The Sensitivity of Artists

My theory on why creative people are more sensitive to what people think of them, and the things they create, has always been that their works come from such a personal place that any criticism on those works becomes a scathing comment on the origin of those creations - namely, their hearts. While I still consider this a valid idea, a few days ago, I realized that it may run much deeper. This is one possible explanation.

Artists take much of their inspiration from the world around them. These include their own emotions, social surroundings, physical surroundings and social interactions. A greatly heightened level of awareness is required to take the mundane and make it into something inspirational. This inspiration, in turn, leads to great samples of human expression.

A side-effect of heightened awareness is that the source which drives self-awareness also feeds into an element of self-consciousness. An artist's soul needs to be laid bare so that she can draw from it. Once confronted, in perceived honesty, with all the beauty and ugliness of one's own soul, it is difficult to close it back up and pretend that what had been revealed had never been cut open and examined in the first place.

This leaves a layer of raw persona that the artist is fully aware of and cannot ignore when interacting with others. Even if those around her cannot see it, it is easy to map simple, innocuous statements to a negative aspect of self that only the hyper-self-aware individual knows of.

The result: an extra dose of sensitivity.

Homeownership

I went to look at a house with my mom this morning. I've been thinking about setting back out on my own and deliberately burning cash on rent, but the voice of my mother's hardened practicality is pushing me to invest in real estate with the entire $600 I have in my savings account.

During the tour of the house, I tried very hard to imagine what it would be like to live there. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't see it. For the 9 years that I lived on my own, I always lived in small spaces. Even when I resided in a large apartment, I spent 98% of my time in my cramped little bedroom. I don't demand much from living spaces, so the thought of an entire house (without the thought of wife and kids in sight) is, at best, disconcerting. After the tour, my mom asked me what I thought of the place. I had no response because I couldn't completely fathom the idea.

I know that investing in real estate is the "right thing to do", but I find it difficult to imagine myself living like this for a while to come. I'm young, and I still want to live out my youth with a bit of freedom. The idea of purchasing a house in suburbia comes with the idea of "settling down". I don't think I'm ready to settle down yet.

Some older friends have been telling me recently how they are regretting not saving enough money in their twenties. They are now finding it difficult to scrounge together the funds necessary to acquire long term living spaces. Hearing things like this from friends does help me to maintain a better perspective on the situation as I continue to flounder back and forth.

Ahh... the folly of my youth.

Standard Deviation

Took my car in for service this morning, so I spent a bit of yesterday evening plotting an alternate route to work. It's such a small thing, but it was a great feeling to deviate from my usual routine of driving down to the town bus stop and taking the same bus that I take every day.

The minor challenge of having to figure something out and being unsure of the physical outcome was refreshing. Lately, I've been trying to detach myself from depending on novelty for satisfaction. The longer I pursue this, though, the more I'm beginning to think that we're actually made to thrive on novelty. Not in a superficial, fleeting way, that permeates much of affluent society, but, at the core, to seek after experiences that encompass meaningful struggles and challenges.

I've been thinking a lot about moving out, lately. For a while I thought it would be wiser to stay home and save money to buy a place, but these days I'm starting to think that, more important than actually owning my own property, I want to be cast back out into life and forced to fend for myself.

One of the things I enjoyed most about living abroad was the challenge of being unsure of my next destination. I'd wander around half confused because I couldn't understand 60% of what people were saying to me. I loved getting lost in the middle of the night, strolling down random dark alleys (albeit in a very safe city) and stumbling upon new, undiscovered places.

I like not knowing what tomorrow will bring, but, with the understanding that, ultimately, I'm taken care of. Of course, day after day of this gets draining, but spending energy on true adventure is much more rewarding than hoarding that energy for the mundane.

Two Minutes of Fight

Emerging from a dream state, I focus intently on shoving my mind from one side of reality to another. After exchanging the mayhem of weekday insanity for the liberation of a brisk breeze blowing through four open windows and the sun graciously casting its warmth through the roof of my recently waxed car, the futility of this exercise quickly makes itself apparent.

Rolling onto the runway, I await an okay from the air traffic controller. Nothing. The voice of my director is muted by the weight of heavy eyelids and a painful tingling in the back of my throat. The mere task of cracking my jaw open for the insertion of a toothbrush encounters opposition by the lack of mitochondrial activity in my facial muscles.

Two minutes. That's the time it takes to complete a full cycle of automatic brushing. Bzzzzz. I stare blankly at myself in the mirror - an act I later recall only as something I've physically performed, leaving nothing but a vague impression of the image before me.

Twenty-five seconds. My efforts are waning. The minute, high frequency tremor in my palm ceases abruptly. I am no further along in my task than I was the moment I reached for the window blinds that let the morning sun into my grog infested room.

I acquiesce, allowing the day to speak for itself.

Life In Slow Forward

Our schedule at Six Flags:

Rides
Great American Scream Machine: 2:20
Nitro: 2:20 x 2 = 4:40
Medusa: 2:20
Rolling Thunder: 2:10

Total: 11 min 30 sec.

Lines
Great American Scream Machine: ~60 min
Nitro: ~160 m
Medusa: ~60 min
Rolling Thunder: ~45 min

Total: 325 min = 5 hours 25 min


It's amazing that we were able to spend 325 minutes waiting for rides that we spent a mere 11 and a half minutes actually riding on. Even with the ridiculous wait times, though, the day turned out to be a pleasant time of casual social banter, spotted with short bursts of scream infused bonding that consisted mostly of being hurtled together at extremely high speeds through deceptively smooth reams of twisted metal. Even at a 28:1 ratio of wait to ride times, I am very glad that I spent the entire day with my friends at Six Flags.

In our culture today, waiting for anything is the source of much complaint and irritation. In the old days (before I was alive), things were much different. Transportation was slow, physical expenditure was required for days, or even weeks, just to attend disproportionately short events, and a great deal of hard work and patience was required to carefully craft personal items, one piece at a time.

Today, not only have we grown impatient, but we have forgotten how to actually enjoy a slower pace of life. Efficiency and productivity are our mottos and elongated episodes of downtime are quickly berated. I, too, often find myself caught up in the shuffle of instant gratification, with each moment of expected satisfaction only bringing about a longing for the next novel experience. This causes me to burn through experiences that, if I only took a bit of extra time to savor, would I realize my great loss in swallowing much too quickly.

Because it is so easy to cast these "inefficiencies" in a negative light, I sometimes make a deliberate effort to take longer or work harder at otherwise easily attainable things. An effort to slow down just a little. Almost every time I do this, I am pleasantly surprised by just how refreshing the extra time invested proves to be. Not only is hard work more satisfying, but because life is so busy, times like commuting on the bus, hand washing the car, waiting on long lines with friends or just killing time with strangers often turn out to be the most precious moments of my life.

Tickets, Tickets, Tickets

On my way back from Great Adventure last night, I got pulled over by an overzealous young police officer who slapped me with a "Failure to Stop or Yield" ticket. He claimed that I blew through a red light. I most definitely did not.

Going through the intersection, I watched the yellow light for as long as I could before it disappeared over my car. Sometimes, when making the dash for a yellow, it becomes a borderline case because I see the light turn red while I'm in the middle of the intersection. This wasn't one of those cases.

About a minute later, the policeman finally caught up to me. This told me that he was pretty far away which, at night, would have made his ability to judge the moment I crossed the intersection exceedingly difficult. To further reinforce this fact, he claimed that my friend (who was driving in front of me) had blown a red light himself, and that by the time I crossed the intersection it had been red for "at least 5 seconds". 5 seconds is a very long time, and I'm sure I would have stopped if I had seen both my friend running a red and had 5 seconds to put on the brakes myself.

If I had gotten speeding tickets for actually speeding, or tickets for red lights that I actually ran, I would be completely willing to accept the consequences of my actions. What angers me, though, is that I've gotten two tickets now (both carrying points) that I did NOT deserve.

About a month ago, I had a bit more faith in those that are supposed to be protecting us and upholding justice. One month and two undeserved tickets later, their ineptitude has been added to my list of jaded life realities.