Without A Grocery List...

As part of my day job's ongoing quest to teach its new managers to be better managers <some Borg reference here> we've created a book club whereby a group of us read an agreed upon book and chat about it over lunch.  Somehow I've become both the captain and steersman of this effort through some circumstances that still baffle me.  That I'm leading a group of fellow managers when I'm the original anti-authority figure amuses me.

Anyways, the book we're currently reading is Orbiting the Giant Hairball, about creativity in a corporate environment.  And as I read this book it strikes me that I really lucked out.  Through sheer stubbornness and bloody-minded obstinacy I've managed to hold onto my artistic sense and allowed it to flourish.  According to the book, and in line with my own observations, most people aren't so lucky.  So the question arises how do we encourage creativity while still maintaining some form of standards...

The book talks about play and spontaneity as being necessary to fuel the creative process, but that from the outside such activities appear to be a waste of time and are thus frowned upon.  And so creativity dies.  I'm not quite sure how to foster play and spontaneity in others since by definition both things begin to wither the moment you attempt to codify them.  And most people's lives are set up for the maximum convenience and the minimum zaniness.

On a note of personal craziness I like to go grocery shopping without a set list.  Yes, this practice sometimes results in my forgetting things like toothpaste, but also allows me to pick things that I wouldn't normally have seen if sticking to a boring list.

Tonight it was raviolis, and now I've discovered a need for a slotted spoon (to fish the pasta out without having to use my colander) and yet another case to not follow the written instructions.  The bag said boil for 8 minutes... don't overcook.  At eight minutes the raviolis were hard little pillows, not soft pasta stuffed with squash.  Liar I called the instructions and boiled for another 5 minutes to achieve edibility, because blindly following instructions is stupid.

The whole argument of spontaneity vs formula loops nicely back around into my ongoing discussions with my sister, the trained artist.  This past week she sent me flashcards with descriptors on how to talk about my art.  I'm sure she meant well, but I looked at them and felt my brain start to atrophy.  So I returned them to their envelope and painted a sunset instead.

visit Samantha Byrnes' gallery online...

Blue Sky Orange

Sitting out on my balcony in the dark, listening to the far off traffic hum. The scent of wet grass and water from thesprinklers  below. It's gone past midnight, and all the plants are shades of gray. Its finally still enough to think deep thoughts. To ponder. To turn thoughts over and over like a river rolling a stone smooth. The clouds at sunset tonight were spectacular. Orange foam against a robins egg sky. I read the phrase "blue sky orange in a book recently. It definitely fit tonight.

Is it the intention or the intended result that's important when looking at someone's reasons for doing things?  I do know its possible for someone to simultaneously be a good person and a bad person. Einstein was a genius but a horrible family man. 

I saw the sunset tonight and the tiny bunnies on my morning trek to the train. And it makes me wonder what other little details I'm missing out on. Got my mid-year review today. Gold stars all around, but in the end are the stars worth the exchange of 60+ hour weeks. Frankly I don't know.

visit Samantha Byrnes' gallery online...

A Different Perspective

Blue Birds by Elena Sidorov

Spent a couple hours at the 2nd Annual Cheesman Park Arts Festival and walked away with a view of a show from a prospective buyer's side of things. Two awesome painters but I only bought from one. The first had amazing landscapes that where mostly sky. But they were huge and on board and over a thousand dollars. I spent a couple of minutes looking through his bin work hoping for a smaller version of the pieces I was appreciating and then asked him. Turns out he doesn't do the landscapes small. No sale.

The other painter was from east of Russia and worked with silk. Amazing flowers. Super vivid originals 2' x 4'. I asked her the same question, and not only did she have prints but she knew exactly where they were. Bought six. 

Note to self. Smaller matted pieces of the big show pieces.

visit Samantha Byrnes' gallery online...

Cubeville & Ego

I'm always amused that my inspiration to write happens after most people are asleep. After 11p, when the world slows down and the incessant electronic buzz fades to a faint hum. 

Watched an interesting TED talk recently on how people relate to each other and define themselves. The talk was actually a call to action by Tillett Wright, artist and activist, on the equal rights for LGBT campaigns. But it got me thinking. What if one of the root reasons people's relationships change / end is because they start using different boxes to both describe themselves and relate to others.

In defining self lately I've found most self motivators fall into two buckets - external ego and internal ego. External ego I see as the definition of self through the eyes of others, through the seeking of praise from an outside voice. Internal ego by contrast is the defining of self by sounding of the soul. External ego is doing a task suggested by someone else and then allowing the feedback to continue to define further actions. It's living vicariously through others. It's how people end up in a job they hate at 40. Internal ego is harder because you still get that external feedback but you have to weigh the response against what your soul values and decide to keep or discard the comments over and over and over. It's exhausting but the result is a life worth living. 

visit Samantha Byrnes' gallery online...

Summer Rain At Dusk

That feeling when sad scrabbles at the edges of your soul, trying to find a way in. An afternoon shift at a co-op gallery where no one buys anything.  A summer rainstorm at dusk and the click of balls on the pool table next door while you wait out the clock.  The blurred shape of trees through mist.

Who sees you if you don't see yourself?

Some days you walk the edge of the disaster curve.  Near misses and close calls.  Cars backing in parking lots without looking.  Roads crisscrossed with running water over a foot deep.   That feeling when the only person to really see you all day has the tang of the unbalanced.

And after the rush of adrenaline, the one that has your foot shaking on the gas pedal long after your bout with the road-turned-river, wears off, the brain immediately jumps to what-if.  What if I forgot to lock up before heading out?  What if I've somehow damaged my car by driving through the water?  What if, what if, what if...

Go away little what if... voices and let me enjoy the storm clouds painted coral and peach.

And just to be on the safe side, I'm staying in tonight and reading a book.  I think I've pushed my luck about as far as it'll go today.

visit Samantha Byrnes' gallery online...

Must Be Pollinated By Bats...

Passion Flower

Lol. The reason my car is always dirty.  Yes, I haul plants (and picture frames) around in the back of my BMW.  Its a car, albeit a nice one, but made for the transporting of <waves hands> all the things I love in my life.

<<< The tag said "must be pollinated by bats..." Guess I'll find out if there are bats by my apartment.   
 
Sometimes when I happen to be in a funk the oddest thinks knock me back to normal. This week it was reading Peter Welch's latest essay 24 Hours of Privilege. I had to laugh and then forward to some friends because its basically my life, our lives, with a few amendments. I mean the specific details are different but the general vibe is the same and someone with that kind of life really shouldn't be focusing on all the "bad" things in life. So what if I have a grocery budget and had to buy peanut butter for sandwiches this week because I also had to by cat food; I have a great apartment in a good area of town with a short walk to the light rail, the tickets for which my job subsidizes, complete with trees, flowers, and little birds that go tweet. So what if my boss is occasionally (or more than occasionally) a dick. All bosses are dicks including a high likelihood of me being one to my minions. So what if whiny people break their computers and saturate the network watching stupid soccer play offs. I still have an inside job that I'm fairly good at with no heavy lifting. And so what if I've recently spend some time clearing out the dead weight from my relationships.

Actually the last one bugs me quite a bit when I let myself dwell on it, and saying "it could be worse... you could be having to pretend interest in gym routines and diets, office politics and I'll-be-happy-when statements, video game descriptions and Comicon plans...  you could be dealing with bloody roast in the kitchen sink and being constantly frozen out by a thermostat set at 61 degrees..." The problem with "it could be worse..." is that eventually you have to work with what you have instead of continually comparing it to what you used to have.

<shrugs>. It's a process that's occasionally impeded by other people's desire to play Happy Families, also known as the company picnic, which I totally skipped.

Usually if I'm being particularly dense about something the universe reaches out to reinforce the lesson to basically stop feeling sorry for myself by sending some acquaintance my way who's being particularly stubborn in her need to wallow in self pity.  Last time it was one of my many occasional friends, one who tends towards depression but refuses to actually make positive changes, who quit her most recent job because "it just wasn't working..." 

So this afternoon enter a random text message from an acquaintance of mine, a gal who I haven't spoken to in months and haven't actually seen in longer.  "I'm adrift" the message said and so it began.  Evidently she's been demoted at her job and feeling particularly sorry for herself.  The irony is she's old enough to be my mom.  Thanks for the mirror, universe.  Mental note > don't be this person or the other person or any of my erstwhile "friends".

visit Samantha Byrnes' gallery online...