FADE IN:

INT. PBF MANUFACTURING COMPANY, INC. — DAY

Just west of downtown Phoenix, Arizona, lies a large, run-down factory. Inside, the employees are working on different aspects of the coffin manufacturing process — some saw wood for the floor panel, others sew roses of thin, red thread onto the headboard.

I slowly weave in and out of the rooms, inspecting the coffins and watching the employees.

STEVEN, a tall, dark haired employee, most likely in his 30's, notices my curiosity.

STEVEN — Hey, how you doin’ over there?

ME— Pretty well, thanks.

Silence drifts through the air as I return my attention back to the custom made headboards. I notice one that says, “The 19th Hole” and laugh. I turn to STEVEN,

ME — ‘The 19th Hole’. That’s pretty funny.

STEVEN— Yup. You gotta have a sense of humor if you wanna do our job.

ME— I can imagine. What’s it like making caskets?

A playful pause.

STEVEN— It’s like making cabinets.

Intrigued by his response, I begin to compose more questions

ME— Well, that’s another way to look at it.

Steven smiles, puts his hands in his pocket and looks at his shoes

STEVEN— Yeah. You really have to look at it like that way though. I mean, we come to work, leave our wives, children, at home, and come make the coffins that will be shipped out that night.

ME— Shipped out to where?

STEVEN shifts his sight to somewhere slightly behind me. I turn, and notice a coffin in its final stages of readiness, with rose decals and a pink polish. A MAN hums to himself as he places the decals delicately on the coffin.

STEVEN— Hey man, where’d ya say this one was going?

MAN— Uh, Avondale? I think old-town Avondale. Woman, 85 if I remember.

STEVEN — That’s being shipped out tonight, yeah?

MAN — Yup, in about six hours it’s gonna roll out.

STEVEN turns his attention back on me, shrugs his shoulders and says

STEVEN — Yeah, that’s typical.

A short pause.

ME — So do you guys send it out, too? How does that process work?

STEVEN — Well typically our delivery guys do that. They have the hardest job, though.

STEVEN slows his speech and looks down at the ground.

STEVEN — Yeah, they got the hardest job. They usually have a truck loaded with coffins that they gotta deliver before their shift is over. They deliver one coffin, see the body, and be there for the process of whatever the family is going through. Then, they gotta shift gears and roll another one out. And another. Then another. Some of my guys go crazy, and I gotta do a yearly psychological inspection on them. Then I gotta let a few of them go, for their own sake.

ME — That’s too much, that’s too hard.

STEVEN — Yeah. It’s real hard because what if they’re delivering a child’s coffin, and see a little girl just about the same size as their little girl back home. You know, it really just messes with them.

I think deeply on this statement, and think about all of the 2-foot coffins I saw in the back of the warehouse.

ME — Yeah. That’s too much for me, I think, personally, you know?

STEVEN — Yeah, like I said, you gotta have a different sense of humor.

ME — Well the funny thing is, you never really think about who’s gonna make the box you’re gonna lay in for eternity.

STEVEN — That’s why I can’t let these guys make mine when I pass. I just, I really. I can’t. That’d be too hard on them.

I get the sense that some of his responses are based on past experiences, maybe seeing dead daughters or boxing up beloved co-workers.

ME — I read something published by the New York Times this morning. It was about a man who decided to make his coffin himself. He knew he was going to pass and he didn’t want his wife to be left with the hardship of the funerary process, so he decided to make his own with a wood-working buddy of his. Now, he has a beautifully built coffin and knows exactly who made it, where it came from —

STEVEN — Hey, you know, that’s a good idea. That’s a really good idea. I never even thought of it like that. Making your own coffin.

STEVEN pauses.

ME — Hey, it’s really important what you guys do. You know, you never really think about who is going to make your coffin.

STEVEN — You know, coffin manufacturing is the last occupation you think of.

I smile slightly

ME — Literally.

STEVEN lets out a laugh and a large smile

STEVEN — Yup! There ya go, I think you’re ready to join my team.

STEVEN and I let out a laugh together. When it’s over, we both scan the headboards before us. After a while of sitting in the silence, I reach out to shake his hand firmly, proud to have met him and happy to have talked with him. As I turn around towards the door leading to the outside light, I hear behind me.

STEVEN — I’m not too sure I got your name.

ME — I’m Denise. What’s yours?

If you built a time machine, traveled back to 2011, and told the seventeen year old me that I was going to do the things that I've done, see the things that I've seen, and be the things that I've become, I would have never believed you. Not only because time travel is relatively impossible, or that I would put so much faith into a stranger, but because I hadn't experienced it yet. I hadn't experienced 2012, 2013, all those months in between, those minutes spent with family, or by myself, or in a city, or on a farm. I hadn't experienced the job interviews, the small talk over coffee with old friends, the beginning stages of a blossoming relationship, the ending chapter of old ones.

So if someone simply told me my life story up to January 30th, 2014, I wouldn't have believed them.

“I owe my success to having listened respectfully to the very best advice, and then going away and doing the exact opposite.”
— Gilbert K. Chesterton

Not only that, but if someone gave me advice for all the accomplishments, mistakes, growth, opportunities, and social aspects of my life leading up to this point, I would have walked away. Why would I take advice that, in each of those moments, I wouldn't even consider? Why would I listen to the advice of others without first coming to a conclusion myself? It seems like a waste of the beauty of experience, to base it off of someone else.

However, while advice from your elders or close friends does come in handy, you should only take advice if you can experience it in your own unique way. For instance, the advice from my parents about getting a degree. That’s huge. That’s life changing. I can take that sort of advice simply because I could form it into my own experience. My parents had their own college experience, one that I will never know or ever share. And that’s okay, because I know the feelings are mutual, and that’s not a bad thing at all.

“The true secret of giving advice is, after you have honestly given it, to be perfectly indifferent whether it is taken or not, and never persist in trying to set people right.”
— Henry Ward Beecher

It’s when the advice is personalized. A completely unique situation like discovering the most beautiful, short composition of words in a novel, or listening to the chord progression of a song are personalized experiences. And yes, you can give someone the advice of reading the book or listening to the song, but no one can share that same feeling you did. They have to form it themselves, in a manner that speaks to them.

And oftentimes, the advice has a much deeper meaning to the giver than the receiver. If you've had your heart literally shattered by someone who is uninterested and occupied, you can’t expect your friend to learn from your mistakes. Sure, you can tell your friend to stay away from anyone who will break their hearts, but you can’t expect them to listen. You just have to support them, not their actions. Be there for them, but don’t badger with advice, because it’s ultimately their situation, not yours.

“I am glad that I paid so little attention to good advice; had I abided by it I might have been saved from some of my most valuable mistakes.”
— Edna St. Vincent Millay

Yesterday, after work, I went to the store because I just got paid and I wanted to de-stress using retail therapy. I needed mascara, a thank you card thanking one of my wonderful co-workers, and coffee filters.

Then I saw it.

The most beautifully wrapped, heart-shaped box of chocolates, staring right into my eyes like we've known each other our whole lives. I couldn't help but reach to it like my arm was just replaced by the most powerful magnet on Earth. As hand met plastic, my heart melted.

Yeah, I’m being dramatic. I was just really hungry and decided to buy myself an early Valentine’s day gift because, screw it, it’s about time I treated myself to something as special as a $4.99 variety box of chocolates.

Making my way through what I had hoped to be curious onlookers and eager passersby, I confidently stepped up to the U-Scan and proceeded to check out.

Well, my confidence was shattered after my gift card denied me my chocolates. My gift card and two dollars cash literally paid everything but $4.99. Exactly the amount of money as the one gift to myself.

Admitting defeat, I called over the boy with the red shirt and the name tag.

“Yeah, sorry. I just need to void the box of chocolates,” I said, probably sounding a little too desperate.

“Well, I could, I don’t know. Let me try to void it. Nope — it’s not letting me,” he said, with his manager standing within earshot. “I don’t, I don’t normally do this but. Well.”

And then he pulled out his own debit card, swiped it before I could retaliate, and the order went through.

I was probably a little bit too loud with my protests for him to void the transaction completely, to take back what he had done, to wish I had never walked into the store in the first place. But after awhile, I noticed our facial expressions never changed. It was just a constant, genuine, and all around smile.

What I hadn't realized at the time, however, was that this was the first time in so long that my mind wasn't wandering, day dreaming, or in pain. I was in the moment, with this complete stranger who had just bought my very first Valentine’s day gift I have ever received. I wasn't thinking about other preoccupations, stress from work, money, school, stress from friends, family, enemies. I wasn't worried about anything at all. And that was the greatest gift I've received.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, everything happens for a reason. If I hadn't gone directly after work, that wouldn't have happened. If I hadn't had a gift card from work, that wouldn't have happened. If I hadn't grabbed that box of chocolates or chosen that brand of mascara or gone to a different U-Scan, none of that would have happened. Everything happens for a reason, and I met that stranger probably for a reason bigger than myself.

And even if the moment was fleeting, for the first time in a long time,

I was stationed.

In the winter of 2010, I was sixteen, living in Indiana, and surrounded by negativity. Unlike most of my friends at the time, I never felt connected to my hometown — I felt like a tourist in my own neighborhood. I jumped at every opportunity to wander, whether it was a family trip to upstate Pennsylvania, a drive to Chicago, or a walk down the street just to get out of the house. I loved the feeling of wandering and the subtle peace it brought to me.

I don’t quite remember how I found out about Pratt Institute’s summer program, I just remember fighting for it. For some reason, I felt drawn and attached to the city. I wanted, craved, needed experience in the form of a place, culture, chance. I knew I had to say goodbye to my childhood in Indiana and start my adulthood in Brooklyn.

And I did just that.

This was the third picture I took of my new city.

Carrying my life in the form of a suitcase, traveling at 70 miles an hour, speaking with a driver who didn’t understand me in a city that didn’t know me, I was intoxicated by the opportunity of experience.

My six weeks in New York taught me more about myself than my fifteen years in Indiana. I learned how independent I could be, how much I could handle and how much I could do. It was the first time I was thrown into an environment that I didn’t understand, where I was left to interpret it for myself. I loved my short time in Brooklyn, and it left me craving for more.

This was the second picture I took of my new city.

For the lucky few, you are born into your home. You are raised in an environment that welcomes you entirely and accepts you unconditionally. Others of us, however, do not share this luxury. We’re left finding a physical place to call home through our intuition, through our five senses, through our emotions.

Sometimes, home peeks through subtle moments — a soft voice in a busy street in New York, the breeze of summer air in California, the colorful dresses in Brazil, the aroma of French cuisine, the reflective moments in Rome. Home could be found in the tiniest of moments, or in the most profound ways. It’s when you don’t feel unwanted, you feel welcomed, actually invited to these moments that you’re drawn to.

This was the first picture I took of my new city.

So, to my friend who wonders why I wander, here’s what I should have said:

I made the decision to leave to find comfort from the unfamiliar. To make a home out of the small experiences, to share precious moments with total strangers.

“To see the world, things dangerous to come to, to see behind walls, draw closer, to find each other and to feel. That is the purpose of life.”

Thoughts on Leaving was originally published in THOSE PEOPLE on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I was born into an Irish Catholic world. A very Irish Catholic world.

My mother, a Philadelphia native and a proud Irish woman, was the most influential part of my Catholic upbringing. She taught my sister and I the basic beliefs of Christianity, from the Bible to the Holy Trinity. She has been beside me during four of my seven holy sacraments. She has blessed the food in front of me in the name of the Lord. She taught me that to be close to God, you must be close to Christ. To protect from evil, you must pray to Jesus. To go to heaven, repent to a Priest.

I was born into a Catholic world, but I never considered myself Catholic.

I have always had my doubts, fears, and questions about the Christian faith and what it meant to be a good Catholic. I remember expressing my concerns and questions about Jesus and other Christian ideals to my mother at a very young age, only to be left more confused and further away from the church. I never felt like I belonged during Mass or my Sunday School. I knew all of the Creeds and formal prayers, but never recited them at mass, not out of spite or disrespect, but out of confusion and unclarity. I prayed the rosary privately, but I felt so detached from it, even though it was carefully wrapped in the palm of my hand.

I always wondered, if God is one, why are there three? If I wanted to talk to God, why must I first talk to Jesus? If Christ is the Messiah, why was he born man and suffered death, only to come again? If I was created by God, why was I born wicked from Original Sin? Why am I to fear Satan, rather than overcome him through my own vision of what is good and what is evil? Why do Christians idealize the vow of poverty? I never understood how we could just say our prayers and our penance, and be saved for eternity. I found myself asking these questions at a very young age, with no sense of relief for years to come.

Until recently, conversion never crossed my mind. I always thought I had to just work through it and force myself to trust in the Lord our God. I used to be so terrified at the thought of leaving the church because I never wanted to disrespect my mothers good intentions of raising me Catholic, I wanted to keep giving Christianity a chance, and I was scared to go out into the world without a sense of community in religion. Little did I know that I was never a part of a religious community in the first place.

I can’t quite remember the first time I sincerely thought about Judaism, but I do remember the feeling I got when I first read the stories of Abraham, the emotions I received when I read Jewish philosophy, Jewish Laws, and Jewish beliefs. It was raw, fierce, and beautiful all at the same time. I clearly remember my previous fear of conversion to be swept away with every word I read regarding the Talmudic passages. I was happy to find a place in my heart where I could ask questions freely, with no scornful glance or strict explanation. I found that Judaism answered all of the questions my Catholic mind had.

While I know this is no easy journey, and most definitely no short story, I believe that I’m on the right track to finding a sense of belonging through religion.

And it truly is exciting.

Closer, Further was originally published in My Religion on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Jackson Pollock was an alcoholic.

Throughout his life he was hospitalized for depression, suffered nervous breakdowns, struggled with anxiety, and endured long sessions of psychotherapy. He was expelled from high school and only briefly studied painting in New York. Some say he suffered from bipolar disorder. Others say he remained unfaithful to his wife. He battled for clarity when all he saw was chaos.

He needed a release.

"A dripping wet canvas covered the entire floor. There was complete silence as Pollock looked at the painting. Then, unexpectedly, he picked up can and paint brush and started to move around the canvas. It was as if he suddenly realized the painting was not finished. His movements, slow at first, gradually became faster and more dance-like as he flung black, white, and rust-coloured paint onto the canvas. He completely forgot that Lee and I were there; he did not seem to hear the click of the camera shutter ... My photography session lasted as long as he kept painting, perhaps half an hour. In all that time, Pollock did not stop. How could one keep up this level of activity? Finally, he said 'This is it'."

It’s called abstract expressionism. Abstract — the unrecognized reality. Expressionism — the expression of emotions. It is one of the most influential phrases for contemporary artists of the 20th and 21st centuries. But what makes this form of art important? It seems like anyone can casually walk into their local art store, find the clearance acrylics, and splatter it on a cheap canvas. It looks easy enough, so why does it matter?

Well, matter is an interesting word. Like beauty, matter is in the eye of the beholder. What I think matters, other people might disagree. That’s what makes art truly beautiful — when it is interpreted to matter or not.

Pollock knew this, but he wasn't trying to please anyone. He wasn’t trying to copy natural landscapes or portraits of a rich man’s profile. He wasn’t trying to illustrate the world around him, he was trying to express the world within him.

And how he went about expressing his emotions was unconventional and avant-garde to say the least.

“During these years Jackson Pollock started to paint in a completely new way. He created art that was very physical. In fact, his method is sometimes called “action painting”. Most artists painted on a surface that stood upright or vertical. But Pollock put his large canvases on the floor so that he could move around all four sides of his work. He also used very liquid paints so that he could easily drop the paint onto his canvases. This “dripping” method allowed him to make energetic works.”

This was Pollock’s answer to his chaos, action painting. The idea that the painting is the physical embodiment of an internal emotion. In his art, you can see very clearly his movement without necessarily seeing the direction. You can see how he moved about his large scale canvases, how the paint is laid out with a sense of a controlled chaos.

It became his release. To create an accidental aesthetic, purely random, entirely chaotic chorus of paints was vital to express his emotions, feelings, and life to the core. While critics of his technique talk about an apparent laziness and thoughtlessness to his art, one thing is clear: it’s the thought that counts.

And with Pollock, there’s more thought than meets the eye.

“…Pollock wanted to create art that was a visual representation of the motion and energy of his “inside world.” He was once asked why he did not paint pictures of objects people could identify. He answered that if you wanted to see a flower, you could go look at a real one. He said that what inerested him was not outside objects.”

Finding Peace Through Pollock was originally published in All Things Art on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

by the departures screen.

A man with a black suitcase and a black jacket confused about the departures screen.

A woman laughing at her smiling husband.

A man with a small, carry-on size suitcase walking fast.

A woman with a small, carry-on size dog walking slow.

A man with headphones around his neck, a black suitcase slung on his left shoulder, and pants far larger than his body composition.

A man with no possessions.

A woman with long, blonde hair, a white faux fur coat, and black pants walking away from the departures screen.

A man watching the woman.

A child with an iPhone playing silly noises.

An old woman who ignores the screens.

A man walking with a limp and an aggressive head twitch. People are watching him.

A woman talking into her phone.

A newlywed smiling.

An old couple frowning.

A pilot checking the departure schedule, although shouldn’t be be home by now?

An old man with navy tattoos that are slowly fading into one. He’s holding a cup of coffee.

An even older man scanning his eyes over the five screens, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

A woman standing near the “Coming Soon: Panda Express” poster.

A man with striking blue eyes and an equally striking turtleneck.

A woman looks as if she doesn’t want to be here as she brushes her brown hair out of her face and lets out an exasperated sigh.

A man watches a woman until eye contact occurs.

A man pushing a wheel-chair bound man.

A hushed conversation behind them.

A loud conversation in front of them.

A crowd around the one, lone outlet on the wall.

A flight attendant entertains her co-worker with an inside joke.

A pilot with his hand in his pocket glances at his watch too fast for him to actually read the time.

A woman pointing to one of the five screens looks disoriented.

A couple with a small baby. The mother looks annoyed but so does the baby.

A man alone.

An ode to design.

I have always been incredibly fascinated by the beauty and tranquility of architecture. Through complex and gorgeous ways, architecture has subtly manifested itself in my daily life. Whether I knew it or not, this distinct manifestation has always been a part of my life, and I can think back to one particular event when I decided to actually pursue an interest based on these manifestations.

One evening, my parents were debating whether we should move to a different house. When they asked for my opinion, the first thing that ran through my mind was, move away from this house? It wasn't leaving the community, the school, or the friends that came into my mind, it was leaving the house. This house had become a part of me, my identification, my personality. I slowly allowed my mind to go deeper into this thought — how could one house mean so much?

I instantly thought about the very person who had the largest role in the production of the house. Who knew that that person, that architect, would be a vital key to shaping who I am today? It was that specific night when I decided to return the favor. Ever since that night, it has been my dream to positively change someone through the beauty of architecture. Whether it is simply a house, or any other architectural structure, I want to create a living space that shapes their personality.

The person I dream of becoming is the architect who designed my own house. Unbeknownst to him, that architect had an unbelievably positive effect on my life. And I hope to touch someone the same way he touched me.

To Architecture with Love was originally published in All Things Art on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Anatomy of a scene.

Mark Webb’s (500) Days of Summer is my favorite romantic comedy for many reasons. One of its most outstanding features is its relatability — in any sort of acquaintanceship, friendship, or relationship, you are either a Summer Finn or a Tom Hansen.

There is one scene that really stands out to me, and I’m sure that I’m not the only one who can relate to this. The scene starts near the end of the film, when the audience already has the idea that the Summer ship has already sailed; however, Tom thinks that this his his last chance to jump on. This scene displays the juxtaposition of the protagonist’s expectations vs. the reality of a situation that Tom hopes and believes could be the turning point of their break-up. (Watch the scene here.)

“Intoxicated with the promise of the evening, he believed that this time his expectations will align with reality.”

Throughout the scene, the audience starts understanding the relationship between Tom’s expectations and the reality of the situation. On Tom’s part, this is entirely justifiable. We all do it. We all set expectations of a specific person or a specific event, and it seems to never quite meet reality.

I think our expectations are skewed because of the “person of your dreams,” concept. Let’s face it: we are never going to meet the person of our dreams. There will always be situations where our significant other will not meet our expectations. No other person is going to have exactly the same standards as you, and vice versa. There will be situations where you will fail to meet their expectations — and reality will set in.

And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

In theory, having the person of your dreams is the ultimate goal. But reality isn't theory; reality is everything that has existed, exists, or will exist. A dream is merely loneliness because it doesn't exist. It’s in your head.

While it’s good to have standards for how your significant other should act, don’t be discouraged when your expectations doesn't meet reality. Be discouraged, and you could be missing out on something worth while.

Street art is an expression of self, and so is its canvas.

Graffiti has a certain philosophy behind it — one of social liberation and emancipation. More specifically, the work of Banksy has long held these philosophical standards of personal expression. Architecture is also the expression of self and is often used as an extension of its artist, just like graffiti. When a street artist puts their work on the architect’s work, a subliminally interesting blend of philosophies occurs.

Since Ancient Rome, graffiti has been used as a tool for social freedom and release. As inspiring as this specific art form may be, street artists have been branded with the term vandals due to the common view that graffiti is the destruction of anything beautiful or venerable. However, graffiti usually holds a powerful message behind it. In divided communities, it has been used for a means of communication and has proven itself an effective device in establishing dialog of political and social issues.

More specifically, the work of Banksy often plays with various themes of the human condition such as greed, power, social norms, despair, and alienation. He is known for his disapproval that the government even considers graffiti as vandalism. He claims that he is simply “decorating buildings of no architectural merit whatsoever.”

Even if Banksy is right, that there are some architectural structures that hold no meaning, the perspective of the architect is different. Architecture is in itself an art form. Just like graffiti, it is often the manifestation of self and extension of beliefs held by the architect. When architecture is used as a canvas, it has a major effect on the construction as a whole — physically and philosophically. While Banksy’s work and the work of other street artists are, in no doubt, mesmerizing, the work of the architect is just as inspiring.

When a street artist works on a building, an interesting blend occurs. It could be a harmonious combination of art — but it is most often conflicting, like anti-government stenciling on a politically prominent building. Out of respect for the architect, street artists should always be mindful of what they are using as a canvas for their work. The product of an architect is usually well thought out and an extension of self-philosophies — they usually do not plan to have their work written over by another’s.

When the graffiti artist works on a building, it’s not just the public that notices. It’s the architect, too.

Banksy and the Architect was originally published in All Things Art on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.