I had been waiting and waiting to see Julie and Julia. I missed it in the movie theater (I’m cheap). So, you can imagine how excited I was to sit myself down in the comfort of my own home and take in the movie.
I had heard mixed reviews-the sections with Meryl Streep were magical, brilliantly-acted, and that the Amy Adam’s character, Julie Powell, was insufferable, annoying, and afflicted. Ungrateful and whiny.
And it was true. I wanted to live in Julia Child land. She was joyful and interested. I cried thinking of that kind of happiness. Julie Powell WAS afflicted. I did start feeling a little defensive for her. After all, I am a would-be writer, working a (non-writing) desk job, a quarterlifer….
Then it hit me.
Let me set it up for you-
JP just spilled about four hours of work on the floor. She is crying and sinking to the floor. By the end of the scene, she is sobbing, laying on the floor IN the food.
This may seem like a fit worthy of the sassiest three-year-old you know, but, believe it, a 26-year-old. Epic tantrum. While many of you cannot identify with that at all, I, on the other hand, realized that I have had this fit. I’m a slammer and a thrower and I am just like Julie Powell- Unhappy, ungrateful and searching for my joy and pissed as hell when it doesn’t work out. Embarrassing.
This is not to say I enjoyed Julie Powell (there were a few absolutely intolerable schmaltzy parts), but I would like to speak to critics everywhere who belittled the character- we’re out here, Mr. Blow, with a temper tantrum on deck, just for you.
Lately, I have found that acceptance is a wonderful little trick. I find that I am getting better at it as I put effort in to it. Sure, life hasn’t exactly taken me where I want to go at the moment. 2009 was a bitch of a year, but unhappy, ungrateful and afflicted isn’t something I ever wanted to be. I’m afraid I can’t see with this sort of clarity every day, but hopefully, the harder I try, the closer they’ll be to each other until, one day, I can stop acting like a total brat.
*pound of butter*
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
False Starts, Stops
What is it about being a girl having an unhealthy reliance on our mother’s approval? There have been books written about this and I still don’t quite understand why this is such a universal experience. I’ve recently realized that I’ve been using my mother as a litmus test that would look a little like this-
Light pink Dark red
I---------------------------------I-------------------------------------I
(Initial criticism followed by (Harsh and general criticism acquiescence) of the nonverbal kind)
A light pink response would be ideal, yielding only a small shoulder shrug, moderate discouragement and light annoyance. The darker the paper (I keep getting the image of a little piece of tissue you plug a shaving wound with), the worse I end up feeling. At this point I usually lash out with some sort of exhibit of adolescent behavior, thus vindicating her and setting her free from accountability and hurtfulness that could have occurred previously and ultimately making her feel bad, too. It’s science.
I think most adults grow out of this sooner than I have, but I guess it wasn’t until recently that I realized how much it has had a hold on my life and my actions. It was a rather embarrassing scene in which I was buying seat covers for my car with my mom. I picked what I thought SHE would pick to avoid a “that doesn’t match” or a “you picked black?” only to find that she would have made the choice I originally wanted me make. She then proceeded to tell me that she appreciated that her opinion meant so much to me, but that I was being a little hard on myself about it. Yes, straight from the mouth of the originator of this relationship.
So, this means I have to get used to her criticism and accept it as a valid place holder on the action plan spectrum? It has to be.
Today, I am moving forward on a plan that she has not approved. I tried to tell her about it but she was watching Sarah Palin on Oprah. It’s a big decision that will ultimately affect all of my personal time for the next eleven months. Literally all of it.
Growing pains today. It kinda feels like riding a two wheeler for the first time. I’m scared, yet still able to bail and fall over sideways on the grass, but excited, smiling like crazy to myself.
What sort of harsh realizations have you had about your parents as you’ve grown older? How did you deal with it? What sort of parallels are there between men and their sons?
Light pink Dark red
I---------------------------------I-------------------------------------I
(Initial criticism followed by (Harsh and general criticism acquiescence) of the nonverbal kind)
A light pink response would be ideal, yielding only a small shoulder shrug, moderate discouragement and light annoyance. The darker the paper (I keep getting the image of a little piece of tissue you plug a shaving wound with), the worse I end up feeling. At this point I usually lash out with some sort of exhibit of adolescent behavior, thus vindicating her and setting her free from accountability and hurtfulness that could have occurred previously and ultimately making her feel bad, too. It’s science.
I think most adults grow out of this sooner than I have, but I guess it wasn’t until recently that I realized how much it has had a hold on my life and my actions. It was a rather embarrassing scene in which I was buying seat covers for my car with my mom. I picked what I thought SHE would pick to avoid a “that doesn’t match” or a “you picked black?” only to find that she would have made the choice I originally wanted me make. She then proceeded to tell me that she appreciated that her opinion meant so much to me, but that I was being a little hard on myself about it. Yes, straight from the mouth of the originator of this relationship.
So, this means I have to get used to her criticism and accept it as a valid place holder on the action plan spectrum? It has to be.
Today, I am moving forward on a plan that she has not approved. I tried to tell her about it but she was watching Sarah Palin on Oprah. It’s a big decision that will ultimately affect all of my personal time for the next eleven months. Literally all of it.
Growing pains today. It kinda feels like riding a two wheeler for the first time. I’m scared, yet still able to bail and fall over sideways on the grass, but excited, smiling like crazy to myself.
What sort of harsh realizations have you had about your parents as you’ve grown older? How did you deal with it? What sort of parallels are there between men and their sons?
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
What is that thing? A merry go round?
I haven't seen one of these since I was a kid. Back then, they were probably 5 times the size of this one and would hold 15 or 20 kids if they were packed on. I hate modern play grounds. The fun was in the danger- The knocking heads, running dizzy across the field, falling helplessly under the spinning sky.
My Gift to You
Salted Brown Butter Crispy Treats
Makes 16 2-inch squares or 32 1- x 2-inch small bars
4 ounces (1/4 pound or 1 stick) unsalted butter, plus extra for the pan
1 10-ounce bag marshmallows
Heaping 1/4 teaspoon coarse sea salt
6 cups Rice Krispies cereal (about half a 12-ounce box)
Butter (or coat with non-stick spray) an 8-inch square cake pan with 2-inch sides.
In a large pot, melt butter over medium-low heat. It will melt, then foam, then turn clear golden and finally start to turn brown and smell nutty. Stir frequently, scraping up any bits from the bottom as you do. Butter is really easy to burn, so do not pour yourself a glass of wine. Watch the pot.
As soon as the butter takes on a nutty color, move off the heat and stir in the marshmallows. The residual heat from the melted butter should melt them, but it didn't I put the pot back on low heat and stirred with a wooden spoon.
Remove from heat again. Stir in the salt and cereal together. Spread into prepared pan.
Makes 16 2-inch squares or 32 1- x 2-inch small bars
4 ounces (1/4 pound or 1 stick) unsalted butter, plus extra for the pan
1 10-ounce bag marshmallows
Heaping 1/4 teaspoon coarse sea salt
6 cups Rice Krispies cereal (about half a 12-ounce box)
Butter (or coat with non-stick spray) an 8-inch square cake pan with 2-inch sides.
In a large pot, melt butter over medium-low heat. It will melt, then foam, then turn clear golden and finally start to turn brown and smell nutty. Stir frequently, scraping up any bits from the bottom as you do. Butter is really easy to burn, so do not pour yourself a glass of wine. Watch the pot.
As soon as the butter takes on a nutty color, move off the heat and stir in the marshmallows. The residual heat from the melted butter should melt them, but it didn't I put the pot back on low heat and stirred with a wooden spoon.
Remove from heat again. Stir in the salt and cereal together. Spread into prepared pan.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Unacceptable!
The Splendid Table is the most thrillingly nerdy foodie postcast ever. The show just oozes kitsch, which puts some people off, but I find it comforting. There is a segment that a Jane and Michael Stern do for the show about interesting places to eat across the country. These people are prolific food writers and critics.
As I was poking around the Splendid Table website, I noticed they published a "Where We Eat" guide, separated by region. Naturally, I went to see where they had stopped in St. Louis.
To walk you through my horror, I'd like to send you the site itself. Now scroll through to the Midwest. Notice as you scroll through the many Chicago locations they've hit, the Kansas, Kansas City, and finally St. Louis. And here they are, telling me that the best and most interesting food St. Louis has to offer is a random Chinese food place on Hampton and their St. Paul Sandwich. Now, either St. Louis really sucks at being original, or the Sterns have neglected my fine city. Either way, I had to share. What places in St. Louis would you put on their list? What about your home town? Where you live now? We can make our own list.
As I was poking around the Splendid Table website, I noticed they published a "Where We Eat" guide, separated by region. Naturally, I went to see where they had stopped in St. Louis.
To walk you through my horror, I'd like to send you the site itself. Now scroll through to the Midwest. Notice as you scroll through the many Chicago locations they've hit, the Kansas, Kansas City, and finally St. Louis. And here they are, telling me that the best and most interesting food St. Louis has to offer is a random Chinese food place on Hampton and their St. Paul Sandwich. Now, either St. Louis really sucks at being original, or the Sterns have neglected my fine city. Either way, I had to share. What places in St. Louis would you put on their list? What about your home town? Where you live now? We can make our own list.
The Fall of Our Discontent
The moment I get used to being happy with what I have, something falls out of the sky, clunks me on the head, and then I spend the rest of the day with it in my hand, looking up at the sky, wondering where it came from.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
What Real Men Do on Sundays
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Playing Ketchup
This is what the last days of my summer have looked like-
My favorite farmer's market stand. I am pleased to say that I did not purchase one item of produce from a chian grocery store in July or August.
Experimenting with yeast
May I, once again, profess my love for heirloom tomatoes?
Summer fresh heirloom tomato pie with grilled local corn, free range eggs and homemade mayo. Holler!
I'm crying right now.
Foraged dove
The Things I Do When I’m Angry at You
I’ve gotten e-mails from more people than I expected about making Alpaca Son private. I’ve been getting some irritating Japanese spam on my X-Mas in July posts. I’ve been spending some time rethinking my privacy and my internet blast radius. Also, someone pissed me off and I didn’t think he should have the right to look in on me.
Truth be told, I’ve been blog-free for less than a month and I miss it. What can I say? Write in a journal, you say? I have pages and pages of hand-written gibberish and the editor in me just cannot STAND this disorganized chaos.
Personal issues with previously mentioned lurker have blown over and my impulse to broadcast my business has won out. Welcome me back, fuzzy friends!
Truth be told, I’ve been blog-free for less than a month and I miss it. What can I say? Write in a journal, you say? I have pages and pages of hand-written gibberish and the editor in me just cannot STAND this disorganized chaos.
Personal issues with previously mentioned lurker have blown over and my impulse to broadcast my business has won out. Welcome me back, fuzzy friends!
Friday, September 4, 2009
Plug - Do Not Read If You Hate Activists
Hey fancy friends! I just wanted to take a sec and plug a worthy cause. Food issues have always been near and dear to my heart. I started reading up on food activism and I discovered an awesome group called Slow Food USA. From the looks of it, Slow Food has an international arm as well.
This Monday, Slow Food STL is sponsoring an eat-in at the Bottleworks. Think sit-in…with food. People are eating-in to raise awareness about food that is served in public schools which is pretty much jail food. I don’t know if you remember a while back when the press discovered that slaughter houses were processing sick cows and selling off the meat. Do you remember where they found most of the contaminated meat? Schools. This isn’t a plug for vegetarianism. It’s a plug for better food to go into the tummy of our babies.
I’d hate to bore you with details, so I will present a barrage of links so you can decide if this is something you’d like to put your hands on.
Also, if you like the sound of this group, they are offering a special this month. You can get a membership for ANY donation. The minimum donation is usually 60.00, so this is a great opportunity for you starving artists to put your pocket change to good use.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Oo, So Sexy...
As I sit here and wish summer away, the signs of early fall are reminding me what I will miss about all these days I've complained about the heat.
First off, I have a feeling the thing that will offend me the most about moving into the colder months is that I will have less opportunities to wear my precious Kate Spade sunglasses. At 7:30 last night, I had to switch to my normal glasses and my heart sank a little. I remebered that temperate days are too short. And apperantly less stylish.
Second, while in Kansas City, I hit the City Market with loved ones. It's small compared to Soulard in St. Louis, but as I walked down the rows with my hunny at my hip, I grieved the bounty of fresh produce and creamed myself over the heirloom tomatoes.
My absloute favortie thing to make this summer is a chopped up version of the caprese salad and what a gorgeous one I pulled out of that market. It's so simple. Onions, tomato, fresh italian basil, fresh mozzerlla and a simple basalmic vinigerette dressing. It's a delight and you better try it out soon because it will be a sad day when you try it with tomatos that are out of season. Consider yourself warned.
First off, I have a feeling the thing that will offend me the most about moving into the colder months is that I will have less opportunities to wear my precious Kate Spade sunglasses. At 7:30 last night, I had to switch to my normal glasses and my heart sank a little. I remebered that temperate days are too short. And apperantly less stylish.
Second, while in Kansas City, I hit the City Market with loved ones. It's small compared to Soulard in St. Louis, but as I walked down the rows with my hunny at my hip, I grieved the bounty of fresh produce and creamed myself over the heirloom tomatoes.
My absloute favortie thing to make this summer is a chopped up version of the caprese salad and what a gorgeous one I pulled out of that market. It's so simple. Onions, tomato, fresh italian basil, fresh mozzerlla and a simple basalmic vinigerette dressing. It's a delight and you better try it out soon because it will be a sad day when you try it with tomatos that are out of season. Consider yourself warned.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Essie Jain
I went to check out her Myspace and found her studio tracks to be a little deperate and contrived. This is amazing, though.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Food Porn!
One step closer to bringing you a perfected brunch-
Quiches (I've learned) are one of those things you need a standard recipe for. I love that because that means I get to pimp it out in my own way. The thing to remember is, the more stuff you add, the more egg you need to hold it together. This little pretty here has spinach, basil, goat cheese, red onion and tomatoes on top. I wanted to have roasted asparagus, but they were so slimy, I couldn't bring myself to buy such nasty-looking produce, so I got some tarts and made chocolate covered strawberries bites. To top it off, I made Mimosas with orange pineapple juice. The result? The quiche was a tad runny. The strawberry bites were amazing. I just (on the suggestion of a friend) melted high quality chocolate chips and spooned on a little at a time. Then throw it in the fridge to harden. I made bites because I find the whole strawberry a little cumbersome, and messy to eat.
I love these pictures because they look like their straight of a ladies magazine from the 50s.
Quiches (I've learned) are one of those things you need a standard recipe for. I love that because that means I get to pimp it out in my own way. The thing to remember is, the more stuff you add, the more egg you need to hold it together. This little pretty here has spinach, basil, goat cheese, red onion and tomatoes on top. I wanted to have roasted asparagus, but they were so slimy, I couldn't bring myself to buy such nasty-looking produce, so I got some tarts and made chocolate covered strawberries bites. To top it off, I made Mimosas with orange pineapple juice. The result? The quiche was a tad runny. The strawberry bites were amazing. I just (on the suggestion of a friend) melted high quality chocolate chips and spooned on a little at a time. Then throw it in the fridge to harden. I made bites because I find the whole strawberry a little cumbersome, and messy to eat.
I love these pictures because they look like their straight of a ladies magazine from the 50s.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Fall Sampler
Today's addition to what is turning out to be somewhat of a fall music sampler has Sufjan Stevens all over it. I was talking to one of my dearest, trying to explain what I take away from the catalogue of Sufjan Stevens.
To me, Sufjan is a bit soft and a bit annoying. If I saw him public, I'd probably brush him off as some feral hipster that escaped some suburban basement, while slyly snapping a photo of him for Look at this Fucking Hipster. From various sources, I've half-heartedly gathered the following information-
1) He's a good Christian boy from the Midwest.
2) He knits.
3) He wears wings on stage. Like...butterfly wings.
4) His name is Persian.
5) His parents were hippies.
My utter distain for the appearance of this queer little man, gets promptly rubbed in my face by his highly composed, orchestrated, cerebral music. I feel he writes about nostalgia in the way Arcade Fire wishes they could. His songs sound rooted in physical landscape. What you get is that beautiful mixture of what makes the world so beautiful and so very sad. Sufjan is perfect for: driving, sitting and staring at the wall, singing, quiet time.
By far one of my favorites. This is a live version and totally worth your time.-
Gives me a literary boner-
I encourage you to seek out the lyrics of these songs. Any of his songs, really. He's quite an amazing poet. (see John Wayne Gacy, Jr. from Come on Feel the Illinoise)
To me, Sufjan is a bit soft and a bit annoying. If I saw him public, I'd probably brush him off as some feral hipster that escaped some suburban basement, while slyly snapping a photo of him for Look at this Fucking Hipster. From various sources, I've half-heartedly gathered the following information-
1) He's a good Christian boy from the Midwest.
2) He knits.
3) He wears wings on stage. Like...butterfly wings.
4) His name is Persian.
5) His parents were hippies.
My utter distain for the appearance of this queer little man, gets promptly rubbed in my face by his highly composed, orchestrated, cerebral music. I feel he writes about nostalgia in the way Arcade Fire wishes they could. His songs sound rooted in physical landscape. What you get is that beautiful mixture of what makes the world so beautiful and so very sad. Sufjan is perfect for: driving, sitting and staring at the wall, singing, quiet time.
By far one of my favorites. This is a live version and totally worth your time.-
Gives me a literary boner-
I encourage you to seek out the lyrics of these songs. Any of his songs, really. He's quite an amazing poet. (see John Wayne Gacy, Jr. from Come on Feel the Illinoise)
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Secret Pieces of Magic
To the finest of my friends-
If one could will it to be fall, the days would be shortening right now because of me. I’m ready for softer edges and shorter days, a time when I can finally think and not worry. This fall beckons in changes and I welcome it. I need it.
How cheesy is it to say I lost my zen? Either way, I found it again. Nothing like a good, long vacation to find it nestled in the sand with sea turtle eggs, in the shell of a sea mollusk, the faces of people with full bellies and happy hearts.
This change, I will not resist. It's really hard for me to get away from feeling that this whole past year was a waste of time. Hopefully a little time will bring some perspective. Once I'm done feeling embarrassed, bitter, embarrassed.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Post-Show Muse
So, the show went really, really well! Better than I expected.
I sold 7 shirts and took three pre-orders. Quite inspiring.
I had people asking me for cards and website info. And if I'm on Etsy yet. All of these things are really huge and require an investment. I think I'm going to hold off on internet sales and fix my eyes on another show. Lots of things in the works and even though it stressed me the hell out, the pay off was incredible.
Here are some photos of the finished products.
I sold 7 shirts and took three pre-orders. Quite inspiring.
I had people asking me for cards and website info. And if I'm on Etsy yet. All of these things are really huge and require an investment. I think I'm going to hold off on internet sales and fix my eyes on another show. Lots of things in the works and even though it stressed me the hell out, the pay off was incredible.
Here are some photos of the finished products.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
The Kind of Accident You Can Smile About
The most thrilling thing about creating is that it is full of happy accidents.
Last night, I hit the ground running on the first layer of treatment to my shirts. I think overall it was successful. With each shirt, I learned a new method of what Sydney calls my ‘hand airbrushing’ (makes it sound so official!).
I’m putting a lot of effort into keeping it simple. I want my designs to project garishness in a manner that normal (hahahahahah) people can still accesses. My other important goal with these guys is to use materials that anyone would have access to. Accessibility is key.
So, I did the math and the shirts come up to 20.00 a piece. I’ll make the ones I don’t sell available to you after the show. Of course the people that come get first dibs.
Tonight, now that they’ve all been washed and dryed once, the shirts will be ready for the real fun. Paint! The first level of treatment took so well, I can only hope that I don’t ruin the things with additional layers.
My plan is to only treat the shirts I think need another level of quality before it’s something I, personally, would wear. The black shirts turned out incredibly well, so I won’t do much to them. The yellow and pink left me wanting a little more, so I will either throw a stencil up and little color.
Other things I’ve learned:
I will buy bigger shirts. I have a connect (heart!) who works at retailer at the mall and their sizes run small. She helped me out with the initial investment by buying them with her discount for me.
I need more pants hangers.
I need some rubber gloves and to wear pants and maybe a facemask when I do the initial treatment. Owie.
Stay with me for tomorrow’s update on how the actual painting goes. I’m so nervous and excited.
Here are a couple of examples of the first layer of treatment.
Last night, I hit the ground running on the first layer of treatment to my shirts. I think overall it was successful. With each shirt, I learned a new method of what Sydney calls my ‘hand airbrushing’ (makes it sound so official!).
I’m putting a lot of effort into keeping it simple. I want my designs to project garishness in a manner that normal (hahahahahah) people can still accesses. My other important goal with these guys is to use materials that anyone would have access to. Accessibility is key.
So, I did the math and the shirts come up to 20.00 a piece. I’ll make the ones I don’t sell available to you after the show. Of course the people that come get first dibs.
Tonight, now that they’ve all been washed and dryed once, the shirts will be ready for the real fun. Paint! The first level of treatment took so well, I can only hope that I don’t ruin the things with additional layers.
My plan is to only treat the shirts I think need another level of quality before it’s something I, personally, would wear. The black shirts turned out incredibly well, so I won’t do much to them. The yellow and pink left me wanting a little more, so I will either throw a stencil up and little color.
Other things I’ve learned:
I will buy bigger shirts. I have a connect (heart!) who works at retailer at the mall and their sizes run small. She helped me out with the initial investment by buying them with her discount for me.
I need more pants hangers.
I need some rubber gloves and to wear pants and maybe a facemask when I do the initial treatment. Owie.
Stay with me for tomorrow’s update on how the actual painting goes. I’m so nervous and excited.
Here are a couple of examples of the first layer of treatment.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
HOLYFUCKINGSHIT!
Ok, don’t tell Sydney this, but I haven’t even started on my shirts yet. I have the supplies and now the shirts. And tonight the clusterfuck begins.
I’m a little stressed about completing 13 shirts, plus tags, signage and folding by Saturday, so if you get in my way, have empty hands, I will put something in them for you to do.
Naturally, I’m being a little overdramatic. I’m very excited and work best under pressure, so if you see me on the streets, looking rather feral with adrenaline, do not be alarmed. Just smile knowingly and don’t be insulted if I’m scatterbrained and forget who you are.
This is exactly the kick in the ass I need to get Lulusplosion up and running.
Come back and visit, my chicklets! There will be things for your eyes to feast on and many messes to be made!
Christmas in July will be hosted at Sydney’s house from 1-3 on July 11th.
4205 Utah St.
St. Louis, MO 63116 US
I want to see your beautiful fucking face.
One thing I have to note. I didn’t purchase any men’s shirts to be sold. I had limited resources (dolla, dolla bill, ya’ll) to purchase anything more than woman’s sizes. HOWEVER, if you are a man (or if you are a woman and want a mens-style shirt), and you want to buy one, you can pre-order, and I will make one for your snazzy ass. SPECIAL.
Pricing and other boring things will soon follow. Like tomorrow morning.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Christmas in July Preview
I was invited by an artist friend to be a part of a in-house show case to debut my t-shirts. I wanted to tone the subject matter down a bit, so these will be more design-oriented than message-oriented. This is a preview of what I'll be sellin'. Feedback?
I was thinking of adding little phrases that express sentiment or nostalgia (i.e. 'We have a history'). I'm not crazy about the way the words turned out on this particular shirt, so I'm going to keep testing the paint pen on fabrics.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
BROADSIDES ARE ON, BITCH!
Broadside
1)the side of a ship; the battery of cannon on one side of a warship; or their simultaneous (or near simultaneous) fire in naval warfare
2)any strong or comprehensive attack, as by criticism
3)a sheet of paper printed on one or both sides, as for distribution or posting
4)to collide with or run into the side of (a vehicle, object, person, etc.)
I bought these little guys off of Etsy last week and they came in yesterday. I wasn't quite sure what to expect because each full set of the alphabet was $2.25. The seller was super nice and I can't recommend her enough! *glee*
In the Hole
This was a bright red wrap that I never wore. So, I repurposed it with some bleach. The blue dye is taking care of a gross stained duvet cover my mom gave me. I'm not happy with that navy at all, but I plan to get some green and dye over the blue.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Great Fabricator Has Spoken!
A Crazy Wind, A Love Story
You and me lay naked like walruses in the sun. Those unapologetic sunbathers. Scarred and cracked, bare our skin to the sky, pay homage to the midday sun. We are beasts and blights, not supple-skinned, not bubble butted.
Heathens and sun worshipers, like whiskered angels, once God's own, but dismissed to earth, massive slugs and symbols of his spite.
Whipped and twisted, our flesh is the map of our tortures. We roll around in our mud-colored suits, shit and spray in the same place we lay. We howl in unison in pain and pleasure, a pulsating mound of foamy excretions. Fulfilling our disgusting prophecy, we are ice goblins and nasty royalty of the sea.
Shield your eyes from the whipping dicks and shanking tusks. Forget us in our exile and take care to plug your nose in the Northern wind, with it brings the memory of us, creatures that can live happily like this.
3.15.09
You and me lay naked like walruses in the sun. Those unapologetic sunbathers. Scarred and cracked, bare our skin to the sky, pay homage to the midday sun. We are beasts and blights, not supple-skinned, not bubble butted.
Heathens and sun worshipers, like whiskered angels, once God's own, but dismissed to earth, massive slugs and symbols of his spite.
Whipped and twisted, our flesh is the map of our tortures. We roll around in our mud-colored suits, shit and spray in the same place we lay. We howl in unison in pain and pleasure, a pulsating mound of foamy excretions. Fulfilling our disgusting prophecy, we are ice goblins and nasty royalty of the sea.
Shield your eyes from the whipping dicks and shanking tusks. Forget us in our exile and take care to plug your nose in the Northern wind, with it brings the memory of us, creatures that can live happily like this.
3.15.09
Sunday, March 22, 2009
We Are Not Words
You are currently witnessing the first thing I've written with a computer at my desk. I usually am hunkering over a pillow on my lap working on my hunchback, scrawling feverishly a work that I will not be able to read later and only remember being heavily struck, blinded even by the fury of creation. It's terrible like an almost-sneeze.
I kept very busy this weekend. Extended family time! When I'm sitting amidst a chaos of screaming from the youngest of us, to the oldest, I could very easily fall into an episode of hysterics, either laugh or crying.
I took this energy out on my living environment in the form of sharpie pen, navy blue Rit Dye, and a fuck load of elbow grease. I was all of a sudden entirely dissatisfied with my space. It was feeling old and stagnant. These are times when I usually do something drastic to my hair, but I really don't think my head could handle another one of my hack-fests. So, I unleashed on my space. It's not finished, it isn't exactly what I was hoping for, but it's a start, a reason to smile by myself.
And you've also noticed the new projects, yet another facet of this overhaul.
I will explain this to you in an attempt to understand it myself-
Even though I write this feeling more positive and excited than I have in a long time, I am motivated by my extreme dissatisfaction with pretty much everything. This has given way to a nonchalance that I have never been able to otherwise achieve. I'm glad about it because I no longer feel pinned down by any pervading philosophy. Shaking myself loose has been a strange and graceless walk across a field of gumballs.
I had a very dark winter. I brooded, spent hours mulling over conundrums and art that provokes feelings other than pleasantry. Allowing myself to think the thoughts that I was told to repress. It is indeed liberating. What kind of place do I come from that makes me afraid to have a thought? Like in some way I'm going to be held accountable for it. I won't attempt a further discussion of this yet. Just know that it has gifted my spring with a sassy positivity that is making me want to explode ugly brightness everywhere.
Accompanying this mindset is a need to create some good-humored nastiness and provoke some dumbfoundedness. The art hole is vacuous and demanding. I realized I have nothing to ruin, and I like to be sneaky.
I kept very busy this weekend. Extended family time! When I'm sitting amidst a chaos of screaming from the youngest of us, to the oldest, I could very easily fall into an episode of hysterics, either laugh or crying.
I took this energy out on my living environment in the form of sharpie pen, navy blue Rit Dye, and a fuck load of elbow grease. I was all of a sudden entirely dissatisfied with my space. It was feeling old and stagnant. These are times when I usually do something drastic to my hair, but I really don't think my head could handle another one of my hack-fests. So, I unleashed on my space. It's not finished, it isn't exactly what I was hoping for, but it's a start, a reason to smile by myself.
And you've also noticed the new projects, yet another facet of this overhaul.
I will explain this to you in an attempt to understand it myself-
Even though I write this feeling more positive and excited than I have in a long time, I am motivated by my extreme dissatisfaction with pretty much everything. This has given way to a nonchalance that I have never been able to otherwise achieve. I'm glad about it because I no longer feel pinned down by any pervading philosophy. Shaking myself loose has been a strange and graceless walk across a field of gumballs.
I had a very dark winter. I brooded, spent hours mulling over conundrums and art that provokes feelings other than pleasantry. Allowing myself to think the thoughts that I was told to repress. It is indeed liberating. What kind of place do I come from that makes me afraid to have a thought? Like in some way I'm going to be held accountable for it. I won't attempt a further discussion of this yet. Just know that it has gifted my spring with a sassy positivity that is making me want to explode ugly brightness everywhere.
Accompanying this mindset is a need to create some good-humored nastiness and provoke some dumbfoundedness. The art hole is vacuous and demanding. I realized I have nothing to ruin, and I like to be sneaky.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Stencil Experiment
Here are some preliminary mock-ups of some stencils I'm working on. I haven’t tested anything yet, but the hope is that I can make a limited run of t-shirts with these guys. They’re just on card stock, so I can’t imagine they’ll hold up for very many before pooping out. I might switch to a more durable material when I see how this goes.
This is the first instillation of set of projects I’m working on under a fledgling press that I'm looking to launch myself. The hope is to create a set of moveable art pieces, more of a art-for-art's-sake demonstration.
My 'o' got jacked up on this one and I don't think I care.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
You Will Know What Happend
His Days
He exhales hard and long, sings along with the breathy song that's playing. Do do ba dee dooo, only as old men do. He adds the words, a lonely whispered ballad; he is very far away.
It goes like this-He pulls her close in the dance hall. Her blue eyes electric in the even bluer lights. Their nimble knees slide with grace, well-oiled machines made for slow moves. He leads without thinking, together gliding like water around rocks. Later, he'd walk her home through city streets, his jacket hanging from her bare shoulders, throwing rocks at empty milk bottles, laughing at the sound of glass breaking. The night air of summer is cool in comparison to their skin, their smiles stuck despite their aching faces.
He watches her as she walks up the porch, steps, opens the door. Keeps his eye on her until the last supple calf disappears. This time, she won't come back out of the house. This time, there is no house, just a whole lifetime evaporated, absorbed.
Grandpa likes the blue lights. They shine like cold stars, but they do warm the room a bit. Endless room--there are only more lights on the other side, clustered like galaxies. He has sunk into his chair in clothes that used to have color. Bleached navy socks that are now purple. He rubs his knees as he would babies' heads or bowling balls with both hands, sober hands that silently wish for beers and not knees.
12.23.08
Eat that you self-indulgent Burroughsian cocksuckers!
This piece didn't get accepted, so I can post it. Thanks to all of you that helped me workshop it! I'm not really sure why it didn't make it, nor do I really care that much. I'm not all that dazzled by it, anyway. I must not have the word 'cunt' in there enough. Or maybe my bio didn't convince them that my accolades were prestigious enough for their ZINE...I mean...LITERARY JOURNAL. I mean, the fact that I live in St. Louis isn't convincing enough? (<--sarcasm that may not translate)
Next time, this is what I will write-
Lulu Westbrook started the infamous crocodile fights of 1998 in rural Costa Rica. She has had 23 children all of which she mercilessly fed to her reptiles. She is visited nightly by tongueless demons with goat dicks, who rape her repeatedly with Joesph Stalin dildos. To cope, she does lots and lots of drugs and nothing can save her now.
This got me thinkin'-
How important is the bio? Is it another method of convincing subjective eyes to pick your piece? What say you, cowardly lurkers?
Onward, onward, onward. There are darker things to come. Art not to be sold separately. Broadsides. Perverts. Vandalism. Art holes.
Your only Lulu
He exhales hard and long, sings along with the breathy song that's playing. Do do ba dee dooo, only as old men do. He adds the words, a lonely whispered ballad; he is very far away.
It goes like this-He pulls her close in the dance hall. Her blue eyes electric in the even bluer lights. Their nimble knees slide with grace, well-oiled machines made for slow moves. He leads without thinking, together gliding like water around rocks. Later, he'd walk her home through city streets, his jacket hanging from her bare shoulders, throwing rocks at empty milk bottles, laughing at the sound of glass breaking. The night air of summer is cool in comparison to their skin, their smiles stuck despite their aching faces.
He watches her as she walks up the porch, steps, opens the door. Keeps his eye on her until the last supple calf disappears. This time, she won't come back out of the house. This time, there is no house, just a whole lifetime evaporated, absorbed.
Grandpa likes the blue lights. They shine like cold stars, but they do warm the room a bit. Endless room--there are only more lights on the other side, clustered like galaxies. He has sunk into his chair in clothes that used to have color. Bleached navy socks that are now purple. He rubs his knees as he would babies' heads or bowling balls with both hands, sober hands that silently wish for beers and not knees.
12.23.08
Eat that you self-indulgent Burroughsian cocksuckers!
This piece didn't get accepted, so I can post it. Thanks to all of you that helped me workshop it! I'm not really sure why it didn't make it, nor do I really care that much. I'm not all that dazzled by it, anyway. I must not have the word 'cunt' in there enough. Or maybe my bio didn't convince them that my accolades were prestigious enough for their ZINE...I mean...LITERARY JOURNAL. I mean, the fact that I live in St. Louis isn't convincing enough? (<--sarcasm that may not translate)
Next time, this is what I will write-
Lulu Westbrook started the infamous crocodile fights of 1998 in rural Costa Rica. She has had 23 children all of which she mercilessly fed to her reptiles. She is visited nightly by tongueless demons with goat dicks, who rape her repeatedly with Joesph Stalin dildos. To cope, she does lots and lots of drugs and nothing can save her now.
This got me thinkin'-
How important is the bio? Is it another method of convincing subjective eyes to pick your piece? What say you, cowardly lurkers?
Onward, onward, onward. There are darker things to come. Art not to be sold separately. Broadsides. Perverts. Vandalism. Art holes.
Your only Lulu
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Sad News
Learning about the death of a great poet is a terrible way to start the day. Pulitzer Prize winner, WD Snodgrass, died of lung cancer the morning of the 13th.
I was fortunate enough to see him read as a part of Drury's English Department Lecture series. I also got a chance to speak with him as I was working on a story about the event for the university website. His writing has been influential in my own development; he was a master at altering common-held perspectives (I think of his poems about Hitler's girlfriend) and writing accessably (as in "Farm Kids", posted below). Tonight, I drink to WD.
Farm Kids
Our neighbor’s slim rag doll of a daughter (not,
we’re told, of his own getting) breathed out: "You’ve got
so many cookbooks!" – each eye a startled O
as it skimmed our kitchen shelves – "And so
much food!" Later, straight-faced, she said her mother
lives now with her new boyfriend in another
county. Hard up for farm jobs, her "Dad" has to drive
60 miles to the factory, getting up at 5
AM to leave them where his folks watch after them
until he gets back home – sometimes 5 PM.
We go for long walks every evening. If we pass
their trailer, they all tumble out shouting, "Snodgrass!
Snodgrass!" The slim, straight-faced one is thought slow
by her teachers. There’s much she’d do well not to know.
The cool offspring of our city friends are driven
to special schools, sports dates, parties, given
phones, computers, cars, the insatiate stuff
that will guarantee they can’t ever get enough.
Our neighbors’ less keen hungers and kinder drives
make sure they’ll make nothing of their lives but lives.
APR, Vol. 32, #3, May/June 2003, pp 7-8.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
I Only Sort of Lied
I wrote you something beautiful. But I cannot post it here because I want to submit it to a new literary journal in St. Louis.
I would like some opinions, though. It's my first submission to a themed issue of a journal and I had some trouble with it. It is also the first time I am not forcing myself to break my poem up into lines, so it's a real, live prose poem, my little squids! You should e-mail me if you want to read it. I would like it if you read it.
I encourage you, writer, to check out the call for submissions and help support this little baby in St. Louis.
Other things-
I read some fantastic news! St. Louis is the 8th most literate city in the country! Wowwee! Above even New York and Chicago, who didn't even make it on the list! That makes me happy.
I have recently discovered the sharpie pen. I heard a Barry White song in my head and made love to the package in the pen isle at Target. They are amazing. No bleeding, just pure smooth, felt-tipped baby-makin' love. Seriously. Why did the world stop making felt-tipped pens? Uni-pissmeoff-balls never cease to annoy me with their inconsistency.
Please let me know if I can inflict my submission on you. I can't post it because it's technically considered publishing if I post it on here for workshopping.
I would like some opinions, though. It's my first submission to a themed issue of a journal and I had some trouble with it. It is also the first time I am not forcing myself to break my poem up into lines, so it's a real, live prose poem, my little squids! You should e-mail me if you want to read it. I would like it if you read it.
I encourage you, writer, to check out the call for submissions and help support this little baby in St. Louis.
Other things-
I read some fantastic news! St. Louis is the 8th most literate city in the country! Wowwee! Above even New York and Chicago, who didn't even make it on the list! That makes me happy.
I have recently discovered the sharpie pen. I heard a Barry White song in my head and made love to the package in the pen isle at Target. They are amazing. No bleeding, just pure smooth, felt-tipped baby-makin' love. Seriously. Why did the world stop making felt-tipped pens? Uni-pissmeoff-balls never cease to annoy me with their inconsistency.
Please let me know if I can inflict my submission on you. I can't post it because it's technically considered publishing if I post it on here for workshopping.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
I think they call this stagnat
My sunroom on a day like today
Warming up my sun room on a day like today
Secretly critical
Critical, but it ain't no secret
Something to write that people can read in the future
International grocery stores
Hiding from the public
Cups and cups of tea
The pants I want out of
Recluse, recluse, recluse,
I will write you something soon. My day starts in an hour and a half.
Warming up my sun room on a day like today
Secretly critical
Critical, but it ain't no secret
Something to write that people can read in the future
International grocery stores
Hiding from the public
Cups and cups of tea
The pants I want out of
Recluse, recluse, recluse,
I will write you something soon. My day starts in an hour and a half.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A Little Something From The Past
Birding
A siren wails and flashes
panties through the
patterns of her curtains-
and if a man were a boomerang,
he would sail around her, fixate
on her swinging breasts as she
smooths over long and limbered legs.
She oils them. And it sounds like
violins sailing through the window
that glows, backlit with fire.
Her figure passes behind it,
hanging wet panties around her nest,
like she's fussing with her feathers,
laying sweaters flat on her sewing table.
Her song softens as she quits her laundry.
He stands so still because the smallest
sound would startle her and in a flutter,
off she'd fly with the light.
A siren wails and flashes
panties through the
patterns of her curtains-
and if a man were a boomerang,
he would sail around her, fixate
on her swinging breasts as she
smooths over long and limbered legs.
She oils them. And it sounds like
violins sailing through the window
that glows, backlit with fire.
Her figure passes behind it,
hanging wet panties around her nest,
like she's fussing with her feathers,
laying sweaters flat on her sewing table.
Her song softens as she quits her laundry.
He stands so still because the smallest
sound would startle her and in a flutter,
off she'd fly with the light.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
I Want to See Your Face!
It's time for Taste for Tunes 2008!
What: Taste for Tunes is a community event held to raise money for the KDHX radio and television station. If you dine at one of the designated restaurants, a portion of the proceeds will go to the station.
Why: You should go to Yemanja Brazil for dinner that night. You should go there because I will be hosting there. Come and see me. Eat some DELICIOUS Brazilian food. Support your local entrepreneurs and community radio! You should also bring all of your friends.
When: Will see you September 9th, 2008. I will be milling around harassing the eaters from 7p.m. to 10p.m/when they stop serving food.
Where: Yemanja Brazil
They also have a great website you can visit if you feel like perusing the menu ahead of time. http://www.brazildinin...
To spoon feed you just a little more, here is a map. It's a bit off the beaten path, but who lets that deter them from amazing dining?! Not you, my foodie friend!
http://maps.google.com...
It's at the corner of Pestalozzi and Missouri right off Jefferson.
If you have any questions or need more information, give me a call or shoot me an e-mail/message.
Are you coming?!
What: Taste for Tunes is a community event held to raise money for the KDHX radio and television station. If you dine at one of the designated restaurants, a portion of the proceeds will go to the station.
Why: You should go to Yemanja Brazil for dinner that night. You should go there because I will be hosting there. Come and see me. Eat some DELICIOUS Brazilian food. Support your local entrepreneurs and community radio! You should also bring all of your friends.
When: Will see you September 9th, 2008. I will be milling around harassing the eaters from 7p.m. to 10p.m/when they stop serving food.
Where: Yemanja Brazil
They also have a great website you can visit if you feel like perusing the menu ahead of time. http://www.brazildinin...
To spoon feed you just a little more, here is a map. It's a bit off the beaten path, but who lets that deter them from amazing dining?! Not you, my foodie friend!
http://maps.google.com...
It's at the corner of Pestalozzi and Missouri right off Jefferson.
If you have any questions or need more information, give me a call or shoot me an e-mail/message.
Are you coming?!
Friday, September 5, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
They Called Me Fitness Girl
“…Adaptation is a profound process. Means you figure out how to thrive in the world.”
“Yeah but it's easier for plants. I mean they have no memory. They just move on to whatever's next. With a person though, adapting almost shameful. It's like running away.”
------------------------
Oh, where to begin. Let me start here—Becoming a runner is hard. As the last kid in from the mile-run every single gym class, I can say this with authority. And as most people who are deprived of abilities, I craved being a runner. I craved the ease in which the exerted themselves on the hottest days of summer. In the rain. In the snow. I coveted their slender bodies. Endurance. Self-discipline. I played the violin instead.
The past two years of my life (yes, this day exactly) have turned me in to a seat-surfer. Enough said.
The one taking the elevator when they should be taking the stairs. The mindless eater. The bottom of the bag scraper. How many times have your co-workers walked in on you with the Cheez-it bag stuck on your face?
Isn’t it all just an outward manifestation of inner train wreck? The unplucked eyebrows, unironed clothes, makeupless face, uncombed hair. And with a presupposition of leanin’ on “the juice”…
Most people like to call this growing pains. But I prefer fiery bullshit hell.
So, the next logical step? I have two options and I don’t want to be looking longingly at the elevator anymore. Become something I’ve never been, but have always wanted to be. Run.
If it hurts, do it anyway. Smile at the other runners. Support your carriage. It is too much like everything else. It has been amazing to me how readily my body has accepted the change. I do not run with ease, but each week is easier. I am slowly learning why people write essays called “On Running”. I’ve learned why people do it—it’s a loose community built up of people who know what it means to push back, sweat a little, not get knocked over so easily.
The funny thing is, when I’m out there and I get passed up by an 80-year-old man, I think, I’m slow now, but when I’m eighty, I’ll smile when I run.
Happy desk job anniversary to me.
“Yeah but it's easier for plants. I mean they have no memory. They just move on to whatever's next. With a person though, adapting almost shameful. It's like running away.”
------------------------
Oh, where to begin. Let me start here—Becoming a runner is hard. As the last kid in from the mile-run every single gym class, I can say this with authority. And as most people who are deprived of abilities, I craved being a runner. I craved the ease in which the exerted themselves on the hottest days of summer. In the rain. In the snow. I coveted their slender bodies. Endurance. Self-discipline. I played the violin instead.
The past two years of my life (yes, this day exactly) have turned me in to a seat-surfer. Enough said.
The one taking the elevator when they should be taking the stairs. The mindless eater. The bottom of the bag scraper. How many times have your co-workers walked in on you with the Cheez-it bag stuck on your face?
Isn’t it all just an outward manifestation of inner train wreck? The unplucked eyebrows, unironed clothes, makeupless face, uncombed hair. And with a presupposition of leanin’ on “the juice”…
Most people like to call this growing pains. But I prefer fiery bullshit hell.
So, the next logical step? I have two options and I don’t want to be looking longingly at the elevator anymore. Become something I’ve never been, but have always wanted to be. Run.
If it hurts, do it anyway. Smile at the other runners. Support your carriage. It is too much like everything else. It has been amazing to me how readily my body has accepted the change. I do not run with ease, but each week is easier. I am slowly learning why people write essays called “On Running”. I’ve learned why people do it—it’s a loose community built up of people who know what it means to push back, sweat a little, not get knocked over so easily.
The funny thing is, when I’m out there and I get passed up by an 80-year-old man, I think, I’m slow now, but when I’m eighty, I’ll smile when I run.
Happy desk job anniversary to me.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Seedless Watermelon
She casts her
hands over the crest,
her belly.
Holds it like
a bowling ball in
her two palms.
A stranger’s
smile and knowing
sympathy.
She is bitter.
She drinks a beer. She
hits herself.
A hollow knock-
Like silence in a
seashell, but
still praying
for waves. A joke. A
fruitless flesh.
Expecting
eternally. Her
damnation.
Forever
pregnant, with no seeds
to spit out.
-Lulu 8.5.08
(Appreantly...I only write about pregnant things...I don't like this title)
hands over the crest,
her belly.
Holds it like
a bowling ball in
her two palms.
A stranger’s
smile and knowing
sympathy.
She is bitter.
She drinks a beer. She
hits herself.
A hollow knock-
Like silence in a
seashell, but
still praying
for waves. A joke. A
fruitless flesh.
Expecting
eternally. Her
damnation.
Forever
pregnant, with no seeds
to spit out.
-Lulu 8.5.08
(Appreantly...I only write about pregnant things...I don't like this title)
Thursday, June 26, 2008
A New Project
“While conventional notions of the avant-garde suggest work which is groundbreaking, confrontational and even impenetrable, this panel seeks to investigate poetry and poetics which adhere to a narrower sense of the term—namely, Peter Burger's conception of the avant-garde as work which "demand[s] that art becomes practical once again," or returns art to the praxis of everyday life. Understood this way, Burger's avant-garde aesthetic changes the ways in which an audience interacts with art, calling for personal action, and provides new, democratized inroads to the creative process.” - Michael Hennessey as seen on Fanzine
This is something I’ve been thinking on a lot lately. I found this excerpt on an online zine and it was the first I’d heard of Paul Burger’s work. I went searching and found his book, so I’ll be able to outline more for you after I dig in.
I’m excited to explore these ideas in a structured environment, because in my head they are faceless, floating idea zygotes. They need faces. They deserve faces because I find something inherently wrong about most experimental art. I appreciate the distinction between avant-guard and experimental. Avant-guard does infer some sort of organized, intentional framework, not some graphic, exploitative, explosive demonstration of chaos. I think it definitely tips its hat to chaos, but it also acknowledges that art is thoughtful, a process, calculated and loved. I think it may be more akin to my developing personal artistic aesthetic. I’m absolutely exhausted with the deconstruction of art. I’m fine with the act of destroying art, but there has to be art to destroy in the first place. The art that is being destroyed now are the fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers of destroyed art. It all lacks foundation and cause for me. It reminds of me a baby that makes noise purely because it can. This thought is totally contrary to my entire artistic background. I haven’t had the language to speak on this topic because it is so different from the punk-rock aesthetic I was born into, but that isn’t going to stop me from trying. This is surely a work that I will and plan to amend as needed.
To continue, I felt wrong for having these ideas because punk-rock is SO opinionated. Religiously. The anti-structure, which is also a faith, the stubborn opposition to the structure-obsessed academics. Which means that I was afraid of having these ideas because modern punk-rock told me not to? Fuck that retro shtick! (If you feel an essay relating the fanaticism of art and the fanaticism of religion coming on. You are correct!) God bless Annie Dillard. I don’t fully relate to Dillard as an artist because she comes from a highly critical/academic background. But in her book, The Writing Life, she talks about the freedom to make art. She says, “you may not let it rip.” Is that not exactly what punks tell you to do? What say you, Neo-beat poets? What art do you have if you may not gizz all over it?
Don’t get me wrong, I still also feel that the high art of yore is something to rebel against. Especially the attitude. That’s definitely not me either being as I reject the scholarly pull towards academia. In fact, I fear and resist any thing that is structure obsessed. I am a student on my own terms and I don’t know why you have to be a graduate student to participate in critical work. I’m not going to pay for that community of hard-nosed exclusivity and, honestly, I believe community is what that boils down to.
I’m not going to conclude this because the point is unfinished. I have research to do. But the general conclusion here will explore my path as an artist, but to also comment on the current artistic climate of my environment. More to come, precious ones! These ideas will have faces.
This is something I’ve been thinking on a lot lately. I found this excerpt on an online zine and it was the first I’d heard of Paul Burger’s work. I went searching and found his book, so I’ll be able to outline more for you after I dig in.
I’m excited to explore these ideas in a structured environment, because in my head they are faceless, floating idea zygotes. They need faces. They deserve faces because I find something inherently wrong about most experimental art. I appreciate the distinction between avant-guard and experimental. Avant-guard does infer some sort of organized, intentional framework, not some graphic, exploitative, explosive demonstration of chaos. I think it definitely tips its hat to chaos, but it also acknowledges that art is thoughtful, a process, calculated and loved. I think it may be more akin to my developing personal artistic aesthetic. I’m absolutely exhausted with the deconstruction of art. I’m fine with the act of destroying art, but there has to be art to destroy in the first place. The art that is being destroyed now are the fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers of destroyed art. It all lacks foundation and cause for me. It reminds of me a baby that makes noise purely because it can. This thought is totally contrary to my entire artistic background. I haven’t had the language to speak on this topic because it is so different from the punk-rock aesthetic I was born into, but that isn’t going to stop me from trying. This is surely a work that I will and plan to amend as needed.
To continue, I felt wrong for having these ideas because punk-rock is SO opinionated. Religiously. The anti-structure, which is also a faith, the stubborn opposition to the structure-obsessed academics. Which means that I was afraid of having these ideas because modern punk-rock told me not to? Fuck that retro shtick! (If you feel an essay relating the fanaticism of art and the fanaticism of religion coming on. You are correct!) God bless Annie Dillard. I don’t fully relate to Dillard as an artist because she comes from a highly critical/academic background. But in her book, The Writing Life, she talks about the freedom to make art. She says, “you may not let it rip.” Is that not exactly what punks tell you to do? What say you, Neo-beat poets? What art do you have if you may not gizz all over it?
Don’t get me wrong, I still also feel that the high art of yore is something to rebel against. Especially the attitude. That’s definitely not me either being as I reject the scholarly pull towards academia. In fact, I fear and resist any thing that is structure obsessed. I am a student on my own terms and I don’t know why you have to be a graduate student to participate in critical work. I’m not going to pay for that community of hard-nosed exclusivity and, honestly, I believe community is what that boils down to.
I’m not going to conclude this because the point is unfinished. I have research to do. But the general conclusion here will explore my path as an artist, but to also comment on the current artistic climate of my environment. More to come, precious ones! These ideas will have faces.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Recognize
I know I’ve seen you somewhere before.
Maybe it was at the park. It was threatening to
rain, so we had to play fast. The wet sand,
perfect for packing into buckets. Crenellated
castles quickly dashed by bare feet. A frantic
swing on moist monkey bars. We ran and ran
until we were slipping in the wet grass. Not
afraid of stepping on bees. Our mothers calling
for us to collect our toys. I wish I could place you.
Maybe it was at the movie theater, asking for extra
butter, clutching soaking grease bags, wiping hands
on jeans. Or jaywalking in a small town, where I
know cars will stop for pedestrians, but you wait
your turn on the curb. Was that you? Damn. I know
you! It was that one time when our moms bumped
bellies at the grocery store. You were weaving your
fingers through the pink, gooey light, touching the
muted prisms. And I thought you were waving at me.
So I waved back. Totally embarrassing. You looked
awesome, though. All your fingers and toes and skin.
I felt naked. You seeing me missing things, a little fish,
looking lacking. But I see we are still fish! We are full
and old, but we are still weaving our fingers through the
light. We are really waving at each other.
Maybe it was at the park. It was threatening to
rain, so we had to play fast. The wet sand,
perfect for packing into buckets. Crenellated
castles quickly dashed by bare feet. A frantic
swing on moist monkey bars. We ran and ran
until we were slipping in the wet grass. Not
afraid of stepping on bees. Our mothers calling
for us to collect our toys. I wish I could place you.
Maybe it was at the movie theater, asking for extra
butter, clutching soaking grease bags, wiping hands
on jeans. Or jaywalking in a small town, where I
know cars will stop for pedestrians, but you wait
your turn on the curb. Was that you? Damn. I know
you! It was that one time when our moms bumped
bellies at the grocery store. You were weaving your
fingers through the pink, gooey light, touching the
muted prisms. And I thought you were waving at me.
So I waved back. Totally embarrassing. You looked
awesome, though. All your fingers and toes and skin.
I felt naked. You seeing me missing things, a little fish,
looking lacking. But I see we are still fish! We are full
and old, but we are still weaving our fingers through the
light. We are really waving at each other.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Never Try to Pee in a Wine Glass
Confessions-
1. I have more empty notebooks than full ones.
2. I think about writing more than I actually do it.
3. I am discouraged until I go take in some shitty verse, shitty verse with ego. And then I am inspired.
4. I finally write a shitty something and quit.
5. I don’t think you or your poems are the shit. But you are brave and that is what I like about you.
Soup Spoon
I listen to jazz when I cook.
I invite the cat to dance,
and I know what that makes me.
Instead of running to the burning
stove, I glide, a graceful way
to quell sweltering chaos.
This song doesn’t go with scorched
soup, but it is like scorched soup.
If you scrape the bottom,it will stir
the burned part through the pot.
Scrape it, or don't scrape it,
it's the same as strange sounds to ears.
Jazz isn't like tea concentrate, the smoke
detector, or the sharp pitch of the running
faucet. This shit is syncopated at best. Mostly
behind the beat in a foreign tongue. We are the
master creators. We make things out of nothing.
And my tiptoes,never stepping on cracks, stirring
up a steamy Latin number, a sultry spicy bit, thick
and cheesy, or something chilled. A homespun creation
from evening minds and weeknight drinks and never
read from a page. It is glory for the leftovers.
It is everything I want you to smell at my door.
-Lu, 5.7.08
Possibly Inspiration for the Future:
The Jazz Age
Great Depression
Shift + F7
This is not slam poetry
St. Louis celebrities
Rootlets
Inferior olives
Being an orange. Getting pealed.
Simpleton
“Off her rocker”
Glow-worms
Your giant child
1. I have more empty notebooks than full ones.
2. I think about writing more than I actually do it.
3. I am discouraged until I go take in some shitty verse, shitty verse with ego. And then I am inspired.
4. I finally write a shitty something and quit.
5. I don’t think you or your poems are the shit. But you are brave and that is what I like about you.
Soup Spoon
I listen to jazz when I cook.
I invite the cat to dance,
and I know what that makes me.
Instead of running to the burning
stove, I glide, a graceful way
to quell sweltering chaos.
This song doesn’t go with scorched
soup, but it is like scorched soup.
If you scrape the bottom,it will stir
the burned part through the pot.
Scrape it, or don't scrape it,
it's the same as strange sounds to ears.
Jazz isn't like tea concentrate, the smoke
detector, or the sharp pitch of the running
faucet. This shit is syncopated at best. Mostly
behind the beat in a foreign tongue. We are the
master creators. We make things out of nothing.
And my tiptoes,never stepping on cracks, stirring
up a steamy Latin number, a sultry spicy bit, thick
and cheesy, or something chilled. A homespun creation
from evening minds and weeknight drinks and never
read from a page. It is glory for the leftovers.
It is everything I want you to smell at my door.
-Lu, 5.7.08
Possibly Inspiration for the Future:
The Jazz Age
Great Depression
Shift + F7
This is not slam poetry
St. Louis celebrities
Rootlets
Inferior olives
Being an orange. Getting pealed.
Simpleton
“Off her rocker”
Glow-worms
Your giant child
Thursday, April 24, 2008
These Are Not My Homies
Turkeys and Gutterballs-
What a month April has been. I feel like I've been celebrating my birthday all month.
I've been writing, but nothing worth posting. My problem is generally due to the fact that I'm a great, big scaredy cat. Lately, I've been trying to think about poetry as if it were a sport. I don't do sports. But most athletes have to work really hard to get to the skill level they want to play at. It's rare that people are automatically good. If I were an athelet, I would be a shitty one. I'd give up if I fell on my face. I'd give up if I missed a play. I'd give up if I couldn't pull off my sexy moves. I'd give up if my coach yelled at me. I'd probably cry a lot and begin to hate it because I couldn't naturally do it perfectly.
Write fearlessly. It's my mantra. I write it on everything hoping that if I say, write it enough, it will happen. I've been reading this local poet, Aaron Belz (linked under St.Louis Creates). He is a really hard worker and posts maybe 3-4 poems a week. When I read his poems, I think, wow...that was brave. I want to be that brave. He plays. He's serious. He's not serious. Keep working...
Since I've been stuck, I've been bulking up on some classic literature. Feel free to stalk around on my goodreads page (linked under Creative) to see what I've been up to in that regard. I have to say though, that I picked up Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein. Great Cubist! I loved it! I think it changed my life. I can't wait to employ some of her tactics. I can't wait to read more of her stuff.
Without further adieu! A prematurely posted poem!
Baseball Mom
Sunburned shoulders,
my sunspots surface.
Freckle-face heroes
warm up throwing arms.
The air is a serpent,
heat that slithers
and we can't breathe snakes.
We are not too old to cry.
Clink-bat to knuckles,
bat to ball, bat to fence-
It's ok to scream your name.
All these, a field of my children.
A ball is a face.
A mean face, a yelling face.
An elbow is a wound rubbed to
the nail biter's quick.
A nose is a burn, pressed to an oven door.
A hat is a flag they could snipe you for showing.
You wave it anyway.
Even under calloused leaders.
Blind, unyielding, squealing pride.
Lions in the bleachers. Lions in a field.
We will hunt you down and eat you alive.
Pick your sinew from our teeth with
shards of your beaten bones.
It's just a game. It's not just a game.
A secret weapon. Mine's up to bat.
My baby wants big chew.
What a month April has been. I feel like I've been celebrating my birthday all month.
I've been writing, but nothing worth posting. My problem is generally due to the fact that I'm a great, big scaredy cat. Lately, I've been trying to think about poetry as if it were a sport. I don't do sports. But most athletes have to work really hard to get to the skill level they want to play at. It's rare that people are automatically good. If I were an athelet, I would be a shitty one. I'd give up if I fell on my face. I'd give up if I missed a play. I'd give up if I couldn't pull off my sexy moves. I'd give up if my coach yelled at me. I'd probably cry a lot and begin to hate it because I couldn't naturally do it perfectly.
Write fearlessly. It's my mantra. I write it on everything hoping that if I say, write it enough, it will happen. I've been reading this local poet, Aaron Belz (linked under St.Louis Creates). He is a really hard worker and posts maybe 3-4 poems a week. When I read his poems, I think, wow...that was brave. I want to be that brave. He plays. He's serious. He's not serious. Keep working...
Since I've been stuck, I've been bulking up on some classic literature. Feel free to stalk around on my goodreads page (linked under Creative) to see what I've been up to in that regard. I have to say though, that I picked up Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein. Great Cubist! I loved it! I think it changed my life. I can't wait to employ some of her tactics. I can't wait to read more of her stuff.
Without further adieu! A prematurely posted poem!
Baseball Mom
Sunburned shoulders,
my sunspots surface.
Freckle-face heroes
warm up throwing arms.
The air is a serpent,
heat that slithers
and we can't breathe snakes.
We are not too old to cry.
Clink-bat to knuckles,
bat to ball, bat to fence-
It's ok to scream your name.
All these, a field of my children.
A ball is a face.
A mean face, a yelling face.
An elbow is a wound rubbed to
the nail biter's quick.
A nose is a burn, pressed to an oven door.
A hat is a flag they could snipe you for showing.
You wave it anyway.
Even under calloused leaders.
Blind, unyielding, squealing pride.
Lions in the bleachers. Lions in a field.
We will hunt you down and eat you alive.
Pick your sinew from our teeth with
shards of your beaten bones.
It's just a game. It's not just a game.
A secret weapon. Mine's up to bat.
My baby wants big chew.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Graft, Simpleton, Rural
I'm going to the park today. I hope to have something for you soon. I've got a bad case of the try-too-hards. I've got a bad case of the birthdays. I've got a bad case of the new boy. I've got a bad case of the almost lunch time.
The new look was inspired by a house I love in Benton Park. The colors are opposite, though. More white than blue.
Also, you can buy alpacas on my blog. If you want one, let me know. They're cheaper if you buy in bulk.
The new look was inspired by a house I love in Benton Park. The colors are opposite, though. More white than blue.
Also, you can buy alpacas on my blog. If you want one, let me know. They're cheaper if you buy in bulk.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
I Really Needed That
3 hours at the park. I've always loved companion poems. I don't think my poem is any good without her's.
Dear Muse by Stevie Smith
Dear Muse, the happy hours we have spent together.
I love you so much in wet or fine weather.
I only wish sometimes you would speak louder.
But perhaps you will do so when you are prouder.
I often think that this will be the next instead.
Meanwhile, I am your most obliging confidant.
Response:
Dear Muse
You really loved me, or so you said.
And then you bit my lip 'til it bled.
You touched me in ways I thought to be myth.
Then you slapped me and told me it was a gift.
Dear Muse, you know I'll beg you back when you leave.
I'm a slave. I've accepted I'll never be free.
-Lu 4.5.2008, edited 4.7.2008
(Can I rhyme 'leave' and 'free'?)
Dear Muse by Stevie Smith
Dear Muse, the happy hours we have spent together.
I love you so much in wet or fine weather.
I only wish sometimes you would speak louder.
But perhaps you will do so when you are prouder.
I often think that this will be the next instead.
Meanwhile, I am your most obliging confidant.
Response:
Dear Muse
You really loved me, or so you said.
And then you bit my lip 'til it bled.
You touched me in ways I thought to be myth.
Then you slapped me and told me it was a gift.
Dear Muse, you know I'll beg you back when you leave.
I'm a slave. I've accepted I'll never be free.
-Lu 4.5.2008, edited 4.7.2008
(Can I rhyme 'leave' and 'free'?)
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
I Smell Like Your House
My Dearest Bluebirds and Goldfinches:
I wrote a poem in a traffic jam on Highway 44. I had some things to say to my soul. I love your thoughts.
Note to Self
Oh, Intuition, the Midwest winter
is a lonely one. It's too blurry. I hate the
cool smears of the countryside. Full
days plus all the land on a
dimmer, a switch God plays with.
A joke-Like when little brother turned
the basement lights out on Candyland with
friends. It's all flying game
pieces and bumping heads. We all scream.
A game-Turn us all the way down
until we're almost fucking dead.
But it pulsates a small surge, the
very thing that kept Christopher Reeve
alive. Laugh and poke at our deflating bodies.
Kick your toe at the piles of skin and leaves.
Our eyes can see how you are, but our
bodies are useless. So cruel!
But think, if they turned the lights all the
way off on us. Emitting no inkling of electric.
All the birches would die. The great giants of
the earth would fall and spring would
only be ankle high forever.
3.30.08
I wrote a poem in a traffic jam on Highway 44. I had some things to say to my soul. I love your thoughts.
Note to Self
Oh, Intuition, the Midwest winter
is a lonely one. It's too blurry. I hate the
cool smears of the countryside. Full
days plus all the land on a
dimmer, a switch God plays with.
A joke-Like when little brother turned
the basement lights out on Candyland with
friends. It's all flying game
pieces and bumping heads. We all scream.
A game-Turn us all the way down
until we're almost fucking dead.
But it pulsates a small surge, the
very thing that kept Christopher Reeve
alive. Laugh and poke at our deflating bodies.
Kick your toe at the piles of skin and leaves.
Our eyes can see how you are, but our
bodies are useless. So cruel!
But think, if they turned the lights all the
way off on us. Emitting no inkling of electric.
All the birches would die. The great giants of
the earth would fall and spring would
only be ankle high forever.
3.30.08
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Breakfasts Alone and Gold Mines
If you stepped on a land mine and gold exploded out of it, you would be happy in your pain. Hopefully you wouldn't die and the shrapnel lodged in your skin would buy the you the best medical care in the world. This morning, I am picking pieces of gold out of my legs and elbows.
Flakes and Steaks, I give to you LibriVox. "Acoustical liberation of books in the public domain". Need more? It is a free library of audio books available online. My biggest worry, before I went to open the first chapter of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, was that it would require some random player that I wouldn't be able to download because of my company's firewall. Now, I know there are better players, but what's more universal than Windows Media Player? This is going to be fun. So fun it hurts.
---and---
Just Infatuated
A collection of abstract art by children,
I see the letters that spell 'love'.
At first, I think, they must have learned
of love inspired art and then rendered
it themselves. But at a closer look, I see
it can't be this at all. And it was not my
brain that filled in the meaning of each space.
This had to be a unit on shapes. This is a
circle, this is a square, yes, you are
right, a triangle. No, it is not love. It's
messy, alternating black and white.
Absence of color to excess of color. The heart
of extreme. This is not an art that will stand
the test of time, but it was done with care,
which made it lovely.
3.16.2008
Do you understand? (evoking Jess here. :) )
Flakes and Steaks, I give to you LibriVox. "Acoustical liberation of books in the public domain". Need more? It is a free library of audio books available online. My biggest worry, before I went to open the first chapter of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, was that it would require some random player that I wouldn't be able to download because of my company's firewall. Now, I know there are better players, but what's more universal than Windows Media Player? This is going to be fun. So fun it hurts.
---and---
Just Infatuated
A collection of abstract art by children,
I see the letters that spell 'love'.
At first, I think, they must have learned
of love inspired art and then rendered
it themselves. But at a closer look, I see
it can't be this at all. And it was not my
brain that filled in the meaning of each space.
This had to be a unit on shapes. This is a
circle, this is a square, yes, you are
right, a triangle. No, it is not love. It's
messy, alternating black and white.
Absence of color to excess of color. The heart
of extreme. This is not an art that will stand
the test of time, but it was done with care,
which made it lovely.
3.16.2008
Do you understand? (evoking Jess here. :) )
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Meet Your Maker
underside of freshwater waves or like
something woven.
A Christmas wreath dropped
in a pond for the fish:
to hide, to snack, to spawn. Or
a winter wreath, made from winter walks
for the buck-naked brick above the fireplace.
Dead and dying made new. Not totally alive,
something woven.
A Christmas wreath dropped
in a pond for the fish:
to hide, to snack, to spawn. Or
a winter wreath, made from winter walks
for the buck-naked brick above the fireplace.
Dead and dying made new. Not totally alive,
but not totally dead, either. It is too much
like you. A circle, your heart’s favorite
like you. A circle, your heart’s favorite
shape. It is something I will find
some day at thebottom of the lake.
A safe place to sleep, a twig to tooth,
an anchor for my babies.
You said, “Your love is not big enough.” I would believe anything said with your voice.
Monday, December 3, 2007
TALTALTALTAL
Hello All-
I swear to God, this radio show is my salvation some days. It’s sad to me that more people don’t listen to the radio because there is some really amazing work out there.
Some of you know this already: I have a base core of movies that I like to watch often. They aren’t good movies. I come back to them over and over and over especially when I’m sick or it’s raining or snowing or just cloudy. They usually involve battle scenes, car chases and Hollywood budgets. These movies include The Bourne Identity, various episodes of the first year of Law and Order: Special Victim’s Unit, Fargo, any of the Lord of the Rings movies (although I prefer the first), and last but definitely most important….Jurassic Park. I can’t really explain my draw to the movies besides dark atmosphere that I can nap to…and the comfort of knowing what I’m getting myself into…
I’m finding that the more I listen to radio, there are a few that I come back to over and over…like those movies. Pieces of radio (lately on This American Life) that I visit over and over…stories I look to for comfort. I feel like the host, Ira Glass, is somehow my estranged Jewish uncle, sending me messages to open my eyes to the bigger world..
I wanted to sort of archive them here. I wish you would listen to them, but I know you probably won’t. But if one day, you want to listen to some good radio, you can get some…
The Breakup
I don’t love this one because there’s a picture of Stevie Nicks on the opening page. It’s because Starlee Kline, one of their contributors, talks about her break up and her relationship with sad songs during post-break up crap. She actually talks to Phil Collins about break ups and writes her own break up song. Love it. I really identify with her. Number one favorite piece of radio. Ever.
“If I thought I had been in Phil Collins phase before, it was nothing compared to what came next. I was no longer listening to a song for pleasure, but for pain. They were break up songs and hearing them was the only thing that made me feel better and by better, I mean worse. There’s something so satisfying about listening to sad songs. They’re like how you would actually be spending your day if you were allowed to just break down and sob and grab hold of everyone you met. They make you feel less alone with your crazy thoughts. They don’t judge you. In fact, they understand you. A break up song will never suggest you start online dating or that you’re better off without him. They tell you that you’re worse without him, which is exactly what you want to hear because that’s how you feel. I didn’t want to be cheered up. I didn’t wanna’ bounce back. I didn’t wanna’ meet some one new. I wanted to wallow. Big time and deeply and with the least amount of perspective possible. And the only way to do that was by turning off my phone and turning on the sad, sad songs….Once you’re heartbroken, you see it everywhere.”
Act V
A prison program where inmates get to participate in a Shakespeare production. A drama program that puts poetry in the hands of inmates. Amazing.
Habeas Schmabeas 2007
An updated version of our episode "Habeas Schmabeas," which won a 2006 Peabody Award. Talks about Habeas Corpus and how the War on Terror has completely nixed this long-standing pre-American policy…
Babysitting
Hilarious and scary.
Music Lessons
The inspiration for my new obsession with Sarah Vowell. David Sedaris, Sarah Vowell and Anne Lamott read live, before a cheering audience in San Francisco. Sarah rocked the crowd so hard that afterwards, David announced to anyone who'd listen: "She must be destroyed."
Testosterone
While putting this show together about the link between personality traits and testosterone, the staff of TAL decided to examine their own personalities and guess who has the most testosterone. Then we all got tested. Not the smartest thing for a group of co-workers to do with each other.
It is so interesting to hear them all in a room together laughing at each others amounts of testosterone. This is a really great examination of what testosterone is. And how it affects us.
Poultry Slam 2007
Their holiday specials are SO interesting. This one is about the relationship between humans and their food, namely meat. Act Four is AMAZING, written by David Rakoff. “The Meaning of a Bird”…very moving.
“So…off I headed to the orchard. I know sound like the central casting New Yorker if turned myself into with single-minded determination when I say this, but the main problem with working the fields is the sun is just always shining. That and the Northerner that I am, it became apparent that I am completely unsuited to work out side and I was moved around to the kibbutz’s various interior jobs the furniture factory, the metal irrigation parts factory, the kitchen… assured all the while by the group leader that there was nothing emasculating by being moved inside…After all, each according to his needs, each according to his abilities. My abilities seem to lie in passing out from heat stroke after a scant two hours in an orchard.”
The This American Life Holiday Spectacular
The TAL contributors all write their own Christmas fables. I absolutely love this episode.
This American's Life's Holiday Gift-Giving Guide
“The vexing difficulty of finding the perfect gift, illustrated in three acts.” Hilarious.
I swear to God, this radio show is my salvation some days. It’s sad to me that more people don’t listen to the radio because there is some really amazing work out there.
Some of you know this already: I have a base core of movies that I like to watch often. They aren’t good movies. I come back to them over and over and over especially when I’m sick or it’s raining or snowing or just cloudy. They usually involve battle scenes, car chases and Hollywood budgets. These movies include The Bourne Identity, various episodes of the first year of Law and Order: Special Victim’s Unit, Fargo, any of the Lord of the Rings movies (although I prefer the first), and last but definitely most important….Jurassic Park. I can’t really explain my draw to the movies besides dark atmosphere that I can nap to…and the comfort of knowing what I’m getting myself into…
I’m finding that the more I listen to radio, there are a few that I come back to over and over…like those movies. Pieces of radio (lately on This American Life) that I visit over and over…stories I look to for comfort. I feel like the host, Ira Glass, is somehow my estranged Jewish uncle, sending me messages to open my eyes to the bigger world..
I wanted to sort of archive them here. I wish you would listen to them, but I know you probably won’t. But if one day, you want to listen to some good radio, you can get some…
The Breakup
I don’t love this one because there’s a picture of Stevie Nicks on the opening page. It’s because Starlee Kline, one of their contributors, talks about her break up and her relationship with sad songs during post-break up crap. She actually talks to Phil Collins about break ups and writes her own break up song. Love it. I really identify with her. Number one favorite piece of radio. Ever.
“If I thought I had been in Phil Collins phase before, it was nothing compared to what came next. I was no longer listening to a song for pleasure, but for pain. They were break up songs and hearing them was the only thing that made me feel better and by better, I mean worse. There’s something so satisfying about listening to sad songs. They’re like how you would actually be spending your day if you were allowed to just break down and sob and grab hold of everyone you met. They make you feel less alone with your crazy thoughts. They don’t judge you. In fact, they understand you. A break up song will never suggest you start online dating or that you’re better off without him. They tell you that you’re worse without him, which is exactly what you want to hear because that’s how you feel. I didn’t want to be cheered up. I didn’t wanna’ bounce back. I didn’t wanna’ meet some one new. I wanted to wallow. Big time and deeply and with the least amount of perspective possible. And the only way to do that was by turning off my phone and turning on the sad, sad songs….Once you’re heartbroken, you see it everywhere.”
Act V
A prison program where inmates get to participate in a Shakespeare production. A drama program that puts poetry in the hands of inmates. Amazing.
Habeas Schmabeas 2007
An updated version of our episode "Habeas Schmabeas," which won a 2006 Peabody Award. Talks about Habeas Corpus and how the War on Terror has completely nixed this long-standing pre-American policy…
Babysitting
Hilarious and scary.
Music Lessons
The inspiration for my new obsession with Sarah Vowell. David Sedaris, Sarah Vowell and Anne Lamott read live, before a cheering audience in San Francisco. Sarah rocked the crowd so hard that afterwards, David announced to anyone who'd listen: "She must be destroyed."
Testosterone
While putting this show together about the link between personality traits and testosterone, the staff of TAL decided to examine their own personalities and guess who has the most testosterone. Then we all got tested. Not the smartest thing for a group of co-workers to do with each other.
It is so interesting to hear them all in a room together laughing at each others amounts of testosterone. This is a really great examination of what testosterone is. And how it affects us.
Poultry Slam 2007
Their holiday specials are SO interesting. This one is about the relationship between humans and their food, namely meat. Act Four is AMAZING, written by David Rakoff. “The Meaning of a Bird”…very moving.
“So…off I headed to the orchard. I know sound like the central casting New Yorker if turned myself into with single-minded determination when I say this, but the main problem with working the fields is the sun is just always shining. That and the Northerner that I am, it became apparent that I am completely unsuited to work out side and I was moved around to the kibbutz’s various interior jobs the furniture factory, the metal irrigation parts factory, the kitchen… assured all the while by the group leader that there was nothing emasculating by being moved inside…After all, each according to his needs, each according to his abilities. My abilities seem to lie in passing out from heat stroke after a scant two hours in an orchard.”
The This American Life Holiday Spectacular
The TAL contributors all write their own Christmas fables. I absolutely love this episode.
This American's Life's Holiday Gift-Giving Guide
“The vexing difficulty of finding the perfect gift, illustrated in three acts.” Hilarious.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
I Am One of those Women.
No I Will Not Go To Hooters or The Pink Slip. And here’s why-
I am forced to suppress my primal urges all day. I suppress my primal urge to rip off the faces of my co-workers and eat their eye balls while they’re still alive. I suppress the urge to hold my breasts in public. I suppress the urge to binge eat Indian Food every day. I suppress the urge to show my feelings to you. Or let you know that the most recent episode of This American Life sent me into weepy tears in the privacy of my cube. I did not get my tears all over you. You did not know about my tears.
I will not debate with you the philosophy of whether are not we live to be suppressed. I will discuss with you the current climate of the suppression this year 2007 day. There are holes in this argument. Onward!
I do not want to know about your sexual urges. The presence of strip clubs is the body that encourages, praises men to avoid suppressing their urges and show you their sexuality…publicly. Don’t get me wrong. I would LOVE to cry in front of you. I would love to stop caring about my weight and eat at Gokul (vegetarian Indian Food buffet *dies*) all day. I would love act on my various urges of maternal instinct when I see kids making fun of my little brothers. But I don’t because in this society, there are certain things we sacrifice to be able to take advantage of the loveliness that living in a community is.
Urges aside—I can’t forget to mention that it’s a system based on objectification. We do not objectify people of different races. In fact, that is frowned upon. We don’t objectify children. Talk about taboo. But these are houses of objectification.
We can also talk about the varying sexual interests of men and women—women being mental and men being visual…What a world we would live in, if a woman could go to a comfy place and make mental love to an interested man in the dark that knew what she actually wanted sexually. Oh, we can dream!
And you could say, there are male strip clubs. But I have never known a woman who would want to go look at greased men in banana hammocks. I am sure there are ways in which men are objectified in this country, but could it really be argued that the problem is as socially acceptable or as widespread? I wouldn’t personally say so.
It hurts me to hear about women who condone this behavior. To me, it seems like a desperate ploy to tag along with the boys club while continually aligning themselves with the male dominated paradigm of sex and sexiness. (Sorry, ladies. Just one woman’s opinion here.)
I am a vegetarian. Many of you know this about me. It is not something I push on others. It’s a conversation I will have with you if you want to have it with me. This comment is not far off from the subject matter of this post. As a personal choice, I do my best to avoid treating living things like objects, something I can buy, own and trash at will.
Those breasts that are bouncing around in your face. They are there because they were bought. You owned them for maybe 5 minutes and when you leave, they are as important to you as the wrapper left after the burger you ate for dinner. It’s trash. Cheap, cheap trash. People should not be treated as objects. Animals should not be treated as objects. Living things are not objects.
This is an opinion I will not push on you. In fact, if I ran the world, I would not outlaw strip clubs. But I will be disappointed in my society if this was something they chose for themselves. Disappointment stings.
I am forced to suppress my primal urges all day. I suppress my primal urge to rip off the faces of my co-workers and eat their eye balls while they’re still alive. I suppress the urge to hold my breasts in public. I suppress the urge to binge eat Indian Food every day. I suppress the urge to show my feelings to you. Or let you know that the most recent episode of This American Life sent me into weepy tears in the privacy of my cube. I did not get my tears all over you. You did not know about my tears.
I will not debate with you the philosophy of whether are not we live to be suppressed. I will discuss with you the current climate of the suppression this year 2007 day. There are holes in this argument. Onward!
I do not want to know about your sexual urges. The presence of strip clubs is the body that encourages, praises men to avoid suppressing their urges and show you their sexuality…publicly. Don’t get me wrong. I would LOVE to cry in front of you. I would love to stop caring about my weight and eat at Gokul (vegetarian Indian Food buffet *dies*) all day. I would love act on my various urges of maternal instinct when I see kids making fun of my little brothers. But I don’t because in this society, there are certain things we sacrifice to be able to take advantage of the loveliness that living in a community is.
Urges aside—I can’t forget to mention that it’s a system based on objectification. We do not objectify people of different races. In fact, that is frowned upon. We don’t objectify children. Talk about taboo. But these are houses of objectification.
We can also talk about the varying sexual interests of men and women—women being mental and men being visual…What a world we would live in, if a woman could go to a comfy place and make mental love to an interested man in the dark that knew what she actually wanted sexually. Oh, we can dream!
And you could say, there are male strip clubs. But I have never known a woman who would want to go look at greased men in banana hammocks. I am sure there are ways in which men are objectified in this country, but could it really be argued that the problem is as socially acceptable or as widespread? I wouldn’t personally say so.
It hurts me to hear about women who condone this behavior. To me, it seems like a desperate ploy to tag along with the boys club while continually aligning themselves with the male dominated paradigm of sex and sexiness. (Sorry, ladies. Just one woman’s opinion here.)
I am a vegetarian. Many of you know this about me. It is not something I push on others. It’s a conversation I will have with you if you want to have it with me. This comment is not far off from the subject matter of this post. As a personal choice, I do my best to avoid treating living things like objects, something I can buy, own and trash at will.
Those breasts that are bouncing around in your face. They are there because they were bought. You owned them for maybe 5 minutes and when you leave, they are as important to you as the wrapper left after the burger you ate for dinner. It’s trash. Cheap, cheap trash. People should not be treated as objects. Animals should not be treated as objects. Living things are not objects.
This is an opinion I will not push on you. In fact, if I ran the world, I would not outlaw strip clubs. But I will be disappointed in my society if this was something they chose for themselves. Disappointment stings.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Where's All Your Kids?
May be and maybe are similar words. Maybe. What a non-committal piece of crap word. Usually when I say it, I mean…no, I won’t go to the movies with you but I don’t want to hurt your feelings so I’ll get your hopes up by looking positive about the idea while saying this word. (Oh, love prepositions! Love them like you love yourself!)
May be is equally vague. In some situations, I use this word in this way- I may be the person you are looking for. Or, this may be a chunk of ground beef in my hair. Still. Non-committal.
If I held both words up to the light, examined them for quality and practicailty (um...like shopping?) I would buy 'may be'. I can get behind that. Now that I think of it, I when I mean to use the word 'maybe' I say it as if I was saying 'may be'.
So, we all can be non-committal in two forms of speech. With the same letters…the only difference being a space. (English is full of this shit!).
When I was a kid, maybe meant ‘yes’ most of the time. Here is a scenario for you-
Children: “Mom, can we play on the train tracks today. Plllllllllleeeasseeee? Please. Please…..[mom thinks]… Please…[mom says nothing]… Please…[still nothing] Please….”
Mom: “Maybe. [children rejoice] That doesn’t mean yes.” [Children continue to rejoice but on the inside this time because they know it really means yes…most of the time.]
Little brother number two and little brother number three also know this. In fact, I heard this exact exchange a few weeks ago when I went home.
Maybe I will do this to my children. My children may be smarter than that.
May be is equally vague. In some situations, I use this word in this way- I may be the person you are looking for. Or, this may be a chunk of ground beef in my hair. Still. Non-committal.
If I held both words up to the light, examined them for quality and practicailty (um...like shopping?) I would buy 'may be'. I can get behind that. Now that I think of it, I when I mean to use the word 'maybe' I say it as if I was saying 'may be'.
So, we all can be non-committal in two forms of speech. With the same letters…the only difference being a space. (English is full of this shit!).
When I was a kid, maybe meant ‘yes’ most of the time. Here is a scenario for you-
Children: “Mom, can we play on the train tracks today. Plllllllllleeeasseeee? Please. Please…..[mom thinks]… Please…[mom says nothing]… Please…[still nothing] Please….”
Mom: “Maybe. [children rejoice] That doesn’t mean yes.” [Children continue to rejoice but on the inside this time because they know it really means yes…most of the time.]
Little brother number two and little brother number three also know this. In fact, I heard this exact exchange a few weeks ago when I went home.
Maybe I will do this to my children. My children may be smarter than that.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
When Will It Be January Again?
I am so damn tired of the sun. It just shines all the time and it doesn't care that I want it to go bug someone else.
In January, the weather will brood with me.
My mom openly wept when she saw my new tattoos. Well, when she saw the new tattoo on my arm. "Lindsay" she said. "You aren't always going to feel dark."
At this point in my life, I felt my mother shined all the time and didn't care that I wanted her to go bug someone else.
I wouldn't have ever described this as darkness. It's pretty bright around here, whether I'm in the mood for it or not...
I forgot that when you're a mom, you can be openly critical of your child whenever you want. Well, it's possible that we had a few words at Wal-mart when she made me go that Saturday. It's possible that I went to sleep at 8 o'clock that night.
It's also possible that when I left, I didn't mind the shining sun. I think I need to go home again soon.
In January, the weather will brood with me.
My mom openly wept when she saw my new tattoos. Well, when she saw the new tattoo on my arm. "Lindsay" she said. "You aren't always going to feel dark."
At this point in my life, I felt my mother shined all the time and didn't care that I wanted her to go bug someone else.
I wouldn't have ever described this as darkness. It's pretty bright around here, whether I'm in the mood for it or not...
I forgot that when you're a mom, you can be openly critical of your child whenever you want. Well, it's possible that we had a few words at Wal-mart when she made me go that Saturday. It's possible that I went to sleep at 8 o'clock that night.
It's also possible that when I left, I didn't mind the shining sun. I think I need to go home again soon.
Friday, September 28, 2007
I don’t wanna talk about it anymore
Tonight, I travel to visit my family (have I ever told you how much I hate the phrase “the fam”. Uh, don’t say it around me). I am thoroughly looking forward to the unconditionally open arms of my little brother wrapped around my neck.
My trips home are getting further apart and wonder if I ever will end up like my mother, making time once a year to go home and see her family. I hope I never get so wrapped up in my life that the only time I see my family is Christmas. By then, it’s a show. Like people who go to church twice a year. I mean, isn’t it time to just cut the cord? Everyone can see through the disingenuous attempt to show some sort of outward care to that community. I’m embarrassed for her sometimes when she hugs her mom for the first and last time for the year. I’m embarrassed for my future self. And my future once a-year-hug.
I know for a fact that this won’t happen to me. This is really personal—my mom had a really bad home life. If you looked at her side of the family, you really wouldn’t be able to tell unless you looked at my uncle Joe and his prison tattoos and his trailer, but he doesn’t come around much. It’s a past that has been smothered out by years of denial, but still boils beneath the skin of my mother and her siblings.
Inevitably, someone cracks. Usually because my grandfather criticizes one or the other’s parenting skills, a hard thing to swallow when fed to the child he himself neglected and beat.
This is the eighth time I’ve been home this year. I have nothing boiling under my skin, no painful history. But my mom is critical like yours. So, we'll see how my patience holds up.
My trips home are getting further apart and wonder if I ever will end up like my mother, making time once a year to go home and see her family. I hope I never get so wrapped up in my life that the only time I see my family is Christmas. By then, it’s a show. Like people who go to church twice a year. I mean, isn’t it time to just cut the cord? Everyone can see through the disingenuous attempt to show some sort of outward care to that community. I’m embarrassed for her sometimes when she hugs her mom for the first and last time for the year. I’m embarrassed for my future self. And my future once a-year-hug.
I know for a fact that this won’t happen to me. This is really personal—my mom had a really bad home life. If you looked at her side of the family, you really wouldn’t be able to tell unless you looked at my uncle Joe and his prison tattoos and his trailer, but he doesn’t come around much. It’s a past that has been smothered out by years of denial, but still boils beneath the skin of my mother and her siblings.
Inevitably, someone cracks. Usually because my grandfather criticizes one or the other’s parenting skills, a hard thing to swallow when fed to the child he himself neglected and beat.
This is the eighth time I’ve been home this year. I have nothing boiling under my skin, no painful history. But my mom is critical like yours. So, we'll see how my patience holds up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
