Year one of grad school is over.

"Plain speaking about complex matters is not anti-intellectual, it is the achieved result of sustained intellectual labor. Moreover, poetic expression in the service of critical speculation is not the "soft" alternative to "hard" thinking. Rigor is demanded in both, but if you examine the shelves in most studios these days you will find shockingly few books of poetry or fiction." - Robert Storr

Yesterday I was reading the new Daniel Clowes comic and the character Wilson was talking about what it was like to come out of a flu or cold when he was a kid. Wilson likened the feeling to being reborn; when I think of coming off a cold I experience relief rather than rebirth, however my relationship to rebirth has been a bit tainted. Along those lines, the David Bazan show last night at The Space was an excellent example of some of the things I have been thinking about while finishing up this school year.



Before the show a friend asked me what I had been working on. At the moment I was working on my second Long Island and actually considered leaning my forehead against the rim of the glass to see if Long Island could tell me what I had been working on.

“I built a fort, and sat in it.”

Lani added that I had also video taped it. When my friend asked me why I built a fort and sat in it I thought I would spit. Spitting on someone’s french fries is not the answer I had prepared for that question, and neither is “wh-I’ don’t know,” which is how I actually answered. It was a fair question and I was being a douche.

This year has been ridden with successes and failures but mostly grace. The grace part is the most aggravating. To receive grace is to turn down one’s pride a few notches and be willing to say, “I don’t know.” Bazan is gifted at this.

For me, there is an overbearing obligation to know why I make the things I make. Honestly, sometimes I feel embarrassed to admit that the reason that I make sculptures and videos isn’t because I was responding to a traumatizing religious experience, or commenting on consumer culture, or even telling my story -- but rather, I just really like pipe cleaners. There is nothing academic about liking pipe cleaners but there is something kind of awesome about them. Then again, there is nothing academic about liking paint either. Kids like paint. My preoccupation with being academic is enough to drive me to drink, or worse - jog.

It’s summer and I miss looking at people’s faces. I’m shifting my priorities to advice I got from a book: “Don’t be an asshole and make sure everyone eats.” I’ll start by doing the dishes.

Oh and about being academic, I think (after pulling out handfuls of hair and practically drowning my liver) I am more interested in being articulate in my own approach, use of materials, and intensions.

Also, I am working on a blurb book. The book is mainly to show Kris and my folks that I didn't move to Connecticut only to drink myself into a hole.

Daily Bread

I have committed to write for an hour each day. Now, I used to be a Christian which means I know a thing or two about commitment and discipline. What I know about commitment is that commitment is generated by discipline, and when you are a Christian, discipline is fueled by guilt. I said I was going to write for an hour each day this semester and I actually will do that. I will be able to do this not because I am a truly honorable person committed to the craft of writing, but rather I am a stubborn, slave-driver who sets the bar too high for herself. I have been setting the bar immeasurably high for myself all my life and when I would fail to reach that bar, as I often did, I would come down on myself the way Jewish people describe their Jewish grandmas who live in the Brox come down on them.

I think that this is why I have had such a hard time coming to grips with the loss of my faith. I had disappointed the imaginary Jewish grandma that lived inside of me so much that she would say insane things to me like, "No wonda ya' can't get a man to take care of ya, you couldn't even keep Jesus fucking Christ, God bless him, around." According to Fake Grandma Jewish- Bronx who lived inside me, it was my fault that Jesus fucking Christ, god bless him, left me with so many questions.

In undergrad I went to a bible school; actually, I attended The Bible Institute of Los Angeles. B-I-O-L-A, (or Biola) like every other Christian acronym (and there are many), not only had letters that stood for something but the idea of the acronym as a whole alluded to something else. In the case of Biola, the Bible Institute part of the acronym really stood for a major accredited liberal arts university, and the Los Angeles part stood for south L.A. county, which really meant Orange County who, as it so happens, has an acronym of its very own. BIOLA as a whole stood for a place where Christian people learn how to be better at being Christian people.

Days one and two of my writing extravaganza have been ridiculous and terrible. Yesterday, I wrote drunk. This resulted in stupid drunk person writing where I, the heroic and witty main character was seated on a plane next to Actor Seth Rogan who, naturally, wanted to have sex with me.

Today, I have returned to writing about my faith. This is frustrating because faith, or the lack there of, seems to be the only subject I can write on without the result being 81 lines of dialogue with Seth Rogan.

My friend Sydney asked me about faith this summer. She said that the last time we spoke I had mentioned something interesting about faith, but she couldn't remember what it was so she asked me if I remembered what I had said and if I could elaborate on the subject. I told her no, I in fact don't remember what I said last time we spoke and therefore could not elaborate on it. And then she seemed okay with that and I thought for sure I was going insane.

Honestly, I have no idea what I think about faith. So I kind of wish I had remembered whatever I said so I could elaborate on it for myself, but Sydney and I would just have to go on living having no clue what I am talking about.

Anyone who had any sort of affair with the evangelical church is aware of Hebrews 11:1. Even I, after almost 5 years of heathendom, can recite the famous biblical verse: "Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."

Yeah, I don't by that.

I think hope and faith are more medicinal than anything else. That is, we humans use faith and hope the same way a cancer patient would use a trial drug. This trial has worked on this percent of patients and maybe if you try it the drug may work for you too. Those of us who have seen cancer, in all of it's brutal glory, know that the trial drugs work for a while until our friend cancer creeps back the way it always does.

To me, the concepts of hope and faith are pretty much the same deal. Oh, you hope so badly that this week will not suck. And surprisingly Monday isn't that bad. So now you have faith that Tuesday, when approached with a good attitude, will be okay too; and it is, and you're happy. Then Tuesday night you know that Wednesday is going to be truly shitty, but its not and your stunned, and happy, and a little suspicious. The rest of the week goes this way until you get to Sunday when you let yourself sleep in because you had such a good week. And then you stay in bed, and you think about your ex-boyfriend. Now it is 3pm on Sunday and you have decided that you are obese. You fall back to sleep, only to wake up at 6pm and its dark and the day is gone and somehow you have failed again, and all the hope and faith of the week is struggling to digest along side the family-bag of chips you had for second breakfast.