wood glue!
Saturday, December 06, 2008
back to play...
When I'm not in my studio I am mostly an atheist; on the job, in the grocery store or taking a shit I consider myself mostly an agnostic. This morning I woke at 7...well, 7:30...ate, pressed some coffee, stalked some old schoolmates on facebook, and then told myself to go to my studio. I mainly just walked around and picked up some trash; I have plenty of deadlines but this morning all I can do is pick up paper, sweep, and empty the cat box. I attempted to revive a dying silk screen, and as I pressed bleach through screen I started to hear that familiar church song that Rothko never found despite L'Engle's entire body of work. Everyday, every moment I'll have to reconsider my spirituality, but this morning the aroma of God came to me through bleach burning my nose.
wood glue!
wood glue!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
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Monday, November 10, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
Sunday, November 02, 2008
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?
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