Is there something about your lifestyle that makes you feel like you're really "doing something" with your life?

Do you prefer to be comfortable and safe, or do you like things a little rocky? Do you prefer the passionate ups and downs of life or do you like things to be smooth and easy?

When do you feel most alive?

-- Anonymous, August 16, 1999

Answers

I am most alive while reading Squishy!

It's lively and refreshing, so good and good for you too!

-- Anonymous, August 16, 1999

I feel most alive when I am not at work but home with my little man a JRT, named OS

-- Anonymous, August 16, 1999

I worked at a girl scout camp as a kitchen aide, and I just have a couple of slivers of goodness. At the end of the night, after I'd had a cigarette and chatted about below-the-belt piercing or debating whether or not Drew Barrymore was truly an idiot, I'd go back to bed, and I'd always hike in the dark. It was a criss-cross trail of about 300 yards, and I'd have to depend on the moonlight. Then, when I got inside, I'd slide into my sleeping bag, and my pillow would smell like Camel lights. It was a very reassuring sequence, that made me feel like this was something I could do for the rest of my life, got it?

As far as the passionate ups and downs of life, I'd definitely say I like things a little rocky. We had a prowler on the lose, and while later it turned out to be a practical joke, when it was happening, emotions were running high. And while some people were sobbing and shaking from the fear, I was thinking, It's good to be here. Very thrilling!

-- Anonymous, August 16, 1999

My attitude during my public education was to do as little as possible. I always thought that the grading system was inherently corrupt, because, at best, it rewarded students for doing that which I considered a reward in itself, which was learning. The reality, however, was that many of the highest ranked students coasted by cheating, having the best person in each class carry the work for that clique. It was efficient, and when things work in the world, it's how success is leveraged to best effect, but it was dishonest, and to break the rules merely to get approval from the system seemed spineless.

I left myself open to as much wisdom as I could, but in the bureaucracy of public education, there was only the wisdom that the teachers, as individuals, brought with them, and not on any syllabus. The strongest impressions I took from high school were teacher who subverted any sense of certainty of anything. The whole first day of Grade 9 Geometry was spent trying to prove to Mr. Abate, in Socratic fashion, that there was such a thing as the number "2." The whole first day of Grade 11 Physics was spent trying to disprove Mr. Remer's alternate theory of optics, that darkness was an actual substance, which was driven away by light.

These strong impressions, however, didn't form any patterns indicating any particular discipline to pursue. The very strongest impression of any time spent in High school was an airing of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest in Mr. Patskanic's Psychology class, a movie which could easily be summed up by Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society: seize the day. After high school, the only option I gave myself was to go to art school.

My first semester at art school couldn't have been worse. I spent a lot of time putting a lot of line and color on paper and canvas, my lines uncommitted to any clear shapes, and my colors contrasting very little. When people leave art school, they leave for less reason than I had for giving up.

One teacher who left a strong impression on everyone was Patti Bellantoni. She taught Media Communication, a class for non-verbal illustration. Most of the assignments were to give alternate illustrations for Time and Newsweek articles she would bring in. A typical critique from Patti would begin, "Chris, I can tell you spent a lot of sleepless nights on this illustration. The drawing is beautiful and the color is gorgeous. Your illustration, however, doesn't reflect the article, so you're going to have to do it over, or I can't give you credit for it.

Having been groomed in high school by praise for the intensity of their work, this kind of critique left most of the freshman art students a little shell-shocked. Now that praise for work intensity was taken away, they, we, weren't exactly sure what was expected of them. Well, not really we. I coasted by, reading the articles as well as any of the other students. And I had built no momentum of showing off with artwork, as the other students had in high school.

Coasting, however, did not change my bad situation, where I was trying to find my voice. Well into my second semester, I knew that my situation wouldn't change until I deliberately did something provocative for one of Patti's assignments. The homework was a visual analogy, using 3 illustrations. The example Patti gave were photos of a blue whale, a nut cracker, and I think something like a clothespin.

I spent all of 15 minutes on my visual analogy: loose drawings of a double-helix, a chubby woman in a contorted stance, and a doodle to indicate a pretzel cropped in the center. I subtitled them "The Majestic DNA Molecule," "Mrs. Rabinowitz's Nude Exotic Dancing," and "Pretzel!" I tore off the tops and bottoms of the drawings, except for the tops of the first one, and the bottom of the last one, and I was done.

Before the next class started, Irene, a spoiled rich girl, decided to console me for the critique Patti was obviously going to give me. "She's going to rip this apart! The edges are torn! You don't look like you spent any time on this! Maybe you should hide it and try again next week!" The only other opinions given were in agreement. I placed my drawings last on display, inviting the last word of critique from Patti.

Patti went through her weekly routine of demanding changes for any new work displayed, and approving or disapproving any changes from any unfinished illustrations. She got to my drawings, and didn't say anything for what felt like the longest time. "Michael," as I remember the words coming out of her mouth, "It's about time."

She liked the loose style. She liked how the torn paper indicated a beginning, middle, and end. She liked the humor. I shot a look at Irene, and she looked like she swallowed a bug. They all looked like they swallowed bugs. Eat my bugs.

I finished my first year with that and a similar experience in a really tough painting class. It took me 3 years to figure out that the best teachers were the ones who's classes you found yourself drawing non-stop, and my senior year was most fun (and demoralizing for some of my peers).

Since finishing art school, I've been drifting, from cashier and fastfood jobs, to the military, to hustling for the worker-bee tech job. I've been reading Pamie's journal for half a year, watching her accrue some of the success I've been looking for, but her brain works differently.

It reminds me of a comment on Babe Ruth I remember made on Ken Burns's Baseball. Babe Ruth never had to bat against Satchel Page, or compare batting averages with Josh Gibson, or had dirty balls pitched to him. Racism guaranteed the first 2, and the Black Sox scandal guaranteed no changes in the clean ball rule, or any rules. So the existing, unchanging rules of Baseball were optimal for Babe Ruth to step in and start breaking batting records.

If the managers had their way, they would have changed the size of the field, or changed bat regulations, or anything to keep any few players from dominating, but couldn't without inviting accusations of corruption and scandal. Babe Ruth had found his game, and no one could change it on him.

That's what I see when I read Pamie's entries. She's someone who's found her game. Someday, maybe I'll find my game. Maybe, I'm already playing my game, and it's the rest of the world that's missing out. (Yeah, and maybe if frogs had wings, they wouldn't bump their ass when they took a hop.)

-- Anonymous, August 16, 1999

I know what you're getting at with the whole acting thing, Pam. There's the romantic notion of the starving artist that has a lot of appeal. Since I've got a decent job, the only time this is really apparent is when we go on road trips for a show. It may not seem like fun to drive to Boulder or LA, but this is when I feel really alive. Stopping at 3am at a truck stop for a meal, telling stories to keep each other awake, seeing a sunrise from the backseat in a new time zone, that giddiness that comes with sleep deprivation-- with all of that I find it hard to sleep in the car and end up being worthless when we finally get wherever we're going. But hey, like I've said before: it's not the destination, it's the journey.

-- Anonymous, August 17, 1999

I like things a bit...madcap.

I feel most alive when things are interesting...be it good or bad.

Sex, though.

How shallow am I in admitting that sex makes me feel very, very alive?

Jackie

-- Anonymous, August 17, 1999

I like things to be smooth. Calm, with time to myself. Precious time alone...spot the parent. I'm really alive when I have time to draw. Time to sit with my kids and enjoy their personalities. Time to walk down the back of my block and look at the cranes landing on the dam. It would seem that time is a factor here. Too busy = not living. Spare Time = being alive....hmmm the MOST alive I have felt would be just after that Mack truck darted in front of me as I was turning right...Yeah, I felt really alive after that.

-- Anonymous, August 17, 1999

I feel really alive when I'm laughing--or crying--especially if it's a response to something I'm reading or writing. Writing... I think I'm most alive then. Yeah, I'm alive when I'm writing. Reading what I've written to others is scary but wakes me up to my aliveness, my being in the world when people respond to it. Even when I'm laughing or crying, I like it to be within a kind of peaceful existence. Drama... it isn't good for me. Unnecessary stress shortens my life span, and what quality of life is drama? I think we seek drama when we don't think our lives are enough. I used to be chaos queen. I've calmed down much. I like it better this way. When things get hectic again, as they can when I don't practice being chill, I feel myself get physically ill. That's my reality check. It says, "Chill out; surrender." I feel alive when I surrender and the universe takes over.

-- Anonymous, August 17, 1999

When I'm driving fast. My brain feels like it's a tv with all the channels on at once. It's very exhausting. When I'm speeding excessivly, I focus all my thoughts on it, and it's relaxing for me. It's a break from all the inner commotion. However, the government has harsh punishment on driving 50 mi. over the posted limit. I live out in the country where no cops have jurisdiction except state-ers. And they don't usually waste their time in a deserted spot. So I can usually get away with it. But it keeps me sane, and I'm real good at it. I hate law-enforcement. Would they rather I got a gun and went into a school, or drive fast on a deserted road? Idiots.

-- Anonymous, December 12, 1999