"that one"....black guy?

listen to puff.

VOTE, sucka!

Register online to vote here or find out how to register in your area here.


All you fools in Madison who are lost, get it on here.


Pay attention to tomorrow night's debate, Joe Biden v. Sarah Palin. If you have any inclination to vote for McCan't, be wise and check her out since she might grab a hold of the reigns if John....dies.


I am voting for Barack Obama.

my anti-semitic son

it's probably best if i don't teach my one and only son english. i'll probably ask one of you kids for a favor. unless he makes me famous. then we shoot for youtube until he's 14.

Memorandum:

In addition, I'm glad you're actually considering your Kathryn-instated obligation to procreate. I hope Ed and Steph realize this dictates their futures as well.

(Apparently, I'm reproducing with a redhead?)

Play date.

So, I guess our kids can still hang out.

In other news, I just googled "babies in headphones" instead of completing my Art History assignment.

Building from the bottom up.

Kathryn, when I fulfill my obligation to procreate, I have a feeling you will receive a picture from me and baby's daddy looking something like this:




I would probably do that to my lovely little thing.

HAIKU:

In Humanities,
the sun's obscured by concrete.
Paint until you cry.

haiku your face

days so humid that

the bathroom door will not shut

are not good for guests

and i also was not particularly impressed by the batobike C.E.  ... except for its emergence from the destroyed batmobile.  you have to admit, that was a nice trick.

Untying my shoelaces.

Oh Kathryn. Don't you remember Christian Bale a la Batman on his Batbike? Saving the WORLD?



I'm sure you hoped for some excellently crafted, beautifully convoluted tale bringing one icon to another. There that internet goes back in its righteous place of hindrance in the ease of simply searching 'Christine Bale + motorcycle.'

I don't much care for the Batbike.

The Batorcycle.

The Botorcycle.

Although didn't he fold into the front of it or something? You could sleep in your cycle. That would be handy, no?

So now we need to get together a crew of these industrial bikes and start out west. Out to Kilmer's place. Let's hang out with all the Batmen. George Clooney has to own some property the size of Manhattan and make more money than all of NM, right? But, you know, for real.

Where were you on August 30th?

May I just preface this with: I love the internet.

Here's one more thing we can all be devastated about missing:

"The date: August 30. The you-don’t-want-to-miss-this event: Evel Knievel’s former bodyguard jumping the World’s Largest Horseshoe Crab on a motorcycle, then crashing through the burning Gates of Hell! "

Hmmm...Motorcycle Fanaticism collides with Cyberspace in an equally explosive spectacle.
But seriously guys, I can't stop thinking about motorcycles. I think we should hold a three-day forum.

Additional 5-point challenge: If you can link motorcycles to Christian Bale or the current political climate, I owe you a drink.

"Fiberglass Humanoids Menace Nation's Highways"

A Gem for Harley-girls and Road Warriors everywhere:

http://www.roadsideamerica.com/muffler/types.html

So, I stumbled across this website while researching imagery for a few new drawings, and I've found myself entirely captivated by these stoic sentinels of transience. Ahhh, the oversized heads and blank stares of hollow truck-stop-watchmen illuminated by the plastic glow of Amoco...

Love at First Sight:

Shut the hell up, McCain.

Ed, I am just salivating at what kind of fire you will spit after this McCain speech. Because this fool has the slightest idea what the cost of flour going up, what, five-fold? means to people already trying to get by on bread? Because he has any idea what is really being lost in this 'war'? I have to turn it off before he starts talking about health care and I just start running to St. Paul so I can punch him in the throat.

What I actually want to write about is how I think I should be a biker chick when I grow up. When I was with my parents over Labor Day, in classic Holm fashion, we were watching FOX's 9 o'clock news which was heavily highlighting the Harley anniversary in Milwaukee. And the whole Harley culture is something I find admirable. Unlike the hipsters that brush past my shoulders these days, bike life is rooted in inclusion rather than based upon the principles of exclusion and elite. What? Wow.



That's all. Those bikers and their camaraderie based around two wheels and an engine, they just left me with that dumb smile for the TV that almost embarrasses me. Like when I'm watching the Olympics. Ah the human spirit.

So I need to get some more tats, I've got two trumpets and the asterisks planned. I should probably get a huge John Deere on my back for Dad and a Delicate Arch over it for friendship. Oh, and a bike. I need a sweet rock 'n roll ride. And some leather. You can see it right?

haiku 2

last post was too much
political talk no more
celebrate labor

haiku 1

coffee fine by self
splenda half calf whip cream fucks
sip self shit stink swill

Ed....this means HAIKUS

This doesn't have a title. I'd take suggestions. I'd take any feedback; I just wrote it at work, not wanting to work.



Tell me I'm not beautiful because you don't understand, that when he crushed his fist against my jaw and the socket popped and the bones broke, the angels sang and the rain stopped, I fell to my knees and fell on my palms, and smiled a crooked, slack-jawed smile to the saving grace of hot summer tar on the hot summer street because in falling, I felt.

In 12-18 month intervals he was a number in an unsuited uniform in a yard. During the first, I felt too much. After the second, the third, the forth, I felt nothing at all. The burns healed, the cuts healed, the fractured bones bonded. During the second, the third, the fourth, since no one else would, I ran my own fingers along the scars from my sternum to my breast, from my breast to my belly, across my belly, hip to hip, marking the space where only one grew and no more would grow.

No more. Not one.

No one but the creator would love such a mess, could let his hands graze the collection of scar tissue which became my home.

Welcome home.

12 months.

He created me and I am his. Father, Son and Holy Ghost, the trinity of Drop-out, Pusher and Corner Shop Lord.

Oh Lord.

Welcome home.

Create me anew, touch my soul. Through my jaw with your fist, through my chest with your steel, to inner chambers of my heart, the inner folds of my mind. Where you are sixteen and I am fifteen, and when I play-fight and push you, set my soles to run away, you set me on a stoop, align our eyes and say: Stop, for real; I just want to hold you.

Stop.

Then you left again, 12-18 months. I was stopped.

You came back and I hadn't moved and you had been moved, so there this life began. You held me. You made me. My nose, my jaw, my womb, my toes, my tongue, my teeth, my voice, my sound. Everything re-formed.

Today I repent, for wondering if it could have been any other way, wondering if me naked could now look any other way, my heart full could now beat any other way, if I could have been created, crafted and sculpted, painted and perfected by hand, any other hand.

Tell me I'm a pity because you don't follow. Tell me my shame because you don't see. Tell me I'm not beautiful, because you don't understand. Tell me I don't count because you don't comprehend. That you created him, with your hands. Lashed his back, tore his tongue, boxed his ears. Filled his mind with sediment which settled exactly as you planned. Don't shake your heads and your self-righteous fingers at me, I stopped and I stayed and I tried and I gave.

12 months. Welcome home.

Because at 8:02 on a Tuesday night a college boy put his hand up my 17-year-old skirt and at 8:02 he turned the college black and red of his soon-alma-mater, and at 8:03 he grabbed my wrist as yours were in cuffs and he pulled me away as you were driven away for 12 months.

12 months at 18 is like 9 months from conception, life taking form. 12 months at 17 is like 11 months from birth, sounds taking form.

I tell him he is beautiful, as my split lip drips drops of my hot bloody words on your porcelain hands, because I understand. I was made to understand: that you gave him no choice, so you gave me no chance. I understand.

The view from eight years

My goodness, Kate, how curious. I had no idea Christian Bale was an over-arching theme to my existence.

In 1992, I fell in love with the Newsies lead man because, you know, he could sing and dance. As a tiny little eight-year-old, I guess that equated to dreaminess. (Somehow at 24, playing high-tech dress up and destroying shit is now dreamy? Oh, oh, my apologies, it is his 'saving Gotham' and 'finding inner strength' that we gals just drool over, right?)

While everyone knows Batman holds the key to personal, social and moral revolutionary fortitude, it now occurs to me that Bale's 1992 character also struggled with his identity - calling himself Jack Kelly, a very constructed persona, vying for the West (aren't we all?? Goodness, it all just keeps circling, doesn't it? Um, down the drain?), and then getting arrested as the vagrant Francis Sullivan. And we ultimately love him because even once he seems to scab out, Jack comes around and saves the day leading his street boys against Pulitzer. Like Batman, his actions, those smooth late 19th century moves and sweet songs, make him who he is, not the name in front of him.

So, I'm a lawn-reader and a writer of poor prose and a walker and a yogi and a listener because those are some of the things I do. Mattering not what might motivate why I put myself in a 105 degree room with sweat running down my arms, the backs of my legs, the back of my neck when in dandayamana-janushirasana? Why my feet are my main mode of transportation? Why I pay such close attentions to the words spoken by others?

What else can Christian Bale teach us? I suppose a marathon movie-viewing is in order. Research. Education. And daydreaming, if we must.

Unless, Of Course,

You are what you eat...

Mega-truths of the Masked

The far-reaching implications of this next post will resonate in ways you cannot possibly preclude. It is trifold in its intent.

The following paragraphs contain my attempt to: further theorize on the potential discrepency between our self-percieved versus outwardly-constructed identities, present an example to illustrate an aspect of self that was at one time revealed by our revered Christine about her own innerworkings, and, in a very concise way... (wait for it)... bring this little publication fuuuuullllllll circle.

My ambitions are endless,

and

I shall keep you in anticipation no longer.

You've seen Batman. You love Batman. No one you know is better equipped to grapple with the dark, complex intricacies of the individual psyche than Batman. Perhaps you all will recall the scene in Batman Begins when Bruce Wayne poignantly utters this: "It's not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me." Batman says so. (This is not up for discussion.) In accordance with my unwavering conviction that all truths come from the mouth of the caped crusader, my proposal unravels thus: Our true selves are ONLY manifested by our actions.* Literally.

Now, you'd better sit down. Christian Bale, the dashing, self-actualized star of this film, happens to be none other that Miss Holm's first Hollywood crush. (A telling fact, indeed.) Furthermore, and not ironically, this particular fellow was the subject of the very first photograph posted as a basis for this site.

Wrap your head around that.

*Morally, I feel somewhat obligated to mention that my self-righteous prosecutor girlfriend may have helped a little in reaching this valuable, though vitriolic, conclusion.

Who would I be if I were who they say I am?

Poll: How much of any person is actively constructed in any given situation with a specific fueling intention, and how much just, is? Is 'being' even an option? Who the hell am I?

I fatally brood over other people's motivations, but less often do I wonder about my own intentions. When I wake in the morning, how am I deciding what to wear? I work in an office where my coworkers are my public; people wear pajamas to work. Dressing nicely gets you accused of going on an interview. Why do I ever dress nicely for work? When I respond to an inquiry with sarcasm or sincerity, how much of a choice am I actively making? How constructed am I? And what is my intent? With the right bust-to-waist-to-hips ratio, the right swagger, the right vocabulary and intonation, the right angle with a 35mm and focus of the lens, the right give-me-the-weight-and-do-what-you-will-I-am-not-so-breakable, could someone learn to be Christine?

Of all things I think myself to be, self-aware, I am not. A view of myself out is rather different from how I hear of the view looking in. Who is more accurate? I really don't feel like I am trying to be anything. And yet when something kind is said of me, I generally end up feeling rather awful, like I've lied, like I have been putting up a front, or rather, intentionally constructing a self that is pleasant for other people, even if I'm not sure what I've done.

But how long have artists and authors argued over intention? T.S. Eliot and kids of New Criticism, Barthes' and the deconstructionists (Begam's Critical Theories was one of my favorite classes), wanted the artist to be removed from the work, let it stand on its own - or rather, be subject to the understanding of the reader - and don't take biography, the creator, into account. Can that be done with a person? If we are no less constructed than The Wasteland? If I am what they say I am, am I just 'am', or am I then constructing myself to remain as they want me to be?

Warning from the Author

What I do, what I think, and who I am should be of no interest to anyone; nothing I do is particularly noteworthy, none of my thoughts are particularly original, and it's my thinking that no aspect of my being should consume anyone's attention for any amount of time. I can't see how my words will have any value as entertainment, much less instruction, since I have neither the talent nor the inclination for composing such things. In sum, I can think of no reason why any reader should be bothered to read any part of what I have to say.


The fact is that I write for my own benefit and amusement; partly to pass the time, and partly in the hopes that I might gain some insight into my character although, to be honest, I suspect that my efforts will be useless even in this regard, since what I write contains mostly lies. But the truth is that I don't write with an audience in mind. This may be a lie. I suppose this is a fair warning.


I offer no apologies, ever, but I realize that the aforementioned may seem somewhat dry, even mundane. The purpose of blogging seems to consist of postulations that are nonconcurring. For reflection? For oneself? For entertaining others? For journaling significant anythings? For business purposes?


I do not plan to propose any purpose for my prose, nor do I expect the other authors to state any form of intent. Between the timestamp this post is marked to the initiation of my next entry, I will ponder how I will exist on this blog. This may sound profound, but it isn't. High brow? Yes. Always.


I am leaving you with Michel de Montaigne's address to the reader from Essays of Montaigne.

READER, here is a book of good faith; it doth at the outset forewarn thee that in it I have proposed to myself no other than a domestic and private end: I have had no consideration either to thy service or to my glory. My strength is not capable of such a design. I have dedicated it to the private commodity of my kinsfolk and friends, so that, having lost me (which they have to do shortly), they may therein recover some traits of my conditions and humors, and by that means preserve more whole and more vivid the knowledge they had of me. Had my intention been to seek the world’s favor, I should surely have adorned myself with borrowed beauties: I desire herein to be viewed, as you see me, in mine own simple, natural, and ordinary manner, without study and artifice: for it is myself I paint. My defects are herein to be read to the life: my imperfections and my natural form, so far as public respect permitted me. If I had lived among those nations which (they say) yet dwell under the sweet liberty of primitive laws of nature, I assure thee I would most willingly have painted myself quite fully and quite naked. Thus, reader, myself am the matter of my book: there’s no reason thou shouldst employ thy leisure on so frivolous and vain a subject. Adieu, then!

For Clarification:

Despite any contention that could potentially follow this entry, I think everyone should know that I, Kathryn Kostroski, am the definitive champion of Grassballz.

Yum....

Words, delicious indeed.

Like lavender, honey and vanilla gelato, consumed with a tiny translucent, neon-colored shovel of a spoon.

I'm constantly thinking about language; its limitations, its foundations, is (mis)uses and the manipulation of a single word or brief phrase for (mis)interpretations; how I can write 'neat' and those reading it might think, oh, cool, and others might know my sarcasm and think, oh, you. This is a topic to which we will certainly return.

Right now, I'm thinking about how certain words feel good as they are leaving the tip of your tongue. Palpable words. Words that almost taste good rolling around on the backs of your teeth and the roof of your mouth. J.R.R. Tolkein in his English and Welsh posited that 'cellar door' was the most beautiful word sound in the English language, but is it the most fun to say? Cellar door. Cell-ar doooooor. Hm, not bad.

I guess 'gelato' isn't English. But it still sounds really good.

as promised, a beginning.

i tend to take refuge in the earnestness of my writing.  i don't know what exactly i have to offer this particular endeavor, what my own contribution to the unapologetic answer will be.  the odds of genius, or poignancy, or vivacity tumbling out of my key strokes seem slim.  really, i only have one guarantee: that everything i give, i give wholeheartedly.    

to begin with, some thoughts on words.

words have been as familiar to me as peas or bananas, as swing sets and carpeting, for as long as i can consciously recall anything.  they have surrounded me my entire life, in both my physical and psychic worlds.   my mother read fairy tales to the fetal version of my self.  there were stories written on my baby room wallpaper.  at nap time, i hid books beneath my pillows, to read after the lights were turned out.  during the heinous years of adolescence, i spent hours in libraries and plot lines, taking cover from the worst blows of puberty.  for the last 5 years words have been my currency, through which i have managed to purchase some self expression along with a degree.  after so many years of devotion, words are strung up like christmas lights in my imagination, gently illuminating my innermost impressions.    

i love them.  

beginning a venture that will be conducted almost entirely in text, i feel that it is important to take a moment to appreciate this very impressive medium.  though the actual aesthetics of our words will be limited by computerized fonts and color palettes, formatted to the reader's screen, there is still so much potential in what we set down here.  potential for pleasure, for pride.  potential for embarrassment (for, though i am not a writer either, christine, i am also sensitive about what i write) or misunderstanding.  there is even the potential that something truly grand or wonderful or exciting will happen.  words can crystallize events, solidify memories or stories from their immediate, possibly ephemeral state into something that can be shared, even after we have all forgotten them.  however, whatever we write can also deliquesce certainty, can soften and blur the harder edges of fact or verity.  we can create whatever we want to here.  

it's that potentiality that i find so incredibly alluring.  the layers of meaning imbedded in each specific formulation of letters, the lines that we read with our minds and hearts between the lines we read with our eyes... mmmm.  

delicious.  

i am going to try not to be intimidated by the skill and craft of you two co-authors (though, quite frankly, after reading the posts preceding mine that will be a rather difficult task.)  ending thoughts has never been my strong suite, particularly when it comes to writing them down- an ending always feels so artificial.  but then, i suppose this is just a beginning... so i guess i can relax a bit.  

until later then, loves.

The Eyes Behind the Blindfold

Okay, Kate, I'm going to put this out there. Where? Out "there." Creepy. Maybe we really should keep this on permanent classified status.

Unfortunately, I do not recall what led to the thought 'there's still blood on your hands.' Perhaps it was the (historical) danger (we encountered none) of the wild west. Tombstone. Talk of No Country for Old Men while on this aforementioned road trip, a contemplation of violence. Regardless, I have a tendency to write down words and phrases to which I hope to return and expound upon, creatively. Or otherwise. I rarely, in fact, do return. However, the phrase kind of stuck in my head and by the time I got home, ready to write my 'flash fiction' (250 words or less) for my online writing 'class', I put my fingers to the keys and this just kind of created itself.

Keep in mind that I'm not a writer, but I'm still kind of sensitive about my shit.



The Eyes Behind the Blindfold, by Christine.


‘Make sure you get all the blood off.’

Deanne glared at him over her shoulder. She turned off the water, threw the soap into the basin, faced him and wiped her hands on her jeans.

‘Your pouting won’t help. I’m starting to think you didn’t want this.’

Jack was good at that, making her think there was a time when she did want to break into his sister’s home, bind his twin seven-year-old nieces, their mother and father, in the barn and execute them.

‘The hard part is over. Now we just drive. Like when we were kids. Anywhere you want.’

His hands on her waist, he gently turned her toward the sink and began washing her hands. He was so fucking good at that. The sacrifices, always for her.

‘You’ll feel better once you are cleaned up, once we are on the road.’

She watched the blood swirl down the drain, she watched his hands massage the red out of her skin, watched him pat them dry with a rag. Just minutes before it had been tied around the now dead eyes of his sister.

‘There you go. See? Everything is working out exactly how we planned. Finally, Deanne, now it will all begin for us.’

It calmed her to hear him speak like that. He was so good. His voice made it easy. She took the pistol from the countertop, fired twice and went out the backdoor.

There was not a trace of blood on her this time.

Dunderpation in the States.

I have one more quote to impart in the spirit of recent ruminations from the freeway.

In response to being asked if he had ever been lost, Daniel Boone said this:

"I can't say I was ever lost, but I was bewildered once for three days."

Webster word entries are too short for accurate definitions.

Does any of this make sense, Kate? I think I audibly sighed with relief by the conclusion.

The daunting task of blogging about a road trip was weighing on me; I felt some kind of obligation to write about this event, but knew neither where to begin, end, or how to fill in the spaces. Too much space. Ironic, as I woke up centimeters from you day after day for a week, and sat maybe a foot from you hour after hour of a driving day. From your post, it seems we shared many sentiments. Also ironic, as, despite the collective nature of the trip - and the surprising moments of self-disclosure - with the dearest of friends, a great deal of it felt intensely personal.

Ponderance: either we read Kerouac and frame ourselves to have that experience, or, perhaps, the road trip simply is a universal experience. Kerouac didn't create it, just wrote it. Should there be something wrong with that? We spend so much time wanting to separate, distinguish ourselves from the other, maybe a common ground isn't such a thing to fear.

This is one of a few topics I returned to again and again while journaling on the open road, the (American?) romanticization of travel, of the road. Concrete (literally, cement) and tar representations of freedom? Access to change or newness? I wasn't necessarily looking for answers as we set out West on a Tuesday night. Which is good, because by the time we headed East, I was steeped in question and caked in wonder.

Just a few short days from driving the last mile, I am still in processing and I'm certainly not very articulate in expressing the feeling of feeling so much feeling. Goddamn, it was just wheels on a road, signs and signs and gas stations and gas stations! But in transit, I found myself rather emotionally labile.

I cried a bit behind my dirty, smudged sunglasses when Ranger John Bruce had us look at our hands the last time. I couldn't even wipe my eyes with those dirty, dusty hands, but I was so grateful that they were, in fact, so dirty and dusty.

I swelled with victory through my cardiac laboring as we returned to the ridge rim top from our hike down Gooseberry Mountain. Sweaty hugs all around somehow led to a calm that seemed nostalgic. But when before did I feel so calm?

In a few days, I bounded along the emotional spectrum, was angry and heartbroken and in love and grateful and sullen and sappy and happy and silly and mean and cold and warm and encouraging and distant and present and...am still in processing.

Post Script:

Christine, Does any of this make sense?

(I'd ask our readers, but we don't have any.)

Scenic Overlook Ahead (Or Inner-look, if you will; Below).

This is my disclaimer: The opening sentences of this entry (to follow, paragraph 3) may inevitably seem trite. However, (regardless) they are true. It is possible that the experience I aim to further expound upon is one that is, on its exterior, quite cliche, and the details that prevent it thus will be nearly impossible to convey in an accessible and concise way. Perhaps I will contend with the reason I feel the need to preface this entry in this way, instead of trying to justify the uniqueness of the experience. Perhaps it just is more universal than it is esoteric.

This being said, it is for posterity, not cool-points, that I continue. It happened like this:

The four of us were driving out of Mesa Verde National Park as the sun began to make its descent. It is Saturday, none of us have showered since Tuesday, and we're listening to Flamenco as we wind through plateaus on a serpentine canyon road. The windows are down.

My heart feels full. (Genuinely.)

Once this glow has waned some, much like the warmth of the sun, my contentment gives way to hunger. This degeneration ends somewhere like Durango when we stop for food, but I've already begun to dissect the elements of my general fulfillment in association with our venture to the West. The "road trip" and its persistence in the American psyche as a vague, romanticised pilgrimage is a fascinating study. I'm wondering if we need these odd (sometimes trying) experiments in isolation to solidify our usual relations with the ones we purport to love (so easily) on a day to day basis.

People have a myriad amount of things to say regarding travel. Jack Keruoac says this: "Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again, we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life." He may be suggesting that our mobilizations are intuitive, possibly involuntary. We are restless creatures. Movement is necessary. I came across another quote I found telling when combing the internet for various opinions on the subject of wanderlust: " Maps encourage boldness. They're like cryptic love letters. They make anything seem possible". This was stated by Mark Jenkins. (I have no idea who Mark Jenkins is, but I like what the man says of maps. I'm in agreement on this front.) But how does this involuntary boldness brought on by the illustrious notion of "roadtripping" actually effect the relations of its participants?

My speculative theory is this: A roadtrip offers a concentrated slice of our normally broad scope of emotions that is regularly played out in entirety within the vast theatre that is our daily lives. On the petrie dish that is a cross-country journey with friends, the multi-faceted specimen manifests itself in only a fractional microcosm of interaction, in this case, a Ford Focus or a three-person tent, housing four. If all participants are able adjust to the compression of their reactionary desires during the indubitable, unforeseen circumstances that life on the road may present, chances are everyone will still be friends when you get back to Madison. (Drinks at Natspil!)

On this venture, I found my emotions ranging from one extreme to the next in rather short succession. This is true of many trips I've taken, or have had the opportunity to hear about. The distractions are few, the challenges are many. On the day that ended as I've described above, only hours before my seemingly life-affirming drive into the sunset, I found myself seized with laughter while a cut-off clad Ed disappeared into a tunnel while touring an ancient cliff dwelling of the Ancestral Pueblo. He had to nearly get onto his belly to clear the roof of the hole with my back pack on, and for whatever reason (overtiredness? overexertion of emotional restraint thus far?) I found this hilarious. I shouldn't have been laughing, all considered. He was after all, carrying my backpack, and we were treading (crawling headfirst through) an archaeological wonder, but the feelings commanded by the road know not the bounds of propriety. Approximately 25 minutes after I finally get a handle of the incessant giggling (to the dismay of the respectful elderly couple behind me) , I nearly cry when Park Ranger John Bruce asks us to examine our potential as human beings through our reliance on the hands of others. Perhaps by now, if you're not a traveller, you're suggesting I get a grip, if you are however, chances are you've encountered a similar deluge of compelling feelings in as short a time span. It wasn't that these expressions were insincere, they simply were without the proper amount of time and space to project themselves realistically. This is the nomad life.

You may find yourselves eating an apple in a lean-to in the bottom of a canyon, after a 1400 foot descent, singing Total Eclipse of the Heart, practically begging for a sign from above that suggests you turn around for the car (Will a white butterfly suffice?). I couldn't tell if this was desperation, dehydration, or comedy. Abnormal circumstances breed abnormal emotional responses. (And in my case, more often than not, uninvited fits of laughter.) Or, perhaps you and Christine are pressing wet sand into turrets and towers under a sky filled with mountains and dunes. There are no clouds; the boys have set off on a foot-race across the flood plain leaving two of you to your fleeting architectural endeavors. But while you partake in this inconsequential, childish activity, you let conversation give way to some of your deepest insecurities. This is not the stuff of prediction. It is the stuff of the Road Trip. And I suggest you take one. I've seen some really remarkable places in the last week.

However, when creating an ambitious itinerary based on that awe-inspiring map in front of you, consider that with every new vista that opens to you, a new (emotive) can of worms may, as well. Benjamin Disraeli says this: "Like all Great travelers, I have seen more than I remember and remember more than I've seen".

No friends were lost in the production/research of this entry.

Piggybacks and Ponytails

Genius by association???

This is the first note I took while reading Gertrude Stein's The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas. Three question marks. Who is this Ms. Toklas? Does writing about dinner parties with Picasso and Fernande, walks with Matisse and talks about Hemingway with Sherwood Anderson make someone legitimate? Is this the story of one's life she wishes to share? Afternoons with friends and weekend visits extended to a summer in the British countryside? Would I hope to hang the hat of my fame on social associations with artists and writers and travelers and lovers? The artist, the writer, the traveler, the lover who lets me hang her portraits in my foyer and read his poetry on a Pacific boardwalk, hand her her luggage from the trunk of the car and keep him warm in the sloped center of a lumpy bed?

I suppose you might be onto something, Gertrude. My story, perhaps, would not be so different. Not so different at all. While, indeed, it seems the best tales set up the philosophical proofs without consciousness of its systems (please see The Heights of Cinema, below), really, without any self-consciousness whatsoever - let them find us in the rafters, let them chase us through the 'Performers Only' backstage dressing rooms - when it comes down to it, Picasso is just Pablo is just Kate and Anderson is just Sherwood is just Steph, and it is most important that each was at my side, not that rafters were extraterrestrial. I can climb the ladders on my own, test all the doorknobs with the twist of my own wrist. What I cannot do is create this kind of proofing on my own, without association.

Notes to my reading end thus:
p. 212: the commonplace, success

No questions.

The Heights of Cinema.

Enchanting evenings involve all the proper ingredients, and rarely reach a pinnacle you might call "magical". Every once in a while however, they happen. I suggest trying this one on for size:

1. Gather close buddies, begin with a jovial wine tasting. Preferrably one you don't pay for.

2. Decide after some deliberation with (around, and in spite of) a drunk Texan-bachelor, decide to attend a found-footage festival with two of your favorite ladies.

3. Laugh until your tummy hurts while holding a beer cup that rivals the size of your head. Pass it to the left occasionally during "Hunks." We may be sitting on barstools in the "nose-bleeds" but the funny still seems to translate way back here.

4. Once the movie is over, (now this part may be difficult to orchestrate in many of today's modern cinema-establishments.) find a handle securely attached to a bare wall for no apparent reason. Pull on it until it occurs to you that this would make a truly unique photographic opportunity.

5. Capitalize on all the unique architectural features, ornate carpet, marble, dramatic velvet couches or various uninhabited corners that 200 year old theatre has to offer, and take pictures like you're a 16 years old! (You know, when you were having the best time of your life with your bffs, and you never wanted to forget the moment... yes, that's right, the braces and the stuffed animals too.)

6. Step six is IMPERATIVE. Open every door you come across. That's right Nancy Drew, explore like you've got a mystery to solve, or at least half an imagination.

At this point you've hopefully found the really dark, dirty, cave-ish type room with a rusty iron ladder that seems to head upwards for several stories. I'm fairly certain you know what to do: Climb it. Use your silenced cell-phones for flashlights, and don't let your buddies get snagged on grabsie, dangling extension cords. Be sure to marvel at the strange and frightening rafters high above the main theatre. Take a nice touristy pic. (Hey guys! I've just ascended willingingly into the physical manifestation of a Tim Burton nightmare! Weather's great. Wish you were here!)

On your way out (if you make it, life intact) dodge the caterers and make for abandoned dressing rooms.

Once you've exhausted the interest of these, find the door that opens onto to the back alley. Giggle incessantly about your getaway. Head to a bar that feels like grandma's house and get yourselves a slice of Lemon Meringue pie to share... And a brandy Manhattan if you're still up for it.

All and all, continue in a similar manner until you've renewed your sense of discovery. Smile like you're a kid again. Find some mischief. Tell your friends.

The Purchase of Art

or: The Art of Purchase (If you prefer.)

Let me begin briefly by saying, my post-art-show-depression DOES NOT have anything to do with all of my very attractively-dressed, well-behaved opening-attendees. And to Shannon: I'm sorry I told you that nothing matters while we walked (you guided me) home. Upon talking to several fellows in the business of aesthetics, it has come to my understanding that this occurrence is a rather common one, and the vague emptiness I'm feeling (where the passion for what I do usually resides) will wane. In the mean time, I shall work diligently to become a better sales representative on my own behalf. Thus far, I've been a fine example of things un-recommendable.

I spent the better half of last Sunday morning berating myself for being what you might describe as absolutely doltish, and were you to say it that way, it may have been an understatement. Coming to from my coma, afflicted by a headache to make you wish you were dead, I find that not only (during the blitzkrieg of cheap wine/bike-riding in heels) did I lose my bank card, but I also happened to have lost the contact information of a potential patron who told me he would be buying one of my pieces. A winning evening, even for me.

Now, these two issues are currently nearing resolve, so regret may be temporarily thwarted. However, nothing yet has prevented me from being the most awkward human on the planet to attempt to close a monetary transaction with.

Firstly, I want to sell art. Every time a piece leaves my possession and enters the collection of another individual, I feel closer to finding fulfillment in a career path, and they essentially gain something no one else has, something created with the intent to somehow inspire. (We all win?) That does not mean I find it easy to name a price, tell you when I want your money, or physically take it from your hand. (Should any of that ever be so straightforward.) Most likely I'll be having a glass of wine in your condo while your little dog humps my leg and you explain to me how to send an invoice using pay pal. Or you'll practically have me tearing up in my living room (I love you!) because you gingerly place 4 twenties on the table and tell me how proud you are to be making the first down payment on an art investment that you adore. In either scenario, please realize I navigated by saying "uh..." and "Thank you" more than you can imagine followed by a deluge of uncomfortable smiles, teeth clenched all the while.

This is a desperate attempt to find a manager/agent/gallerist.

Excuse me, I believe my integrity is caught in your zipper.

Sell-out: Begin your blog under the misrepresentational pretense that is a celebrity-sighting.

Ed tells me we start these things out of a desire for notoriety/fame/recognition, so this seems exceptionally fitting. Of course, this isn't some second-rate, b-movie-wannabe. This is Christian Bale: disappearing into the shining enigma that is a black SUV, sharpie in hand, troubled countenance of a handsome man being mobbed...

(I didn't take this photo.) It is a copy that was given to me by a kind Historical Museum patron who had the opportunity to take it herself, here in Madison, astride her husband whom is "on business." Admittedly, I shamelessly stalked Christian Bale on my lunch hour to no avail. In hindsight, however, I find my position a favorable one. If I would have taken the photo, I would have felt the dull ache of guilt over violating the privacy of a stranger, and having been given a copy by a woman I didn't know, I was afforded the rare occasion to reflect on the general good will of my fellows. (Something I seem to do less often these days.)

The relevance of this photo lies in my current preoccupation with our fascination with worlds not our own. With the lives of those who exist where things are, in theory, inherently more interesting than they are here. (IE: upper east side, NY, Private School.) I will document my own (albeit, slightly less enchanting) life in a meager attempt to prove that our sometimes less enchanting lives can actually hold a great deal of universal poignance or at the very least a few awkard and humorous encounters, even if I've never been asked to sign an autograph myself.

I've experienced a bit, and have an alarming amount of things to say about it. Read about it or not.