Over the summer, I:
Quit smoking cigarettes after 15 years as a heavy smoker. It's been 2.5 months and I have no plans for going back.
Worked part time in the textbook room of a private high school. It was one of the more enjoyable jobs I've ever had. I love books!
Haven't regretted leaving my full-time job at the law firm for one moment.
Went swimming as often as I liked and wore whatever I wanted every day of the week, because I had no corporate job to go to!
Went to Book Expo America and the Harlem Book Fair as part of my internship program.
Had more "summer fun" than any grown adult is supposed to have.
Missed my brother and wished for his imminent return every single day.
Wrote so much and with such fervor that I developed a hideous callous on my right middle finger from holding the pen.
Woefully neglected my blog.
Despite all of my best intentions and stern resolutions in the past couple of years to update this page more regularly, it's almost as if I've become afraid of it. I guess maybe I'm a little apprehensive lately about showing my writing to anyone, and maybe there also doesn't seem to be a point to blogging if I'm not going to do it with some degree of consistency. And maybe I've lost a lot of my nerve, seen my own reflection too often for my own comfort. So I've pulled it all inside. I can't bear to have anyone so much as glance over my shoulder at something that I'm writing. I fill one journal after another, no desire whatsoever to sit down at the computer and "craft" a work of fiction. It all seems to make so much more sense when it comes out of the end of my pen and it's all true. I have a special relationship with pen and paper and the type of writing that is spontaneous and raw. It can't be mimicked or replicated at a computer. I work at my computer. I write papers, emails, read articles, blog on my university website, but I haven't written a piece of fiction or a poem or a personal blog entry all summer. The only story I write is the story of my life, my perception of reality without the notion of being interpreted or judged.
I understand better now, in many ways, why as an artist my brother Josh was always so introverted about his creations. I always saw it as a humbleness or a kind of modesty that he rarely liked to reveal any part of himself to the public, and his art was and still is an extension of himself. But now I realize that his reservations had nothing to do with modesty and everything to do with keeping the thing that he was creating, keeping it real. That's what that means. Keeping it real is about not being influenced by the idea that the value of your thoughts, words or expressions are being quantified by others. That's not to say that the perceptions of others would turn out to be negative or positive, but only that the mere thought of either seems capable of influencing the way a person's work comes out.
At the same time, there is something about the idea that other human beings might connect with my thoughts and the way that I express them that keeps me coming back here again and again to reveal myself. We all seek approval or recognition of our existence in our own ways. My brother sought his own and in his own ways, and his art speaks to a world outside of himself, whether or not that was everything he intended - and I believe it was in the end - he had learned to give a huge part of himself to the public, to a world that he often felt extremely vulnerable within. He made all of these amazing stencils and silk screens and printed t-shirts and even a denim jacket for me. It was his way of finally saying, "Here is my art for everyone to see." He did all the artwork and graphics for Ashland Free Press and put his heart into its continued publication. I only want to be a fraction of the creative genius that he was and to be as motivated by a powerful and meaningful vision until the day that I die. I don't think I am. I think my vision is still a selfish and self-centered one. I am not the reclusive artist that my brother was. I am far more of an exhibitionist than he ever dreamed of being. But in journals, I just write, feel and indulge that intense compulsion regardless of what it reveals about me - that I am good or bad or deep or shallow - and hide from judgment or scrutiny. I just keep telling the story to the pages as it happens, as life unfolds, and later on, I suppose I or someone else can decide what kind of life it's been and whether it matters in the long run. Or maybe a few people will just have a scandalized chuckle and continue on their way. Maybe I'll shock the socks off of people one day, and that would be good too.
But luckily, even if my work never matters for anything, I had a brother who was brilliant. And that counts for a lot as far as our family legacy is concerned. He will always give us Carreóns something and someone to be proud of.