Do the Thing

Been going through the usual downturn of an artist.

"Am I wasting my time? Am I making the right choices? Shouldn't I be focusing on "x" or "y"? Time is running out! What am I doing with my life? Why am I bothering? Failure. Failure. Failure.

Sound familiar?

Whether you actively identify as an artist of some form. Or "imaginist" as I like to call myself. Or maybe you have another term entirely. Or you are just someone who daydreams and dreams under the stars and in moonlight on porches and on the hood of a car or the edge of your desk, you've probaby had a similar sort of running commentary of doubt.

I kicked myself over to England because I felt like I wasn't doing anything with my life. Now I am doing many things. Every day, every evening, every second I am experiencing so much I barely have time to process it all, let alone devote time to creating art.

Like the glorious month I had last February, house sitting for some relations in their nearly "middle-of-nowhere" house, in the middle of winter. I got some of the best writing done that I have ever managed.

Except life can't always be hiding away in seclusion. Certain life choices mean you need to make money to live. Certain life choices mean you have things you require to be sane, even if they aren't things that you need to survive. Though some people choose to just stick to flat survival in the name of The Art. Some people manage to balance everything. Some people flounder and flutter. Scared. Worried. Focused on practicality.

Some people just grab the milk carton. Stand on it and ask.

Recently I had the pleasure of not only meeting an individual who's music and art I have long admired but I also got around to reading her memoir (read over two days, it was that engaging).

Her name is Amanda Palmer.

I won't be surprised if you wonder: Who?

She's a bit of a cult figure. And yet she is one of the most human, human being I have ever met. Wise, honest, witty, and just wanting share the joy of music with other human beings.

This is one of her songs:

And this is her TED talk. The Art of Asking:

She draws on her eyebrows to make people unconsciously look her in the eye because it is through the eyes that people connect.

It is through the eyes that people see eachother.

And in a society that is far too open about looking, we don't really see anyone.

She endeavours to empathise and get into the perspectives of all individuals, whether they are on the right or wrong side of morality or law. Because we are all human at heart.

She is often critised as being too showy and trustworthy, as breaking all boundaries of what is "right" in the music industry by allowing fans to download for free.

She does this because the only way to build a connection is by making yourself vulnerable, by being 100% honest. When that connection is built you don't have to force anyone to do anything.

Most likely they will want to do it.

First though, you need to connect.

Second though, you need to ask.

That requires vulnerability.

And through it all you need the bravery to just do the Thing. Because you want to. Not because you have to or you should.

I've long been wanting to publish a novel. And I do. Want to publish a novel, that is. Except there is much more I also want to do.

After reading Amanda's book I sat back and thought. Why haven't I published the novel yet? I came up with this:

I am afraid no one will read it because no one has yet seemed to read what I do already.

Then again, I haven't shared much of my writing yet. I did have someone read part of my novel-in-progress recently and they laughed in many parts. Just as I had hoped as I wrote it.

That made me happy.

Art isn't about being able to live off of it. Yes that would be lovely but really, art is about sharing a moment with other people. It is about sharing stories around a campfire. Like humanity has done for millenia. Albeit in different formats.

I am going to start sharing more. I am going to keep writing and photographing more. Maybe one day people will laugh, smile, cry and cheer over this art from my heart. Until then...

I have re-started my tumblr which you can find at: alyssaimaginist.tumblr.com

On that platform I intend on sharing my photostories since it is more friendly to photography and here I will continue my life musings and travel blogging. The novel is going to be a work in progress for a while and who knows what I'll come out with next. The good thing about being an imaginist is that I always have ideas for new works. I'm going to be as busy as ever. I live in London. I'm going to build experiences the size of the Great Wall of China thank you very much. And hopefully you'll stick around for the ride. If you're a twitterer do check me out on @TheMoonyDreamer where shorter bits of inspiration, and links to much more creativity are generally found. 

All that I ask is that you enjoy my work, comment when you have the time and share with others if you have a moment.

That is the point of art after all. It brings us together. It reminds us what being human is about; deep down, all we want is to be seen from the inside.

We are all bigger on the inside. Like the Tardis. So don't be afraid. Do the Things. Because you can. Not because anyone says you can or anyone watches. Dance like no one watches. Dance like the world is within you. Or in the words of Amanda Palmer's other brilliant half, Neil Gaiman: "Make good art."

Moony.

The How-To Art of Inspiration

Have you ever accidently pricked your finger with a sewing needle?

How about giving yourself a paper cut?

You've got to have done at least one of those, if not both, and probably quite often for the second.

Either way, I figure those moments are a bit like inspiration.

It doesn't come on a daily basis but when it does it's always unexpected, out-of-the-blue, and more than likely during a moment when you really don't have the time or energy to actually do much about it beyond more than treat it in the form of scribbling down some notes and then moving on with what you were doing.

Sometimes, yes, you have the time to properly treat it, to cover it with the bandage in the form of actually turning it into some sort of tangible product, but those instances, like the intial act itself are random and far between.

In short, you really cannot sit at a desk and command inspiration to come, any more than you can purposely give yourself a paper cut. Believe me, there was a rather morose and morbid day once when I did actually spend a portion of it fascinated by the evil science of paper giving you what must be the most painful incisions of the flesh, on the planet.

And so, in actuality, there is no how-to method of creating inspiration anymore than being able to give yourself a paper cut on command. Yes, you can train your brain to think creatively and think in such a way on the spot, but it's never going to be an easy hash of "I want to do this" and then sitting down an doing it.

Not to mention our imagination is a million times prettier than reality.

Reality states that dirt, grime and grunge are the colours of life. Needing to eat, being tired, having a head-ache and greasy hair. All part of being human.

And it sucks. It really, truly sucks.

Plus there's that thing called emotions which play into inspiration and when that inspiration doesn't come to a fruitious conclusion of fireworks and fancy-dress parties for the rich and famous, well, good-bye to your happy mood.

There are over six billion humans on this planet. You and your ideas are not in any way unique or special. I had a boy in class the other day tell me his idea of how his character would have a total psychological breakdown full of all sorts of terrifiying an bizarre experiences...only to wake up. It would all have been a dream. He thought it was brilliant. I told him, sorry, but that is the utter *last* thing he should be attempting for his GCSE writing. That plot is just about the most overdone, taboo and generally lazy ass methods of making a "twist" ending than there ever has been.

But he thought he was special.

I had a guy in a cafe this past weekend joke that I might be writing the next manuscript to land a place in the Wren Library in Cambridge. Probably because I was scribbling my experiences and thoughts from that day, like an utter maniac. Doesn't mean it was, or is, anything special. I have a friend who has seriously one of the most screwed up families I have ever known (in terms of friend relations) and yet, even she realised she has no right to complain any more than anyone else because there will always be someone worse off.

Just as there is always someone better.

I found out today that my school has put an ad up for the position I currently have, starting in January when my temporary contract, set up over summer, runs out. Namely, that means they are not willing to renew my contract for longer. Yes, I am allowed to apply, as much as the next person is, except, my currently challenges with being a hardbacked commander and showing exceptional behavioural management, is a massive black mark against me. And yet, every teacher is having issues, whether they are experienced, new, or the flipping behavioural management expert. Some of us have speculated it's due to the fact the school expanded by over 700 students, making it a grand total of 2000 on the same campus and three of the years are brand new to the school too.

Anyway, my point is, as depressing as it may be, sitting around and waiting for something awesome and groundbreaking to happen, isn't how squat happens. There is never going to be a good time. And even if you think you are in the wrong job, which I have always known to be true, even before I started teacher training, you have to do certain things to check the boxes of survival, to check the boxes of things you want to do and you cannot sit around for months at a time calculating what would be the best and most efficient use of your time and energy. You just have to go with whatevever options and knowledge of options that you have at the time and roll on.

Eight years ago, when I was smack in the middle of high school. The smartest option to me that didn't sound horrid (like getting into sciences or something) and that allowed me to be around what I loved (English literature) and to have time to do what I loved (travel and write), teaching was the way to go.

But these days, what with globalisation, you can pretty much invent your own job.

I haven't a clue what I'll be doing after December. Let alone eight years from this point. But what I do know is I cannot wait around for inspiration to strike. I have to just keep moving ahead and doing what I love, in any small way possible.

Who knows, I've always been fascinated by the power of imagination and rather like the sound of "the Imaginist."

Maybe I'll spend my days collecting ideas into a giant Library of Minds.

I'll be the World's Singular Imaginist.

For now though, I'm just an overseas trained teacher attempting to keep her head above water so that she might continue to experience living in another country for a good long while yet.

There are too many stories to be told and very little timely motivation.

But that's a whole other kettle of carrots.

Until next time, I challenge you to pull blood from your fingertips and make something your own.

Putting my stamp in a little corner.
Moony.

Practically Making Time

I love quotes but I love far too many, to actually manage to recall them all. There is one though that always stands out, since it is the most prevailent in a life of an anyone who must work in order to attend to basic needs.

It goes as follows:

"Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead."
~Gene Fowler

If the world is a grain of sand, so too, is it in a flower. And yet, Work makes us forget those colourful bits.

Though, I must admit, the way it tends to run through my head, it goes more like this:

"I like work. I can stare at it for hours. Until blood drips from my head."

Just as much sarcasm but with a slightly more all-encompassing twist.

Either way, however I choose to remember the quote, the key phrase is essentially that you can literally spend your life working and working and working and in the end, what is there to show from it?

I had a most wonderful dinner with my landlady/bnb host. I should note I am not sure what to define her as seeing as she runs a bnb but I am staying here long term. I use the kitchen and all that jazz as I would in a flatshare, except the flatmates change on a regular basis; for a day or so there seems to be no one at all, and a few times over the next months I will have to shift to another room simply because some people need to (and do) book six months to a year in advance. Fair enough. Plus, I get my sheets done, I can have my laundry done too and there is a tidy collection of tea bags, instant coffee and milk always. I feel ridiculously fortunate and more than a bit horrible that I cannot seem to be very good at obviously expressing my gratitude. I am though, grateful, beyond words. It's little things like tonights dinner that remind me I was right in my feelings to not take a room on one of the shifty estates or that it was okay the gentleman with the room I initially found, basically dropped me without notice for an older and more settled nurse.

But none of that is particularly on poise for the purpose of this post. Though it is a rather perfect presentation of one of my problems. I ramble. Horribly. Which often leads to me getting lost in both figurative and literal corners. Bury St Edmunds was a bit of a nightmare the first day I wandered. I was lost within seconds. Mostly because my sense of direction is not used to factoring in little alley ways, side streets and the sort of detours that are literal holes in brick walls that you think will just get you straight out to the other end but really take you 'round the opposite.

That being said, I am also a very driven and goal oriented individual, when it comes to material goals and achievements.

My move to England however, was one of those rare things that essentially made a disreputable hash of oil and vinegar (the bad sorts filled with factory chemicals I mean) in terms of my goal-orientation clashing with my butterfly imaginism. It took me just wanting to get the flipping fudge out of Vernon, because Victoria, as adorable, artsy and quaintly British as it tried to be, was still Canadian, and therefore Not British. No matter how many times you walk past the Empress, the Parliament buildings, grab tea at Murchies or have clotted cream and scones. There are still those silly tourist shops selling carry-on sized maple syrup bottles, maple fudge, the Bay, and that hilarious black bear, or maybe it was a moose, that sat outside of one of the shops in a Mounty's hat. (See I can't even remember it's just so stereotyped). Then though you have the gorgeous totem poles, the orca statues and well, double decker buses with the blue and green British Columbia logos all over (I'd almost say they were copying London, except that all of BC has double deckers in the larger towns...except Vancouver, Vancouver is in a class of its own). 

England though is England, in all its mist-rain, whinging-is-a-national-sport (complaining) and excess of packaging and pennies. Their rudeness knows no bounds in one area and the next second they are all a mask of rock, politeness. Also, their driving is terrifying but their public transit is peachy.

Either way, I am here. I am experiencing. I am here for experience. Lots of it. But when you spend most of your days staring at work for hours, until blood drips from your forehead because you are racking your brains on the laundry wires until they are parched, your mind wonders what the flack you're doing. Well, that and the usual questions of how will you be more successful? How will you feel less tired? How will you be more happy?

I've just been falling back on, "it's experience. Live and let live. The day is over. It has passed. Move on. Breathe. Trust. Relax. Enjoy."

I panicked this morning because I had to take my form group out for a fire drill and I hadn't a moment to preview the path the group was meant to take from their room (which is not my usual classroom). They though, being Year 11's had more experience than me, and anyway, I had a moment before the start to vaguely glance over the email with the map. But I still used time panicking. Or, in other words. I let blood drip from my forehead and wasted too many ticks of the clocks (which still aren't matchin up in the school, anywhere).

Time. It goes by fast. Everyone knows that. But you don't really *know* it until you are near the end of it, something, or a particular stage. I have been in England for one month and three days. I didn't even note the passing of the full month. I was focused on the end of September itself. Either way, time has moved. Fast. And here I am, for experience. What have I experienced? Loads. Of course I have. It's a new country after all. Except there is still loads more. What I have experienced feels like poking my toe into the water at Long Beach (Tofino, BC) when I was eleven (or something, that first time) and then I finally stood up to my ankles in the ice water and let the tide slurp my feet down in a miniature version of a sinkhole, before jumping out of it with a giggle. Child's play.

The loads more I have to experience is that little something called travel. The little bit that sparks the desire to move to a different country in most people. I am most people in that regard. I came here to see many different places, most of which I have only seen pictures of, as a film set or read in books or on the internet. In short, from that intangible distance is a puzzle of experience that cannot be solved until you are breathing the same air as the person you idolize or that which various buildings or mountains were formed in.

Which brings me back to the dinner with my landlady. Uttler lovely. But you'd be bored out of your mind. The key bit I do want to leave you with is something I am also challenging myself to do now.

I am going to call on my practical side. I am going to call on my creative side. I am going to combine the two and practically make time.

Or, in more mundane language, I am going to make lists. I am going to make lists of all the places I want to visit, all the locations in the places I want to visit, all the things I want my camera to snap, all the foods I want to try and whatever else I can potentially dredge up as I make linear lists.

Then, applying myself religiously to the perusal of airlines, trains and coaches, I will be setting aside one weekend per month in which I go somewhere.

September, though nearly done, is basically set on me possibly getting to Cambridge and at least, very definitely going down to London again to visit a cohort who came to teach in England back in April. 

Making lists is difficult and it is still very easy to forget to add something, which makes me feel it to be restrictive. Then again, if I want to achieve anything, if anyone wants to achieve anything, lists are one of those necessary evils that act a bit like fabric bandages. They stop the bleeding forehead when you've been at work too long but the act of pulling them off (ie: getting them done), is on the list of distateful tasks that remind me of cleaning bathrooms with bleach back in the days when my mom hadn't twigged on the natural cleaners that one, did not smell of deadly chemicals and two, were a million times healthier and better cleaners anyway; being natural, non-deadly chemicals. She has me to thank for her being, if still a crazy cleaner, at least an environmentally friendly, crazy cleaner.

Will you be practical this weekend and make a list of goals to get accomplished and time frames by which they must be accomplished in?

I've got enough to practically make more time than eternity.
Moony.