Oregon – An Accidental Vagabond

The sunrise streams through the summer trees in Maine.

Transitions -This Title is Not for Your Algorithm

Published on August 1, 2024 by An Accidental Vagabond2 Comments

Sunrise behind the trees in East Machias, Maine. — East Machias Sunrise

Change is hard. They say. The great “THEY” say that it is even harder as you get older. When it comes to changing a physical location, you can say, I’m an expert at it. Only the physical move, though, everything else does seem to be getting harder.

In the past year my husband and I have moved from South Korea to Maine and then to Portland. It wasn’t that streamlined though. It went more like this: We moved from our place in Itaewon, Seoul in July of 2023, and spent two weeks driving around South Korea visiting places like Gyeongju, Namhae, and Incheon.

A view of the green hills rising above terra cotta rooftops in a historic folk village in Gyeongju, South Korea. — Gyeongju

Bright colors of red, orange and green pop out against a grey seaside background in the coastal island Namhae, South Korea. — Gyeongju

We had some confidence at this time. My husband had a job waiting for him in Maine, we had a savings, and I had my pension. The evidence of 7 years of teaching English in South Korea.

I am the reason we left South Korea. I had been ready to leave Korea since 2017. My first few months of teaching had been a bad experience with a bad company and a terrible school principle. The Korean staff was great, the other teachers were great, but the “boss” was terrible. A dishonest and manipulative person who treated her Korean staff far worse than the foreign staff. I heard she had finally been fired for embezzlement. It may have been a rumor how she was fired, but she was fired. However this was a few years after I had left. As a foreign teacher in South Korea you are housed which is part of the draw, but the type of housing you get has a lot to do with who employs you. My housing was abysmal, but I knew of people who had worse. I quit that job, breaking my contract within the first 90 days of my employment which was within my contract, but the “boss” requested I stay for at least 6 months claiming it was that difficult to find a replacement. I agreed, which I should not have done since later it stabbed me in the back. I wont go into the boring detail, but needless to say, I did not receive my final paycheck. Luckily, I did get the coveted Letter of Release allowing me to find work elsewhere. My next job and the job’s after were better, but I had a bitter taste in my mouth. Months before meeting Eun, I had already decided to leave Korea.

Seven Years Later

Things change. You meet people. You fall in love. You get married. You have a pandemic. Your parent gets sick. Your dog almost dies. Things happen.

Once things began to reach a base level once again, Eun and I decided to leave South Korea. Again, a lot of it was me. I never did pick up the language, and my chance of finding a job outside of teaching was low. I did manage to get a writing gig for about two months, but they stopped accepting contract writers. I was disappointed, but that is how it goes. I had hoped maybe to find another writing gig, but nothing so far has panned out. My idea was, “let’s go to Portland, OR. I have friends there.” Yet, Eun didn’t feel comfortable with that. He needed a job first. After all, that’s how normal people do it. Job first. Move second. I never worked that way. Move then figure it out. My way is more difficult and scarier.

He got the job in Maine. So we left Itaewon and did our road trip. Flew to Washington state on July 17. Spent two days in Seattle. Two weeks in Portland. Got a car loan. Bought a car using the loan and some of my pension money. We took a trip to California to see my dad. Then back up to Oregon to visit the gravesite of Sue and then we drove across the country passing through Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, Minnesota, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, and finally Maine. We even stayed the night in some of those states.

For ten months we lived in a dorm with international students. We lived in downeast Maine in a rural little town named East Machias. Eun worked as a Health and Wellness teacher, a Freshman Basketball coach, and a dorm parent while I tried to reinvent myself. I took online courses through coursera trying to learn UX design. I went back to my novel that I wrote over 10 years ago, but never published. I looked for remote work online. No one wanted to hire me except online tutors. I had no transferable skills. I started teaching in 2013 as a means to travel, but it now identified me as a teacher with no other career potential. If I were younger would it be better? I don’t know. The nearest grocery store was always hiring, but it was 5 miles away. I didn’t have a license, Eun worked full time, and there was no public transportation. It took me 8 months to get my license due to logistics. I loved the beauty and nature of Maine, but I wanted to leave for a similar reason as to why I wanted to leave South Korea. I wanted opportunity to grow.

Why is it that I couldn’t find some way to be creative while I had all that freedom and time?

Poor mentality. I wasn’t lazy. I worked daily. Keeping the apartment clean. Making every meal. Laundry- the daily duties. I was writing, drawing, learning, reading and attempting to educate myself in every way possible. I was also looking for remote jobs. I even restarted my YouTube channel (which has grown a bit) but I have a poor mentality. I was never fully able to just do art or learn or be committed to being creative because I wasn’t contributing financially. I never sent my work out (writing) because I never believed I could be paid as a writer. I could never be paid for anything creative. It wasn’t for me. I was not meant for that world.

I still suffer from this thinking. I assume I will die with this mentality. It is tough to unlearn.

10 Months Later

We left East Machias on June 18th, not even a full year since we left South Korea. We packed our life into the car once again only this time we had no savings, no jobs, no home, no prospects. Eun trusted me this time, but this time I felt unsure. Very unsure. Once again we drove across America. We passed through many of the same states minus Indiana, Illinois and Iowa, and we added Michigan and Wisconsin. We had less money and more time. You could say we were foolish. If things fail you can say, “you deserve it.” If we succeed you could say we were adventurous. It is all determined by the outcome even though it shouldn’t be.

Eun is a basketball player and a coach and he found an opportunity to grow as a player and a trainer, so we spent a week in Michigan so that he could participate in this program. While in Michigan a violent windstorm passed through and a large branch broke from a tree and flew into our car damaging the passenger side. I was distraught since we hadn’t even paid for the car yet. Eun, who is more positive, reminded me that we have insurance. Still, the cost of the program, the cost of staying a week in Michigan and now the cost of the car was weighing on me. If things fail it’s my fault. That’s what played through my mind. Still we continued to make what some people may call bad choices. We kept moving forward with our travels. Staying in South Dakota to visit the Badlands and Deadwood. You can watch our journey on Youtube if you are so inclined.

We moved forward with our plan to stay in Cody, Wyoming as we visited Yellowstone, and then stayed in Montana to see Yellowstone for a few more days. We lost money having to change places to stay. One we had to change because of floods that hit Minnesota and South Dakota. We had to cancel camping stays that were meant to save money because we finally accepted the fact that our dog can’t camp. We spent more money on airbnbs because our dog needs space away from strangers and other dogs. We continued on to stay in La Grande so I could once again visit the grave of my friend Sue and to see her sister whom I hadn’t seen since the funeral 16 years ago.

Portland, OR

At the moment of writing this we have been in America for 1 year and 1 week. We have been in Portland for nearly 3 weeks. We don’t have jobs. We don’t have much money. Our car is in the shop. We have a place to stay for about two more weeks, and Eun has two more paychecks before we have nothing. We are in debt, too. We began applying for jobs our first full day in Portland. The first week was silent. Then the second week rejection e-mails and automatic rejection responses came in. Then at the end of the second week, we began to get phone interviews. Eun had some in person interviews. Our emotions which are tied to our fears and anxieties ebb and flow like the ocean tides. We celebrate an interview, we try to shrug away the rejections, and we try to ignore the silence. Eun is applying for jobs as a teacher. He is moving forward with this career. Digging into his role as a P.E. teacher and a basketball coach. This next job is going to be the one for the next few years. We want it to be a good place. As for me, it is more difficult. I am trying to transition out of being a teacher. I want to work in an office with benefits. I want to create content. To be what the digital age calls “a creative.” But, it is difficult. I am having trouble breaking in and proving I can be worthy. The place I had volunteered for 7 years didn’t give me an interview after hanging onto my resume and communicating with me for a month, and I got rejected by Barnes & Nobles. Both, writing adjacent jobs.

Will this be a story of throw caution-to-the wind-adventure with a happy ending or will it be a cautionary tale? Only time will tell. Time will tell soon as the clock is ticking. As I line this final paragraph with cliches, I want to return to the introduction that change is hard. It is very difficult to change your career especially in a rapidly changing world. 10 years ago I worked in an office, I was an office administrator, but today I am no longer an ideal candidate. It is hard not to feel dejected when you have a poor mentality. This blog drips with pathos, but it is also held together with a tenacious web of hope and perseverance. I am making progress. Pages have been written. They may not fit the timeline of the meta masses but they fit my time line which is the duration of my life. So, we will see where this path takes me.

I haven’t forgotten part three of the Huashan hike it will be posted. One day. Till then enjoy these mushrooms. They are pretty, but not the kind to open your mind. You have to do that yourself. Advise to me from me. You can use it too if you want.

Four beautiful mushrooms growing in Maine.

My Last Days in America: China Diaries

Published on August 9, 2013March 18, 2024 by An Accidental Vagabond4 Comments

Portland, Oregon night city scape. — Photo by Tabitha Mort on Pexels.com

Leaving Portland, Oregon

I’m what you call between employment. I need to make a small amount of money last a couple of months in two countries before my new job begins. I’m going to be a teacher. In China. I don’t know what that will be like, but hopefully in the next year I will be able to expound on this experience.

The journey started over a week ago. I ended my job, left my room in the house where I rented space, and I left Portland, OR.

Three women bundled in jackets posing on the beach in front of Haystack rock in Cannon Beach, Oregon. — An Oregon coastal January with friends

I’ve lived in Portland for almost thirteen years. It would be thirteen years’ on the 11th, but I didn’t quite make it. I had always had a love-hate relationship with the city. I loved the people I became friends with, I loved the easiness of living, I loved the beautiful scenery and the fresh woodsy air, but there was something I disliked too. It was a something that I could ever put my finger on and still can’t. A feeling of not really fitting in. I could never really make things “work” in Portland. I found that finding the job that was in line with my career dreams was unreachable except through volunteering (which I did but it never or rarely turned to pay) romantic relationships seemed impossible, and creatively I lumbered along like a bog sloth. I was complacent and I didn’t create, and I couldn’t break out of the rut. Yes, yes, I know this is not Portland’s problem it’s mine, but all the same, the dislikes compelled me to leave. To become uncomfortable.

I left Portland on the fifth of August. Most of my personal items were sold or given away. I’ve stored some boxes of books and photos, two small items of furniture, and various sentimental knick-knacks at a friend’s house (my former roommate/landlord). The contents of my life can literally fill a small car. I’ve packed two large pieces of luggage each weighing just under 50lbs. I have a carry on, my laptop, and a purse. These items will be my possessions for the next year.

A Road Trip From Portland to San Fransisco

In order to officially and legally work in China I had to go to the consulate in San Francisco to pick up my visa. This made for a great excuse to take a road trip from Portland to San Francisco where I could stop in a small college city called Chico to visit my mom.

My good friend and I decided to drive down to California together. It was her ideal really. She said it was a great excuse to visit her family, and also nothing is more fun than a road trip. My friend, and I are both Portland transplants. Both of us are Northern California natives, so a trip to California is also a visit to our places of birth.

A woman in dark sunglasses standing in from of a tree in front of glassy Crater Lake in Oregon. — Crater lake and me.

Crater Lake Resurfaces Memories of the Dead

We stopped for a night in Crater Lake and camped. The night air was warm and smokey due to the fires in Southern Oregon. We made a small contained fire and ate snacks. We made vodka cocktails mixed with grapefruit juices manually squeezed from grapefruits, with added bing cherries and cherry juice. All of these items were left over from my going away party. We drank our cocktails in front of the fire. Cocktails and camping in Crater Lake seem contradictory to me like the two don’t belong. We needed beer or a bottle of whiskey. Vodka never struck me as a camping drink, but there are no rules.

In the morning we drove to the lodge and walked to one of the many viewing points. We walked on a hiking path to Discovery Point, and there we silently stared at the crystal water that reflected the clouds. The line between earth and sky was blurred and my thoughts drifted to my friend Sue who died six years ago. It was Sue who convinced me to move to Portland in the first place, and on our drive up from Chico, CA we stopped in Crater Lake. I hadn’t been to Crater Lake since that trip 13 year’s ago. Now, I was leaving and I would never see Sue again. I knew I wouldn’t see her again when I got the news of her death, but sometimes I forget she’s really gone and not just traveling. Death can be like that sometimes. You forget, but then you remember. You remember and you feel the loss, again.

It was hot and smokey like we were driving into desolation. The hazy sky reminded me of images of China’s cancer villages. Rarely a blue sky I was told. I’m hoping that it is not as thick as this burning air.

Northern California

In truth, I never thought I would leave California, but life happens and sometimes your roads take you to places you did not expect to go.

Shasta

In Shasta we took a detour to Whiskey Town Lake. We set up a make shift picnic and split a beer and ate cherries and chips. I waded into the water that was warm. The red clay beneath the water swirled under my feet and turned it pink, but only when I moved. I wanted to swim, but my suit was packed and I knew from many childhood experiences that the clay stained your clothing.

Paradise

My home town of Paradise in northern California is in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. It gets hot and dry in the summer, and sometimes we’d get snow in the winter. My father left Paradise when I was seven or eight, but my mom lived there until her 50’s then she later moved to Chico which is only 20 miles west of Paradise. I didn’t get to make it to Paradise before I heading to San Fransisco, since my parents no longer live there and most of my friends have moved away, but I did visit Chico to spend time with my mom.

Five children sitting in the dirt in front of a dilapidated house. From left to right: A white blonde girl in a summer dress, a dark haired girl, a blonde white boy, a brown haired girl with white complexion, and a Mexican/black girl in overalls. — My Life in Paradise, CA, 1970s

A group of seven kids posing in front of a river. Four kids are standing and they all have their arms around each other. From left to right: a blonde, white, boy, topless and wearing blue jeans; a dark haired, Latina girl with a white blouse; a black boy with short hair is topless in blue jeans, and a white girl with shoulder length blonde hair in a white blouse and blue jeans. Three younger children are sitting on the rocks. From left to right: a white blode girl in a dress blowing a balloon, a dark haired boy with an olive complexion in a blue shirt and shorts, and a Mexican girl with curly hair covering her face, she is dressed in a dress. — My Life in Paradise, CA, 1970s

Chico

We drove the rest of the way to Chico, and spent a night with my mother. That evening we went to a bar I used to frequent when I was a student at Chico State. It’s always fun to be new in a small town, even though you had actually lived there in the past. I spent my teenage years hanging around downtown Chico from time to time, but the places my teen self would go are gone. I spent five years of my twenties, my college years, going to bars and restaurants, and bookstores, and record stores, seeing bands, and running into people I knew, but those days are in the past. The places I used to frequent are gone or have changed. The bands are gone, and the friends are gone and the kids I knew have kids. Yet, this old bar named Duffy’s that catered to the theatre crowed was still there. It was there, but I was different. I moved and grew older. I sat for the sake of nostalgia, in this bar, where I spent one too many days during my spring finals, but it was as if I had never been there before.

The Entrance to Sierra National Forest picnic grounds. Red Bud. — Photo by Guy Hurst on Pexels.com

Five Days with Mom

In the morning my friend said good-bye, and the reality of my actual life change hit. Although, only subtly because I had decided to stay with my mom and staying with her is like nothing has changed. I’ve been here for five day’s now, and tomorrow I will see an old friend, my oldest. A friend I met when we were eleven or twelve, and I will spend the night in my hometown of Paradise, and then on the eleventh we drive to San Francisco, and that is where things will begin to take hold. So, I did stay in Paradise after all.

The Golden Gate Bridge over the San Francisco Bay. — Photo by zahid lilani on Pexels.com

Finally, San Francisco for the Visa

In San Francisco, I have that final step left to take before I get on the plane to China. My visa. It has been difficult getting my paperwork from China in order for me to apply for the visa, but it is all finally here waiting for me at a friend’s house in San Francisco.

So, This is Change.

Two days ago I felt fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of the plane flight, fear of being lost. Today is calm. Excitement hasn’t hit yet. Maybe, I don’t understand what I’m doing yet. I know I don’t understand because I don’t know what I’m doing.

Three people in a kitchen during halloween. A man with a viking costume and a skull painted face stares at the camera as the two women in the background hug. One woman is dressed in red with white face paint, and the other is dressed in street clothes, but wears a crown. — I always thought it was a bloody rabbit come to find out it was a mad puppy

A woman dressed like Little Red Riding Hood holds a basket as she looks walks though the woods. — I always thought it was a bloody rabbit come to find out it was a mad puppy

What is the saying? I have no idea what is happening next and I’m excited about it.

I prefer the line from Sue’s favorite movie Almost Famous:

It’s all happening.

How I Wrote My First Novel and Earned a Mastery of Writing Certification

Published on June 7, 2011March 4, 2024 by An Accidental VagabondLeave a comment

A group of people smiling for a group photo. — 2011 the first graduating class of The Attic Atheneum

The Atheneum is Over

The weekend of June 3rd and 4th was the Atheneum’s final retreat. An educational ending to the year program. There was plenty of wine and amazing food. Each teacher/mentor spoke on something that they felt was important for us to take away with us, now that we would be embarking on a post-writing school life.

I proudly walked away with a Certificate in the Mastery of Writing, thank you very much, and I had a nice glass of champagne thanks to Paulann Peterson. Paulann had invited Berry Sanders and his wife to speak to us on our last day. Then we all said, good-bye and good luck.

One Last Assignment

One of the things that we were requested to do was to present a project as a sort of team effort (our teams were, fiction, poetry, and non-fiction) as a part of the fiction group I was asked to write a memoir. I decided to write about what it was like to finish my first novel, and since my first love is theatre, I couldn’t help but to compare the two in the world of endings.

A group of four men and two women posing for a group photo on an outdoor staircase. — Team Fiction Writing

How I Wrote My First Novel

Prague

Although I had wanted to be a writer I never consider myself a writer, because I didn’t feel like a writer. So, I journaled. I journaled from the time I was 16, sometimes daily sometimes with an absence of many months. When I turned 26, I moved to Europe, and I took a journal along with me. I spent two years living abroad sometimes journaling sometimes not, but it was during my short life in Prague that I had faithfully journaled, recording every moment daily. I had captured nuances and conversations, in fact, it may have been the first time I wrote my observations versus my inner feelings.

Colorado to Oregon

When I reluctantly returned to the states, I found myself sitting on my aunt’s bed in her one bedroom apartment hiding out from a hot Colorado summer storm, flipping through the pages of my journaled history in Prague, longingly reading over the transcripts, and it was at that moment (eleven years ago) that I realized I had a story. It wasn’t an amazing story. It wasn’t going to save lives or change the way people felt about the world. It was in the words of Sylvia Plath: a potboiler. Yet, to me, it was a necessary story and it wanted to be told. Right then and there on my aunt’s computer in two to three days I wrote the entire first draft except for the end. I didn’t want it to end how it really ended. But how did I turn fact into fiction?

I traveled across the western United States with a man, his dog, his depressed mother and her bottle of vodka, and ended up in Oregon, but that is another story. I carried a printed copy of my endless manuscript along for the ride. The electronic copy had been lost. I shoved my novel in a folder and ignored it.

Back to School

Two years later, I decided to return to school. I applied to a community college to focus on mathematics, but while there I decided to take a fiction writing class for fun. It rekindled my interest in my previous novel attempt. I thought about finishing it, but it took me another three years before I sat down and retyped the entire thing out again, and still with out the needed ending.

I had an incredible love hate relationship with my work. There were moments when I wanted to burn the thing and moments when I thought it was brilliant, but ultimately it was the characters that kept talking to me. They would interrupt my dreams and daily thoughts living out their lives as if I were still writing them.

An Office Job, A Retreat, and a Recession

In 2007, seven years after I got my initial idea to write the book that I was now calling Žižkov, I started working at a corporate office. It was the most secure job I had ever had in my life. I had actually made payments on my student loans, I could buy clothes, I could save money, but I during my time there I didn’t write. I felt my dreams of living a creative life into a nostalgic past.

a table with chairs in an office meeting room. — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Around this time my grandmother passed away and I received a small inheritance. I used my inheritance and a small savings; I had saved enough money to quit my job for 3 months and still live comfortably. Once and for all I was going to write this damn book. I was confident I would complete it in three months and then find another corporate job as a receptionist. I would feel accomplished and be safe and secure and sound. September 15th, 2008 was my first day as a full-time writer and it was also the day the stock market plummeted into the sea like a mobster in cement shoes.

I kept writing.

A close up of a hand with black finger nails writing in a note book, and the other hand holding a cup of coffee. — Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

I rewrote the entire novel in 3rd person. I created charts and back stories for all the characters. I did research on Prague and read Czech writers in order to refresh my memories of the city. I fantasized about the money my book would make me once it was turned into a movie. I rewrote it again in first person (not recommended). I wrote the first half at least in six different drafts, but never found my way to the true ending. Simultaneously, I was sending out my resume. I sent out many applications. Resume after resume with no response, not even a rejection, till I ran out of all my savings. I lost the room I was renting, and I had to rely on the generosity of my friends to house me until I could find work.

Acting Saved Me for a Bit

When I auditioned for Inviting Desire, I was literally auditioning for my life. It was a miracle of fate that the one job that would save me from homelessness would be theatre. It was almost ironic.

While on tour I wrote a rough draft of an ending for Žižkov. When we ended the tour and talked about future projects I swore up and down that I would complete this book because although it had an ending it was not finished.

A man walking onto a stage with three sitting women. The curtain behind them is burnt orange and slightly open. — Inviting Desire, Calgary, Alberta performance

Acceptance into The Atheneum

Another year passed. I returned to retail, and various side hustles before I could really commit to working daily on my manuscript. On a whim I applied to the Attic Atheneum. At first I was rejected, but due to a drop out and me being next in line, I was accepted. My goal was to complete my novel.

I Wrote a Novel Titled Žižkov

On May 27th, eleven years after I knew I had a story, I finished the book, but it was not like theatre. There was no applause, no one to clink pint glasses with, and no one to drown in the amazement that it was finally completed. There had been people to support me along the way, encouraging friends; friends who helped finance my schooling; my peers and teachers in the atheneum, but at the end of the experience I was alone.

A book cover of a novel titled Zizkov. In the foreground are two strips of pictures of a black man and a white woman from a photo booth. In the background is a photo from Old Town square in Prague. — My Book Cover Idea

It was my idea to take the journey alone and I ended it alone. Sitting in front of my computer typing the last words I whispered a “holy shit it’s done” and felt a whoop rise up inside me like we just won the world cup, but then I looked around the room, and there was no ‘we’. There was only me. I felt empty, weird, almost apathetic toward my work. All those years of fighting and this was it? And that was it in its entirety: who cares but me? I was a writer. I didn’t need an audience to finish the book. I didn’t need anything but me, and what did I really want? What did I expect?

My sketch copy of **Jacob Lawrence’s 1940 Painting Harriet Tubman Series Panel #4** celebrating

How it Feels to Write a Book Vs. Closing Night of a Play

When you create a play, when you perform you perform for an audience. Everything is for the play itself and the audience. I can write for an audience and a publisher, after all I did dream about the movie, but in the end that isn’t what it’s all about. It doesn’t take an audience to write a book. I can put that manuscript in a drawer or erase it because it’s finished already. No one else needs to read it in order for it to be complete. A play just isn’t a play without the audience, but a book is a book even if it isn’t read. Though, it should be published to complete the job. Working toward publishing is something completely different.

So why did I write it? Did I write it to have my voice heard or was it that I wanted to return to Prague? Was it that I wanted to be someone other than me, and be purely me simultaneously? Does it even matter? The answers were not there for me. So, I turned off the light, closed my laptop, and took a walk to shake off the feelings of loneliness. I had felt like I had just gone through a mutual break-up; we both knew it was over, but why, we had so much love? And still it was over.

Feeling Like a Writer?

As I wandered through the streets near my apartment I heard a voice inside my head. The voice of a young girl as she crouched on a rooftop:

“I watched as J.P. threw the television from the roof of Jesse’s parent’s house. I don’t know why he does those things. He’s not even drunk. J.P. is straight edge, he just fucks shit up purely because he’s an asshole, but I don’t give a shit, I’m an asshole too.“

And I knew I was listening to the voice of a new character, she was talking through me, and she was completely fiction —well—mostly.

My friend told me about a writing retreat with A Room of Her Own or AROHO a writing retreat for women. We decided to attend because you can never get enough writing support. I may have completed my novel without fan fair, but I don’t need to learn alone.

I didn’t try to publish Žižkov. I still have it. Perhaps one day it will be seen in print and have a book cover, I’m not sure. My program is over. My first book has been written and I have another story idea brewing in my head, but I still don’t feel like an author. Perhaps one day I will feel like one. As for today, I’ll keep writing. What is a writer supposed to feel like anyway? What a silly thing to want to feel. The saying is actions speak louder than words. If that is true I never need to hear someone tell me that I’m a writer because my actions prove I already am.

Two women posing in a kitchen. — Emily and I at AROHO writing retreat

Another Successful Fundraiser for Arts and Letters

Published on November 17, 2010March 18, 2024 by An Accidental VagabondLeave a comment

Don’t Short Change the Muse II was a great success. If you are interested in reading about the first Don’t Short Change the Muse click on the link. I reached my goal and was able to pay for my final tuition payment. I’m pretty proud and amazed to be able to say my writing program was entirely paid for with money raised by art. Spectacular really.

A silhouette of a woman setting up a cafe at night. — Setting up for the show

Musicians setting up to perform. — Warming up before the doors open

Don’t Short Change the Muse II

We had a much larger turn out then we did the first time, and we had more performers and donations for the silent auction.

An audience looks on smiling at the performance. — The audience with some of the performers

We had a lot more music this time, and we also had the extra element of a short art film. We still had some sketch comedy along with me reading and performing pieces of my own writing, but the addition of more music really brightened and entertained the audience.

A violinist, cellist, concertinist and flautist performing on stage. — The Walking Guild performing Witching Well

A woman in black and grey clothes performing a monologue on stage in front of a beige curtain. — I’m performing my poem Remain Seated

At our new venue we had a balcony and Sarah performed Cole Porter’s, “The Tale of the Oyster” from above the audience.

A woman singing and playing the accordion. — Sarah Performing Cole Porters “The tale of the Oyster

A guitar player and cellist play music and a woman sits on a chair watching. — Anna Fritz and David Waingarten playing

A stage of musicians and singer performing as a woman peeks from behind a curtain to watch. — Performing the Witching Well

Burlesque

It wouldn’t be a vaudeville show without burlesque. Miss Fannie Fuller’s tantalizing “Dance of the Seven Veils” burlesque.

A woman dressed in a red scarf dance on a stage. — The Dance of the Seven Veils by Miss Fanny Fuller

red boots, and the legs of a woman in white fishnet stockings and cream high heels. — burlesque

Once I again, I am humbled and honored to have had so many artists share their talent and offer their time and work. That is two very successful fundraisers to put to rest.

A woman in a black top, grey skirt and bright red boots gives a speech on a stage. — Grand Thank yous

Opening Speech for the Tuition Fundraiser: Don’t Short Change the Muse

Published on July 1, 2010March 4, 2024 by An Accidental VagabondLeave a comment

Terry O’Neil, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

William S. Burroughs once said, “Cheat your landlord if you can and must, but do not try to short change the muse. It cannot be done. You can’t fake quality anymore than you can fake a good meal”.

He meant to always be truthful in what you write and what you do, dirty or clean, as long as it is you and yours. I also take it to mean, “don’t cut corners when it comes to what you love”.

In any art form the artist needs to continue to grow. As every artist knows nothing is more detrimental than complacency and routine. As soon as you are comfortable: change. As soon as you are popular: give them a left hook. That is our exercise as artists. We need to keep learning no matter how old we get. The grey matter in our head is plastic and expands, but only with use. Practice does make perfect, and as soon as you are perfect it’s time to cut that shit up and take a risk.

This event was a very last-minute thing for me, setting up the auction and the fundraiser, I’m amazed it has actually all come together in so little time. I had not expected to be accepted into the Atheneum program at the Attic and was not prepared with the tuition. Like most of us, I survive by tooth and nail, but when I received the acceptance letter something inside me said, don’t say no because of the money.

The Atheneum is about building a community of writers, it is about creating a circle of learning. I have had my share of community involvement through organizations like Write Around Portland and Playwrite Inc., In both organizations I have volunteered my time to help others, all through writing and performance. This is something I have always enjoyed, and for no other reason other than that I think Art Saves Lives. I believe art can touch and change people.

This is the first time I have ever asked for money for myself, and this is also the first time I have ever built a show. The first time I have ever showcased any of my work, and in a very short time I have learned a great deal about community. The reason I followed through with this event is because of all the names you see in the program. I was amazed at the sheer excitement, joy and support my friends have offered in putting this together, and that support and joy extended out. I never knew so many people had wanted to see me succeed in my dreams, and I am honored.

There is not one artist in the history of art that did not have some network. Even the most solitary and loneliest of us need support even Van Gogh had his brother Theo. Our society, our media projects the image that certain famous artists and writers were loners and climbed to the top on their own, but this is a falsehood, everyone has held the hand of at least one person. And that is what we are doing here tonight; holding hands. You are holding my hands as I ask you for help in making my dream of becoming a great American novelist come true, so that in turn I can hold the hand of another.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of you that have helped pull this together and to those of you for being here.

Thank you to Bar Carlo for the space, be sure to buy yourself some drinks and tip the bartender. Also don’t forget to check out the silent auction. The show is about to begin!

The show began…and ended beautifully.

How to have a Successful Fundraiser for a Future Writer

Published on June 27, 2010March 4, 2024 by An Accidental Vagabond1 Comment

“Don’t Short Change The Muse” really happened.

Days later, and I still can’t believe that three weeks ago this fundraiser for me and created by me with the support of a friend (the amazing Alisa Peck), was just some random thought. I have random thoughts all the time. I am a talker, not often a doer. I’m an optimistic pessimist, do you know how hard that is? I’m still not sure this really happened, but there are pictures and I have a program that I created to prove it.

A woman in a black dress is adjusting a music stand while speaking with someone out of frame. — Setting up the music rack to hold my speech.

A woman in a black dress is standing behind a music stand. She is reciting a poem. — Setting up the music rack to hold my speech.

I emceed, and opened the show with my poem, “I am not your Sylvia.”

Bar Carlo: Location of the Fundraiser

Bar Carlo was a fairly new establishment in SE Portland. My friend and current employer, recently opened a bar across the street, and she had become friends with the owners of Bar Carlo. It was due to the proximity to my friend’s bar and her relationship with the owners that I was able to have the fundraiser in their restaurant. This is the beauty of networking. Actually, I’d say deeper than networking, because networking is more about opportunistic pursuits. The word I’m thinking of is community. There is of course a reciprocal relationship between the fundraiser and the restaurant. I will bring people into their establishment and those people will order drinks, and maybe they’ll come back. However, the restaurant loses an immediate profit by hosting my fundraiser. They let me have it as a private party during a night that they are normally closed, but they did not charge me for the space. They donated their space to help a fundraiser for me to raise money for a writing program. They don’t know me personally, but they knew my friend, and that’s why they agreed. Community.

We didn’t have to pay for anything but the drinks. A friend brought the spread of awesome food, and another friend brought a red velvet cake (that her ten-year old son picked out). It was all a community event to help me pursue my dreams.

The front of a restaurant called Bar Carlo. — Bar Carlo, a great place for cocktails, brunch, and dinner.

Don’t Short Change the Muse

Act I

I opened with a speech that I wrote. I went right into my first piece, a spoken word poem titled, “I Am Not Your Syliva“. A poem referencing the great Sylvia Plath, but also a poem about women taking back and holding their place in the poetry world.

Poetry Reading

Arias and an Accordion

Sarah of Carpe Vocum Singing, sang Ach Ich Fuhl’s, from Mozart’s The Magic Flute.

Burlesque

Miss Fannie Fuller danced an amazing burlesque piece to Le Hot Jazz

Classic Sketch Comedy

A tribute Monty Python comedy troupe: Cirque De-cision, performed the sketch, “Army Protection Racket.“

A young woman in a 1940's military uniform looks shocked as she speaks with a male officer whose face is turned away from the camera.

ACT II

In the second act I opened with a monologue I wrote titled, “The Tragedy of Abigail Lockhart”.

Monologue and a Concertina

The lights flashed and then in character, as Abagail, I waltzed onto the stage (the floor space). This drew people to their seats, and then in an exaggerated southern drawl, I began to speak. It is a comedic piece with a farcical performance. It was very fun to perform.

An Operatic Duet

Sarah and Meghan sang an operatic duet, “The Flower,” ( Lakme), written by Leo Delibes. It was absolutely stunning. Jaw dropping. (I wish I could have recorded their voices, it was unforgettably beautiful.)

Sketch Comedy

Cirque De-Cision performed “Children’s Stories.”

A white man in his mid twenties, sits on a chair looking at a program.

A Novel Reading

I read a piece from my novel Zizkov

More “Salacious” Burlesque

And we ended with more Burlesque from Miss Fannie Fuller, who was also my friend, the wonderful Alisa Peck who inspired me to do this fundraiser in the first place. She guided me and held my hand through the entire process. I am forever grateful.

A close up of a woman's hand holding a large white feathered fan.

The Silent Auction

Aside from all the performers who volunteered their time and talent to my personal cause, I also had friends who donated their crafts, art and services for a silent auction.

As soon as people arrived we encouraged them to look over the gift cards, crafts, foods, and art, and starting bidding on what they wanted to take home with them. Quiet bidding went on during the duration of the performance. Another reminder of the silent auction was given during the intermission, and after the performance I gave patrons and guests five minutes to make their final bids. I announced the winners as a closing part of the night.

A group of people stand around a woman who is reading a paper.

A photo of a woman's legs from the bottom of her black dress to her bright red high heel shoes.

Artists and businesses had donated around $500.00 dollars worth of items and services to the auction including art, jewelry, a facial, acupuncture, hair cut, a dinner and journals.

Drawings of various art up for auction. — Donations from Friends and Friends of Friends

A Successful Fundraising Event

This felt like it was all done on the fly, but it wasn’t. It was just done in a very minute time frame. Three weeks to get it all organized and executed. I wasn’t able to do it alone. I pulled this together because so many people wanted to help and wanted to be involved, which was amazing. Honestly, I didn’t think it was possible to pull together an anachronistic variety show in a matter of two and a half weeks. Obviously you can, with the help of loving friends and community, anything is possible. And the level of performance was stunning, so surprising. I had never seen any of the performers perform before so it was all new to me, too. I really enjoyed emceeing, hosting and performing. The programing worked great, and that was amazing.

The Goal

My hope, and my goal was to make at least enough to make my first payment. All I needed was $400.00 since I had already saved up $250.00 (The Attic has been kind enough to break my payments into four installments of $650.00) my first payment is due July 15th. I made $797.00 dollars that night. Beyond my expectations and hopes! I have already made my first payment and almost my second payment.

I’m still pinching myself that all this came together. But it did. It really did.

How to Fundraise Using Performance and Art

Published on June 12, 2010March 4, 2024 by An Accidental Vagabond2 Comments

Why am I Raising Funds?

I was accepted into The Attic’s Antheneum program, but I don’t have the money to pay for it. It is an alternative to a MFA. It is still not an easy program to get accepted into, but it is a lot more affordable than a MFA program. However, I still don’t have the money to pay for it. After speaking with a friend, she suggested that I have a fundraiser. I felt a little uncomfortable at first asking people to give me money for a program that would only benefit me. It seemed too selfish a request, but my friend convinced me that I could do a fundraiser for myself. That it wasn’t an extraordinary thing to do. She also offered to help.

What Kind of Fundraiser

I am producing a variety show. A real vaudevillian callback. I have an opera singer, a burlesque dancer, some music, a comedian, and I will be performing three readings. I will be reading one spoken word, one monologue and a bit from my novel. I put together the program, the schedule, and found people to donate their talent and time. I also found a place that was willing to offer up their space.

Promoting When You Feel You are an Imposter

Promoting is a huge part of the process and I am not the best at self promoting. Yet, I have to promote in order to get people to come to my fundraiser. How else do people know what you are doing ,and what it is they have the opportunity to see.

I have terrible imposter syndrome, so having this fundraiser and promoting it is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. If I wasn’t the main star and the subject and the needy, I could do it no problem. Since I am the star and it is about me, its more difficult for me to promote, because, and I’m sorry to admit this because it reveals the depths of my vulnerability, I just don’t think I’m worth much. I know, terrible to say, but I have a near zero level of self-esteem when it comes to my writing, art, photography– anything I create. Which I suppose is the definition of imposter syndrome. I’m trying though. I’m posting it all right here.

This is the first time I have ever done anything like this. A show about me for me. However, I have a lot of talented friends who will also be performing. Through all my insecurities, I believe the audiences is going to get a good show. For the promotion, I did a bunch of tongue in cheek promo pictures for my invite.

A woman in her early 30's with blonde shoulder length hair is sitting on a chair in the middle of a road. She wears glasses and is dressed in a bright red sweater, a brown knee length skirt, and brown leggings. Her small heel shoes are black and white houndstooth. She is laughing as she holds a notebook, a pen and an umbrella over her shoulder. — The writer

A woman in her early 30's with blonde shoulder length hair is sitting on a chair in next to a garden. She wears glasses and is dressed in a bright red sweater, a brown knee length skirt, and brown leggings. Her small heel shoes are black and white houndstooth. She looks away from the camera smiling at someone out of the frame. She holds a notebook and a pen. — The writer

Don’t Short Change the Muse

The name of the show is, Don’t Short Change the Muse. It comes from something William Burroughs once said. It is on the 22nd of June and will be happening here in Portland. I’m not sure how many Portland people read this post, but if you want to come you are invited. The info is at the bottom of this post.

The Final Invitation

In the end we decided to scrap the profile pictures and go with something else.

Don’t Short Change the Muse

Come join me and guests for one night at Bar Carlo for a variety show of readings, poetry, music, vaudeville, a couple loose cannons, opera and burlesque.
Help Adrienna raise tuition money for the Attic’s The Atheneum.
There will be a silent auction with donations from the following artists: and businesses:

Lucy’s Table, Presents of Mind, Tasi, Seasons K. Designs, From the Reliquary, SmashCuts, Artist Jen Smith, Jesse Jacob Young Photographer, Silk Rose Acupuncture, Technology is Real, Luscious Jewelry and more…

All funds go to Adrienna’s tuition.

A Sliding Scale Entrance fee of $5 to $15 dollars (no one will be turned away).

Doors open at 7:00p.m. show starts at 8:00 p.m.

A special thank you to Bar Carlo for the space.

Help make a great writer and help support a craftsperson. Writing like all other arts is a craft to be cultivated and nurtured. Writing done well is about community, it is about life.