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random optic whatnot )

besides painting, yoga, over-sleeping, playing w flowers, teaching my son that gambling at school on math problems is wrong even though capitalizing off of the ignorant is the American way, being ridiculously in love, helping my daughter to raise painted lady butterflies that hang in their chrysalids like baby draculas, making mix-cds, wanting about 15 tattoos but not at the same time, pretending to be peggy lee in the kitchen w a spatula microphone, taking fotos of sunsets and rolling down hills there isn't much else happening

baby post

Oct. 27th, 2009 10:13 am
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settled - stage one

It occurred to me days ago that the talent I give myself most credit for is that of self-admonishment.

In cluttered atriums there are domestic disturbances. Hungover fools who've worn out their welcomes. Fat calicoes in morning windows who dream of growing wings and snatching in midair the blackbirds that tease them. Blue girls who blush at old love letters, from prisoners in bare ventricles who mark their days on the walls. Your heart, the apartment complex, the impassioned fist keeping you awake, a peony, a cracked teacup, grenade, cardinal, apple, seashell, seed that loves to split.

puddle heart

Some days seem to follow a theme at the flower shop; It will be uncanny how many red-handed infidels file through the door with their tails tucked, pouting for consolation. Some days it is a succession of teary eyed families bereft of loved ones, stammering, their voices breaking over the condolences I pen onto cards for them. My hands are more steady.
I wonder if it is the stars, the moon's pull, some butterfly effect that eventually leaves them longing at the mouths of flowers to say what they find so difficult.
It's been muddy and wet out, perfect for staying in, which seemed to make last Friday the day for smitten boys who came in steady as the rain, one after another, their faces flushed in afterglow. Two of them grinned when asked to fill out the card, declining "She'll know...she'll know." One kissed my hand and almost floated out the door. And yesterday was in celebration of births, because 9 months ago people were doing all they could to keep warm.
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fish (2)

cat (2) worst enemy 

So this is done. I am not unhappy with it, except I worry it looks as tho it was painted by a douche lord who stopped every so often to stroke his goatee and chuckle self-satisfactorily to himself. Well, I did laugh periodically, but I DON'T have a goatee.

I wonder about other painters' methods. I work like Kaiser Soze (This reminds me; that movie was ruined for me because I fell asleep at the beginning and woke at the end, which reminds me I think I might have adult a.d.d.) conjuring stories from things around me; Portraits of Queen Elizabeth, photos of goldfish, film stills from the Aristocats, a random childhood memory.

Today I don't know why I paint. The Other Day I thought it would be nice to have an art show One Day, but thinking more about it I figure I wouldn't even know how to explain what any of my paintings mean to someone far more artistically educated. I could only respond to any questions sluttily "What do you want it to mean?"
I am the one who goes to museums and reads the plaques and snickers like a 12 year old.

I paint in my kitchen which gets the best (fluorescent) light though it is only about 3 feet of space, because I don't have a good lamp and I am broke as a joke. (This reminds me, I don't get what the phrase "broke as a joke" means.) I work next to the stove, nearby the coffee maker and a giant bowl of potatoes and onions. A studio would be nice, I guess. I don't understand what my motivation is, all of a sudden. Van Gogh produced 900 paintings in his last 10 years. What was his motivation?

In other news I have discovered youtube karaoke )

Anyways, have a nice day.
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yeah, so i made this log hat...

log hat

co-worker pete - gaah. what must your kids think of you.

me - they like me ok. the trick is to raise them yourself,
that way they grow up thinkin you are the standard for normal.
you can get them to believe in all kinds of crazy stuff, like santa claus, if you want.
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Everything feels so half finished. Even my thoughts are fragmented. Sentences are abandoned for others only barely airborn. I am having problems being In the Moment. Like right now I am worried about how cluttered the house is, my fingernails have paint under them which looks like I've been playing w poo, or if I should go to the park, or what ever happened to the night blooming cereus that was stolen from my stoop years ago when I lived in shanty town. I worry the internet has made my mind as wavering as a weathervane with all this clickery. I worry that society today with its latest scandal lifestyle, its ultra mega convenient super disposable, handy newer newest thing is losing focus and no one takes the time to notice, perfectly. Or they do, briefly before moving on to the next momentarily big thing. Look at all those pronouns. So anyway, huh? (I need to get started on those pork chops for dinner)

Artists, men of learning, and enlightened prelates were fascinated by the robust and bewildering art of Caravaggio, but the negative reaction of church officials reflected the self-protective irritation of academic painters and the instinctive resistance of the more conservative clergy and much of the populace. The more brutal aspects of Caravaggio's paintings were condemned partly because Caravaggio's common people bear no relation to the graceful suppliants popular in much of Counter-Reformation art. They are plain working men, muscular, stubborn, and tenacious.

Caravaggio was a 16th century painter/bar brawler whose realism was celebrated as well as reviled. His painting of a boy with a basket of fruit was so detailed as to impart each leaf's stain, each skin's bruise and flaw.
He went on to glorify freckles like stars, paint harlots as virgins, peasants as noblemen, and retained his naturalist convictions under the pressures of poverty and to the disdain of art scholars. (Netflix is totally fleecing me.) He was a passionate and hot tempered man. He slept with weapons, murdered men in quarrels, fled the law and enemies from city to city, painting by lantern light behind closed shudders, whores and vagrants as royalty. His pieces surfaced in wealthy estates like messages on shore lines.

His paintings now resound for me in a way they never have since I've began reading about his life. I am often so affected by the biographies of artists that their work visually or audibly changes. Hindsight can tarnish or enhance the past depending on what is discovered. I am conflicted as to if an artist's biography should be avoided or sought, integrated or kept separate from the work, like church and state, though both so often influence the other. and as well, each are their own pieces of art. (Should I give up on looking good in boots?)

My latest thing is pretending I am going on a trip far far away. Looking up hotel rates in Verona, Athens or Rio de Janiero. Finding an arresting landscape photograph and following it to the job market, airline tickets, real estate. It's exciting for a moment, the things one can do from bed with the push of a button. (It could be safe to say that across the sea, a ship carries a Lexus to a trophy wife who is making dinner plans at this moment.) (What am I doing with my life?) (Do I have any broccoli?)
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I ran away from too many t-shirts and toys, craft supplies in every corner of every room, the now 7 load mound of laundry in my bed I shamelessly hump each morning, papers and papers of self-important numbers and messages scrawled all over, to frolick in Krause Springs with Sarah.

I keep meaning to write, but I get distracted by visual beauty.
The drought is finally and thankfully over. It rained all week and so Sunday,
when the prodigal sun returned, there was a divine intervention.
contemplative angel
furthermore )
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tumbling roots
the guadalupe river )


Sep. 17th, 2009 09:56 am
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i have been writing in my heart. intending to write. beginning to write and getting distracted. my thoughts are scattered. words have been slippery.

the weekend before last, i housesat for a friend from work. she is a widow and as all but one of her children have grown up and out, the place is empty and vacuous. the silence was daunting, as opposed to the comforting quiet of smaller spaces. i slept in a king sized bed with two fat cats who needed to be exactly next to me. i watched the light play with the colored glass ornaments in the windows and pretended it was all mine. i jumped on the trampoline with a bad-mannered black labrador, and then into the pool and back onto the trampoline and on and on. it was as close as i can get to home-ownership, imagining honeysuckle along the west end fence, over watermelon fattening in the shade of its leaves.

my daughter (who sometimes sleeps with earmuffs that are the small heads of teddy bears to shut out sound) has recently been released from a week of being grounded on the afternoon she did not come directly home from school, deciding she would go to another student's house and say that she had gotten detention as an alibi. upon entering the house and noticing his sister had never returned from school, my son called work where i dropped everything and took off down the road half blind with tears, my heart roaring, to scout the neighborhood for her, searching the faces of strangers' in their yards, framing them into mugshots, struggling to shut out the worst case scenarios that manifested in my imagination like thunderstorms. when she finally called from a friend's phone to say she was on her way home, it all became clear and i went from fear to relief and anger in 0.2.
she returned skittish, expectedly aloof and though i already knew the answers i questioned her, specifically to demonstrate how well i knew her. i then watched my daughter clumsily construct her first lies, weak as fawn they stumbled out of her mouth. after being inevitably caught, shaking and incredulous she apologized, and tearfully asked for the harshest punishment i could devise. though contrition is very important where discipline is concerned, her sorrow really tore me apart.
driving through that neighborhood, imagining myself shattering someone's kneecaps w a hammer was rattling to say the least. the thought of losing her was easily one of the most frightening moments of my life

subsequently inspired, i've been remembering other instances where i have been so terrified my heart tried to escape me
- where down an unpopulated dirt road, three drunk men tried to get me and my best friend to get in their truck and charged at us angrily for declining to do so. i remember scanning the ground for sharp and heavy objects. how red their eyes were. the cans all over the floor board
- the emergency c-section that rendered my daughter
- getting a call from the school that my son was in the ER (finding out later that it was because another kid smashed off the end of his finger in a bathroom door)
- getting my life threatened while taking photographs by a gang member in a cemetary
- having to walk in the pitch black dark to get a radio from a camper down the scariest fucking deep south backwoods street in louisiana

my job continues to illuminate the human condition.
...gentlemen order flowers for married women, signed anonymous.
...i cry at the counter with a mother who wants to adorn her young son's grave on the anniversary of losing him.
...twins are born to an overwhelmed father.
...a lover calls from winding mountain roads to send lilies to his long away lady he cannot wait to get home to.
...a smooth operator sends two arrangements to two separate women. one oblivious and ecstatic. one pregnant and doe eyed. one to say thank you. one to say i'm sorry.

pothos ivy roots
my new camera came in )
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Summer involves so much leg shaving
O my American problems

If one were fully dominated by only one side of his brain, he would have difficulty walking, or one leg and arm would have to drag the dead side around. Though we prefer one hand to the other, the less-dominant one must plod along in its rudimentary fashion to keep up. The simpler, gawky, attention deficient side of himself.
I read long ago that our brains cycle through hemispheres every couple of hours, and can be tricked to shift focus. Like when you notice your handwriting is suddenly getting sloppy, yet your hand is not tired, it can mean you have switched to the other side of your brain, idling. I found that I could reverse the change by holding one side of my nose and breathing through the other.
Imagine using nasal blockage to aid certain emotional functions or hone mental focus.
If the right brain is for creativity, art, emotion, music and intuition, you could plug your right nostril before going to the museum and concerts, painting a picture, or writing a poem for optimal perception and enjoyment? As well, if the left brain controls analytic thought, logic, science and math, a marshmallow in the left nostril might help when sitting down to balance a checkbook, refinance a car, study for a physics exam.
Or ultimately, I am an over-romanticizer.

Even the most adept side of my body cannot keep up with my brain, here lately. Lovers, I have missed you, but am often too exhausted to post, and don't know where to begin.

By day I am juggling two part time jobs, framing artwork and minding the flower shop.
Latenight I am folding horses and butterflies, sleeping with books, I kick them out of my bed dreaming, and wake by their thumps to the floor. Shifting more creative focus to speaking in colors and shapes, I've ignored poetry in words for almost a year now, and lately, as you may have noticed, have been fascinated with the female form in art/illustration. Undeniably, it is inspiring )

To break my spell, I want to depict a modern city in ruins next, culling ideas from D's post about daydreaming habits, photos from abandonedplaces, remembering how voracious the flora was in the Pacific Northwest. I will give it a lone barn owl, maybe.

Looking for examples of lost cities, I learned that beginning around 1923, a 5ft, 100 lb. man, named Ed Leedskalnin worked alone by lantern light after dark for 28 years, building a monument to a woman who left him at the altar. Constructed from limestone blocks, some weighing over 13 tons. He called it the Coral Castle.

I love the resolution in his jaw.

Even Einstein was unable to understand just how Mr. Leedskalnin moved and carved the great stones, as small as he stood, supposedly alone, and with only a few primitive tools. He fashioned a sundial, the nine planets on pillars, a colossal throne, a 9 ton door that could be turned open with the push of a finger.
Interesting to me, there is little to be said regarding the girl for whom the castle was built, Agnes Scuffs, who never once came to see. Scientists and engineers preferred to marvel Ed's secret levitation abilities, over the weight of Agnes' heart.
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bee_corset (6) o, she will be so pritty.
i am putting so much time into this painting, when i am finally done it will cost like ten thousand one hundred dollar bills. this one may be my favorite yet, since the atlas girl.

i notice my work has been selling at the redbubble site. the hard part is finding who the buyers are (as sales are confidential) in order to express my gratitude. if it was one of you guys, i thank you kindly!

so far i have to fix this lady's hair, adding a flower maybe (?), hands, paint random bees flying about, fix the grass, make shadows on her face and ear. suggestions welcome, as always! there are over 600 bees.

i went off reading about them, to find that only lady bees have a stinger and collect all of the honey, while the gentlemen bees exist solely for mating purposes as they should. also their penises are barbed, so they die directly after mating. sorry dudes. you shouldn't have a barbed penis.
the queen needs up to 17 males, which she mates with for a maximum of 48 hours to supply her with a lifetime of sperm, enough to lay her body weight in eggs each day for years.
once she is vanquished a new sovereign is prepared by feeding one of the larvae a mixture of pre-digested pollen combined with a chemical secreted from a nurse bee's head. the larvae then grows larger than the ordinary bee, and lives years past all others in the hive.
the serum given her, called "royal jelly" has been tested on other animals as well as humans and found to increase fertilization, reverse menopause, speed growth and even improve health and weight in premature babies. scientists have yet to synthesize it.
worker bees have two stomachs. the one that does not lead out their bottom is the honey stomach, which works like a satchel to store nectar. after collection, the forager bee takes nectar back to the house bee, who chews it for several hours, adding an enzyme that helps to evaporate the water away, making the substance sticky and sweeter, before depositing it into a honeycomb chamber. the honey we eat has been regurgitated by at least two bees for processing.
forager bees are the dancers, who shimmy and shake upon returning to their hives in order to communicate their findings to the others. the orientation and fervor of the dance determines where the nectar can be located and how delicious it is. and the taste, carried back by the forager, can be sampled with a kiss.
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my desk

A man in red suspenders and a long white beard comes in to buy his wife a bouquet for her birthday. "She's gonna be 89 but don't go reminding her about that part, when ya bring the flowers." He sits down on the couch and I fill his check out for him. I notice his pants are heavily patched, so much that they seem to be almost made of patches. I wonder how long he has had them. As I help him out the door, in my thoughts I see an elderly woman willowed over a sewing machine.

A beautiful young woman in her early twenties, heavily sedated, escorted by her mother, wants silk arrangements for the graves of her infant twins. The (grand)mother breaks down thanking us, before reaching the door to leave. I have to collect myself in the bathroom.

Caroline and Anne are talking about another woman their age (late 50s to mid 60s I'd say), who wears leggings and brightly colored sandals and fluffy tops with long golden chains.
"You just can't do that. She has no class, I mean, you reach a certain age and you lose your dignity. She's ridiculous to wear things like that."
"Can you believe, skipping around in Barbie clothes and she thinks she looks great!"
I am the youngest woman in the shop. I look down at my clothes, wonder if Barbie would wear them.

A middle aged woman delicately hobbles to the door with her cane. She wants flowers for her aunt who has passed away. Quite often, those who have lost someone feel compelled to divulge to us as though we are counselors. Perhaps they feel more intimate as we fill out their sympathy cards with messages for their beloved ghosts. I write the words "I am/we are so sorry" at least once a day.
The lady goes on to tell of certain family members, coos over her new grandchild, complains of a feud between her and her sister. I am eavesdropping while waiting on another customer. She is having her 11th back surgery tomorrow she somehow proudly exclaims while limping away. When Caroline asks if she was in a car wreck, she confesses no. She was severely beaten by her husband. He would pick her up and throw her, dislocated her arms, and slipped almost every disk in her back. "If a man ever swears he won't hit you again, don't believe him cause that's what I did, and now look at me."
When Caroline tells her she hopes the doctors have given her medicine for the pain she says "Oh yes. I'm on some heavy stuff. I'm like Micheal Jackson," chuckling at herself.

The rugged, stubbly Marlboro man asks me to wrap a dozen hot pink roses. I tell him they are a lovely choice, to which he replies "Good, ahm hoping they will get me out of the dog house," nods, grins slyly and slips out the door.
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things i don't understand:
* when you are enamored with someone it's like your IQ lowers (or it's probably just me which is very great) around them. sentences become cantankerous and disjointed or sped up and senseless.
* why piranhas don't eat eachother
* the appeal of Dinosaur Jr. or olives
* how piranhas just inherently know that evolution does not foster cannibalism among species, except in overcrowded or malnourished environments
* why Einar Örn Benediktsson has to open his fool mouth to ruin almost every damned Sugarcubes song there is.
* how i am 32 and STILL getting pimples
* how any adult can own less than 100 songs

I took this foto on the Congress St. bridge as the bats flew under.
Some fratdouche muttered "The bats are on the other side," to impress his friends
but fuck him! This is a sweet shot.
sunset on congress bridge
mas y mas )
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What is worse, a great mind wasted on a life of adversity or a great life wasted on a spiritless fool? Wait nevermind, I figured it out.

"Tell me do you wash yr hair in honeydew?" Camera Obscura
"Tell me do you worship him in running shoes?" Son

"Mama se mama sa ma ma coo sa" Micheal Jackson
"I'ma sell I'ma sell to microsoft" Son

"I'm a rocket man burning out my fuse up here alone" Elton John
"I'm a rocket man, burning all my fuse off. Hayull naw!" Son

Excuse me but I am still all romantic about my new job. We have the most fragrant compost pile. All my co-workers are women and mothers. We all talk to the plants as well, like a bunch of crazies.
Each person who walks in or calls wants to commemorate a monumental transition in his life or the life of another, a birth, a death, another year of devotion, survival, love. Even if it's just to say they are impassioned for no reason.
You ask them one question and they spill out stories. Chatterly and emotional.

My favorites are the expressions of affection, the elderly men buying arrangements for their wives of 50 years I almost have to shoo out the door so as not to begin tearing in front of them. I have to toughen up.
Last week a mechanic bought daisies for his lady to be delivered at the dollar store where she worked. He kissed the card to be sent and circled the spot, a greasy love smudge.
A quite gruff looking biker came in today and asked that I choose the most perfect rose from the crop. "But not red. That's too forward for a first date." I wonder how many men I help to get laid a week.
One gentleman has a standing order with us: his wife's anniversary, birthday, valentine's, and mother's day all delivered each year like clockwork and charged automatically to his card, so he'll never forget again. Clever and lazy all at once.

The middles of flowers are tiny empires. Bumblebee mansions. 90 percent of life on earth is smaller than the human finger. We are this era's great beasts, our highrises jutting up through green valleys like dorsal fins. We roar down the highways in Chevy Tahoes, our Kelly Clarkson ringtones screeching ominously in the night.

You may not know
Maximilian of Austria was told by the bishop of Treves to search under his bride's dress for a carnation hidden there, which he reported to have done "at first tentatively and then with growing enthusiasm."

If you or your family do not pay for your burial and funeral service up front, the funeral home will put your dead ass in storage after a couple weeks and after a set amount of time, they will bury you in an unmarked "pauper's grave."

Gerbera daisies can have more than 1,200 petals. The ox-eye daisy has generally less and so would be comparably quicker to use in determining his love for you.

And I haven't made a photopost in a while. For those of you who don't have flickr accounts here are favorites from my misadventures May-June )
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My butt hurts, you guys. I burnt it pretty bad at the pool, layin on my tummy in the sun, makin drawrings. It is painful to sit on it, which makes me grumpy. I'm also ovulatory. This could be the part of the story where I become a villain.
I have been thinking alot about villains, and what makes them. I like narratives that show the transformation of an antagonist. Kids made fun of him too much. She was too pretty, too ugly, or her sister was too pretty. He was too rich or poor, got double crossed, spoiled, neglected, greedy, abused, heart-broken, saw too many people get shot all the time. He must stop Christmas from coming. He must make a skin coat out of other women's flesh. He struck oil. He is a cyborg.
Sometimes debauchery is a family business. Sometimes it is just a bad day or couple of weeks that create the public enemy. A string of catastrophes push him over the edge. A surgery went wrong. It was all a big mistake and too late to turn back now.
What's remarkable is that every catalyst for villainy can in turn be the cause for heroism, so that a reliable recipe for depravity (or nobility) is immeasurable.
My friend Brian was hit and run while on his bicycle in a well-to-do neighborhood. The collision broke his leg and knocked him unconscious into the nearby bushes. More than likely, because he had sleeve tattoos and looked what some might call intimidating or mean, the lady in the expensive restaurant told him to leave when he limped through the door to ask for help. You would think that people from such a respectable part of town would be more kind. And it also goes to show that Brian, as villainous as some may find him to appear is one of the most loyal, honest and sweet persons I know. But after all this shit I could see him waking up from the surgery today and being a total villain, or at least I want to for him.
On the days where everything hurts my feelings, when I'm ovulating and everyone cuts me off in traffic, complete strangers give me the stink eye and birds are merrily crapping all over my car I think of turning into a villain late in the night, developing a strange and wicked idiosyncrasy or facial tick, maybe buying a hairless dog, or a hairy dog and shaving it until I get the money for an evil hairless one and then abandoning the hairy dog like the wild heartless barbarian I have become.
Gosh my ass really stings and not for the reasons I would prefer it to. And still I rise above, but I don't exactly know why, other than I've been taught all my life that it's what "strong" people do, which are "things" the "hard way," which is not necessarily eating fried chicken with a spoon, or driving with your feet.
It's something to be proud of, the guts to be gentle and kind, like Moz says. The resolve to overcome villains without turning bad gives one a sense of satisfaction that is not unlike the sense of satisfaction a villain gets when he steals your car radio. But you can't cash pride in at the pawn shop or rub it on yr charred ass.
Why don't bad guys have to overcome heroism all the time, or constantly fight the urge to be a hero? Is it because more often, desolation is abundant, which fuels disdain? Good people though, are often tempted to throw away their badges. They are always getting scammed and shot at and metaphorically buried alive and their metaphoric girlfriends metaphorically killt. I don't know. I have had alot of coffee. And now I need to stand up for a while. Maybe we can't all join the Cobra Kai because that would just be boring.


May. 27th, 2009 09:39 pm
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The heat has been vicious. I joke that if you were on a suicide mission you could stand outside in the full sunshine for about 30minutes and get totally dead. Texas in summer is not unlike living in the belly of a dragon. It's hard to imagine the source of life feels like a blowtorch on the back of your neck. It tries to rain, but the drops evaporate almost before they hit the ground.

Does every job have that one louder snobby person with rifuckindiculous views and can't stand for anyone to be funny or smart besides him/her? I am noticing a pattern. Otherwise I am enjoying my job.
There are flowers in every room of my house now like someone is so in love with me. Yesterday I went home smelling like carnations. Saturday I salvaged wilted rose blossoms to add to the loose bucket, a giant plastic bin of colored petals, enough to fill a feather pillow and was tempted to bury my face in it. Today I wired top-heavy daisies to stand up straight and proud.

Sunday night I watched a documentary following a group of children growing up in the brothels of India. At the end, the credits typically announced the eventuality of each child, whether they went on to greatness or fell by the wayside. About half of them did not get out of the brothels, even after being helped into boarding schools by privileged wealth, hoopjumping and stringpulling. Despite the opportunities they were given to escape a life of scrimping and hustling, they went back to their destitute families to help pay the rent, raise their smaller siblings, care for the ailing grandparents.
Tangentially I thought about captive whales in amusement parks, and how I've heard others explain that it's ok they are trapped for our amusement, because it's the only environment they have ever known. They are unaware of what they are missing, and so have nothing to long for.
Then I thought that just because cetaceans can detect sound up to a 100 miles away, it doesn't mean the ocean dwelling whales could have somehow divulged to them stories from beyond the tank of great subterranean mountains, shipwreck remains, constellations of starfish shining in vast coral fields.
Caged birds can sometimes see other birds outside, who wave their freshly caught worms tauntingly. Maybe they even say things to the captive birds like "Do you know why the free bird sings? Cause she's fuckin free." But if the caged bird ever got free, he might be too weak of wing to evade predators, unable to hunt for food, shunned by other birds and long for regular meals and the safety of his cage.
Then I thought of those born with every opportunity, every safety net available, every helping hand to achieve whatever their hearts desire and they do nothing. We follow them around with cameras too, and auction their chihuahua's thong.
Then I thought of how knowledge is torture, among other things. But why do ppl read the news? I don't know, maybe the heat is getting to me.

In other news, my son wants badly to straighten his hair. He hates his curls. But, but they are so pretty and he doesn't agree and asks me if I will let him change it every other day and it makes me sad, because I don't want him to be upset with his appearance. He's even saved his money to get it done. I could cry. I know it's customary that a child come to a place where he does not love about himself the things his mother adores, but pleeeease not the curls!
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Plagiarism, by Rene Magritte. Damn I wish I painted this, and gave it the same title n everything.

I been thinkin. Don't be alarmed if you smell smoke.

All day Saturday in the library until it closed, looking at books on surrealism, sketching late Jurassic and Triassic reptiles, desperately wanting to be inspired. My Rachel says that if I used this downtime to paint like crazy, if I could make at least $500 a month from artwork, along with an unemployment check I could match my previous income, thereby sustaining myself and mine. I dream. By the time unemployment runs out, I could have a healthy respectable portfolio. The self-saboteur in me says no one needs art in times like these, that my talents are superfluous commodities. My heart says that I would be a fool not to at least try. My head says my heart has cried wolf a time too many.

Keuhneosaurus glides from tree to tree. His ribs elongate and fan out from his torso, connected by a thin membrane like a bat's phalanges. He lost them somehow on the way to now. Do the green anoles dream of flying? We love to think that evolution creates possibilities, or that everything needs wings. Keuhneosaurus disagrees.

Poor gentle giant, Leedsichthys Problematicus was the largest fish that ever lived, estimated to have grown to 80ft. long, with 40,000 teeth. A filter eater, but he was too large and slow to defend himself, so that bullies like Liopleurodon and Kronosaurus, smaller (thought not 'small' reptiles by any means) and faster, would take bites out of him. He was a floating buffet.

Our ladies of perpetual sorrow are not endangered. The most talented make fame of great tragedy. Frida Kahlo began to resemble Lady Day the more I poured over her photographs. They share the same faraway look, the smoldering eyes. Perhaps they are of the same suborder, Femina Tristis?
Billie Holiday's grandmother died while holding Billie in the night. By morning the rigor mortis had set in so that Billie was caught in the woman's embrace like a bony cage. The mortician had to break the grandmother's arms to set her free.
Frida found her husband, Diego Rivera, to be conducting an affair with her sister (It was not the first infidelity, by far, but the most painful) and would not stop even after she confronted him, even after she suffered her third miscarriage, and even after she had parts of her foot removed from gangrene, due to complications from spina bifida and polio. "When I loved a woman, I wanted to hurt her the more I loved her; Frida was the most evident victim of this despicable character trait of mine," said Diego.
So, I was the one stunned in the stacks by my insistent tears.

Today I made a necklace, beef stroganoff for dinner, groomed plants on the balcony, painted a golden ribbon in the mouth of a stone lion, surgically scrubbed my bathroom to ranchera music.

Staying home, hoarding money, I'm forced to amuse myself with all of the silly things I bought back when the pay was steady. I didn't realize I had so much jewelry, or half completed projects, yoga videos, skirts that need hems, unstarted books, undeveloped ideas, unkept promises to myself. It's arresting to think that I could spend months just finishing all the tasks I frivolously, wishfully set for a girl more accomplished, less exhausted than myself. All these good intentions, all these unhatched thoughts to count.

end now

Apr. 5th, 2009 10:09 pm
concretekiss: (Default)
So eruptive lately. An explosion of words and wishing I knew how to hush. The sentences don't even form a single file line, but come out blazing and senseless like surrounded outlaws.
Saturday and yoga class. Our hands up in triangles, a field of strange flora. It's pretty to look out at, like synchronized swimming. For one floor twist our feet were near eachothers' shoulders. I heard a lady whisper to reassure her neighbor "I pumice," and then a ripple of giggles. Sometimes the toxin release sets free unexpected emotions, like air pockets under the ocean, abyssal zone activity in the spine, plates divide. At the end of class our instructor read some silly affirmation about being a treasure to the world when we are good to ourselves, and thinking of how I wasn't much of a treasure I began to tear. I am a mess, to the world.

That afternoon I swam like Jaws was after me in attempts to kick out my excess affection. Reading in the half-shade, sore legs burning in the sun, hair flying in the crazy wind, a sail.

Elise and I watched a time travel romance, and saddest one I've seen yet. We cried and hugged and petted eachother and it was good to have an excuse to loosen. Instantaneous, multiple year time travel requires such faith. You and I are time traveling right now, but slow enough that it isn't so terrifying. I notice some travelers in movies are provoked by a photo from the past, a beguiling grin in a curio shop that spoke to them, resounding in places they did not know existed so much that they must set off on long and perilous journeys, to find that face. But they really didn't seem to have anything better to do at the time.

Sunday was to see a good friend, to eat ribs messily, throw horse-shoes, shoot cans off logs like southern girls, but we didn't chew any tobacco, or wear straw hats.

We found a bird nest in an overturned canoe, the babies blind but listening intently for mother, and two lizards who died fighting each other (< do NOT click that link if you are squeamish) in the shed. Both their bodies scarred with teeth marks, over territory. It wasn't the death that was as distressing as the story their bodies told.

And (ugh) then this:

Your tender Portabello mushroom ears
illuminated in morning sunlight
rise slowly with your smile when it appears
my trembling beacon, in dentures so bright
Like fresh cauliflower your nose doth bloom
Your whiskers white as dandelion seed
The luckiest dog in the bingo room
your embrace is sweeter than Ovaltine
Within each wrinkle my fond kisses hide
like iris petals in chapter books pressed
Steady as the hum of your wheelchair glide
are days my devotion you shall possess
and to this stubborn heart you will belong
my love is thousands of pacemakers strong

Sonnets are hard you guys. I have to use lesser syllabled words. It doesn't fit my work. Sentences must fold and contort into iambic pentameter like camels through needle eyes. To think Shakespeare wrote 154. No wonder he had to switch phrases up like Yoda.
concretekiss: (Default)
Let me save you some time. We begin
with two incomplete and co-dependant morons, at least one
preferably hiding some socially debilitating yet somehow
charming eccentricity, exhibits signs of mild schizophrenia
obsessive compulsiveness, hides it like a pulsating
baboon heart under his coffee shop apron or is possibly a whore.

Our fools meet through a series of zany incidents to find
they’ve never been truly happy until now, the way you never
knew you needed Cool Ranch Doritos til the day your finger
slipped on 2 at the vending machine, and each accepts
the other’s oddities. Surely we can find something to do
with your dick shaped nose.

Now the dilemma, since good lovin’ should be hard to come by;
One must chance upon the other in the act of what appears
to be treachery; their lizard lipped lover in the embrace of some
stranger, when really it was two secret agents speaking in Morse
Code through an innocent series of nipple pinches and THIS
is what distends into some unbearably gut-busting side-splitting
nun-punching hilarity because it’s gonna take a monumental
act of courage to reconcile.

Here is where you can hardly stand to wait for some bastards
to plow their Jaguars through store fronts
bust up the wedding, sob and grovel into the loud
speakers of your childhood, run naked through airports in nothing
but ranch dressing and hang from helicopters screaming
I love you I love you I’ve always LOVED YOU, and the drivers always
pull over and the crowds always gather cooing like jerks
with nothing better to do because oh my god Barbara it's love

and the speech always flowers like I know I lied and stabbed you
three times in the face but if you can walk away from something so right
I just don’t know what the fuck
. And there you have it
cue Mentos cue strewn glass cue sidekick blowing a sheepdog
cue incredulous janitor roll credits You're welcome.
concretekiss: (Default)
black dog
Branches yawn awake. New leaves rise and stretch
slipping into the costumes of last summer's show.
"Look mama," little E says "the clouds are taking the sunshine's autograph."
Spring is imminent. You can hear its footsteps if you listen closely )
concretekiss: (i am sorrow)
daymoon (3)
The first dream I trespassed into a rich person's house I'd been gazing after for years. On the back porch were snakes swimming in buckets of water. I was not afraid of them. Inside the house, in a great bed a woman slept. On the pillow next to her was the stone head of a lion, its mouth frozen in a roar. It was midday. The sunlight illuminated the bed.

A baby lamb and fawn I cradled in my second dream, in the white vinyl back seat of a car. I'd commanded the driver to stop so I could have them, muddy and tired and lost. I can still remember the feel of thick wet wool.

This (actual) morning it was wet outside and cool gray. The cracked sidewalk was submerged, so we hopped along the wet patches of grass to the car, all of us muddy upon arrival.

The pending holiday like some incantation resurrects old lovers, brittle ribbons of dry crimson stick to rat bitten collar bones. You were such a greeeat loverrrrr one croaks, staggers slow, dirty nails from digging out. Another moans through the screen door I should have marriiiiieeed yoooou lisping through his fallen teeth, when I had the chaaaaance. I thought I'd made gifts to the fish of them long ago. One reaches through the window, eel hollowed eye socket, barnacles behind his ears. Martyrs twitch in their graves. We should let them rest.

The music I love lately wants me to stand on a windy cliffside in some wispy satin dress and make wide florid gestures at the sky. Sometimes I make the gestures but at the ac vent from my work desk, and in my ratty cardigan.

Ruined one of my favorite sweaters because it had angora in it. Damn angora. You only have one chance to fuck it up. Why are such pretty things so high maintenance?

You should know I am sweeter in theory than practice.
So this is it. Wake to task to sleep to wake. Insignificance causes such fret, sometimes. Some want to be important to many. I am essential by blood to few. I wanted to be vital by passion to one who was as central to me. And even that is much too much to ask. We have all become too disposable. So triviality, so smallness, hello. I was a fool to fight you.


concretekiss: (Default)

August 2010



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