I have a yet-to-be-explained obsession with postcards

I'm just as interested in places as I am people, I suppose.

Observance

    Acting and writing are two of the things that I have really ended up dedicating my life to; in a way, unintentionally. They are two crafts and identities, really that are inexplicably and permanently intertwined. Both are incarnations of art. Art has, in it's many different bodes, always dominated my life.  It is why I am so (sometimes terribly and inconveniently) empathetic, so curious, so passionate and uncontrollably expressive (or perhaps vice versa?).
    What I believe it all leads back to, however, is this general concept of the human condition. Artists in any form are obsessed with life. Oftentimes, specifically, with people. Maybe it's with their motivation, with their actions or the consequences of said actions on society, or their relationships to one another.
    As it follows, either as a result of my interest in these art forms or leading to my pursuit of them, I am also fascinated with people. I feel like there are a zillion sneaky, secret windows into who a person really is, if you care enough to look. 


Here are a few I have found, obvious or no:

• Driving: you see someone's temper, obviously. How observant they are, and what they pay attention to. From their posture and distance from the wheel you can often tell how things like how nervous they might be (my seat sits at a 90 degree angle and I can practically kiss my steering wheel)
• The way they talk to their mother/elders: usually is a good indicator of how well they deal with embarrassment and their ego, as well as the general respect they show for others. 
• The way they talk to employees: what they do in a position of power, how seriously they take themselves, how considerate they are; it makes me happy when, at the end of a meal, whoever I'm with also neatly stacks their dishes to make it easier for the busser. 
• The photos they take and the way they take them: simply a literal view into the way they see the world around them and what they notice.
• The books they read/their record collections and their placement: show not only what they like, but how proud they are of them. I'll put my Bukowski next to my Cosmo and Cash next to my Duff on the coffee table because (personally) I just don't care enough about how others might judge what I like to put them away when people come over.  

What are some small or unique ways to get to know people?

4 AM; The Mind Reels

    As my lovely dog keeps me up with her snoring, I venture online to catch up on my favorite blogs since I failed to bring my books in from the car. I've noticed that I much prefer blogs with a small audience, that I simply happen across. I find that major bloggers write less about their life and work more on presenting this image of themselves, or this way they wish to be seen and, let's face it, that is my number one pet peeve. Somehow I found this blog Dysalexia and I highly recommend it. It's so lovely to find people who you feel as if you must have been friends with in an alternate life, or must know on some Twilight-Zone, other plane of existence, and this girl is one of those people. She's the one who actually made me finally switch to Blogger. Anyway.
    I'm terribly predictable lately. I keep busy until late and try to sleep but, like clockwork, at 3 AM my mind begins to fill with all of these ideas. Usually I stumble for whatever utensil is nearest to scribble it down on--a receipt, a dust-jacket, myself--and go to bed. But I'm positively charged with my thoughts, and that no longer seems to be enough to get them out.
    I've missed being in a community of writers terribly, and I crave people to discuss literature and poetry with. Anyone who I have met who claims to, "love poetry!" has read perhaps one or two writers and hardly that. I realize I sound stuck up, but it all ties in with my earlier statement. The problem is this; it seem that the things I love have become some sort of status statement and I have no interest in whatever connotation they seem to carry. It has become fashionable to be 'artsy', whatever that even means... I by no means consider myself 'artsy' or 'not artsy' or whatever other label you care to subscribe to or want to stick on me. I like what I like, and that has always been enough. I have no interest in people who are more interested in the image something perpetuates than the thing itself. 
    I absolutely adore people who know what they're talking about. Let me explain: I have a penchant for passionate people. It really, in the end, doesn't matter WHAT they are passionate about (given or course that it is not nazism or homophobia or something ridiculously horrid like that) and honestly I love people who are knowledgable about things I know little about. What attracts me is the fact that not only can I learn about this person's passion, but it shows me that this person has something that they are willing to throw themselves into completely. That takes courage and it takes love. I want those sort of people in my life; those courageous, loving, knowledge hungry people of the world who will challenge me to grow and and maybe even make me reconsider my beliefs. I believe that constant re-evaluation of yourself and your values is not only the best way to grow, but the best way to develop confidence and integrity in those beliefs. 

My Security Blanket Was Made of Paper

    When I was four and living in Austin, I went to the Smithsonian with my Mother while we were visiting family in Baltimore. I was allowed to pick one thing from the giftshop. I decided on a 2”x2” book that was at least an inch thick. It was a some coffee table book simply called, “Impressionism” with what were considered the definitive paintings from the movement. For some reason, this became one of those things I just wouldn’t let go of. Wherever I went, I carried three things; a baby blanket, a stuffed bear called Theodore Roosevelt and this book. Slowly as I got older I left the bear on my bed at home, then the blanket, but the book was the last to be left at home. Still, I slept with all three items. 

     For years, I followed the same pattern when I was upset or couldn’t sleep. I’d snuggle with my blankets and animals and go through this little book over and over until I felt okay. This particular element of my childhood is one that has lasted. In desperate times when nothing seems to comfort me enough, break ups and deaths and trauma, I bring out that silly little book and feel a little bit better. The binding has long since weakened and it’s swollen from times when I spilled things on it and from the near-tragedy of ‘98 when the family dog got ahold of it; but even in college, it’s still one of the most treasured things that I own. It seems that no matter how much I try to leave behind former versions of myself, there are some things that will always stay the same. 

Google Blogger

I've definitely converted from Tumblr to Blogger for my longer text posts; it's nice to have the Google Reader built in. Expect posts of substance soon.