Overmation Neglect

While scanning my daily Upod digest yesterday, I spotted a message sharing this stirring quotation: "We systematically overestimate the value of access to information & underestimate the value of access to each other." - Clay Shirky at SXSW 2011. Who is this Shirky fellow, you ask? And why does he have the privilege of making such astute, honest and perceptive statements? The Internet's effect on society is his bailiwick, that's why. Check out his creds here. 

Quilled Fail Whale by @allthingspaper

I read over his remark several times, each time agreeing with it more, despite a lack of context. 

A limitless amount of information is at our calloused fingertips (and carpal tunneled wrists). Past generations referred to more limited but perhaps higher quality sources of information, like encyclopedias (remember those?!) and people (remember them?!?!). If I want to learn something, I grab my MacBook, iPhone or sometimes iPad and ask Google. Google is a noun and also a verb. "Google it." Voila! Thousands of results! But which ones contain accurate information? Which ones can I trust? With so much animosity buzzing around so-called content farms these days, I'm beginning to raise an eyebrow on what I read on my screens. Yet when I open up a book or magazine, I trust that information. There is hardly a shred of doubt in my mind that the world's greatest editor hasn't fact-checked the information multiple times. The sources in those publications are surely legit. And of course I trust accredited information sites alike. 

What is Shirky really commenting on when he says "access to each other?" Should we confide in our neighbors more often? Maybe we should listen more intently during conversations? Perhaps when my mother, who's been a nurse for thirty-five years, suggests a remedy, I should obey. Maybe he's more so referring to our neglect of the people in our lives. Our loved one walks in the door after a long, draining day of being an adult, and we barely look up from our electronic world to greet. I am absolutely guilty of excess QT with the laptop and not enough with the BF.

So tonight, my friends, unplug and snuggle up next to the PEOPLE in your lives. I promise you will  meet not a fail whale but open arms.

*Note: I experienced an instance today (4/3/11) where I overestimated Google and underestimated a person. Seated at a breakfast joint in Running Springs, we wondered what the "adobada" sauce was. Instead of asking our waitress, I reached for my iPhone. Tsk-tsk.

Philanthropic Parlour

This Sunday's tribute to crafty women sings to my inner feminist. Yes! Let's celebrate creative women! Yes! An event dedicated to the handmade scene! Yes! Smart lady hands! The Pink Parlour Festival, for its third year in a row, takes place in Arcadia, CA from 11am-7pm. Want more details? Of course you do. Checkout my article here.

Last week I had the pleasure of chatting with Seth Borden, the event's co-producer. Andrea Perez is the female half of this truly selfless duo. Both philanthropists with an incredible passion for the arts, they dedicate the bulk of their year planning for this event. Once the annual festival does turn a profit, their mission is to donate to various nonprofits, the City of Hope and the Children's Hospital of Orange County. What a man. What a woman. What a mighty good team.

A reminder, dear friends, to do good.

Sore Throat

Since I was 9 - an age where the reality of life swooped me into its cold grasp, turning my world and I upside down and shaking us violently, for years, until coping with losing my father became bearable - writing has been my outlet and therapy. I rarely confided in family or friends to discuss my feelings. I bottled them up inside then spilled them onto inviting pages of scrap paper and word processors, exhausting my emotions and hands. Today I still practice this technique. And today I am angry and brimming with questions.

What good is your voice if no one listens? Do you continue to shout? Or do you admit defeat and accept silence? How do you force someone to listen, to care, to respect your advice? How do you not feel insignificant when you are ignored? How do you not become angry? Why do some people always trust the advice of their parents and no one else? Why care?

Because I cannot stand being ignored. And though I pose these questions, I know that silence is never the answer. Keep shouting. Keep screaming. Keep singing. Gather any and all ears, dig deep into your belly and bellow until it hurts. Only stop when you're physically unable to continue. Exhaust yourself for the sake of yourself. Only then can you say you did everything you could. Fight the good fight (with your mind, not your fists). Tell surrender to fuck off.

Amiable Virgins

There's just something about islanders. You know what I mean. They're always on "island time," always smiling, quick with a salutation, seemingly free of worries. What's wrong with them?

I'll tell you what's wrong with them - absolutely nothing. They've got it all figured out. Their priorities are admirable. Their lives do not focus on the heft of their wallets or accumulation of material possessions. They value life. Living life. Being happy. Enjoying friends and strangers alike.

I recently returned from my first trip to the United States and British Virgin Islands. I'm notorious for sinking into a deep post-vacation depression, claiming I want to move to my most recent vacation destination, picking apart my homeland, generating a list of solely cons about Los Angeles and America. And yes, it's happening now. I returned home on Sunday. It's Wednesday. I spent an hour tonight lying in my bed, eveningdreaming about how I could make it work. How I could move to one of the islands and write for a local magazine, possibly a travel magazine like Destinations. I read the latest version from front to back on the plane to St. Thomas. I reminded Hudson, for probably the fifth time, that we could buy a boat and sail tourists around the islands. It all seems so doable. Not simple. But possible. In fact, people do it all the time.

Several locals with whom I chatted said they'd come down to visit and stayed, they were staying for an indefinite number of months or the plan from the start was to reside for a set period of time then someday venture somewhere new. Jeff, our favorite bartender at our resort, plans to leave St. Thomas in six months, head west to South America then brave the brutal Alaskan climate. Jeff is from Michigan. And I could have his itinerary all wrong as I was 2 or 3 double rum and cokes deep on our last night. What is it like to be a nomad? Is it lonely? Fulfilling? Do they document their experiences via journals, photos and videos? Do their families come visit? Do they never plan to settle? Without roots intact, does a person feel completely liberated? These are all questions I should've asked. But after a day of sun and rum-infused cocktails, the journalist in me had retired pour le jour.

The islanders really are amiable. One unforgettable interaction that particularly grabbed my attention, made me giggle and ignited my animosity for Americans was at the ferry station in St. Thomas. Cathy, a good friend of my mother, walked up to an attendant and, without greeting, inquired about the approaching ferry. He answered, "Good morning." My mouth dropped. I laughed. I watched them interact. Cathy is a warm woman, very friendly and full of life. But she just forgot to greet the man as a human, as a friend. I would have forgotten, too. There it was. That much needed knock in the noggin begging us to Slow.Down. I feel like society has completely eradicated any sense of humanity, any sense of brotherhood and sisterhood. We are the same species. Sure we may have different origins, opinions, beliefs, appearances, intellects. But when you boil it down, we are the same. And we should be friendly towards one another, just like the ferry attendant was to Cathy. We should communicate as friends. This is the idealist in me clawing its way through layers of pessimism and cynicism, ambushed by an overwhelming optimism for life and all beings.

There's a wonderful sense of community on the islands. It feels like a small town with regulars and friendly small talk. Recreational fields provide land for athletes. A barista in Charlotte Amalie knew Jeff, and we shared a moment embellishing a man that I hardly knew and with whom she spent a lot of her free time. Friends.

Animals are respected on the islands, which is a custom I happily witnessed in Costa Rica, too. Wildlife mingle with tourists and locals. No hands, feet or mouths are shooing away the iguana who approaches you as you slam down, in my case, a breakfast burrito on St. John (the first of three bbs consumed during my trip). Roosters and their chicks roam the land without reprimand. Leash-less dogs trot along the beaches. Cats roam the resorts. It's beautiful.

In late June/early July I will return to the Caribbean to celebrate Hudson's big 3-0 with his mother, father, aunt and hopefully her boyfriend. He's a lawyer, hence he schedules all vacations as "tentative." We won't be aboard a cruise ship, because we are not cruise ship people. And we are not staying at a resort, though this is always an excellent choice. Instead we are chartering a catamaran. We will sail from island to island, experiencing life on a boat in one of the most gorgeous places on earth. Soaking in the sun, the sea, the life. Who knows if I'll return...

Trees & Tutus

I'm escaping L.A. in just a few hours to meet the wonderful island of St. Thomas (yes, I am bragging). But I could not depart without posting about the other two wonderful events I covered this week.

TreePeople needs volunteers! Once my foot heals, I will be one of them! They're coordinating a massive effort to replant severely burned sections of the Angeles National Forest. Remember those wildfires in 2009 that could not be contained? Well, they massacred thousands of acres of gorgeous conifers, hence the above noted effort. Checkout the article here.

Buzz around Black Swan continues to hum, and MOCA Pacific Design Center just unveiled "Rodarte: States of Matter." The two sisters who run Rodarte, Kate and Laura Mullheavy, designed the black and white tutus worn in the film. The exhibit not only displays those costumes but showcases garments from three of their runway collections. The installation is insane - an absolute must-see. It's on the top of my list once I return. Read more here.

Au revoir!

Impact

Life surprises me sometimes with delightful beings who leave a lasting impact. I wish this happened every day, though lately it has been happening frequently each week thanks to interviewing sources for articles. 

Last Friday I chatted with Paula Goldman, a wonderful woman and gifted photographer. Her voice echoed Hudson's aunt's voice, warm and wise. We chatted for about 45 minutes, exploring tangents, sharing laughter and ending the conversation with a brief discussion of frustrating life in sprawling Los Angeles. Among the many things she said that grabbed my attention, I really liked this: "That's where all the work comes from, right? Just from life. Part of it's decaying, part of it's kids, part of it's laughing." She splits her life, not sure how evenly, between her work and family. Some day I will understand how women do it. How they juggle it all and keep everything in motion. Life is chaos as-is. I am unable to fathom adding a dependent being into the equation and come up with an answer. It all amazes me, this extraordinary mess we call life...

But back to Paula!

Please swing on by the west side before March 27th and check out her exhibit at The G2 Gallery. Her work is so unique as is the gallery's mission. My beat is environmental arts; G2 is sort of my haven. They donate all proceeds from art sales to various environmental groups. Paula's opening reception is this Friday, so if First Fridays on Abbot Kinney is your thing, definitely go! You'll get to meet the lovely Paula and immerse yourself in her work and live music. Go ahead, indulge.

You can read my article on the show here.