Typestaches

From Ubersuper

Sundown: Nighttime Timelapses of South West France

By Jon Bryant

Attention Dallas Creatives

Though my time as PR Director with the amazing FreesideAtlanta is over, that doesn’t mean my passion and dedication for the message portrayed is any less. I’ve been in Dallas for two months now, and almost immediately I was struck at the segregation between the arts and technology. Dallas is a hub for both, with the Dallas Arts District being full of incredible work, and the constant funding from Texas Instruments. That being said, I’ve yet to see the two worlds intermingle here. Thus, the Dallas Collaborative (name t.b.d) was born. As our mission explains:

Dallas Collaborative is a non-profit group dedicated to community collaboration and the creation of intersections between the arts, sciences, and technology. We are in the process of finding a physical space to support our infrastructure of passionate members in their artistic development and experimentation. It seeks to blur the definition of “art” in a modern age by encouraging participation between the traditional “arts” and technology. Furthermore, the organization gives back to the Dallas community by providing a number of events, workshops, classes, and site-specific gallery shows.

You will hear me discussing this a lot in the next upcoming months as I iron out details. Once we get a more concrete name and logo, I’ll be asking for participation and support from anyone who is willing to give it. We’re looking for members, donations and ultimately a space for members to use in Deep Ellum. For more clarity for those who are not familiar at all with this movement as a whole, I’ll be doing some spotlights on the hackerspace/makerspace movement that I’ve been meaning to do for a long time.

Look out, Dallas.

On Relocation

As some of you may or may not know, my life has taken an interesting turn of events. I am no longer located in Atlanta, nor am I attending school there anymore. Constantly frustrated by tuition hikes, the technology gap, poor job market and the constant tingling sensation that I was learning little, if at all, made me rethink if I was actually getting towards my goals. So I made a drastic turn to better embrace my curiosity about technological advancement and media, and acknowledged a smaller pocketbook. I packed up my bitty two-door Ford with all my worldly possessions (a.k.a my library), resigned as PR Director for Freeside, said goodbye to the life I’d built and came to Dallas Texas (in the heat of summer).

That being said, expect some musings on the building and rebuilding of life sometime in the future.

I am now finishing my studies at University of Texas at Dallas in Emerging Media and Communications. I’ll be doing at least another year, but I do believe that I’ll have a lot more to offer the world when I’m done.

Other projects at the moment include starting a non-profit arts and technology collective along the grain of Freeside Atlanta, trying to get published more, and working a much better (and better paying) technology related job than working IT at Agnes Scott College.

Thus, I expect some changes to the tone of this blog, perhaps shifting to achievement attempts and experiments rather than just philosophical musings. Expect more content on emerging media. Expect more stark reviews, a la “On the Grave of Dollhouse”.

Similarly, I now have a sister blog focused more on technological advancements and my obsession with social media, deemed Media Circus. They may merge again at some point, but that is to be determined at a later time.

Hope you enjoy the new direction!

Photo of Dallas Texas from Flickr user Schlüsselbein2007. Used under Creative Commons License.

Modern Burlesque and the Creation of Identity

*All rights reserved. This does not belong to you. Do not take it.*

Introduction

My introduction to modern burlesque came one summer day in 2009 at Whole Foods Market in Dallas, Texas; me sans makeup or any decently not-frumpy clothing. A woman who I later learned to be a burlesque dancer herself approached me and asked if I was a burlesque performer. I remember stuttering some excuse for “no” and she smiled friendly enough and offered me a card for a dance studio that taught burlesque. I fought with the decision for over a month; whether I had the self-esteem, whether it was a worthy expedition, would it conflict with family values, etc. I finally signed up, and much to my dismay I found I was the only student in the 6-week course. The teacher was warm and inviting and slowly taught me the basic history of burlesque and the beginnings of becoming a performer. What I didn’t realize until very late in the course was that in the process of teaching me how to be a dancer and a performer again, she had given me more than I had ever expected. Not only had I become dancer-fit like I used to be when I was younger, but I stood up straight, smiled more, and for once, I demanded attention when I came into a room rather than hiding in the shadows. Glamour became an aspect of my daily life; I could finally justify taking the time on my appearance if it boosted my confidence in everyday world. My wardrobe changed, my mood changed and for once I had began to realize who I was.

When I returned to Agnes Scott College in the fall of 2009, I chose to pursue burlesque in any way I could. As I began to introduce myself to performers, to create connections into that world and hear the stories, I realized that the transformation that had occurred in my life was not a singular experience. Modern burlesque is deeply rooted in the history of feminism and female sexual identity and proves more than an entertainment art form: it is a way of life, a personal identity.

I will present to you the immense impact this art form has had on the individuals that live the life of burlesque. I will show similarities in the individual identity to create a collective and powerful group notion of self, sexuality and femininity. I will share the stories and experiences of artists from many different backgrounds and their understanding of what it means to be a burlesque dancer. I will address the basic history about burlesque that is integral to understanding the art form, the accessories that make it possible, the connect (or disconnect) between family life and performing, and the communal experiences that make it worthwhile and important to this cultural group.

My research is an accumulation of formal, written interviews with performers from Texas and Georgia, two of the rising larger populations of burlesque performers, coming up quickly to the cities of Chicago and New York where the art began. These interviews are intermingled with historical research, photography, videos and personal recollections of events and experiences.

On Making a Poem Yours

One of the fundamental questions that keeps reappearing in my head is what makes a poem yours? As I feel poetry to be one of the most emotionally volatile of art forms, particularly in writing, this question always leads me to wonder how personal to make it as a writer. Too much emotion, and the piece becomes so much a pat of you that you cannot share it without fear of rejection, of ever able to edit to find the poem’s full potential. However, with not enough emotion, readers cannot find a connection with the piece and the poet can easily lose the passion to work with it until the end. So how much is right? I’ve been writing for long enough not to take criticism personally anymore, so poetry has been a good outlet for me to discuss issues very personal to me. That being said, I’d like to try some pieces that were more abstract, but it’s difficult to work with personal pieces in a small college setting when most of the people know you on some personal level and would rather focus on how non-fictional or fictional the pieces are rather than their artistic merit. I think it is definitely up the discretion of the poet to decide how much is just enough emotion, but it is important for any artist to get a bit of a thick skin when working with emotional topics, but without the ability to open up, art will never become art.

Does it even have to be your story to make it good? When I write poetry, I always feel like I’m giving it away to the audience when it is complete, and thus it no longer holds the same personal connection with me that it once did. Maybe this is one of the reasons I like to write about ugly situations – once I can make them beautiful I can let them go. Strangely, I could never do this with long works of fiction; I get so connected to my characters, I have a hard time letting go. So maybe that’s simply it? What makes a poem yours is the ability to make something ugly, or even just real, into something beautiful to a mass audience. I think it’s very important to distinguish that claiming a piece of art as your own is not the same as not making it connectible for a wider audience. Because ultimately art is meant to evokes some sort of emotion, or create beauty where there was none before.

On Where You Should Be Right Now

Let me preface this event posting by giving a bit of my background with this organization. Dodekapus is an art collective in Atlanta that came to Freeside in its infancy asking for any help we could provide. They have done much of the hard work for this event in our space, and have since decked our space out with some superb artwork. They have since continued to grow exponentially in members and fans and are doing a wonderful job of creating something wonderful. If you stand for artistic expression in any form (as I do, obviously) you need to be at this event.

This Friday at 8pm is the accumulation of many months of hard work on the part of these members, and what I believe to be the beginning of something wonderful in Atlanta. When I moved here almost two years ago I was thoroughly disappointed in the lack of organization of creativity in this city (or what I thought then, the lack of creativity, period). Between Freeside and Dodekapus, something is beginning to change in this city. We are finally uniting, above-ground if you will.

This will be an event lasting into the early hours of the morning, so prepare to be there for a while, admire all of their hard work, and revel in what Atlanta is becoming.

More information on Dodekapus happenings here, and for other Facebook stalkers, there is an event page.

Hope to see you Atlanta folks there!

On Home and Heart

Home sticks in clods between the ridges of motorcycle wheels,
But our faithful ride is tired, worn from our escapist fantasies,
We are quiet,
Laying side by side in an abandoned gas station
Under flickering city light,
Gravel digging into our shoulders and our backs and our knees.
We smell like rain and gasoline,
Comforting in it’s simplicity.

You are new to me, yet you are peace to me,
A piece of me, a slice of what if feels like to be warm and safe
If even for a moment.
You are worn leather
Every crack like the creases of a rough, callused hand,
Each telling a story.

So I tell you a story:
How lies and deceit can be triumphed over the smell of coffee in the morning,
The view of snow-tipped velvet mountains can make you feel pure again,
I tell you about our city,
How the lake is a vast, dark ocean, surrounded by the rush of street-life.
How the Ferris Wheel turns like the gears in your head,
even as icicles drape every spoke.
I tell you how similar they are,
Those mountains and this city,
And that when you listen just right,
In that moment before the dawn breaking,
For a second everything is absolutely
Still.

So we say a prayer for our faithful ride,
Let the gravel in our skin feel alive.
And, if even for just this day,
The city is ours.

All rights reserved. This is not yours.

History of Passion

(Published in All Rights Reserved Literary Magazine, 2007)

Come find me when the sun has set and the stars faintly dust the skies. As the bustle of everyday chaos and the mulling of voices dies down – slowly, to a faint whisper, then disappears, leaving nothing but nature and the simplicity of darkness. I emerge, crouching between the purity of the empty page, waiting eagerly for the drip of ink. I am invincible, invisible, in an inverted world of a white darkness and black stars. With nightfall, I can only exist in this space, accompanied by words and imagination and dreams and memories.

The hours turn slowly; allowing my time to watch, listen to your dreams – mixed thoroughly with your desires and recollections – as you whisper to me. Rain begins to fall on my blank page, slowly at first, black drops splashing and running around me in designs of words and sentences. The rain is more violent now; it pounds my head in the rhythm of my rapid heartbeat. Then onto my shoulders and outstretched arms. No longer black and white, colors emerge from the cloud of ideas above me. Iridescent, they drip from my hair, trickling down my forehead, stinging my eyes, and tracing a shimmering line down my neck to pool in the hollow of my collarbone. Soaking my clothes. Radiant blues and hues of green contrast with the bright yellow of the midmorning sun. The page is transformed into a tranquil ocean. Away from people. See them? They are far off, unimportant to this story. Your story. There you are, in the water now, bathing gracefully in the salty shades of the page. Swimming, swimming, invisible.

Feel the waves on your shoulders. An electrifying sensation that will linger long after the moment has passed. In a fleeting second, you sensed a connection. You became part of the water – part of something larger, deeper than your mind could comprehend. I feel it too, brushing my fingers over another completed page. Knowing when I return again to the chaos of the sun that the satisfaction will follow me. It will fade eventually, when you had to stop and exhale. Your breath shakes the page, remodels words in new forms. Some will disappear, evaporate, chased away by the wind of reason. They’ll try to creep back in at later times, silent and unnoticed. As you drift away again, that charge reemerges. The ritual will repeat itself, as history so often does.

I laugh, exhilarated, careful not to wake you, peaceful and unknowing to my frenzied exuberance in the immersion of words. The sound echoes, reverberating in the empty spaces of the paper, hungry to be filled with more words. It harmonizes with a constant heartbeat, the rise and fall of your chest, and the scrawl of pen on paper. The music is rough, simple, and yet elegant. It compliments the colors in different fashioning of beats. There is no score, no tempo, no refrain. Only pure sound. Beauty. It keeps me from losing my grounding completely, from disappearing into passion and imagination, wrapped snug in a velvet blanket of memories.

I taste the words as they fall. Sour, like a ripe lemon pleading to be plucked from a tree, then chuckling at your naïve confusion as you take a bite. The next drop is sweet, but fait, like a memory of cotton candy at a fair last attended many years passed. You won a contest that year, didn’t you? A youth’s poem – vague, incomplete and unpolished but nonetheless your poem. You don’t even like cotton candy, but on this particular year, it tasted particularly sweet. The scent of pride and victory stuck to your fingers long after the synthetic sugar had disappeared.

I can smell the wet ink as it dries. Like overnight summer rain and the succeeding morning mist that saturates everything, making the grass cool and inviting in the warmth of the rising sun. Soothing as you watch and listen as the world awakens, yawning and shaking and begging for its several more minutes of solitude. But you are well awake, and you study each aspect of the dawn. Like coffee, too hot to drink but tantalizing you with its aroma. Drank in musty, dim-lit coffee shops at midnight, with friends, poetry reading, guitars, and card games. Like the scent of his cologne – all of them you’ve ever known – and dulled into the universal scent of men. Like pine trees, the crunch of twigs and a thin layer of ice under a clear February night. The crackle of a roaring fire that warms beyond aching limb and muscle and bone. Deeper into your core than you ever thought possible. As I write, this is the scent of history.

The sun is beginning to rise, and the clouds begin to dissipate. The last words are hurried, outrunning the impending sunshine that seeps into the windows and under the door. My heart slows and my breathing deepens. And you awaken. Take my place in the world; manage the maze of city streets and watch emotion, politics and destruction. Race against pressure. When you have had your fill, return to me by night. Let passion reign. Watch me sing and dance on a blank page, fulfilled with your memories and dreams and hopes and despair. Watch your history, my history, unfold on the empty page as the process repeats again.

Roses are Red and Sci-Fi is Win.

From Tor.com