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.
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.
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.
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.
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 birdsfeatureprominently. 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.
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.
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.
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?
I stumbled across the Victoria Regina Tarot years ago during a time when it seemed clear that all new decks were either under- or over-inspired. I was glad enough to get to see the pictures online, it didn't matter that I couldn't afford the $25 or whatever it cost to order it. I visited the page often, admiring the devotion to some classic card designs, the handsomely perverse twists on others. It was at once cozy and phantasmagorical. I looked forward to the day when it would be mine.
Sadly, by the time my financial situation improved, the deck was out of print. The remaining used decks on Amazon had already been plundered by the time I discovered this, and now when there are any decks at all to be found there, they're a lot pricier. Again, just out of reach.
While we're on the subject, Grey Gardens closed this weekend. I was so curious to see the final result of what happens when one takes this:
...and turns it into this:
Unfortunately a couple of really expensive months (as well as an overly optimistic idea of how long such a wildly successful, award-winning show would continue running) kept me out despite my best efforts, all the way down to the closing performance on Sunday.
None of this has anything to do with the importance of money or the presence of hard luck. There are just too many things to want in the world, and too many wanters. The wanting of a thing is what makes it beautiful, and I can dine on that in the absence of a square meal.
Oh, and speaking of want, the first three people to comment get a three card reading on the subject of their choice. Ready, go!
If I hadn't gotten stuck working (waiting tables, strangely enough), I would have gotten to catch M.I.A.'s show tonight at Studio B, literally around the corner from my house. As I have resigned myself to experiencing it vicariously via YouTube, the least I can do is share:
The new issue of CORK ANIMAL is posted and ready to be devoured!
So many great stories this time; the theme of on-the-job horror really inspires people to let fly. Enjoy, and feel free to share your own tales of woe in the comments.
I have three of my own stories in the mix. Here's an excerpt from one, about my halcyon days as a graveyard shift waiter-slave at Denny's. The other two stories are worth poking and reading around in the issue to find!
Dwellers of New York, brace yourself for an imperative.
Ready?
Okay. Look ahead on your calendar, brush friends and lovers aside (or better, bring them along), and buy tickets in advance to this wonderful show.
But, you say, but but but. But that's weeks away. But it's kind of a hike for me. But I don't really like theatre that much. But I'm tired on weeknights. But no one will go with me. But I'm a very busy person who people love and I barely have five minutes to myself. But I'm a whiny little bitch and hate fun. Go ahead, get it all out of your system before proceeding. I'll wait.
Here are the details, for whenever you're done. Matt Chapman and Josh Matthews are performing their "SOLO: a Two-Person Show" at the HERE Arts Center on August 8th and August 9th. Tickets are $15 and are available right here.
Okay, perhaps you need a little context, a little coaxing in order to feel good about this transaction. I've seen this show several times at various stages in its development, and from the very first occasion I felt especially moved by it. Matt and Josh are part of the physical-theatre troupe Under the Table, which they formed with other alumni of Dell'Arte International and which has thrived in NYC for five years. I've seen almost all of their shows, each more brilliant than the last-- as a jaded and failed theatricalist, the fact that I truly mean that should say it all.
SOLO is the story of two brothers enduring perils, feats of strength, and adventures beyond reality to deliver a mysterious letter, discovering along the way that one of them-- or perhaps both-- may not who the other thinks. Deceptively complex and refreshingly simple, I guarantee you will not forget it anytime soon.
The show is being performed as part of the American Living Room festival, so for your admission you will also get to see two other pieces (which I have not seen and thus will not effusively vouch for). Considering that SOLO is itself worth the price of admission, feel free to regard these other two shows as a bonus. You get to support three groups of artists for the price of one, you get to laugh until you hurt, and then you get to go home feeling like you have a life. You win!
The last trick in my bag is that I will try to attend both nights, and will surely see you there if you are able to commute all the way from Lame-Excuseville. It's been a while since we've talked, yes? Held hands, shared a cookie? One of these two nights could be our night. But get out of line and I'll slap your face. Fresh.
I read this very short story by Paul McAuley years ago and it has festered in the back of my mind ever since, infecting my dreams of the future. I finally stumbled across it again tonight and thought I'd share it with you.
The weeks before the Iraq war began were restless ones; everyone in New York City seemed to be shuddering in paroxysms of optimism, outrage, or hopelessness. Up until the very moment that the announcement was made that the war was underway, it still seemed possible for us to wake up, stretch, and chalk our bad dreams up to indigestion.
Megan had booked her flight many weeks in advance, not intending to visit the anthill right as the flood hit, but finding herself nervously here nonetheless. Everywhere we walked, there was shouting. Every corner had its prophet, every park had its encampment of protestors, and every action had its equal and opposite reaction-- the strain of 9/11 had turned many everyday citizens into hair-trigger headcases ready to flip out and hurt someone, anyone, many someones if necessary, if the tone of the political discourse in their immediate surroundings was not to their liking. I don't remember the early spring weather; I remember the hundreds of police officers I saw every day, the constant volley of sirens that made sidewalk phone calls impossible, and the television screens in every store and restaurant showing the same handful of maps and video clips over and over again. Depending on what a person hoped to find here, it was both the best and worst possible time to be a tourist.
By Wednesday, March 19th, the city slipped into a quiet funk, waiting for the announcement that was rumored to be coming that night. I decided to take Megan to Saint Reverend Jen'sAnti-Slam, knowing that an open-mic night was practically the only place where people would be talking as hard as they were drinking. Reverend Jen is your basic Lower East Side icon and cultural benefactress; her Anti-Slam and her Troll Museum are just two of the services she provides as a self-styled "sex symbol for the insane" and "patron saint of the downtrodden and tired". Anyone who wanted six minutes of stage time had but to show up, pay three dollars, wait patiently, and BYOB in order to make their sweaty, faded Art Star dreams come true.
It was a gamble as far as entertaining out-of-town guests went; some of the most incendiary acts I've ever seen took place in that dark, beer-drenched room, but sometimes whole evenings' worth of performances tested one's endurance until it seemed impossible how long six minutes lasted. Sketches, songs, burlesque, stand-up, monologues, paranoid rants, often people just reading straight out of their journals. The audience was supportive as a matter of policy; every act, no matter what it was, rated an enthusiastic "10".
The mood was dark that night, with almost everyone using their six minutes to weigh in on the inevitability of war, the nonexistence of weapons of mass-destruction in Iraq, and the exploitation of our city: our long, narrow island had become a lever planted just below the heart of the nation, and from where they stood our leaders could use it to move the world. There were cynical laughs, there were a few tears. Just before ten PM, word from the street drifted in that the announcement had been made, that there were explosions over Baghdad, and all hopes for an emergency enlightenment were in vain. The laughs grew queasier, but no one could bear to leave. We were a captive audience, a vigil, and a bunker that night, waiting to see what would happen next.
The answer blew in from the street right in the middle of someone's six minutes. I turned to see a hulking figure in rags pushing into the crowded foyer, holding an immense boom-box on his shoulder. His face was almost completely obscured beneath greasy hair, dirt, and thick, smeared glasses. I thought he must have wandered in accidentally as people commonly do, curious about the applause that was audible from the sidewalk. However, Reverend Jen brightened visibly at the sight of him, and broke protocol by immediately ushering him to the stage ahead of whoever was still on the list. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm delighted to introduce a surprise guest star and my personal hero, Saint Brad Prowley!"
The awe in her voice was unprecedented, and we stared as the apparently-homeless and confused-looking Mr. Prowley stood there blinking back at us. Then, with a single press of a button, he came to life. Familiar music began to spray out of his stereo, and before we quite knew what was happening, he was belting "Let's Get It On" with a passion that Marvin himself would have admired. The audience went mad for it, screaming like teenagers.
With the ease of a toilet being flushed, the room was washed clean of its rancid depression and refugee-camp atmosphere. Somewhere in another hemisphere there were bombs being detonated "strategically" over civilian targets, and there was nothing we could do about it now, at 11 PM on a weeknight, but scream and sway and laugh our asses off and Get It On. The only time Prowley seemed to acknowledge the audience's presence was when he paused long enough to answer a chorus of screams with a defiant, basso profundo belch straight into the microphone: Let's see Marvin Gaye play that to the Apollo crowd.
After one more quick song, some sweet John Lennon tune, Saint Brad Prowley hurried out the front door as suddenly as he'd arrived, not having spoken a single word. Meg and I intuited that we had reached the closest thing the evening would provide to a climax, so we took a powder, still living comfortably in that moment. It turns out we were about to re-live it: Prowley had set up camp on the curb in front of the Bereket Turkish Kebab House, singing wide and loud into the street with stereo blazing as some stopped to stare and even more to dance. Tomorrow belonged to surges of protest in which cops braved rain to grind college students' faces into asphalt, to the trading of our confidence as a nation of free people for bitterness and paranoia that would last for years to come, though we didn't know either at the time. We joined the dancing crowd for his entire rendition of "Kung Fu Fighting," making the only magic that wins wars.
The gallery of artist Beth Cavener contains more beauty and horror than the casual observer may be prepared for. Her animals are naked, alive, and strangely human. Her statement:
"There are primitive animal instincts lurking in our own depths, waiting for the chance to slide past a conscious moment. The sculptures I create focus on human psychology, stripped of context and rationalization, and articulated through animal and human forms. On the surface, these figures are simply feral and domestic individuals suspended in a moment of tension. Beneath the surface they embody the impacts of aggression, territorial desires, isolation, and pack mentality.
Both human and animal interactions show patterns of intricate, subliminal gestures that betray intent and motivation. The things we leave unsaid are far more important than the words we speak out-loud to one another. I have learned to read meaning in the subtler signs; a look, the way one holds one's hands, the tightening of muscles in the shoulders, the incline of the head, the rhythm of a walk, and the slightest unconscious gestures. I rely on animal body language in my work as a metaphor for these underlying patterns, transforming the animal subjects into human psychological portraits.
I want to pry at those uncomfortable, awkward edges between animal and human. The figures are feral and uneasy, expressing frustration for the human tendency towards cruelty and lack of understanding. Entangled in their own internal and external struggles, the figures are engaged with the subjects of fear, apathy, violence and powerlessness.
Something conscious and knowing is captured in their gestures and expressions. An invitation and a rebuke."
