very earnest about it. Not being annoying or asking dumb questions or demanding information out of me. Just really, really excited and nice. She got herself into kind of a tizzy, then took a press release and set off into the bowels of the gallery to look around. "I'm supposed to be on my way to a hospital," she told me. "But this comes first. Art is far more vital to life."

What an entrancing lady! I hope she comes back. If we had more people come into the gallery who were as excited and in love with ART itself, I might really enjoy my job. As it is most of our visitors are just gawkers who seem not to feel anything when they look at the work, or stuck-up art snobs who only want to know about technique, or rich people dripping with money and privelege (although I've seen fewer of them over the past few months).

It's sad to see people's reactions - or lack thereof - to art sometimes. Granted, the gallery IS a commercial venture, and if you aren't planning to purchase anything here (ie, if you don't have a few hundred grand at least to throw around) then we can't do much for you on a practical level. But the art is here to be bought and sold only on a very superficial level. Art, as Oscar Wilde put it more eloquently, is "quite useless, practically speaking." But art is really HERE to be experienced. To be entered into with the naivety of a child, with the innocence of... well, an innocent. It is here to awe you and take you someplace where you don't think about money and commerce anymore. And of course not all of it will. There this hideous Jesus Rafael Soto piece in the vitrine right in front of me that makes me puzzled and mildly unhappy to look at, for instance. But why come to an art gallery with an agenda? Why badger the receptionist for information she doesn't have, or look dour, or drag your kid around by its hand? I much prefer, and better understand, people who come in wide-eyed and stand for hours and stare.

"The farewell kiss"

So an Iraqi journalist hurled a really vicious insult, and his shoes, at President Bush over the weekend at a press conference. Muntader al-Zaidi, a television journalist for Al-Baghdadia, apparently used his turn to ask a question instead as a chance to hurl his shoes at Bush's head and yell, "This is a gift from the Iraqis; this is the farewell kiss, you dog!" He was immediately tackled by police officers, beaten badly, and taken into custody, where he remains. You can watch the whole throw-down here on YouTube, from several different vantage points.

One of the directors of the gallery, who's sitting at the desk next to me, is watching the video on repeat and laughing hysterically to himself. And I can definitely agree that the physical situation is pretty funny; as one of the comments at the YouTube site declares: "Looks like President Bush was good at dodgeball." (It's true. Dubya is apparently sporting some mad ninja skills! Who knew?) And the pissed look on his face right afterward is serious YouTube gold.

But it's much more than that, too. In the Arab world, as the New York Times points out, the act of touching someone with a shoe is a grave insult because it symbolizes that person being lower than the dirt that touched your shoe. Calling someone a dog is similarly heinous, because Arabs consider dogs particularly dirty and unworthy animals. For his audacity, Al-Zaidi remains in custody and will probably face up to seven years in prison for aggression against a visiting head of state. He has become an overnight hero in Iraq and abroad. He's been awarded for his bravery by a Libyan group. People of all types, from all over Iraq, have taken to the streets in support of his courage, throwing their own shoes at American convoys and burning American flags.

One more reminder that the Iraqis hate us. And they are being joined by an ever-larger inernational community of people who love to watch President Bush being cut down in public as our figurehead. And what's more, most of us here in America love watching him dodge shoes, or trying to talk his way out of interview questions, stumbling over every syllable, or pretending to have some sort of relevence in the government at this point. He's hilarious. Watching him fail is funny. Especially now, when we have something better, someONE better, to look forward to.

But I'm feeling very conflicted about it. It's strange. I've hated this guy since day numero uno. He's in so deep with oil companies he's practically oozing slime, he stole an election (or two), he can't speak to save his life or he would have become a televangelist, and he's been at the head of one of the most blatanly corrupt and shamelessly money-grubbing, war-mongering administrations in history. I fully expect that the crimes of him and his cronies will come to light and go down in history as far dirtier than Nixon and his goons could have ever hoped to be. I get enraged when I think of the way Bush has abused his power and that of our country to protect and industry that doesn't deserve protection. I... well I downright hate the guy. He's a dick.

But there's still a measure of discomfort bubbling in my stomach as I watch him dodge those shoes on YouTube. Even as I see the gleam of pissed-off entitlement creep into his eyes, I think, "Hey, that's MY guy! Leave him alone!" I think what it boils down to is that I'm already embarassed by him on a much larger scale - he's made a mockery of what the idea of America is supposed to stand for. Watching him grovel for public sympathy in the news recently, trying to seem like a nice guy for the cameras, admitting in an interview that he was underprepared for the war, it gives me the squirmies. As if suddenly we're supposed to forget all the bullshit he's put the world through for the past eight years and feel bad for the guy. It sickens me. He's the President of the United States of America. Even if I enjoy a good chuckle over his grammar faux pas doesn't mean I want to see the leader of the free world - MY free world, for better or worse - being not only ridiculed but insulted in such a way that he must literally cower.

I cannot really reconcile myself with the idea that the President, still in power even if only in name, must bear this ridicule. It bodes ill for our country in a much more upsetting way, I think, than the oft-repeated headlines about American flag burnings and anti-American demonstrations across the world. On the one hand, I appreciate more pointed attacks being aimed at Bush himself, as he represents a type of American that is on its way out of power - general anti-American protests label all of us as that same type. But on the other hand, he is still arguably the most powerful man on earth, and he is MY most poewrful man on earth, even though I never would have voted for him.

I don't feel bad for the guy. But I do think he deserves more dignity than he has been getting or even demanding lately, and I hate to think of what this means for the Presidency in general. It bothers me in much the same way that watching the video footage of a sad and grey-bearded Saddam Hussein being poked and prodded by a doctor after his capture bothered me. He might have been a dick, but he was still a human being - a powerful human being who used to command the respect of the world - and worthy of decency. In much the same spirit, then, I say: "Let Bush go out with dignity." If he wants to recant later in life, write a book about how he wasn't ready for war, make public appearances where he invites shoes to be thrown, whatever - let him. But for now, he is still the President. He may be our worst President. But he is President, nonetheless. Let him pass into history on his own terms, and let us judge him on those terms later, but for goodness' sake, let him have what he's left for himself of his own dignity.

Afternoon malaise

Holy cow you guys, my stupid blogging knows no bounds. And my boredom is deeper than the blackest of seas. And my mood is blacker still. The neverending stream of stupid people who cycle through the gallery is continuing unabated today. I must hve told at least ten people that the Desiderio show isn't here today. And at least five that we don't have a bathroom. And at least five more that I don't speak Spanish, or French, or whatever-the-hell-else language they were speaking. It took me two hours to eat my lunch because of the constant interruption of dumbasses in person and on the phone, and damned if I didn't get some mystery meat in my bimibop. Or however you spell it.

If I were a praying person, I would pray for the patience to get through today, but I am not.

Instead, I write.

About nothing, apparently.

Ah, well then, let the observations of people and happenings in New York continue.

There is a grey man who comes into the gallery sometimes. Yesterday was I think the fourth time I've seen him, and I recognize him each time despite my terrible memory because he is grey. All of him. Grey. His skin is pewter colored. The first time I saw him was last winter on a particularly cold day, and he had a bike helmet in his hand. His skin was almost shining and looked silver, and I could only think that he might have had on some sort of skin-protecting silver lotion, like zinc oxide, all over his face to protect him from the cold. But then he came in again, while it was warm out, and he looked the same.

I mentioned it to a few people, and they suggested that maybe he was one of the Blue People from Kentucky. I researched it (online, of course) and discovered that there was indeed a family in Kentucky, in days of yore, that had an extremely rare congenital condition called methemoglobinemia. About a quarter of them were blue skinned. Caused by a combintion of recessive genes, this condition comes about when the blood is not able to carry enough oxygen, and as a result turns brownish blue, leaving white sufferers with a blue appearance. The condition is treatable, but extremely rare.

Methemoglobinemia can also be acquired by ingesting certain types of chemicals in oxidizing drugs, some antibiotics, local anasthetics, and others.

I'm assuming my Grey Guy has one form of this condition. Otherwise, the only conclusion I can draw is that he is indeed dead and reanimated. For a zombie, though, he knows an awful lot about sculpture.

Two amusing anecdotes

1) Firstly, despite my dreams of having a blog where I write about important issues and philosophy and world events and yadda yadda yadda, I seem incapable of sticking to that dream. When one lives in New York and works at an art gallery that attracts completely insane rich people, sometimes the stories are just too good not to tell.

On that note, yesterday I was handed a check made out to the New York Times, which was to pay them for ad space we've bought. I was to hold it at the front desk until someone from the Times came to pick it up. No big deal, I've done this before. They usually send nice people to pick up the checks.

A few hours later, I heard the elevator doors open, and a moment later saw arms flapping in the entry way. I looked up to see a grown man walking toward me, arms spread straight out to the sides, leaning from left to right as he came, and make a "whoosh" airplane noise. Like a five year old playing airplane. I thought, "Well maybe he's a little, you know, slow. No big deal."

Mr. Airplane whooshed right up to me and smiled, laying his hands on the desk. "Hi," he said. "I'm from the New York Times." He smiled and I saw that he was missing his canine teeth. From the way he spoke, he didn't sound slow at all. (Far be it for me to think someone is slow because they're having fun walking - I do strange things while walking to keep myself amused a lot. One just doesn't see it very often in a high-end gallery where everyone takes themselves VERY seriously.)

"Oh," I said, getting up to open the drawer I had the check in. "I have something for you."

As if he hadn't heard me, he continued, "I think there's a check here for me somewhere. Is your name Lynsey?"

"Yes," I said, and handed him the check. "Here's your check."

"Oh, great." He took the envelope and looked at carefully, then back at me. "You're Lynsey, right?" he asked again.

"Yes," I repeated.

"You're a good looking woman, Lynsey," he said as he turned to leave.

"Thanks," I said, holding myself back forcefully from adding "...airplane guy..." to the end of the sentence.

That's the whole story. Not oh-so-exciting. Just amusing.

2) Also, far be it for me to pass judgment on the other sex. I mostly try to refrain from being one of those "Men do this, women do that, we're so different, blah blah blah" people. Because in truth I really LIKE men, and I think that it's counterproductive to focus on differences between the sexes like I'm straight out of a Cosmo article. I think that treating the differences inherent in our biology and culture like a vast gulf between us only serves to widen that gap and increase hostility between the sexes, which helps nobody.

But, this just struck me as so amazingly true that I had to put it up:

On being bitchy

I've had a bit of an altercation with the people at ZipCar.
You see, over Turkey Day, I had rented this car to drive to Pennsylvania and back over the course of 27 hours. ZipCar is a car rental program that uses a fleet of cars, all parked in specific locations all over the city. You pick up the car you reserved for a specific trip, drive it, and return it on time, and you get low low low rates and free gas. It's pretty fantastic all around. As long as you honor the contract you sign when you become a member, it's all good.

Well, on that contract it says that before you get in the car to drive it, you must do a walk-around inspection of the car. If you find any damage, you must call the people at ZipCar to tell them about it so that you won't be billed for it if it wasn't your fault.

When I went to pick up my car the day before Thanksgiving, I was chomping at the bit to get out of the city ASAP. When my friend and I arrived at the parking garage where it was located, we found our vehicle parked in a dimly lit back corner, next a pole on one side and parked in by other cars all around it. I could clearly see the driver's side, but that was all. There didn't seem to be anything wrong it.

Now, according to the contract I signed, where I promised that I would do a complete inspection of the vehicle and call in any damages, I should have driven the car out to a well-lit place and immediately inspected it, then called in all damages. But, this being my first ZipCar experience and myself being so excited about driving, I just kept on going and assumed everything was fine. Big mistake.

Apparently there were some black paint scratches and a dent on the car after I brought it back on Thanksgiving. Thse damages MUST have been there when I picked the car up, since I didn't hit anything, and since I didn't even park the vehicle anywhere I couldn't see it for the entire time that I had it. Nobody hit it, it hit nobody, and nothing happened.

But last week, I got an e-mail from ZipCar saying that they were "investigating" damages to my car that appeared to have occurred while I had it. I e-mailed them back, explaining what had happened - and what had NOT happened. And that was all.

Over the weekend, during which I was in Pennsylvania dealing with a terrible tragedy, attending a funeral, and generally being out of touch with the rest of the world, I had two missed calls from ZipCar and no access to my e-mail. When I returned to new York on Monday I was so exhausted that I hardly remember getting to my apartment, where I slept for the rest of the day.

Yesterday morning, my first day back to work after my horrific weekend, I received an e-mail from Zipcar alerting me that, after an "investigation" that did not include actually speaking to me about what had happened, the Powers That Be decided I had been responsible for the damage. They tried to stick me with the maximum bill allowed on the ZipCar member contract: $500.

So I called the guy at ZipCar and explained to him that I hadn't been able to see the whole car when I picked it up, that I realized I could have given it a look later on, but that I had been so nervous and excited that I'd just taken off. I told him I was sorry for not having done so and called in all damages I saw, but that I had not been responsible for them and that I had two passengers who could back me up on that. I told him where I had gone and where I had parked the car and for how long.

He said that he could lower the amount that I owed since I seemed sincere and since it was my first experience with ZipCar, but that since I had not called in the damages, and since they had been reported after my time with the car, he could draw no other conclusion than that I had caused them. He lowered my bill to $250, I thanked him, and that was the end of it.

Well, after this had all gone down, I got word from the two friends who had been in the car with me on my trip. They both told me that I should have bitched and moaned and made a huge stink about the whole thing. That I should have told the ZipCar guy that it was a breach of their end of the contract for not having the car placed in a well-lit, open area where I could do a walk-around inspection. That I should have denied responsibility for anything and demanded to talk to higher-ups until I got someone on the phone who would take all the charges off my account. That I should have been a bitch, rather than be held responsible.

I thought about it. I really did. After all, I know that I'm not responsible for those scratches or that dent. In all likelihood, the person who had the car directly before me banged it up and didn't report it, and that person is sitting back on his ass laughing right now about the poor sucker who got stuck with the bill. And that really sucks for me. I mean, since when should I have to pay $250 for something I didn't do?

But the truth is that I still cling to an antiquated belief in three things that might make me old-fashioned, but I don't care. Those things are: responsibility for one's actions, accountability for those same actions, and keeping one's word. It might be silly of me, since in this case it's costing me way more than I want to pay. But no matter how firmly I know and believe that I didnt mess up the car, I refuse to ignore the fact that I signed my name to a contract which bound me to do something I just didn't do. I knew at the time that I should have done it. I knew I had promised to do it. And I didn't. I threw caution to the wind and decided that I'd do what I damn well pleased, consequences be damned.

Well, the consequences came knocking, and it turns out that while I might have the power to tell them to go to hell, they have a piece of paper with my name signed on it, which says that I'm responsible. And while I might have it within my grasp to scream and whine and caterwaul until those consequences go away - if I'm bitchy enough - I choose not to do that.

These days I know plenty of people who seem to get out of everything by being intractably rude to customer service people, who refuse to be held responsible for any expenses they have incurred or damages they have caused or problems they have initiated, just because they are able to make a big enough stink. I have been told over and over, and have witnessed the proof, that people who are willing to be total assholes can and do get what they want. And especially in a PC, customer-service focused, poor-me, I-could-sue-you-for-this-and-probably-win climate like the one we're in today in America, it's true. You can get into or out of just about anything you want if you're willing to overlook your own responsibilities in favor of being a rancid bitch.

But I'm not into the idea of suing some just because you can, or revoking promises you made just because it hurts to go through with them. Maybe this makes me stupider than noble, but I'm going to stick by it. And I'll freely admit that I'm a huge wimp when it comes to sticking up for myself. But I do know when I'm being walked on, and this time I wasn't. After all, I knew what I should have done. I signed something saying I'd do it. And I didn't. And now it's landed me in a big old hole. But, next time, I'll damn well do that inspection.

Well, there it is.

I have been unable to write, as I noted earlier, all week. I just. Can't. And today I've been really pushing myself to think of something, to put something cohesive together and just f-ing DO it. The advent of a tragedy in my life has forced me to re-evaluate a few things, namely the things I have control of in my own life, and I've realized that I am very, very frustrated with my lack of discipline and work ethic. Disappointed, mostly, because I have been blessed with an unstoppable drive to assert myself creatively on my world, but simultaneously have found myself possessed of a paralyzing fear of failure in my endeavors, and a lethargy that arises directly as a result of that fear. I am always tired, too tired to do the things I want to do, because if I were to energize myself and do them I would face the possibility of them going unrecognized. For example, I never paint things to keep, only to give away. When I do paint something for myself, I never finish it, always telling myself "Oh, that needs to be touched up a little before I show it to anyone." It's the same with stories. Poems don't even get started anymore.

What's really unfortunate is that, the more I look at my few finished projects and accomplishments, the more I realize that they are, in fact, quite decent. Some of them even border on GOOD. But I'm stuck at a place of uncertainty. New York, especially, is so intimidating in the depth and breadth of possibilities for a creative individual to earn a name and perhaps even a living, but I am absolutely terrified of moving forward to a point at which I could claim myself to actually BE one of those creative individuals on a professional level. No matter how much I create, I have never once voiced the assertion: "I am a writer." or "I am an artist." These are dreams for me, goals that if they were to be reached, would carry on their backs a weight too huge to imagine - the criticism and analysis of a public beyond my own, already severe and even punishing, critiques. Because, while New York is rife with opportunities, it is also a place with millions and millions of dark corners in which hide the failures of those who attempted to be heard. It's terrifying. Debilitating.

And so, rather than really trying to succeed, I continue to let myself languish in fear and self-indulgent criticism, telling myself over and over that I'm not good enough yet to make my debut. I never finish anything, letting my ideas pile up on top of each other. Ideas for ventures, businesses I could run on my talents, never get far enough to even advertise them. "I could paint murals in people's houses! I'll put them up in my apartment, take pictures, paint in friends' places, take pictures, and post them online! I could make a living that way!" Or "I could paint cups and saucers and sell them online!" Or "I could take commissions for paintings on canvas!" Or "I could have written a way better article on this for that blog!" or "I could really be a writer." But I don't DO it. Because I'm always too busy, or too tired, or too overworked, or too underworked and listless, or whatever. It's always something.

But the quote on Jenelle's Gchat today, "Against the ruin of the world, there is only one defense -- the creative act" is making me think. A lot. Here I am making excuses, perfectly aware that they are only that: excuses. Painfully aware. But not changing the situation. I've been sitting her all day bemoaning how I'll never make a name for myself as a blogger if I don't WRITE anything, but again, I haven't been writing.

But then, a few minutes ago, something magical happened. There is indeed a muse. And he walked into my gallery. And he was a tall older man, probably from a Nordic country based on his accent and physique. He had a beard of mostly-salt and a little pepper. He was wearing a tasteful, but nonetheless plaid, suit. And he was also wearing... get ready... a FUR BERET. I am not kidding. He is still in the gallery as I'm typing this. In his fur beret. It looks like fox fur. I dont' even know where one would go to purchase such a splendid thing as this. I never would have even thought for a moment that somebody made these things. But behold. It is here. And it is glorious.

And when I saw it, I said to myself, "Well, there's your blog post for the day. It has nothing to do with anything, but it's remarkable enough to warrant a blog post, no doubt about that." And so I set in to write about it, and lo, I have instead bared my soul. And it feels good.

History lesson

This is courtesy of Mental_Floss, my favorite favorite favoritest website. The last two sentences sum it all up:

...The Grattan Massacre, a bloody clash between American Indians and U.S. troops that played out in 1854 in the Nebraska Territory, just east of what is now Laramie, Wyoming.

If you thought Mrs. O’Leary’s cow was bad news, consider what the cow that wandered away from a Mormon pioneer train on the Oregon Trail started. The rabble-rousing bovine clomped its way into a camp inhabited by the Lakota Indians, one of seven tribes that made up the Great Sioux Nation. Not being ones to turn down a free lunch, the Lakota promptly killed the presumably abandoned cow and ate it.

That might not seem like a big deal, but in the mid-1800s, few peace pipes were being passed between American Indians and new settlers. So, when the cattle owner realized the fate his cow had met, he immediately went to tattle his tale at the Territory’s nearest outpost of officialdom, Fort Laramie. In response to the incident, U.S. officials dispatched an eager young second lieutenant and recent West Point graduate named John L. Grattan to bring the cow thieves to justice.

What happened next underscores the downside of history’s insistence on naming events only after they happen. Had John L. Grattan known he was riding off to The Grattan Massacre, it seems likely he might have conducted himself more civilly with the Sioux. Instead, Grattan’s approach would later prompt a fellow Fort Laramie officer to comment, “There is no doubt that Lt. Grattan left this post with a desire to have a fight with the Indians, and that he had determined to take the man at all hazards.”
With nearly 30 men in tow, Grattan met with the Brule Lakota chief, Conquering Bear, and demanded the surrender of the guilty parties. By most accounts, Conquering Bear was open and reasonable during the negotiations, and it was Grattan’s behavior that escalated tensions. At some point, Conquering Bear stood up, and nervous U.S. soldiers—thinking the chief was making a move—opened fire, killing Bear and his brother. Warfare quickly broke out on both sides, and Grattan’s entire party perished.

When news of the event reached the U.S. War Department, officials sought swift revenge on the Sioux. A little more than a year after the Grattan Massacre, on September 3, 1855, General William S. Harney and roughly 600 soldiers caught up with the Lakota tribe. Harney ordered his men to open fire, and nearly 100 Lakota men, women, and children were shot dead in what became known as the Battle of Ash Hollow. (Apparently, 30 Army men being killed equals a massacre, while 100 Sioux being killed equals a battle. Ain’t history grand?)

I have no title.

I haven't been able to write for a little while. At first I was too burned out, then too tired, and now just too... I don't know. Where are the words? I've been seeing in pictures. Some of them I will try to create and post here, to show what I can't say, but some... well I can't get to them all, and some just aren't for showing. Just like some jokes aren't worth telling, but they unfold anyway, amazing me with the outrageous nature of life's sense of humor.

I think there was a time when I would have journaled about how I feel right now in the wake of a tragedy so profound I can't talk about it. And there was certainly a time when I would have written a poem, maybe even a good one, to crystalize that picture of it in my mind. But these days my hands hurt when I hold a pen for too long, and sometime over the past few years I have started to act as if there are some pictures that shouldn't go down on paper. Some ideas that are just too painful to extract, with the perfect placement of words into verse, from myself and lay out.

I was looking at a photo of my best friends in the world, and myself, when we were young. 14 going on 15. At first I was sad to see all our fresh, red-from-laughter faces, so 'full of youth' and what not. Then angry to realize how much bullshit we've all been through since then. All of us. No matter how much we love each other, through the years, we've all been witness to or involved in truly terrible ordeals of many sorts, from the destruction of families to violation to heartbreak to... well... life. And looking at that picture broke my heart as I remembered how innocent we all were and how all that really honestly mattered to us was each other. Each other, and the vast lives we had ahead of us. But those lives have been... well... real. Too real.

And then, as I looked at it and wondered if I should cry, I realized that even then, eleven years ago when we were just kids, when that photo was taken, some of us had already been through hell. Lots of it. Life at the hands of adults.

I guess I should have been cheered by the fact that even though we'd already been dragged through pain and hearbreak and tragedy, we were all still smiling and we were all ok then. But all I could think of were the circles beneath my eyes these days, the weariness of our journeys back and forth to see each other set against the resilience of youth. Will we be ok again? Will our smiles spring back like they once did? Can our moods improve even as life continues to throw tears into our paths? Can we get back to the same paths we started out on? Should we?

This is very personal, and I'm sorry to anyone who doesn't understand it, but the only thing that could make me laugh today as I wonder what the future holds is this one joke that I think should not have been told. And yet, life cracks itself up: a friend from Illinois who I know through my old friend Bryan had a baby last night. And you know what she named him? Seth.