I start the real work today. Not that settling in hasn’t been work. Clarification: I start the nannying today. I am still exhausted. I am feeling upbeat though about the possibilities of today. Kids are always refreshing to me. They have a perspective on the world that I can relate to. Caring for three all day today will surely tire me out, but I will write when I am done.
Write soon,
Blane
1.4.2019, afternoon
Today, I feel promise. Not because everything went like I wanted it to. More because I have seen the problem. I think, after only this week or so of being here, and one day of work, I have been downtrodden and stamped out and already risen back up with awareness of the problems and therefore hope to rise above them. I have the faith that I will find the people that are like me here, somewhere, wherever they are winning. Today, I feel that I have won myself. Here is why.
My first interaction was with Lila. Her name is pronounced like a mix between Lyla and Lilly. Of course I kept pronouncing it LIE-la. She did NOT like this. This was the first of a few problems.
Lila is a tiny thing with a head of red hair that is bigger than her. It is tangled and curly and BEAUTIFUL. Although she already hates it.
Then there was art time. I thought this was always a favorite with kiddos. Lilla informed me that she hates art. HATES? Yes, hates. She claims that she hates art because it can never be perfect. This is where the beauty lies, I tried to reason to this very sophisticated little woman. It was as fruitless as her trying to tame her hair. She threw the crayons because of her frustration with perfection.
After her outburst, I felt sympathy for her, so I did something I NEVER practice at work especially on the first day. I flipped on the cartoons.
I was then informed that she didn’t like cartoons. She preferred “law or doctor shows.”
What do I do?!
It’s not like I was just interacting with Lilla alone. No, she has two, yes two brothers. They were no easier.
First there was Ditto. Yes, that is his name. The thing is that he is indeed the second child. So, his name is kind of a pun. I felt bad for him immediately.
Ditto is a spitfire like his sister.
The last, eldest child is name Treston. He is completely different than his siblings. Quiet, but not shy. He is laser focused on the actions and projects that he assigns himself throughout the day. I think these might be a product of him trying to cope with the intense energy he feels from the other two. I tried not to psychoanalyze him as much as possible though because I’m SURE he gets this from his mom who has already described him to me as odd.
I find him sweet, kind, sensitive, and honestly, he has a well of sadness that I can see when I look into his eyes. It crushed me when I first saw it. He has so much potential.
So those are the three: L.D.T. I call them. Limited. And they are a challenge.
I am ready.
At first, I got caught in a swarm of thoughts after working with the kids all day. It’s because I realized that they, for the most part, already struggle with not being genuine because guess what? In this place you can’t be! Unless of course you want to be perceived as naïve and therefore get taken advantage of! Being fake or whatever you want to call this guard, this skin, this wall that hides genuine feelings, is used as a survival technique. I am more naïve than Lilla, and it’s scary.
Meanwhile, Diane is at work all day working with people with “mental disturbances” as she refers to them. No wonder she has so many clients. How could anyone hide their true selves daily and be “normal”. And another thing! Normalcy, what is that even?
So at first, honestly, I was freaked out by today.
Then, I realized that I am different.
I love these kids already, but I am different than them.
I will help them, but for now I find solace in this realization:
Thank god, I am different than this! I have a chance! I can break through, maybe even change some things! I know there must be some people out here like me. Tomorrow, I go out to find them. Of course, I have to work first. I’m sure I will have more to say about the kids, but then
I find my tribe.
Until next time,
Blane
This is number 5 in the Blane Series! Check out #1-4 for understanding, and leave your thoughts below! Thanks, klc, archereation.
⚛ Check out foreverperformingarts.com for elaboration and collaboration of the above themes. Super impactful new page is up now ⚛
I write today, the first day of a new year, with the potential of hope in my heart like a flower bud, stamped out by the shoe. What I have witnessed over the last twenty four hours has been too much for me to understand and too much for me to process, so my goal here is to do just that with something that has worked for me in the most stressful times of my life: put my scattered, frantic thoughts to paper.
It started with the arrival of my brother yesterday. He has been planning on joining me since last month. He was going to be here today, but got a last minute early flight. He arrived, and typical of Brody, was applying for jobs and hitting the streets looking for work within an hour of being here. He amazes me, in a beautiful way. They amaze me, with disgust.
He decided to apply at an auto parts store. He worked as a mechanic before, so we thought for sure he would get hired here and could work while he looked for a higher paying position. He printed his resume with my help, and we walked into the nearest auto parts store to where he would be staying.
First of all, the store manager was shocked, and almost appalled, that we went straight into the store to apply without first “applying online”. Since when can you not shake someone’s hand, meet them, and get a job? Wouldn’t it make more sense than to turn everyone into a number and pass them through a series of electronic tests before accepting them?
This didn’t sway Brody. OK, let’s go to the library then, he said calmly. We went, he filled out the online application, a very strange questionnaire that seemed to be using some type of software to analyze his personality, and then we waited.
I’m just going to call them, he finally exclaimed, slightly frustrated. Just to let them know that my application is in, and that I’m still interested.
So he did.
And the man said he didn’t pass through the initial filter. There was no way that the manager could hire Brody according to company policy.
Well…well, what do you mean the first filter? What is the filter?
The manager seemed to like Brody, so probably breeching another policy, he told him that the HR manager has to research people online before she can go onto the interviewing process. She did this, and Brody came back with a negative rating.
Sorry bud.
So now, in this world, there is a technological blacklisting?
Doesn’t everyone deserve a chance at a fresh start? Redemption even?
Not according to company policy apparently.
Then the night came. The night that is supposed to be a celebration. And we decided, whole heartedly but with sickness on our tongues from the day, to make the most of it. We saw a poster earlier at a coffee shop for a gathering at a local café for people new to the area who didn’t know anyone to spend time with on New Year’s Eve.
Perfect! Brody shouted in the quiet shop. Everyone stared with sharp eyes.
So we went. We met some amazing people. Students, entrepreneurs, and the greatest part for me is that the party was not about getting all messed up. The most anyone had was a glass of champagne at midnight. And that is when it started. Brody and I began to sing. It just came over us. The day had been so disappointing, but this moment and the night had seemed to redeem it. This year was going to be great after all. And the people joined in. Everyone laughed and sang at the top of their lungs. People embraced. People shouted, laughed, and cried, and alcohol was not the cause.
And then the police showed up
And they bashed a girl’s head with their baton and then claimed it was because we were so out of hand.
A group of people singing.
Celebrating.
Was it because we weren’t drunk? Was it because we were unique?
I don’t understand.
Forced order is not peace.
With great sadness,
Blane
This post is the 3rd of the “Blane Series”. For an explanation of the story, please see Blane Series 1. Share your thoughts below!
Still, no response, the girl was looking out the window, as if thoughts were loud, and she simply couldn’t hear the woman’s voice over the sheer sound of them.
“Blane!”
Snap. Now, her head was in the passage that was created between the woman’s mouth and her own ears, clicked into place as if part of a Rubik’s cube.
“I don’t take kindly to yelling, I simply don’t like to be forced to do it.” Curtly, as if she was still yelling, ironically, even though her voice was quiet.
“I’m sorry, ma’am”
“You can put your things in here,” The woman gestured to the closet, small but sufficient, and a large bureau painted white. How pretty must it have been before it was whited out, Blane thought fleetingly.
“You know how much I appreciate this job, I hope. I want to experience America, and this is my chance to do it. Plus, your children seem so sweet. It will be a joy to work with them,” Blane said, with a wide, genuine smile. The words were almost cliché to the woman. She had heard them countless times from previous nannies that didn’t work out for one reason or another.
“You’re welcome, Blane. I hope this works out.” She this time, was genuine herself, as she truly did, and not just because she wanted it, but because she wanted consistency for the kiddos.Walking out of the room, the woman turned and smiled with closed lips. Her muscles in her face were turning the corners of her mouth down even as her brain and heart tried to get her face to convey her meaning.
This is it. Blane thought. This is my new life. She looked around. There was a patio door made of squares of glass separated by white paneling. Outside, there was a yard, mostly kept except for patches. There was a pergola with triangular-leaved vines twining up it. Beautiful. She could hear an announcer of some type in the distance, even through the walls of the downstairs bedroom. Blane sat on the bed and smoothed her white linen pants. She seemed to blend into the room, her white pants, her fair skin, her blonde hair, almost white itself. She seemed, from a fly on the wall perspective, she was on the brink of something, teetering on the edge, but unsure of what next step to make. She glanced around, unsure herself of what to do. She went to her suitcase and pulled out a notebook. There, she wrote:
Day 1, America.
12.30.18
I feel as if everyone I have encountered is on edge today. Maybe it is the date, maybe it is the weather. I just can’t imagine that this is how people are all the time. They are either on edge or they are cut off from everyone, each in their own invisible sphere walking around, being sure not to bump spheres with someone else, scared. Then there was the aggressive ones. They weren’t aggressive in their actions though, more in their way. They would get all close to me with no patience to get by me, but not really realize or maybe not care that I was affected by them. How strange the feelings that came over me. They are foreign to me as I am foreign to this place.
I tried to smile, make friends with people around me on the plane, but no, everyone is as I stated. Everyone except for the woman who sat next to me. She had dark eyes, but when she smiled they gleamed with friendliness. She was friendly yes, but when there was any silence between us the air became taught and murky, an uncomfortable tension, so she continued to talk nonsensical small talk to fill it. That was until I said what I would be doing in America. She was short with me then. I didn’t understand it.
I think it must be the date. The holidays are strange. In between Christmas and New Year’s, everyone is exhausted and anxious. This must be it.
On a lighter note, I made it! I’m here. I have a comfy bed! I have a job! The kids really do seem sweet, and I will be an influence on their life. What a joy, what a responsibility!
Here goes, I am ready. I will write more tomorrow. I want to go into town before the night is through.
Blane
12.31.18
Day two, morning, America
Last night, my footsteps went to the beat of the music playing over, well I guess it must have been speakers embedded in the actual sidewalk. How strange. It’s like wherever I go, there is music playing. I love music. It is one of the true joys in my life, but music that I don’t choose, wherever I go?! It is so distracting! Maybe my sense of hearing is stronger than I thought? Or maybe, maybe it really is loud and obnoxious.
I don’t understand peoples’ need here for constant input, input, input. Plus, I like to choose what is fed to my brain. Good music is nourishing, but this - it was as if the people surrounding me didn’t even notice what they were hearing. I tried to clear my mind as much as possible here and enjoy seeing the sites.
I hoped for cobblestone, for people being friendly- what I got was pavement, strip malls, and a sense of dense… isolation. I returned worn out and immediately fell into a somehow simultaneously deep and restless sleep. I’ll write more again this evening. I won’t start work until the new year. See you soon, journal.
Blane
This post is the 2nd of the “Blane Series”. For an explanation of the story, please see Blane Series 1. Share your thoughts below!
☾⚛Living Archereations⚛☽ Volume 1 ⚘ Abstract Aspen Can Planters
How do you turn a bunch of grimy, tin cans into realistic, artistic, aspen-tree planters in an indoor garden?
Well, first off you eat a lot of soup and beans, but more vitally,
You create
Creating is a process, as anyone who has ever created anything as simple as crafts to as complex as a symphony knows.
What I want to know is this: what makes this process unique? Can anyone do it?
All you people out there who believe they have no talent and are about as creative as a pair of plain white socks, this one’s for YOU!
To begin to figure out what it takes to create anything, I would take a micro-example and come up with a craft to make. While I was crafting, I would think about how I was feeling and thinking and apply that to creation in general. Here is what I discovered:
1. Every creation starts with an initial spark of something-an idea to create. There is always an excitement or passion that comes with the spark of the initial idea. Next, a person begins to share their idea while they gather what they need in order to complete it. What I would discover is what the bridge was from idea to creation.
The Construction of the Rainbow Bridge:
In my case, I knew I was going to craft something and I knew I wanted to explore the creative process while I was crafting: this was the idea. So, I began to watch craft videos. I wanted to use what I had on hand (using the resources you have will be discussed later), so I started to watch videos of crafting with cans on YouTube. This is an example of getting in the right condition to create. It is similar to the brainstorming I do before I start to write most things.
2. The “precreation” is important. Not only does it include brainstorming, but sometimes setting the mood with a certain kind of music or creating a space around me that is conducive to creativity. In this case, I used the videos to help me to get further inspired. I ended up instead of copying the craft in one of the videos, letting them create friction until the spark within me of my own idea lit: to make aspen tree planters out of tin cans.
Here is what I started with:
So then, I began to share my idea with the people in my life. I was kind of forced into this one because they were around while I was prepping and gathering the cans. This is where I ran into what a lot of artists run into:
3. Resistance or skepticism, even if it is only perceived skepticism, from loved ones and others. In my case, this truly was only perceived skepticism as my loved one who was around at the time was fully supportive and excited for me about my idea. My first hurdle therefore, as it always is, was my own self doubt. When people are really resistant or skeptic, this is unspecific to any kind of art, and will never go away completely even once the artist has proven themselves. To some fans of art, once the artist has, they can do no wrong; they are the infallible creative. However, someone out there will always question their subject matter, methods, or even technique. I’m sure even DaVinci, and we know Picasso, had skeptics. I wonder though if they had to battle their self doubt as I do. Did they have to tame the voices in their own head telling them that other people were thinking negatively about their ideas? My guess is no for these two, but the answer is yes for a lot of creative people that also tend to doubt themselves.
I had my cans, I had my idea, and I began. First, I had to prep the cans by washing them and peeling off their sticker labels. This is where I ran into something that I found familiar in the creative process:
4. Tedium (or the part that you have to drudge through that is extremely tedious) in the parts of the process that are not fun. In my experience, the only way to get through the not fun parts is persistence. I cleaned the inside of each can, peeled off the labels, and scrubbed the outside. Once they were dry, I was ready to begin transforming them.
The first step was to paint each can white.
Again, I was faced head on with tedium. This tedium can easily create frustration. Most of the time, persistence isn’t enough to get through a really tedious process. This time, the tedium also took technique rather than just persistence. I started to lose focus during this tedious part, which could have easily led to me either rushing or having the cans come out looking bad, or not following through on my idea all together. This is the roadblock that can turn a dreamer that could be an artist into a dreamer that is just a dreamer. That is when I began to think about the extreme difficulty in coming up with an original idea and actually carrying it out by following through on it. How do people do this on bigger projects?
I realized that my favorite part of creation is the flow or
to experience the moment where we are completely enveloped in the experience of whatever we are doing, simultaneously at one with and finally separate from the world around us.
It’s just, well, it’s hard to flow when you are painting tin cans white with a tiny paintbrush. Again, I had to adapt to the tools I had at the moment and make the most of them. The process is developed as it is happening in my art. I knew this from my writing, but I wondered if this was the same with more experienced creators or if they always have a plan or outline that they stick to.
My process for painting the cans went like this: at first I just tried to cover as much surface area with white paint as I could. I wanted to get through the white background so I could move onto the black markings that would be fun to create. As I went, I learned that each stroke of white had to overlap another, and once I created one section of white strokes and went on to the next, I would then have to meld the two together with a chunk of paint in the middle of the two sections. If I followed this, I would get the result I wanted. As I began to perfect the technique, I transcended into flowing.
This was it!
A breakthrough: one could break through tedium if they found a technique and perfected it through a consistent process until they were flowing. I smiled. Patience, technique, consistency, and stamina. This was no sprint, and it took more than persistence.
5. It took time. A creator must consistently give themselves enough time to make such breakthroughs, develop technique, and work on large chunks of their craft at a time. A person develops as an artist with each project, but they need to give themselves the time and space to do so. Of course, I realize this is a small example, but everything I was becoming aware of will apply to everything I create from here on out.
It wasn’t long before my first cans were complete; they were a rough draft:
This is when I began to question myself.
6.Just like the people who question an artist, an artist can have doubts themselves. When you have the initial unique idea, you are always excited and have no doubts in it, but when you start to carry it out, inevitable thoughts and doubts come into play. Not only that, but I wasn’t happy with the product. I began to think about how an artist must be able to admit that they are not happy with their work and change what they are doing either while they are doing it, or go back and improve. They have to be experts at taking feedback from both themselves and others.
I began to do some research. I looked at pictures of aspen bark close up and realized my black markings just were not realistic. Then, I wanted to make them more textured, so I looked up how I could do this. What did I find? Elmer’s glue would do the trick.
So my draft one was complete, and it was time to use what I had learned so far while I improved and created the rest of the cans.
I thought that I would use some type of glue, preferably Elmer’s, to make the black scars on the aspen trees look realistic. However, I wanted to stick with the notion that I was trying to use what I had on hand. I couldn’t find any glue, so I was forced to use the black paint marker and black paint marker alone. After looking at a few different aspen pictures and deciding which markings I found most interesting, this is what happened:
Now personally, I like the black and white look with no green leaves. I spent more time using the patience, consistency, stamina technique on the black marks, and I think it came out looking more like an aspen tree. I was having some success. To me, this looks like an artistic aspen made from a can. I liked it. I thought maybe on the following ones I could go with the same techniques but almost make the black markings patterns. This is what I would do next. Then, it was soil and plants, and my little planters would be complete.
I found certain sections of the aspen tree pictures I had been looking at and copied them but in a kind of calligraphy style using my black paint pen. These cans were turning out to be abstract like most of my art was. I liked it. After I had copied a section, I would repeat it mirrored on the next section of the can. I repeated this mirror-work around the can until I met my black markings that I started off with. Here is a close up of the final cans:
I also, to make sure my work with the white paint was not in vain, did a second coat on the final cans with this base color so they were a solid white. If you are making your own, make sure you leave at least two hours in between paint coats and the black markings. If you don’t wait long enough, the base coat paint will come off of the can with the black paint. Again, this has EVERYTHING to do with following through. If I didn’t have the patience to do a second coat and take the time in between each coat and the final black markings, the cans wouldn’t have come out and all my efforts would have been wasted over one piece of pervasive laziness.
My first living archereation was complete, and, even though I’m not an expert crafter, I had learned some valuable lessons about the creative process that I could apply to my creative life from now on. Following through is ALWAYS my biggest struggle, and I found some tools to battle this monster that freezes my ideas in time where they remain ideas. If I could use the formula to make tedious processes flowing processes, I believe in the future I could follow through on more of my creative ideas. Hopefully this will help you too to break through the ice of frozen ideas and let them turn from ember to spark to glowing fire. Create on.
Want to make some little planters of your own? In the tools and resources section (linked above this blog), I will go through the steps to add plants to your planters and let you know exactly what all I used throughout the process. Check it out!
I will be posting new “living archereations” now and then on Archereation. They will be about something I or another creator make, along with the creative process and insights into what I learned during the creation. The ultimate living archereation is what this blog is ultimately about, the film project my partner and I are working on and towards.
1. Exploring how what each of us creates affects and contributes to what creates us
2. The act of creating, becoming, or fully understanding and/or feeling an archetype
Creation: taking where there was once nothing and making a something; morphing the mundane into the unique. What is it that makes humans want to create? When we create, what changes about us? This blog will explore what it takes to create. It also will delve into less common questions: what happens to a person when they create? How does what we create in turn create us? The main creative force in question will be a film project that my partner has been working on for a lifetime. These questions will help us share the project with the world.
Building a home, composing a song, cooking a meal, writing a poem, creating a film- each of these acts takes first a spark of inspiration and motivation, then the drive to work through the challenges of the creation, and finally, most importantly, and hardest of all: the ability to follow through with the idea so the creator is not just a dreamer but a doer.
We all have a favorite musician. As we get older, we may not have a specific one, but we connect with music in a way indescribable and specific to the sense of hearing, and we can at least pinpoint a time in our life when the music was the moment, or to some, like me, it was everything. To the fortunate few, that is still the case. There are people who make careers out of it. Lives, passions, moments that most of us can only dream of. What must it feel like to not only create something, but to have even one other person connect with it on the level that people connect with songs? Or, take it to the next level, to perform on a stage, on the stage of an ampitheatre like Red Rocks and have the entire crowd swaying back and forth to a song you created, or jamming out to the beat you wrote. What must it feel like? What happens to our souls when they speak and people hear it? Feel it?
I have experienced this in the audience. I have looked behind me while standing in the fortieth row of Red Rocks, lyrics flowing out of my lips automatically because my car stereo had somehow manifested itself in front of me, my friends surrounding me, thousands of them, people I never knew but now knew better than my own siblings, while the rain was pouring down, the lights were creating foggy beams into the night sky. The Denver skyline peaking over the stage, the stars-the only moment in my life where the stars paled in comparison to the spectacle below them. Every single person feeling the energy, all moving the same way as if we were part of some being, the rocks engulfing us, I have looked behind me and seen the crowd, the being I was part of, and realizing in that moment that that would be the moment that I would remember forever, even though I didn’t understand the full power and meaning behind it until now, as I try to explain it in simple black and white. That night, my youth was embodied. It’s indescribable, and I was just an audience member. How did the people on stage feel? I would give anything to know, because if I knew I might understand why we are even on this rock in the first place.
This film will help to describe this feeling and maybe even this reason why we are here because it is intertwined with music written by the screen-write. Without the music, the story would not be able to be told because of the life and storytelling properties of music. In turn, this film will become a piece that people will connect with on a level even beyond that which they connect with music. It will change their lives. With each person that watches it, the world will change for the better. This feeling that music makes us feel and this film will help us to be a changing force for a better world.
I can understand this feeling on a small scale because I used to choreograph dances. I say use to because it has been, and I hurt to type it to make it a reality, almost ten years since I have choreographed a dance that has gone into production. And, fellow dancers, yes, it hurts, that isn’t the worst part. The worst part is that said production was in…wait for it…I’m embarrassed to say it, yes,…h-h-…high school.
So am I still a creator? If my last true creation that connected with people was in a high school auditorium, can I still claim the title?
This is my journey. This is my white-knuckled struggle.
Am I worthy? Am I still able? Am I skilled? Will they judge?
I must create. I also must help my best friend follow through on the project of a lifetime and share it with the world.
And so, here I sit, with keys under the pads of my fingers, I write. I write, and I wonder, and yes, I dream a little. Can I create again? As I create, can I help to share a story of great proportions, weight, and power?
This blog will document my journey back to creator. First and most importantly, I will write, because after all before even I was a choreographer, I was a writer. I will create poetry and whatever else develops over time. Then, I will create a milleau of things from crafts to songs, to yes, maybe if I can bring myself through the forest, to choreographing a dance. Our final goal is to create the most epic and world changing film in our, or any, generation.
Of course, sometimes I will write about other things going on in my life, but for the most part, I want to explore creativity and all of the themes that come with it.
I will also interview other creators. I will explore the creative space in a way that I have never imagined because I know it will bring me to places and discoveries and experiences I haven’t thought of.
Join me.
Learn from my journey.
Learn from this film.
Let’s begin to understand
Archereation
For ellaboration and collaboration: ⚛foreverperformingarts.com ✮forevercustoms.com
