The Ecology of Craft: what it's like to be "crazy"

I would like to begin by pasting these links: 

http://www.stevenandximena.com/

http://www.facebook.com/TheMountainPlaza

As many of you know, I recently returned from a trip to Japan where I was researching traditional wood-fired kilns.  The title of the research proposal was, The Ecology of Craft, where I made the argument that the kilns are part of a 'complex geographic constellation,' and that one would be overlooking some of their greatest qualities if he were content to merely 'geek' out on their immediate utility.  The kilns are amazing objects, and one can derive great satisfaction just from viewing them, being in their presence (they are easy to anthropomorphize), and experiencing their aesthetic qualities. But what makes them supremely beautiful is their role within communities as dynamic objects; they are a morphology, and are in constant dialogue with their environment - topography, culture, technics.  So what is craft? the skill that it takes to build a kiln? this is part of it. the material? the product, a vase? the kiln itself?  part of it too. Craft above all is the dialogue, the interdependency of multiple agents, experimentation, trial and error, and the balance that is ultimately achieved after disaster has run its course.  Art is a statement; Craft is a conversation. 

Kilns, then, have the ability to connect (and so we should not be so weary of our cliches).  Of course, other things do this. But for Steven and Ximena, and their family and friends in Tokoname, Japan, it is a massive clay wall and a kiln.  They have been doing it for over a decade (12 years). Ask them what they are making and they will tell you, a family, a community, a home, a place.  What drives a person, a couple, family, to do something like this?  Steven and Ximena manage answers, but it is my opinion that they will be contemplating 'answers' for the rest of their lives; maybe that's why they do it?  The rest of the world might call it "crazy," because that's the easiest way to explain something that's hard to explain. Kudos to Steven, Ximena, their family and friends for doing something so crazy - we are inspired and blessed.  

Professor Richard Shaw: Retired May 2012

this is a photo of our well-loved and recently retired Professor Richard Shaw.

he is an official Legend.

awarded 'LEGEND' status by the Watershed Center for the Ceramic Arts in November 2011, Richard was bestowed this honor among colleagues Val Cushing, Paul J. Smith, and Patti Warashina.
 
the Archie Bray Foundation has this to say about him:


"In the world of contemporary ceramics, Richard Shaw is the master of trompe l’oeil sculpture. Throughout his career he has developed an astonishing array of techniques to create his work, including casting porcelain forms and creating surfaces using overglaze transfer decals.

Richard Shaw was educated at the San Francisco Art Institute where he received his BFA in 1965. He completed his MFA at the University of California at Davis in 1968. He began teaching at the San Francisco Art Institute in 1966 where he taught for twenty years. He is presently a professor of art at the University of California at Berkeley where he teaches ceramics and drawing.

One of two National Endowment Grants allowed him to explore a photo silkscreen method of reproducing decals and allowed him to work with a professional silkscreen artist, perfecting ceramic transfers.

Shaw has been a resident artist at Shigaraki Cultural Ceramic Park in Japan and the Manufacture National de Sevres in Paris, he was elected as a fellow of the American Crafts Council in 1998, and his work is collected in both private and public collections nationally and internationally. Public collections include the Whitney Museum of American Art, New York City; the San Francisco Museum of Art; the Taipei Museum of Modern Art, Taiwan; the National Museum of Modern Art, Kyoto, Japan; and the Stedelijk Museum, Amsterdam, The Netherlands."

 

and so, we miss Richard. 

 

frequenting the hallways and Cafe Strada on certain weekdays.  

 

walking in those boots, walking in the way that only he can, his kind of cowboy laid-back-ness, and always clean and tidy.  never disheveled.

he might disagree with that.  but if he did, it would be in an elegant kind of round about sort of way, much like the way in which the farmer hays over the course of a long hot summer day on a farm in upstate New York, driving round, taking the time, not really saying much, yet saying everything.  

 

but still, telling stories.  maybe even the same ones you heard before, but it's always new, even after years of hearing it.  because there's always new information being revealed.  that's the great part.  if you're open to it, you can take the same class nine times, and always get something new from it.

okay.  i took the class nine times.  

and i'm still getting something new.

 

i imagine him on the ferry, everyday with that cold wind coming off the water, blowing across his face as he looks out over the water.  i hear he used to ride his bike all the way from Stinson Beach up past Mt. Tam all the way to that ferry.  that's not a small distance without hills.  

 

maybe it's part of his secret Iron Man triathalon training.

if you were lucky to attend one of Richard's classes over the years, then you know these things.  because he is a storyteller.  he shows slides, he tells stories.  he drinks coffee, he tells stories.  he listens, he makes drawings.  i never felt separated from Richard by his success.  he just answered your questions when you had them, even if it was for the millionth time, "Umm, Richard?  Umm, do you put the underglaze on top of the glaze?  Or under?  Because I'm not sure."  but he was funny about it.   

 

but i never asked that underglaze question.  

you know those times when you are saying something stupid?  no, not like the underglaze thing,  i mean something really stupid.  you know, you're making some sort of big-type proclamation -- and you're kind of young and you think it doesn't matter what you say?  well, i once was walking around the back of the sculpture yard, making one of these ridiculous statements out loud to the about-to-be-unlucky person i was walking with, and damned if The Man didn't come around that corner, brushing right past me.  

 

to say i was mortified would be a half-truth in itself.  mortified?  more like zombified.  that he would ever hear me speak like that, god!  ugh, then i felt embarrassment that i would say something like that at all - ever! - let alone even think it.  

 

though i instantly regretted it, there was no way to do a take-back.  oops!  sorry!  nah, didn't really mean that one!  uh, yeah.  just kidding?  no.  just my own private horrorshow.

 

because i know that one of the secrets to his success, is that you keep that sort of thing, Missy, to yourself.  because nobody wants to hear that kind of talk.

he is the kind of man you want to make feel proud of you, so you work extra hard.  you learn to take the initiative by doing the dirty jobs -- like cleaning out the sink -- because that's what he did over summer break.  by himself.  that stinky stainless sink in the plaster room that stared back at you every day for months.  so you take his lead.  he shows you how to move, then you move.   and you don't do it because you are expecting any kind of special thing about it.  but you know he will notice.   fact:  he'll most likely say thank you.  

i'd be lying if i said the work was enough, even though it is in the end, because it feels good to be recognized for what you do, or how you do -- even a simple pat on the back, or little joke.  this is what Richard is a master of.  no loud or boisterous explanations.  you can always count on him to be courteous and observant.  honest and supportive.  

 

he will actually take the time out to make the mold for the first time student.  i mean, HE will MAKE it.  what a guy.  so, again, take the lead.  help the first timer.   take the time out of your schedule.  show someone something.  help because it's who you are.  

 

it's the intention that counts.  it's all time, anyway, right?  

 

so, why not just let the person at the grocery store in line ahead of you?  how about yielding on the road to a merging car.  use your signals.  smile, say happy holidays.  anybody want some of this coffee?  and don't be afraid to say yes when someone offers you a gift.  say yes.  hungry?  eat. don't be shy.  take it.  hold the door for someone else.  be chivalrous.  because chivalry is not dead.  

 

and richard.  well, he may be the most chivalrous man i know.

 

we love you, Richard.

 

we'll see you soon.

 

happy holidays to you.

 

and to you your wassail, too. 

 

 

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uk_-y74FNR8

 

 

 

 

 

 

Run Away LIttle Rabbit: The End of Classes at Crybaby Central

did i mention that i'm a crybaby?

i think some of you know that about me.  in fact, in one of our projects this year for Michael Swaine's Art 137 - Advanced Ceramics - class i think i pretty well depicted that, or at least dramatized that.  maybe more like reliving it.

but today, i had to run away.

run away little rabbit.  run until your logs just can't stand it.  run until you fall down in a big soppy mess of tears, because all your friends have gone away.

run away little rabbit is a story line i am working on for some future children's book i will write.

run away little rabbit is a line that someone said to me, as an enticement to enter into a conflict that i did not wish to participate in.  as it goes, my intuition was right on as i tried to avoid the conflict - hence the run away little rabbit.

my chinese horoscope sign is rabbit.  someone once told me it was more like rabbit-cat, depending on the animal that is used.

she knew my chinese horoscope animal when she said that to me.

it was aimed directly at me, in fact, as she coaxed me away from the doorway.

if only i had made it through the door.

but today, little rabbit had to run again.  run away because it was all over.  our class time together was through.

and i didn't want to say goodbye, blubbering uncontrollably, illogically weeping for the end of something that was only ending as it was scheduled to.

and life is full of ends, right?  like we were talking about in the hallway, one of you and i -- we referenced that old song from the late 90's -- 'every new beginning comes from other beginning's end...'

___________________________

well, that was last night.

and today, as finals continue, i told my mother about my sadness at the departure of our special class.  i told her it probably went back to Montessori school -- she said, "You were four years old!" - and i said yes, but it's something about experiencing a traumatic loss before the identity is formed.

Yes, when i was 'four' - i believed it to be a little later -- maybe when i was 5 or 6, but no, she must be right.  our group had traveled, i think, to the great city of Philadelphia for a trip to the Please Touch Museum -- i think -- i remember the ham sandwich and carrot sticks my mother had enclosed in my lunch for me that day.  i can still see it in slow motion, in pictures.  i ate beneath the staircase.  i don't know why that is so deeply etched in my memory.  but i have recollection of it every now and then.

we got back home to our small town, and the church where our Montessori program was held -- in the basement, a very special space -- i can still see it, too, and its layout, the colors.  the tasks we performed there, and the alphabet hanging on the wall are very clear.

but there, as i rode in a car, my first best friend was having a time that etched another kind of mark into her memory -- and into her visage.

my best friend at the time was Kristy Holcombe.  even now, i swear, i still just want to cry about it.  yup.  crybaby central, i tell you.  so, Kristy had taken a different car than me home.  so they beat us to the church.  when we got back, they were already gone.  maybe we got stopped in traffic, something kept us from being there at the same time.  and the story goes that Kristy went inside the building to get a drink of water.  when she came out, she was crossing the little driveway that leads to the attached small parking lot. 

just at that moment, some drunk bastard of a man in a speeding vehicle came around the backside corner of the church.  he was driving one of those late 70's gas guzzlers, maybe a type pf muscle car.

well, he hit Kristy.  her poor little body was caught under his car for at least twenty yards -- something completely horrific -- and she was rushed to Children's Hospital of Pennsylvania at the University of Pennsylvania -- lovingly referred to as 'CHOP' by those that interact with it.

when we arrived to the church, word spread quickly about what had happened.

i think maybe they didn't tell me right away.  i mean, how do you tell a child something like that?  oh, right, by the way, your best friend on the whole world was run over by some crazy asshole and she's in the hospital and you can't see her because you're not family.  right, and also, by the way, you'll never see her again because her recovery will take a very long time, and her face, right.  her face.  yeah, well, you'll never see what happened to her face for a long time because we'll keep her hidden away from you. 

but we're doing this for your own good.

even though she only lived like ten minutes away.

they made it seem like it was hours' of a drive.

i remember saying repeatedly that i wanted to go and see her.  not understanding why i couldn't go and visit her at the hospital.  stupid hospital rules.

so.

i didn't see her.

in fact, i never saw her again.

until we randomly ran into each other in the mall food court.  my mom, my brother, me.  her mom, her brother, she.

but we were strangers.  we didn't know each other anymore.  all the intimacy that we had shared as children -- was gone -- only a memory when we looked at each other quizzically, as we were approaching adolescence rapidly at the time, and the little bit of ourselves that we found familiar in each other was made uncomfortable by the long expanse of time that separated us.

so.  i think that has haunted me for a very long time.  i mean, come on.  i'm interested in long-term projects.  long-term relationships.  i am adverse to loss and abandonment.  and so, with school, even at the university level, i feel all these things.  maybe others do not, but i do.

i mean, i may be wrong.  please tell me if i am wrong, because i love to be wrong.  it means that i am learning something about the world.

and so, even though the separation is built into the schedule, my heart doesn't really understand that at all.  i go on and invest in the relationship-building style that my heart says to, and then we're just supposed to say goodbye like nothing special happened.

and so, yeah.  last night, the little rabbit ran away, because --

 well, i love you all.

and i am sad that we won't see each other anymore. 

so, i guess, all you have to do is remember me getting all choked up on our walk down Telegraph, and shedding tears like i was a llama molting.   only my tears are less furry.

does that even make sense?  no?  crickets?

i have this running joke -- about my ability to try and crack jokes that really aren't funny -- i am going to collect these jokes -- and make arrangements to tell these jokes in an auditorium.  i will bring with me about 100,000 or ten or however many crickets they will sell me.  i will fill the auditorium with crickets.  i will proceed to get onstage with my mic, and my outfit, and with the video guys doing their thing.  i will tell my jokes, and there will be silence.  and i'll say:

"what?  crickets?"

Art with a Capital A

{Taking a break from studying for finals}

Art for me is a different world that I have not yet reconciled with.

Art is an emotional state where I am alone, by myself.

Art is something I can't really write about, yet somehow people see it.

Art is the label that people put on me, and the label I put on myself; however, the two seem really different.

Art is when I look at art.

Art describes communication, music, crafts, and statements.

Art is a manifestation of thoughts, feelings, and desires.

Art is intentionla typo.

Art is something that I idolized. 

Art is where my ambitions are.

Art is when people ask if I am an Art major.

Art is when I think about whether or not it would be different if I chose to go to an art school my senior year in high school.

Art is when I need to take a break.

Art is what Brett Walker taught me the past summer, about his beard and apple-eating.

I don't know how I can live without art, whatever art is. One thing I know: without art, I would have gone crazy four years ago, when I decided to leave Taiwan for the United States. It's almost like talking about God. 

I don't know God, yet He knows me.
I don't know art, yet art knows me. 

That's why I said I idolize art. 

One person who inspired me greatly was Reed Easley. She was my metal-smithing teacher in high school. I like her genuine character. I like how she dedicates her life to art. I also appreciate how she mentored me during the time I stayed in the metal shop everyday after school. That metal shop was like a home to me. Filled with thoughts, stories, and people who are opinionated and persistent.

I love art, whatever it is.

I have changed so much after a year spent at Berkeley. Beliefs, moral values, and ambitions. You name it.

I want to become a mentor, in whatever form or medium. I want to tell someone to embrace his/her art, whatever that is. I want to tell that person

"Whatever art is, it is one of the few things that have remained the same throughout my whole life; it is something that I continue to appreciate and pursue."

I am sane now. Time to go back to studying.

Rumor Has It

He said, it won't be, like, three posts, right?

No.  There will be more than three.  i've invited authors.  i've done the facebook plug. 

so.

more story time.  let's go back to the beautiful woods of southern Vermont.  to an area devastated by flooding created by Hurricane Irene last year.  that was the last time i heard Foye's voice.

i learned to throw for real back probably around ten years ago.   by chance, probably.  everyone who is involved with clay has their story, their open door-story.  how they met, fell in love with, and have a committed long-term relationship with the stuff.  that's kind of how it works. 

ceramics people aren't short term-types. 

oh -- and we ARE artists.

by the way.  we're not hobbyists.  this is NOT 'craft' -- so let me just set your mind and that debate at ease and put that noise to rest.

because we ARE artists.

i will debate you about it.  and i will win.

you cannot convince me of any other truth.  because it is THE truth. 

yes, if God were above, and He was staring down at Us.  It would be The Truth.  because He Hath made it So.

i have to say in the recent weeks, i have come to realize that i am part of that long-standing argument -- the 'Anything having to do with clay is Craft or Hobby but certainly Not Art'.  and i am happy about it.

i am happy about it because, in every story there is an underdog.  well, maybe not every story.  but in most.  okay, let's say forty-sixty?  how about antagonists?  protagonists?  i think about rebels in history, i think of John Lennon and how he was motivated by something -- what was it?  a strong dislike for the current ways of the world.  the US involvement and the British parliament.  a world dominated by something that we cannot affect.  an economic imbalance.  people in the world suffering.  maybe he was just motivated by drugs and alcohol, i know that happened.  but he was with Yoko.  Yoko.  preeminent artist of her time. 

what do John and Yoko have to do with this?

i could safely say that they are teachers of mine. 

i have had innumerous teachers.  and i will continue to have them, well, forever.  you see, for me, it is impossible to walk through the world without a curiosity and an unquenchable hunger for more.  it's just like that.  i'm just like that.  that's who i am and how my spirit works in this body.  that's just how it is. 

and so.  paths lead me to my teachers.  and then my teachers show me and tell me and then they show me that i need other teachers that want to be my teacher.  you see what i'm saying? 

for example, someone pointed out John and Yoko to me. 

for example, someone pointed out my very first throwing teacher.

and my very first throwing teacher pointed out the UC Berkeley ceramics department.

and now i'm a student participating in the ceramics department at UC Berkeley.

see how that works?

my teacher in southern Vermont, Richard Foye taught me to dress real dirty, like a homeless person.  he said it's useful because it weeds the bad ones out.  if people are judging you from the ouside, then they won't see the inside.  people who see you won't even see what you're wearing mostly.  maybe they see both, but that is pretty rare.  but they ones that just see the outside, you won't have to waste your time, their time.  time saved all around.  not to mention a bad investment.  i think that's what it's really about.  defending oneself and a tendency to be sincere and honest.  so what we were the same clothes three times in a row or for the last two weeks, even.  maybe in the professional world that would strike some as disgusting, weird, abnormal, just plain crazy.  maybe the professional world could be construed as such too from his perspective.

have i mentioned i love Richard Foye?

i love Richard Foye.

this guy.  what a guy.  he's got a Master's in Philosophy from the University of Vermont -- yes, that pays -- but what did pay off was his investment in the ceramics department.  he was hooked.  he was also friends with Ken from Putney -- he makes big plates, what's his name?  i'll remember in a little bit. 

my car was parked at his studio and home for an entire winter while i was in California.  this was about ten years ago.  it was actually an ex-boyfriend that had direct contact with Richard.  they played on the same soccer team.  i was leaving, he asked if it would be okay.  Richard has a big line of cars that he sometimes works on, and he said it was fine, no big deal.  but what Richard didn't know at the time was that i had heard of him.  i had an other friend also tell me of him.  and i had expressed some interest in clay, in pottery, in learning to throw on the wheel.  so i was supposed to go over and learn.  but then i never did. 

until then.  to get my car.  the unhappy break up with that boyfriend happened, and so i had to get in touch with Richard about the car.  and so it began.  i told him that i had held a ceramics job in Philadelphia with Julie Zimmerman Million, helping to make her little slab-built birdhouses.  we went to shows.  we did the schlep-in and schlep-out.  that's what i call it, going to shows, where you have to load in and load out, usually on the same day, sometimes not.  sometimes separated by a few unproductive weekend days where not a lot of merchandise was moved.   he listened.  we talked.   i think that first conversation lasted a while, at least forty-five minutes.  not bad for someone you never even met.

so he invited me to come out, stay in the extra room, and hang out.  Foye's got a certain style of everything.  you like it or you don't.  it's old Vermont.  it's an old creaky house that is totally beautiful.  i love that house.  it smells like fire. 

pick.  that's it.  ken pick.  lives in putney.  great house in putney, vermont.   makes these beautiful large plates, does very well at the shows that he does.

see it works.  if you let your brain do the work, the answers come.  you don't need the internet.  for everything.  you can even have conversations abroad.  without that internet.  but that's another story.

so.  Vermont.  it was the springtime.  it was beautiful, green, everything they say it is.  i had already lived there for a few years by then, and i had grown accustomed to the long dark cold winters and the hot summers.  the swimming holes in Vermont.  i tell you, reason enough to want to move back.  and i think about it from time to time.  there is this one place that is completely surrounded in granitic boulders.  the water is deep and black.  and perfect on a hot July afternoon.  they call them 'ponds' out there -- and in fact, these were the first ponds that i had ever swum in.  i have what they call the 'fish swimming up fear' -- you know, what may be akin to the 'fish biting-off fear' for the guys out there.  know what i mean? 

....to be continued

My Very First Blog Bitch Session: Alec Baldwin's Face

okay.  so something just happened that keeps me away from the internet.

first of all, i'm really glad there are mommies everywhere and that there are mommies that do blogs and tell every single detail about their trip to the Costco and upload photos of the pre-natal care trip to the hospital where they get the --- what do you call that -- sonar, radar, belly thing -- you know what i'm talking about.  lunar...i know i'm close.  i'll remember it in a second.  i know it could look it up.  but i want to remember it on my own.  let my brain do the work.

so.  the thing? well, it's the thing that some algorithm does.  it does it to me and it does it to you.  it judges us.  it judges me to be in my 'mommy-zone' years and it pushes these ideas to me and i don't like it.

i find this behavior very insensitive.

please mr. ms. google-yahoo people -- miranda, clay, rj -- can you do something about this?

can i tell you that i can't stand that i have to stare at Alec Baldwin's scary mug the second a sedative film ends -- and i have to RUN and GET UP QUICKLY because the image of him is there, just as was falling asleep, to the sweet seduction of the final credits -- but no -- Netflix decided that "as part of their customer experience" that they would force this image upon me at the beginning of the credit roll.

i don't like this.

i called them.

they said there was nothing that i could do.

no button to push.  no choice for a different background.  nothing i could do.

no more red screen.  no more silence.  no more peace of mind or satisfaction or quiet red contemplation after the movie.  no edge of sleep to fall over into.

just him.  there he is.  goddamned alec baldwin.

now.  don't get me wrong.  i love alec baldwin.  love his voice-overs in the wes anderson films.  couldn't have been a better choice there.  i even enjoy 30 Rock from time to time.

but i gotta tell ya.  since ya'll at Netflix make me stare at his somewhat disturbing-looking evil-face after every single movie ends -- i am NOT interested in watching it.

Netflix, i am pissed.  first, you take away our freedom to DVD.  now this.

really, what are we to do?  your subscribers, your audience.  what do you think we should do?

and how long do you think we should wait?

are you busy gathering information, for your newest algorithm, that you will apply, as the data rolls in?

writing programs for 'classic red' after the movie ends or perhaps other 'wallpapers' that will entice more views or more subscribership?

well, i don't know.  i just know i don't like it and i either have to deal with this ridiculous HOT MEDIA that people have invented that is supposed to MAKE OUR LIVES SO MUCH BETTER.

but, really?  i'd much rather pop in an old VHS -- that's right, people, i'm THAT old -- and then fall asleep to that sweet bluescreen after Caddyshack for the hundredth time ends.  but then i'd have to have a tv in my room.  not really down with that either.  so.  medicine come with side effects.  and now ALEC fucking BALDWIN is the side effect to Neflix medication.  thanks, Netflix for not asking me if i was cool with that, for not offering me some alternative -- really -- that's the right thing to do at the very least.

and could you please put Emmet Otter back on?  or are you busy watching to see how many purchases of that are made during the holiday season on Amazon or at Best Buy since you are no longer offering it. 

and my brain?  well, it hasn't pulled up the file yet for that word, damn it.  lunar, sonar, radar, belly, something.  i have to get a...okay.  maybe mute.  let's try it. maybe get an ____ something.  starts with a 'u'? maybe?  an?  oh, yes.

ultrasound.

there is it.

so these mommies with their ultrasounds.   don't they know i'm a woman in my thirties?  oh, they probably do know that.  that's why they're pushing mommy-central at me.  reminding me just what i'm missing most in my life:  a husband that loves me, a baby that i love more than life itself, a house that i can make food and love in, and a space that is mine to tend to and be responsible for.  oh.  yes.  right.  that.

another one of the reasons that i just had to, and well, i thought wrong at first, i thought Deactivating my Facebook account was forever the first time -- then i realized that, well, no, you can come back any time you want -- so -- so much for that.  but, yeah.  another too many babies and smiling happy perfect lives that i just don't have right now in my face all the time.  too overwhelming.  too much.  so, sorry for my sometimes deactivated status.

i think i have mostly worked that out to only sign on when i feel good about what's happening in my life, and when i just need something like a phone number that got lost on an old phone that i need now -- that is definitely a positive side -- especially since the hard copies -- they are called address books -- actual little books with paper that has lines on it and a little symbol of a phone in the space where the phone number should be written.  i loved these things.  but most of them have been stolen.  out of my car, usually.

these objects to me are tomes full of history.  i want to say 'rich' history -- but all i can think of is Will Farrell saying that word when he describes mahogany, and leather-bound books.  thank you, will.

which reminds me.  i should get into touch with my friend, Will.

Will graduated from Brown a few years ago.  now he is in St. Louis at Washington University.  he does things with fMRI research.  we have a long friendship extending over the last -- oh god, is it really, could it possibly be?  dare i say -- seventeen years?  yikes.  well, anyway, we've always had conversations about healing and issues and trauma and how all that works.   he's from Rochester, and i'll be heading to Philadelphia later this week.

empty coffee cup.

gotta go get something to drink.

see.

this is why i don't really like the computer thingy.  it just ends up serving as a stand-in for talking to someone face to face and all those weird little things you would say to someone if they were right there, the weird things that you don't really type about -- the things you're not supposed to share -- now there's a word for it: 'oversharing' -- i know i have observed myself to do this in years past, and i have tried to work on that, since it seems like most of that information is of negligible importance and usually works out to making the interaction less efficient and potentially more drawn out and frustrating for everyone.

but, hey.  it's all about being heard, right?

heard, recognized, acknowledged, seen.

so, maybe instead of remembering that Alec Baldwin chewed his daughter out when her was drunk and called her horrible things and said awful words to her, maybe i need to recognize that poor Alec was just trying to be heard at the time.  and that he was angry and frustrated with the world or his ex-wife or financial situation or whatever it was -- maybe he just didn't get laid the night before -- what EVER it was -- that he was still expressing himself at the time -- and that is good.  and that we, as human beings need to realize that that sometimes is really not personal.  yes, he was acting out.  he chose a target.  that is not right, and i do not respect that.  and i am sure he didn't think about when he was doing it that there are consequences to his actions, and that his words could be projected all over the world with just a few clicks of some buttons.

and that is the world we are all living in, now.  no, maybe we don't have the infamousness -- can i just say infamity -- is that a word? -- it is now -- the infamity that mister baldwin has, but there are consequences to our actions.  point a to point b.  that phrase i always get confused about -- the physics-chemistry thing: that every reaction has an equal and opposite reaction -- or how ever it goes -- feel free to correct the quote -- i may have to myself if no one gets to it first -- but.

we are humans, and we are all works in progress.  we are all learning all the time.

so maybe alec baldwin had a crappy day and took it out on his daughter.  is it really different that my own father?  nah.  not really.  except that my dad's isn't the ugly mug that flashes up and out at me at 4:44 in the morning after Jason Reitman's film Young Adult ends.  nope.  not my pop's face.  but if it was, i'd probably be freaked out too.