Monday, October 20, 2008
lots of new stuff..
The past few weeks have been a spastic array of art dance parties- latterly. literally. Here are some images from my opening at Miriam's and from my most recent performance piece.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Friday, September 05, 2008
pews for paint
I wasn't an artist until Jesus rejected me. Many a christian would beg to differ, saying that I, in fact rejected God first. I would argue that he/she/it-whatever was my constructed image of the divine when I was younger-left me in the gutter quicker then a drunken prom date.
Many people come to art the way they come to religion, that is--they were raised-up in it; others, such as myself, converted at a later age and have always been a bit suspicious of the inbreeds. I came to art through a quarter life crisis. I was studying to be a woman pastor or some shit like that when one day while sitting amongst a slue of blonde-headed frauds and well-tempered, bubble-filled nitwits I realized that I wasn't like any of those people. I mean we had our share of similarities, such as a four chambered heart and a closet full of sexual frustration, but for the most part I couldn't stand being associated with that particular sect of humanity. I left; I meandered in to the art department portfolioless and slightly soulless and they accepted me.
Three years later, equipped with a bachelors degree and living in my parents basement I realized that it took that initial break to get me to listen. My old Jesus, who was more akin to a divine image thunk up by Keven Smith, acted like a catheter bag as I processed other people's interpretations of God through my haughty existence. What I like to think of the new, perhaps real, divine character in my life is that he/she/it was the thing that walked right up to me, yanked out my pee tube, and let me piss all over myself. I'm still me; I'm just being used to a full potential. Redemption comes to mind. A youtube video of inmates dancing to Jackson's Thriller comes to mind. An old typewriter, a tap-dancing marionette, and a broken barbeque creating rhythms working in conjunction with two talented musicians speaks to the possibilities of being made perfect only through ones imperfections. Perhaps that old evangelical speak about making oneself holy before a perfect God is just peanut butter in the roof of an old dogs mouth. What if making oneself holy isn't about kneeling as much as it is about rolling up one's sleeves?
Many people come to art the way they come to religion, that is--they were raised-up in it; others, such as myself, converted at a later age and have always been a bit suspicious of the inbreeds. I came to art through a quarter life crisis. I was studying to be a woman pastor or some shit like that when one day while sitting amongst a slue of blonde-headed frauds and well-tempered, bubble-filled nitwits I realized that I wasn't like any of those people. I mean we had our share of similarities, such as a four chambered heart and a closet full of sexual frustration, but for the most part I couldn't stand being associated with that particular sect of humanity. I left; I meandered in to the art department portfolioless and slightly soulless and they accepted me.
Three years later, equipped with a bachelors degree and living in my parents basement I realized that it took that initial break to get me to listen. My old Jesus, who was more akin to a divine image thunk up by Keven Smith, acted like a catheter bag as I processed other people's interpretations of God through my haughty existence. What I like to think of the new, perhaps real, divine character in my life is that he/she/it was the thing that walked right up to me, yanked out my pee tube, and let me piss all over myself. I'm still me; I'm just being used to a full potential. Redemption comes to mind. A youtube video of inmates dancing to Jackson's Thriller comes to mind. An old typewriter, a tap-dancing marionette, and a broken barbeque creating rhythms working in conjunction with two talented musicians speaks to the possibilities of being made perfect only through ones imperfections. Perhaps that old evangelical speak about making oneself holy before a perfect God is just peanut butter in the roof of an old dogs mouth. What if making oneself holy isn't about kneeling as much as it is about rolling up one's sleeves?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
working...
I am currently constructing the costume for a performance piece I will be doing in the up coming weeks. A few exciting things about this piece is that Michelle will be shooting it...(a lot in film) and uh well the other exciting thing is that this will be my first...performance..that I have done...like-- in public. Awesome.
Another good thing about this piece is that if people ask me, "jamie, how is your performance work cohesive with the rest of your work," I'll simply sit back, resting my palms on my ponytail and reply, "well, much like my sculpture, this piece was a real bitch to make." I am sewing a costume that has an image of me silkscreened on the front...and after spending the entire day pulling my face (ha) I am kind of wishing I just painted the son of a bitch on there...but you know...what are you going to do?
By the end of the day I turned into the egocentrically minded bastard I have always aspired to be and now can honestly say that I hate myself.
current play list:
Date Rape- Fishbone
Nugget- Cake
Headache- Frank Black
Did I Step On Your Trumpet- Danielson
Humans- Islands
Chemical Bomb- Aquabats
Not About Love- Fiona Apple
My Lady's House- Iron & Wine
No Stars- Maria Taylor
I Never Wanted You- Headphones
Holland, 1945- Neutral Milk Hotel
Love Affair- Regina Spektor
Hide and Seek- Imogen Heap
John Wayne Gacy, Jr.- Sufjan Stevens
God Bless- David Bazan
Mirror In The Bathroom (Live)- The Special Beat
Funeral Face- Suburban Kids With Biblical Names
Utah- John Linnell
Road to Joy- Bright Eyes
Hall of heads- They Might Be Giants
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
the devil made me do it
There are many christian things that I out-right hate. Naturally, I feel so passionately about these things because I loathe to see them rise up in me now the way they used to when I was a boisterous christian tween. My favorite frustration is the whole concept of blaming the devil. A friend once told me of a conversation she overheard between a devote christian woman and her group of wide-eyed, big hearted, middle aged droids. This woman spoke of an event that she was planning and how everything was going accordingly except the musician who was scheduled to play had forgotten an instrument that was essential to completing his set. The woman in charge of the event became determined to find the instrument at a local store and get it to the musician before his set began. The woman spoke of all the confusing and frustrating conversations she had with local shop owners who didn't carry the spoils of her new mission, and how it was truly the devil that was keeping her from following through with her assignment. Ultimately she found the thing she was looking for and the whole ordeal immediately transformed from a satan stained situation to a Jesus soaked landscape. It bothers me when people actually believe that a broken heal or a stressful situation is caused by the Lord of the Underworld; he's the mother fucking roaring lion, give the fallen Under Lord a bit more credit. Demon possessions, unexplainable disasters maybe but a lost instrument just sounds like good ol' human forgetfulness to me. The flip side of this is claiming any conformable resolution as "a God thing". It sounds as though this lady pushed and pushed until some poor music shop owner buckled under her obnoxiousness; historically nagging has never been God's thing. That being said, I am not quite sure what could be defined as "a God thing", or that humans should even be making an attempt at defining a divine act. It seems that the works of God can vary from the flamey engulfment of entire cities to soft spoken incite whispered at you through persistent mothers, honest friends, birds or Richard Serra sculptures.
My studio practice has been a struggle and I'm stressed out about graduate school. These two things affect each other in the most painstaking ways and often leave me with pocketfuls of procrastination. After a little break down, the following is the Word I received. It came as I was walking up the steps arms filled with the birthday package Syd had sent me; my mind was stuffed with the words of my mother, for any thought that was my own had lopped out my eyes or my nose.
Growing up doesn't mean getting bigger or finally detaching yourself from your mothers teet. To become grown is looking at all the stuff of your childhood and rather then bitching about it like you usually do, you simply get over it and you make steps to get on with it. Your father is no longer the gestapo, your friend is gone--but not dead; and when the lion moans that tempestuous roar you finally realize that puking feeling in your gut is none other than your own feeble and festering voice needing to be released. Now that you are an adult, you turn from the children's song of fist fights, excuses and tears, and you go back to where the lion first seized you, you go back to work.
My studio practice has been a struggle and I'm stressed out about graduate school. These two things affect each other in the most painstaking ways and often leave me with pocketfuls of procrastination. After a little break down, the following is the Word I received. It came as I was walking up the steps arms filled with the birthday package Syd had sent me; my mind was stuffed with the words of my mother, for any thought that was my own had lopped out my eyes or my nose.
Growing up doesn't mean getting bigger or finally detaching yourself from your mothers teet. To become grown is looking at all the stuff of your childhood and rather then bitching about it like you usually do, you simply get over it and you make steps to get on with it. Your father is no longer the gestapo, your friend is gone--but not dead; and when the lion moans that tempestuous roar you finally realize that puking feeling in your gut is none other than your own feeble and festering voice needing to be released. Now that you are an adult, you turn from the children's song of fist fights, excuses and tears, and you go back to where the lion first seized you, you go back to work.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
studio cam...
Today was my first day back in the studio; I had a good time.
Kenobi and I started with a high fiber breakfast.
Before I begun any actual work I thought it would be a good idea to show off my mad nunchucking skills.
there is a good chance I may have broken 3 of my knuckles. I became bored with the chucks and moved on to more advanced weaponry.
I know what I'll be bringing to the airport!
soon after my ninja spinner blade cut a hole in my spandex and decided I should start some actual studio work...
I attempted to preach the joys of the creative process to kenobi...she seemed to take to it pretty well.
after a few hours I got a bit jittery and decided that sculpting is for losers and I'd rather go read a book, so I did.
by and large, it was a pretty productive morning.
Monday, August 04, 2008
production-duction what's your function?
There are rumors that I am a productive artist/ person...I'm going to have to go ahead and silence those right now. In theory I would like to consider myself productive but, in actuality I have a job that gets me up at 3:30 am and leaves me in a zombie state for the rest of the day; therefore, if art work does get done it's odd or bad or slow or all of the above. So there you have it, an excuse...I have not blogged, nor finished a piece, I haven't even taken the time to read anything for a while...the result of which is this whiny banter and a messy bedroom.
Eleanor will soon be gracing Monterey with her presence and I plan on offering myself to her along with a basket of tears, and 5 haikus I wrote about the application of the skills one acquires in college to a vocation in the drive -thru industry.
DING! voice inflection.
scurry robot, scurry now
why so slow? he asks.
Yet another ingredient added to the cruel blender of my existence would be my trip to Spirit West Coast this last friday. Despite, the opportunity to hang out with my parents and see Jars of Clay I was still determined to have a terrible time; but, circumstance swung toward the positive and like any good christian would I guess I should say 'it was a God thing' that I got to spend the entire day working on an art piece rather then plotting my ultimate overthrow of the entire event with a t-shirt that read: BAD ART = BAD RELIGION, SO UNPLUG AND GO HOME...but I found that these t-shirts were subconsciously doing the work for me.
Soon my observations and documentation of such shirts and their proprietors turned to inquiry and then interview and finally landed on what I like to call...seeking out the ignorant Christian youth of America and then gently planting the beautiful seed of doubt. Sure, I was feeling a bit angry that day and yes, I was taking it out of God's children but...I don't care. The way I see it is regardless of the fact that I may have just sealed my spot in hell, my goal wasn't to harvest atheists but rather, thoughtful individuals; believe in God, please...but don't be an idiot about it...basically, don't be me when I was 17. I will be posting some images in the following weeks of finished pieces on this subject...they will be different...they will involve photography, so I apologize in advance.
Godspeed,
J.R.
ps. happy 23rd to the MADDOX.
Eleanor will soon be gracing Monterey with her presence and I plan on offering myself to her along with a basket of tears, and 5 haikus I wrote about the application of the skills one acquires in college to a vocation in the drive -thru industry.
DING! voice inflection.
scurry robot, scurry now
why so slow? he asks.
Yet another ingredient added to the cruel blender of my existence would be my trip to Spirit West Coast this last friday. Despite, the opportunity to hang out with my parents and see Jars of Clay I was still determined to have a terrible time; but, circumstance swung toward the positive and like any good christian would I guess I should say 'it was a God thing' that I got to spend the entire day working on an art piece rather then plotting my ultimate overthrow of the entire event with a t-shirt that read: BAD ART = BAD RELIGION, SO UNPLUG AND GO HOME...but I found that these t-shirts were subconsciously doing the work for me.
Soon my observations and documentation of such shirts and their proprietors turned to inquiry and then interview and finally landed on what I like to call...seeking out the ignorant Christian youth of America and then gently planting the beautiful seed of doubt. Sure, I was feeling a bit angry that day and yes, I was taking it out of God's children but...I don't care. The way I see it is regardless of the fact that I may have just sealed my spot in hell, my goal wasn't to harvest atheists but rather, thoughtful individuals; believe in God, please...but don't be an idiot about it...basically, don't be me when I was 17. I will be posting some images in the following weeks of finished pieces on this subject...they will be different...they will involve photography, so I apologize in advance.
Godspeed,
J.R.
ps. happy 23rd to the MADDOX.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tuesdays
Tuesdays are my reading/ research days. These are the days set aside for grad school hunting and grant pining. I chose to do this on a Tuesday because I hate Tuesdays. Other days of the week have been famously hated by a variety of interesting people. Garfield hated Monday as did Wilson Phillips, Arthur Dent 'never got the hang of Thursdays', Jews hate Sundays, Christians hate Saturdays, and for some reason someone somewhere deemed poor Wensday 'hump day'...and unless it was Bob Crane I cannot imagine ol' Wensdy got her name from anything fun.
Tuesdays I hate. They are the color purple, so much potential but I still just don't give a shit.
This morning I realized that Reading/ Research Tuesday kicks regular Tuesday in the ass and in doing so totally redeems it. The following is a complete record of how my day started and how it will finish.
Each day my alarm will sound at 6:30 am, this typically means nothing to me. I've often worried about my addiction to the snooze button and its potential for driving a future-fellow-bed-warmer absolutely (I almost said 'bonkers'...saying it anyway) bonkers. This morning my fears became realized when Kenobi had had (damn had had) it with my alarm clock slap fest. As I reached for the snooze, Kenobi unwound from her little stripped circle at the foot of my bed and pranced up to my face (where she usually sleeps). She then pawed the blankets that were pulled up to my chin, and I stupid and tired unearthed the blankets so that she could burrow. She didn't, rather she just stared at me. We looked at each other for a long time. While I was considering the logistics of marketing of her cuteness or better yet biting off her adorable little face and spitting it down the throat of a hideous cat...she, with her huge Disney eyes was thinking, "get the hell up you massive beast and let me out or I will shit on your pillow case."
My dad and I passed each other as I came down the steps. He may have offered some sort of good tiding and I cannot remember if I grumbled 'good luck' or 'suck it' as a response. I guess I'll find out later today. I let the cat out then spooned with my mother for a while. I took a bath. A huge ridiculous bubble bath. It is always at this point of my Tuesdays, the point where I am in my mom's big ass bathtub, reading Victor Hernandez Cruz, drinking foamy coffee, and feeding on strawberries and homemade soda bread from a big blue bowl that I think to myself, "why the hell did I go away to college?"
One of the perks of growing up a fat dumb kid is that when you get older and acquire things like cheek bones and a thirst for knowledge your guilty parents cannot wait to feed you anything other then a sitcom sitter and bagel bites. Now don't get me wrong, I wasn't a fat dumb kid because of my folks, I was a fat dumb kid because I was lazy...and had astigmatism...and pretty much a useless metabolism. All that to say, the perks come when I need money to buy a new book or someone to pay for Karate lessons. This Tuesday my mom gave be $10 to spend on a book and I am freaking ecstatic.
From book buying I will most likely end up and a coffee shop reading. Then I'll get distracted and make a few phone calls, perhaps write a letter or two. I'll return home and start looking for a place to go to school and then tell everyone I know about my latest vision into my scholastic future. Valerie will most likely take the brunt of it as we meet for beers at the Crown to practice our Dojo Kun. Lastly I'll come home, stalk a variety of people via internet, feel out my fathers reactions to the mornings sentiments, eat, and most likely take another bath regardless a water shortage. I will attempt to organize myself, while laying in a sea of pillows that smell like my mother, I will stop trying to organize anything and feel relaxed for the first time sense infancy.
Tuesdays are no longer days harbored by hate. They are mornings greeted by fat cats and strawberries. They are days of many words, few of which are spoken. They are long walks with an old dog. They are days of looking. Days spent in sweatpants, and once the folks leave, days spent in underwear. Salmon days. Big color-filled salad days. Four dollar cup of coffee days. Warm days. Days where my writing begins to sound like a tampon commercial.
Tuesdays I hate. They are the color purple, so much potential but I still just don't give a shit.
This morning I realized that Reading/ Research Tuesday kicks regular Tuesday in the ass and in doing so totally redeems it. The following is a complete record of how my day started and how it will finish.
Each day my alarm will sound at 6:30 am, this typically means nothing to me. I've often worried about my addiction to the snooze button and its potential for driving a future-fellow-bed-warmer absolutely (I almost said 'bonkers'...saying it anyway) bonkers. This morning my fears became realized when Kenobi had had (damn had had) it with my alarm clock slap fest. As I reached for the snooze, Kenobi unwound from her little stripped circle at the foot of my bed and pranced up to my face (where she usually sleeps). She then pawed the blankets that were pulled up to my chin, and I stupid and tired unearthed the blankets so that she could burrow. She didn't, rather she just stared at me. We looked at each other for a long time. While I was considering the logistics of marketing of her cuteness or better yet biting off her adorable little face and spitting it down the throat of a hideous cat...she, with her huge Disney eyes was thinking, "get the hell up you massive beast and let me out or I will shit on your pillow case."
My dad and I passed each other as I came down the steps. He may have offered some sort of good tiding and I cannot remember if I grumbled 'good luck' or 'suck it' as a response. I guess I'll find out later today. I let the cat out then spooned with my mother for a while. I took a bath. A huge ridiculous bubble bath. It is always at this point of my Tuesdays, the point where I am in my mom's big ass bathtub, reading Victor Hernandez Cruz, drinking foamy coffee, and feeding on strawberries and homemade soda bread from a big blue bowl that I think to myself, "why the hell did I go away to college?"
One of the perks of growing up a fat dumb kid is that when you get older and acquire things like cheek bones and a thirst for knowledge your guilty parents cannot wait to feed you anything other then a sitcom sitter and bagel bites. Now don't get me wrong, I wasn't a fat dumb kid because of my folks, I was a fat dumb kid because I was lazy...and had astigmatism...and pretty much a useless metabolism. All that to say, the perks come when I need money to buy a new book or someone to pay for Karate lessons. This Tuesday my mom gave be $10 to spend on a book and I am freaking ecstatic.
From book buying I will most likely end up and a coffee shop reading. Then I'll get distracted and make a few phone calls, perhaps write a letter or two. I'll return home and start looking for a place to go to school and then tell everyone I know about my latest vision into my scholastic future. Valerie will most likely take the brunt of it as we meet for beers at the Crown to practice our Dojo Kun. Lastly I'll come home, stalk a variety of people via internet, feel out my fathers reactions to the mornings sentiments, eat, and most likely take another bath regardless a water shortage. I will attempt to organize myself, while laying in a sea of pillows that smell like my mother, I will stop trying to organize anything and feel relaxed for the first time sense infancy.
Tuesdays are no longer days harbored by hate. They are mornings greeted by fat cats and strawberries. They are days of many words, few of which are spoken. They are long walks with an old dog. They are days of looking. Days spent in sweatpants, and once the folks leave, days spent in underwear. Salmon days. Big color-filled salad days. Four dollar cup of coffee days. Warm days. Days where my writing begins to sound like a tampon commercial.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Monday, June 02, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Baptism
Saturday in the belly of a Richard Serra I became a Christian again. This evening in the bottom of my bathtub I contemplated the logistics of what the hell that actually means. Do I make that phone call? Do I sponsor a child? Should I be baptized? Again? This would be my third baptism. Once with the Catholics, again with the Evangelicals, and now?
“Baptism is a religious sacrament which is marked by the symbolic use of water and results in admission to the community of believers.”
Admission:
“confession of a charge, an error, or a crime; acknowledgment: His admission of the theft solved the mystery.”
“an acknowledgment of the truth of something”
I’ll take the second one in an effort to avoid more guilt. So my third baptism would be an “an acknowledgment of the truth of…” God to the believers through aquatic symbolism. There was a knock at the door, my roommate wanting to use the bathroom. I pulled the shower curtain taut and summoned her. And with her came the cat, some high pitch inflections, and a very gracious invitation to go hot-tubing with her and some friends. This was my opportunity. To be doused in perfect pitch chemical water and those girls went to Christian college with me, they struggle like the rest, they’ll do. They’ll do. I looked over at my cat. She was looking at me, horrified. Has my cat ever seen me naked before? I wondered out load what a mess her little mind must be in right now, seeing a face see knew attached to such an odd, blobby, white-yellow- pink –brown mess. My roommate didn’t respond. She didn’t even laugh. I know that both my roommates, (infact everyone I know) look at themselves naked in front of a mirror but at this moment she and I were 5,000 miles away from each other. I declined her invite, but was genuinely grateful she asked.
I lifted my hands above my face and let the droplets of water smack kisses all over me as my roommate scooped up the cat and shut the door. Alone again and thinking of this, “community of believers.” I slouched into the tub and pictured different pair of a hands out in front of me. Though they were not mine, the hands were short and worked the way my used to be. I noticed that on the middle finger on the right hand just shy the nail was a flat dry spot. The nails were kind of nasty. Thicker than mine, not green or folding up or anything but sort of dirty the sort of nails plagued with gray and brown histories. These picking fingers brushed some of my hair away from my face, but my instincts didn’t go crazy the way they do when a guy does this. The hands placed some of my hair behind my ear. This act, in all reality, if done by the fingers of a man, boy, guy (whatever) would typically send me into a 40-ounce pheromone stupor. But there was no man, boy, or guy attached to those hands but rather Flannery O’Connor and standing next to her, Madeleine L’Engle.
Saying nothing, they were both holding me along with what now seemed like hundreds of hands. Infact, there were hundreds, well perhaps twenty hands all holding my head and shoulders. Some with their palms on my chest. This was a little awkward because some of the proprietors of these hands were men. But as I looked around I saw all these hands and all their owners. I knew that they weren’t feeling awkward or sexual because they knew me and I them. People I knew but only through their work. Minds I have entered through text and metaphor. Through writing so much better then all of this. Berry, July, Blake, Cisneros, Lamott, Plath even Clowes (I was really surprised he wasn’t acting weird about the whole thing). All holding me ready to baptize me in my tub, the waters of my own humanness. The community of believers.
Then I imagined them slowly pushing my face under water. I becoming lighter with my descent and they becoming a bit hazy through the cloudy bathwater. Submerged, I thought of Jesus. His descent to hell. By now I was even thinking of his resurrection but the Baptists’ palms kept crushing my chest. I started to panic. My eyes were burning, all I could think about was all the soap and hair floating around in that tub. I looked up at Flannery, steam had fogged her glasses but the V’s on her forehead initiated the first round of punches. These people were trying to kill me. When one catches a fish one must first unhook it, then let it flop around on the deck of the boat for a while before one beats it over the head with a wood mallet. I stopped struggling. I looked up at Anne Lamott , say something wise, crack a joke, tell me what to believe.
Then, a worm. A dirty little face with rigged white smirk. Her fingernail. Then her finger, her hand. Puncturing the water and floating above my face again. She placed her finger on the crown of my skull then moved it down toward my nose. She lifted it and repositioned it above my left eyebrow. She then brushed a horizontal line across my forehead. Then she crossed my lips, then my heart.
One of them had let the water out, I had guessed it was Wendell Berry, he would never over water anything. They had all gone, my community of believers vanished. I let the bathwater drain making me heavier as it left. Until the last bit of it was sucked out and the weight of me was unbearable. Then, I rose.
“Baptism is a religious sacrament which is marked by the symbolic use of water and results in admission to the community of believers.”
Admission:
“confession of a charge, an error, or a crime; acknowledgment: His admission of the theft solved the mystery.”
“an acknowledgment of the truth of something”
I’ll take the second one in an effort to avoid more guilt. So my third baptism would be an “an acknowledgment of the truth of…” God to the believers through aquatic symbolism. There was a knock at the door, my roommate wanting to use the bathroom. I pulled the shower curtain taut and summoned her. And with her came the cat, some high pitch inflections, and a very gracious invitation to go hot-tubing with her and some friends. This was my opportunity. To be doused in perfect pitch chemical water and those girls went to Christian college with me, they struggle like the rest, they’ll do. They’ll do. I looked over at my cat. She was looking at me, horrified. Has my cat ever seen me naked before? I wondered out load what a mess her little mind must be in right now, seeing a face see knew attached to such an odd, blobby, white-yellow- pink –brown mess. My roommate didn’t respond. She didn’t even laugh. I know that both my roommates, (infact everyone I know) look at themselves naked in front of a mirror but at this moment she and I were 5,000 miles away from each other. I declined her invite, but was genuinely grateful she asked.
I lifted my hands above my face and let the droplets of water smack kisses all over me as my roommate scooped up the cat and shut the door. Alone again and thinking of this, “community of believers.” I slouched into the tub and pictured different pair of a hands out in front of me. Though they were not mine, the hands were short and worked the way my used to be. I noticed that on the middle finger on the right hand just shy the nail was a flat dry spot. The nails were kind of nasty. Thicker than mine, not green or folding up or anything but sort of dirty the sort of nails plagued with gray and brown histories. These picking fingers brushed some of my hair away from my face, but my instincts didn’t go crazy the way they do when a guy does this. The hands placed some of my hair behind my ear. This act, in all reality, if done by the fingers of a man, boy, guy (whatever) would typically send me into a 40-ounce pheromone stupor. But there was no man, boy, or guy attached to those hands but rather Flannery O’Connor and standing next to her, Madeleine L’Engle.
Saying nothing, they were both holding me along with what now seemed like hundreds of hands. Infact, there were hundreds, well perhaps twenty hands all holding my head and shoulders. Some with their palms on my chest. This was a little awkward because some of the proprietors of these hands were men. But as I looked around I saw all these hands and all their owners. I knew that they weren’t feeling awkward or sexual because they knew me and I them. People I knew but only through their work. Minds I have entered through text and metaphor. Through writing so much better then all of this. Berry, July, Blake, Cisneros, Lamott, Plath even Clowes (I was really surprised he wasn’t acting weird about the whole thing). All holding me ready to baptize me in my tub, the waters of my own humanness. The community of believers.
Then I imagined them slowly pushing my face under water. I becoming lighter with my descent and they becoming a bit hazy through the cloudy bathwater. Submerged, I thought of Jesus. His descent to hell. By now I was even thinking of his resurrection but the Baptists’ palms kept crushing my chest. I started to panic. My eyes were burning, all I could think about was all the soap and hair floating around in that tub. I looked up at Flannery, steam had fogged her glasses but the V’s on her forehead initiated the first round of punches. These people were trying to kill me. When one catches a fish one must first unhook it, then let it flop around on the deck of the boat for a while before one beats it over the head with a wood mallet. I stopped struggling. I looked up at Anne Lamott , say something wise, crack a joke, tell me what to believe.
Then, a worm. A dirty little face with rigged white smirk. Her fingernail. Then her finger, her hand. Puncturing the water and floating above my face again. She placed her finger on the crown of my skull then moved it down toward my nose. She lifted it and repositioned it above my left eyebrow. She then brushed a horizontal line across my forehead. Then she crossed my lips, then my heart.
One of them had let the water out, I had guessed it was Wendell Berry, he would never over water anything. They had all gone, my community of believers vanished. I let the bathwater drain making me heavier as it left. Until the last bit of it was sucked out and the weight of me was unbearable. Then, I rose.
Monday, May 05, 2008
An afternoon well spent…
‘dear diary,
Today I found some giraffe porn and 40 lbs of fruit loops under little Johnny’s bed perhaps I shouldn’t have let him dance in The Petite Circles of Cirque last Thursday.’
Y: wait that song is about an actual jungle?…
M: yes, yes a jungle full of prepubescent strippers.
um birds don’t do this shit.
towards the end of this one you can see the red bird struggling on one of the poles of his cage…
This is where things start to really go wrong…so very, very wrong…
This…(sorry they didn’t have the embedded version)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kQ11LklRI0
…And setting my gender about 30 or so years…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5UqeNBv_No
I don’t even know how to use a garter.
Here this will make up for the last one…
please note: ‘he’s got to have cream or die’ …‘as soon as I sit on their laps…something inside of me snaps’…uumm your hymen?
The ending…is by far the most horrific part… this one is a MUST see and isn’t full of smutty little girls…as much as its full of 10 year old corps brides…I’m not exaggerating at all.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WgTeDIzStUc
I told you I wasn’t exaggerating.
I promise that this will next one redeem everything you just sat through, seriously this is the grandest thing I have EVER witnessed on youtube…
That’s right who else but a mad C3PO-britney rockin- straight up crumpin- Vader bumpin crew?
Today I found some giraffe porn and 40 lbs of fruit loops under little Johnny’s bed perhaps I shouldn’t have let him dance in The Petite Circles of Cirque last Thursday.’
Y: wait that song is about an actual jungle?…
M: yes, yes a jungle full of prepubescent strippers.
um birds don’t do this shit.
towards the end of this one you can see the red bird struggling on one of the poles of his cage…
This is where things start to really go wrong…so very, very wrong…
This…(sorry they didn’t have the embedded version)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kQ11LklRI0
…And setting my gender about 30 or so years…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5UqeNBv_No
I don’t even know how to use a garter.
Here this will make up for the last one…
please note: ‘he’s got to have cream or die’ …‘as soon as I sit on their laps…something inside of me snaps’…uumm your hymen?
The ending…is by far the most horrific part… this one is a MUST see and isn’t full of smutty little girls…as much as its full of 10 year old corps brides…I’m not exaggerating at all.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WgTeDIzStUc
I told you I wasn’t exaggerating.
I promise that this will next one redeem everything you just sat through, seriously this is the grandest thing I have EVER witnessed on youtube…
That’s right who else but a mad C3PO-britney rockin- straight up crumpin- Vader bumpin crew?
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Here and there, racing to the bottom of the glass…
He engulfed my face with both hands and told me that for him being there, at that party, to be a part of the vibrant Los Angeles lights regardless of how drunken or underground they were, just being there was ‘it’ for him. Inches from my face and sprinkling my glasses with spit this guy who earlier had held the entire party’s attention with a simple slide and hammer on, just showed me his entire deck. This drunken and soon to be forgotten act, leveled the field. I’ve never been one for hero worship, but a life infused with rejection and low selfesteem can make one painfully aware of leagues. Oddly enough a few hours spent people watching at a party in Los Angeles will pretty much deem any social hierarchy as complete, and utter bullshit.
As simple as this next thought will be, for someone…an introverted someone, a closet lover of human beings and all things human, a not yet but almost secure someone, for someone like me…thoughts such as this have to come like 22-year long migraines or metronomes. The simple thought is this: we are all just people.
Just ugly and beautiful people bumping into one another. We are no better, not any cooler or prettier. We’re no worse, not any fatter or less read. When one takes the time to push all those value judgments to the front of ones mind they become mushy enough to blow out both nostrils. In the case of the band leader and myself it was simply one gorgeous, drunk, and insecure male groping for the approval of a ridiculously sobered and equally insecure female. But just as the band leader was elated to be there, I guess I could be okay with being here. Here, flopped straight down on my ass, an infant again.
As simple as this next thought will be, for someone…an introverted someone, a closet lover of human beings and all things human, a not yet but almost secure someone, for someone like me…thoughts such as this have to come like 22-year long migraines or metronomes. The simple thought is this: we are all just people.
Just ugly and beautiful people bumping into one another. We are no better, not any cooler or prettier. We’re no worse, not any fatter or less read. When one takes the time to push all those value judgments to the front of ones mind they become mushy enough to blow out both nostrils. In the case of the band leader and myself it was simply one gorgeous, drunk, and insecure male groping for the approval of a ridiculously sobered and equally insecure female. But just as the band leader was elated to be there, I guess I could be okay with being here. Here, flopped straight down on my ass, an infant again.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
I've been working on this for hours...damnit...
Often referencing the unexplainable, the work of Jamie Uretsky feeds off of ambiguity and simulations opposites. “Driving back and forth from northern and southern California…something a co-worker once said to me…creatures of the outer bay, and I guess outer space…so then angels I suppose…and oh! Sparkle cake,” was the response Uretsky give when asked about her recent work entitled Something Jauana Said. When inquired as to what the piece was actually about Uretsky seemed to go cross-eyed for a moment and then responded with a shrug. Uretsky scratched her head under her cap then glanced at me over her glasses, “I can only assume what you want me to say, so I will say that first. I’ll get all the pretty art book language out first so it is out and I can really tell you how I feel or perhaps I’ll tell you how I feel first since now you know that I am irritated. Each piece can be considered to be about different things. For example, I Put Her on the Shelf was about me watching my friend die. The Plane’s On Fire! The Plane is Paper is about being twenty-one and crumbling foundations. But Something Jauana Said and Untitled were different. They too were about things, lots of things like I mentioned before. Sparkle cake, sexual frustration, conversations I’ve had, jellyfish, ska music, ect…so..while the work is about those things, I would like to think of my work as more of a response to those things. These visual landscapes, the curving, twisting, organic, planes are my visual output. This is vague so let me try to explain. Let’s say for a moment you are trying to remember something…you are in the middle of retelling a joke that you think is hilarious…and you’re telling it to someone of the opposite sex in hopes that they too will find it funny and you to can laugh yourselves off into the sunset. Well the punch line, the kicker comes along, and you’ve got nothing. You’re memory fails. Your prospective date retreats and you end up in the shower three weeks later attempting to recall the last time you saw Kirstie Alley look good…khan…BAM! you remember the punch line. Now take yourself out of that story for a moment and try to explain that to me visually. What the feelings look like. What the smells look like, all the thoughts, the insecurities, the dreams, what the passing of time looked like. All I am doing in my work is making abstract visual responses to the mundane. In a way, a piece such as Something Jauana Said is highly narrative, my language is just different. For the language I am interested in, when it comes to sharing my stories, is not language that will get viewers to a place of understanding or experiencing my metanarrative but rather the strange, missed, perhaps…tossed aside utterances of language that will aid the viewer in relating to something they cannot describe fully but feel as if they 'know'. When the viewer sees my work it is not as if the work sends them to a particular memory but rather a place of memory. Visually I try to make this possible by using repetition. I once heard an artist call repetition her “visual prayer”. I like this; it makes my work seem more important then it is. The viewer’s memories could also be tickled by my choice of materials. I use the word choice lightly…because if I had my way I would like to be a painter, photographer, or a comic book artist…but I think I respect those sorts of people way too much to ever attempt to be one. That’s not to say 3rd and 4th dimension artists don’t hold my high regard, oh they do. I somehow fell into my nitch of building/crafting shit and now I cannot stop (the words ‘can't stop’ I don’t use lightly).”
With this Uretsky seemed to begin to stand as if she had other places to be. Knowing of her inability to let people down and her complete lack of backbone I pushed her more to talk about her materials. “Well, I tend to work in systems. I often joke about my work, claiming that it is just a bunch of little shit glued together to make bigger shit…”
“ahh yess.” I agreed.
“Yeah, well I’ve found it tends to be more then that,” Uretsky continued, “My work creates itself out of systems. For example the system for The Plane’s On Fire! The Plane is Paper was cut the paper, fold the paper into a tiny plane, separate the string, glue the plane to individual string, dip individual plane into paint, let dry, glue plane chunks to main sculpture. I never know how a piece will end up. The work itself knows and it tells me, more often then not it wont speak to me at all or it will just screech at me ‘I’m not working! I’m not working and by the way you suck and I hate you!’ but there are moments...sweet moments when I’ll get a whisper that will say glue me here, or bend it this way, or keep going, or use wood glue because it's yellow. I should mention that I do use glue a lot. I use it for the same reasons a painter would use paint I suppose, it is their best way to make the piece. When I want to make a piece that will take a video, or dancing, or 5,000 leather batman masks then I will, but for now I am using glue…and glue has been quite faithful.”
With this it seemed that Uretsky didn’t want to talk anymore so I asked another question, “is it true that you have very little feeling in your fingertips because of all the hotglue burns you’ve endured?”
“Yeah, uh sort of…well no, not really. I just like to say shit like that. I just know when the glue is ok to touch. I have been burned pretty bad before.”
“Really?!”
“No, not really.”
“So what of your performance/video work?” With this question Jamie chuckled and then got kind of crazy excited, then got quiet again. So I probed, “What are some of your inspirations for your performance/video work?”
“Devo.”
“The band?”
“You’re interview is falling apart. You know that. I mean you this whole article is not very interesting not to mention your opening statement is…offensive. It’s sounds as though I’m painting sets for the X-files.”
“Well, I think it works it says everything you said in a sentence rather then a whole paragraph of fragmented sentences and a pointless story that you threw in just to use a khan reference.”
“Jamie, you shouldn’t write when you’re hungry.”
With this Uretsky seemed to begin to stand as if she had other places to be. Knowing of her inability to let people down and her complete lack of backbone I pushed her more to talk about her materials. “Well, I tend to work in systems. I often joke about my work, claiming that it is just a bunch of little shit glued together to make bigger shit…”
“ahh yess.” I agreed.
“Yeah, well I’ve found it tends to be more then that,” Uretsky continued, “My work creates itself out of systems. For example the system for The Plane’s On Fire! The Plane is Paper was cut the paper, fold the paper into a tiny plane, separate the string, glue the plane to individual string, dip individual plane into paint, let dry, glue plane chunks to main sculpture. I never know how a piece will end up. The work itself knows and it tells me, more often then not it wont speak to me at all or it will just screech at me ‘I’m not working! I’m not working and by the way you suck and I hate you!’ but there are moments...sweet moments when I’ll get a whisper that will say glue me here, or bend it this way, or keep going, or use wood glue because it's yellow. I should mention that I do use glue a lot. I use it for the same reasons a painter would use paint I suppose, it is their best way to make the piece. When I want to make a piece that will take a video, or dancing, or 5,000 leather batman masks then I will, but for now I am using glue…and glue has been quite faithful.”
With this it seemed that Uretsky didn’t want to talk anymore so I asked another question, “is it true that you have very little feeling in your fingertips because of all the hotglue burns you’ve endured?”
“Yeah, uh sort of…well no, not really. I just like to say shit like that. I just know when the glue is ok to touch. I have been burned pretty bad before.”
“Really?!”
“No, not really.”
“So what of your performance/video work?” With this question Jamie chuckled and then got kind of crazy excited, then got quiet again. So I probed, “What are some of your inspirations for your performance/video work?”
“Devo.”
“The band?”
“You’re interview is falling apart. You know that. I mean you this whole article is not very interesting not to mention your opening statement is…offensive. It’s sounds as though I’m painting sets for the X-files.”
“Well, I think it works it says everything you said in a sentence rather then a whole paragraph of fragmented sentences and a pointless story that you threw in just to use a khan reference.”
“Jamie, you shouldn’t write when you’re hungry.”
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
corporate exchange to intimate connections
I work in a drive through. Don’t let the fact that it is for Startbucks fool you, I am indeed working in a drive through. And while that sweet headset song of beeping, and humming and amplified big truck exostpipe often remind of times when my parents were actually proud of me, I am typically distracted by the looming question of whether I am under or overqualified for this position. All that to say, I have actually stumbled across a few absolutely beautiful things while working at Starbucks…well beautiful and interesting…mostly terrifying.
It was a closing shift when she came through the drive through. She ordered a drink, I took her money and asked how she was. It was at this point that her eyes turned into two tiny pools and her face to a muddy red earth color. She had just found out that her mother was in the hospices. Apparently this is the place where people go to die. She never fully cried in front of me but I knew that if I were to touch her or anything she’s probably just melt away. So I gave a few free drink cards and listened for a while.
She asked me if I was a believer in Jesus Christ. Rather then waxing poetic about how the church had failed me and how most nights I’d rather fantasize about being cradled in the arms of a Mos Def- Simon Pegg- John Linnell- Andy Richter superhuman then praying to my ceiling I replied, “uhh I’m working on it,” which wasn’t a lie. I then mentioned that I attended Biola to take some of the heat off. She looked relieved but I was still looking over my shoulder. She could probably sense my anxiety, then most likely mistook it for the Devil, because at that point she asked me my name.
“Jamie,” I smiled.
“Well Jamie, I’ll be praying for you. And never let Him out of your life, always keep Him in your life.”
“Well mam’ I don’t think I could get him out even if I wanted too,” after she found no humor in this I figured that this woman had never danced with Anne Lamott’s Jesus Cat.
That was the second time in a week someone had said they’d pray for me. When this happens I usually feel insulted at first, then bad. Bad for a lot of reasons the main being the whole...not knowing what the hell I believe in any longer. Better yet, knowing that I think I believe in God but having absolutely no reasons or support or logical standing for thinking that (If it smells like faith...). Feeling bad is also the result of becoming so apathetic toward something I once loved so much. Apathy is insulting. Hatred is terrible, but at least it’s a feeling. A plaguing feeling such as love...or intense like. But apathy...apathy is rolling over, apathy is a text message, it’s a quiet slap to the jaw, masked and made okay by books entitled, “He’s Just Not That In To You.”
When I got to work the next week the woman had left a gift for me. A tiny Max Lucado book, some Easter chocolate, and a card assuring me that she was praying for me and reminding me to let Him IN this Easter. Again, at this point I should be a little insulted. But I’m not. She was loosing her mother so she did what many women would have done, she became a mother. This woman clearly was the type who was always taking care of others and happened to run into me the night where the one person she learned all that from was dying. A few free drink cards and a listening ear seemed to lend this woman the distraction she needed from the horrific evening ahead of her. A night spent with her dying mother. She may have interpreted our meeting as an act of God. As the Divine taking from her one life but letting her be the salvation source for another. If she needs all that to get through burring her mother, then she can most certainly have it.
This all sounds very cold of me, I know. Having someone offer something to you like a free coffee is one thing, but prayer is another. This woman really believes in God. She actually believes that her mother will die and then go to an actual heaven. This baffles me, for my last words will not sound anything like peace-filled tasty wisdom tarts, but rather something along the lines of, “oh shit, what if the Jews were right!*” In the case of the woman in the drive through, she was so earnest and so sad about her mother there was no way I could reject her prayers. And because the other person who said he’d pray for me is such an important and respected figure in my life I couldn’t possibly say no. All I can do is shut up and receive.
So here I am, taking on these unknown wishes that people have for me. Letting them stack their intimate god speak in my annoyed and anxious arms like a mother loading up their college student to go back to school with pie, and ham, and tea, and frozen cheese.
I guess I’ll take whatever I can get.
*I’m quoting from somewhere.
Now when my boss got word of this she wanted me to write a little something about my interaction for corporate. The following is...The Corporation Version
It was a closing shift when she came through the drive through. She ordered a mocha, I took her money and asked how she was. It was at this point that her eyes turned into two tiny pools and her face to a muddy red earth color.
“Not well,” she whispered and thanked me for asking. At this, I let out a sort of cough/sigh and thanked her for answering honestly. She had just found out that her mother was in the hospices and would most likely die that night. She never fully cried in front of me but I knew that if I were to act on my initial impulse of leaping through the drive through onto her lap for an embrace, she’s probably just melt away (and I’d most likely receive a restraining order…or a pink slip).
She had already paid for her drink so I offered her a free drink card. She mentioned how she was going to give it to one of the two nurses taking care of her mother. With this, we agreed that the other nurse should probably get one too. Then I put another free drink card in her hand and told her to stop giving them away but rather treat and take care of herself.
We chatted a bit more and then she drove away. Our point of convergence had ended. She driving off, Strabucks goods in-tow, to see the woman who brought her into this world out of it; and me off to sanitize blender tops. That evening in the drive through may have been a lot of things. But everything that comes with personal agendas, sickening sensitivities, and fumbly humanness seems to be the very ‘stuff’ that bubbles under the foundation of The Starbucks Corporation. It is this breath of humanity that gives us the ability to turn corporate exchange into intimate connections.
It was a closing shift when she came through the drive through. She ordered a drink, I took her money and asked how she was. It was at this point that her eyes turned into two tiny pools and her face to a muddy red earth color. She had just found out that her mother was in the hospices. Apparently this is the place where people go to die. She never fully cried in front of me but I knew that if I were to touch her or anything she’s probably just melt away. So I gave a few free drink cards and listened for a while.
She asked me if I was a believer in Jesus Christ. Rather then waxing poetic about how the church had failed me and how most nights I’d rather fantasize about being cradled in the arms of a Mos Def- Simon Pegg- John Linnell- Andy Richter superhuman then praying to my ceiling I replied, “uhh I’m working on it,” which wasn’t a lie. I then mentioned that I attended Biola to take some of the heat off. She looked relieved but I was still looking over my shoulder. She could probably sense my anxiety, then most likely mistook it for the Devil, because at that point she asked me my name.
“Jamie,” I smiled.
“Well Jamie, I’ll be praying for you. And never let Him out of your life, always keep Him in your life.”
“Well mam’ I don’t think I could get him out even if I wanted too,” after she found no humor in this I figured that this woman had never danced with Anne Lamott’s Jesus Cat.
That was the second time in a week someone had said they’d pray for me. When this happens I usually feel insulted at first, then bad. Bad for a lot of reasons the main being the whole...not knowing what the hell I believe in any longer. Better yet, knowing that I think I believe in God but having absolutely no reasons or support or logical standing for thinking that (If it smells like faith...). Feeling bad is also the result of becoming so apathetic toward something I once loved so much. Apathy is insulting. Hatred is terrible, but at least it’s a feeling. A plaguing feeling such as love...or intense like. But apathy...apathy is rolling over, apathy is a text message, it’s a quiet slap to the jaw, masked and made okay by books entitled, “He’s Just Not That In To You.”
When I got to work the next week the woman had left a gift for me. A tiny Max Lucado book, some Easter chocolate, and a card assuring me that she was praying for me and reminding me to let Him IN this Easter. Again, at this point I should be a little insulted. But I’m not. She was loosing her mother so she did what many women would have done, she became a mother. This woman clearly was the type who was always taking care of others and happened to run into me the night where the one person she learned all that from was dying. A few free drink cards and a listening ear seemed to lend this woman the distraction she needed from the horrific evening ahead of her. A night spent with her dying mother. She may have interpreted our meeting as an act of God. As the Divine taking from her one life but letting her be the salvation source for another. If she needs all that to get through burring her mother, then she can most certainly have it.
This all sounds very cold of me, I know. Having someone offer something to you like a free coffee is one thing, but prayer is another. This woman really believes in God. She actually believes that her mother will die and then go to an actual heaven. This baffles me, for my last words will not sound anything like peace-filled tasty wisdom tarts, but rather something along the lines of, “oh shit, what if the Jews were right!*” In the case of the woman in the drive through, she was so earnest and so sad about her mother there was no way I could reject her prayers. And because the other person who said he’d pray for me is such an important and respected figure in my life I couldn’t possibly say no. All I can do is shut up and receive.
So here I am, taking on these unknown wishes that people have for me. Letting them stack their intimate god speak in my annoyed and anxious arms like a mother loading up their college student to go back to school with pie, and ham, and tea, and frozen cheese.
I guess I’ll take whatever I can get.
*I’m quoting from somewhere.
Now when my boss got word of this she wanted me to write a little something about my interaction for corporate. The following is...The Corporation Version
It was a closing shift when she came through the drive through. She ordered a mocha, I took her money and asked how she was. It was at this point that her eyes turned into two tiny pools and her face to a muddy red earth color.
“Not well,” she whispered and thanked me for asking. At this, I let out a sort of cough/sigh and thanked her for answering honestly. She had just found out that her mother was in the hospices and would most likely die that night. She never fully cried in front of me but I knew that if I were to act on my initial impulse of leaping through the drive through onto her lap for an embrace, she’s probably just melt away (and I’d most likely receive a restraining order…or a pink slip).
She had already paid for her drink so I offered her a free drink card. She mentioned how she was going to give it to one of the two nurses taking care of her mother. With this, we agreed that the other nurse should probably get one too. Then I put another free drink card in her hand and told her to stop giving them away but rather treat and take care of herself.
We chatted a bit more and then she drove away. Our point of convergence had ended. She driving off, Strabucks goods in-tow, to see the woman who brought her into this world out of it; and me off to sanitize blender tops. That evening in the drive through may have been a lot of things. But everything that comes with personal agendas, sickening sensitivities, and fumbly humanness seems to be the very ‘stuff’ that bubbles under the foundation of The Starbucks Corporation. It is this breath of humanity that gives us the ability to turn corporate exchange into intimate connections.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Fat cats and bedtime prayers
Up until about a month ago I prayed every night before I went to sleep. Toward the end, the prayers turned to lemons, then super balls that just bounced around my room and then finally, to rocks that weren’t flat or smooth enough to skip. Tired of watching my prayers sink, I stopped praying. This was more difficult then one would think. Every night I get myself ready to say something to the big brick wall in the sky but then have to bite my lip and tell myself, “no, stop that. Tonight we’re exercising our right NOT to pray.”
Last night, cold and tired of being sick I curled up into the fetal position on my bed and prayed again. At first I prayed a behemoth of a prayer, why not it was my first night off the wagon, I prayed that God would reach down from heaven with his magic Midas finger and zap the shit out of Alexander Hamilton (that’s what I named my ailment…see previous blog). Then I told God that it would be fine if I woke up tomorrow and A.H. was still hanging around, but He should give me the patience to wait it out a few more days and the knowledge that Alex will go away. What a mature prayer. Typically my conversations with the divine consist of me bitching about something, not expecting (or getting) any sort of response, and then declaring myself a lazy atheist. This morning I woke up nervous about the results of my prayer. I had dreams about Alex being gone and me calling up everyone I know in a fit of revival saying, “hallelujah! I prayed and Alexander Hamilton is gone! God actually listened to me…therefore HE IS real! hallelujah! I believe! it’s all a Jesus soaked landscape again!” But rather then rushing off to get a tattoo of a Celtic knot trinity I pulled the blankets up to my chin and prayed for a second time.
“God…hey…look if Alexander is still around…I don’t care. Just give me peace about it. Please. Thanks.” I laid there a while longer before I realized that for the first time in three years I was acting like a Christian. At this I panicked and attempted to force a sex dream. I finally kicked off my covers and went to check on my tiny miracle. Alexander Hamilton was there, dry and still white with last nights medicine. I sighed and rubbed my clavicle with my fingertips then rested my palm over my chest like a scout. I couldn’t feel my heart beat, but I knew it was in there and I knew it wasn’t beating at God with it’s usual confusion and contempt. It was just beating, and I will get up…I will pay my parking ticket, I will get myself a smoothie, I will read a little, I will sulk around my studio until I make something, I will have good conversations, my cat will continue to be flea-ridden, and my heart will still be beating.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
taking baths and eating salads
Taking baths and eating salads used to be two of my favorite activities. The salad thing was weird because I would have never considered anything green, outside a Hybrid, a luxury. I was mainly a burrito gal but then the salads begin to call to me. The Persian, the mix greens, and oh…the great Caesar. Baths too where a treat. Going back to Monterey always allowed for several things: free food and laundry, mom and pop, beers at The Crown, and a big ass bath tub. Many women like to use bath tub time as…um…well their special alone time…but bath tub time is warm and relaxing the last thing I’d want to do is start the laborious processes of masturbation. I would have never thought of taking a bath in my own apartment if it weren’t for Julianne doing it first. The tubs of Toka apartments are nothing like the Monterey Bay baths, not to mention our own bathtub had turned into a kind of bomb shelter for Kenobi. A retreat for when she’s been caught in mommy Jamie’s bedroom, or scaling our double TV tower, or crapped on a curtain.
The past two weeks I have been sick. First anxiety brings back an ol’ ailment that I don’t particulary enjoy talking about but I did name Alexander Hamilton. Second came the flu. Alexander retreated for a while but then returned bringing with it…(sorry readers) The Curse. I’m just laying this all out for back story. Because of these various aliments I was forced to eat only salad and take countless sea salt baths. The result of which has been me laying around for 14 days pooping out tiny jungles. Today I cracked. I had Chinese food about two hours ago and of course now I am starving again.
I found myself in the tub again this afternoon, but I had quite literally gone insane at this point. Pissed off and actually tired of being naked I plopped my absurd whiteness into the salty water. Somehow I had brought the copy of Traveling Mercies Eleanor had given me into the bathroom. I cannot remember if I brought it in to read in the tub or if it was another one of my efforts to counter act the mindless bullshit that typically litters our magazine rack. That was harsh, Cosmo can actually be a good read especially if one is as curious or sexually suppressed as most Biola alumnae. But I have been known to slip in a feminist magazine or some O’Connor short stories if I see some of the same tight, white, faces hangin’ around the ol’ zine rack.
Eleanor had given me the book long ago and I loved and hated her for it because I always knew the book was too good for me. It sat by my bed for some time before today when in a fit of crazed frustration and a bit of confusion I picked it up and read the first part. I read it until the drain sucked most of the water away. That didn’t matter much for the water had gone cold and Ms. Lamott had proven herself a friend. Reading books on Christianity holds the same weight with me as jogging. Perhaps I should do it, maybe it will help me feel better about my current situation…but probably not and what kind of music do you listen to when you’re jogging or reading Christian books anyway? But I could trust someone who was saved with a “fuck it” rather then a “hallelujah”. Anne proved herself to me with her writing, then with her stories, she made me her friend and by the end of the first part of this book I was naked in a cold bath in tears. I’m not sure why I cried. Perhaps I was sad for her, perhaps still frustrated over Alexander Hamilton and being sick, or maybe Anne reopened a dusty place in my mind that allowed the rest of me to be brave again…in other words, to hope. Maybe.
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