Writing with the King

For any kind fellows who still check this blog, I recently blogged for my American University's Emerging Art Leaders Symposium blog. Here is what I wrote:

Yes, yesterday was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and although his memory deserves much more than one blog post - today, I prefer to discuss a different King, a literary king, Stephen King.

Amid the hefty stack of books I slated for my winter-break reading, Stephen King’s nonfiction piece, On Writing, claimed the top of the pile. Before this summer, I had never read one of his novels, but a literati friend put Green Mile into my hands. I was impressed by his storytelling ability and found myself willing to forgo my predilection for writers who teach me a new vocabulary word each page for solid, page turners like King churns out. Next, my same wise friend recommended On Writing to me, King’s autobiography and advice book for nascent writers.

Now, like many of my peers who study arts management, I struggle to make time for my own art while spending time studying the management of it. After reading about the challenges King overcame to produce his first novels - juggling marriage, small children, factory shifts and teaching - he reminded me that yes, it’s possible to keep artistic focus despite all the life happening around us. But it takes discipline. Amid the many sage observations in this book (including my favorite aphorism - “The road to hell is paved with adverbs”) what most resonated with me is his topic of muses.

How often do we as artists wait for that illusive moment for our inspiration to strike? We avow there will be a perfect moment to begin our opera, our painting, or our novel, but the time we have now does not seem quite right. Chances are, that instant will never come unless we pave the path. King puts it this way:

“There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. Do you think this is fair? I think it’s fair… It’s right that you should do all the work and burn all the midnight oil, because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. There’s stuff in there that can change your life.”

How I envision King's muse

We must not wait to strike when the iron is hot, but rather, we must work on what we love when the iron is tepid, downright frigid even. In order to be a successful arts manager, it’s paramount to foster my enthusiasm for the arts by being an active participant. Perhaps if we all find time to keep creating, then maybe, our reluctant muses will snub out their cigars and help us create work that can, in fact, change lives.

Rapt in the Return

Location: Budapest
Date: May 27, 2011
Adventure #51

Inspired by motherly encouragement/prodding, I am back to post again on my blog. Just two days ago, I hosted a reading at my favorite wine bar in Budapest with five other very talented poets. A large group of my friends attended, for which I was extremely grateful. Since I am betting that was my final poetry reading in Budapest before my imminent departure, I composed a poem inspired by some of my Hungarian experiences and my current attitude toward moving. Without further preamble, here it is:

Rapt in the Return

We sat side by side on a slated bench like one-third of the last supper,

drinking light lagers out of plastic grails

staring a sinister church protected by chicken wire,

caging in gargoyles with the lunette apostles,

a purgatory menagerie.

As its bells pealed at midnight,

we toasted each other in four languages,

the homeless man donning an Armani hat laughed as I dipped my finger in my drink and gave my dog a lick,

then his eyes moved back to a horizontal glare as we occupied his bed for just a little longer.

These are the moments I inhale,

hand just slapped the chess timer

must move to the next travail.

My mind is most rapt with a return ticket,

time-stamped eyes bring clarity, rarity of vision

where measured moments

bloom like highlighter rows of rapeseed.

I can’t forget what I didn’t do,

fill the cup of bent-over beggars,

whose outstretched hands quiver like a cellist sustaining a chord,

I never danced ‘til dawn in velvet cellars,

but there is still time,

and I didn’t finish the vinegar wine

served by flirtatious proprietors in musky cellars.

I handed it off like a baton to friends who dumped it out behind the cask,

volunteers passing water buckets to douse flames of fire water.

These are the moments I let pass,

hand just slapped the chess timer

time for new memories to amass.

My mind is most rapt with a return ticket,

time-stamped eyes bring clarity, rarity of vision

where measured moments

bloom like highlighter rows of rapeseed.

I have lacked bold strokes to learn the language.

As long as my shy smile suckled its mother tongue,

my stranger smile roused suspicion.

Always wanted to understand when scorn rolled from strangers’ crackled acorn eyes to bread-knife tongues,

so I could hear choice words

and chose my rebuttal carefully.

Instead, I continue with popgun phrasing of pleasantries like thank you beautifully or lovely weather today.

my default of ignorance has been to feign bliss.

These are words I must leave behind,

hand just slapped the chess timer

remaining time too strictly defined.

My mind stays rapt with the return ticket,

time-stamped eyes bring clarity, rarity of vision

I am enamored in the now.

Onwards and Upwards

Location: Budapest
Date: April 17, 2011
Adventure #50

This has been a long time coming, but I've been waiting to save post no. 50 to make this very special announcement. This August, I am moving to Washington, D.C. to attend graduate school at American University. I'll be getting my masters in Arts Management, and I want to focus on marketing and public relations for large cultural institutions. Since I am moving to the USA's museum mecca, I think I will have many fantastic internship/job possibilities. Fortunately, I received a grad assistantship, so I will be working with an initiative that documents the work of aging artists, thus combining two of my big passions: serving the elderly and promoting the arts. I couldn't have tailored a better program for me, and I am anxiously waiting to learn more details.

After telling a few friends about my plans, the follow up question is always, "Is your husband coming too?" The answer is yes, of course - because of his job, he can't pick up and leave quite as easy as I can, but for his quickly advancing career in international development there are few cities that are more in tune to his field than D.C., and it is a good move for him too. For a little while, it may be just me and the pup in Washington, but I have full confidence Mike will not be able to be separated from his newly naturalized dachshund for long.

Although I've been preparing to move from Budapest for almost a year, it is still a bit surreal to know that I will be leaving my home for the last 3.5 years, and Mike and I will live together in the States for the first time. The logistics of the move (packing years of accumulated things back into a few suitcases, collecting our possessions in Colorado and Texas and moving to a city in which I've only spent a total of six days) are overwhelming, but I am trying to take it one small move at a time.

Just like I never would have dreamed of living in Hungary, I never thought I would peregrinate to the East Coast. However, I am finding that a life of unplanned blessings and adventurous opportunities happily exceeds what my imagination fathoms.

Spring has Sprung

Location: Budapest
Date: March 2011
Adventure #49

In addition to hearing the occasional bird chirping, being able to open my windows in the day, and seeing flower beds full of vibrant blossoms, signs of vernal happiness take another form in Budapest: the arrival of Budapest Spring Festival. As in years past, I wrote a feature for my magazine about the large-scale cultural event, which you can read by clicking here.

I was invited to attend the opening ceremony for the festival, which was held at the Museum of Ethnography - a stunningly ornate building built in the early 20th century for Hungary's Ministry of Justice. Anytime I get an invitation to go to that museum, I take it. Although it was hard to capture using just my Ipod, I took this picture of the lobby while a Gypsy musical group performed.

And yet another perk of reporting on the festival was that I was able to attend a flamenco dance version of Carmen - masterminded by Antonio Gades - a late, world-famous Spanish choreographer. Although I think it would have been much better with a live orchestra, the Spanish guitarists and flamenco dancers were exceptional. It solidified what I always suspected would be true: there is nothing more sultry than a vixen (clad in a red dress, naturally) seducing her man with flamenco flitting to Bizet's "L'amour est un oiseau rebelle" (Love is a rebellious bird) aria.

Shakin' It All Night Long

Location: Buda
Date: February 2011
Adventure #48

If 1980s theme parties have helped me realize one personal truth, it would be that my hair was meant to be teased! Thanks to my friends Mats and Zsofi, I had the opportunity to let my voluptuous hair down and trip the light fantastic to fantastic '80s tunes at their hilarious party last month. I know most people in the '80s did not look/dress like this all the time, but what good is a theme party if you don't take it to the extreme?

We revived fabulous looks from the decade, including party girl and Boy George - thanks Zsofi and Mats:

The Olivia Newton-John aerobic girl:

Who you gonna call ... for some man mid-drift:

And my friend Kinga even busted out a Walkman for the occasion:

As we laughed, applied too much make up, teased our hair and danced, danced, danced, heaven truly was a place on earth. Thanks 1980s for being a decade that is just so fun to make fun of.

Now I am waiting for a '90s party, where I plan on wearing a highlighter-hued windsuit that will incessently make a "whoosing" sound while I dance to Ace of Base, Spice Girls and Salt'N'Peppa.

Stunt dog

Within the first couple weeks of having Pollock, he started a hilarious habit of sprinting in circles around my apartment's courtyard. He does this almost every time we let him off leash without any provocation. Since I wanted to capture it on film, here is Mike egging him on:

Literary hangovers, brought to you by Bukowski

Location: Budapest, VII District
Date: February 25, 2011
Adventure #47

It is another gray, snowy day in Budapest, yet I am quite content indoors. I just discovered Massolit, a lovely book store and cafe in Budapest that serves as a glorious Art Deco time warp with Wifi. With a black and white marble checked floor supporting sturdy wooden furniture, over-sized chairs that could hold two of me, and Ella Fitzgerald's finest tunes playing - I feel I have found another home away from home. So now, I am enjoying a delicious brownie and cappuccino and pausing from work.
This is a popular venue for my literati friends, with whom I have done many performances recently, including a "Write Like Bukowski" contest at a local dive bar. For those who don't know him, Charles Bukowski was a poet and author who lived in California and developed kind of a cult-following thanks to his rough, truthful prose and his reputation as the "laureate of American low-life." Given that he was a misogynistic alcoholic with a gambling addiction, writing in his style was a leap outside my creative comfort zone, which is why I welcomed the challenge to release my gritty side.

For the competition, winners could win a bottle of whiskey or a ham on rye sandwich (which happens to be the name of one of Bukowski's novels) for doing the best impression of the curmudgeon or writing most like him. My fellow Bukos were impressive, ranging from the gruff, drunk, explicit and love struck - and even included a participant who had met Bukowski multiple times in California. Although I didn't win any prizes against my unruly competition, I earned a lot of laughs from pieces like this where I tapped into Bukowski's pessimistic spirit with this true story:

Halloween

I stepped in dog crap while swaggering home from the bars on Halloween -

a typical Budapest plague -

so I left my boot outside my front door to clean in the morning.

The next day my German, middle-aged neighbor asked if I got any treats in my shoe,

thinking American Halloween is like St. Nicolas Day,

and I left my boot outside in hopes it would be filled with chocolate

for being such a good girl.

All I could say was

sometimes you get a treat,

but most the time you get tricks.

The next morning after my show, I smelled like I had just stepped out of an airport smoking lounge - even my poetry paper reeked of cigarettes - and my head hurt from drinking too much cheap beer. I think my poetic hangover was exactly what Bukowski would have wanted as a tribute.