thought

January 31, 2012

Deviantart posted this. I’m not very active there, so I thought I’d answer here instead.

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nde.

January 29, 2012

(Excerpted from my actual journal:) Of all the three or four times I’ve cheated death, last spring was the worst. Missing halloween was awful, but seeing Anthony Edwards run TNYM the next day made up for it.Last spring~ I called Naomi, stumbled around my apartment, and cried when I read Juliet’s “thank you for PAing” note. I didn’t sleep at all that night. I got up at eight, took a bath, put on Simon & Garfunkel and turned it up much too loud. Groggily, I sang along to the Boxer and said morning prayers. 

Tuesday. Irving 71 was open. Nearing the end of the Laurel Masse journal, I sat down, and bitched about being forced to take it slow. My brain wanted to operate at 120% as usual, but my body wasn’t having any of it, and New York didn’t give a shit whether I was alive or dead. I didn’t tell many people. 

After java, I went to Barnes and Noble. Stipulation: if I saw something I liked, I’d buy it. My brain wasn’t handling e.e cummings, and Gene Wilder’s autobiography was sad as ever, but this purple tinted lady caught my attention so I grabbed her off the shelf. She spoke a lot about trees and lakes and moonlight ~ I put her in my purse. We rode to the natural history museum, we looked at bones, we walked through central park, we watched the dance skaters.

When I took her back it was raining. I couldn’t rationalize the money I’d spent to keep her as my companion. 

I regret letting her go. 

Today I experienced a strange feeling. It comes over me every once and awhile, and I never know what to do about it. Aison once said if you’re bored in New York City, you’re doing something wrong. I feel like if you’re bored in life you’re doing something wrong. Today, I was bored. I made a few phone calls, hoping to scrape together some last minute plans. Nothing. I decided to start the kind of adventure where you realize where you want to go when you get there. On the bus, and downtown I went. First to get a new pair of leggings, then, to marvel at the brilliance of Amy Poehler and Will Arnett being voice talent in Miyazaki’s new film, after that, I briefly debated whether or not I should go to a bar and pretend to get stood up, but decided to go to Powell’s instead. Maybe that Edward Hopper book will be there. I didn’t even make it that far.

I passed a guy in the poetry section with no jaw, another young fellow (a “youth”) who gave me the stare down like “YEAH I READ BUKOWSKI, SUCK IT”; but I was on a mission. A haphazard mission, perhaps soon to be materialized, but then, I was just perusing. The purple faced lady caught my attention again. I had to pick her up.

She sits with me this evening, in between Brooklyn and his desire for personal space. I remember her as I did, over lukewarm java and loopy language; ever redundant in its retelling. She kept death at bay for a short while, her violet maxilla reaching through my bleary eyelids and pulling them into a vastly unexplored pond filled with anthropomorphic fauna and its like. 

Next to me, a man draws as David did, with devils sticking out their tongues. Through the window, a homeless man asks to see things a bit closer. The artist obliges. 

The bus was coming soon, I realized. This time, I held her in my arms with no intention on spending money on food instead. Outside, my feet hit the pavement in time with Coltrane. (Blar-har, I’m such a hipster. I know…) When I got on the bus, the driver looked at me like I’d done something wrong. She snatched my pass, and inspected it thoroughly before thanking me and driving away. Later, three or four others got on the bus, she didn’t hesitate to yell at them.

One in particular, she lectured about stealing. “YOU CAN’T STEAL. THAT’S STEALING. YOU HAVE TO PAY THE FULL FARE.”

I looked at her and started to mouth silently:

Now the sea

is in me: I am the fish, the fish

glitters in me; we are

risen, tangled together, certain to fall

back to the sea. 

“I WILL CALL THE COPS ON YOU. THIS IS NOT YOUR BUS PASS.”

You do not have to be good. 

I brought my voice to a low whisper.

You do not have to walk on your knees

“It’s my friends bus pass, just let me call him!” “DO YOU HAVE A PHONE?” “No, can I borrow yours?”

 for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting

“Can we just go? This bus is already 15 minutes late.” A woman exclaimed.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

“YOU REALLY THINK I’M GOING TO LET YOU BORROW MY PHONE AFTER YOU STOLE SOMETHING?”

love what it loves. 

The driver and another passenger discuss the situation after the “thief” gets off the bus.

“Don’t you think he deserved the benefit of the doubt?” They proceeded to have words. A Saturday night bus full of young people against a crotchety driver, unhappy with rule breaking; and one gentleman who felt it in his heart to apologize for us. I was confused, but stayed quiet. Oh…. This is the bus driver who said she couldn’t catch an attitude in two hours and gave me a six hour ticket that one time. Ok. I still think she should have said “cold” instead, but whatever…

I ended up getting off the bus with a typical middle-aged Sellwoodian. “Is she always that mean?” The woman asked. “I think she was in a bad mood or something.” I said back to her. We parted ways and wished each other well, as is customary in short Portland exchanges.

On the way home, I danced around to Carmen McRae, trying to make good on a new year’s resolution to sing in the street more. A younger woman came up behind me with her groceries, happily, and said “You were dancing!” Flustered, I responded, “Yeah, well, jazz- y’know…” She smiled, and we went our separate ways. I hummed the rest of the way home.

She was, finally, perfectly finished, perfectly heartbroken, perfectly wild. 

Thank you Mary Oliver, saver of lives.

 

vibrate.

January 18, 2012

Sometimes I think, if you were still here, that Amelie would be your favorite film. You’d relish in reading the subtitles, twinkle along with the accordion, and hide your husband’s stuff for kicks. You’d bite your nails in the theatre, simmer in sepia, and pray for Amelie’s suicidal fish. You’d have wished cutting up old love letters was something you’d done first, then, after going home, start a scrapbook, stare at it for hours, glue things in it. You’d end up scouring your house for old photos, menus, tie your hair back, grab a polaroid. Pretend you’d caused natural disasters. Put on dresses in your closet. Beg your husband to get a scooter to ride around on because life is short and wouldn’t it be cute if the two of you rode around on a sissy-fag vespa together with no where to go and not a lot to do once you got there.

He would have enjoyed it, (I’m sure he did) not even having to read the subtitles in the first place. You would have tried to keep up with him, and laughed when the translations were wrong. You would have tried to save the world. (You did anyway.) Maybe I would have been sitting next to you rolling my eyes. Maybe we’d be sitting on the sissy-fag vespa together. Maybe we would have cracked creme brulee, (far less amusing to you, I would imagine), you would say “Be careful with that butane torch!” as I waved it artfully across the top of the custard dish. “Don’t catch anything on fire you little twerp.” “I won’t.” I’d say, waving it in your face.

You’d have sighed at glassman, cried when Princess Diana died, laughed at “REN-OIR!” taken up painting, baked blueberry pie, gone to the city to have an adventure.

It struck me the other day. Can’t say why. (Only because I don’t recall.) I thought about how sad it was, after people die, all the great art they’ll have missed.

I’m sad you missed this movie.

indulgence.

January 16, 2012

I’m about to indulge myself. (This is a blog, after all, and what fun would a blog be without verbal masturbation?) (As opposed to real masturbation~?)(Uh, anyway.) After reading Felicity Huffman’s hilarious #shitbillsays tweets for the evening, I found her “25 Things About Me” interview she did for Us Weekly. I then proceeded to read through a host of notable celebs “25 Things About Me” interviews. (Favorites included: Tony Bennet being so in awe of Charlie Parker that he had to throw up in the alley outside the jazz club, and that Liza Minnelli’s favorite show is Nurse Jackie.)(!!!) For the record, I, in no way feel that I *should* be doing this for any reason. Actually, that’s not really true, otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Basically, like the rest of this blog, it’s totally irrelevant to anything aside from my own amusement. WHATEVER. BALLS TO THE WALL 2K12. In any case, here are:

25 BULLSHIT FACTS ABOUT YOURS TRULY. 

  1. Gilda Radner and Madeline Kahn are my favorite humans.
  2. I’m obsessed with journalling. I have 23 (I think?) I enjoy using colored pens, and I like taping pictures in them.
  3. I’m a huge jazz nerd. Ella Fitzgerald is my favorite singer, (with Carmen McRae and Nina Simone in a close tie for second, Blossom Dearie third) and Canonball Adderely is my favorite instrumentalist (Dave Brubeck & Miles Davis tied for second, Charlie Parker third).
  4. The Manhattan Transfer and De-Phazz are my favorite bands.
  5. I am a coffee S N O B. (Drinking some now, it’s 12:00am, derp!) I like light roasts with a little bit of half&half best.
  6. I also love getting out of the house to go sit in a coffee shop. It takes me forever to drink, so I can sit for awhile and either read or write in my journal.
  7. If you are a woman, in your 40’s, artsy, wear glasses, and have your shit together, I likely have a crush on you.
  8. I wish I were a better visual artist, and could understand spacial relationships more accurately.
  9. Joni Mitchell is my favorite female singer, and Paul Simon is my favorite male singer.
  10. I enjoy home decor shops with festive lighting.
  11. I love to tap. My teacher is totally badass.
  12. My favorite type of weather is overcast, 60, and a light breeze. (PNW, represent!)
  13. I have seen every episode of the Golden Girls.
  14. I tend to overuse parenthesis, exclamation points, ellipsis, AND CAPS LOCK.
  15. I’m way too obsessed with tumblr. I need to get a life.
  16. If I were rich, I’d take dance classes every day, and have an apartment with a lot of shelving.
  17. My brain is super disorganized. I spend an unhealthy amount of time trying to have concise thoughts that make sense.
  18. My favorite kinds of movies are quiet indie films that pack a punch without broadcasting their over-sentimentality.
  19. I cried like a baby when Mark Greene died on E.R. and I still do when I watch the episode.
  20. I always have a song stuck in my head. Currently it’s Martha Argerich playing the third movement of Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G. (Because– clarinet, like woah!)
  21. My favorite numbers are 66, and 12.
  22. I have always dreamt of doing avante garde fashion photography. Richard Avedon and Irving Penn make me drool.
  23. I hate. Waterbugs. With a fiery passion. (So much so in fact that I’m afraid they will come up on the side panel of this entry because they’re mentioned. *shiver*)
  24. I consider my circle of friends to be more of a family than my actual family.
  25. I always think of the perfect fact to add after I’m done. Oops!

Perhaps next time I’ll write an entry about something a little less boring. Then again, this one didn’t toddle off into la la land, which is a nice change…. Here’s Martha playing Ravel:

FNNLC

January 7, 2012

cyndi lauper

storm large

listening
faces
love
portlandia

worry

mean catherine
naps
feet
e.p.s (plural)
ER

jamming

comatose
(comatoes?)
cagney and lacey mug

last coffee milk

10pm boxers
20/20
showering
bad porno
gauze

daydreaming

perfection
punctuation
puncturing
drifty
judi misset

LIFESPIRATION

magenta
sedentary
couch pillows
ice cream bars
stemless wine glasses

MORNING — oooooooooh.

doppeleganger

shake it!

scaredy cat.

January 5, 2012

Yesterday, I went to a booktalk that was given by the ever amazingly effervescently wonderful Storm Large. (Probably 6 on my wouldgo gay for you list.) (1,2,3,4,&5 being Jill Hennessy, Mariska Hargitay, Stephanie March, Julianna Margulies and Amy Sedaris.) She did her shpeel in three parts: Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll. She spoke of being a public masturbator, tipping over a port-a-potty, and accidentally doing a shitload of smack, thinking it was cocaine. I think I’m in love.

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