My friend, Otto, is going to help me spruce up this blog later on this afternoon. It gets a little confusing for me with all the plug-ins etc. on WordPress. I have been using a PC, but have had a Mac since 2003, when my brother gave me his Powerbook G4. I needed it for school…Macs are very abundant in the design world. I loved that thing.
Then, in fall 2006, I got a white Macbook. I used that thing so much…several hours/day for 3 years… did a lot of design on it, Adobe CS4, as well as research and papers in grad school. It was my 2nd brain and best friend. Alas, about a month ago, I invited Rae over to help me organize things in the garage. We popped in a CD to listen to while we began to work. It was old school Bad Boy Bill Bangin’ the Box…my mentality was to start out with that and end with classical. Well,…poor lil’ Macbook did not like Bad Boy Bill, and soon had a flashing file folder icon with a ? in it.
I said to Rae,
This cannot be good. It is obviously confused. Please do not tell me my Macbook just crashed.
I decided not to think about it until after we were finished organizing, which took 5 hours. Then, I told my brother about it, and he said it had crashed. I took it to my friend Brad, and he was so kind to take a look at it for me, he said it needs a new logic board.
It is like losing a part of me…no Illustrator or Photoshop…Lightroom…iPhoto…iMovie…dah! I have been using other peoples’ computers since, as I cannot afford to deal with getting my Macbook repaired right now. I am not overly upset about it, it is just an inconvenience for a blogger/designer/artist/photographer to not have all those programs etc.
What are seen a inconveniences in technology can actually help you to recognize, with a quickness, what is really important to you because it now takes so much more planning to get certain things accomplished…or information relayed.
For example, my 1st generation iPhone started acting up at Stumbling Elvis back in August. Parts of the touchscreen were dead, and I had to turn it horizontal to use certain parts of it or vertical to use other parts, i.e: landscape for the space bar, most letters, then portrait for P and the send (you may not realize but P is in a lot of common texting phrases…”What’s up?” became “What’s going on?”).
I could not check my voicemail, dial out, e-mail, use Safari…it was like that for a month and there was also a lag when I texted or moved the phone up or down. So when I received text messages, I did not always reply or even look at them because it stressed me out— first off—and second off, I hated having to pause my life to stand there and flip my phone up and down, back and forth. Calling was possible most of the time…it was complicated though…
Point is, it really let me know when I really wanted to get back to someone…as opposed to just responding out of habit.
This one day, while I was still bartending at the Saucer, a 27 yo.man named Brody came in with his brother and their adorable crazy Uncle Bill. They plopped down at the bar and I spoke with them for a while. They were from another city in Tennessee., and were on their way to an Indian burial ground in Mississippi to clear away the overgrowth. It turned out Brody and I shared a common interest as he had just come back from living in England for two years, working as an attorney for The Invisible Children of Uganda. I gave him my e-mail address before they left the bar that day.
Brody in Uganda
A few days later, when I finally was able to check my e-mail, I realized Brody had e-mailed me and was still in town…I thought they had left by then. I e-mailed him back with my phone number and he called me later on that night, from his brother’s phone since his was still a UK number, while I was at my friend’s house in east Memphis. I spoke with Brody and told him I would come meet him, his bro, and Uncle Bill at the Delta Fair at the Agricenter. There were some folk singers Uncle Bill wanted to see. I really liked Uncle Bill a lot. He was very into these certain kind of handmade baskets…very popular in east Tennessee…I wish I could remember the name.
After we Brody and I hung up, I suddenly remembered my phone’s screen was jacked, and I could not access ANY of my recent incoming calls! I could not look at the number he had just called me from! I got on my friend’s computer, and e-mailed Brody this, explaining how I had no way of contacting him once I got to the fair. However, I was not certain he could or would check him e-mail on his brother’s phone…so I had to go to plan B.
I hopped in my truck and called AT&T.
After going through the automated recordings, I finally reached a real person.
I said,
Hello, my name is Sarah Copeland and my iPhone is having issues. I need to know the last phone number that called me, please.
The AT&T customer representative seemed boggled by this, and began trying to present options regarding my half-broken phone.
Oh your phone is not working? Well, let’s see, we can get you an upgrade for $199 Ms. Copeland…yada…yada…blah…blah…
I stopped him,
I am not interested in discussing my phone, at this time, I need the last incoming caller’s number now, please. Thank you.
After giving him my SS# ad verifying my identity, he read the number off to me, as I held my phone to my ear with my right shoulder, the wheel with my left hand, and wrote the number down on my hand with a pen. Then I had to type the number into my iPhone’s ’Notes’ application and call it from there, as I could not access the keypad at all.
I finally arrived at the Delta Fair, called and met up with Brody, and we sat on a dock and talked as we gazed at the reflection of all the carnival lights in the water. He was amazed by it, as he had been away from any forms of Americana for quite some time. He kept telling me to take a picture, but I did not…I wish I had.
kind of like this...but better.
Then we sat next to Uncle Bill and listened to a few folk singers. It was incredible. Very peaceful. This one woman, a singer and guitar player, was so beautiful. She was very slender, silver hair, and had little metal finger guitar picks on all of her fingers. She was so stunning. I was completely enamored by her gifts of music and beauty.
Nanci Griffith
Afterwards, Brody asked me if I had any tattoos. I said no. I asked him the same question and he said no. Then, we turned to Uncle Bill, and he said no. Brody responded,
Well if you ever HAD to get one. What would you get?
Wonderful Uncle Bill, full of vibrant energy and life, with his white beard, white ponytail, ballcap, and huge grin, paused but for a moment as he said,
A boat.
He then went on to cite a poem, I believe he had written, about a boat.
I told Brody about having to call AT&T, and he was very impressed, he said.
I don’t know that it was impressive, but for me, it was the only option I knew of…
I wanted to spend time with this individual, and they were leaving the next morning to head back home, so there was but a window of opportunity to hang out.
I have become increasingly aware of any and all such windows in life…and when I see one…I generally jump through it before it closes.
Recognizing opportunities, especially whilst they are staring you directly in the eye, is a finely tuned sense.
I have been working the last week on organizing my keepsakes.
to-be-organized photos...writings, poems, cards, papers, quotes...journals
That isn’t even all of it. You see why this has taken me so many months? It is overwhelming.
I wanted to share some of my stuff from 1997.
I wrote a lot that year.
I was 13.
The perfect age for believing you have it ALL figured out.
Spelling was not my forte for most of my life. (Loose=Lose) I was diagnosed as dyslexic at 7yo. Reguardless of the accuracy of this label...the placebo effect alone kept me from ever trying to improve my phonectics.
Does land remember or forget? Does it remember suffering and sickness, but forget helpful hands and purple hearts?
visual aid of 13 yo. Sarah
Moonbow
The Story of the Rainbow
Once upon a time, all the colours in the world started to quarrel; each claimed that she was the best, the most important, the most useful, the favourite…
Green said:
“Clearly I am the most important. I am the sign of life and of hope. I was chosen for grass, trees, leaves — without me all the animals would die. Look out over the countryside and you will see that I am in the majority.”
Blue interrupted:
“You only think about the earth, but consider the sky and the sea. It is water that is the basis of life and this is drawn up by the clouds from the blue sea. The sky gives space and peace and serenity. Without my peace you would all be nothing but busybodies.”
Yellow chuckled:
“You are all so serious. I bring laughter, gaiety and warmth into the world. The sun is yellow, the moon is yellow, the stars are yellow. Every time you look at a sunflower the whole world starts to smile. Without me there would be no fun.”
Orange started next to blow her own trumpet:
“I am the colour of health and strength. I may be scarce, but I am precious for I serve the inner needs of human life. I carry all the most important vitamins. Think of carrots and pumpkins, oranges, mangoes and pawpaws. I don’t hang around all the time, but when I fill the sky at sunrise or sunset, my beauty is so striking that no one gives another thought to any of you.”
Red could stand it no longer. He shouted out:
“I’m the ruler of you all, blood, life’s blood. I am the colour of danger and of bravery. I am willing to fight of a cause. I bring fire in the blood. without me the earth would be empty as the moon. I am the colour of passion and love; the red rose, poinsettia and poppy.”
Purple rose up to his full height. He was very tall and he spoke with great pomp:
“I am the colour of royalty and power. Kings, chiefs and bishops have always chosen me for I am a sign of authority and wisdom. People do not question me — they listen and obey.”
Indigo spoke much more quietly than all the others, but just as determinedly:
“Think of me, you all become superficial. I represent thought and reflection, twilight and deep waters. You need me for balance and contrast, for prayer and inner peace.”
———————————-
And so the colours went on boasting, each convinced that they were the best. Their quarrelling became louder and louder. Suddenly there was a startling flash of brilliant white lightning; thunder rolled and boomed. Rain started to pour down relentlessly. The colours all crouched down in fear, drawing close to one another for comfort.
Then Rain spoke:
“You foolish colours, fighting among yourselves, each trying to dominate the rest. Do you not know that God made you all? Each for a special purpose, unique and different.
He loves you all.
He wants you all.
Join hands with one another and come with me. He will stretch you across the sky in a great bow of colour, as a reminder that he loves you all, that you can live together in peace
— a promise that he is with you,
— a sign of hope for tomorrow.”
And so whenever God has used a good rain to wash the world, He puts the rainbow in the sky, and when we see it, let us remember to appreciate one another.
— based on an Indian legend, http://www.cyc-net.org/today2000/today000330.html
If you are curious as to what a moonbow is…
It is for sale—that is for damn sure.
A few Saturday mornings ago, as I was strolling along side Paul Ryburn en route to River Arts Fest on S. Main St., I said,
I am not sure what to be for halloween, Paul.
I was playing with the ideas of a Time Tree, World War II, or Facebook.
Paul’s eyes widened and he responded,
Facebook?!
…
That would be awesome. Do that. Go as Facebook, yes!
Hearing his response, seeing his encouragement, and gaining his approval, I settled on personifying the sign-of-the-times, world spread, Facebook, for halloween this year.
How does one do that? I googled “facebook+costume” to see what has been done before, and found a few images of other people who had dressed up as the popular social networking site.
I hold dear to me two phrases, one of my favorite architects, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, coined, as well as applied to his life and designs,
Less is more
and
God is in the details.
Less is more is much more of a complex statement than it appears. It does not always implicate simply fewer visible items.
Last year, I ordered the Sexy Rainbow Brite costume online to wear for halloween. I never got to wear it. Different story. So here I have this blue dress and that is where I started my design seeing as how Facebook’s color is blue.
First, I used a ripper to take off the white faux fur lining the bottom on the dress as well as the red sequins adorning the neckline and sleeves. Then, I used a bottle of white fabric paint to dab little to big dots in several clusters along the sides of the waist and all around the front of the skirt. Next, I used some sparkly thread, the kind you made friendship bracelets and hair wraps out of in c. 1993, to demonstrate the connections between the dots and clusters representative of the information, messages, pokes, tags, wall comments etc., shooting through cyberspace, via Facebook, resulting in tighter bonds with friends…cyber bonding.
I had a little trouble doing this as I noticed the thread was pulling the material of the dress taunt in places and causing it to crumple up. I fixed this by tying a knot on the underside, each time the needle went downward through the dress. This stopped the thread from pulling through all of the holes.
I got an old keyboard and plucked off a few keys. I placed these spaced out along the front of the dress surround the f I cut out of felt to stand for Facebook. I bought some iron-on transfer sheets from Hobby Lobby. My plan was to take the Facebook logo, make it black, mirror it, print it on the transfer sheets, and then iron them each onto the long white gloves I purchased at Spencer’s. This did not go as planned, the iron was too hot for the 100% nylon gloves, as the transfer sheets were intended for cotton—a much more dense fabric. I knew this, but I did it anyways. It turned out awful…like when you can only tear a sticker off half way.
I was severely irritated by this.
However, not deterred, as I trucked along and thought of a way to save the gloves. I took some India ink and magenta watercolor, in an eye dropper, and dabbled them all over the previously pure white, now janked up half-faded-rippled-facebook-logos gloves, and they turned out satisfactory.
I wrote, It’s complicated on the rear of the dress. I thought about a lot of different options as far as that goes, e.g.: poke, poke back I remove, This is you., tag etc. I landed on, It’s complicated, since it is always complicated…it is life..
On February 6th, 2009, I deleted my Facebook account for 3 months. I did this so that when I ended my relationship status, which was married, it would not pop up on the mini-feed. I filed for divorce that day.
Why is there no option for Divorced on Facebook?
There is only,
-option to leave blank-
Single
In a Relationship
Engaged
Married
It’s Complicated
In an Open Relationship
Widowed
I strongly dislike forced boxes, hats, and labels. What about divorced? Why can I not call it how it really really is? It is the absolute truth and reality. It is what it is.
Like a blemish. A Scarlett Letter even. A stain.
Wedding Day, September 29th, 2007
I am not ashamed in the least…not particularly proud, however, it is the truth and the real of it.
I no longer have time, interest, or energy for the fake…give me the real…save the fake to sprinkle on your instant oatmeal some Tuesday morning.
…These concerns are often well warranted. I have no idea what the long-term effects of discussing such issues so openly will be on my personal and professional life, but, whatever the consequences, they are bound to be better than continuing to be silent. I am tired of hiding, tired of misspent and knotted energies, tired of the hypocrisy, and tired of acting as though I have something to hide. One is what one is, and the dishonesty of hiding behind a degree, or a title, or any manner and collection of words, is still exactly that: dishonest. Necessary, perhaps, but dishonest…
…Much like crossing the Bay Bridge when there is a storm over the Chesapeake, one may be terrified to go forward, but there is no question of going back. I find myself somewhat inevitably taking a certain solace in Robert Lowell’s essential question, “Yet why not say what happened?”
I have driven over the Bay Bridge.
An Unquiet Mind: Memoir of Moods and Madness by Kay Redfield Jamison Ph.D, 1995
Dr. Jamison was not referring directly to Facebook. The context was in reference to writing down the truth about her personal experiences living with bipolar disorder for all the world to see. I share this same diagnosis with Dr. Jamison, that of being touched with fire, which I shall be writing a post about eventually. Dr. Jamison, along with other writers, have inspired me to write as open as I am capable of.
Documenting life { as it is } in written Truth.
Eight words to sum it up.
I am sick of, my own included; half-truths, 99.9% truths, omissions, additions, fluffs, tweaks, skews, rotations, reversals, rose-tinted glass, filters, fish eye lens, under/over exaggerations, straight up bullshit and flat-out lies.
I have been actively, purposefully, and most importantly consciously striving, with all the intertwined strings of my complete self, every second of every minute, of every hour of every day, to keep that curtain of denial tied up stage left—thus ensuring I am interpreting my past memories, present moments, and all together cognizance, with the preciseness required in that of the handling of an atom bomb.
Putting on my wedding gown.
Otherwise, that curtain’s rope knot will loosen, slip, slack up, and slowly creep out as I will wake up one day living in a fairytaylored fantasy world constructed by my ego’s defense mechanisms and lavishly decorated by my wishful thoughts.
This is a state of existence to be cautiously weary of.
Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep 
you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.
Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamont, 1995
What is the Facebook Fairy?
It is a halloween costume that made up in my head and then manifested into tangible form for you to see.
It is a real thing.
If you need it to be more ‘real’, since I do hold a bachelor’s degree in graphic design, I can whip up a cutsie little logo, business cards, brochures, a Facebook group, and even a website.
What does the Facebook Fairy do?
I do not know. Things are not required to have grand purposes in order to exist in physical reality.
I have noticed people I meet being outrageously and easily swayed in the blink of an eye by a bit of mediocre design, a quasi-complimentary-enough color palette, and a bit of rhetoric on a daily basis…anyone can make anything up and present it to you however they darn well please.
So go buy you a fuzzy blanket with arm holes cut in it.
ζ
.. ::_ All Hallows’ Even 2 double oh 9_:: ..
Thank you, Rebecca, to tie; to bind; captivating.
// // // //
I said, in passing, to a man at a bar the other night,
Bah?
to which he replied,
Bah??? …what is bah?
I said,
Bah is defined similarly to ‘what’ or ’huh’ with a little bit of deer in the headlights look.
he said,
Bah?…ha…bah is not a word…
as he cooly glanced back over at the football game on the television, above the bar, as he slowly went back to sipping his bud light bottle.
I stood there a few moments and then said,
Oh.
I see.
Well I just defined it for you…
…do you need Merriam’s approval?
A little over a month ago, my friend, Jhey, a conscious soul, and I had spent the previous 2 hours freestyle dancing at Republic Nightclub. We had left the club and were in the parking lot, under a street light, as he whirled me around, took my right hand, and then placed his right hand on my waist and said,
Here,… I’ll show you the correct way to do it.
He wanted to show me how to ballroom dance. I stepped back and away from him, as I said,
To which country, era, and culture are you referring to when you say ‘correct way’?
As I have mentioned in a previous post, I decapitated my television 9 months ago. I cannot tell you how much clearer, cleaner, and more original (to me as in they came from ME…not implying reinvention of the wheel here) my inner monologue has become. The benefits I have noticed were not at all foreseeable to myself, as I did not have any initial goals and/or intentions in abstaining from tv. I did not even set out to do so, I was just bartending at night a lot as well as catching up face to face with old and new friends when I wasn’t working.
Part of it is the more entertainment television you watch, the less civically engaged you are. People watch Friends rather than having friends. And of course, you don’t know which caused which, whether people decided to drop out and were left with television or they started watching television and then dropped out. The circumstantial evidence is pretty clear that television is actually the cause of this. There was a really fascinating study in a couple of towns in Canada were the sociologists got to the towns before television did and they were able to do before and after measurements of the effects of television — and as I would have expected, once television arrived in these towns, civic activity slumped substantially.
—NPR, All Things Considered, May 31, 2000
I had enough tv and movie watching the year and 4 months I was married…many hours a week. Now that I did not have to be subjected to that anymore, I just wanted to sit and chill and talk to my friends, at a park, on a swing, on a blanket in a field, at a bar, on a couch, in my car, at a coffee shop, anywhere…many of whom I had not spent any quality time with in over 2 years. One thing I have noticed, after so much time just talking in person or on the phone, is that when I do walk past a tv and hear it talking it sounds funny. Especially when you are so used to hearing live natural voice tones, pitches, and inflections.
Why do they talk like that? Haha no one speaks that way in actual life…
It took about 6 months before I really started to feel as though I was losing the ability to step down and have the ammo needed to appropriately banter with the general public on the casual, yet scrutinizing, levels of sports, reality shows, Oprah, new commercials etc. I do not know about these things as well I once did. As a result, I do not have a lot to offer in conversations surrounding the media. I prefer to scrutinize my own life’s record, my immediate family’s, as well as the words of those who have lived centuries before my conception. I check out only really old library books, no pictures on the front or back and the binds smell of must, because I want to know what was said before what is being said now…roots.
My mother has been telling me I need to write a book and title it, "Things I didn't know I didn't know", for years.
There is no time to come up but for a breath of air…a few hours, days, or weeks even…so you can forget any chance of making it out long enough to bask in the sun’s rays on the dock. You are too busy drowning…but you think that is how it feels to swim anyways…and you didn’t even get the memo that there was a freagin’ dock. By the same token…how can any individual, who has constant imagery and sounds thrust into their senses, have a chance to take a break from it long enough to have absolute lucidity ?
The window through which you see out of would be all murky and opaque from the residue.
Both positivity and negativity permeate through everything, touching all levels of awareness.
Often times, when I am talking or even answering a question, people will interupt me after about 3 minutes,
What’s your point?
To which I will say,
Have you ever read a book?
I am not a ticker and I am not a tweeter.
If I could slice it up, as meat and potatoes, and serve them to you on a silver platter I would, my friend.
However, not everything can be short and concise. You have to build on knowledge of things, houses are built on foundations, and I am attempting to paint a picture—not an emoticon— for you so that you will understand what I am trying to relay to you.
Can you spare 5 minutes?
I shut the world off…and I have no idea of the incredible feelings and concepts I will be grasping this time next year…or the next and so on and so forth. I dropped out of the race, stepped off the main road, left the party, made my exit however you want to see it…and I am reaping from what I have decided to unsow from the fabric of my existence.
There was not always tv, movies, internet, Nintendo, Leapster, cell phones, apps, games, the internet, texting, phones, radio etc. (or clocks for that matter, but I will save that for another day)
As my grandfather who was; born in 1923, raised here in Memphis, lived through the Great Depression, attended the Univ. of Tennessee, Tulane Univ., further training in Manhattan, an officer in the Navy, on a submarine in Japanese waters in WWII, and a chemical engineer for DuPont creating dynamite for four decades, told me the other day:
He was close friends with, as well as worked along side of at DuPont, Nathaniel Wyeth. (Nate)
Sarah, truly intelligent people are never really bored.
They play on the playground in their mind.
Sometimes, especially as a child, I just had to sit there.
His quote was in response to:
GreatDad, I could not help but notice a pattern, as I witness the life around me everywhere I go, it appears as though one has to be put in a situation where she or he is forced to WAIT, e.g., the DMV, the airport, voting etc., for her or him to STOP and just BE..
…everyone’s mind is elsewhere…perhaps the past…possibly the future…but definitely agitated and impatient at the present.
My question is, what happens in a society where there is less attention granted for opportunities to create one’s own playground of the mind? What happens when thoughts are externally pumped for x amount of years/decades leaving little to no room for original-to-that-person thought? Do you not learn better when you come up with things for yourself? When you have to figure out how to do things on your own without consulting an outside source?
Breaking the television addiction requires making a choice. The famous Ellen Parr quote goes:
“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.”
Watching TV fills the mind with the images and creativity of others . . . not watching TV fills the mind with freedom.
Who said they know what the hell they are talking about?
The world is flat and Pluto is a planet.
Furthermore, why does it not even occur to us that we do not have to listen?
We have a choice.
You can shut your mouth and eyes, however you cannot shut your ears without plugging them somehow…which I rarely—if ever—witness people doing unless they are in an intense argument with a sibling or former/current lover.
When I hear tvs or voices on radios in passing I generally remove myself from the situation.
It is auditory abuse, to me.
I remember a lot of things.
I was too young to walk, as I recount my father was carrying me like a sack of potatoes, and we were at the K-mart that once existed on Winchester. All of a sudden I heard the most beautiful sound…we were shopping along that space in between the check-outs on the right and the rows of isles on the left…
It was this song.
I did not hear it again until I was an adolescent…nor did I know it’s name or who it was by.
Lie-la-lie recorded inside me…untouched for all that time.
“The chorus of the song is wordless, consisting of a repeated chant of “lie-la-lie”. Simon stated that this was due to a lapse on his part:
I didn’t have any words! Then people said it was ‘lie’ but I didn’t really mean that. That it was a lie. But, it’s not a failure of songwriting, because people like that and they put enough meaning into it, and the rest of the song has enough power and emotion, I guess, to make it go, so it’s all right. But for me, every time I sing that part… [softly], I’m a little embarrassed.”
There are not always words for things…which is one of the reasons we all need to make our own art. I went to graduate school, in the creative arts realm of therapy, because just talking about it is not cutting it. We manipulate our own words…even to ourselves.
A visual aid I made for a powerpoint on PTSD in grad school.
Imagery is a PRIMARY process and language is a SECONDARY process. We have always been able to interpret imagery, but language is something we are taught. Memories are stored through primary process and in order to verbalize a traumatic event, one has to be about to make sense of it and then find the words to relay it. Trauma cannot be stored correctly because the left side of the brain, where sequence, logic, cognition reside, shuts down during a traumatic event as the body goes into fight, flight, or freeze action and going back to a PRIMARY and preverbal state. That is where the art comes in. It can facilitate communication between the right and left side of the brain in order to place the memory and store it away so that it is not floating around in the short term memory thus
Trauma being interpreted into the brain.
re-traumatizing the person repeatedly resulting in PTSD.
I cannot always control which things I see and hear will stick…
I was sitting in a waiting room with my mother last Thursday, and we ended up having to wait for 45 minutes. The entire time, there was a tv in the room set on a channel that only airs stuff about babies i.e.: buy this apparatus to prevent SIDS, don’t leave your baby unattended while bathing her/him even for a second, burp them, and something about preventing some shit appearing on their scalp—I don’t know. I just wanted to sit there quietly and talk to my mother about anything and everything at once, but instead there was this voice, this woman, talking at us in this I-have-lost-my-accent-on-purpose voice about babies. My thoughts were completely interrupted by this woman’s voice.
I asked the new receptionist, it was her second day working there,
Can we please turn off the tv, there is no one else in here…how much is it am I paying to be here?
(There was a little bite in my bark.)
she looked shyly and said,
I don’t know…I mean, it’s on a timer…it comes on at 9AM and goes off at 4PM everyday…sorry.
I stared for about 23 seconds at that power button…knowing that by pressing it would probably override the preset timer and turn off the tv.
My father, a mechanical engineer, had my landline telephone on a preset timer he got at Radio Shack from about 6th-9th grade that would shut my telephone off automatically every single day at 9:03PM. Then one day, after years of searching, I finally found the device and changed the settings so I could stay up talking to my highschool sweetheart late into the nights.
I so almost pushed that damn power button.
Alas, I decided not to because I did not want to make this new receptionist feel any more scared than she already looked or make her 2nd day there any more anxiety provoking by the possibility that later on in the day she would be receiving a pep talk by my doctor about not allowing patients in the waiting room to go near the television. I did not want that for her.
So I sat there and suffered the for the next 45 minutes…
I can’t just block radio and/or television out like I used to be able to…I just can’t. I used to be able to zone out.
I did contemplate going to sit outside on the sidewalk, but I did not want to leave my mom sitting alone and I also did not want to appear any more crazy than I already do in general—not for my sake but for hers of course. By now, three more people had come into the waiting room.
I watched one of them, a little boy about 8 yo., play on his handheld videogame thingamagig…he did not blink at a natural rate. His mother sat next to him and stared off into the air…I wondered,
Does she even notice the blasted woman’s voice rambling on the tv? Can she hear it or is she totally checked out of reality?
My boyfriend has observed, and confidently believes, that my senses are much more heightened than most peoples’ due to my selectivity in what I allow into my eyes and ears. I think he may be right. Everyone else around me seems to be deadened by constant imagery and sounds…
I was at a friend’s house about 6 weeks ago when a woman, I had just met, was telling a man, whom I had also just met, about an assignment in one of her classes to watch a movie. I cannot remember what movie, or what class, as I was having my own conversation simultaneously with someone else, however the point is that she said,
…yeah…oh my gosh…these two women in my class refused to watch the movie because they heard there is a rape scene in it.
The man groaned, looked up then back down, and replied,
Are you serious? Jeez. What the fuck?
She said,
I know.
He said,
Why would someone refuse to watch a movie just because of a rape scene?
That is ridiculous.
Raped by actions not meant for pain. Unknowing and darkened days that fooled even the Wishes.
At this point, having been beaten and then raped at 16 yo., I chimed in and said,
Maybe those women were raped!
I told my mother this story and asked her if when she was my age, 1975/6, if that conversation would have transpired in such a way…if people would be shocked by anyone refusing to watch a staged rape scene in a film.
Her response was a no.
Why are people being put down for having the wisdom, maturity, and foresight to take a stand against possibly disturbing imagery?
It’s not like you can watch it first and then say,
Okay, nevermind, move to recycle bin and delete. I did not want to see that afterall…did not want it in my head.
How many images are floating around in your psyche, on repeat like a VHS tape, you wish you could erase?
Repression can only keep them down for so long. They always crop back up…often in a flash…when you least expect it.
There are doors that cannot be shut once you open them, Sarah.
—my mother said this to me as a small child one evening after I was too afraid to go to sleep from watching an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. Robert Stack was narrating a story involving ghost hauntings and poltergeists. This sudden knowledge of the paranormal frightened me to death. I could not sleep for weeks.
I am careful of what is painted onto my unconscious.
ζ
What is a television apparatus to man, who has only to shut his eyes to see the most inaccessible regions of the seen and the never seen, . . . to pierce through walls and cause all the planetary Baghdad’s of his dreams to rise from the dust.
—Salvador Dali
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev’ry glove that layed him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
“I am leaving, I am leaving”
But the fighter still remains
Lie la lie …
I was baptized, for the 2nd time in my life, at the cookout.
In the Spring and Summer of 2006, I was a volunteer after-school tutor for the Sudanese refugee community in Binghamton, a neighborhood here in Memphis. The church I was attending at the time was having a cookout one Saturday about 45 minutes away in Mississippi at one of the church member’s houses. I offered to take 3 of the refugees along with me. I picked them up in my car, one was 6 yo., the other two were 11 yo., and they were all beautiful young ladies. The 6 yo. was named Suhanda, and the 11 yos. were named Naymouch and Kany. I had been volunteering with them for a few months now. I want to say they had all been in the states at least a year by this time, possibly two.
We rode down I-40 towards Jackson, then took 385 to the exit at Hacks Cross. While we were headed east on 385, specifically along the overpass above Riverdale (just south of Quince and north of Winchester), the girls were looking right to the south onto the parking lots of Home Depot, Babies-R-Us, and whatever ole Joe’s Crab Shack/Don Pablo’s restaurant was at that time. They were captivated by all the shiny cars. Hundreds maybe thousands. It was a Saturday afternoon so everyone was out running errands. I was surprised how impressed they were at all the parked vehicles, I glanced for only a moment—as I was carrying precious cargo—and regressed back in my existence to a time when I too would have been enamored by this seemingly arid view and perspective of a bunch of parked vehicles. I believe it was Kany who quietly said,
…look at all the cars…
Actively seek to perpetually diversify any and all perspectives on every level vs. using that energy and time calibrating only one.
Keep in mind, these are little girls going on an adventure so they were quite hyper and very chatty. They had never been to Mississippi and it was very exciting.
Once we exited at Hacks Cross and were probably just past Holmes if not State Line, the road was obviously more narrow with just two lanes and with less traffic compared to the interstate. The trees on either side were as green and full as they ever get through the year, as it was July and they were lushishly full. The great spans of grass were alive and softy dancing in the low winds. The sun was shining through the spaces between the leaves, as it does in the afternoons when the sun is at such that angle that causes photographers to stop in his or her track and bust out the
Not photoshopped...the colors were really that vibrant.
camera…perfect lighting.
Naymouch turned to me and said,
I have never seen so much green.
I keep her words close with me always as a reminder to be grateful. For everything.
Fast forward to fall of 2006, I had left Memphis and moved to New Haven, Connecticut for graduate school at Albertus Magnus College, a Catholic liberal arts school down the street from Yale University. I was accepted into the MAAT program, Master of Arts in Art Therapy. I flew up there with my life stuffed into three suitcases…not knowing a soul.
A couple weeks before I left, I knew I wanted to continue being involved with refugees so I googled “refugee+New Haven, CT” and found Interfaith Refugee Ministries (IRM). Their office was conveniently only .7 mi. away from the apartment I had rented. I went up there and expressed my desire to volunteer. There is a large Afghan refugee community in New Haven, but there are many families from all over the world as well e.g.: Iraq, Congo, Cuba, Ethiopia, Iran, Somalia, Sudan, and other countries.
Bahar & I
I could write a book about the year I spent volunteering at IRM, but I am just going write a snowflake of an avalanche for this post.
Of the many children that touched my heart during this time, I became the closest with Bahar. Bahar was 10 yo. and she was from Afghanistan. She really liked bright colors, as she expressed this through many bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and hair accesories…many of which she made herself. Her parents invited me over to visit one day. I drove over to their neck of the woods, a neighborhood her father described to me as “no good”. The house they were living in was the epitome of Queen Anne revival in her hay day, but now was but a wisp of a ghost of her former glory. I took my shoes off in the living room as her mother supplied me with ornately decorated house slippers. They sat me in a chair and proceeded to place a tv tray next to me with a bowl of yogurt covered peanuts. I looked down and realized I was sitting on a fleece throw, probably purchased at a thrift store. It had a red, white, and blue color palette but was not an American flag.
This was the pattern on the throw.
I visited for the rest of the afternoon and evening. I ate dinner with her family and spoke to her father and mother for a long time. Her father was born and lived in Afghanistan for most of his life. He was probably 45-50 yo. at the time. He is fluent in five languages: Dari, Pashto, Arabic, Russian, and English. He explained to me that his family spent five years in Russia residing at a refugee camp awaiting placement in a host country such as America. I cannot recall what all was entailed in their journey prior to waiting in Russia, but I have no doubt it was intense. Refugee status is not delved out upon request…
He is a very intelligent man and was a professional in his field back home.
At one point he said to me,
We finally make it here to America, and my very educated daughters who are still learning this new English language, can only get jobs at Dairy Queen making very little.
I see the way Americans look at us as though we are criminals. It is no good. I want more for my family.
He said a lot of things to me as I did to him. He had several large world maps on the walls and we shared what we knew about geography as well as war history.
Breathtaking New Haven, "The Elm City"
When I met people in New Haven, including the transplanted Yale students from all over the world, “Yallies”, I would often times hear,
Why would you want to move to New Haven, Connecticut? This city sucks.
My grandmother Doris's drawings/writings. She grew up in midtown.
Not so unlike the things I have heard people in Memphis say. I was born here, my great-great-grandparents, the Shields, both died of tuberculosis sometime after the yellow fever epidemic swept the midsouth after c.1878. They are buried at Elmwood cemetary. Their two daughters, my great-grandmother Julia Shields Melton and her sister Viola Shields, were taken to an orphanage downtown and were raised by nuns. Julia’s daughter, my grandmother Doris, is the author of the hundreds of handwritten poems on the sheets of paper that are photographed in my blog header at the top of the page behind the words Pulled Before the Push. She was also an artist.
I know a lot about this part of the world and I have met so many incredibly gifted creative genius minds. Writers, musicians, artists…there is so much creativity in this city. True artists are compelled to create…and I see it everyday here.
I hate Memphis.
It’s a black hole.
A vortex.
I could go on and I know you could too. We are witnesses to an era where it is cool to bash the city you live in. Grass is greener. It’ s the geography and the people right? If you lived in another city, your life would be better. You would be better. You think a change of scenery would take away your pain? People are different elsewhere right? They are better. Less idiots. Perhaps. However if you take the time to study humanity objectively through the recorded centuries, it is crystal clear that human nature transcends time and space by remaining innately stagnant. What changes is the overt shit.
Go read the book of Ecclesiastes. Chasing of the wind.
3 What do people get for all their hard work under the sun? 4 Generations come and generations go, but the earth never changes. 5 The sun rises and the sun sets, then hurries around to rise again. 6 The wind blows south, and then turns north. Around and around it goes, blowing in circles. 7 Rivers run into the sea, but the sea is never full. Then the water returns again to the rivers and flows out again to the sea. 8 Everything is wearisome beyond description. No matter how much we see, we are never satisfied. No matter how much we hear, we are not content.
9 History merely repeats itself. It has all been done before. Nothing under the sun is truly new. 10 Sometimes people say, “Here is something new!” But actually it is old; nothing is ever truly new. 11 We don’t remember what happened in the past, and in future generations, no one will remember what we are doing now.
The book is thought to have been written by King Solomon, son of King David, c.~250 BC (~2,260 years ago.)
In conclusion, if you don’t like living in my city, my Memphis, then you should get the fuck out.
For your own benefit as well as mine. Go live your life where you believe it will be the fullest.
Why are you here? Why are you living in a place you hate? That does not make sense. Why do you stay and pour hate and negativity into MY city?! WHY? Money? School? Job? Family? Put together a plan of escape…it is not impossible and yes it may hurt your head at times. Don’t make me list all the suffering of those less fortunate than you around this world who make it happen as I am positive you are well aware. Grass can also be yellower.
This ain’t no dress rehearsal. Where there is a will there is a way. You know this.
Google “Memphis sucks” and see how many hits you get. Google “___any city___ sucks” and see how many hits you get.
Memphis is horrible. Memphis is terrible. Memphis sucks. Memphis is stupid. Memphis is hot. Memphis is humid. Memphis is miserable. Memphis is ugly. Memphis is fat. Memphis is dangerous. Memphis is boring. Memphis is primitive. The University of Memphis is bad. The University of Memphis sucks. Tigers suck. You suck. White Memphis sucks. Black Memphis sucks.
-posted by Mike Lang, a Memphian, June 23rd, 2007
I pulled this quote from here: http://www.topix.com/forum/city/memphis-tn/T53288VL28M6K60K4/p3
On a positive note, Google “I love Memphis”…I am happy to say there are hits for this phrase as well…and not just for the basketball team.
There are countless songs with Memphis in the lyrics…
(copied from http://fivebestlist.blogspot.com/2008/02/ten-bestmemphis-songs.html)
#10. “Cities” by Talking Heads
Did I forget to mention, to mention Memphis?
Home of Elvis and the ancient Greeks
Do I smell? I smell home cooking
It’s only the river, it’s only the river.
#9. “Music Makin’ Mama from Memphis” by Hank Snow
She’ll play a little rhythm, do the boogie up right
A Tennessee polka, maybe blues in the night
Ever’body travels from near and far
To hear her when she picks it on that old guitar
My Music Makin’ Mama from Memphis, Tennessee
#8. “Memphis Soul Stew” by King Curtis
Today’s special is Memphis Soul Stew
We sell so much of this, people wonder what we put in it
We gonna tell you right now
Give me about a half a teacup of bass
Now I need a pound of fatback drums
Now give me four tablespoons of boiling Memphis guitars
This goin’ taste alright
Now just a little pinch of organ
Now give me a half a pint of horn
Place on the burner and bring to a boil
That’s it, that’s it, that’s it right there.
Now beat, well.
#7. “Memphis, Tennessee” by Chuck Berry
The last time I saw Marie
She was waving me goodbye
With hurry homedrops on her cheek
That trickled from her eyes
Marie is only six years old
Information please,
Help me get in touch with her
In Memphis, Tennessee
#6. “All the Way from Memphis” by Mott the Hoople
Now it’s a mighty long way down the dusty trail
And the sun burns hot on the cold steel rails
And I look like a bum, and I crawl like a snail
All the way from Memphis
#5. “Memphis Beat” by Jerry Lee Lewis
I’m going to Memphis where the beat is tough
Memphis, I can’t get enough
It makes you tremble and it makes you weak
It’s in your blood, that Memphis Beat
#4. “Honkey Tonk Woman” by the Rolling Stones
I met a gin soaked, bar-room queen in Memphis,
She tried to take me upstairs for a ride.
She had to heave me right across her shoulder
‘Cause I just can’t seem to drink you off my mind.
#3. “Proud Mary” by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Cleaned a lot of plates in Memphis,
Pumped a lot of ‘pane down in New Orleans,
But I never saw the good side of the city,
‘Till I hitched a ride on a river boat queen
#2. “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again” by Bob Dylan
Well, Shakespeare, he’s in the alley
With his pointed shoes and his bells,
Speaking to some French girl,
Who says she knows me well.
And I would send a message
To find out if she’s talked,
But the post office has been stolen
And the mailbox is locked.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis blues again.
#1. “Back to Memphis” by Chuck Berry
I’m going to leave here in the morning and walk down to the station
I’ve got just enough money to pay my transportation
I’m going back to Memphis, back home with my Mama
If I have to ride that bus barefooted in pajamas
Back home in Memphis, no moaning and groaning
I know everything will be all right in the morning
I have been meaning to write a post discussing these concepts for several months now. These are my life experiences and opinions. I encourage you to leave a comment if you want to say something in response…but only if you do not hold anything back.
Thank you.
ζ
I started painting again.
50% complete
It is a huge milemarker in my life journey. I wondered around for a bit, got distracted by all the pretty lights, chased a few squirels and butterfiles, but always there existed a constant pull on my heart…likeable to that of a magnet. Had there been an audible voice, it surely would have been saying, “Come back to your true path, Sarah. You’ve seen what there is to see. Now it is time to walk on the dirt road.”
Naturally, I spent over a decade ignoring this. I have always been quite stubbourn at times as well as hard headed as my mother would say. If you are into astrology, which I am not very knowledgable about, my zodiac sign is a Taurus (May 11th). The bull. Perhaps, it plays a part but perhaps not…who will ever really know for certain. Either way, I have never really had issues with authority, save the normal rebellious hormones of adolescence, but in the same breath I will still do what I want to do even if they say do not.
In 1990, when I was 6 years old, my family and I were down in the Florida panhandle, Destin, for summer vacation. We would usually stay at the Islander, a high rise condominium building, and rent a condo for a week. On this particualr day, we had surely been out in the sand, on the beach, and amongst the salty sea waves, but at this time—in the late afternoon—my family had migrated to the Islander’s swimming pool. I was jumping off the edge of the pool backwards, meaning I would balance on my toes with my heels hanging over the water and jump upwards and away from the edge. I did this few times before my ever-so- present mother yelled at me to cease and desist as I intentionally pretended not to hear her command.
I do not remember what she was wearing that day. I imagine she it was a wide brim floppy beach hat, with a floral patterned bow around the center, large mid-80’s gradual tinted shades, and a black and teal one-piece bathing suit. My mother is and has always been a total fox—features and a figure to die for. I would love to brag more, display stunning photos of her through the years, and quote her brilliant way with words, but alas she does not want to be “a character” so I will not be doing that…today anyways.
I ignored her plee to stop jumping backwards off the side of the pool because I wanted to jump just once more…with a twist! I quickly assumed the position, jumped up, twisted slightly to my left, and proceeding to land directly on the edge of the pool on my tiny chin.
The previously clear, blue, pool water quickly turned to a shade of pink as my blood mingled with it. I am sure there were a few screams.
We spent the rest of that day at the ER. I got umpteen stitches and left with a scar that is blatently visible even to this day. My mother chewed me six ways from Sunday, “You just had to do it just one more time!” She was so cross with me.
I began to obey better after this incident, as I told that once coaxable voice—that had coerced me to jump just one more time—to shut up. I realized my inmature inklings could not be trusted whilst I was still a child.
Now, at 25 years-old, I am no longer a child. My inklings have wised up and rippened over time, and regained my trust.
ζ
1.20ct Radiant Diamond
Apparently, after I was finished, I clicked on an ad somewhere for someone in search of artists. I don’t remember where, but either way it led me to this website:
http://www.macworthington.com/
It was a simple Gallery Artist Application for The Mac Worthington Gallery of Contemporary Art in the Short North Art District of Columbus, Ohio. I filled it out and went about my day. I didn’t think too much of it because I do a lot of surfing to a lot of sites as I also apply this blog and/or my artwork to various entities. The next day, Thursday, I received an e-mail in my inbox asking me to call the gallery to discuss my availability.
So I called, not anticipating anything as usual, and I spoke to the curator, Tony. There was something in his voice that told me he and I were going to hit it off. We spoke for a few minutes, as he was on the way out the door to call it a day, and we set up a phone interview the next day, Friday, for 2PM.
We talked Friday for at least 2 hours, maybe 3, and the end result was me signing an artist’s contract with the gallery. I am now officially part of the Mac Worthington family of artists and I have a show set for March!
It is a very big deal…probably bigger than I even realize as I have not been to Columbus…much less the Short North art district.
I hope to go very soon. I can’t wait!
Thirteen pieces of mine are up and for sale on the website.
http://www.macworthington.com
• Click on On Line Gallery (above changing color circle)
• Drop down menu under “Artist”
• Alphabetical order
• “Sarah D. Copeland”
ζ
In Spring of ‘06, University of Memphis graphic design students Josh Horton, Sarah Copeland, and Jeff Glen, worked together that semester as a team to conceptualize, shoot, and produce this title sequence adaptation, based upon the 1991 film, “The Silence of the Lambs”.
The team was presented with a Certificate of Merit in recognition of a Silver Award in the category of Computer Animation/Title Sequence at the school’s 8th Annual Graphic Design Student Exhibition on March 31st, 2006.
ζ
I cannot recall the title of the course, but my professor was Michael Guthrie (http://mguthrie.net/) and he is the shit.
The assignment:
What does silence mean to you?
(Michael: correct me if I am incorrectly quoting it please…that is just how my brain recorded it…which does not make it correct)
I worked on writing and conceptualizing my thoughts on the matter…I did not know off hand what silence meant to me.
I pulled my hair out for a few weeks that’s for damn sure.
How much of what I have to say will never make it out
