time spent, time wasted

I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, sitting on the train or in my room or at my desk at work... just sitting and thinking. And it hasn't gotten me anywhere, really. I come up with ideas of essays I want to write, but I don't write them. I think of tasks I need to complete, but I don't do them. I even - finally - got a job offer after spending hours and months assembling applications and going to interviews and thinking about what I want out of life and assessing the types of things I would be qualified for, and I don't think I am going to take it.

I wondered today whether I have that condition that they are talking about these days - infomania. It is actually a real thing now, they've done studies. Basically, a person receives too much information at a constant rate and it causes the IQ to decrease, by an average of ten points. I think email and the internet are making me sick. Maybe, though, if knowing is half the battle, I could be halfway toward normal again. Let's hope so.

I'm going to go write some lists and stare into space now. That should get me somewhere.

creative brews

I came across this great weekly while I was doing some research for an article on Chicago microbreweries. Talk about different and imaginative... and yummy!

someplace

I visited New York and Philadelphia this past weekend, places that are "destinations", and I saw things that people "know about" - Little Italy, SoHo, the Brooklyn Bridge, the LOVE statue in Philadelphia, boathouse row - and I felt like I was somewhere.

It's funny, from the North Lawndale neighborhood (where I teach creative writing at a GED Learning Center) you can see the skyline of Chicago. Standing at the Central Park platform this morning, then passing through the Kedzie, Western, and Damen stops, I noticed the angle is just perfect. The Sears Tower is in the forefront, the Hancock off in the distance to the left, the AON jutting up between them. This is what people travel to see, and for us it is just part of the usual landscape.

But what struck me most about these sights - this weekend, and this morning - was what people are not there to see, what they avoid on their vacations. Between Philadelphia and New York, the landscape stretching on either side of the train route is filled with trash, rundown buildings, desolate towns, junkyards. In the "greater" part of Chicago - that which is not the museum campus, the Loop, Michigan Avenue - lie the neighborhoods, millions of people, homes, lives, stories. And a lot of the Chicagoans' stories I know, never come close to the top floor of the Sears Tower. One woman in my class has lived on the same street, Fillmore, for her entire life.

I wondered, where is somewhere and where is nowhere, and how do we get there and how do we leave?

a quote

my mother sent me this: inspiring, albeit a bit heavy

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do... It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same."

- Nelson Mandela

during the down-time

This morning I waited at the 'L' station for a delayed morning train down to Lincoln Park, where I would open up the front double-doors to the music school and let the children enter and be taught. A 30-something man stood across from me in the station, laptop bag in hand, long wool coat, fumbling with a pair of ubiquitous white earbuds as he cursed under his breath about the train's tardiness. I could hear the music faintly once he'd gotten the wires untangled and placed the headphones in his ears. I watched as he craned his neck to look down the tracks, with an angry brow and a foot tapping - not certain whether this was to the rhythm of the music or the pounding of his rising blood pressure. He looked about my age.

Friday night I attended an up-and-coming rockstar's concert; he is also my age. I knew him, actually, back at our first job at the movie theater. We were 16 and 17 and stole popcorn and snuck it by the paper cupfull to the back room, where we would douse it with "butter-flavored topping". On the Fourth of July, we climbed up climbed up the secret ladder to the roof with some of our co-workers and watched fireworks displays going on at parks all around us. We had so few worries then. We were kids.

I learned of his stardom during a long afternoon of losing myself here and there on the internet, when I came across a video of him singing back-up for a major hip-hop artist on Letterman. I hadn't thought about this friend in years, but I soon found myself remembering intermittent hilarious and poignant teenage moments from those four months I worked at the cinema (before I moved on to better things at a corporate coffee shop). What a surreal moment, then, when I saw his face for the first time in ten years: outlined by soft red and blue lights; flanked by two keyboards, a drum kit, and a bass player; sweaty behind a mic stand, elevated on a stage. I had waited through two opening acts for him, and here were all these people around me - college students, tattooed music fans, girls who had dressed up for the occasion and were winking at each other and blushing - to see my teenage acquaintance. Over ten years, this young man has become soulful and captivating. And, though his looks have hardly changed, his demeanor is serious and passionate.

After the show, I came across the rockstar in the venue lobby and I paused to say hello and exchange a friendly word. During the fifteen seconds I stood in front of him, four or five other young concert-goers approached, reaching around me to shake his hand. His eyes flicked back and forth from me to the sea of faces - no doubt attempting to find his publicist so he could get to the merch table and sign some CDs. I gave him a pat on the back, he gave me a half-smile, and we both moved along.

In my little world, I like to believe that art is a window to the soul and that humans can all connect through the exchange of creative expression. This is why the rockstar's lyrics give us goosebumps; this is why we sing along. But I was struck by our franticly short exchange that night, and the thought that most of his interactions with other human beings are much like this: quick eye-to-eye contact, a handshake, a sideways glance, and he's off.

Today I remembered something my father said about Bob Dylan once. We were discussing the way his writing touches us - dad even shed a tear recalling one of the most heart-wrenching ballads - and how perfectly and simply he could state a problem; he's a writer who can make you see the world exactly the way it is. My father had been a bit disappointed, however, in the recorded interviews Dylan had given over the years. It seemed that someone with his talent for words should have been able, at the opportune moment, to provide eloquent answers to all the tough questions - but this was not the case.

The man in the 'L' station, Bob Dylan, and my rockstar friend are examples that speak to the difficulty of being an artist in a culture where music has become a distraction and a commodity as much as it is an art form. Apparently, what many of us want is simply to be entertained during the down time between grabbing a morning Starbucks and pushing the revolving office door. Or we want something nice to look at. Or we need someone larger-than-life to give a voice to our deepest fears and concerns. Whatever the case may be, it seems that the larger one's audience grows and the more people whose souls have been touched, the further removed the artist becomes from the people who believe in him or her.

It's one luxury that my peers - the young professional on the 'L', the touring rockstar - who are living the most luxurious of lifestyles cannot afford: the time and space to tap one's own creative energy. Back when we were normal kids, working our first jobs, taking music lessons on Saturday mornings, going half-zies on a Little Caesar's pizza - without career goals, an office to get to, CDs to sign - we had the kind of down-time that I imagine the rockstar must miss. Then again, he is crazy famous, which is something few of us would complain about.