Find the first poem you ever wrote.
Read it over. Try to remember the story of why you wrote it, what inspired you, and who it was for. Write it all down.
Then, write a new poem. Once you’re done, date it, and put your first poem and the new one back in the place where you found the first one, so that they can both be rediscovered at some point in the future.
The next time you go to a party, leave a note for the host.
Say that it was a great party. That everyone was having a good time. That you enjoyed yourself spectacularly. And be sure to relate some details, like bits from overheard conversations, the reaction to a certain groove, how good the food was, and who drank way too much.
If you happen to have a Polaroid camera, bring it along, take some pictures during the party, and leave the images with the note.
Leave the note (and Polaroids) in a place where the host will find it after all the guests have left, the music has stopped, and the lights throughout the house have been turned off — perhaps near the kitchen sink. That way, one of the last things the host might see before he or she crashes is your note of appreciation.
Make your own anthology. (Why should Norton have a lock on this?)
It’s sort of like a mixed tape, really. And people are always making mixed tapes, for themselves, for new girlfriends, and for friends. Why not do the same with the written word? Spread all your books on the floor, and start making a list of your favorite stories, your favorite passages from novels, your favorite poems. Then, load up all the books which contain your selections in a backpack, get to a copy machine, and make copies. After the copying is done, make a cover. Finally, spiral bind your collection. Voila! Your anthology, volume 1, is complete.
Get a regular-sized envelope. Address it to someone special. Then, stuff it with as many things as you can: a letter, photographs, ripped out magazine articles, photocopies of poems, a short story, or passages from a novel, recipes, clipped newspaper articles, art work, poems or stories you’ve written… Anything that can be folded up and put in the envelope. Make sure to stuff it so full that you need to use tape to keep it sealed. This envelope should have serious heft. Once it’s sealed, get the proper postage put on it (definitely use stamps) and mail it off.
The next time it rains, go collect all the discarded broken umbrellas. They litter the slicked down streets and sidewalks, all snapped spokes and sagging shields, left exposed to the elements from which they used to provide shelter. Give them a proper burial. Make sure to document your efforts.
Take a picture of a kid you know well, your niece, nephew, younger sister or brother.
Then, make a postcard out of the picture and mail it to the kid.
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My photography teacher was reviewing some of my photographs, and he stopped at one that I had taken of my little sister. “You should print this out a little smaller, put a stamp on the back and then mail it to her,” he said. “Kids like getting stuff in the mail, and they’re just blown away when they see a picture of themselves arrive like that… They feel famous, in a kid sort of way.”
First, write down your thoughts about your job — what you like about it, what you hate about it, where you think it’s going and how it relates to what you truly want to accomplish with your life.
Then, watch the movie Ikiru, by Akira Kurosawa.
Right after the movie, write down your thoughts about your job — what you like about, what you hate about it, where you think it’s going, and how it relates to what you truly want to accomplish with your life.
Wake up. Call in sick. Use the day to do that thing you’ve been meaning to do.
Saturdays are for laundry, errands, get togethers, shows, all-day events, day trips, going out. Sundays are for waking up late, going to brunch or church or both, mowing/sweeping/vacuuming, matinees, picnics in the park, afternoon beers, watching the game, long distance phone calls, going to the grocery store, big dinners. And of course weekdays are usually for work. Sick days are yours to take, yours to make. Use them wisely.
Study the life’s work and the life of an artist.
Go to a museum. Look at the Picasso and the Dali (Pieces by these artists seem to be in EVERY museum), of course, but make a real effort to seek out the works of art by artists you’ve never heard of, the artists without the big names. Read the white placards. Always so elegantly written and so perfectly concise, providing just the right amount of information as you stand before and view the original works.
But the information gathering shouldn’t end there. Though the story is the art, there’s always more to the story. Curate your own retrospective of an artist using the web, books, museums, museum bookstores, and even postcards. An author may only write one book, a filmmaker just a few films, but an artist usually builds an expansive body of work. A single painting — or a few paintings — in a museum is just a starting off point.
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I’m a sucker. I admit that I went through an Andy Warhol phase. I sought out his art in every museum I visited, even read his books and watched his movies. I also read books and watched film documentaries about him. I didn’t just appreciate his art — I wanted to live his life as an artist, with my very own Factory. I also went through a Dali phase. Again, I sought out the art, read the books, and claimed to “get” Un Chien Andalou. I’m such a poser that right after I saw the movie Surviving Picasso, I started painting. Give me a break.
But regardless of my clichéd responses to these artists, I learned a great deal about their lives and their art. And I got inspired… to create, to make things, even to paint, despite a total lack of both talent and technique. These days I make an effort to discover and learn about lesser known artists, whose names I have never heard of and whose work I have never seen before. But I still entertain dreams of one day having my own Warhol-like Factory, silver balloons and all.
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