Oh, apartment how I love thee, my loyal studio,
the window well above thee, the dive bar down below.
Your window well is covered, so cleverly stopping all light
from entering the windows with frames as black as night.
I love the boldly checkered floor
which signifies with ease
Five feet of kitchen by the door
with everything I need.
I love your brave little patch of carpet meant to signify
that this is the "bedroom" upon which the ikea pad should lie.
I love the camaraderie with which my clothes and heater share the closet,
and the covert way the hamper waits under the keyboard for a deposit.
On a Sunday morning in my little room I happily awaken
to take a refreshing shower above the wafting smell of bacon
...Which comes to me from the dive bar kitchen twenty feet below.
Oh little apartment with no ventilation, how I love you so.
This poem would be incomplete without my gratitude
to the dive bar owners who let me steal their Wifi without attitude.
And also to my friendly neighbors who brighten up my days
with their witty banter and sarcastic humor as we go our hipster ways.
I'll always remember my time spent here
in one-hundred-and-fifty square feet.
My little oasis where my head is clear
and my heart in comfort beats.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
Office monkey retaliation
I started this blog as a creative outlet to ease my mind while I was trapped behind a desk, which is not my natural habitat. I owe many thanks to y'all for sticking with me throughout the tangents that I tend to wander down. Today, I want to get back to my roots.
Back in February, I declared that my office monkey days were over. ...I spoke too soon. After 6 weeks of traveling and auditioning and whatnot, I landed back in my new baby-sized studio apartment and within a week was back to my old office monkey tricks to get rent money. This time around the office madness set in with a vengeance almost immediately.
I work for a nonprofit. I was initially very excited about that. The NELA Center for Student Success runs a program that mentors underserved high school students through the college application process. Here's the thing, though. The center is a subsidiary of NELA, a nonprofit student loan guarantor, which is a subsidiary of USA Funds, which is a nonprofit with a generalized mission statement about helping people pay for college. All of these things are "affiliates" of Sallie Mae.
What it boils down to is this: The people at the NELA Center are working to get kids into college who are at a disadvantage. But every single decision, action, or thought that these people have regarding the work they are doing with these kids has to make it all the way up this massive chain of corporate command and back down again before anything can actually be done. And the further things go up the corporate chain, the less anyone knows about the actual work being done on the ground floor. There are only two employees at the Center--One to run the Center, and one to run statistics and numbers on everything being done here to report back to Corporate that the Center is "efficient" in helping people. The worst part is my sneaking suspicion that all of these nonprofits are actually only tax write-offs for some fat cat at Sallie Mae. I'm just real tired of Corporate America, I'm bummed to realize how insidious it is even in the nonprofit world, and I'm frustrated to witness how corporate busy work is utterly crippling for actually getting anything done.
Maybe it was this office madness that drove me to plug in to the Occupy movement this last weekend. As some of you know, I've been intrigued by Occupy ever since it started, but somewhat cautious and skeptical. So when I heard about the 99% "Spring Training" being held all across the country last week, I decided to go hear about Occupy from the horse's mouth, if you will.
What I found out is that we are on the same page: All the political and economic power in this country is concentrated in a tiny group of people that operates well above our heads. Mega-corporations run our food system, our housing market, our financial system, the military-industrial complex, and global manufacturing, and they tend to pour enough money into our Legislature to shape government policy in a really gross way to their own advantage. They have all the same rights as individual human beings but none of the sense of personal responsibility.
My major qualm with Occupy was that it was a protest without a list of demands. I was annoyed because I could tell they were pissed about something but they didn't seem to know what they actually wanted. Now, I think the problem is so deeply engrained in the fabric of our society that it's too early in the movement to have a specific list of demands. Could you even imagine an America without foreign oil and high fructose corn syrup? Or massive personal debt? Or looming environmental catastrophe? Or invasive, poorly-justified wars in foreign countries? What would that even look like? If you are protesting the construction of a dirty coal plant, and I am protesting government subsidies of Monsanto corn crops, and she is protesting cuts in public education, and he is protesting for labor rights, then we are all essentially protesting against the same system. Occupy has pulled back, regrouped, and is training people to take effective non-violent direct action on grassroots issues that they care about. Rosa Parks style. It's a long-term, big-picture vision of how to take back this country bit by bit, and I think I'm ready to say that I am the 99%.
Back in February, I declared that my office monkey days were over. ...I spoke too soon. After 6 weeks of traveling and auditioning and whatnot, I landed back in my new baby-sized studio apartment and within a week was back to my old office monkey tricks to get rent money. This time around the office madness set in with a vengeance almost immediately.
I work for a nonprofit. I was initially very excited about that. The NELA Center for Student Success runs a program that mentors underserved high school students through the college application process. Here's the thing, though. The center is a subsidiary of NELA, a nonprofit student loan guarantor, which is a subsidiary of USA Funds, which is a nonprofit with a generalized mission statement about helping people pay for college. All of these things are "affiliates" of Sallie Mae.
What it boils down to is this: The people at the NELA Center are working to get kids into college who are at a disadvantage. But every single decision, action, or thought that these people have regarding the work they are doing with these kids has to make it all the way up this massive chain of corporate command and back down again before anything can actually be done. And the further things go up the corporate chain, the less anyone knows about the actual work being done on the ground floor. There are only two employees at the Center--One to run the Center, and one to run statistics and numbers on everything being done here to report back to Corporate that the Center is "efficient" in helping people. The worst part is my sneaking suspicion that all of these nonprofits are actually only tax write-offs for some fat cat at Sallie Mae. I'm just real tired of Corporate America, I'm bummed to realize how insidious it is even in the nonprofit world, and I'm frustrated to witness how corporate busy work is utterly crippling for actually getting anything done.
Maybe it was this office madness that drove me to plug in to the Occupy movement this last weekend. As some of you know, I've been intrigued by Occupy ever since it started, but somewhat cautious and skeptical. So when I heard about the 99% "Spring Training" being held all across the country last week, I decided to go hear about Occupy from the horse's mouth, if you will.
What I found out is that we are on the same page: All the political and economic power in this country is concentrated in a tiny group of people that operates well above our heads. Mega-corporations run our food system, our housing market, our financial system, the military-industrial complex, and global manufacturing, and they tend to pour enough money into our Legislature to shape government policy in a really gross way to their own advantage. They have all the same rights as individual human beings but none of the sense of personal responsibility.
My major qualm with Occupy was that it was a protest without a list of demands. I was annoyed because I could tell they were pissed about something but they didn't seem to know what they actually wanted. Now, I think the problem is so deeply engrained in the fabric of our society that it's too early in the movement to have a specific list of demands. Could you even imagine an America without foreign oil and high fructose corn syrup? Or massive personal debt? Or looming environmental catastrophe? Or invasive, poorly-justified wars in foreign countries? What would that even look like? If you are protesting the construction of a dirty coal plant, and I am protesting government subsidies of Monsanto corn crops, and she is protesting cuts in public education, and he is protesting for labor rights, then we are all essentially protesting against the same system. Occupy has pulled back, regrouped, and is training people to take effective non-violent direct action on grassroots issues that they care about. Rosa Parks style. It's a long-term, big-picture vision of how to take back this country bit by bit, and I think I'm ready to say that I am the 99%.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
An argument for being an artist
In the current cycle of my Temp-Odyssey, I am the Admin at the NELA Center, a nonprofit that mentors low-income, minority, and first-generation college students through the college application process. It can be really cool to witness caring, stable mentors help confused teenagers navigate this unfamiliar territory, but I really find my ears perking up when a kid comes through the center with dreams of being an actor or a filmmaker or some kind of artist. I tend to squirm during the "That's a bad idea" and "Maybe you should do something more practical" talk until I have the opportunity to jump in and try to be the voice of un-reason in encouraging kids that yes, that is something you can do with your life.
Why do I feel the need to butt in? Well, I am admittedly biased because I'm in the arts. But there seems to be an impression, mostly amongst people who don't consider themselves to be in the arts, that becoming an artist is like knocking on the door of a castle and saying you'd like to be a Princess, please.** As if it's like a divine ordination that you are either born with or not. Because of this weirdly universal idea, poor, nervous parents everywhere have visions of their emaciated children knocking on doors of snotty agents with knees knocking and trembling outstretched headshot, saying, "Ec-ec-excuse me sir I wanna be an ac-ac-actor" before doors get slammed in their faces. They then wander aimlessly through the gutters doing drugs with Bohemian characters until they wake up as a 40-year-old busboy or heroin addict, still insistent that they are an "actor." These poor hopeless souls flock to big cities by the hundreds with the vain hope of meeting Johnny Depp's agent and instantly making millions of dollars and that is the only path possible when your kid says he wants to be an "actor." What parent wouldn't be worried? Especially if the whole point of pursuing higher education is to improve your chances at a successful future.
Rest easy, worried parents. I would like to hereby state that this image is false. I am like, obnoxiously practical, and yet I am an artist and I don't starve. In fact, there are literally infinite ways of supporting yourself and living your life as an artist. Personally, I use my B.A. (read as Bachelor of Arts or Bad-Assery) to land various office jobs--an acting challenge in and of itself. One of my mentors once told me that a key to being an actor is having the self-respect and confidence to say "I'm an actor," no matter what your job is that you are doing to pay the bills for now. It's acknowledging what you can do to survive within society (Data entry, Teaching preschool, Accounting) while keeping your creativity and sense of self intact--empowering yourself to inhabit your own unique perspective. This not only forces you to find a creative outlet, it opens you up to discover like-minded people and infinite potential projects. When you start doing truly creative, adventurous, awesome work, people will come see it, and you might just wake up one morning and see that, bit by bit, you have turned the statement "I am an artist" into a 24/7 gig. The first step is to stay alive and engage yourself creatively. You don't have to make $10 million a year to be an "actor."
So am I making feature films and making out with Brad Pitt? Incidentally, no, and I'm cool with that. Angelina and the pack of children would probably dismember me anyway. Do I spend way more time typing things into Excel spreadsheets than Brad Pitt does? Yes, and it kind of sucks. But it's just for right now, and I'm not worried about getting stuck here. I also do a ton of projects with the rest of my time, I have an agent who sends me out for stuff, and I occasionally get paid for artistic things, too. On a practical level, I would like to state for the record that there is an entire Arts industry in this country, made up of a wide array of artistic work. Hollywood stars are not the only people making money as actors. Every commercial you see, every instructional film you've watched at work, and every print ad you've ever seen paid countless of creative professionals.
One last thing. A career in the arts is not an easy path, and I don't encourage every hormonal 16-year-old who comes in to NELA to go full bore down this path like it's a straight and simple. Everyone finds something different that works for them--that delicate balance between being financially soluble and not wanting to strangle yourself with your keyboard cord. I know actors who are also chiropractors, accountants, managers, teachers, professors, musicians, and....full-time actors. I know artists who work gig to gig and ones with year-round contracts. I think that's the thing that scares people off from a bold-faced pursuit of being an artist: The career path is not clear, it's not laid out in front of you, and it takes perseverance. It's also totally possible.
**Of course, there are those that were born Princesses.... Sammi.
Why do I feel the need to butt in? Well, I am admittedly biased because I'm in the arts. But there seems to be an impression, mostly amongst people who don't consider themselves to be in the arts, that becoming an artist is like knocking on the door of a castle and saying you'd like to be a Princess, please.** As if it's like a divine ordination that you are either born with or not. Because of this weirdly universal idea, poor, nervous parents everywhere have visions of their emaciated children knocking on doors of snotty agents with knees knocking and trembling outstretched headshot, saying, "Ec-ec-excuse me sir I wanna be an ac-ac-actor" before doors get slammed in their faces. They then wander aimlessly through the gutters doing drugs with Bohemian characters until they wake up as a 40-year-old busboy or heroin addict, still insistent that they are an "actor." These poor hopeless souls flock to big cities by the hundreds with the vain hope of meeting Johnny Depp's agent and instantly making millions of dollars and that is the only path possible when your kid says he wants to be an "actor." What parent wouldn't be worried? Especially if the whole point of pursuing higher education is to improve your chances at a successful future.
Rest easy, worried parents. I would like to hereby state that this image is false. I am like, obnoxiously practical, and yet I am an artist and I don't starve. In fact, there are literally infinite ways of supporting yourself and living your life as an artist. Personally, I use my B.A. (read as Bachelor of Arts or Bad-Assery) to land various office jobs--an acting challenge in and of itself. One of my mentors once told me that a key to being an actor is having the self-respect and confidence to say "I'm an actor," no matter what your job is that you are doing to pay the bills for now. It's acknowledging what you can do to survive within society (Data entry, Teaching preschool, Accounting) while keeping your creativity and sense of self intact--empowering yourself to inhabit your own unique perspective. This not only forces you to find a creative outlet, it opens you up to discover like-minded people and infinite potential projects. When you start doing truly creative, adventurous, awesome work, people will come see it, and you might just wake up one morning and see that, bit by bit, you have turned the statement "I am an artist" into a 24/7 gig. The first step is to stay alive and engage yourself creatively. You don't have to make $10 million a year to be an "actor."
So am I making feature films and making out with Brad Pitt? Incidentally, no, and I'm cool with that. Angelina and the pack of children would probably dismember me anyway. Do I spend way more time typing things into Excel spreadsheets than Brad Pitt does? Yes, and it kind of sucks. But it's just for right now, and I'm not worried about getting stuck here. I also do a ton of projects with the rest of my time, I have an agent who sends me out for stuff, and I occasionally get paid for artistic things, too. On a practical level, I would like to state for the record that there is an entire Arts industry in this country, made up of a wide array of artistic work. Hollywood stars are not the only people making money as actors. Every commercial you see, every instructional film you've watched at work, and every print ad you've ever seen paid countless of creative professionals.
One last thing. A career in the arts is not an easy path, and I don't encourage every hormonal 16-year-old who comes in to NELA to go full bore down this path like it's a straight and simple. Everyone finds something different that works for them--that delicate balance between being financially soluble and not wanting to strangle yourself with your keyboard cord. I know actors who are also chiropractors, accountants, managers, teachers, professors, musicians, and....full-time actors. I know artists who work gig to gig and ones with year-round contracts. I think that's the thing that scares people off from a bold-faced pursuit of being an artist: The career path is not clear, it's not laid out in front of you, and it takes perseverance. It's also totally possible.
**Of course, there are those that were born Princesses.... Sammi.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
A very Danielle Easter
I woke up on Monday morning with no idea that it was Monday morning, and after a brief period of confusion was quite tickled at how I had come to be on a bright orange couch underneath a quilt homemade by someone else's Mom amidst party wreckage and dog fur.
The story of my Easter began a few days earlier in a series of texts/calls with my sister in Seattle:
"What are you doing for Easter?"
"I don't know. Driving up to see you in Seattle? ....Naw I don't have the cash to go up there for the whole weekend. Maybe we can meet halfway for brunch."
"What's halfway?"
"Centralia? I know they have an authentic Mexican resaurant. Would they do brunch?"
Sunday morning brought us together in the wholesome and family-friendly town of Olympia, Washington at a fish house on the pier. It was a gorgeous, idyllic Easter morning leisurely munching on fruit, wandering the farmer's market, people-watching the happy families with dopey dogs and fat babies, window-shopping boutiques and sipping coffee. We hugged goodbye and I continued to wander the waterfront for a while making friendly Easter phone calls to family before heading back to Portland. Don't worry, the whole situation unravels from here.
As I turned the key in the ignition I registered the immediate task at hand. My "Low Fuel" blinker had started up just before I rolled into Olympia, so I figured I had just enough gas to make it to the gas station. I took my exact route back to the freeway without seeing any gas stations, so instead of wandering around and getting lost I just hopped back on the freeway with the intention of pulling over at the last exit, where I remembered there was gas. Of course, before I can reach the last exit, I feel the uncontrollable slowing of the car and look down to see my RPMs plummeting quickly as my hungry little car sputters off to sleep. With a sigh of defeat, I manage to coast along the shoulder pretty close to the next exit, where I see a couple gas stations.
I sit for a moment in my car kicking myself. This is not the first time this has happened. Dammit, Danielle. Okay, let's do this thing. As I trek up the shoulder of the freeway I flashback to the groggy state in which I chose my outfit that morning. Even though I wasn't going to Church, my inner Catholic guilt had forced me to put on a wholesome white A-line skirt and a pink shirt, complete with flats and a cardigan, as if dressing like an innocent 8-year-old would make up for me being a heathen. I looked ridiculous wandering up the side of I-5. Like an Easter Hooker. On the walk back to the car I convinced myself that the strange looks darting at me through every passing windshield were actually stares of jealousy at the gas station Choco Taco that I was so clearly enjoying. ("Yeah, Fools! When was the last time you treated yourself to a Choco Taco? I'd be jealous of me too!")
So by the time I was crossing the border back into Oregon, I was overjoyed to receive a text from my magnificent friend Leslie: "What are you doing? I need a dinner date." After recuperating at her apartment, the two of us enjoyed a nutritious Easter dinner of LOTS OF BEER at the Lucky Labrador with her dog Cleo in tow. By the time the Lucky Lab closed we couldn't fathom abandoning Cleo to go to a real bar, so we walked to the friendly neighborhood sketchy convenience store. Needless to say, for Easter dessert we each killed a 40oz of Steel Reserve and split a package of vegetarian chicken nuggets. In my mind, this is how my Easter ended:
"Oh man! Sorry Leslie, I must've fallen asleep. I'll get out of your hair before it's tomorrow."
"It's already tomorrow. It's like 6:00 a.m."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah dude you destroyed that 40. You passed out like ten minutes into Drive."
"Oh yeah we were gonna watch Drive! Well sorry, dude. Thanks for the quilt."
"No problem. I've been up for two hours watching PBS."
"Awesome."
.....Awesome.
The story of my Easter began a few days earlier in a series of texts/calls with my sister in Seattle:
"What are you doing for Easter?"
"I don't know. Driving up to see you in Seattle? ....Naw I don't have the cash to go up there for the whole weekend. Maybe we can meet halfway for brunch."
"What's halfway?"
"Centralia? I know they have an authentic Mexican resaurant. Would they do brunch?"
Sunday morning brought us together in the wholesome and family-friendly town of Olympia, Washington at a fish house on the pier. It was a gorgeous, idyllic Easter morning leisurely munching on fruit, wandering the farmer's market, people-watching the happy families with dopey dogs and fat babies, window-shopping boutiques and sipping coffee. We hugged goodbye and I continued to wander the waterfront for a while making friendly Easter phone calls to family before heading back to Portland. Don't worry, the whole situation unravels from here.
As I turned the key in the ignition I registered the immediate task at hand. My "Low Fuel" blinker had started up just before I rolled into Olympia, so I figured I had just enough gas to make it to the gas station. I took my exact route back to the freeway without seeing any gas stations, so instead of wandering around and getting lost I just hopped back on the freeway with the intention of pulling over at the last exit, where I remembered there was gas. Of course, before I can reach the last exit, I feel the uncontrollable slowing of the car and look down to see my RPMs plummeting quickly as my hungry little car sputters off to sleep. With a sigh of defeat, I manage to coast along the shoulder pretty close to the next exit, where I see a couple gas stations.
I sit for a moment in my car kicking myself. This is not the first time this has happened. Dammit, Danielle. Okay, let's do this thing. As I trek up the shoulder of the freeway I flashback to the groggy state in which I chose my outfit that morning. Even though I wasn't going to Church, my inner Catholic guilt had forced me to put on a wholesome white A-line skirt and a pink shirt, complete with flats and a cardigan, as if dressing like an innocent 8-year-old would make up for me being a heathen. I looked ridiculous wandering up the side of I-5. Like an Easter Hooker. On the walk back to the car I convinced myself that the strange looks darting at me through every passing windshield were actually stares of jealousy at the gas station Choco Taco that I was so clearly enjoying. ("Yeah, Fools! When was the last time you treated yourself to a Choco Taco? I'd be jealous of me too!")
So by the time I was crossing the border back into Oregon, I was overjoyed to receive a text from my magnificent friend Leslie: "What are you doing? I need a dinner date." After recuperating at her apartment, the two of us enjoyed a nutritious Easter dinner of LOTS OF BEER at the Lucky Labrador with her dog Cleo in tow. By the time the Lucky Lab closed we couldn't fathom abandoning Cleo to go to a real bar, so we walked to the friendly neighborhood sketchy convenience store. Needless to say, for Easter dessert we each killed a 40oz of Steel Reserve and split a package of vegetarian chicken nuggets. In my mind, this is how my Easter ended:
"Oh man! Sorry Leslie, I must've fallen asleep. I'll get out of your hair before it's tomorrow."
"It's already tomorrow. It's like 6:00 a.m."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah dude you destroyed that 40. You passed out like ten minutes into Drive."
"Oh yeah we were gonna watch Drive! Well sorry, dude. Thanks for the quilt."
"No problem. I've been up for two hours watching PBS."
"Awesome."
.....Awesome.
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