May 31, 2005
Reflections Before Alcohol
Things become self-bought, paid for. Because of my experiences with men, I am now sexually wary of bassists, academics, marxists, sailors, playwrights, and painters with brain damage. Those are the bad ones. The good ones are the ones that move away and things end through distance and miles of air.
Posted Menu
This one is murder.
The question begs: if I had a car, would I carry rocks in it? &. moreover, from the sea?
Note To Bulford:
please get your fab new website up soon. please&thanks. xoxox
Documenting the Hotness
Minkionette, the strings only mean that I love you . . .
Last night, at one in the morning, I used the wood stove that is in my garret suite for the first time and built a fire. The experience was easily the best in my life, better than sex in a moving race car, better than snorting lines cut for you, you expand, fill in, complete my pun with what you have with you. What you brought. The heat escapes from the ventilator tube with a wonderful ghost-of-your-childhood like lurking whoosh, but also from the sides and after a few logs the room got so beautifully hot I nearly started to hallucinate, my head rolling around in side-to-side glee on my wooden headboard. Oh, the duvet seemed like it wasn't even there, in temperature--crisper. The heat indicator dial on the stove held below burn zone, so everything was dandy. And, I cured my recently returned insomnia by giving myself heatstroke. Better than all that ativan and codeine I used to pop way back when--that made me slide down wall-mirrors, leave handprints--this makes me open my shutters, just a touch. And then breeze meets the throwback of flames halfway, and you're suddenly caught in the middle, room temperature. Ativan. Wasn't even my prescription. This is so much more rustic, and quaint and it's making me want to write about my mother's red face---- maybe a line or two, what was it from this thing or that thing and there wasn't an other, but that's the point. Awesome.
May 27, 2005
The First Amendment
We're going backwards: North American art, as a political act and an individual form of self expression is not nearly free of the influence, stature and control of American right wing politics and religion. You'd think the censorship battles would have mollified at least slightly after James Joyce's landmark case over his sexually and politically charged Ulysses. The battle still rages, full force. You may have the vague notion that artists are only exiled, shot, hung and imprisoned in places far across the sea, in the middle east. Let's avert our eyes from Rushdie (with all due respect, he's gotten enough by way of press, coins and prestige for his unfortunate circumstances in any case) for a moment and focus them on Michigan artist, Edward Stross. In February, of this year, Stross was sentenced to thirty days in prison and fined 500 dollars for a mural he painted on the wall of his own art gallery. He was ordered to alter the painting until it was found suitable for public eyes by a district judge. For me, this forced alteration of Stross's expression is perhaps the most heartbreaking fact of this story. In America, you can't paint what you want to paint.
What was the offending image of? It was Stross's version Michelangelo's Creation of Man. Stross's adaptation depicted Eve. Evidently, Eve's bare breast was just too much for dwellers of suburban Roseville to, well, bear. Here is a photo of the man with his mural; the photo appeared in an article about the incident, while it was still in the process of escalating, in the Detroit Free Press:
Well then, that woman in the orange dress, American flag in tow, sure is some fairly pornographic stuff there. Wooo-iiee. I sure as hell would pay to download that hardcore shit from a members only site. And what about that Holy Orgy going on behind her? Heavy, man--I should charge a per-minute fee to view this damn sexy entry. God save our precious children. Save them from all the wardrobe malfunctions and mammary glands in the world.* This reeks of the Taliban's zero tolerance policy on depiction of the human body in art. Remember what they did to those ancient Buddhist Statues about four years ago? Blew them right up, shot them right down. How is this any different?
How is this:
less "appropriate" and more offensive and harmful to the public than this?:
I guess a gun baring male is less frightening than a breast-baring female. Now, I ask you: which one of those would you rather have in your face?
Apparently, the State considered Eve's breast to be genitalia, which, in 1997, Stross was told, by way of a variance, not to include in the yet to emerge mural. Those who have even the most rudimentary grasp on Art History will have a sense of what parts of the female body, rightly or wrongly, tended to be covered with the classic fig leaf in art's timeline. Where, children, was the most likely place for that fig leaf? Can I see a raise of hands?
What about the bi-otches getting thar sugar's smacked in MTV videos? Why are there no court orders against 50 Cent's "art"? What line is his ass on? Who is more demeaning to woman, 50 Cent or Stross? Who has more influence over and is more dangerous to our children's minds? An oldie of a point, but still well worth mentioning, under the circumstances. Since, you know, it seems our rage and disgust at nudity and artistic portrayals of the human body are purely circumstantial. A highly commercial artist that reinforces countless degrading stereotypes seems to have free reign, as long as he keeps the industry happy with the mullah he rakes in. A left wing artist with multiple sclerosis, like Stross--well, I think you see the picture. The writing's on the wall. Multiple sclerosis and acts of controversial, political art, just aren't sexy enough to win the public over:
* ("ma-me-mory II" as performed by mathew b of combat furniture)
May 26, 2005
"Just For a Change" :D
Oh my God. I've just discovered the word Outercourse while doing research. I'm not sure what part of my rope I've reached. I read the included link in a rather delirious state. The same state I fall into when reading about what mid-west America loves and holds dear. I mean, in general--more or less. " Outercourse is useful when: . . . .
# when people choose to abstain from sex or are not ready for intercourse yet
# if one partner doesn't feel like having intercourse
# as another sexual option for partners who have already had intercourse
# if a partner doesn't want to be penetrated (or do something that's penetrating)
# if a partner is sore or has an infection
# if people don't have condoms or any other birth control
# if a partner is constipated
# if a woman partner has her period
# just for a change"
WHEN A PARTNER IS CONSTIPATED.
"Honey, I'm rather constipated tonight, let's stick to outercourse."
"That's OK. I don't FEEL like doing something that's penetrating, anyway."
smallprint
In other words: Go Away. I'm processed & exhausted and engaging in spontaneous bouts of critical thinking. Spontaneous is used as loosely as possible, under these circumstances. Still not over the Blazer Girl incident. It's been the main catalyst for nearly all my emotions lately. Who.The.Fuck.Says.That.To.Me. No questions asked. Oh, what fucking flavours surround me. Just go away.>>>>>>>>>>>>>watch yr. step. There you go. Made it. Out of my face.
The colour of fruit suggests whether it is ripe, the colour of meat whether it is rancid. This will factor. I've been reading about flavour compounds: a flavorist is a chemist with a trained nose and a poetic sensibility. Different chemicals are responsible for each stage, apparently. & hey, it's like a summer's night out there. & here I am, scrambling to figure out what I'm passionate about. It's so much harder when you have to narrow it down. Down to the two-sidedincident. Focus and concentration of that sort makes me nervous. The specialization of culture and the time & space principle.
EDIT:
OK. That's it: I'm passionate about alcohol. I'm under so much stress that's all I can really think of. Or, rather: that's all I can really think of for a long enough period that it actually starts leading to desire. Oh, god. You realize I may indeed write an entire upcoming entry about why it's better to carry gin around than NOT--with links, photos and everything. And these aren't even juvenile sentiments. Which should scare me, but it doesn't. Not even in other people, anymore.
I'm totally kidding, but I do need a drink. I'm starting to feel as if I'm in a bus station. The lights. The rows. I'm being monitored by closed circuit--while trying to write an alternative media article. It's all falling apart.
Ways to Spill
I started a short story on the bus. Today, on the hot bus. Sitting sideways, not in an artistic manner. Atwood has given me a sense of humor. The previous sentence rings true of it. I'm having nightmares of knocking on faux-wood doors and the answer coming in the form of a series of gun shots to my abdomen. The door stays closed during the whole process. There are no handles on the steps, but I don't fly backward. Where's the recoil? This is because of the job search process. Four gapping holes and theatrical blood, in colour--not motion. It's always more of a flash than a curtain call. I miss my mother. Point blank. When will I ever get the chance to say that again.
May 23, 2005
Light Duty
Have you ever had a scab float off in the bath? The blood moves away from your skin in mist. You cannot help but wave your hand around it. See how far it will go before it disappears, blends entirely with the hot bulk of water. I washed my hair for the first time in five days today. In the middle of my room, as it has happened every time I washed my hair this month. I'm actually too depressed to write about any of the encounters and fests from lately. I'm certain it's my hormones. Or at least it better be. I still have one pregnancy test left in my bathroom. My current anxiety-over-nothing-concrete makes me want someone to find this test and smack me upside the head with it. &, mantra: you're better off sitting at a friend's garage sale for a couple of hours. That is a much better way to spend your afternoon. Protecting your goddamn purchases--it was easy to tell when the rain was on its way down again. God, the way some men are irritates me so much. Give a bad name to all the others. Spent the day with Atwood. Again. And Tom Waits. What must be the most depressing Tom Waits CD I've ever heard. Of course, I was the one to pick it out. Sure, Caroline, don't stop playing it. Whatever you do: don't turn that music off. So: Alice has progressively made me want to kill myself, but at least I got a much needed side table out of the deal. Oh, and the always coveted Velvet Underground. One more for the pile. Hello Nico. My mood just changed. Bye.
May 13, 2005
There Are Never Any Plans
I want to make blocks. The sort children use when they pretend to be architects. My problem is that I know painting, but not carpentry and the last thing I need is yet another thing to obsess over and distract me from real life.
I am also sad that I deleted all my entries about cocaine use. I saved them on my laptop though. I've no way of putting them back up because I don't have internet at home--I HATE floppy disks. Not that I really want them to be back up, but come on. Should be heading home. Need to contact Bulford tonight. Christ, am drooping with exhaustion once again. Though haven't been sneezing nearly as much today. OK, I'm off, before I start to complain. There may be a survey forthcoming. (!!) I'm such a hardliner and I miss my bedsheets dearly. I believe I still have half a joint in my jewelry box. This fact alone may indeed help me.
Boys in White Shirts
What was with last night? The nose ran, still. In bed already, draped in a set of very male pajamas (a hole where my dick was supposed to emerge from), and Fawn phoned past eleven, my bedside phone ringing and ringing and me on the veranda. I phoned back. After washing the white paint from his body, came to pick me up in his boss's car. I kept my feet on the dash, since THA BOSS has a most ingenious garbage problem. Managed to find some beer once I started to dig around, though and we just sat in the parked car for a good while, me drinking and Fawn being drunk from before. Popping my Vitamin C. Then we went to bed. His place. I need to make a happy little song for this cold-- something akin to the nutty brownie, fudge-stained melody. I slept the whole night through on the wallside, doubleshort americano in the morning at Fantastico. My tasks measured by orange juice, or sources of and much pulp, with the fiction seeping back in. I'll go back inside after the cup has the dregs, when I can tilt it upsidedown and---no flow.
Geriatric at the bus stop today. So he'd drool at inadvertent times, like while stooping to ask the fat, farting lady on the metal bench beside me whether or not his bus had already gone by, or while reading (i.e.: focusing his eyes on, SORT OF**) a label for potting soil, which has a round enough ring to it to actually bring cuteness to the situation. But, I mean: cascading globs all down the collar of his jacket. Rad. I swear to god I'm not as pretentious as this stupid blog makes me seem. Whore's honour
I really have nothing else to say-(sorry I'm still kind of sick and very useless, as par usual) other than: THE NATURAL LOW SHOW. Lots and lots of ART. From everywhere. Go to closing night this coming Wednesday (the 18th), to see Fawn play. 1810 Store Street, if I'm not mistaken. Bellow the Value Village. Oh yes, and I am incredibly happy with my current outfit.
**This entry brought to you by the general sentiments in Yeat's Sailing to Byzantium
May 5, 2005
untoward
This morning, at around ten, I was chastised by the landlady who shuffles on the hardwood downstairs, for quote-on-quote “entertaining men in my room at night.” Men, plural. Apart from misperception, it only stung because she made it seem as if I had a bevy, when I only had one—if that. I grew jealous of her vision of me (no doubt a lay-about hedonist). Grant it, when I heard her knock on my door rattle above the symphony CBC happened to be playing at the time (an S composer, I believed, in my utter distraught), I was a few moments post-citrus rose bubble bath and I’d just finished moisturizing my limbs with cucumber melon lotion, must have reeked of Mediterranean salad, thin satin skin-coloured bathrobe tied around my waste—my hair still more than half damp with the residue of the sea-green volumizing cleansing conditioner, now rinsed. The worst part is, I haven’t even slept with him yet, not in the Biblical stick-it-in sense, anyway; so the community of Victoria’s Old Town, James Bay, will be whispering scandalous rumors of untoward activity coming from the studio garret for nothing—exchanging accounts of Fawn “slithering away,” the stench of eggs and ham floating out behind him like a grease halo—he’d had none (I’m mostly speaking of the oil covered pan, in this case. The nature of animal fat). I’m just a no-good charlatan (Tales of a No Good Charlatan, forthcoming in hardcover). I told her (assured) that it wouldn’t happen again. I later gave a speech about animosity and sensitive natures, word choice (I’d snooped around her bookshelf while she was out at the grocery store, she had a lot of books on Martin Luther King, spine out). I’ve obviously made this sound a lot worse than it actually was or is: bottom line is that Fawn kept her awake with his “big feet,” (insert large loose-neck chuckle) nothing more. It's true, he's too tall to fit on my bed unless at angle.
She spoke of the noise, sounded like dancing across the room, “It just went on and on,” she said.
Indeed. It damn well had done. He had me by the throat.
. . . so, I think I need to see about some birth control. Pills or hormone drips, regulation, a steady flow.