crash.

July 11, 2012

I got my driver’s license Monday, went out and didn’t kill anyone earlier today, and it was– nice. Quite nice actually. I enjoyed going and picking up Fif, we got tasty brownies (her words) at QFC, then went to the Fresh Pot on Hawthorne. I’m really stoked because my Nikkormat FT2 was done at the shop the other day, so I had to take the bus out to St. John’s (blah) to get it.

This is the same model I have. IT LOOKS LIKE A FUCKING TANK.

I loaded up some Fuji Portra 400, and shot a few frames today. Hopefully they turn out– one was of my best friend Fif, and she was dressed really snazzy! Having recently fallen, she’s currently crutches-bound, so the frame is her, in her snazzariffic skirt, shirt plus the cripple-aides. I am v. excited to get this roll developed.

The point of this entry, is that lately I’ve been mucho excited about stuff. I am officially licensed to drive in the state of Oregon, (PRAYERS NEEDED FOR EVERYONE, OK THX) and my camera is brand-spankin’ new. (Yay!)

The entry is titled “crash” because I’m still terrified I’m going to kill somebody. C’est La Vie…

Today, I’ll leave you with some frames from a discarded roll of TMAX 400 that they had to take out of my camera then develop before they could fix it:

This is my roommate Ji. We were on our way to the Met on a snow day.

My windowsill at 10th Street on the afore mentioned snow day. *sighhh*

Lastly: what well meaning photo post would be complete without a picture of Hannah?

In all seriousness though: please pray that I don’t hit anything in the coming days. I’m going to drive to my dance class tomorrow evening, and likely kidnap Fif again so we can caffeinate together (as usual).

I hope everyone is having a lovely summer~!

proud(ness)

June 18, 2012

I have never been super open about my sexuality because I’ve never felt it was a big deal. I don’t wear it on my sleeve, I don’t choose to broadcast who I’m into at every waking moment, I don’t feel the need to shove the aforementioned broadcast down anyone’s throats… Let me just put things this way: if you like jazz music, our privates could potentially high-five. Whether you’re a pole or a hole (or neither) is essentially a non issue. I believe the whippersnappers call this sort of thing “pansexuality.” Urban dictionary claims that it’s all about eradicating gender binaries and blah blah 21st century nonsense; but basically, if our personalities gel, our junk can gel too. I don’t really care what kind of plumbing situation you’ve got going on downstairs.If you tell me you’re into Blossom Dearie or SNL and I’ll be turned on before you finish your sentence.

That said, I’ve always been more aesthetically attracted to ladies. Artistically and otherwise (so I’m finding out). This weekend was Pride in PDX. It got me thinking about a few things:

  1. People shouldn’t need an excuse to be physically affectionate with their partners. Excessive PDA from anyone is an instant exercise for my gag reflex; but if you want to hold hands, the Man shouldn’t have to design an event where it’s societally acceptable for you to do so. It kind of hurts my heart that I don’t see more people openly being themselves out in broad-anyfuckingtimetheywant-daylight. It’s not fair.
  2. The more time I spent walking around, the more I felt extremely out of place. I was chillin’ New York Style, (aka alone) and I just didn’t feel weird enough. Like I wasn’t expressing myself enough. (Let the record show that I was cruisin’ for a hot nerdy-Tina Fey type to be my new gf.)
  3. That got me thinking that I’m soooooooo misguided when it comes to how relationships work. I was literally tempted to go up to people and be like, “So, uh, I’ve never hit on a girl before, but you’re really pretty.”
  4. Which THEN got me to thinking, that (had I not been really sweaty and gross because it was hotter than Jack be-nimble’s fucking CANDLESTICK) I actually wouldn’t have been barking up the wrong tree! Such a relief! Typically I seem to be more of a fan of the long haired ladies, but I was like, “Damn. You’re beautiful. Damn, you’re beautiful too. DAMN. Y’ALL ARE SO BEAUTIFUL.”
  5. It basically all boiled down to human judgment, and the unfairness of hot weather and time constraint. Srsly. If I’d have had a bit longer to spend down there, I would have turned on my natural Geminian charm and worked some foxy-ass mojo.

In all seriousness though: beyond all of the overtly fabulous drag-queens, and the stereotypically butch looking women, I found a lot of supremely normal looking humans. This isn’t to say that the polarizations mentioned above aren’t supremely normal humans as well, but I personally have never been exposed to levels of sexuality that weren’t overtly stereotyped. (For example, I always feel like “no way she’s into girls because she probably has a hot boyf” kind of thing. This sucks, I’m working on it.)

I just don’t understand how some people can be treated like second class citizens when we essentially live in the best motherfucking country in the free world. I understand how people ARE treated this way; but what I don’t get is how other people can allow this sort of treatment to occur.

If I were to wrangle myself a Pygmalion, I don’t know if I’d be marching down the street with a rainbow flag screeching about how awesome pussy is; but I’d definitely be working on the sidelines to make sure everyone gets the equality they deserve.

Actually, once I typed that– I have no idea why I’m not doing it already~!

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.

 

bye summer

September 26, 2011

 

 

Well, summer’s officially over. Here’s a photo roundup of my last few months:

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This was on my dad’s fridge one day. ..alright.

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My fierce&fabulous facebook spouse 🙂

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Ross and Jensine enjoy their first Cock and Balls. D’awwwww <333

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Me, with Jiwon’s “Shrilling Chicken.”

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Art by Jensine

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$2 jacket at the bins.

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A woman at the fair. Her name was Alice, and my mom thought she was brassy. I quite enjoyed her though.

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So, apparently there’s a place in Oregon called “the Dallas”.

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Dusk in Portland is gorgeous, always.

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The finished Hexaptych and our favorite panel.

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…this dude’s (DUDE’S) hair was unnnnnreal.

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Lastly, instagram’d pictures of Gilda and Madeline– just because.

Welcome fall!

august

August 9, 2011

The summer is coming to a close…

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MY SUPER PREDICTABLE LIFE. (@TinHouse!)20110809-125215.jpg

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Fif.

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Gay dinosaurs at Laughing Planet.

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U-Pick blueberries.

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I guess Urban Goats are the new thing?

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Knit-fitti?

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At the Storage space…

 

 

 

near.

July 17, 2011

Steve Almond taught me about the awesome concept of Poopy Soup today, so in honor of that:

Here are some things that are near me.

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I live next to a crackhead. It’s kind of a shame, he has really nice lilies.

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Reed College. Yay TinHouse!

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Lee’s daughter, after I turned her into an art project. (You can’t see it too well, but I bruised her eye with some cream base.)

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These are my nasty hippie feet at Charlie and Joy’s reading.

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Reed at night.

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Moorage on the river.

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I walked up to Pappacino’s and got coffee after Dorothy and Steve’s talk(s) today. They were amazing!

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Reminds me of Springfield.

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Reed at night. (again)

 

Walk

July 6, 2011

Around town enjoying the weather…

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Walked by a pile of clothes on Holgate.

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Polly-Pocket shaped windows. Wonder what kind of Dodge this is?

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Festive lawn art near Powell.

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Samurai Barbie at the Knife shop on Hawthorne.

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Mission accomplished: Powell’s on Hawthorne, Steve Almond’s “Evil B.B. Chow”, an anthology by Mary Oliver, and croissant crumbs. Heaven!

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I had to puss out and take the bus home. 😦

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But all in all a lovely day 🙂