I have nothing to say. My lips are rested. My vocal chords strong.
Milwaukee days seem to bring more words than the last. Their sounds come as whispers and blairing TVs. Their intentions prove heartfelt or mindless. Words recieved with laughter and consideration. Words heard or unheard.
These sounds swirl within my head all day long. From the moment I wake to the instant I fall asleep. They can even be heard in those moments between conciousness. Fading softly, slowly and unclearly.
So many words floating around my head. My ears are tired. They are tired from listening, from registering, from trying to avoid, from pretending. My ears are so tired I can't bare to give them any more - not even my own.
"Words are all I have to give to you." If Maja Ivarsson is right, I better start talking tomorrow.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
A phone call from Ma...
6:57PM
I sit on the brown leather couch tucked under the picture window. I don't know how many years of my life I have looked through this pane of glass. Watching nothing. Watching everything.
The living room opens into the dining room. The arched ceilings still hold an impressively done wallpaper job that is older than I am. My mother sits below the arch, quietly minding her own business around the dining room table that's dressed in Christmas Red.
Beyond the dining room, my sister sits in the kitchen on her laptop finishing the loose ends to another semester.
Distracted by football and unused to hearing my cell phone ring... instead I hear my sister's voice call "Mary, you're phone!".
I'm sure I followed with a confused, "What?" and spent a few minutes trying to quickly unwrap the burrito I have made myself into. I come to end of the throw and hop a few steps into the dining room into the kitchen and, finally, into my purse.
I made it before the last ring.
Caller ID - Parents
"What?", I think. "Hello?" is what I said, with my tone upturned.
I hear a voice of a woman. A woman who seems embarrassed by an accidental wrong number. It's the voice my mother uses when she's unsure of herself.
"Nevermind" I hear from a small voice in the next room, which then echoes into my receiver.
I start the laughter before she does.
I'm not sure it's clicked yet for her.
It surely didn't click when she searched the quick dial for my Aunt Mary.
Not quite when my sister's siren went off.
Still not as she watched me clumsily run to my phone.
My laughter flipped the switched. She laughs with me briefly. Within seconds she is back to hitting the call list, hard.
7:04PM
My phone rings again. It is my mother, "Just calling to check in."
I write this as my mom sits in her chair reading her newspaper. She tells me not to write about her and I tell her I love writing about her because I want to keep these moments.
I sit on the brown leather couch tucked under the picture window. I don't know how many years of my life I have looked through this pane of glass. Watching nothing. Watching everything.
The living room opens into the dining room. The arched ceilings still hold an impressively done wallpaper job that is older than I am. My mother sits below the arch, quietly minding her own business around the dining room table that's dressed in Christmas Red.
Beyond the dining room, my sister sits in the kitchen on her laptop finishing the loose ends to another semester.
Distracted by football and unused to hearing my cell phone ring... instead I hear my sister's voice call "Mary, you're phone!".
I'm sure I followed with a confused, "What?" and spent a few minutes trying to quickly unwrap the burrito I have made myself into. I come to end of the throw and hop a few steps into the dining room into the kitchen and, finally, into my purse.
I made it before the last ring.
Caller ID - Parents
"What?", I think. "Hello?" is what I said, with my tone upturned.
I hear a voice of a woman. A woman who seems embarrassed by an accidental wrong number. It's the voice my mother uses when she's unsure of herself.
"Nevermind" I hear from a small voice in the next room, which then echoes into my receiver.
I start the laughter before she does.
I'm not sure it's clicked yet for her.
It surely didn't click when she searched the quick dial for my Aunt Mary.
Not quite when my sister's siren went off.
Still not as she watched me clumsily run to my phone.
My laughter flipped the switched. She laughs with me briefly. Within seconds she is back to hitting the call list, hard.
7:04PM
My phone rings again. It is my mother, "Just calling to check in."
I write this as my mom sits in her chair reading her newspaper. She tells me not to write about her and I tell her I love writing about her because I want to keep these moments.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Eight Degrees
It’s eight degrees out of doors.
This degree keeps people wrapped in blankets on their sofas. Warm drink in one hand and remote in the other. Generally, there are two groups of people willing to brave this Fahrenheit at night. The first have dependencies on nicotine. The remaining are pet owners. Both of which are being brought out into this cold by a force outside of themselves.
It’s eight degrees and instead of staying in, I am running out.
The sun has already set here. It may be closing out on California by now. I can’t count on the sun’s rays to warm the tip of my nose - the only exposed skin that the sun may have warmed.
I head just far enough out of the cities for the sky to open up to the stars. The cold is beautiful.
My Petzl lights the way. Swaying back and forth with the rhythm of my stride. Bobbing in and out of the weight of my jacket’s hood. My warm exhale turns instantly to smoke before me. The beam of light catches the swirls as it leaves my body.
The combination of fog and light show convinces me KISS will spring from the next snow bank. I have the spectacle, most live performances lack, unfolding naturally before me. Moving strobe lights and fog machines. I considered dropping the red night-vision lens down for added affect, but decide that is a little too heavy metal for my mood.
It made for a dramatic hike. Could have also been an amazing horror film, but I didn't say that… since I know my mother will check her e-mail in twenty days and reply with a motherly voice of concern telling me all the things that could happen to me hiking alone at night. DANGER! DANGER!
A few have been here before me. Sparse tracks scatter over last night’s snow fall. Out of love for all the skiers in the world I avoid the nicely packed double lanes and stick to the fresh powder. The resistance feels good against my legs after a month under physical restrictions (I’m not breaking the rules; I’m sticking to the lower half!).
My breath gets heavy.
My heart gets fast.
My chest grows so warm that I can no longer feel the eight degrees.
My iPod remains in my pocket with the ear buds coiled neatly around the frame. Music follows my everyday. My career, my home, my car are rarely without. Naturally, I always reach for the mobile music when setting out for a hike, but I have never brought it out. From the very first crunch of my pink NorthFace boots, I know I will not be plugging my ears with the Swell Season or the Shostakovich that defines my everyday.
I love these sounds.
My breath.
My weight.
My pulse.
My existence within the sounds of the river’s current not yet frozen over, within the noises of the remaining winter wildlife, even within the faint sounds of civilization.
It’s eight degrees outside and I remember why I am willing to brave the weather and hike in solitude. It is my meditation. Here, my brain silences my everyday. All I notice is my body and my being.
And... maybe the occasional KISS concert...
A few have been here before me. Sparse tracks scatter over last night’s snow fall. Out of love for all the skiers in the world I avoid the nicely packed double lanes and stick to the fresh powder. The resistance feels good against my legs after a month under physical restrictions (I’m not breaking the rules; I’m sticking to the lower half!).
My breath gets heavy.
My heart gets fast.
My chest grows so warm that I can no longer feel the eight degrees.
My iPod remains in my pocket with the ear buds coiled neatly around the frame. Music follows my everyday. My career, my home, my car are rarely without. Naturally, I always reach for the mobile music when setting out for a hike, but I have never brought it out. From the very first crunch of my pink NorthFace boots, I know I will not be plugging my ears with the Swell Season or the Shostakovich that defines my everyday.
I love these sounds.
My breath.
My weight.
My pulse.
My existence within the sounds of the river’s current not yet frozen over, within the noises of the remaining winter wildlife, even within the faint sounds of civilization.
It’s eight degrees outside and I remember why I am willing to brave the weather and hike in solitude. It is my meditation. Here, my brain silences my everyday. All I notice is my body and my being.
And... maybe the occasional KISS concert...
Friday, December 11, 2009
Next Blog>>
I feel like I am waiting for the day when Facebook becomes interesting. Checking it throughout the day and hoping that this time it will be different. This time it will make me laugh. But most of the day I am looking at the same non-activity. Sadly, it has become a habit. An item within the checklist of activities that follows the motion of flipping open this computer.
I end up on facebook because I suck at the internet. I admit it. I’m a poor virtual surfer. I don’t know where to go to find mindless entertainment on this thing. Not to mention, my internet speed denies the possibility of video, audio and sometimes image streaming. So I am mostly left to reading.
As an avid reader, you would think I would be swimming in news coverage, blogs, published online literature but somehow I just wade in this material. Only willing to get in as far as my rolled up pants allow. Reading is much preferred with the weight of paper and ink in my hands.
Yesterday was another story. Yesterday I surfed the big kahuna. A reference to all those that grew up watching Back to the Beach. When the Bird was the Word.
The top of this blog has a tool bar. I’m sure you have ventured there when I get raunchy and consider reporting my abuse of this site and the English language. Next to the Report Abuse button, and ‘next to’ seems much too close I might add, is the Next Blog>> button.
I ODed on Next Blog last night. It’s a random sampling of the public worlds here on blogspot. What I read….
I spent a minimal amount of time on the Austrailian Romance Readers Association’s blog.
I found a Literature teacher that gives Tarot inspired writing assignments. Those cards did lead him to saying “All you need to do is place one word after the other...and trust...” - Mark David Gerson. Something I am taking to heart right now, because I wanted to write but had no vision, hope or direction for my words.
I ended up bothered by the cynicism of a clergy woman and scared by outright propaganda.
I learned everyone is a writer, everyone is a critic and everyone is famous.
I walked through family memories. Birthdays, vacations and childhood quotes. I am beginning to accept the fact that blogging is modern day history. It has become a record keeper for all the moments people want shared or remembered. Sad, blogspot doesn’t have that tangible aspect that I crave out of literature. It doesn’t quite capture the nostalgia of grandma’s scrapbooking and the anticipation of turning the delicate page to the next memory that waits there.
I laughed at reviews of fast-food restaurants whose coffee was deemed decent “considering the loose stool that passes for java in some fast food restaurants”- Aaron C. from That Bootleg Guy.
I was bored to tears by people’s views on everyday life and their need to show me how to live.
I discovered an English woman set out to boycott “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Klauss” because of the implied infidelity. She claimed trauma to the childhood thought of her Mommy kissing another man. Side note to this one – The word ‘infidelity’ temporily escaped me when writing this, so I was trying to google search my way to it and kept circling back to sodomy. I guess I can’t stay away from the asshole.
Mostly, there are hobbyists and journalists and sports casters and critics. In the hours that I spent hitting Next Blog>> I didn’t find anything quite like my blog. So maybe I ought to do it justice. My words weren’t anywhere else. Not even a faint echo of their sound. And yet, I always come home to the ego we all must have to keep writing, assuming people give a damn about what we have to say or ... maybe it's just how we say it...
I end up on facebook because I suck at the internet. I admit it. I’m a poor virtual surfer. I don’t know where to go to find mindless entertainment on this thing. Not to mention, my internet speed denies the possibility of video, audio and sometimes image streaming. So I am mostly left to reading.
As an avid reader, you would think I would be swimming in news coverage, blogs, published online literature but somehow I just wade in this material. Only willing to get in as far as my rolled up pants allow. Reading is much preferred with the weight of paper and ink in my hands.
Yesterday was another story. Yesterday I surfed the big kahuna. A reference to all those that grew up watching Back to the Beach. When the Bird was the Word.
The top of this blog has a tool bar. I’m sure you have ventured there when I get raunchy and consider reporting my abuse of this site and the English language. Next to the Report Abuse button, and ‘next to’ seems much too close I might add, is the Next Blog>> button.
I ODed on Next Blog last night. It’s a random sampling of the public worlds here on blogspot. What I read….
I spent a minimal amount of time on the Austrailian Romance Readers Association’s blog.
I found a Literature teacher that gives Tarot inspired writing assignments. Those cards did lead him to saying “All you need to do is place one word after the other...and trust...” - Mark David Gerson. Something I am taking to heart right now, because I wanted to write but had no vision, hope or direction for my words.
I ended up bothered by the cynicism of a clergy woman and scared by outright propaganda.
I learned everyone is a writer, everyone is a critic and everyone is famous.
I walked through family memories. Birthdays, vacations and childhood quotes. I am beginning to accept the fact that blogging is modern day history. It has become a record keeper for all the moments people want shared or remembered. Sad, blogspot doesn’t have that tangible aspect that I crave out of literature. It doesn’t quite capture the nostalgia of grandma’s scrapbooking and the anticipation of turning the delicate page to the next memory that waits there.
I laughed at reviews of fast-food restaurants whose coffee was deemed decent “considering the loose stool that passes for java in some fast food restaurants”- Aaron C. from That Bootleg Guy.
I was bored to tears by people’s views on everyday life and their need to show me how to live.
I discovered an English woman set out to boycott “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Klauss” because of the implied infidelity. She claimed trauma to the childhood thought of her Mommy kissing another man. Side note to this one – The word ‘infidelity’ temporily escaped me when writing this, so I was trying to google search my way to it and kept circling back to sodomy. I guess I can’t stay away from the asshole.
Mostly, there are hobbyists and journalists and sports casters and critics. In the hours that I spent hitting Next Blog>> I didn’t find anything quite like my blog. So maybe I ought to do it justice. My words weren’t anywhere else. Not even a faint echo of their sound. And yet, I always come home to the ego we all must have to keep writing, assuming people give a damn about what we have to say or ... maybe it's just how we say it...
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Artistic Thievery
Let's call this an exploratory essay. Shall we?
A hypothetical investigation of the best way to steal my own art.
My first year in the Twin Cities, I found myself shacked up with three strange ladies. Platonically shacked, that is. Each room of our 4 bedroom flat painted a vibrant hue different from the room proceeding it. One green, one purple, one red, and one blue.
The house was mostly established when I came on board. Wrong verb, I should say inhabitated, not established. The curb furniture was aplenty but the walls were barren.
A blank wall is my canvas.
With the help of the aging, crusty wall paint. I made four corresponding paintings. One in each bedroom tone. The joke was that they had to be random objects with no significance or reference to one another. We wanted visitors to wonder what the hell these paintings meant.
The strategy was effective. New comers and unobservant frequent travelers often asked what a red mousetrap, a blue fudgsicle, a green bowling pin and a purple bunny had in common.
Cue=>Laughter.
The ladies split up, the paintings scattered. The red canvas went to the red-room live-in. The bunny somehow ended in unrelated hands - just a friend that liked it. The green one went ignored in my possessions for years. The Fudgsicle to another friend who frequented frozen chocolaty conversation.
My dusty bowling pin didn't interest me in it's solitude, I forked it over to the bunny adopter.
Now we are at - 2 for friend A. 1 for Original red-room occupancy, & 1 for Friend B.
The red mousetrap lives in oblivion in Madison, WI. Likely stacked in neglected belongings that didn't make the cut to New York, New York.
The blue fudgsicle lays somewhere unseen in Friend B's long time home.
The green bowling pin and the purple bunny have led happier lives. They have been hung and displayed proudly since their acceptance. In fact, Friend A moved to New York by plane under luggage restrictions. There were a meager amount of belongings that traveled across the United States. My paintings were two of those things.
Through wildly entertaining, sincerely endearing and slovenly drunken texts - I am asked to track down the other two neglected images.
Moral art dilemma.
There are people that pretend to appreciate art and there are people that appreciate art. Just as there are people that appreciate the effort someone puts into something and there are some that pretend to appreciate the effort someone puts into something.
My point is... the love factor can either lead a person to displaying your work proudly or letting it lay is closets and uninhabited cities.
This is not a diss on either of those owners. They both have other works of mine out for the public eye. (I just realized that brings my total to 5 of my paintings in New York City, I'm claiming serious territory!). But for some reason, maybe it doesn't 'match' or 'fit' or they have no room to hang it... those sit neglected.
So how do I steal my own art back and put it to a loving home?
Frankly, I don't even like the paintings themselves. I liked the concept for the one year it hung in that four bedroom flat, but after that house split - so did my interest.
Can I ask for it back?
Do I have that right as an artist?
Do we get a say in our own art's destiny?
Can I intervene?
Would a bait and switch work here? Offer up a new work.
What is less offensive?
Is there really a way to tell someone they aren't doing your art justice and you want it back?
Is having them read this on a blog somewhere worse than just asking the stupid question? Ha.
Normally, I wouldn't care. Go ahead and rot, they already have for this long. But now I have someone knocking at my door. Begging me for the orphaned paintings.
Hmmm...
It just makes me consider this thing called art. I've always done it for me. Me only. I accumulate too much and gift it away to people that I feel would appreciate it. Maybe it's a silly thing to assume, that anyone would want these things. Artistic tastes vary through every one's mouth. How arrogant to assume I would taste good.
Hmmm...
It's too bad I'm broke again during the holiday season and have a million prints to give away. You will all love my work! You must!
I tried to find photo's of said paintings... but that was before my digital age. Apparently, the green bowling pin did make a breif appearence in my uptown studio. Don't follow my grandiose jesture... instead follow the ponytail to the upper left. All paintings where in that same style. Static objects.
A hypothetical investigation of the best way to steal my own art.
My first year in the Twin Cities, I found myself shacked up with three strange ladies. Platonically shacked, that is. Each room of our 4 bedroom flat painted a vibrant hue different from the room proceeding it. One green, one purple, one red, and one blue.
The house was mostly established when I came on board. Wrong verb, I should say inhabitated, not established. The curb furniture was aplenty but the walls were barren.
A blank wall is my canvas.
With the help of the aging, crusty wall paint. I made four corresponding paintings. One in each bedroom tone. The joke was that they had to be random objects with no significance or reference to one another. We wanted visitors to wonder what the hell these paintings meant.
The strategy was effective. New comers and unobservant frequent travelers often asked what a red mousetrap, a blue fudgsicle, a green bowling pin and a purple bunny had in common.
Cue=>Laughter.
The ladies split up, the paintings scattered. The red canvas went to the red-room live-in. The bunny somehow ended in unrelated hands - just a friend that liked it. The green one went ignored in my possessions for years. The Fudgsicle to another friend who frequented frozen chocolaty conversation.
My dusty bowling pin didn't interest me in it's solitude, I forked it over to the bunny adopter.
Now we are at - 2 for friend A. 1 for Original red-room occupancy, & 1 for Friend B.
The red mousetrap lives in oblivion in Madison, WI. Likely stacked in neglected belongings that didn't make the cut to New York, New York.
The blue fudgsicle lays somewhere unseen in Friend B's long time home.
The green bowling pin and the purple bunny have led happier lives. They have been hung and displayed proudly since their acceptance. In fact, Friend A moved to New York by plane under luggage restrictions. There were a meager amount of belongings that traveled across the United States. My paintings were two of those things.
Through wildly entertaining, sincerely endearing and slovenly drunken texts - I am asked to track down the other two neglected images.
Moral art dilemma.
There are people that pretend to appreciate art and there are people that appreciate art. Just as there are people that appreciate the effort someone puts into something and there are some that pretend to appreciate the effort someone puts into something.
My point is... the love factor can either lead a person to displaying your work proudly or letting it lay is closets and uninhabited cities.
This is not a diss on either of those owners. They both have other works of mine out for the public eye. (I just realized that brings my total to 5 of my paintings in New York City, I'm claiming serious territory!). But for some reason, maybe it doesn't 'match' or 'fit' or they have no room to hang it... those sit neglected.
So how do I steal my own art back and put it to a loving home?
Frankly, I don't even like the paintings themselves. I liked the concept for the one year it hung in that four bedroom flat, but after that house split - so did my interest.
Can I ask for it back?
Do I have that right as an artist?
Do we get a say in our own art's destiny?
Can I intervene?
Would a bait and switch work here? Offer up a new work.
What is less offensive?
Is there really a way to tell someone they aren't doing your art justice and you want it back?
Is having them read this on a blog somewhere worse than just asking the stupid question? Ha.
Normally, I wouldn't care. Go ahead and rot, they already have for this long. But now I have someone knocking at my door. Begging me for the orphaned paintings.
Hmmm...
It just makes me consider this thing called art. I've always done it for me. Me only. I accumulate too much and gift it away to people that I feel would appreciate it. Maybe it's a silly thing to assume, that anyone would want these things. Artistic tastes vary through every one's mouth. How arrogant to assume I would taste good.
Hmmm...
It's too bad I'm broke again during the holiday season and have a million prints to give away. You will all love my work! You must!
I tried to find photo's of said paintings... but that was before my digital age. Apparently, the green bowling pin did make a breif appearence in my uptown studio. Don't follow my grandiose jesture... instead follow the ponytail to the upper left. All paintings where in that same style. Static objects.
Friday, December 4, 2009
How Dickensonian of me...
I felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there
To see if it was there
-Emily Dickenson
Since I am such a good self-dater, I treated myself to the Louvre exhibit last night. I spent the hours of the night wandering the Minneapolis Institute of the Arts. A museum I need to take better advantage of. The perfect museum for unassuming scrabble games.
The Dickenson stanza above weaved in and out of a shadowed figure within the museum's permanent collection. The poem was scribed on a woman, in all her nude and bearing glory, with her palms to the sky. The lyric caught my attention and I vowed I would remember it (like so many other things throughout the day I pretend to make note of). Most quickly fade. That was one reason I loved writing on this blog everyday. I held so tight to those moments in life. Promised myself never to forget.
Somehow, yesterday's discovery was only partly lost to me. I cannot recall the contemporary artists who sketched those words into skin. Google has failed me on that one. Perhaps a call to MIA is in order.
I held onto those words though. I won't let it go. It can't fly away.
So today I sit during my lunch hour putting this in writing before it is lost again.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Acting Out
Today I am hating maturity.
Every second of my work day I wanted to respond with a whinny girl tantrom. I hate those reactions to life though... so I kept my mouth shut. Shut tight. I was a woman of few words today. But my inner dialogue was that of a bratty, overly independent 6 year old who isn't gettting her way.
Everytime I watched someone else lift something for me ... that whinny girl was singing in my head how 'she can do this herself'. The tantrom kept circling 'how stupid this is'.
They are watching me. Everytime I leave eyeshot and hear "where are you going?", the little girl inside of me wails "shut up". The girl inside of me knows they are nagging her for what she set out to do. She wants to push that rack of chairs for herself. She wants to break the rules.
These rules were put on my body to protect me. Protect me from myself. And oh man... my egomaniac, macho-independence is not making this easy.
My body and my ego are wrestling. Two weeks of work restrictions. I am hoping that my feeling of uselessness will give way to willfull laziness. I can only hope that when a man lifts something for me over the next two weeks, I can silence the sexism and happily accept the fact that someone is doing my work for me.
Every second of my work day I wanted to respond with a whinny girl tantrom. I hate those reactions to life though... so I kept my mouth shut. Shut tight. I was a woman of few words today. But my inner dialogue was that of a bratty, overly independent 6 year old who isn't gettting her way.
Everytime I watched someone else lift something for me ... that whinny girl was singing in my head how 'she can do this herself'. The tantrom kept circling 'how stupid this is'.
They are watching me. Everytime I leave eyeshot and hear "where are you going?", the little girl inside of me wails "shut up". The girl inside of me knows they are nagging her for what she set out to do. She wants to push that rack of chairs for herself. She wants to break the rules.
These rules were put on my body to protect me. Protect me from myself. And oh man... my egomaniac, macho-independence is not making this easy.
My body and my ego are wrestling. Two weeks of work restrictions. I am hoping that my feeling of uselessness will give way to willfull laziness. I can only hope that when a man lifts something for me over the next two weeks, I can silence the sexism and happily accept the fact that someone is doing my work for me.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Shhhhh... Resting
9:24 p.m.
The Girl was very tired. Her eyelids heavy with the pull of sleep.
A usual sleepless night.
The normal 8:30 a.m. start time at work.
A reduced four hours of labor.
Roughly 7 hours behind the wheel. Facing rain and hoping the lane was unfolding before her. Faith.
At this hour, the Girl could not give into sleep. Despite the fact that it was an hour that would have been bragged about later in life. Tonight she had to wait. She had to wait for Sister to get home to celebrate the Girl's overdue birthday.
What self control. The Girl held her birthday celebration, presents, cake and wishes in for almost a week. Now she was face to face with a mountian of presents and already sneaked a peak at the baked good that would later satisfy her sweet tooth.
This self-deprivation was exhausting.
The Girl's posture out on the couch started erect. The warmth of the blanket on her lap pulled her legs up into her chest. It wasn't long before her recline became a stretched out sleeping position.
Mother told her to rest her eyes for Sister's return. Mother could resist the constant conversation and said she would finish tidying up for the nearing Holiday.
The Girl's eyelids fluttered and conciousness faded in and out.
Mother's tidying started with turning on everylight in the living room. Including the one inches from the Girl's resting head. Mother was not going to make this easy for the Girl.
The vacuum roared into life. Mother vaccumed the way we all do. Slamming the machine into the sofa's edge, thinking it would pick up what's underneith. Shuffling the remaining furniture and covering each area twice.
The vacuum was turned on and off several more times before the Girl was woken by her Sister. Sister sat perched on the Girl's hips.
Resting was no longer an option.
The Girl was very tired. Her eyelids heavy with the pull of sleep.
A usual sleepless night.
The normal 8:30 a.m. start time at work.
A reduced four hours of labor.
Roughly 7 hours behind the wheel. Facing rain and hoping the lane was unfolding before her. Faith.
At this hour, the Girl could not give into sleep. Despite the fact that it was an hour that would have been bragged about later in life. Tonight she had to wait. She had to wait for Sister to get home to celebrate the Girl's overdue birthday.
What self control. The Girl held her birthday celebration, presents, cake and wishes in for almost a week. Now she was face to face with a mountian of presents and already sneaked a peak at the baked good that would later satisfy her sweet tooth.
This self-deprivation was exhausting.
The Girl's posture out on the couch started erect. The warmth of the blanket on her lap pulled her legs up into her chest. It wasn't long before her recline became a stretched out sleeping position.
Mother told her to rest her eyes for Sister's return. Mother could resist the constant conversation and said she would finish tidying up for the nearing Holiday.
The Girl's eyelids fluttered and conciousness faded in and out.
Mother's tidying started with turning on everylight in the living room. Including the one inches from the Girl's resting head. Mother was not going to make this easy for the Girl.
The vacuum roared into life. Mother vaccumed the way we all do. Slamming the machine into the sofa's edge, thinking it would pick up what's underneith. Shuffling the remaining furniture and covering each area twice.
The vacuum was turned on and off several more times before the Girl was woken by her Sister. Sister sat perched on the Girl's hips.
Resting was no longer an option.
Friday, November 20, 2009
There it goes...
The city circles the basin and washes down this drain. Laid in porcelain. It leads to a place that I’ve never really seen but is all too familiar. I have scrubbed the surrounding tiles too often… or perhaps not enough. Still, I know it well. This drain is home. The spinning water is routine. Simple physics. But this time, it’s taking away the memories my body still wore. The bits I brought with me. The pieces that survived the cab, the plane, the train, the bus and entered my every day, my here, my now.
The subway has been dug from my fingernails. Grit from handrails and metro cards all gone. I’m saddened by the thought that the Magnolia cupcake frosting has made its way out too.
My eyelids have been rubbed free of last night’s mascara. The ‘on the town’ lashes faded to ‘on the face’ smudging overnight. The dark remnants now replaced by an irritated red. A color that’s impossible to avoid with the heat of this water and the vigorous touch of erasure.
The scent from the spa shampoo washed back into my standard Rosemary Mint.
Down the drain my yesterday goes.
I watch it go. I wonder how long my back will carry the results of that massage therapist.
Around it goes. I realize the Broadway tunes are morphing in my ears’ memory. The catchy songs are unsticking or simply can’t be sung.
There it goes. I know tomorrow morning I will wake to the sound of my alarm again. I will open my garage to be reminded of how that new car got there. I will take that drive that I could do with my eyes closed … to work again. And on with life.
I twist the handles to stop the falling water. The last drops cling to each other and head to that place I’ve never seen. There is a silence that I haven’t heard in almost a week’s time. In the quiet I smile and think how happy I am to be able to lose these things. Glad to have had them at all.
I love New York.
The subway has been dug from my fingernails. Grit from handrails and metro cards all gone. I’m saddened by the thought that the Magnolia cupcake frosting has made its way out too.
My eyelids have been rubbed free of last night’s mascara. The ‘on the town’ lashes faded to ‘on the face’ smudging overnight. The dark remnants now replaced by an irritated red. A color that’s impossible to avoid with the heat of this water and the vigorous touch of erasure.
The scent from the spa shampoo washed back into my standard Rosemary Mint.
Down the drain my yesterday goes.
I watch it go. I wonder how long my back will carry the results of that massage therapist.
Around it goes. I realize the Broadway tunes are morphing in my ears’ memory. The catchy songs are unsticking or simply can’t be sung.
There it goes. I know tomorrow morning I will wake to the sound of my alarm again. I will open my garage to be reminded of how that new car got there. I will take that drive that I could do with my eyes closed … to work again. And on with life.
I twist the handles to stop the falling water. The last drops cling to each other and head to that place I’ve never seen. There is a silence that I haven’t heard in almost a week’s time. In the quiet I smile and think how happy I am to be able to lose these things. Glad to have had them at all.
I love New York.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Guts
I stopped writing because I was beginning to feel like an egomaniac. I needed a break from talking about myself. And the idea of subjecting other people to my blathering was making me sick.
I wasn’t sure when I’d write again. Maybe when something funny or exciting happened.
But today I write for me. Sitting at these keys always makes me structure my thoughts. I’m not talking intros and leads in and proper grammar. Some of my bad days and uninspiring days have ended up with the funniest writing. My own self-reflection often leads to the humor in life. Cause writing out my internal grumblings makes me realize how trivial it all is. Negatives are backspaced into positives. To have my problems staring back at me in type forces a change in perspective.
So here’s hoping….
It seemed this thing started with my own bad luck, but it may have started earlier and not ended there.
I will single handedly destroy every vehicle I come in contact with. I am dictating vehicular fate and the results aren’t pretty.
An hour in that wig led to my own bad luck. On Tuesday I get a call from the owner of the other vehicle that Peggy Bundy road in that night. My rescue ride called me saying that on her drive to work a ladder fell off a truck in front of her on the highway. The ladder politely stayed on the road, instead of through her windshield, and scrapped her undercarriage and flattened her tire.
I wasn’t sure when I’d write again. Maybe when something funny or exciting happened.
But today I write for me. Sitting at these keys always makes me structure my thoughts. I’m not talking intros and leads in and proper grammar. Some of my bad days and uninspiring days have ended up with the funniest writing. My own self-reflection often leads to the humor in life. Cause writing out my internal grumblings makes me realize how trivial it all is. Negatives are backspaced into positives. To have my problems staring back at me in type forces a change in perspective.
So here’s hoping….
The costume was perfect. All details were materialized. The essence was captured. I aimed for hilarity. I chose Peggy Bundy for the humor. For the nostalgia. My red wig became 2/3 of my silhouette. One word ... ridiculous. As the costume came together I realized I had an added bonus I wasn’t expecting… hotness. Somehow peach leopard print still has sex appeal. I embraced every ounce and set out for my night.
It’s strange to walk to your minivan dressed as a white trash character from the 80’s and somehow feel a little sass in your step. The hotness was paused as I climbed into the driver seat and my wig slammed into the door frame, dislodging the hair piece from its strategic position. Only a minor confidence hiccup. That was the first and last time I used the mirror in my sun visor.
Small bumps in the road pressed my towering hair into the roof of my car. Stop lights hung uneasily in the air. They were all looking. I know it. But there was one person that night that surely did not see Peg Bundy coming … the driver in the car that hit me. I started that night out thinking about the potentials of who may notice me. There were people that I was hoping to be seen by. Now, the only person that I wish would have seen Peggy Bundy is this dude. The dude that told me he was too busy looking for trick or treaters that he stopped watching the road. The guy that blindly turned left into oncoming traffic – that oncoming traffic being me.
When I saw that his car was no longer waiting at the stop sign and was on route into the side of my vehicle, the only thing I could think was …. Oh Shit, I’m wearing Peggy Bundy wig!
The humiliation of climbing out of my ruined vehicle dressed as Peggy Bundy didn’t seem tolerable. I decided that this was real life – not pretend Peggy Bundy life – and quickly pulled the red locks from atop my head. This was a serious moment and needed a serious face. Instead I exited my car looking… maybe like a hussy. That seemed easier to talk to a cop in.
The accident was left on the side of the road and my night went onto Halloween activities. I wasn’t shaken by the event. I said that’s life like I always do. I wasn’t mad. I didn’t cry. Instead, I went out and had a great time. Serious life can wait curbside.
I laid awake that night wondering how to deal with all of this before my 11 am shift on Sunday. I got to a workable point. The next two days I was figuring it all out. Talking to all the people that I needed to be talking to. Asking all the right questions. Getting myself all over town by bus. There was a plan; it was in motion and working like clockwork.
Somewhere in the last two days I have lost my ability to say ‘that’s life’ and let this roll off my back. Somewhere in the last two days I can’t find the humor in any of this. My ego can’t admit to being lost. I haven’t the slightest idea what to do and I hate asking for help. This whole process has made me grateful for the people that have given me advice and rides, but ultimately this whole thing has made me feel completely alone. There isn’t a single person in the Twin Cities that I feel guilt-free asking something of them. No one close enough to utilize “that’s what friends are for”. And frankly I can’t do this one alone. A sentence that is strange from the hands of a girl that does EVERYTHING alone.
I am ashamed at how bothered I am by the total loss of my car. I am embarrassed by the fact that I told my mom to fuck herself. Last night was the first time that I’ve gotten angry in a long, long time. I can honestly say that the last time I yelled at someone was in 2003. Those kind of emotions and reactions are a waste of time in this short life I have.
I write to rethink my situation.
Here’s what I’ve got…
I am a dangerous woman. I am bringing you all down with me.
It seemed this thing started with my own bad luck, but it may have started earlier and not ended there.
I will single handedly destroy every vehicle I come in contact with. I am dictating vehicular fate and the results aren’t pretty.
An hour in that wig led to my own bad luck. On Tuesday I get a call from the owner of the other vehicle that Peggy Bundy road in that night. My rescue ride called me saying that on her drive to work a ladder fell off a truck in front of her on the highway. The ladder politely stayed on the road, instead of through her windshield, and scrapped her undercarriage and flattened her tire.
I was convinced the red hair brought this fate upon us.
Last night, a friend took me to dinner. I did not even sit in her vehicle. Didn’t even see it. But this morning I get a text that she got a flat tire on the way into rehearsal.
Ok, it’s not the hair, it’s me.
Channeling back… I guess this could have started with my friend’s car that didn’t start as they left my house last week.
I wonder what other vehicles will be left in my wake.
Somehow I managed to get the rental car back without damage.
Seriously, dangerous, dangerous woman.
I will also say that I am surprisingly saddened by the passing away of my minivan. I actually liked driving that car. This summer it was filled to the top with all my favorite things. The seats were rarely inside. I needed the room for adventure instead.
Mostly, what I will miss was the humor of driving it. I loved people’s reactions to my driving that car. I loved people’s confusion and people’s laughter. I loved owning up to the fact that I actually liked it and all its soccer-mom glory. I wore t-shirts that declared my love for it. A normal car won’t carry those moments of laughter. I mean, what will it be like to have a blind date walk me to the door of a Honda Civic? I won’t be able to count on that laugh at the end of the night.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The Stagehand Experience
No, no. I'm not going to take you onstage with me. I'm about to go there myself in an hour's time.
Day to day I work alongside some grizzly men. The union guys that take our shifts are usually within the top 6 on the Saint Paul call list. They are guys that have been loading trucks, lifting weight and busting ass for thirty plus years. Dudes that have been physically crushed, teetering the brink of safety once or twice, and have sweat more than the average human. Some are giants and some are average size with the personality (or the self-disillusionment) of a giant.
They talk sports and late nights. They let me fake talk sports and allow my indefinite and noncommittal comments of "Yeah, Smith's had some kind of season, man".
Manly men, right? Definitely.
Unloading another midnight truck last night... I noticed a plastic bag sitting next to the crate of ratchet straps. That's a foreign object in that back of our truck. I had to peak inside. What I found... Well, I never thought I would find what I found in that back of our truck at midnight. I found a cabbage and a squash. My grizzly stage hands brought me vegetables freshly picked from the farm.
Of all the things that I could have found in that bag... so many would make sense... tools, clothes, even cookies makes sense. But Cabbage?
These men make me laugh. Their rough edges and their sensitivity has me in stitches nightly.
They notice every time I wear a new pair of shoes or jacket.
They are genuinely interested in where I got them and if I'm satisfied with my purchase.
They compliment me any time I get a haircut or am sporting a fresher face than normal.
They ask how my car is running and father me into conversations about changing the oil before I drive across state.
What a funny group of men I work with.
Day to day I work alongside some grizzly men. The union guys that take our shifts are usually within the top 6 on the Saint Paul call list. They are guys that have been loading trucks, lifting weight and busting ass for thirty plus years. Dudes that have been physically crushed, teetering the brink of safety once or twice, and have sweat more than the average human. Some are giants and some are average size with the personality (or the self-disillusionment) of a giant.
They talk sports and late nights. They let me fake talk sports and allow my indefinite and noncommittal comments of "Yeah, Smith's had some kind of season, man".
Manly men, right? Definitely.
Unloading another midnight truck last night... I noticed a plastic bag sitting next to the crate of ratchet straps. That's a foreign object in that back of our truck. I had to peak inside. What I found... Well, I never thought I would find what I found in that back of our truck at midnight. I found a cabbage and a squash. My grizzly stage hands brought me vegetables freshly picked from the farm.
Of all the things that I could have found in that bag... so many would make sense... tools, clothes, even cookies makes sense. But Cabbage?
These men make me laugh. Their rough edges and their sensitivity has me in stitches nightly.
They notice every time I wear a new pair of shoes or jacket.
They are genuinely interested in where I got them and if I'm satisfied with my purchase.
They compliment me any time I get a haircut or am sporting a fresher face than normal.
They ask how my car is running and father me into conversations about changing the oil before I drive across state.
What a funny group of men I work with.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Cupcake Ache
Hostess Cupcake at 5:00am = morning belly ache.
I blame my mom for the motivation.
And
I blame my dad for facilitating.
Hostess Cupcake will always remind me of the house I grew up in. The nostalgia outweighs the actual taste experience. Every so often a box would show up from my dad's truck. That house on 58th Street has stopped stocking the treats. But every so often, a weakness takes hold and I hear of the rare cupcake indulgence. In fact, I clearly remember an occasion where the urge was so strong that when the cupcake arrived, my mother cut my telephone conversation short. Mid sentence she interrupted me with a "Well, I'm going to have a hostess". That night I lost the attention battle to a cupcake.
I stopped at a gas station during my last long drive and headed indoors for some sugar to get me through. Craving a soft, chocolaty parcel ... I thought of Mom and knew what I was looking for. Nonexistent. Disappointed. I somehow lost to a cupcake again. I admitted my hostess failure to my mom later.
My dad comes up last night bearing a scanner and a printer that I won't have the luck of compatibility with, I'm sure... and .... a box of hostess cupcakes. Not sleeping on my tiny couch left me up and wondering at various points of the night. At 5:00am that box seemed like a good idea. How do I keep losing to deserts?
I blame my mom for the motivation.
And
I blame my dad for facilitating.
Hostess Cupcake will always remind me of the house I grew up in. The nostalgia outweighs the actual taste experience. Every so often a box would show up from my dad's truck. That house on 58th Street has stopped stocking the treats. But every so often, a weakness takes hold and I hear of the rare cupcake indulgence. In fact, I clearly remember an occasion where the urge was so strong that when the cupcake arrived, my mother cut my telephone conversation short. Mid sentence she interrupted me with a "Well, I'm going to have a hostess". That night I lost the attention battle to a cupcake.
I stopped at a gas station during my last long drive and headed indoors for some sugar to get me through. Craving a soft, chocolaty parcel ... I thought of Mom and knew what I was looking for. Nonexistent. Disappointed. I somehow lost to a cupcake again. I admitted my hostess failure to my mom later.
My dad comes up last night bearing a scanner and a printer that I won't have the luck of compatibility with, I'm sure... and .... a box of hostess cupcakes. Not sleeping on my tiny couch left me up and wondering at various points of the night. At 5:00am that box seemed like a good idea. How do I keep losing to deserts?
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Literal art
Bringing those pieces into work yesterday for scanning purposes made me throw them in the most sensible place ... my art portfolio for transport. Since I had it open and sprawled all over the floor, I started looking through the drawings I did in an art class long, long ago... college. Most assignments show visible signs of disinterest. There are a few where I obviously just made up objects in my head. I flipped pages quickly. Most not worth a minute of my time.
This one made me stop though. I can only assume the homework task we were given. Draw your family tree. Ok, I may have taken that too literally. I remember the fun I had with this piece and all the prep work that I did for it. I kept coming back with another layer. Anyway... Mom, don't be offended by the obvious meaning here. I love the crap out of you and will continue to call you every night whether you want to talk to me or not! But, no matter how much we love our families there are moments in life where your loved ones are supporting & strangling you at the same time.
This one made me stop though. I can only assume the homework task we were given. Draw your family tree. Ok, I may have taken that too literally. I remember the fun I had with this piece and all the prep work that I did for it. I kept coming back with another layer. Anyway... Mom, don't be offended by the obvious meaning here. I love the crap out of you and will continue to call you every night whether you want to talk to me or not! But, no matter how much we love our families there are moments in life where your loved ones are supporting & strangling you at the same time.
Cleaning Up My Act
I finally got my hands on a scanner for a bit. Check out Hello My Name is Simon and last month's Bi-Yearly Series for better pictures of the art I've been working on. I can no longer hide behind bad photography.
http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/10/hello-my-name-is-simon.html
http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/09/bi-yearly-series.html
http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/10/hello-my-name-is-simon.html
http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/09/bi-yearly-series.html
Favorite North Shore Hour
Illustrated story - Island Life
Hiking away from the overcrowded Lighthouse on Split Rock, the beacon of light gets farther and farther away and the tower gets smaller and smaller in size. Flat rocks, worn from the great lake current, clink together under foot. Taking a rest on a quiet rock bed, I start dreaming of what's ahead of me.
An island. Pristine in nature. Untouched by the tourists. They have seemed to thin as I make my way further from the main attraction.
The Island is begging me. The edge closest to shore taunts me with a shallow sandbar. The stones are few and mostly submerged in the bitter waters. With a naturally made bridge... how can I not? How can I see these stones and that island and not experience both? I start out with the first few and survey the surroundings. Best to step in between the rising waves. Briskly, but not too briskly. It's not until I get to the island that I spy the state sign claiming it a natural reserve and trespassing is forbidden. My socks are wet. I'm breaking the law.
I let my socks dry out in the sun. Sitting on the island that I wasn't supposed to be sitting on was the best thing I did that day. Far from the people that emerged from hiding to appreciate this sun that felt so new. Quiet aside from the wind whisking past my ears and the water crashing into rock. I sat with my thoughts and the sun on my face for a long time. I cross back to the mainland barefoot this time.
Convinced I am a total bad ass, when this low flying plane blows through, I assume it the DNR ready to arrest me. I make up a scenario where the woman that saw me cross, ran back to tattle on the reckloose heading for the island.
I loved this hour of my day.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Helping Hand
Long road trips always make me thankful for my crotch. Suddenly, the space between my legs becomes a versatile wonderland.
It's a place to warm my hands before the heater kicks in.
It's a cell phone holder when I am expecting a call and need to access the device safely, safely from my crotch.
Clenching my thighs turns the area into a bottle opener, for those stubborn screw tops.
My crotch becomes a nesting place for snacks that need consumption.
Basically, my crotch becomes an extra hand. A hand for the everyday tasks that require two. Everyday tasks that I probably shouldn't be trying to use my crotch as a substitute for.
I know I am not alone in my use of crotch while driving. It is a common and expected occurrence, but sometimes when I am conscious of using my crotch as a tool, I wonder what it looks like to the drivers passing me on the left.
That girl's hand is tucked between her legs... wonder what she's doing.
That girl is twisting something between her legs ... wonder what that is.
That girl is eating something she just found between her legs... wonder what it tastes like.
It's a place to warm my hands before the heater kicks in.
It's a cell phone holder when I am expecting a call and need to access the device safely, safely from my crotch.
Clenching my thighs turns the area into a bottle opener, for those stubborn screw tops.
My crotch becomes a nesting place for snacks that need consumption.
Basically, my crotch becomes an extra hand. A hand for the everyday tasks that require two. Everyday tasks that I probably shouldn't be trying to use my crotch as a substitute for.
I know I am not alone in my use of crotch while driving. It is a common and expected occurrence, but sometimes when I am conscious of using my crotch as a tool, I wonder what it looks like to the drivers passing me on the left.
That girl's hand is tucked between her legs... wonder what she's doing.
That girl is twisting something between her legs ... wonder what that is.
That girl is eating something she just found between her legs... wonder what it tastes like.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Yam Savvy
I’m convinced my complexion is a little orange (better than green with the ill that implies) with the five course meal I just consumed made entirely of sweet potato. It was Iron Chef with a yammy secret ingredient.
To tell you the truth, tonight was the first night that my plans pulled through this week. With a book club that I got kicked out of on Tuesday and a basketball game that I wasted tickets to on Wednesday, Thursday became the only night that ideas of grandeur became reality. Yeah, I just said that… ideas of grandeur i.e. spending the night cooking and eating a million different sweet potato concoctions. I knew what I was in for. Although, I’m not sure what I was thinking when I ate my left over butternut squash ravioli before going to this thing… Needless to say, I’m sufficiently sweeted-out. That’s a hard thing for me to do to myself! Impressive almost!
I walked into my cooking class a little apprehensive. When the chef made table-talk before things got started, I wasn’t having it. I don’t want to talk about what I’ve been cooking. I don’t know how to cook. Friends might say different, but I’m just really good at faking it. Just like when I played the clarinet in fourth grade.
On the Menu:
Parsley Sweet Potato Fries with Chipotle Aioli
Savory Mashed Sweet Potato with Cumin and Chives
Sweet Mashed Sweet Potato with Mascarpone and Candied Pecans
Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Blue Cheese and Sage
Sweet Potato Doughnuts
I am continually curious about aioli and am glad to have one under my belt. I already have big plans for the Savory Mashed. Once I can stomach the idea of eating more yams, I plan on layering it with black beans for delicious baked quesadillas. Freshly made guacamole required.
I’m excited to make the gnocchi at home. Somehow that dish is incredibly romantic to me. I don’t mean fancy food, eat on a date romantic (that too, I suppose), more so Romantic ideology. Heavy in pathos, artistry and expression. There is a reason why they are commonly referred to as ‘little pillows of heaven’. So beautiful.
I will never make doughnuts again in my lifetime. I can tell you that right now. Surprisingly tasty though.
I came home with second and third helpings of all that is orange. Somehow between leaving class and setting foot in my apartment, I managed to push all of my doughnuts onto friends and neighbors. Forcing mashed potatoes on them just seemed too aggressive. I can’t even think about my diet for the next few days… it may bring along that shade of green. Then I’d be a pumpkin!
P.S. Yams and Sweet Potato are terms used interchangeably, but one does not necessarily equal the other. “Real” yams are largely found in Africa and grow up to a hundred pounds. The hands of slavery picked a familiar root from southern US soil (the sweet potato) and relayed the yam status. Sweet Potatoes have white, firmer/drier varieties and varieties that push the color spectrum to purple. Basically, when you have a recipe for yams/sweet potatoes and the grocery stores has two things that look identical and labeled differently…. They are the same. In that case, you are just looking for the orange insides. May you never stare quizzically at these root vegetables again!
To tell you the truth, tonight was the first night that my plans pulled through this week. With a book club that I got kicked out of on Tuesday and a basketball game that I wasted tickets to on Wednesday, Thursday became the only night that ideas of grandeur became reality. Yeah, I just said that… ideas of grandeur i.e. spending the night cooking and eating a million different sweet potato concoctions. I knew what I was in for. Although, I’m not sure what I was thinking when I ate my left over butternut squash ravioli before going to this thing… Needless to say, I’m sufficiently sweeted-out. That’s a hard thing for me to do to myself! Impressive almost!
I walked into my cooking class a little apprehensive. When the chef made table-talk before things got started, I wasn’t having it. I don’t want to talk about what I’ve been cooking. I don’t know how to cook. Friends might say different, but I’m just really good at faking it. Just like when I played the clarinet in fourth grade.
On the Menu:
Parsley Sweet Potato Fries with Chipotle Aioli
Savory Mashed Sweet Potato with Cumin and Chives
Sweet Mashed Sweet Potato with Mascarpone and Candied Pecans
Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Blue Cheese and Sage
Sweet Potato Doughnuts
I am continually curious about aioli and am glad to have one under my belt. I already have big plans for the Savory Mashed. Once I can stomach the idea of eating more yams, I plan on layering it with black beans for delicious baked quesadillas. Freshly made guacamole required.
I’m excited to make the gnocchi at home. Somehow that dish is incredibly romantic to me. I don’t mean fancy food, eat on a date romantic (that too, I suppose), more so Romantic ideology. Heavy in pathos, artistry and expression. There is a reason why they are commonly referred to as ‘little pillows of heaven’. So beautiful.
I will never make doughnuts again in my lifetime. I can tell you that right now. Surprisingly tasty though.
I came home with second and third helpings of all that is orange. Somehow between leaving class and setting foot in my apartment, I managed to push all of my doughnuts onto friends and neighbors. Forcing mashed potatoes on them just seemed too aggressive. I can’t even think about my diet for the next few days… it may bring along that shade of green. Then I’d be a pumpkin!
P.S. Yams and Sweet Potato are terms used interchangeably, but one does not necessarily equal the other. “Real” yams are largely found in Africa and grow up to a hundred pounds. The hands of slavery picked a familiar root from southern US soil (the sweet potato) and relayed the yam status. Sweet Potatoes have white, firmer/drier varieties and varieties that push the color spectrum to purple. Basically, when you have a recipe for yams/sweet potatoes and the grocery stores has two things that look identical and labeled differently…. They are the same. In that case, you are just looking for the orange insides. May you never stare quizzically at these root vegetables again!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Special Delivery
I never get packages. I hardly get mail.
I walked through my front door this evening and glanced towards the gold mailboxes inlaid on the wall to my left. I can usually see slivers of paper product peaking through the metal slots. I have become so good at this guessing game that I can identify whether the mail inside is worth my time. Chances are it's Time Warner Cable's special offers and I'll let it sit in there for a few days. I consider it corporate punishment.
For some reason I took a second look at the small box wedged in the magazine holder. Mary Phelps? What the hell.
I dislodge the box and the contents are clear. Tampons.
What a unusual piece of promotional mail. A free sample addressed specifically to me. How the hell did Platex get my name? And why the hell have they been talking about my menstrual cycle? I think there is a period conspiracy going on here. You're all in on it, I'm sure... whispering to each other about my flow.
The puzzlement faded away to downright sympathy. My mailman must have had a tough day. Carrying around boxes of tampons for all the ladies of the world. That's farther on the humiliation spectrum than the girlfriend forced visit to the hygiene isle "just because you're out" situation. I feel sorry for any dude that's fell victim to that one. That isle is overwhelming to me and I know what all that stuff does.
Anyway, that is my story about becoming three tampons richer!
I walked through my front door this evening and glanced towards the gold mailboxes inlaid on the wall to my left. I can usually see slivers of paper product peaking through the metal slots. I have become so good at this guessing game that I can identify whether the mail inside is worth my time. Chances are it's Time Warner Cable's special offers and I'll let it sit in there for a few days. I consider it corporate punishment.
For some reason I took a second look at the small box wedged in the magazine holder. Mary Phelps? What the hell.
I dislodge the box and the contents are clear. Tampons.
What a unusual piece of promotional mail. A free sample addressed specifically to me. How the hell did Platex get my name? And why the hell have they been talking about my menstrual cycle? I think there is a period conspiracy going on here. You're all in on it, I'm sure... whispering to each other about my flow.
The puzzlement faded away to downright sympathy. My mailman must have had a tough day. Carrying around boxes of tampons for all the ladies of the world. That's farther on the humiliation spectrum than the girlfriend forced visit to the hygiene isle "just because you're out" situation. I feel sorry for any dude that's fell victim to that one. That isle is overwhelming to me and I know what all that stuff does.
Anyway, that is my story about becoming three tampons richer!
I give this guy credit for making tampon dolls and then hugging them.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
On Nothing
If you are looking to wax philosophy, I will fail you.
If you are eager for topical debate, I will shrug at your outbursts.
If you are hoping to swap facts and figures, I won’t have much to offer.
I like to talk about nothing. Always have. I would rather start every sentence not knowing how I was going to finish it. I would rather laugh at the crazy rhetoricals which result. I would rather pose questions than spew knowledge.
What’s so great about conversations on nothing is you never know where it will lead you. That unknown path can often times lead to my favorite activity – laughter. With political or topical discussion the route is predetermined. You know the issues that will be breached, because everyone else has laid these conversations out for us. There will be pointless agreement or disagreement that certainly won’t result in laughter. Well, not the fun laughter at least, maybe the awkward one-sided kind.
Maybe I like nothing because starting with nothing needs imagination to become something. Or maybe I just plain don’t got the smarts in me.
This nothingness has been on my mind quite a bit. I realized this vast nothingness has consumed more than just my speech. It has reached into the spirit of my writing and is slowly encroaching on the art my hands produce.
I write about everyday nothingness because I refuse to write about life-isms. I have no right to tell anyone how to live their life and won’t try. I won’t pretend I have things figured out. Along with the life-isms that pepper FAR too many blogs out there, I am also resistant to the life-hard-isms. When it comes down to it, we all have the same problems and I know I don’t want to be reminded of mine through someone’s daily writing. Comfort in relate ability is one thing. Listening to an ongoing internal nagging narrative is another. If I succumb to either of these in my writing on a frequent basis, will someone PLEASE tell me to shut my whining yap! But I will cover my ass here and say, please don’t throw that back into my face as hypocritical if I have the rare bad day blues. I’m having a bad day - be cool, man!
Tangent! What I wanted to get at is that most of my writing is based on a 15 second blip of life that day. They are all freeze frames of my life. They are nothing special. Not weighted with significance. This blog has become a collection of my simple pleasures.
I will say, somewhat off topically, that if I ever write a book (which is something I never, ever considered until recently) I will title it the same as this entry. On Nothing. So don’t go stealing it you thieving bastards!
Lastly, my art has gotten a dose of this nothingness too. The nothing in my drawings has always been apparent in my play with negative space. I like the idea of drawing as little as I can and the emptiness fills in the rest of the lines for me. That nothing becomes something when the brain automatically connects two lines that lay on the same plane. Or maybe I am just lazy and want to draw as little as possible. That is probably best for all observing parties.
Ok, I am sufficiently bored by my own nothing, it has become too much of a something. I am moving onto rousing my sleeping leg with a brief polka interlude towards my dirtied dishes.
If you are eager for topical debate, I will shrug at your outbursts.
If you are hoping to swap facts and figures, I won’t have much to offer.
I like to talk about nothing. Always have. I would rather start every sentence not knowing how I was going to finish it. I would rather laugh at the crazy rhetoricals which result. I would rather pose questions than spew knowledge.
What’s so great about conversations on nothing is you never know where it will lead you. That unknown path can often times lead to my favorite activity – laughter. With political or topical discussion the route is predetermined. You know the issues that will be breached, because everyone else has laid these conversations out for us. There will be pointless agreement or disagreement that certainly won’t result in laughter. Well, not the fun laughter at least, maybe the awkward one-sided kind.
Maybe I like nothing because starting with nothing needs imagination to become something. Or maybe I just plain don’t got the smarts in me.
This nothingness has been on my mind quite a bit. I realized this vast nothingness has consumed more than just my speech. It has reached into the spirit of my writing and is slowly encroaching on the art my hands produce.
I write about everyday nothingness because I refuse to write about life-isms. I have no right to tell anyone how to live their life and won’t try. I won’t pretend I have things figured out. Along with the life-isms that pepper FAR too many blogs out there, I am also resistant to the life-hard-isms. When it comes down to it, we all have the same problems and I know I don’t want to be reminded of mine through someone’s daily writing. Comfort in relate ability is one thing. Listening to an ongoing internal nagging narrative is another. If I succumb to either of these in my writing on a frequent basis, will someone PLEASE tell me to shut my whining yap! But I will cover my ass here and say, please don’t throw that back into my face as hypocritical if I have the rare bad day blues. I’m having a bad day - be cool, man!
Tangent! What I wanted to get at is that most of my writing is based on a 15 second blip of life that day. They are all freeze frames of my life. They are nothing special. Not weighted with significance. This blog has become a collection of my simple pleasures.
I will say, somewhat off topically, that if I ever write a book (which is something I never, ever considered until recently) I will title it the same as this entry. On Nothing. So don’t go stealing it you thieving bastards!
Lastly, my art has gotten a dose of this nothingness too. The nothing in my drawings has always been apparent in my play with negative space. I like the idea of drawing as little as I can and the emptiness fills in the rest of the lines for me. That nothing becomes something when the brain automatically connects two lines that lay on the same plane. Or maybe I am just lazy and want to draw as little as possible. That is probably best for all observing parties.
Ok, I am sufficiently bored by my own nothing, it has become too much of a something. I am moving onto rousing my sleeping leg with a brief polka interlude towards my dirtied dishes.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Sensitive Soul
It was one of those Sundays where I had to give up an hour of my day to go unload a truck full of instruments. It’s hard to plan your day around such a short shift, but I prefer it to the Saturday nights that I go in at 10:30 at night. Those nights I give up on fun before it can even begin.
Each Sunday, after circling for a parking spot (I swear there are more cars in downtown Saint Paul than there are people), I walk into the main entrance of my building and head straight for the security desk. What I am looking for is the bird’s eye view on the loading dock and whether our big black truck has already lowered its hydraulics.
No truck yet. I run upstairs to grab the road chairs and stands that we had to ditch due to space constraints last week. I take the two loads down the freight and as I’m bailing the cargo I hear the garage door open. Perfect timing.
My co-worker and I can be caught in moments that only siblings know how to have. We can get sassy, snarky and snippy with each other, only to follow it up with a sly sideways smirk. Sometimes we shove. Sometimes we give nuggies. Sometimes we hear “Children! Behave!” The behavior is a direct result of the long hours we spend together and our attempt to keep it entertaining every minute.
Sunday I came through the garage door to see him inside the truck rolling the next trunk onto the lift gate. I take the appropriate place at the lip of the lift and grab hold of the handle that just rolled up to my face. That day it was beyond snarky, that day a nerve was hit.
A new stagehand (well, new to me) was on the ground rolling the carts indoors with me. I was introduced to Don as being the one that does “all the little stuff in SPCO Center”. Nail sufficiently driven through the ego. A pile driver delivering the blow. I shot back with a tongue that mostly my family knows, “Wow, thanks for belittling me”. He caught that nerve because it’s how I’ve been feeling about my job these days, where more and more of the big production has been getting taken away from me (because they suck, not because I suck). This story actually goes somewhere else, not pity-work-party.
Just as quickly as I responded, he shot back, “ Geeze, you’re so sensitive!” I quickly laughed at how caught up in that sentence I got. I shook the serious out and said, “Sensitive is not usually a word people use to describe me.” True. I can recall more times I have been deemed insensitive over its antonym. I remember times when I’ve told whining men to use their big boy voices (which doesn’t go over well in a relationship, FYI). There’s a reason why my sister always says I’m the ‘dude’ in relationships. Now, I’m not trying to sound bad-ass, tough guy. It’s really not about being cool or hard, I just figure life is too short to spend it upset. I have my emotional moments like anyone does. But for being a dainty person, I’m pretty sure my thick skin makes up 70% of my body mass index.
Skip ahead to today. Skip with me now. Left, right, left. That’s right!
Insert another repetitive description of my occupational commute. Almost home with one stop light left to sit through. Brain is wondering again and suddenly my sinuses clear and start to burn. My eyesight gets a little blurry. I slammed into an emotional thought. A car accident in a way. It wasn’t of the self-depreciating variety. It wasn’t traumatic or problematic. It was a simple sadness that struck hard and fast. Before the moisture in my eyes could produce a tear, I snapped back into the reality of my minivan. As fast as it had come, it had gone away. I hadn’t had a moment like that in a long time. A moment where nothing exists but pure emotion. I laughed at myself and likened the experience to getting hit in the face with a basketball.
Then I came home and cooked the shit out of today. Mmmmm…
Each Sunday, after circling for a parking spot (I swear there are more cars in downtown Saint Paul than there are people), I walk into the main entrance of my building and head straight for the security desk. What I am looking for is the bird’s eye view on the loading dock and whether our big black truck has already lowered its hydraulics.
No truck yet. I run upstairs to grab the road chairs and stands that we had to ditch due to space constraints last week. I take the two loads down the freight and as I’m bailing the cargo I hear the garage door open. Perfect timing.
My co-worker and I can be caught in moments that only siblings know how to have. We can get sassy, snarky and snippy with each other, only to follow it up with a sly sideways smirk. Sometimes we shove. Sometimes we give nuggies. Sometimes we hear “Children! Behave!” The behavior is a direct result of the long hours we spend together and our attempt to keep it entertaining every minute.
Sunday I came through the garage door to see him inside the truck rolling the next trunk onto the lift gate. I take the appropriate place at the lip of the lift and grab hold of the handle that just rolled up to my face. That day it was beyond snarky, that day a nerve was hit.
A new stagehand (well, new to me) was on the ground rolling the carts indoors with me. I was introduced to Don as being the one that does “all the little stuff in SPCO Center”. Nail sufficiently driven through the ego. A pile driver delivering the blow. I shot back with a tongue that mostly my family knows, “Wow, thanks for belittling me”. He caught that nerve because it’s how I’ve been feeling about my job these days, where more and more of the big production has been getting taken away from me (because they suck, not because I suck). This story actually goes somewhere else, not pity-work-party.
Just as quickly as I responded, he shot back, “ Geeze, you’re so sensitive!” I quickly laughed at how caught up in that sentence I got. I shook the serious out and said, “Sensitive is not usually a word people use to describe me.” True. I can recall more times I have been deemed insensitive over its antonym. I remember times when I’ve told whining men to use their big boy voices (which doesn’t go over well in a relationship, FYI). There’s a reason why my sister always says I’m the ‘dude’ in relationships. Now, I’m not trying to sound bad-ass, tough guy. It’s really not about being cool or hard, I just figure life is too short to spend it upset. I have my emotional moments like anyone does. But for being a dainty person, I’m pretty sure my thick skin makes up 70% of my body mass index.
Skip ahead to today. Skip with me now. Left, right, left. That’s right!
Insert another repetitive description of my occupational commute. Almost home with one stop light left to sit through. Brain is wondering again and suddenly my sinuses clear and start to burn. My eyesight gets a little blurry. I slammed into an emotional thought. A car accident in a way. It wasn’t of the self-depreciating variety. It wasn’t traumatic or problematic. It was a simple sadness that struck hard and fast. Before the moisture in my eyes could produce a tear, I snapped back into the reality of my minivan. As fast as it had come, it had gone away. I hadn’t had a moment like that in a long time. A moment where nothing exists but pure emotion. I laughed at myself and likened the experience to getting hit in the face with a basketball.
Then I came home and cooked the shit out of today. Mmmmm…
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Hello my name is Simon...
... and I like to do drawings!
I drew this one in six strokes.
Something productive came out of that meeting at work yesterday. Once I gave up faking interest, I started doodling on my post-it notes. I came home and unburied the art supplies I had just days before packed away. I started drawing, unaware of time and forgot to go out on a Saturday night.
Cool Guy High-Five!
I drew this one in six strokes.
Something productive came out of that meeting at work yesterday. Once I gave up faking interest, I started doodling on my post-it notes. I came home and unburied the art supplies I had just days before packed away. I started drawing, unaware of time and forgot to go out on a Saturday night.
Cool Guy High-Five!
Several more worthy doodles came from that meeting. Hopefully, they will be coming along soon.
What the hell am I going to do with all of these?
What the hell am I going to do with all of these?
Saturday, October 10, 2009
8:00am Pie
I successfully talked myself out of every routine minute of my morning.
With a quick turn over between last night's shift and this mornings, I still had every ambition to show up to work - clean, fresh faced, fed and cheerful.
I set my alarm for 7:00am. That gives me 40 minutes of prep time and 20 to get to work by the dreadful Saturday morning hour of 8:00.
The first 5 minutes is slotted for lying in bed. It is important that this activity be done without the snooze button. I hate the snooze button. This is usually an easy time allotment to honor. I can always lie in bed for five more minutes. The reason I failed this one is because I went well beyond my limit.
From 7:05 - 7:20 I am usually falling asleep in the shower and forgetting what step I am on in the body cleansing process. I never get out of the shower until the room is properly steamed and the fingers are sufficiently pruned. I managed to excuse myself from this process all together. Sleep sounded more important than smelling nicely for our board members.
Then there is usually 10 minutes for dress and the rest.
The ten minutes before locking my backdoor is always left for breakfast. Something will be in my belly before I touch that doorknob.
I talked myself out of that one with dreams of the food stocked in the fridge at work. I knew there were fruit and pastries left over from last night's event. That seemed like a time saving idea to eat when I got to work. Or perhaps a fruitful idea (lucrative not grapes, well actually lucrative with grapes) to eat on company time.
Content on giving up my morning routine. When the alarm went off at 7:00, I reset it for 7:40.
I will admit that the extra forty minutes did not equate to forty more winks. Instead, I lay in bed analyzing all the sounds around me.
The woman staying in the efficiency on the other side of my bedroom wall woke up at her usual 6:30. I could tell by the sound of her cutlery clinking in the sink that she was washing her morning cereal bowl and spoon. It gave me comfort that she skipped the shower this morning too.
I could hear the long forgotten sound of ice scrapers against a windshield outside. I thought, "Damn, frost." I came to realize how wrong I was as I made my way down the back steps towards my garage. "Awww, snow" replaced my vulgarity. I love the first snow. I love snow in general. But it is weird to see snow covering the tomato plants that are still bearing fruit. I wish I had my camera on my way into work. There were so many flower beds dusted with a white sprinkle. Their vibrant colors poking out underneth. I didn't end up with photographs. I ended up with a slippery drive, gliding across an entire bridge span and dove tailing on black ice. MN better grow its version of sea legs quickly.
Most of the forty minutes were spent thinking about pumpkin pie. I went for the apple last night and regretted it even before I took a bite. I pictured all three pies, stacked in the fridge. I wondered if I'd settle for a pre-cut piece or if I'd be rationing my own portions. Who am I kidding? I'll be cutting my own slice. I can't wait to eat this pie. I have to sit in a 4 hour meeting now. Not having the chance to indulge in my pie fantasy yet... I will be tortured with the thought of that pumpkin pie in the room next door for far too long.
At least they will be sweet dreams over dry conversation...
![]()
With a quick turn over between last night's shift and this mornings, I still had every ambition to show up to work - clean, fresh faced, fed and cheerful.
I set my alarm for 7:00am. That gives me 40 minutes of prep time and 20 to get to work by the dreadful Saturday morning hour of 8:00.
The first 5 minutes is slotted for lying in bed. It is important that this activity be done without the snooze button. I hate the snooze button. This is usually an easy time allotment to honor. I can always lie in bed for five more minutes. The reason I failed this one is because I went well beyond my limit.
From 7:05 - 7:20 I am usually falling asleep in the shower and forgetting what step I am on in the body cleansing process. I never get out of the shower until the room is properly steamed and the fingers are sufficiently pruned. I managed to excuse myself from this process all together. Sleep sounded more important than smelling nicely for our board members.
Then there is usually 10 minutes for dress and the rest.
The ten minutes before locking my backdoor is always left for breakfast. Something will be in my belly before I touch that doorknob.
I talked myself out of that one with dreams of the food stocked in the fridge at work. I knew there were fruit and pastries left over from last night's event. That seemed like a time saving idea to eat when I got to work. Or perhaps a fruitful idea (lucrative not grapes, well actually lucrative with grapes) to eat on company time.
Content on giving up my morning routine. When the alarm went off at 7:00, I reset it for 7:40.
I will admit that the extra forty minutes did not equate to forty more winks. Instead, I lay in bed analyzing all the sounds around me.
The woman staying in the efficiency on the other side of my bedroom wall woke up at her usual 6:30. I could tell by the sound of her cutlery clinking in the sink that she was washing her morning cereal bowl and spoon. It gave me comfort that she skipped the shower this morning too.
I could hear the long forgotten sound of ice scrapers against a windshield outside. I thought, "Damn, frost." I came to realize how wrong I was as I made my way down the back steps towards my garage. "Awww, snow" replaced my vulgarity. I love the first snow. I love snow in general. But it is weird to see snow covering the tomato plants that are still bearing fruit. I wish I had my camera on my way into work. There were so many flower beds dusted with a white sprinkle. Their vibrant colors poking out underneth. I didn't end up with photographs. I ended up with a slippery drive, gliding across an entire bridge span and dove tailing on black ice. MN better grow its version of sea legs quickly.
Most of the forty minutes were spent thinking about pumpkin pie. I went for the apple last night and regretted it even before I took a bite. I pictured all three pies, stacked in the fridge. I wondered if I'd settle for a pre-cut piece or if I'd be rationing my own portions. Who am I kidding? I'll be cutting my own slice. I can't wait to eat this pie. I have to sit in a 4 hour meeting now. Not having the chance to indulge in my pie fantasy yet... I will be tortured with the thought of that pumpkin pie in the room next door for far too long.
At least they will be sweet dreams over dry conversation...
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Fortune Telling
I walked into my house at exactly 11:30.
30 minutes prior I was chatting up half of the band at the bar.
This brain of mine.
30 minutes prior I was chatting up half of the band at the bar.
This brain of mine.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Microwaved Mammals
I bought a tasty artisan bread a few days ago that I haven' had a reason to cut into yet. A while back I learned the trick of keeping good breads in the microwave to prevent them going stale. It is an amazing trick!
A couple days have passed. No memory of grocery stores or time I might have had to do that chore.
Tonight, with a short stop home between work and the concert of my life.... I pop open the box of radiation to quickly warm a bite. The door swung open and I thought there was a mammal in my microwave! I seriously flashbacked my memory to any instances of vermin or pets that may explain a now-dead-usually-living creature. I couldn't think of anything to explain it.
Mmmm... rosemary bread.
This brain of mine.
It is possible I will be writing again from my usual post-show high. Especially with the early show. I love early shows cause I'm an old lady at heart. But.... I do have tomorrow off. I may need to party with the band... in which case I will be home by 11:30.
A couple days have passed. No memory of grocery stores or time I might have had to do that chore.
Tonight, with a short stop home between work and the concert of my life.... I pop open the box of radiation to quickly warm a bite. The door swung open and I thought there was a mammal in my microwave! I seriously flashbacked my memory to any instances of vermin or pets that may explain a now-dead-usually-living creature. I couldn't think of anything to explain it.
Mmmm... rosemary bread.
This brain of mine.
It is possible I will be writing again from my usual post-show high. Especially with the early show. I love early shows cause I'm an old lady at heart. But.... I do have tomorrow off. I may need to party with the band... in which case I will be home by 11:30.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Hot Air
My cheeks hurt from laughing.
I came home with a balloon sculpted rainbow.
I popped the rainbow.
I don't think I am meant to have happiness.
What a fun night.
***What a terribly lazy writer I have become. Really, what terribly little time I have had to tell my tales***
A birthday Vikings/Packer game had me and my favorite middle aged friends in stitches and on the edge of our bar stools all night.
We pile into Halftime Rec and the night started with a whip. Literally. There were amateur Whip Artists (?) there. I bet there is a name for these whippers. Myself and my other female partner admitted our curiousity to each other, but reluctantly refused to try the whip for it's obvious comments from the grizzly, stage hand crew we were in the company of that night.
The night proceeded with food, laughter, drinks, sports, and balloon creations.
![]()
Birthday boy in his birthday hat.
Also photographed, birthday guest in vikings hat.
![]()
![]()
![]()
I came home with a balloon sculpted rainbow.
I popped the rainbow.
I don't think I am meant to have happiness.
What a fun night.
***What a terribly lazy writer I have become. Really, what terribly little time I have had to tell my tales***
A birthday Vikings/Packer game had me and my favorite middle aged friends in stitches and on the edge of our bar stools all night.
We pile into Halftime Rec and the night started with a whip. Literally. There were amateur Whip Artists (?) there. I bet there is a name for these whippers. Myself and my other female partner admitted our curiousity to each other, but reluctantly refused to try the whip for it's obvious comments from the grizzly, stage hand crew we were in the company of that night.
The night proceeded with food, laughter, drinks, sports, and balloon creations.
Birthday boy in his birthday hat.
Also photographed, birthday guest in vikings hat.
The only true Packers fan got shamed with a Green and Gold helmet. The downside - she couldn't watch the game, the upside - she couldn't see her own loss.
Somehow I ended up with a rainbow. I thought it would be funny to be sad inside a symbol of happiness. Until this happened:
My happiness is fucked! My happiness is a pile of rainbow vomit spewed all over my marble floors. It still sits there to this day.
Summer Goodbye
Sundresses are hung,
In the closet with care.
Wish I had a reason,
To get them out of there.
In the closet with care.
Wish I had a reason,
To get them out of there.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Table Talk
Sitting at my kitchen table and eating a tasty falafel, I notice the weird collection of stuff that has come to clutter this marble surface. I wondered what it said about me. The breakdown:
Just beyond my tinfoil crumpling and dill drippings lies my first generation iPod. The battery is dead, of course. Old and unimpressive, sad in battery life and unable to store my full library anymore. It’s the most useless frequently used technology I own.
Next to my left elbow is my Leatherman. That was my attempt at getting it back into my purse where it belongs. It only made it this far.
There is a glass of water because there is always a glass of water within arm’s reach.
Next to that glass of water is a fancy small bottle of Acqua Panna. I wonder if I will ever drink that fancy bottle of water. It seems like special occasion water. Don’t ask how it got to my table.
Straight ahead of me there lies the deflated bladder to my CamelBak. My sister hates when I call it a bladder. She probably cringed and crossed her legs when she read that sentence.
Near the window side of this circular table is a healthy African violet that never blooms.
Towering above the violet is a newly obtained Orchid. Its flowers keep opening. I wonder if I can encourage growth.
A half eaten bar of organic, fair trade chocolate waits there, tempting me.
The center of the table carries a bottle of good old fashioned Elmer’s glue. Nothing but the best.
I have a stolen conch shell sitting here too. Yes, stolen. I am practicing my Caribbean calls. Or at least, trying to get to a point where I can respond to my neighbor’s nightly 9:30 tuba practice.
There is a wooden tray from my travels to Belize that has a few Sharpies and Minnesota Opera post-it notes thrown across its dark grain.
My Canon PowerShot rests inside its red leather case. That battery has also been drained with use.
A banana takes up a few inches of space. A banana that I just bought at a restaurant. Yeah, I’m the sucker that buys bananas at restaurants.
That random sampling of objects somehow sums my life up pretty well. It has my hobbies, my lifestyle, my successes and failures, my pleasures and over indulgences, my work and my play. Or maybe I just need to clean house.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Crowd Mentality
Sometimes it is easy for my self-conscious to dig itself into a hole when surrounded by a group of strangers, but it isn't long before one single stranger can have me scrambling back up to the surface.
Last night, single ticket in hand again, was the first time I considered eating the $20 bucks I spent on Grizzly Bear. For a second after work I didn't think these feet would start moving again. I refused to let myself down and knew that once I got there it would be great. The show would be great.
I go. But I go with the baggage of uncertainty. Which is a heavy bag to carry entering a room full of strangers. I find my usual spot along the railing upstairs (I've admitted to my height and refuse to stare at someone's neck all night, though I am considering buying the most ridiculous pair of platform shoes solely for concert going). People watching is what gets me through until the talent is ready. I love me some people watching at concerts. The dim lighting at First Ave lets me do it unabashedly too. Checking out everyone and their moms, you notice certain things. You notice everyone donned their 'going-out' style. Everyone is with their friends screaming to each other over the conversations happening next door. The amount of 'cool kids' and the amount of 'not cool kids' that still managed to show up with friends ... starting gnawing at my brain.
There I am, in my dirty work jeans and hoodie. There to hear music, not bat my eyelashes. Taking the solo wide stance in an effort not to be encroached upon. Thankfully, the shortest of shorties comes along around 10:00 and squeezes next to me. This girl proceeded to bore the fun right out of me. I don't know how the dude she was with kept up with his "That's hilarious" and "You're so funny" 's during her twenty minute story about figure skating. I don't know how people are willing to feign interest. Man, I hope that guy got laid for his efforts.
This was also around the time I was put into a trance by BeachHouse and exploring some crazy rhetorical thoughts. The sea of heads below all had the categorical male cow-lick. I started thinking women need to represent and start loving themselves some music. All the concerts I've been to lately have been 85% wiener. Pondering that moved me into mind-blowing territory. I started thinking about how that guy with the shaved head and stretched ear lobes probably lives in the green house on 26th and Emerson. That all these people exist in my same world and we were bound to cross paths. Eating in the same restaurants. Walking down the same streets. I wondered how many I serviced in my customer service days. I later recognized one of my customer crushes from back in the day... so I know there was at least one.
I needed to stop this thinking and BeachHouse needed to quit with the spacey music.
Once I put my Boredom Blinders on. I was gold. I heard nothing but the sweet, sweet music. My ease dropping (shut up, don't pretend you are above it) reminded me that this mass of people surrounding me was just a bunch of individuals - the nerds, cool kids, boring-ass McGee's, and dirty-ass-solo-rocking Me's.
Last night, single ticket in hand again, was the first time I considered eating the $20 bucks I spent on Grizzly Bear. For a second after work I didn't think these feet would start moving again. I refused to let myself down and knew that once I got there it would be great. The show would be great.
I go. But I go with the baggage of uncertainty. Which is a heavy bag to carry entering a room full of strangers. I find my usual spot along the railing upstairs (I've admitted to my height and refuse to stare at someone's neck all night, though I am considering buying the most ridiculous pair of platform shoes solely for concert going). People watching is what gets me through until the talent is ready. I love me some people watching at concerts. The dim lighting at First Ave lets me do it unabashedly too. Checking out everyone and their moms, you notice certain things. You notice everyone donned their 'going-out' style. Everyone is with their friends screaming to each other over the conversations happening next door. The amount of 'cool kids' and the amount of 'not cool kids' that still managed to show up with friends ... starting gnawing at my brain.
There I am, in my dirty work jeans and hoodie. There to hear music, not bat my eyelashes. Taking the solo wide stance in an effort not to be encroached upon. Thankfully, the shortest of shorties comes along around 10:00 and squeezes next to me. This girl proceeded to bore the fun right out of me. I don't know how the dude she was with kept up with his "That's hilarious" and "You're so funny" 's during her twenty minute story about figure skating. I don't know how people are willing to feign interest. Man, I hope that guy got laid for his efforts.
This was also around the time I was put into a trance by BeachHouse and exploring some crazy rhetorical thoughts. The sea of heads below all had the categorical male cow-lick. I started thinking women need to represent and start loving themselves some music. All the concerts I've been to lately have been 85% wiener. Pondering that moved me into mind-blowing territory. I started thinking about how that guy with the shaved head and stretched ear lobes probably lives in the green house on 26th and Emerson. That all these people exist in my same world and we were bound to cross paths. Eating in the same restaurants. Walking down the same streets. I wondered how many I serviced in my customer service days. I later recognized one of my customer crushes from back in the day... so I know there was at least one.
I needed to stop this thinking and BeachHouse needed to quit with the spacey music.
Once I put my Boredom Blinders on. I was gold. I heard nothing but the sweet, sweet music. My ease dropping (shut up, don't pretend you are above it) reminded me that this mass of people surrounding me was just a bunch of individuals - the nerds, cool kids, boring-ass McGee's, and dirty-ass-solo-rocking Me's.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Morning Nugget
My drive into work was just like any other. Well except that I had to turn the heat on. And I had to stop for gas. And it was 20 minutes later than I usually make the journey. I guess, what I am saying was that my drive into work was different than most mornings.
The usual exit, though, towards work - I climb the hill on the Kellogg exit and am stopped by the light. Sitting there idling, I check the clock. 5 minutes to 9:00am. I better make it to the parking lot before the rates change from bad to atrocious. I know I'll make it. I always do. Waiting at the light a man is guided across the street by the white painted dash lines. He's abiding the crosswalk perimeters but something is funny about this one. What is funny is that he is starring me down with crazy eyes. The 10 feet that it takes to clear my front end he doesn't take his eyes off of me for a second. He even turns as he passes to avoid giving me his back. Walking backwards away from me now.
The 30 seconds it took for him to cross my path, all I could do is stare back and wonder what the hell that guy was thinking. Something crazy, I'm sure. It wasn't the kind of inquisitive look you give if you think you know someone. It surely wasn't the eyes you give to someone you are attracted to. It was the look that says, "What the fuck is happening here?".
It occurred to me as I drove towards my $7/day parking lot that this was the image that crazy eyed man saw:
A figure in a dark hoodie. The hood is pulled up over their head, leaving the face in shadow. Over the sweatshirt is a zipped up, down filled puma vest. The music from the speakers of the vehicle is undoubtedly bleeding into the streets. The driver sits with one arm over the steering wheel, letting their wrist maneuver the car. They sit in a white minivan.
His ass thought I stole my car.
Or he was high and thought I was the smoke monster.
The usual exit, though, towards work - I climb the hill on the Kellogg exit and am stopped by the light. Sitting there idling, I check the clock. 5 minutes to 9:00am. I better make it to the parking lot before the rates change from bad to atrocious. I know I'll make it. I always do. Waiting at the light a man is guided across the street by the white painted dash lines. He's abiding the crosswalk perimeters but something is funny about this one. What is funny is that he is starring me down with crazy eyes. The 10 feet that it takes to clear my front end he doesn't take his eyes off of me for a second. He even turns as he passes to avoid giving me his back. Walking backwards away from me now.
The 30 seconds it took for him to cross my path, all I could do is stare back and wonder what the hell that guy was thinking. Something crazy, I'm sure. It wasn't the kind of inquisitive look you give if you think you know someone. It surely wasn't the eyes you give to someone you are attracted to. It was the look that says, "What the fuck is happening here?".
It occurred to me as I drove towards my $7/day parking lot that this was the image that crazy eyed man saw:
A figure in a dark hoodie. The hood is pulled up over their head, leaving the face in shadow. Over the sweatshirt is a zipped up, down filled puma vest. The music from the speakers of the vehicle is undoubtedly bleeding into the streets. The driver sits with one arm over the steering wheel, letting their wrist maneuver the car. They sit in a white minivan.
His ass thought I stole my car.
Or he was high and thought I was the smoke monster.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Unknown
Dear Unknown Number,
Next time you dial my number, will you please leave a message? Each time it tells me I missed your call, my stomach turns into nervous knots at the knowledge of who you potentially could be. I promise I won't be mad if you are a telemarketer. In fact, I will kiss you if you are a telemarketer.
Love always (is that an appropriate goodbye for you?),
Mary
Next time you dial my number, will you please leave a message? Each time it tells me I missed your call, my stomach turns into nervous knots at the knowledge of who you potentially could be. I promise I won't be mad if you are a telemarketer. In fact, I will kiss you if you are a telemarketer.
Love always (is that an appropriate goodbye for you?),
Mary
Monday, September 28, 2009
Bi-Yearly Series
I got caught up in a mess tonight. A fun mess.
Came home and thought I'd have a relaxing night by the fire... who knew the wood smoke would make me so productive. I went through 3 months of neglected mail, did some filing, renewed my tabs, started cleaning out the closets, wrote some checks, wrote some thank you cards. The Thank You's is what started the mess.
A doodle gone mad.
Inspiration.
Back to the closet.
Art supplies needed.
Mess to be made.
Someone close to me will be recieving a card with the original of this finished product. You will have to pretend it is a surprise and then hang it on your fridge as if it's worth something.
Visitors in my apartment usually notice the first of these drawings. In fact, it's usually the only piece of my own (among like 20 throughout my apartment [what a narcissist]) that gets complimented. I'll include all three of what has come to be a Bi-Yearly Series.
#1 Simple Hello
So sorry to ignore the ongoing narrative in my head tonight. I was hearing illustrations instead.
Maybe tomorrow I will tell you about how I continue to hike to nowhere in this place called Minnesota and how much I love the sound of crushing acorns with my Keens.
nite time
Came home and thought I'd have a relaxing night by the fire... who knew the wood smoke would make me so productive. I went through 3 months of neglected mail, did some filing, renewed my tabs, started cleaning out the closets, wrote some checks, wrote some thank you cards. The Thank You's is what started the mess.
A doodle gone mad.
Inspiration.
Back to the closet.
Art supplies needed.
Mess to be made.
Someone close to me will be recieving a card with the original of this finished product. You will have to pretend it is a surprise and then hang it on your fridge as if it's worth something.
Visitors in my apartment usually notice the first of these drawings. In fact, it's usually the only piece of my own (among like 20 throughout my apartment [what a narcissist]) that gets complimented. I'll include all three of what has come to be a Bi-Yearly Series.
#1 Simple Hello
#2 Simple Lasso
#3 Simple Hug
Lastly, proof of mess.
So sorry to ignore the ongoing narrative in my head tonight. I was hearing illustrations instead.
Maybe tomorrow I will tell you about how I continue to hike to nowhere in this place called Minnesota and how much I love the sound of crushing acorns with my Keens.
nite time
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Acclaimed Dancer
"Mary is an incredibly hard worker and does her job often with a smile, if not a song or little dance."
Even my boss can’t help but notice my groovin’ movin’. My place of employment isn’t spared from my whistling. I shake the stress away. It’s always been my way. I’d rather dance than worry. And I’d rather make someone laugh with my ridiculous moves than remain still and serious. We did an extensive annual review this year. After three sessions, the quote above was final say on my performance. Ha. That’s going in my permanent file. My boss then forks this written silliness over to her boss, but she doesn’t have a boss right now … so that sentence got handed to our President instead. It is now widely known that I am dancing on company dollars. Awesome.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Brainz
“Everyone wants to be readable in a society doomed by the parable of first impressions.” – Me
How was I smart? I wrote that sentence almost five years ago. Aren’t brains supposed to come with age? At least, that is what all our old liar-faced grannies keep saying.
That sentence came to me today as a string of words on my first read. I had to rewind the language for a minute and hit repeat. I knew I missed something the first time around. I found even more on my third read. Rolling those words over and over again in my brain … seriously, how was I smart? That feels so far away from my writing today.
I am surprised by my own eloquence. I love the play on literary language between ‘readable’ and ‘parable’. That a story is read. That appearances are the first story we tell to a new person, in a new environment, facing a new situation. Even before words are said. All we can hope is people correctly interpret our stories. Huh, that’s deep.
That sentence came out of my institutional years. College. Not mental hospital. I plucked it from a paper for a class I took called Politics of the Body. My essay babbles intelligently on the social status, race, sexuality, religion, etc. worn on our bodies and where that puts us in the world.
If you want to read something intelligent - I’ll send you the paper, but that’s not what I do here. I won’t be pulling those kinds of sentences out of my butt. I don’t even know if my butt has any more of those sentences stored inside. All I can do here is admit that I miss thinking that way. Critically, on assignment, persuasively, logically, structuring thought and presentation. I don’t really have much of a reason these days to talk about how if you look a certain way in our society you are automatically fucked. Wow. Way to dumb it down. Where did my brain go?
How was I smart? I wrote that sentence almost five years ago. Aren’t brains supposed to come with age? At least, that is what all our old liar-faced grannies keep saying.
That sentence came to me today as a string of words on my first read. I had to rewind the language for a minute and hit repeat. I knew I missed something the first time around. I found even more on my third read. Rolling those words over and over again in my brain … seriously, how was I smart? That feels so far away from my writing today.
I am surprised by my own eloquence. I love the play on literary language between ‘readable’ and ‘parable’. That a story is read. That appearances are the first story we tell to a new person, in a new environment, facing a new situation. Even before words are said. All we can hope is people correctly interpret our stories. Huh, that’s deep.
That sentence came out of my institutional years. College. Not mental hospital. I plucked it from a paper for a class I took called Politics of the Body. My essay babbles intelligently on the social status, race, sexuality, religion, etc. worn on our bodies and where that puts us in the world.
If you want to read something intelligent - I’ll send you the paper, but that’s not what I do here. I won’t be pulling those kinds of sentences out of my butt. I don’t even know if my butt has any more of those sentences stored inside. All I can do here is admit that I miss thinking that way. Critically, on assignment, persuasively, logically, structuring thought and presentation. I don’t really have much of a reason these days to talk about how if you look a certain way in our society you are automatically fucked. Wow. Way to dumb it down. Where did my brain go?
Friday, September 25, 2009
Honestly
A few days ago I was told my writing was honest. Honest and hilarious. Well maybe I am exaggerating the second H. Yeah, I definitely am.
Hmmm… maybe I should push that further and bust myself out a little.
Sure, I’ll do that.
The weekend before last I went on a quest to find a waterfall. (If I could properly format a footnote, I would tell you that I have become such a victim to commercial branding that I accidently spelled quest – qwest. Thank goodness for spell-check … that would have been embarrassing).
On that quest (with a u) I found the Hidden Falls. I had my camera with me. I clicked off a round of photos. When it came to writing about that venture … I had reservations about including the picture of the falls themselves. So I’ll do that now:
That was my reward for all that work! A trickle from a storm drain! The writing was still honest. I really did leave happier having found it. The water droplets did not bum me out in the least. I kicked the shit out of that waterfall!
But why didn’t I wear my victory proudly and share the image of conquer? Symbolic like Rosenthal’s image of the American flag rising over Iwo Jima. Ok, not like that. Really, not at all like that. Still, something kept me from posting that photo.
I think it was this:
The language and emotion in that entry hung grandiose and triumphant. I couldn’t follow up my emotional merriment with a picture of a dying waterfall. Maybe I thought it looked like a contradiction in my writing. That my words painted a different picture than the reality of the water. I could have thought people would be unimpressed by my quest. I definitely thought the thing just didn’t photograph well.
I post it now to say … fuck all of you. I’m just a simple girl that can find happiness in a storm drain.
Post Script – Carrying on tradition by accident. Sunday while kayaking with my mom, we paddled alongside a man-made falls. I won’t have time for water play this weekend, but may find myself there on Monday. That’s my wet dream at least.
Hmmm… maybe I should push that further and bust myself out a little.
Sure, I’ll do that.
The weekend before last I went on a quest to find a waterfall. (If I could properly format a footnote, I would tell you that I have become such a victim to commercial branding that I accidently spelled quest – qwest. Thank goodness for spell-check … that would have been embarrassing).
On that quest (with a u) I found the Hidden Falls. I had my camera with me. I clicked off a round of photos. When it came to writing about that venture … I had reservations about including the picture of the falls themselves. So I’ll do that now:
That was my reward for all that work! A trickle from a storm drain! The writing was still honest. I really did leave happier having found it. The water droplets did not bum me out in the least. I kicked the shit out of that waterfall!
But why didn’t I wear my victory proudly and share the image of conquer? Symbolic like Rosenthal’s image of the American flag rising over Iwo Jima. Ok, not like that. Really, not at all like that. Still, something kept me from posting that photo.
I think it was this:
The language and emotion in that entry hung grandiose and triumphant. I couldn’t follow up my emotional merriment with a picture of a dying waterfall. Maybe I thought it looked like a contradiction in my writing. That my words painted a different picture than the reality of the water. I could have thought people would be unimpressed by my quest. I definitely thought the thing just didn’t photograph well.
I post it now to say … fuck all of you. I’m just a simple girl that can find happiness in a storm drain.
Post Script – Carrying on tradition by accident. Sunday while kayaking with my mom, we paddled alongside a man-made falls. I won’t have time for water play this weekend, but may find myself there on Monday. That’s my wet dream at least.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)