Virtuality is my reality

vicemag:

Why Draw Pictures?
Only two people have ever gotten angry when I drew their pictures: a Moroccan religious fundamentalist and a New York City cop.
I was 19 when I sat sketching in Fez’s Old City. I came to Morocco with a hallucinogen-chomping writer and an orientalist streak as deep as Fez’s open sewers. I abandoned both by the end of the trip. Besides motorbikes and street harassment, Fez’s main sounds were those of tour groups clomping toward their guide’s carpet shop. I didn’t want to be like them.
Tour groups took photos. They’d jam cameras into someone’s face. Before their subject could respond, they’d run off, happy to have proof that they’d stood somewhere quaint.
I drew.
I’d curl up on filthy steps with my sketch pad. Street kids watched. Drawing was a monkey dance to prove that despite my dopey American face, there was still a skill I could rock. I’d draw the street kids. They’d scamper away with my sketches.
The man who didn’t like my drawings had the long gray beard of the religiously devout. One morning he ripped my drawing from my hands and shredded it with a satisfied grunt. Dopey-American-style, I burst into tears.
A decade later, I sat next to journalist Matt Taibbi in a New York misdemeanor court, watching a judge pressure brown men into plea bargains for walking their bikes on the sidewalk. I drew the cop who was guarding the courtroom. He looked as pink and shiny as a boil. The cop stormed over. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Drawing. It’s allowed.”
Continue

Why Draw Pictures?

Only two people have ever gotten angry when I drew their pictures: a Moroccan religious fundamentalist and a New York City cop.

I was 19 when I sat sketching in Fez’s Old City. I came to Morocco with a hallucinogen-chomping writer and an orientalist streak as deep as Fez’s open sewers. I abandoned both by the end of the trip. Besides motorbikes and street harassment, Fez’s main sounds were those of tour groups clomping toward their guide’s carpet shop. I didn’t want to be like them.

Tour groups took photos. They’d jam cameras into someone’s face. Before their subject could respond, they’d run off, happy to have proof that they’d stood somewhere quaint.

I drew.

I’d curl up on filthy steps with my sketch pad. Street kids watched. Drawing was a monkey dance to prove that despite my dopey American face, there was still a skill I could rock. I’d draw the street kids. They’d scamper away with my sketches.

The man who didn’t like my drawings had the long gray beard of the religiously devout. One morning he ripped my drawing from my hands and shredded it with a satisfied grunt. Dopey-American-style, I burst into tears.

A decade later, I sat next to journalist Matt Taibbi in a New York misdemeanor court, watching a judge pressure brown men into plea bargains for walking their bikes on the sidewalk. I drew the cop who was guarding the courtroom. He looked as pink and shiny as a boil. The cop stormed over. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Drawing. It’s allowed.”

Continue

My mom insists I have to get my driving license before going to college…

Despite the fact that it would actually be MUCH EASIER to get it in Canada or the UK, wherever I end up, instead of submitting to the ridiculously complicated French exams. To pass the theory part of the exam, you have to study for, on average, THREE MONTHS — which I don’t have since, hehe, school finishes in less than two and then it’s on to brighter horizons — whereas I heard stories of my friends in the US cramming for a weekend and showing up at the DMV on Monday and passing it without any trouble.

But what I really, really hate is the driving part. I don’t particularly like cars and at the best of times they feel more like tin boxes filled with leather and fancy padding to me, I don’t particularly need to learn how to drive, since though I live in the suburbs, I’m basically ten minutes away from Paris by metro/train/bus and have access to all of those means of transportation, and I don’t particularly have time to learn how to drive since, hello, the end of my high school career is coming and with it, thanks to the French education system, a horrible, no good ginormous exam of 7 subjects for which I have to study like crazy (my history teacher recommended 7 hours a day of studying during the next two weeks, that are supposed to be my Spring Break. He’s not my favorite teacher anymore).
And because I’m in France, I have to learn to drive stick, which is the worst thing ever. I’m not good at multitasking!!!! I always let go of the pedal too quickly or forget to step on it, and I’m so tense and stressed out I push the stick too far, and all around I’m a huge mess.

It’s also extremely hard to get lessons, so I end up having them at improbable hours that no one wants, and that’s how I found myself learning to start on a slope at 8h30 on a Sunday, after going back home at 3 am the night before, still slightly intoxicated and just not in any state to be outside, let alone behind the wheel. My instructor made me drive on the highway, I was gripping the wheel so hard I’m pretty sure I left hand marks; I was so terrified, I’m pretty sure no one will have to worry about me getting behind the wheel when I’m not in top condition ever again.

Anyway, that was my rent about how driving sucks and driving lessons are the worst. I know I have to get my license, eventually, but I’d much rather leave it for this summer than have to worry about that in addition to my exams; but since my parents have already payed (1500 euros, HOW?!) I would feel really guilty abandoning it altogether.

Ergh, responsibilities suck :(