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September 26, 2007

The Rise of Cork Animal

Parade


The new issue of my webzine, Cork Animal, has been posted. This time around the theme is RELIGIONISM, and ten of my favorite people have offered up their religious experiences for your amusement and edification. Stories from the spiritual wilderness, of faith and loss of faith, with accompanying photographs from my resident shrine-seeker Amy Lee Pearsall. Hope you enjoy them!

I contributed two stories, companion pieces on the subject of initiation. Two powerful experiences that altered my concept of what one could expect from life:

"CHAOS EKSTASIS!"

"THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON"

I started this project as an excuse to get more writing done, but also because I thought it was important that people consider their own interesting stories to be worth telling, whether they fancied themselves a writer or not. A good story can shine through inexpert writing, just as much as a really mundane story can sparkle in the hands of a master. While I know the internet is chock-ablock with people preening and reveling in the importance of their own lives, it's my hope to cultivate more of a campfire setting, a place where the story you bring is a small price to pay for the stories you get to take away with you when you go.

September 22, 2007

Blood From a Stone


Republican Mayor of San Diego, Jerry Sanders, has broken my heart with his shockingly emotional statement revealing his new stance on equal marriage rights.

I've been revelling as much as anyone else in the rash of gay sex controversies dogging our Republican legislative body. Until I saw this video, I had almost forgotten how much better it would be for our adversaries to genuinely understand and embrace our position than to see them all go down in faggoty flames. It may be forgotten tomorrow, but with this video, the rules of the game have shifted a little bit-- in the nation as well as within myself.

This coincides with my learning Mahatma Gandhi's Seven Blunders of the Modern World from Galen this weekend. Gandhi called these disbalances "passive violence" which fuel the active violence of crime, rebellion, and war. They are:
1. Wealth without work


2. Pleasure without conscience


3. Knowledge without character


4. Commerce without morality


5. Science without humanity


6. Worship without sacrifice


7. Politics without principle

To these, Arun Gandhi added:
8. Rights Without Responsibilities

Suffice to say I have as much work ahead of me on these as Jerry Sanders does on his next campaign for office...

Via MetaFilter

September 14, 2007

As Yet Unnamed...

Number Six

...But I'm working on it.

September 5, 2007

Ready? Inhale...

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

I've noticed recently that when I'm at work, or at almost anytime that I'm seated for long periods, my breathing is incredibly shallow. Of course, the shallower your breaths are, the more of them you have to take, but as long as the air is dribbling in and out of you regularly enough, you probably won't even notice.

It's taken me a long time to realize the extent to which this is affecting me. Lately I noticed that it wasn't until I left work that I ever truly breathed deeply, and how stifled and threatened I felt throughout the day under even fairly benign circumstances. My job isn't hard, and the people aren't so scary, so why am I gasping?

A little research informed me that shallow breathing is quite common. It occurs when you draw air just into your chest area using your intercostal muscles, instead of throughout your lungs using your diaphragm. Experiment with this. When you are watching a movie or working on the computer, or doing anything in which your body is at rest but your attention is focused elsewhere, do you unconsciously operate on the bare minimum of air? As you are reading this, does even half of a full breath seem uncharacteristically deep compared to how you were breathing a few minutes ago?

I was also able to confirm that one's tendency toward anxiety, stress, and asthma and panic attacks can all be affected by shallow breathing. I don't know whether a general sense of dissatisfaction caused me to unconsciously tighten my breathing, or if the act of simply sitting in a chair for so many hours has changed my breathing, resulting in more and more associative feelings of anxiety over time. Most likely, it's just another of life's unfair vicious cycles (I collect them). Either way, after a year and a half, it's time to acknowldedge the toll this is taking on me and how rotten I feel a lot of the time.

It is so hard to be a permeable being in a city where the very air you breathe can seem like a personal assault. My bike rides to and from work are a time when I should be breathing as freely as possible, but so often I'm very busy protecting my healthy pink insides from the visible clouds of exhaust hovering over the pavement, or from the grape-formaldehyde fumes emanating from the fresh coat of paint they're spraying onto the Queensborough Bridge (a disgusting, and frankly baffling shade of tan. TAN. Who paints a bridge tan?). There are the fumes from the creek, clouds of grit thrown up by construction crew jackhammers, and tremendous steam vents. On the sidewalks you get trapped behind slow-walking cigarette smokers or pass shoulder-high bunkers of garbage. There is always something adversarial to guard against, until eventually a squint or clench or held breath becomes more than instinctive-- it becomes reflexive, pre-emptive, triggered all the time to protect you against threats both real and imaginary.

I have my own way of working this out, but as usual, AskMetafilter is running to the assist in the rescue: someone requested links to guided meditation mp3's. Whether you're unfamiliar with meditation or merely out of practice, guided meditations can be a big help, and many of these are worth downloading. I have been relying on my kung fu practice to compensate for the meditation I used to do; while there is a focus on breathing in kung fu, there is so much else to pay attention to (and so much work to be done) that it really doesn't serve the same purpose. Being easily frustrated these days by the effort it takes me to sustain meditative breathing on my own (it used to be so easy!), I am looking forward to playing with these guided sessions as an welcome opportunity to escape my own thoughts.


And.........exhale.

September 3, 2007

A Garden Enclosed...

Photos today with Amy Lee in the Lotus Garden.

September 2, 2007

Floating Lanterns

Lantern Ceremony
Sponsored by the New York Buddhist Church,
Partner with Interfaith Center of New York,
Co-sponsored by New York Disaster Interfaith Service
supported by NY de Volunteers and New York Kayak Company.
Also supported by the Buddhist Council of New York, New York City
Downtown Boathouse and LIC Community Boathouse


If you will be in town during the September 11th three-ring circus and would like a peaceful alternative to the usual hullabaloo, you should head down to the Hudson River at W. Houston Street for the New York Buddhist Church's annual event. Click above for more details.

The temple itself is at 103rd and Riverside, and is one of my favorite NYC destinations. It's a beautiful building tucked into a quiet block overlooking the Hudson, and I wish more people would check it out. It's a long hike from Greenpoint, so I don't go very often, but that would change if I knew I might run into more people I knew...

Uncertain Future

tote-monster

T
his summer I bought a shirt at the Renegade Craft Fair which became my favorite almost overnight, but it has taken me a while to look and see what the company, SquidFire, sells on their website. So today has been as good a day as any to sit and crave and sulk and count the days until my next paycheck. Hey, at least I can check out their disturbingly hot models for free.

In addition to their mens' and womens' t-shirts, they have stuff for babies that almost makes me want one. Almost. And those of you still relying on plastic bags from the grocery store need to check out their tote bags and fix yourself up with one pronto.

Stowaway

It took me a while to decide whether the impulse to get a kitten was just an aftershock of the Great Reconstruction. It seemed unfair to dangle another life form over the sucking crater of my gloom, especially a tiny cute one. I started having apocalyptic dreams in which I adopted children orphaned by the blast or the earthquake or the flood, and woke from these dreams feeling sharp emotional pangs of sympathy and loss instead of the philosophical dread that I normally feel when the city crumbles in my nightmares. I had an earlier opportunity to adopt, but as tempting as it was, I was still teetering on the edge of selling everything I owned and waking up the next day in Argentina, and was not yet in a position to be trusted with small things.

I discovered a new litter born around that time, and decided to wait seven weeks for one of those. Perhaps I would feel warmer inside, perhaps I would know a thing or two more about what was in the cards for the next week/month/year. I heard that there were orange ones in the new batch. Perhaps I could stop pulling out my hair and have some left for it to match.

I'm not better yet, not all the way, but I'm on my feet now and fighting with awesome surgical strikes. I can finally see all the holes in my boat now, instead of just despairing at the water rising past my ankles. I went to meet the new kitties the other day and learned all about them, which one was the sweetest and which one was the bounciest, which one was the sleepiest. I decided on the sixth (and last) born, who had to be revived after his birth lest he drown from the fluid in his lungs. His human parents tended to him all night, hoping he would gather enough strength to nurse as all the others were already heartily doing. In the end, he pulled through, and is now just as happy and spoiled rotten as his littermates, and will be coming home with me on the 13th, where he and I will learn to get along with ourselves and each other.

Here's a video of the kittens playing, filmed a few nights ago by my friend Jeff. Anyone who is interested in adopting, let me know and I'll put you in touch with him.

August 27, 2007

Adult Situations

Apparently I am capable of being an adult sometimes, no matter what you may think of my socks or my incoherent personal philosophy.

Recently Kate posted Best Life Magazine's 8 Foods You Should Eat Every Day to MetaFilter, and it made me start to look askance at my usual breakfast. (Apparently I'm not the only one.) Suddenly my eight ounces of Friendship lowfat cottage cheese with pineapple derivative wasn't looking like such a good thing. Please save me from my breakfast, I thought. I have been starting to dread the flavor of it in the morning, and little plastic tubs that I feel too much Global Warming guilt to throw away have piled up in my cabinet to heights that the Collyer Brothers would approve of. Me and my cabinet have had it up to here with cottage cheese. But at $1.49 each ($7.50 a week), how could I beat it?

So determined to blaze new nutritional trails, I came home from the store today with a box of McCann's Irish Oatmeal, a half pound of walnuts, and a jar of blueberry jam. It so happens that one cup of dry oats and a half cup of crushed walnuts fits neatly into an 8 oz. cottage cheese container, so now I have five portions on deck. All I have to do is stir one into a cup of vanilla soymilk, add two tablespoons of blueberry jam, and scorch it in the microwave, and voila! Blueberry oatmeal with walnuts. Three of the eight things I am supposed to eat every day. Cost of oats, walnuts, jam, and soymilk add up to slightly less than what I was forking over to Friendship. Even though it's after one AM and I'm standing here in my underwear stacking MRE's in my kitchen, I feel strangely capable and hope that new breakfast equals new hope for the future.

At this rate, it's only a matter of time until my goddam socks match.




August 25, 2007

Two Halves of a Day

Red Cross and Hospital Bracelet

It doesn't matter whether you got to do everything on your list of tasks for the day.

It doesn't matter if you wind up sleeping in way past the point of rest, to take advantage of sleep being the only place where you can be completely alone.

It doesn't matter whether you wake up and have to kick dirty dishes out of the way to get to your closet. It doesn't matter if you wash them, though you do anyway.

It doesn't matter if you pay your overdue bills and make lunch plans and lay out your uniform for class. It doesn't matter if you eat chips and salsa for breakfast, or if you chase it with some of the chocolate cake left over from the middle of last night. It doesn't matter how good or bad you feel about your body on any given day, the bare facts are somehow always the same.

It doesn't matter what else you happen to be doing when you get the phone call from the ambulance. It doesn't matter if you are in the middle of editing images for an ongoing web project. It doesn't matter if you hadn't planned on leaving the house for another two hours. As you put on your hat, you acknowledge that in all likelihood it doesn't actually matter if you make the trip to the hospital at all. It doesn't matter if you stay home and just wait to hear the details like everyone else. It doesn't matter if you are a faithful lover; everyone knows that you are not.

There is a certain point in the day when it starts to matter. Sometime between the wait for the L train to the first hospital and the cab ride across town to the second one. Certain fibers begin to glow within the fabric the politeness of the cab driver, the phlebotomist's sense of humor; the plate of eggs left untouched in the diner due to the urgency of getting the patient home and comfortable, right away; the cheerfulness with which you accept that you left your bag in the restaurant in your hurry to catch yet another expensive cab. Gold threads twist out of moments of suspense, a net that isn't strong enough to catch you now, but may be someday when you're even weaker than this, when it trawls the air around you, passed from hand to hand by everyone around as they watch you struggle to tread water.

The second half of a day doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the first. It doesn't matter if you run a few errands pick up your bike from its tune-up, rent a dvd, buy a few bottles of wine that will go straight into the freezer. It doesn't matter if you turn the whole crisis into a opportunity for an early dinner date, or to hide from the heat together with a movie. The walk you take to the river together has nothing to do with the cab ride across the bridge, the photos you take of each other by the water have nothing to do with the electrode tabs visible through his shirt.

The place on the docks where you sweated out the blackout in 2003 is underwater now. So is the metal crows' nest where you have picnicked with so many friends, from where you have fed gulls and tasted snow and watched warehouses burn and gotten to third base. From where you have taken many, many but not nearly enough photographs.

It doesn't matter what shape the house will be in when you get back to it, or how much wine you spill on the sofa. The only time besides sleep when you feel completely alone is when you are together, and that's a peaceful travesty, a lovely derail, a planned demolition that sends up glittering clouds which pass for incense around here. The moon rises, perversely full and pink as a carnation. Giving up, you sort of win.



My Sunken Kingdom

August 22, 2007

Paper Planes

My new personal anthem for the day month year.

Listen or download here. (And here's a backup YouTube link.)

M.I.A album review here, with accompanying interview. As a general rule I prefer my music sans gunshots, but if life isn't change, then what is it?

August 17, 2007

INLAND EMPIRE

David Lynch's INLAND EMPIRE is finally out on dvd. I spent most of last winter going nuts over this movie-- as it's three hours long and surreal to the point of periodic incoherence, it's actually pretty easy to go nuts during the movie.

In hopes that you'll be intrigued enough to take a whack at it, here are the French and Italian trailers for the film, which are as usual much better than the American version.




August 15, 2007

Places Worth Caring About



I have learned so much about the way public spaces should actually serve to benefit the public, mostly from working alongside organizations like Transportation Alternatives and the Friends of the High Line and so forth. But these organizations are New York City based, and who looks after the rest of the world?

This video is a wonderfully fun twenty-minute presentation by James Howard Kunstler about America's use of space in suburbia and beyond, and how the growing number of "places not worth caring about" affects and defines our national character. How can we restore them to the "physical manifestations of the common good"?

"Oh no!" you say. "Boring white guy making me feel guilty and panicky about the future of America!!" Relax, it's an amazingly encouraging and entertaining performance that you will want to pass on to as many people as possible, because this is something we all have to question-- now that all our neighborhoods look exactly the same.

Thanks to Ambrosia Voyeur for the link in this (also entertaining) thread.

August 13, 2007

Portrait Exchange

A couple of months ago I agreed to participate in a portrait exchange for a friend's collective art project. We were to halfway complete a self-portrait, then switch with someone and project another self-portrait onto theirs. I was designated to swap with Sommer Xavier Foster, whom I had never met. The collection of portraits will be presented in a gallery on August 23rd, I'll be sure to post when/where.

I received Sommer's drawing in the mail, her likeness portrayed in her signature bird/humanoid style. In fact, I've since seen some of her other handiwork, in which birds feature prominently. With so much empty space to fill, I was baffled as to how I might proceed-- I couldn't do justice to her work with my own half-assed drawing abilities, but the strangeness of her bird-face made me want to respond with something outside my range of ability. So I took stock of what was in my apartment, found myself staring at my long-reach stapler, and the rest, as they say, is history.

It seemed like such a fun idea to staple a portrait of myself. I hadn't reckoned with the actual physical labor involved in KERCHUNK-ing literally thousands of staples into a sheet of posterboard, on some of the hottest nights of the summer. I stapled until I got blisters, until I was sure the downstairs neighbors would complain, until I had to towel my face from the exertion. And as a puncture is a lot harder to erase than, say, a pencil line, I was critically self-conscious of the fact that each KERCHUNK was permanent, I could only work forwards, never backwards. After the first few hours I began to feel as if I had unnecessarily ruined someone else's interesting self-portrait because of my hare-brained impulse. There was nothing I could do but keep trying.

KERCHUNK KERCHUNK KERCHUNK. After a while it became mechanical, I stopped thinking of it as a likeness of myself and started seeing it as just a job that needed done. Which was interesting, because I gave up my stake in whether the portrayal was flattering or accurate. The lines just needed to be traced and retraced, the edges reinforced, the stapler reloaded, until it felt done. Which is exactly what happened yesterday afternoon after an hour of stapling while listening to a documentary about Prussian Blue, the white-supremacist tween twin pop sensation. Suddenly I was done, and whether because of the actual result or just the work that went into it, for the first time since I started, I saw myself in it.

Portrait Exchange


Detail view here. I hope that you'll come check out the rest of the exchanges at the end of the month, and see whatever became of the other half of my contribution. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I'll have been turned into some sort of terrifying half-bird.

August 9, 2007

Horror On a Small Scale

A few weeks ago I received a questionnaire from my high school reunion committee and found myself at a loss when I tried to answer the questions. Does anyone ever even read these things? Should I give the socially acceptable version of the truth, or boggle them with unexpected honesty? I hadn't even decided for sure yet whether I'll attend. While I did finally complete the questionnaire and send it back, it wasn't until I came across MicroHorror that I found an outlet for my misgivings on the matter.

MicroHorror is a site that collects short horror stories, "each no longer than 666 words". It's a real challenge to create something genuinely creepy in such a short span, but some of these stories are really masterful-- and if a particular story doesn't really do it for you, well hey! At least it was short.

Check out my (short!) contribution, inspired by the reunion questionnaire, and while you're at it, consider submitting one of your own!

I have profound regrets that I didn't think of this sooner, because I would have happily skipped all the pesky questions and sent them this story instead. Hey, they want to know what I'm up to lately, right?