Where art thou going, oh friends of mine

Posted 9:52 AM by Michelle
This is one of the few times these days that I take a break from my work life to blog. You can call a blog a diary, a narrative, anything you want, but a blog is merely a snapshot that covers the most compelling three or four minutes of that blogger’s day. And “compelling” clearly often applies only the blogger as opposed to the reader.

I am having a tremendous few days at work, filled with hope and good work and long, fruitful hours. My new office has a lovely view of treetops towering above my second-floor window. The closest tree is slowly turning, and is right now dominated by my mom’s favorite yellow. Three grand evergreens, twice as tall as my building, are perfectly framed in the window from where I sit and write. There is a little traffic noise, but just enough to remind me that the world is whirling by as I sit and write about the arts.

But I don’t know how long I can last here. It’s been the topic of debate with my friends and colleagues of late: how can we bear to continue to live in this valley when there is no reason for thirtysomethings to be here. There is no physical structure dedicated to us, no coffee shop with comfy sofas and modest prices and a high-speed internet connection. There is no dark wine bar where we might sip Cabernet and meet one another. There is no arts center where we might buy paints or see a show. The only thing to “do” here is go out to very expensive dinners, or have a very expensive glass of wine at the bar of a very expensive restaurant, or go see a movie in a terrible theatre with all of the drug-dealing, bored teenagers in downtown Napa. (Lord, I think it’s bad for us thirtysomethings, I can only imagine how dreadful it is for high schoolers.)

San Francisco is over an hour away, and I have to say, it utterly pales in comparison to New York. I love my little cottage, but I long to live within walking distance of a coffee shop, newsstand, thrift store, grocery. I long to see people my age. We take road trips to San Fran and we stare out the windows of the car at the young people as if the world outside is a zoo, filled with strange creatures who will never know us. I go back to New York and walk down the street and see so much possibility in the teeming hordes of my generation.

I love my job, I love my employer, I love my friends. But my friends are slowly leaving. I have only one left who still lives in the valley full-time, and he is thinking of moving across the country, or into the city…and there isn’t that much difference between the two, in my mind. The community we built so quickly is stretching, sprawling, and eventually I’m going to have to make some decisions about what is most important in my life.

But for now, I continue to work hard, and continue to try to deepen my connection to this community. I’m running off right now to meet with the local Red Cross chapter to see if there is any good work to be done. But unless a couple thousand forward-thinking young ones decide to move to this valley, I’m ultimately going to have to look elsewhere to create the life I want.

Greatness

Posted 9:50 PM by Michelle
My father is a symphony conductor. He stands on the podium, absolutely still, waiting for his orchestra to finish scooting their seats and arranging their music, only a few short seconds allowed. When he raises his arms, every instrument flies into position, every back is straight, every muscle posed and ready... even in the audience. We, too, respond to the lift of my father's baton, to his call to action. I have watched him, both as child and adult, create greatness out of what was simply average. His talent is so obvious, and so sublime, all at once.

My brother Steve makes sense out of any kind of chaos. He'd have to, considering the madness that he calls his living room, but he can make anything work. He also knows how just about everything works before he's even looked at it. I can call him with any idea or problem and he either provides the solution or the knowledge that there is no solution. His knowledge of computers, in particular, is staggering. Make that his knowledge of anything electronic. I see these beasts made of metal and cords and plastic and hard drives and ram and THEY MAKE NO SENSE outside of simple operations. I can barely wrap my mind around the idea of flight, and yet Steve owns and repairs and flies his own airplane. There are things he knows, and knows about, that will never be clear to me.

Kent is the gentle giant who reminds me who I'd like to be when I grow up. Kent's talents, from childrearing to music to pancakes, are too many to list, other than to say that he's one of the few true artists I know. I remember thumbing through a book of his poetry and drawings when I was eight years old and wondering if I would ever be capable of doing what he did. It seems so strange to find such grace in a man so tall. And if his kids are any indication, Kent is one of the best fathers on the planet.

Ian's writing haunts me. Phrases he wrote ten or more years ago find their way to the front of my brain on a daily basis. Sometimes I'm angry because I wish I had his education; there were years in my young life that I knew that I was exceptionally smart, but as my schooling got worse (and my focus on my own appearance got stronger) I became decidedly less. Sometimes I think that if I had had his education, maybe I could do what he does. But I'm wrong. Ian writes from a place unknown to me, and unknown to most of the literary world. I don't know how he does it, how he puts a string of ordinary words together and creates something otherworldly. I wish I knew, but all I can do is sit back in awe. Sometimes it's just a blog, sometimes it's an article, sometimes it's a screenplay, but it is pretty much always brilliant.

Sean is a storyteller. He is so much more than an actor. He is what actors would be if only the tiny percent of the population capable of transportive greatness were allowed the title. His talent is so utterly clear, so bright, so gorgeous and terrifying, so truthful that it hurts. Again, I don't entirely understand how he does it. Even though I was taught the method, I don't understand it like Sean does. He, too, has access to that pool where only true artists are allowed to dip their cup.

My mom. My mom need only play you one of her songs, any one of them, and you'll understand that she is not like the rest of the world. Her music reached me when she could not, when I was young and furious and hateful. Her music makes me think that the Phates wanted her to be one of them, and so gave her a gift that made her more than mortal. Tell my mom to write a song about a zucchini or a hubcap, and she'll do it, and it will be great. Give her time to write her own music, and it will be extraordinary. Her melodies are never what you expected, but always what you wanted without knowing it. She swims in that pool of artistry. She giggles as the other artists come to the shore with their meager cups; she does the backstroke and spurts the sacred water out of her mouth like a fountain. It's all she knows.

Tonight, at the concert, as the Brahms washed over my friends and me, I wondered where I fit. I know all the things I am, but suddenly I was terrified, because I wasn't sure I ever wanted to act again. I just don't know that I should do it if I'm not truly great. I wasn't sure if I should keep writing; I wondered if I should have never given up the cello; I wondered if I should have gone to school to be a vet: I wondered if, surrounded by greatness that all came before me, if there was anything left in the pool.