Something New on The Horizon

Actually, it's the horizon that is new.

All my friends are getting married or having babies (ok, not all of them, calm down those of you who aren't). But, since they are busy doing that, I figured I needed to be busy getting my own life world a-rolling.

Due in no small part to conversations with two men who very well may have changed my life (Mat and Jeremy, you were certainly keystones of my summer) I have decided that it's about time I start following my dreams. Ah, but which ones you may ask. Of course, the ones that I have hidden for the longest. I have decided to launch a website with my own production "company". The idea is that this will be the technological hub of my professional life. This will be where I can hone my craft(s), meaning writing (in its varied forms), film production, film editing, improv, and research (oh and anything else I can probably think of and then justify). Don't worry, I'm not abandoning this blog, but you might see a difference in what appears here (or maybe none at all).

I'll keep this post short and to the point because hopefully you will now need some time to have a look around my new website and all that is currently available on it.

http://www.doubleeffproductions.wordpress.com/

Think of it as an interactive resume/C.V. Think of it as a way for me to remember what it is I love and to feel justified in pursuing it. Think of it as whatever you want.

And, follow me and my "company" on Twitter @Sierrasayer and @DoubleEffProd

If you're interested in getting your own creative life going and want to talk about collaborating together (especially if you live in Boston), let me know. I'm happy to work with actors, writers, directors, producers, blog contributors, etc who are interested in taking themselves less seriously, but their passions deadly so.

Sharing is Scaring

So, it turns out that to be a writer, you have to share your work with others. A lot. Workshopping groups, professors, friends, family. Sharing your work becomes an important component of the writing process.

And, I’m elated to do so. That is up until the actual moment I share it. I love the idea of sharing my work, being vulnerable to another, and hearing what they have to say. Honestly, though, handing (or emailing) something that I’ve spent hours on terrifies me. My stomach drops. My heart pounds. And, I think to myself, Am I a narcissistic fool? Did I just really send that dribble to my [insert important person] thinking they would care? I don’t even know if I’m a good writer! Hell, I don’t even know if I’m a writer!

Thankfully, I tend to send or hand my work off before I’ve given my insecurities too much thought. The moments of dread and horror come immediately after the work has left my totalizing grasp.  Will my jokes make sense? Do I sound self-pitying? Is there truth in what I wrote?

There’s really no way to know. I sit in my little room with my lovely dog, feeling insecure and exposed, hoping to God that at the very least no one will hate me after reading my work and that maybe someone somewhere will get at least one joke. Much to my surprise, though, the feedback on my creative work from both peers and professors has been incredibly positive. In fact, one professor looked at me and simply said, “Sierra, you are a writer.”

Perhaps then it is time to shake off my insecurity (or at least keep it at bay long enough to actually share my work) and see what it is I can do with this thing, this dogged desire to write.

The Spot

Ace and I had our two year anniversary yesterday. This is the longest non-familial relationship I've ever had and that makes me so happy. This dog, in all his glory, all his fur, all his idiosyncratic existence, is a part of me. Hell, he might be the truest part of me.

We're doing well, Ace and I. I'm learning how to live a a life that is "utterly wild" in the sense of Mary Oliver's poem (and my tattoo), even though I'm not quite sure what it means. Ace is showing me how, me with my dumb humanity and need for logic. It has something to do with responding to the impulse of each day, loving the beauty of ourselves, and sleeping enough. And, probably lots of snacks.

Yesterday, we lay on my bed, listening to Florence + the Machine (Ace's favorite band). As the sweet sounds of techno-soul-rock reverberated against my walls, I rubbed Ace's belly. For the first time (after two years of belly rubs), his leg started to thump as I found his "spot." I was amazed that he had this reflex, this response to a rub on the tummy.

It seems that even as we grow older together, we still have so much to discover. For that, I am grateful and by that, I am humbled.

On Long Pauses

So, I haven't been blogging much these days. And, I'm sorry. Only, I'm not really.

I've been writing and creating like crazy and I feel amazing. I just haven't felt the need to write blog entries yet. Part of me feels like I'm still "catching up", but at some point I'll have to accept that this rapid fire pace is my life here.

A friend and I recorded a song the other day and I hope to shoot the music video soon. Also, I plan to have my website up and running by the end of next month. Times, they are a changing. So, you have all that to look forward to.

Until I feel the pull, much love to you all. :)

It's all in the timing

I got a tattoo yesterday. The moment was right. The final line of this Mary Oliver poem curves over my left hip.

A Meeting

She steps into the dark swamp
where the long wait ends.

The secret slippery package
drops to the weeds.

She leans her long neck and tongues it
between breaths slack with exhaustion

and after a while it rises and becomes a creature
like her, but much smaller.

So now there are two. And they walk together
like a dream under the trees.

In early June, at the edge of a field
thick with pink and yellow flowers

I meet them.
I can only stare.

She is the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen.

Her child leaps among the flowers,
the blue of the sky falls over me

like silk, the flowers burn, and I want
to live my life all over again, to begin again,

to be utterly
wild.

On belief

I used to believe in myself.

I mean, really believe in myself. I honestly thought that I'd be a successful writer one day. I really didn't have any doubts. Unlike the last couple of years, when I've couched everything in a disclaimer. "I want to be a writer." "I'll find out if I can do this."

Some of that is humility, and I honor that. But some of that is just plain doubt. When I was a kid, I didn't doubt because I knew there was one thing I had to--was compelled to--do: write.

And since that time, I've allowed people--some out of love--to stifle me. I've allowed the have-a-back-up-plan-advice-givers, the it's-hard-to-be-a-writer-and-make-a-living-mentors, the you're-not-good-enough-for-our-student-publication-classmates to creep into my inner space. They drowned out all of you who told me to dream, encouraged me to reach, and believed in me. More importantly, they drowned out my own still, small voice, or rather I stopped listening. And that's what this year has meant to me: listening to myself again.

And now I've decided to become again what I never was. Like my seven year old self, I'm going to jot down all my ideas and write bad poetry. Like my fifteen year old self, I'm going to believe I can make it. As my new twenty five year old self, I'm going for it.

And as Sara Bareilles just said in concert, "This is a song about people who should mind their own damn business." Well, this is a life about the same.

Turn and Face the Change

Time to embrace a new year with a new look for the blog. Enjoy!

Back in Boston (well, the American Cambridge)

On this lovely Sunday evening, sitting under a fan in my new room where I have finally (thanks mostly to my two studly roommates) moved in, I am happy. A little warmer than I'd like to be, but happy.

It seems that really, I just need some time away to appreciate being here a little more. I mean, how lucky am I? I have the best dog ever (who sat rather wonderfully at my feet while I had brunch at a restaurant near my house for 2+ hours this morning), I get to study amazing things (including screenwriting since I was accepted to the course I applied to!!!!), and I have really good friends (both here and around the world). And, since I know this is a moment in time rather than a prison sentence, I can honestly do whatever I want and deem worthy of my time for the next nine months of my Harvard/Cambridge/East Coast life.

This, my friends, is freedom. And, I think my favorite patriot, Paul Revere, would be proud of how I'm using mine.

Ace at Brunch

Applications and Expectations

 I expected at some point to hate this, to not want to be here anymore, to miss my life so much I could barely handle it. I never reached that point, and today on this train for my last trip to Cambridge, I’m wondering why.

Maybe it’s because my summer has been so full. Maybe it’s because I have had a crazy year and being away has been a welcome respite. Sure, maybe. More likely, I think it has to do with the fact that I finally feel like I’m getting a real sense of what I want.

I’ve always wondered what I wanted to “do,” what I wanted to “be,” and how on earth I would get there. This summer, I’ve tried to reflect on what makes me happiest, what catches my attention, and how I could make a life of doing those things.

I really love applying for stuff. I know that sounds absolutely ridiculous, but I’ve applied for more grants, scholarships, and admission to schools than I can even count. I’ve been lucky to win a portion and have accepted a few. However, this constant chasing of “shiny things” has allowed me to get wrapped up in dreams that aren’t necessarily something I want. Take, for instance, my application to the Rotary Foundation.

I applied under the guise of studying international relations in Chile. A fairly competitive process, I was selected as a recipient. However, when it came time to actually set the wheels in motion, I decided not to go. I’ve always reflected on that as a peculiar situation since I was going through a rough patch in general (and specifically a gigantically horrific break-up). Lately, though, I’ve started to realize that I will apply for damn near anything. I like writing. I like dreaming up crazy projects and justifying why I’m perfect for that situation. Sometimes I even convince myself of that fact. (Mind you, this is just one example. I have more.)

So, I ask myself, What is it about applying that I love? Why do I love dreaming up possible lives, but not necessarily pursuing those lives? Why is that I feel I should be disappointed that I didn’t go on that Rotary year, but really, I don’t care?

The answer is simple and you know it already. I want to create. I want to write. And, I will. It's just nice to finally feel like I don't have to have an "excuse" to do it.

Modern art, really?

Standing under a giant wooden plug in the middle of the Tate Modern, I could hear the three women who had been a few steps behind me for the last three galleries start up again.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I don't get it."
The third just sort of snorted.

Frustrated with their loud banter, their judgmental attitudes, and the fact that I felt like they were breathing down my neck, I passive-aggressively sighed and gave a sideways glance. What I thought to be a well-timed social cue flew under their radar as they shifted their attention to a Jackson Pollock painting wondering what the big deal was.

In that moment, I felt torn. I'm not into art. I know nothing about art. The hardest assignment I had last year was to write about a collection of abstracts at a gallery at MIT. If this is true, then how was it that I was defending (even if only internally) the strange sculptures and paintings around me from criticism? Since when did I care about art?

When I arrived at the Tate Modern, I figured I could spend an hour tops wandering from room to room pretending to care. I would sigh meaningfully and pause at larger canvasses, maybe grabbing a seat in front of something that looked important. But, not until I had my cappuccino and looked at the map to form my plan of attack. Then I saw the words "Pop Art." That I knew I would enjoy. Comic books made giant? Yes, please.

I made my way to the Pop Art gallery planning on lingering there and then strolling along what was sure to be a series of contrived pieces. Larger than life, Lichenstein's work stood in front of me. My every sinew wanted to reach out and caress the painting, but I knew not to. I had been trained well in my teenage years. Excited, I wanted to see what else was around.

As I entered a larger gallery filled with paintings by Picasso and Monet (which I am very pleased to say I saw in person!!), a young girl in front of me snapped a picture. Scandalized, I looked around for someone. Then I realized half of the people in the room were snapping photos. In our age of hyper-technology I guess there really isn't a way to stop them, I thought.

I noticed an older, female docent looking at the girls. She stood as if ready to pounce, clearly filled with rage. She stopped the young girl and exchanged words in a hushed tone. I passed through the gallery and into the next, having paused at every piece and read every placard.

In the next room, sculptures, which I must say I still do not have a taste for, appeared throughout the space while paintings and etchings hung on the walls. I lingered at the paintings allowing the echoes in the room to fill the background creating soft white noise. Suddenly, the same docent appeared like a ninja to tell a mother to control her child who, I might add, was just then balancing herself against a pedestal on top of which perched a rather delicate looking sculpture.

Some part of me wanted to tell the docent to breathe. I wanted to explain that she couldn't possibly appear in every room and control every patron of the museum.  But, I'm glad I didn't. At that moment, I could overhear her telling another coworker, "I mean, the nerve. Over here a girl is just snapping photos of every piece. Not even looking. And then the toddler." She grunted in frustration.

I walked away quickly, drawn to the Poetry and Dream exhibit. As soon as I passed the threshold, I knew this was were I was supposed to be. Surrealists surrounded me at that moment and I was ecstatic. I looked at my watch. I had already passed two hours in the museum without having noticed. A little perturbed that this meant my time was waning, I pressed on. Room after room filled with paintings, drawings, photographs, collages, and just about anything you could think of delighted me. I was actually and thoroughly enjoying myself.

Then there was the "Dark Humour" room in the exhibit. My own little heaven. At one point, observing the wall of David Shrigley contributions, I was laughing so hard I disturbed the guy next to me. I tried to walk away but came back just to read the placard again. I turned to find that same docent in the room. Surprised that she had moved to where I was so quickly I wondered if she were following me. Had I touched anything? Did I laugh too loud? Did I stand out in some way?


I, ever so coolly, sauntered out of the room and took a hard right. Follow me now, Ninja, I thought. I turned to find a giant pile of sunflower seeds. An exhibit by Ai Weiwei. I felt a little disappointed at that fact that this is what all the hype had been about. The person I most felt I had to see while at the Tate Modern was one of those stereotypical modern artists. Feeling obliged, I read the placard. Each seed was actually made of porcelain from the town where Weiwei was born. According to the sign each represented the export, the multitude of Chinese people, and the questioning of how China is imagined abroad. Looking at the pile of porcelain made to look like simple sunflower seeds, I simply felt sad. I was sad that I had snapped to such a quick judgment. I was sad that such an artist was being persecuted by his country for his "dissidence." I was sad simply because it seemed that the seeds demand I be so.

All this meandering and imaginary cat and mouse with the docent (who really had no interest in me) led me to the giant wooden plug hanging from the ceiling. And the peanut gallery. With their worn out appraisal of modern art: "My kid could do better than that." Well good for you. Sell your kid's art and make a million dollars so you never have to come here again.

In all honesty, I was most frustrated with the women because I didn't "get it" either. I mean, I wanted to get it. I wanted to turn around and say, "Listen lady. This is commentary upon our dependency on technology and how in reality we are still more invested in wood than electricity." I could have, but I didn't know if that was true. And, I didn't believe it to be true.

That's when it hit me. Maybe the docent, the toddler, the young girl snapping pictures, the inattentive mother, and even the judgmental three were all doing what they were supposed to. Maybe I was the one off base. Perhaps instead of struggling to find meaning and somehow own the art through the grasping of it's inner meaning I should just let it wash over me. Let it confuse me. Allow it to seem meaningless.

As I stood under the giant plug with my revelation, I noticed a cobweb between the two blades, gently waving in the wind. That wasn't planned. That couldn't have "meaning."

Maybe that was it. No big lesson. No grand meaning. No further understanding as to why I was so enthralled by modern art. No explanation for how three and a half hours seemed too short. Just a cobweb and a giant wooden plug. Simple enough.

The chaos of the scene at the Tate Modern and my reaction to it seem like something Gerard Richter would have loved:

I don't know what I want; I am inconsistent, non-committal, passive; I like the indefinite, the boundless; I like continual uncertainty.

If that's the point of modern art, then, yeah, I like it.