This is one of my favorite passages from literature, for life:
"Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees-he could climb it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder."
I'm guilty as charged: always searching for the ladder, for magical elevation into the wild blue yonder. I'm going to India in January (!!!) and I'm hoping that I'll gulp down some milky, wondrous, sweetness- the type that refreshes and energizes, and makes me see the world anew.
Here's to hoping!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sparks
GENERAL IDEAS OF INTEREST:
-girls, art, avoidance of stereotype---> using art/ making art to avoid stereotype
-monsters, magical creatures
-bathtubs
-whimsy in real life situations
-TV (TV Girl songs, girl who drags TV around everywhere, “tv told me how to feel and now I can't feel nothing real”, TV culture, why do we like it? What is it doing or not doing? I'm living in TV though I never watch it)
ALSO:
whimsy, safety, beauty, tangibility, intangibility, romance, non-romance, elegant emptiness, portly fullness, wine, sleep, sex, pens, grocery stores, shrimp, TV, madness, Hamlet, ham sandwich, Shakespeare, early mornings, camping, camping with Shakespeare, determined resistance to superficiality, pimples, follicles, bubbly water, elegance, shoes, cords, cameras, stripes, monuments, a place unknown, a silly smile, your face underwater, mascara, eyes, lashes, music and Stevie Wonder
-girls, art, avoidance of stereotype---> using art/ making art to avoid stereotype
-monsters, magical creatures
-bathtubs
-whimsy in real life situations
-TV (TV Girl songs, girl who drags TV around everywhere, “tv told me how to feel and now I can't feel nothing real”, TV culture, why do we like it? What is it doing or not doing? I'm living in TV though I never watch it)
ALSO:
whimsy, safety, beauty, tangibility, intangibility, romance, non-romance, elegant emptiness, portly fullness, wine, sleep, sex, pens, grocery stores, shrimp, TV, madness, Hamlet, ham sandwich, Shakespeare, early mornings, camping, camping with Shakespeare, determined resistance to superficiality, pimples, follicles, bubbly water, elegance, shoes, cords, cameras, stripes, monuments, a place unknown, a silly smile, your face underwater, mascara, eyes, lashes, music and Stevie Wonder
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Onion Rings
CLOSE YOUR EYES AND IMAGINE:
Sam walks down the cobblestone street, intent upon his onion rings. They are airy discs of fried delight, heaped on top of each other, waiting to be consumed. Sam bought these onion rings on the corner, from an Indian man with a silk suit and a yellow caravan. The Indian man was energetic--twirling the deep fryer and splashing hot grease all over himself in excitement. Sam wanted to ask him: "how do you know anything about onion rings, Indian man?" but he didn't for fear of being politically incorrect. After all, he tries to be graceful.
Sam reaches for an onion ring and brings it to his nose. He inhales and it's heavenly: sweet onion inside and crisp dough surrounding. He takes a big bite, and onion juice trickles down his chin and onto his skinny tie. He winces, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and takes another bite.
Sam can't control himself; he eats one and another and another. He keeps up his pace, traveling down the cobblestones, toward the creek, when he perks up. He hears music, full and soothing, just behind McSweeney's garage. His legs go without him; he's helpless but to follow his body through puddles, past the garage, and into the woods.
The music gets louder. It's a strange symphony, all organ and flute and piano and cymbal. The forest is lush, voluptuous, heaving with rain and velvet peacocks. "Peacocks in London?" he wonders to himself before pulling the pregnant branches apart with his greasy hands, going deeper into the music. A boxing ring appears before him. Two men box silently, jabbing and ducking with leather gloves and jutting teeth. They are flanked on all sides by women. These are beautiful women with big blooms of hair and diamonds on their tongues. They cheer for the men, clapping and shouting wordlessly.
Sam looks down into the empty cardboard container. Were those onion rings magic? Suddenly, the container shoots forward out of his hands. The box twists and mutates until it's a golden accordion, with leather strap and ivory keys. The golden accordion settles onto Sam: the leather strap zooms behind his back and the keyboard adjusts to his hands. He licks his fingers and begins to play, enchanted by his newfound musicality.
From his yellow caravan, the Indian man twirls the deep fryer and smiles to himself.
Sam walks down the cobblestone street, intent upon his onion rings. They are airy discs of fried delight, heaped on top of each other, waiting to be consumed. Sam bought these onion rings on the corner, from an Indian man with a silk suit and a yellow caravan. The Indian man was energetic--twirling the deep fryer and splashing hot grease all over himself in excitement. Sam wanted to ask him: "how do you know anything about onion rings, Indian man?" but he didn't for fear of being politically incorrect. After all, he tries to be graceful.
Sam reaches for an onion ring and brings it to his nose. He inhales and it's heavenly: sweet onion inside and crisp dough surrounding. He takes a big bite, and onion juice trickles down his chin and onto his skinny tie. He winces, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and takes another bite.
Sam can't control himself; he eats one and another and another. He keeps up his pace, traveling down the cobblestones, toward the creek, when he perks up. He hears music, full and soothing, just behind McSweeney's garage. His legs go without him; he's helpless but to follow his body through puddles, past the garage, and into the woods.
The music gets louder. It's a strange symphony, all organ and flute and piano and cymbal. The forest is lush, voluptuous, heaving with rain and velvet peacocks. "Peacocks in London?" he wonders to himself before pulling the pregnant branches apart with his greasy hands, going deeper into the music. A boxing ring appears before him. Two men box silently, jabbing and ducking with leather gloves and jutting teeth. They are flanked on all sides by women. These are beautiful women with big blooms of hair and diamonds on their tongues. They cheer for the men, clapping and shouting wordlessly.
Sam looks down into the empty cardboard container. Were those onion rings magic? Suddenly, the container shoots forward out of his hands. The box twists and mutates until it's a golden accordion, with leather strap and ivory keys. The golden accordion settles onto Sam: the leather strap zooms behind his back and the keyboard adjusts to his hands. He licks his fingers and begins to play, enchanted by his newfound musicality.
From his yellow caravan, the Indian man twirls the deep fryer and smiles to himself.
Poison Candy Flowers
Inspired by Allen Ginsberg and "Howl," I started flipping through my journal. I found some scribblings on Cindy Sherman- a contemporary artist and photographer. Sherman is interested in all things simulacral: copies with no original, mass memory, disappearance of the artist/ person behind the mask of stereotype. Sherman is a feminist-I know you're envisioning hairy armpits and Birkenstocks but bare with me. She's interested in the Real World pressure for girls to conform to filmic stereotypes--> fake eyelashes and big breasts and simulated conversation. Sherman examines woman as "spectacle" and "symptom," and as the passive object of male attention. In some ways, to paraphrase her photography and artistic philosophy, characters are constantly constructed in film but also in life through costume, clothing, and manicured nails. Sherman's photography is eerie, and whimsical, and often familiar. She fools you, harkening to previous artistic products though never directly referencing anything. She creates false memories. I'm fascinated by her and by artifice in general. I always have trouble putting together outfits or buying clothes because with any purchase, a commitment is made to a genre or style or icon that I don't necessarily align with. Of course, a shirt is just a shirt...except when it's not. I'm hung up on fantasies. After all, in another life I was matador, leopard with gold bell, Botticelli beauty, burnt toast, gold necklace, Napoleon and Richard Nixon. The point is that when we reapply mascara or cut our toenails, we're secretly trying to tell a story. We're trying to make our own legend and fiction. It's exciting and exhausting...but of course, womanhood is both of those in equal measure.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Beastly
I've been spending an exorbitant amount of time on facebook, hating myself as I refill my cup. The problem is this: a superficial lack of space for creative outpouring. I find myself fidgety, changing my profile picture, changing my status. Sometimes it feels like facebook is the only place to express one's self. This is obviously bogus. I hereby resolve to be better and facebook less. It's boring. So what's been up? Friday I traveled to DC and engaged in some questionable behavior (see: dancing at Rock n' Roll Hotel, two stepping in the street, accidentally bumping uglies with a tranny on the Metro) with some Southern boys before hitting the National Mall for the Rally to Restore Sanity. It was an excellent experience, complete with witty signage ("Less Sarah Palin, More Para Sailing"/ "We Could Talk Politics or We Could Eat Chocolate") and youthful energy. I was impressed with the diversity of the crowd. As it turns out, laughing appeals to all ages, and this is a beautiful thing. We sped home for Halloween festivities--> Sunday we went to Fell's Point for the Mardi Gras-esque madness that we've come to rely on. With lack of funds and foresight my dear roommate and I decided to be Beauty and the Beast (obviously I was Beast with Gap fur jacket and Google blanket tied tight round ma neck). We bopped around, a motley crew of ballerina and Steve Jobs and sluts and Birds of War and cats and Cat-in-the-Hat and cavewoman. Sometimes it's nice to place yourself in the middle of a swirling vortex just to test your limits, your capacity for chaos, and disorder. I was dizzy with exhaustion but enjoying the splendor nonetheless. Now it's time to grease my gears and surge forward into creative projects. It's almost wintertime-I don't know what that means. I do know that a few weeks ago, I combed each level of the library, pulling books off the shelf at random, and checking out a fat stack. Maybe I should do that again. It sounds good right? As usual, it's all "what is life and how should I live it?" up in my head. I should work on that.
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