Trying to capture all my thoughts is exhausting but seems necessary in my creative process. The connections I see forming, as I let my thoughts go rather than trying to focus them, are astounding.
I think of my friend JJAIII and how he’s so very clearly a cultural creative. Something that helps me bridge the gap between the seemingly vast disparity between us in so many ways, but a kinship and intimacy in another. Left to mere left-and-right brain rationale, the finance-come-coder guy is left, and we all know who is right. [Christina catches all my… I knew she was wicked smart. I muse for her, I write for Ry and Andrea. What I don’t write—gosh! sorry Paul Harvey!—is for me. I don’t have to write my secrets to remember… I write the stories that led me to my secrets, imagery and triggers for emotions which recall more than it seems everyone else experiences.]
Sigh. I had to break. I’m back to the level of needing a personal assistant again. Siri? I stopped to reach out to @iA of the IA Writer. I LOVE LOVE LOVE ommwriter for writing personal, conceptual pieces, but IA Writer is what I should be in right now… but I’m optimizing for my experience, what else do experiences designers do when they’re not designing experiences? (Answer, at least for this one—I’m either studying the human experience, or designing for humanity, myself included.) It’s so very clear to me what I need. I won’t share here. I don’t want to hear what I know I’ll hear. I’m taking it to the man, and if it’s not in line with his vision and product strategy, then I’ll do it with my friends.
So here I am, thinking of the things I need to do to properly write the pieces I’m writing. You see, unlike the rest of humanity, I decided to turn my coral crocs the other direction and see what it would be like to jump.
So I’m just going to keep going. There are a few people out there who follow this, whether you want to define “this” as (hehe MR, fingers to keyboard keys—no air quotes, but I still love em-dashes and worry about errant commas, but feel confidence in writing as authentically as I speak.) … And this reminds me, I wondered earlier today, and folks, this is intense. I wonder if would have an easier time with language if I spoke a different language. Let me clarify, is would I have an easier time speaking if I were Italian? I suppose I’d start researching this concept by finding out if there’s research on what parts of the brain activate and light up based on languages… split up those that share commonalities, the romance languages against Asian languages, and Latin and English.
And remember that comment about writing as authentically as I speak? By that I mean that I know I’m a mess… I wonder if it started when I started learning other languages. My brain is programed to elegantly identify patterns and to process data for human experiences. That just is who I am (though JJAIII would debate me til I’m blue, but that’s why I leave the subject aside… no politics and religion over dinner.)
And back to authentically, I was thinking of Margo. When I read her emails (still so wish she’d blog… soooo many years, she should publish those delightful emails!) I hear her voice, her inflection, her laugh, I see the way she tosses her head back chin up, lashes down.
I was asked…
… what’s your TED talk on? I decided, did I tweet that or did I fail to document it. Grrr. I’ve forgotten.
… are you No, I don’t think so, but then I start to think about how I believe that if I start writing again as I am demonstrating this very moment, I will reprogram my brain putting things back into my preferred state.
… how many projects I am working on. Just one, mine. But I’m high maintenance. I’m fire and require fuel. You know how our bodies are engines burning fuel to power itself, and restore and repair? And it seems to be agreed upon that running on McDonald’s
They say I’m hard-wired for happiness, for success. I just can’t understand. Aren’t we all? Isn’t it just this drive inside of us that you have or you don’t? You foster or you forsake?
Seriously, I like being alone. (I fell in love on my lonely weekend, and realized a whole different kind of alone. One I’ve struggled to grasp since… Just me, my senses and sensory experiences—music, waves, breeze, sunshine, smells, tastes, textures: water, macha, cappuccino, lemonade, my greedy finger tips lustful for flesh finding sedation and flowers and jade leaves and succulents, and the waves crash so loudly it seems all the worlds energy is being pushed to me, but I don’t hear it recede, while I rest calmly ready and receiving. I like being alone. One. Funny. Alone. One. I wish you could see the world as I see it. I know you don’t understand my “one”. At best, I could try to explain to you that the words are confused when people look for “the one”. So so close, but so far. We’re not seeking the one, we’re seeking to be one. There isn’t THE one, there are simply one’s whom you might find oneness with. And, isn’t it exciting when we meet someone…? When you can be alone because you’re one? I think of resonation.
On the scale of human interactions, there are some pretty intense things we share from touch, to sex—and music. Perhaps the most vulnerable is music, research of women infidelity of heart/mind vs body; gendered or cultural?
/sigh This is absurd. I can’t write yet. I have software to design. I want it to make me feel secure that my writing isn’t going to magically disappear when I accidentally strike some key or the internet fails or something. (Yes, I am alluding to my associating a feeling of security with client software as opposed to web applications… even with all I know still fear working in a browser. These words I put down are so very precious to me, even if y’all don’t understand them.
I’ve wondered if I don’t necessarily write to preserve but to protect, similar but different. I hadn’t come to a hypothesis quite yet on that one, but that seems like I’m honing on something. If writing allows me to communicate clearer, focuses my own mind (though so so slow and inefficient without the tools I dream of, not to mention how my hands feel after my fingers flying all over the keyboard for endless hours)… I realize that it’s time to return to my paper. I’ve lost so much of my sensory experience by typing. I totally appreciate typing too, I mean there’s something gratifying about hearing the light (wish it were lighter) tap of my keys, an effect ommwriter magnifies with their keystroke
I wish for an experience written for a professional such as myself. I spent the weekend with someone I think so wise for he’s so simply focused his energy, as human capital, on the best opportunity for greatest influence given the reality of socio-economic stratification and status.
Just before that dopamine drenched enveloping sensorial intellectual experience I met with some of what I think of as intellectual but a much higher awareness of body over mind… the pervasive belief of that group was that it’s much better to connect on an economies of scale kind of level.
I get it. But only a few like Ghandi and the Mother Theresa manage to touch humanity, literally, on an economies of scale level. If babies thrive off touch, then why don’t we fear the glow of the screen that traps us behind a guise of human connection, feeding us the junk food of culture but leaving us intellectually fat, but unhealthy. We shouldn’t equate having plenty with being well. Do you want fries with that? We must focus on real connection and human touch.
While I was in New York, back home some guy hit my car leaving two tires deflated; a nice ‘welcome home’ hit-and-run scrawled on my bumper. As a designer, this bothers me to no end, but the past week I’ve thought to myself: “For $300 I could get it all fixed up—and really, that’s pretty cheap!—but, I wonder how many goats I could buy for $300 dollars.”
I find that there are those I am drawn to. I am a cultural creative. I come from a rich family history of cultural creatives. My grandpa a clown who wandered off to Nicaragua at 70 to marry a woman I never knew existed, a grandmother. I’m not mad. I’m proud. I’m going to go learn about her. What drew him to her. It was a short romance, the only grandma to his pa that I knew died only about ten years ago. I didn’t know Emmet Kelly, I knew Grandpa Niblick. His son, my father and one of fifteen kids, Matthew was an artist. He painted my mother, literally. I recall seeing a photo of her, beautiful blonde hippy, her body covered in paint, when I was young. No one ever told me what art was. Isn’t it life? My mother? She’s a humanitarian. She has her patterns, her fascinations, her wild tangents and her brilliance. She takes a bus full of blind seniors on a road trip to the Outer Banks every summer, serving as their eyes, her voice as wide-eyed and awe struck as one would imagine if seeing (again) for the first time. How do you tell the blind what the ocean looks like, but the color blue is, and the motion of the ocean? My momma, she’s my sunshine. But my momma’s sunshine belongs to the world. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, I, like everyone else who encounters her, get to bask in it. She grew up the daughter of Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline, or at least from my toddler high perspective. They play, yes, play to this day, three times a week in a bad. Sure, the audience has gotten older as they have, now it’s rare there’s a venue that isn’t pee stenched with an old woman masturbating in the front row as she listens, her mind no longer aware of cultural norms that dictate otherwise. I don’t worry about her fingers are doing. I wonder how many aliuminum plated deliveries she received from Meals on Wheels before she landed the nursing home. I wonder how the music affects her mind… does it light up? Does she masturabate because there’s music, or does she just masturbate like a fiend? If it’s music, is it any music that moves her (there are no intended puns) or is it specifically Johnny and June and Patsy? They cart the band’s equipment around in a big ol’ conversion van, and that’s about as boring as it gets—they each have their own motorcycles. If you ever hear me refer to crazy Grandma Hilton, it’s a bit confusing. While my Grandma might qualify, I’m actually referring to Great Grandma Hilton. For some reason she seems to be to me the matriach of our crazy, then comes my grandma, Laura Catherine Hilton and all of us crazy Hilton girls: Lisa, my momma, her twin sister Audrey, and my aunt Wanda. Then there’s us kids: Heather, Erin, Nicki and I. Now I’m crazy aunt Angie to next generation of Hilton girls: Hannah Marie, Hailey Estelle, Mackenzie Leigh, and Hannah Nicole. A whole lot of names but it can all be summed up with the thought that my momma’s generation of Hilton girls is known as “crazy”, a title I proudly carry into the “spunky” generation. Spunky. Such a unique word. Yet somehow each and every one of us spunky Hilton girls (begat of the crazies) some how came to be labeled by the same word, adopting it as our own… I’m SpunkyGidget, and I wasn’t too too suprised when I saw that Heather had taken reallyreallyspunky… it was just when the Internet connected our family from across our far flung states that I realized just how much we were family. Nikki’s email address was “spunky” too.
I’m now fascinated by my great great great grandfather John A. Hilton who I’m now researching. He died at Stones River, known as one of the bloodiest wars of the Civil War.
If you ask me if we’re related to “the” Hilton’s, I won’t hear you.
Between the music and the motorcyles, the paint, the movies, the hippies, the crazy, and clowns, and the spunky, I wonder what this generation will be.
They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!” — Jack Kerouac, On the Road
I am a culural creative, and I am drawn others like me, as they are drawn to me, I am drawn to them. Jim Henson taught me it isn’t easy to be green, and about Cottleston Pie, and the middle stair. Steve Jobs thought he was different. Jason Mraz knows the rainbow connection, and Gregory Page conjures culture as he croons and I swoon. Bill Gates’. Wow. He’s not the richest man in the world anymore… because he’s given so much of his money away, intent to make the world a better place for his children.
My mind doesn’t work like others, I see things differently.
As the discourse about the ‘creative economy’ and the importance of the ‘creative class’ begins to stir in the media, I’ve found the stregnth to say “no, thank you”, leaving the corporate world behind to be alone in my own business where I find personal fulfillment creatively, intellectually, and emotionally through my pursuit.
Bill Gates spoke at the World Economic Forum 2008 on the need for ‘creative capitalism’ as a solution to the world’s problems. There are theories that being creative and inventive will be the key to business success in the 21st century. That a country’s economic success will be determined by its ability to mobilize, attract and retain human creative talent.
A Whole New Mind: Why Right Brainers Will Rule The Future uses the two sides of our brains as a metaphor for understanding the contours of our times. Dan Pink predicts that the future belongs to a very different kind of person with a very different kind of mind. The era of “left brain” dominance, and the Information Age that it engendered, are giving way to a new world in which “right brain” qualities-inventiveness, empathy, meaning-predominate.
Paul H. Ray and Sherry Ruth Anderson, “The Cultural Creatives”. New York: Harmony Books, 2000. ISBN 0-609-60467-8.
Lietaer, Bernard (2001) Sustainable Abundance. In The Future of Money (pp. 260–298). London: Century. Describes the connection between Cultural Creatives and new vision of the global economy.
Okay. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep and dream.
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion. — Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Cultural Creative > L-5-MTHf > Dopamine, Serotonin, Homocysteine > [Hyperthymic temperament] > Hypomanic behavior.