elephantine

Another move.

2011-07-19T12:01:00.000-07:00

Well, I've done it once more and felt the restless urge to try my hand at this bloggy thing again, only somewhere else.

http://laelefanteria.blogspot.com/

I don't know why. I guess I like the feeling of a fresh start.

A small recap:

This year has been much about change-- relationship shifts, health and lifestyle adjustments, and mostly an enormous surge of writing that's sort of twisted things around in my head. I was invited to read at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts , where my poem, Taking my Baptism, was chosen for web publication (you can read it at the link). Near the end of the year, I was the recipient of the Gertrude Claytor Poetry Prize through the Academy of American Poets for a small collection of five poems. These accomplishments, while not the most important aspects of my MFA experience, provided just the validation and bolstering effect of acknowledgment to balance out the ever-growing stack of rejection letters, and the constant ebb of self-doubt around this whole Trying To Make It As A Writer business. Far more important in my first year was the harnessing of an understanding with my work, and deeper connection with myself and what makes me write what I write. I have two solid collections at their halfway points (one a series based on the beautiful but often surreal experience of an all-girls' camp and education; the other based on what I've affectionately dubbed "The Dead Dad Stuff"), and have a handful of prose pieces that don't make me cringe. These are all good things.

This summer things have mostly hit their stride: I run most mornings, then over a bowl of almond-butter-and-oatmeal write for three hours in my cubicle at the Taubman Museum of Art. In the afternoon I drink tea and attend meetings, and pull together layouts and budgets for my Big Project there. In the evenings there are some MFA boys and usually a movie, accompanied by some delicious home-cooked meal a crazy companion of mine might slap together (I'm a little gun-shy when it comes to cooking for others.. akin to my anxiety over performing any kind of mental math on command). At night I read until I can't hold my eyes open any longer and try not to murder my overly-vocal cat in a sleep-drunk rage.

It feels good to form my erratic behavior into a routine, and on Mondays I feel myself falling into it much as one might collapse into a warm old duvet. While much of what whirls around in my brain still feels manic and nervous, knowing that I can run and write daily despite my 40 hour work week has an almost immediate calming effect. As does good food. Which is also what my summer has been about:

Let's see how I keep up with things over at La Elefanteria 2.

La Elefanteria

2010-12-31T12:06:00.001-08:00

Last night, while watching the better Capote film, Infamous, I was reminded of an interview in which Frank Sinatra once said that every time Judy Garland sang she died a little inside...that's how much she gave. And, in the ensuing argument that occurred between my fellow movie-watcher and I, I discovered that I completely agreed with this notion. (Yes, I'd like some wine with my cheese, thank you.) But let me explain:

When you make art, when you really give yourself to something that requires creation, I don't think it's unreasonable to say that you become controlled by it. And it's because art is, to a large degree, an autonomous thing-- something that must be worked over and reasoned with as well as coaxed into existence. I don't know a single writer, artist or performer who hasn't felt consumed by their work at some point, like it could kill them if they let it. Yet while it seems that believing in this idea could indicate a kind of fatalistic perspective on the maturation and quality of an artist's work, I don't think it's any more damning than recognizing our own mortality. We have a finite number of years to live, and accordingly, a finite number of works that we can create. While the work can and probably will "kill" the artist a little bit from time to time, I don't think that this indicates a diminished quality in the work as it progresses... but maybe a tarnished or wearisome artist? Sure.

Which is my somewhat roundabout way of saying that I simply have not been able to face the great challenge of a blog post since starting grad school. I've been writing about 500% more than I'm used to, and any writing that was not art or casual emailing seemed beyond my mental faculties. Maybe this will change, as school continues and my brain and body become accustomed to this kind of work, who knows. In the meantime, I have found myself lamenting a waning memory capacity for small things that I've mentally noted to blog about. With the addition of a smartphone in my life, I've decided to get back to my photographic roots and keep a "notebook" on tumblr:

http://elefanteria.tumblr.com/

Again with the elephants, right? I guess I could offer a tiny explanation: when I was a kid, visiting my abuelita in Santiago, I remember that she had a vast collection of elephant figurines in her dining room. So intense was this collection that the room became a kind of storage space that could no longer accommodate a dinner or guests, and truly, not even a small girl's wandering feet. The elephants were made of everything from wood to bronze to ivory, and were as small as pearls or large as Great Danes. I've loved elephants ever since (despite their unfortunate political affiliation) and find myself drawn to them in nostalgia.

"La Elefanteria" is in reference to the animal, and to the South American tendency to name a store by simply adding the suffix "-eria" to whatever it is they're selling: "Levanderia" (cleaner's) "Joyeria" (jewelery store) "Sanwisheria" (you get the idea). Obviously, I'm not selling anything, nor is my blog particularly elephant-related, but I was thinking of the old phrase that "an elephant never forgets." I intend to upload photos, quotes, small notes, etc of things I encounter that strike me in some way and I want to "remember."

I'm super scattered and disorganized, and I hate that "tip of my tongue" feeling when trying to recall. It's kind of a New Year's thing, I guess. And maybe I'll come back here if ever I feel inclined to elaborate on my notes.

Muchos besos, prospero año, etc.

A little bone-picking from a curvy lady.

2010-08-17T03:31:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was sitting with an old friend at a bar enjoying (in my opinion) the best martini in Houston. I was happily slurping away, the bartender there a like-minded creature who, believing the martini glass an evil invention that makes everyone look sloppy, had kindly delivered the chilled, pretty-dirty beverage in a high ball glass. Thumbs up.

So euphoric was I with my delicious cocktail, I almost missed the double-entendre-statement my drinking companion tossed my way, that went something like this:

"OMG I love hanging out with you! Everyone I usually hang out with is so super skinny and tiny and they make me just feel huge."

Call it testimony to the scrumptiousness of my cocktail that I didn't "accidentally" tip it into her lap.

I've been sitting on this in the meantime (flattening it out with my apparently elephantine figure), wondering what the hell would prompt one to make a remark like that. Initially, I decided to give the speaker the benefit of the doubt: she couldn't possibly have meant it that way. I have a whole list of reasons why no one in their right mind could say something like that to me, all of which boil down to this one, singular fact: I'm gnome-size. Seriously. I can wear children's size coats, and can still fit into my favorite fifth grade pair of jeans. No pair of pants, not even the "ankle length" (whose ankle? Shaq's?) can be worn un-hemmed. I have to drive with the chair pulled so close to the wheel I can barely exit my freaking car, and I rue the day Austin Powers declared small hands "carnie." Unless you're five, using me as your counterpoint to feel tiny is delusional. Case closed.

The comment was almost written off as such, but a few nights later the situation seemed to shift into auto-focus. After making some off-hand remark to a fitness trainer friend not to look at us for exercise talk because we don't work out, I, sans delicious but distracting drink, informed the ignoramus that um, no, actually I work out 4-5 days a week. And then homegirl said, with all the disbelief, shock and outrage she could muster, "Reeeealllyyy??????"

Look, I'm not delusional. I know that while I may give immediate meaning to the term "Shawty," I am no pixie (I said gnome, remember?). As you may recall, my breasts came in when I was nine years old. Well, they came with friends: a pair of hips and an ass that rely wholeheartedly on the solid foundation of legs built like a shetland pony's. The Boogs and I affectionately call all my lady lumps "Maluendas," after the side of the family who so lovingly bestowed them upon me. I'm half-Chilean; you can see it in my ass.

Had the incident occurred this time last year, there's a chance I would have done what so many insecure, American women do and internalized the thing as my problem. I don't know how we were trained to function this way, as though the passive aggressive insult is constructive, important, or even accurate, but the impulse cussing blows. So let's play a game: using the incident at hand, let's test its weight (ha) against these three attributes: accuracy, constructiveness, and importance. Maybe I'm wrong, after all. Maybe I should go hide under a rock until I lose 30 lbs. Let's be scientific about this before I do anything rash like, I don't know, move on with my life.

1. Accuracy

I think I pretty much covered this above, but I'm willing to expand for the sake of diligence. While I'm certainly not Shakira, I sure as hell ain't no Snookie neither. Being small and curvy does leave a little wiggle-room to wonder what's "right," and most women have developed their own methods of understanding when they're in a good place, and when they've maybe over-indulged. I know I'm in trouble when I can't fit into my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle onesie, for example.

Obviously, if we're measuring accuracy, the question of the speaker's figure must come into play. While I'm disinterested in carping on someone I've decided has some serious body-image and self-esteem issues, I will say, for the sake of our thorough investigation, that if I'm an Ewok she's Chewbacca. But that's only if we're getting technical.

2. Constructiveness

You may wonder how it could ever be constructive for a friend to comment passively on one's weight and size while out in a bar, and you're bewilderment would be well-founded. But, full disclosure, I do have a pact with the Boogs to inform me when the Maluendas are getting a little out of control (and I would inform him if ever he garners some man-maluendas), so I think it's possible to gently address a loved one's weight gain. The real issue here is timing: let's say I have suddenly put on 20 lbs that can't be attributed to medication, pregnancy, or extreme muscle mass. Would it be helpful for me to have a friend tell me how much she appreciates my new plumpy figure for how thin it makes her feel? Yeah, about as helpful as her chosen background for delivery: the bar. Nothing I want to talk about more than body image while I'm out on the town. Martini's only taste okay without a healthy dose of body-bashing, duh.

3. Importance

While I've concluded that my general response to this whole incident was to let it go, to maybe feel a little sad for the commenter, and you know, to blog about it, I'm not going to deny that I wasn't a little bothered. Unfortunately, the vestiges of American body-image brainwashing haven't totally vacated my internal monologue, and I definitely felt more conscious of my Maluendas in the days that followed. But what bothered me far more than any insecurity the comment could have bolstered was how mean it was. Not to mention just flat-out weird-- both remarks were made in bars, where one goes with friends to generally laugh and have a good time. Who busts out bitch in those situations?

The thing is, our idea of body image is completely bat shit to begin with. Whether fashion begets the figure or the figure fashion is chicken and eggs (though I'm pretty sure we can blame the designers if we wanted to get down to it), but to function as though Calvin Klein's 90's ads are the pinnacle of ideal women's figures is absolutely coo coo bananas. Sometime in the 80's, someone decided clothes look better on hangers and thus died the supermodel and all we got for it was Kate Moss. Clothes may look better on hangers, but women sure as fuck do not.

I used to lament my bad timing. But it's all a matter of perspective: with my pale skin (ivory complexion), high forehead (noble brow), and voluptuous figure (T&A), I could've been a relatively successful centerfold in any number of eras ranging from the middle ages to the 80's.

But why miss what I never had when I've got what I do now: a body women essentially pay to construct themselves. My Maluendas make impants of any kind completely unnecessary; I don't need surgery to feel like a woman (I was Kim Kardashian before Kim Kardashian was Kim Kardashian, yo). And though I'm independently pretty happy with my curves, it doesn't hurt that I live with a man who, after 5 years together, still drops whatever he's doing like a dumbstruck teenager when he sees me naked.

I hate it when I read that one has "made peace" with their body because it sounds like they've just sucked it up and compromised with mediocrity. I do not have a mediocre body, and I sure as hell don't want to feel that way about it. My body is amazing. I am continually impressed with what I can do when I push myself, like when I came home from a run and, on an endorphin high, challenged David to a man-push-up contest. I did 25. Straight. I can do the splits and touch my nose to my knees. I can balance myself on my hands, with my shins resting on the backs of my arms. I can stand on the tips of my toes for almost 5 full seconds. I can also finish an entire pizza, a 10-cup pot of coffee, a whole pumpkin pie and a bottle of wine (separately). Boo-ya.

So how important is it that this one friend felt the need to remark that I, in her warped little world, made her feel small? Not very. In fact, I'm happy to help out. If a friend of mine is so starved for positive body affirmation she must create illusions that fortify her confidence than please, let the make-believe begin. I am a gnome after all.

So this is Love

2010-07-15T13:54:00.000-07:00

This delightful little candy knows the way to my heart: sea salt. I can't get enough of this magical seasoning, especially nestled inside of delicious sweets. The bar had me at first glance, with it's adorable little correspondence packaging-- the embossed gold heart mimicking a wax seal is indeed a nice touch. But the moment I knew that ours was the stuff of lasting love was when I glimpsed the Shelley poem printed on the inside of the wrapper...

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The Winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle--

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another,

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea--

What are all these kissings worth,

If though kiss not me?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make out with a bar of chocolate...

Footballer's Delight

2010-07-13T19:03:00.000-07:00

With the World Cup finally coming to a frustrating end, I now have little excuse to keep me from resuming some kind of consistent blogging. But today, in honor of the only game I've ever loved, I will forgo the usual discussion of beauty products, pop culture and breasts to attempt something that's going to make my mother's jaw drop: sports writing.

My sporting penchants were set early in life: soccer was always around, my Chilean father ever the advocate with his regulation size ball in the trunk, pulling it out at the site of the smallest stretch of grass, dirt, or empty parking lot. I remember learning how to head the ball one particularly swampy afternoon in late summer of my elementary years, in a parched field landmined with drying dog turds next to Herman Park. After applying my forehead to an underhand toss maybe 4 out of 10 times, he declared me "ready," and sent a short-ranged chip square to my face.

My father had generally taught me that a 6-year-old girl's inclination to sob from pain is not okay.  "Toughen up, Pipas.  Be a man."  But after taking a rock-like punt from a full grown man to the mug, I was having a hard time stifling the tears.  Luckily for me, there is crying in soccer.  And thus my love affair began. 

Many of my friends are not too fond of soccer.  The complaints are pretty standard-- you may harbor the same quibblings yourself: nothing happens, there are barely any goals, it's just a bunch of running around, etc. etc.  I suppose, if I had not played the game in my childhood and early teen years, I would probably be among the chief carpers, because I certainly have my share of sniveling against other sports (American football! Baseball!).  And while I know it can be off-putting to have someone try to convert you to the Other Side simply because they happen to reside there, well... this is my blog.  

=)

Why I Love Soccer And You Should Too

Contrary to the notion that "nothing happens," the game is a full 90 minutes (usually more) of solid, unrelenting play.  Two 45 minute halves that go mostly uninterrupted (even the most dire injury will be cleared away with the swift discretion of a C.I.A. operation) is a hell of a lot more action than you'll see in say, a 3 second football play or watching baseball players stretch their hamstrings all game.  The average midfielder in a soccer match runs MILES (7 or 8, if you're Michael Bradley), on thighs plucked from a prized thoroughbred.  Thus, ladies and gents, you don't have to care about the game to get into it: you can just sit back, drink a beer, and let the shameless objectification commence because these guys are fit.  Seriously.  Soccer players are built like gods straight from Mount Olympus.  Case in point-- U.S.A. hero Landon Donovan:

Ah, yes.  The good-looking athlete.  Thank God for soccer because it seems like there are so many athletes out there looking like Shrek these days. I remember the first time I actually tried to watch an Astros game, looking down at Jeff Bagwell's enormous ass in his white pants.  What? I thought. Doesn't he get paid millions and millions of dollars to play sports?  Shouldn't he look like Herakles, rippling quads and sinew, delts straining against his jersey?  And then I found out that there's really minimal movement required for baseball.  If there isn't heart-stopping action,  gorgeous players should be a requirement. Period .
 (The USA team.  They didn't win, but they're certainly easy on the eyes.)

There is pressure, intensity, and emotion in every soccer match, the likes of which you are unlikely to see in any other sport. From superhuman athleticism to personal fouls, faked injuries or booking disputes, you won't want for drama in any given match. Soccer players are coursing adrenaline so thick they simply can't help but succumb to the extreme of every emotion they feel.  And who doesn't want to see a grown ass man throwing a full out tantrum?
Now, I'm not much of a sporty jargon user, so I can't support the point as well as say, this guy, but I feel pretty confident declaring that soccer athletes are arguably some of the best athletes playing in any sport the world over.  The game requires tremendous stamina, endurance and raw physical power.  It ain't some small thang to run for almost 90 solid minutes over a space longer than an American football field while 11 demi-gods do everything in their power to plow you down. Manipulating a ball with your head or body demands perfect timing and unimaginable core strength. And, with no flabby guts slowing up the game, there's some serious break-neck speed, coupled with instantaneous decision making that is often breathtaking to behold. Here, check it out:
Best of all for the fan, there are no obnoxious commercials breaking the mood, nor billions of instant replays blocking out the game at hand: the fan is right there with the players in real time, experiencing each excruciating step up a mountain of intensity so great that the only way for it to end is with some fantastic, impossible athletic feat.  And then, under insurmountable odds, the moment breaks in sheer, real emotion.  You will find no poker-faced winner or grimly silent loser in this game.  Adult men will shed real crocodile tears, will embrace one another in genuine camaraderie, will fall to their knees and shout praise to the floodlit heavens.  Plus, who can make the argument that the post-goal celebrations aren't the most incredible celebrations to behold?

Why else do we value sports if we don't need for this spectacle? Call it simulacrum, but if you don't feel your troubles fading into the background you aren't paying attention. I used to doubt the benefits from channeling all of your stress and frustrations into a professional sporting event, but I can say now with full confidence that I not only understand the phenomenon but also support it. There's simply no doubting the cathartic and unifying effects of sports. Not once I found myself, tears streaming down my face, reflecting on recent troubles with a much lighter heart. Seriously. I could've been hanging out with one of my least favorite, pompous, obnoxious acquaintances, but witnessing that Donovan goal in the 90-something minute of the Algeria game and there would've been genuine, full-bodied bear hugs in order. Watching all that man-love on the field is just bewitching.
The World Cup pulled me out of the nasty, almost 3 month case of the Mean Reds I've been suffering after a wedding contract job went sour and my writing hit a major wall. The frustration, anger and outrage churning in my gut was enough to have me jumping into a superfluous and asinine court case over $200 with a passive aggressive bridezilla who seemed to believe that paying an inexperienced independent designer a little more than minimum wage would sufficiently cover a progressive list of jobs appropriate for an entire team of florists, designers and movers. Any bitch who figured that formula somehow entitled her to the perfect, problem-free wedding of her dreams obviously doesn't live on a planet where reason and logic roam free, but pride caused me to briefly consider taking the thing to small claims.

Luckily, after promising the Boogs not to do anything rash for at least a week, the tournament began. And, in those precious hours each day spent following ESPN.com and engaging in some major shit-talking with fellow supporters, I found all the anger and helplessness with the Crazy Bride melting away. What did I care about a bat-shit princess when I had referees and Argentina to endure my wrath? How could I sit around feeling sorry for myself when the U.S. was devastated after our best-ever run, or when Ghana went to penalty kicks after Suarez's outrageous Devil's Hand? The sound of an entire continent's collective heartbreak as they watched their last African hope fall out of the tournament was all the perspective I required to shrug away my now meager troubles.

(Suarez's desperate handball prevents a Ghanan goal in the last few minutes of overtime halves, pushing the game to penalty kicks)

Though none of my 5 picks made it to the final two (I was pulling for Ghana for third, Germany to win), and though I backed the Dutch in a game that will forever be etched into the books as one of the scrappiest, dirtiest, least-soccer-played finals in World Cup history (seriously, if Howard Webb red carded every time it was deserved, the match could have easily turned into some coo-coo banana circus event of 9 on 11, not that the Netherlands weren't asking for it) I bid South Africa farewell with a light, grateful heart. Thanks WC. See you in Brazil 2014.

Here, some articles on Why Americans Should Love Soccer, an excellent argument Supporting the Most Un-American Aspect of The Sport.

Hi, how've ya been?

2010-06-24T17:35:00.000-07:00

Hello dear blog-followers (Hi Ari! Hi Mal!):

I haven't forgotten about you, I promise. I've got half a dozen blog posts half-started in my "To Be Edited" folder, I swear. But I've been fighting a bad case of the Mean Reds this past month or so, and just couldn't bear to pull out another filler YouTube video, or some mediocre commentary on pop culture fads. I needed a break, I needed to regroup: do some Pilates, clean out the studio, drink some wine. No good blogging could come from these things, I think. And so it was for you, dear reader (Mal! Ari!) that I abstained from the drunken blog post, or the post-yoga meditation on the BP oil spill and Lady Gaga. Life's too short to read Bad Blogs, I reasoned.

And so consider this my solemn vow, dear ones, that I am going to return to the semi-regular posting quite soon, and that I have gathered quite the delicious array of fodder for your eagerly seeking creative non-fiction blogging needs (bad weddings! lover's quarrels! Facebook faux-pas!). I do think, however, that I needed to ease my way back into the conversation on neutral, if not positive terms, as I'm afraid that most of these topics lead me to chugging the Haterade (Bridezillas! Art reality shows! Creating-fake-practice-family-portraits-with-someone-else's-child-on-Facebook-like-a-psycho-asshole!) and I'm not too keen on alienating my dear readers on the pretense of bitching.

And so, I'd like to reopen the dialogue with a list of recent obsessions: things that make me happy, things that I cannot stop using/buying/consuming/thinking about/watching. This is, to say the least, MY Tiffany's, the only surefire cure for the Mean Reds.

1. Rompers.

I am totally obsessed. I have three of them, and the moment I come home I hop out of my clothes at a speed that would inspire Warner Bros. to reexamine the Road Runner, and slip into one of these cotton, full-bodied numbers that make me feel cozy, practical and sexy. Every time the Boogs comes home and finds me doing Pilates, reading, or cooking in one of these ingenious sartorial inventions, he calls out "Romper!" and I stop what I'm doing, and frolic. Just for a moment. They are so, so delicious.

2. Say Yes to Carrots Body Butter.

I found this in a mini travel size at Target and I cannot stop putting it on my hands and arms. It is creamy, light, and soft, everything a good dessert mousse should be, for your skin. The smell is subtle and clean, and if I can't control the fervor with which I rub it all over myself in public, I'm afraid I'm going to just have to start eating it.

3. PG Tips

I was introduced to this delicious tea last summer when the Boogs and I lived in the Catskills with two Brooklyn artists and their young son Jasper. (Check out their sites on the links provided!) At night, after the Jasper had been put (usually temporarily) to sleep and we all retired to our studios for late-night contemplation, Kirsten and I would make enormous mugs of PG tips with milk and raw sugar. I developed a bit of an obsessive craving for the stuff and was abruptly cut off when we were traveling shortly thereafter. Upon our return to the US we were so absurdly poor that it wasn't until this past month that I finally felt totally comfortable buying the whole damn 80 satchel box at Whole Foods. Tis heavenly at 10 o'clock at night, with a big hard back book and graham crackers.

4. Anthropologie dishware

All of which were purchased today with the help of my handy-dandy family discount card courtesy of the Boogs' job (he's the display artist at Urban). I cannot tell you how long I have coveted the latte bowls, nor can I fully express what joy it brings me to see them stacked now, next to a bottle of wine and a big white Anthro bag with those spartan, elegant red handles. I believe we've called this feeling "happiness," though it seems to fall devastatingly short of what I'm currently experiencing.

5. The World Cup. More specifically, the USA team in the World Cup.

I know this may seem like an unlikely transition, given all the beauty and food items listed before it, but I am equally obsessed (if not more so) with this year's World Cup. I came into it with what I thought was a very "realistic" approach: given the stats and my own instincts, I settled upon a rough Top Five of Germany, Ghana, Mexico, Chile and the US. While Ghana and Germany are definitely abreast my expectations, Chile and the US have far exceeded them, and I am happy to say that I am fully backing our dear country in the upcoming elimination round. I was skeptical, though unsurprised, by their performance against England and Slovenia (our defense was wild, if not pathetic) but the Algeria game that won us our group (first time since 1930!!!!!) makes them worthy not only of their spot against Ghana in the elimination round (a totally worthy team, a strong and surprising group) but also of my total, 100% undying support.

I saw on the ol' FB that many-a non-soccer fan (re: the vast majority of my American friends) were confused- nay- resentful of the sudden outpouring of support and soccer-love via status updates. "Where did all these soccer fans come from??" they queried, not without judgement, not without a tone that would imply that we futbol-watchers were Sunday-supporters, fair weather fans. To these skeptics I say this: I never hear you wondering "where did all these Olympics fans come from!?" during the games. The World Cup also occurs every 4 years, and thus, we are fully informed, fully saturated, fully satisfied. Deal with it.

And, USA v. GHANA, SATURDAY JUNE 26th, 2:30 ET. Be there.

A love of elephantine proportion.

2010-05-09T20:08:00.001-07:00

In honor of today, here's a photo of me and my Mama, circa 1986:

I know. I was heart-meltingly cute. It's been kind of a tough thing to keep up with.

My mother is one of the most dedicated, kind, and patient women in the world. She is also stunningly beautiful, and by some fluke in the Universe's genetic lotteries, my face favors hers over Dad's. And for that, I am completely and totally grateful.

To my incredible mama, from whom I received cheekbones, little-to-no body hair, and lady feet that fit the tiny-size shoes always on super sale at department stores (they look larger in the photo).

Thanks for everything.

Baiting for Hobnobs

2010-05-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, I was a mingling champion. I was at home in any scenario: art opening, baseball game, youth gathering held with various religious organizations or schools. I could spend the afternoon discussing the finer points of the Container Store's fabric closet shelves with my neighbor to hitting a friend-of-a-friend's impromptu pool party for some light skinny dipping and jello shots with strangers. Musicals, potlucks, school dances-- I could take to the mix like a well-timed toss of a twist of lemon or pinch of sea salt to, well, everything. I was amazing.

...in a dream I had once. I'm not saying I suck at fraternizing with strangers at any given function, but I'm not saying I'm awesome either. It's nothing, in short, that a few glasses of complimentary cheap red wine can't cure (or so I like to believe. It is, however, somewhat of a joke amongst my loved ones that I'm a surefire champ at The Intense Drunk Conversation. "It's your way of dancing topless on tables," said my college roommate).

In any case, somewhere along the line, I developed a small case of pre-mingling jitters I can't seem to shake. I blame the zodiac-- between the social Libra and the moody crustacean, I seem to have developed performance anxiety. Once or twice, this unfortunate habit ended in either the telling of a super inappropriate topic way too early in the event (because I'm certain David's boss would have thought that my joke about octopus vaginas was hilarious after a third round of cocktails), or in the incredibly unfunny, esoteric stories about poetry ("I mean, seriously, what's John Updike's deal anyway? I'd rather have a colonoscopy than read one of his masturbatory characters again. Hahaha-- get it? Colonoscopy? Get it??").

The thing is, I've got a penchant for names and faces (it's actually listed as an extra skill on my resume and has, not just once, garnered additional interest for a job). But most people seem to lack the attention span required to remember the names of their coworkers, let alone the surnames and birthdates of their Kindergarten classmates (it's true, I remember all 12). My gift served me well as the sidekick of my ever-forgetful stepfather at pretty much every social occasion in memory, but most of the time it's simply a burden that appears to reap far more embarrassment than accolades (try explaining to someone you haven't seen in 9 years why you remembered to ask about Vanilla, their cockapoo, or whether their mother Sandra ever figured out how to get around her shellfish allergy at the family restaurant).

And so, as my enthusiasm for mingling has been replaced with self-consciousness, I don what appears to be a pleasant but serious expression of interest (as pictured above, courtesy of Bmore Art) while I nod diplomatically and await the magical properties of alcohol to take effect. I look like an semi-understanding, partially medicated Kindergarten teacher.

Tomorrow, I'm heading to Roanoke to attend the Last Jitterbug and to do the good thing and reacquaint myself with the faculty and staff I will be working with come fall. And, truth be told, I am terrified of that whole awkward half-recognizing one another thing: you know, the "Hey-" oh, they weren't looking at me. Oh wait, yes, "yea-- HEY, oh," but not that friendly they don't remember my name. Hands? "Yeah-oh yes, let's shake.. no! Haha, just kidding" ha, yeah, no need to touch, I'll just scratch my arm here and rock back a step or two.. "Right, so.. did you say there was a bar?"

But here, here! Let it be known that this trip will mark a new direction for my pre-hobnobbing apprehension. Utilizing a kind of carrot-on-a-fishing-pole-technique, I'm going to pretend I am that elbow-rubbing warrior of my dreams. I am going to allow myself to react, to smile, to express emotions that don't denote a recent round of Botox regardless of how many times I remember the person's name (..and rank and serial number) only to be introduced as "She," because: I booked myself a fancy room in the big fancy hotel with my grant money (travel for a reading = poetry funding, YES) and I fully intend on sinking into my pillow top King with a big-ass glass of not-so-cheap red wine at the end of the night.

Disquietude be damned.

In Which I Lament Early Blooming

2010-05-03T18:46:00.000-07:00

My breasts came in when I was 9. I remember the latter parts of elementary school not as the joyful, carefree days spent doodling in textbooks with my smelly peers, but as a time of overwhelming self-consciousness. It happened overnight: I came down to breakfast in my nightdress, quite unaware of the new addition to my chest, and stopped cold at my brother's wild-eyed, ecstatic face. It was the look wrought only from a gift passed down from on high, a sign that you are being blessed by the hand of God himself: it was the undeniable recognition of your older sister's greatest humiliation. He ran from the room, and, standing in the grey morning light I felt the slightest tenderness coming from something swelling over my breastbone. Ringing out, as though shouted from the highest mountaintop, I heard my brother's now-infamous cry: MOM, Steph's got big ones!

With the misguided logic of a hormonal preteen, I began wearing my brother's left over Beefy T's-- you know, all the radio and sporting event freebies that the chubster himself couldn't fill out. I refused a bra, under the equally as misguided notion that to wear one was toacknowledge them, thereby making them real. So I endured the 4th and 5th grade in shin-length Umbro soccer shorts and enormous white t-shirts that draped in two stiff tents from my budding chest. Shortly thereafter, my brother was blessed further: I had developed a ruddy case of acne and acquired round, wire-rimmed glasses. Did I mention that I was in my 3rd year of braces? And that the braces were an experiment in orthodontia by my elderly and somewhat blundering dentist?

In short, I had it going on.

While my forehead remained a breeding ground for volcanically active whiteheads and I kept the braces, wire-rimmed glasses and, for a short while, a blunt shoulder-length haircut in the shape of a yield sign, it was really only my breasts with whom I waged war. Not until my flat-chested comrades began donning tiny training bras would I even consent to a sports bra (6th grade) and I would often wear 2 and sometimes 3 shirts to buffer their shape. I crossed my arms over them, covered them with my books, hunched my back to counteract how horribly convex they were. And the boobs fought back: they just kept growing. They grew and they grew....

Until..

Just kidding.

I do, however, consider myself the gracious loser of this round of "My Pubescent Stories Are Sadder and More Embarrassing Than Yours." If you're in the mood for a good cry, and you think you can handle the classy kind of journalism over at The Sun, here's the link:

Bed-Bound By My Big Boobs.

How Lady Gaga got schooled

2010-04-29T19:17:00.001-07:00

A few posts ago, I lamented the lost art of the Pop Music Video. I never thought I would have to look to the military to appease my need for booty-shakin' good.

I mean, really: group choreography is the scientifically proven answer for pop success. They didn't even need cleavage, and it's still better than the over-budgeted, over-acted weakling skin flick that was the original Gaga video.

El muerto en motora

2010-04-29T18:31:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, my boss had me Google "custom made men's underwear." I spent the day discovering companies like buffdbod.com and yourprivates.com.

Today, my students told me I was too old to have children.

"Miss Lohmann, you got kids?"

"No."

"Just babies?"

"...no. Two cats."

*student wrinkles nose*

"Miss Lohmann, how old are you?"

"24."

"Well whatchyou waitin' for?? You can't be havin' them in your 30's. You supposed to be a grandma then."

And all I could find on the internet was this:

Grandmother makes a baby! With her grandson.

and this:

Incidentally, it's been a rough week.

A very tiny soapbox

2010-04-27T12:33:00.000-07:00

I generally don't like to get involved in political discussions over the internet, as they are often polarizing and easily misinterpreted, but this new law in Oklahoma is making me completely sick to my stomach.

Regardless of one's stance on abortion, the fact is that it exists. It has always existed.* And whether or not it is legal, it will continue to exist.** The question to abolish it is nonsensical; the question to regulate it is complicated. However, requiring that the pregnant woman must undergo an expensive and invasive procedure (from which the doctor retains the right to lie to his patient about the developmental status of the fetus) begs the bigger question: is Oklahoma going to be spending an equivalent amount of money and effort on this child after they manipulate the woman into keeping it?

Somehow, I believe the answer is, "Well, no. She's in charge of the thing now, isn't she?"

I believe in shades of gray and exceptions to rules.*** And I believe that laws like these do not consider the complexities of a very muddled issue (these screenings require the woman to hear a detailed description of the fetus' heart, limbs and features, and are mandatory for all women, including rape and incest victims). It is in this regard that the law is not only ludicrous, but also downright disgusting.

*The "Concerned Women of America," Conservative, Anti-choice site dedicated to spreading biblical principles throughout the land.

**"National Abortion Federation," Liberal, Pro-choice site dedicated to spreading awareness about women's health and safety across the land. Both sites acknowledge the rich and dangerous history of the black market abortion.

***I do not readily identify with the Elephant or the Donkey. I was raised in an extremely conservative household but went to an arts high school and then a women's college: I've visited both sides of the mirror. While I do not believe entirely in either political party as they currently present themselves in our country, I do believe in certain inalienable rights: everyone, not just the financially privileged, should have the opportunity for healthcare and a safe educational environment. Both the Elephant and the Donkey have ignored these rights when they don't best serve their respective agendas. (Because isn't voting what politics are all about anyway? We're only fooling ourselves if we believe that any time a politician is faced with a national dilemma they don't poop their pants over voter's retention before having a go at a real solution. If they ever have go at a real solution.)

How Pop Music Saved My Life (or, Disillusionment and the Music Video)

2010-04-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

While driving, I exclusively listen to top 40 stations. It began in college when I found myself road-tripping through the Blue Ridge on a weekly basis, sometimes driving straight through the night on an ill-advised Red Bull and cigarette high. When the caffeine buzz waned and my car companions had all gone comatose, I found myself completely alone on a deserted highway at 3 am. Virginia is not big on the street light, and being the lone car in the pitch of early morning puts you at considerable risk for Death by Deer. I remember once, while driving from Roanoke to Houston (a nonstop 26 hours), I found myself in what appeared to be the drop point for the local serial killer-- limbs were strewn across the road as though they had been dumped from the back of a pick up truck, and all I could make out were their spindled shapes, sometimes flattened, studding the bloodied ground. As I slowed (which still baffles me; in my right mind the instinct would surely be to flee) I caught site of the tapered nose from a decapitated deer. Some poor truck driver, no doubt, had unwittingly come upon a pack of deer; the impact was clearly so immediate that the bodies more or less exploded, leaving nothing behind but a 50 yard stretch of solid carnage.

Despite the fear induced by facing what appeared to be the opening shot of a B horror film (or worse, a Tarantino/Rodriguez mashup) I still found myself overwhelmed with exhaustion. Nothing in the world made more sense than to fall asleep. Right there. Wheel in hand. Surrounded by dismembered roadkill. And so I turned to the radio.

Sometimes, it's the obvious appeal of pop music: the catchy beats, the flashy vocals, the simple lyrics. One year, I went through a phase where the only thing that could keep me from nodding off were the first three songs on Britney's Blackout album, blasted at decibels rivaling the crowd at a Hanson concert circa 1998. I will be in my car, on hour 12 of straight driving, past the point where food or caffeine retains any kind of effect whatsoever, and Rihanna is my upper. The Black Eyed Peas. Justin Timberlake. Lady Gaga. The Pussycat Dolls. Basically, all the stuff you would never list under Facebook's "Favorite Music" section.

But sometimes I listen to top 40 stations because they get me riled. Some of these songs are so poorly written, so blandly executed, that I am baffled at their success. Take, for example, Ke$ha. Now, I have no animosity towards the girl herself-- she, like all the rest of the pop starlets out there, is a carefully crafted, heavily marketed image for the pop crowd who needs a breather from Gaga. She is plain ol' easy-to-swallow vanilla pop, whose heavily synthesized music can get your foot tapping despite her stupid name and asinine lyrics (The boys are lining up cuz they know we got swagger/ but we kick 'em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger). The less I know about the puppet behind the song that keeps me from crashing into a tree at night, the happier I am to sing along to, laugh at, and rant about the songs themselves.

But we all have YouTube. And I have the relatively common habit of looking up the photos and music videos of the people whose music prevents my untimely demise. Sometimes, I am pleasantly surprised: take Kanye's Love Lockdown, JT and Madonna's 4 minutes, or Gaga's Bad Romance (the Cremaster of pop music videos: over-budgeted, overrated, heavy with semi-ambiguous symbology... but visually delicious). But then you get videos like this, where the song is a flimsy pretext for an outrageous plot with bad acting and over the top product placement. It's like a bad porn without the sex, and maybe a little Super Bowl ad campaigning thrown in for good measure. Vomit.

But nothing could stop me from searching for La Roux's "Bulletproof," a somewhat "breath of fresh air" amongst all the Chris Brown and Train my Top 40 station has been overplaying lately. And this is what I found:

No! No! No!!!! It's like watching Kate Gosselin on Dancing with the Stars--those vacuous eyes, the plastered expression of unmasked discomfort. Elly Jackson, what were you thinking?? I can run with the geometry-- I don't generally need to know "why" for my music-video-viewing pleasure-- but why did we go with "sad face" for this one?? I really thought, when I heard the song on the radio, we'd have some humor, something a little more energetic-- think Depeche Mode's gogo dancers from "Personal Jesus."

The music video is an absurd thing. To go back to my former comparison, it is not unlike a porn-- there's the basic premise of a song (sex), for which the video is responsible to accommodate. The storyboards these days seem to attempt the "plot line" more and more, which (as in a porn) generally feel groundless and wanton. I'm more into "Pick a theme" videos, where they run with some kind of general aesthetic and add some dancing. It's MUSIC. We don't need a 4 minute sitcom or documentary. We need costumes! Synchronized jazz squares! Maybe a few booty shakes and a little animation!

There's the old joke about rap videos showing nothing but booty, cars and money, and honestly I feel like it's a much better formula than the crapshoot that occurs when pop strays from their own group choreography, sexy faces, and glittery costumes. If you MUST stray, just don't axe the choreography-- we don't want to see you cry in your video and stare soulfully into the camera's eyes (or, the case of Elly Jackson, attempt to stare soulfully). We want to see you strut, pop and lock it. I'm not even going to qualify the statement as a generalization. It's practically science.

An example of how a well-crafted video made me overcome initial gag-reflex to the song. Well done Michel Gondry: we are not worthy.

Bibliophilia

2010-04-24T06:24:00.000-07:00

For the sole, arbitrary reason that the book is sitting on my bookshelf, I've decided that my summer will look like this:

Don Quixote Miguel de Cervantes
War and Peace Leo Tolstoy
Ulysses James Joyce
In Search of Lost Time Marcel Proust
The Brothers Karamazov Feodor Dostoevsky
Moby-Dick Herman Melville
Madame Bovary Gustave Flaubert
Middlemarch George Eliot
The Magic Mountain Thomas Mann
The Tale of Genji Murasaki Shikibu
Emma Jane Austen
Bleak House Charles Dickens
Anna Karenina Leo Tolstoy
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Mark Twain
Tom Jones Henry Fielding
Great Expectations Charles Dickens
Absalom, Absalom! William Faulkner
The Ambassadors Henry James
One Hundred Years of Solitude Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald
To The Lighthouse Virginia Woolf
Crime and Punishment Feodor Dostoevsky
The Sound and the Fury William Faulkner
Vanity Fair William Makepeace Thackeray
Invisible Man Ralph Ellison
Finnegans Wake James Joyce
The Man Without Qualities Robert Musil
Gravity's Rainbow Thomas Pynchon
The Portrait of a Lady Henry James
Women in Love D. H. Lawrence
The Red and the Black Stendhal
Tristram Shandy Laurence Sterne
Dead Souls Nikolai Gogol
Tess of the D'Urbervilles Thomas Hardy
Buddenbrooks Thomas Mann
Le Pere Goriot Honore de Balzac
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man James Joyce
Wuthering Heights Emily Bronte
The Tin Drum Gunter Grass
Molloy; Malone Dies; The Unnamable Samuel Beckett
Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen
The Scarlet Letter Nathaniel Hawthorne
Fathers and Sons Ivan Turgenev
Nostromo Joseph Conrad
Beloved Toni Morrison
An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser
Lolita Vladimir Nabokov
The Golden Notebook Doris Lessing
Clarissa Samuel Richardson
Dream of the Red Chamber Cao Xueqin
The Trial Franz Kafka
Jane Eyre Charlotte Bronte
The Red Badge of Courage Stephen Crane
The Grapes of Wrath John Steinbeck
Petersburg Andrey Bely
Things Fall Apart Chinue Achebe
The Princess of Cleves Madame de Lafayette
The Stranger Albert Camus
My Antonio Willa Cather
The Counterfeiters Andre Gide
The Age of Innocence Edith Wharton
The Good Soldier Ford Madox Ford
The Awakening Kate Chopin
A Passage to India E. M. Forster
Herzog Saul Bellow
Germinal Emile Zola
Call It Sleep Henry Roth
U.S.A. Trilogy John Dos Passos
Hunger Knut Hamsun
Berlin Alexanderplatz Alfred Doblin
Cities of Salt 'Abd al-Rahman Munif
The Death of Artemio Cruz Carlos Fuentes
A Farewell to Arms Ernest Hemingway
Brideshead Revisited Evelyn Waugh
The Last Chronicle of Barset Anthony Trollope
The Pickwick Papers Charles Dickens
Robinson Crusoe Daniel Defoe
The Sorrows of Young Werther Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Candide Voltaire
Native Son Richard Wright
Under the Volcano Malcolm Lowry
Oblomov Ivan Goncharov
Their Eyes Were Watching God Zora Neale Hurston
Waverley Sir Walter Scott
Snow Country Kawabata Yasunari
Nineteen Eighty-Four George Orwell
The Betrothed Alessandro Manzoni
The Last of the Mohicans James Fenimore Cooper
Uncle Tom's Cabin Harriet Beecher Stowe
Les Miserables Victor Hugo
On the Road Jack Kerouac
Frankenstein Mary Shelley
The Leopard Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
The Catcher in the Rye J.D. Salinger
The Woman in White Wilkie Collins
The Good Soldier Svejk Jaroslav Hasek
Dracula Bram Stoker
The Three Musketeers Alexandre Dumas
The Hound of Baskervilles Arthur Conan Doyle
Gone with the Wind Margaret Mitchell

I love setting realistic goals. For the sake of time, I'm going to skip over the books I've already read (highlighted). I figure that, if I'm seriously going to attempt an MFA (and shortly thereafter, a PhD) in creative writing/literary arts, the least I can do is read all the books that are archetypal standards for comparative literature. You know, all the books we were supposed to read in school. (I cannot believe I've never read a stitch of Dickens, but am super grateful to have already trudged through the hobby horse that was Tristram Shandy.)

Aiming to read 75 books whose average page count is hovering around 500 before September is totes reasonable. An achievable goal. Lest you forget that I once hit the entire Harry Potter series in less than a fortnight.

What's a delusional knight got on preteen wizardry, anyway?

The Orangutan and the Hound

2010-04-23T19:18:00.000-07:00

Tuesday-Thursday, I teach art at a charter school in downtown Baltimore to 1st-7th grade. The school is young and a little rough-- the older students are separated by gender (after too many were getting expelled for fornicating in the hallways...yes, you read that correctly) and I've lost not a few students to concealed weapon and assault charges. I begin my week with a 1st grade class of 28 who behave mostly like The Dog Whisperer's pit bull pack on crystal meth; without fail, my class ends with me on my knees, physically restraining a 6-year-old child who's spewing something along the lines of, "Bitch Imma kill you!" I end the day with a combined class of 6th and 7th grade boys who call me "Shawty." While they also become aggressive with one another every now and then, the biggest danger in that class is some light, casual, sexual harassment:

"Hey Miss Lohmann, can I get yo digits?"

"Um, whatever for?"

"So I can call you."

"I'm not sure the school board would be too happy about that."

"Miss, they don't got to know!"

The exchange is usually concluded with a stealthy duck and roll on my part when the boy goes for a full body hug. Though more than a decade younger than me and (supposedly) still prepubescent, all of my boys are roughly the size of a baby rhinoceros, and it's a littler terrifying to be charged by one.

Needless to say, I often come home in desperate need of decompression, and sometimes my mind craves Light, Fluffy, and Cute. I bring to you, as a Friday gift, Suryia and Roscoe.

I want an orangutan.

Twit for Tat

2010-04-22T19:05:00.000-07:00

This week in Twitter Feuds, we learned about "True Facts" from the Baios (as well as discovering the hidden aspects of the Attorney General's job description) and reexamined the Insult. Today, we get the thrill of discovering "False Lies!" via Twit Scrap between one Spencer Pratt and one Perez Hilton.

Now, I have no idea why Mr. Pratt is so angry, and honestly, I think it's more or less completely insignificant. The following exchange is cut down, mostly because Spencer just says "Bitch!" 200 times over, and it gets a little redundant. But you get the gist: he makes "bitchass lying unethical traitor" all sound like one word. The boy's got a gift; let's observe him in his natural habitat, as he hones his craft with nothing but a phone, the Internet, and 140 characters.
I'll be honest, I'm not a Twitter user, but the whole "@" thing looks ridiculous to me. I do love how Perez put Spencer's name in quotations, like he's allegedly "Spencer Pratt." I also like how he keeps the name calling to a classic MF, and maintains defense solely on attitude. Point to Hilton.
Okay, so, what the cuss is a "False Lie?" Wouldn't that be a truth? Point Hilton.
He'll take it street. Going the "Yo Mama" route without even having to use a mother. Beautiful. Point Pratt.
Laaaaaaaaaaaame. Rotten-produce-wielding-lame. This is just a big fat DUH. Point Pratt.
I love how he manages to call Ke$ha a pumpkin in the process of insulting Perez. Pratt is a machine of disparagement when he's on his game..AND he keeps it PG; see how he takes it playground? Double to Pratt.
He's so good at the Defame Game, he even took a knock at himself. I like it. 3 points Pratt, just because I laughed for a good 3 minutes after reading this zinger.
Allright, Hilton's been a little lame on the offense but I will say this: Pratt is exactly where Hilton wants him. All media is good media, in this case, and Hilton's got absolutely nothing to lose engaging with a shrill bitch-happy sleazeball via Twitter. Point Hilton.

For those of you keeping score at home, the final count is Pratt:8, Hilton:3 Pratt wins mostly for volume and consistency, though I think we all know that winning the Douchebag race is kind of like coming out first in a diaper-eating contest. Congratulations are not necessarily the first thing on anyone's mind.

An excellent article on How Twitter is Ruining the Celebrity.

From the blog formerly known as "Livejournal"

2010-04-21T19:00:00.001-07:00

Remember how I said that I would never, ever, ever write for just myself? Apparently there are worse things..

Like this.

Crawling back into my shell to reevaluate history. One small treasure discovered today, however: I love it when I have the opportunity to recall what small words spoke to me, and why it happened when it did.

September 6, 2004

It is as if one could by-pass love, when the other eyes parry with a picture of one's own face, never arrive at marriage, either true or false, when eyes glaze and minds are more private than ever but could stop in between at a point where no one can stop.

-Mona Van Duyn, Into Mexico

18 is a mystery.

The Decline of the Insult

2010-04-20T04:24:00.000-07:00

I've been haphazardly following the Twitter Feud between Jezebel and Scott Baio, and with the addition of his very eloquent and charming wife, I feel I can no longer sit on this plaguing question: when did the Insult become so pathetic? While "Shitasses" and "cuntness" receive points for humor (the comical element stemming from the button-cute blonde Mommy holding her lil bundled Future Bigot of America) they are largely unoriginal and juvenile. If she had stopped there, we could just assume she was a pirate in a past life and call it a day. But the woman goes on to use "class" as an adjective and "Lesbian" as an insult, and this is where we over at Elephantine, get a little bored:

WHEW. Glad you cleared that one up Renee! For a second there I thought you were hating on lesbians! But you have a friend who's gay? Cool, girl. By all means, you slur out the word, no worries. Now that we know you're cool with a Gay Person, you can really just go nuts.

PC backpeddling is more nauseating to me than the outright bigotry itself. She, and rightly so, anticipates an onslaught of negative criticism for using a sexuality as an insult, and thus asserts this doesn't make her a homophobe because she has a Lesbian Friend (because, in case you hadn't heard, Gay is the new Black).

And while she's covering her barmy arse, she really pulls out all the stops: Renee Baio, everyone, also has friends who are left- and right-wing, Christian and not, handicapped and otherwise, and come in various sizes and colors. (etc etc.) According to Renee, her circle of friends is made up of Michael Jackson's We Are the World Benefit audience. Girlfriend's backpedaling so hard, she flies right into some gibberish meant to appease animal rights activists.. at least, that's to whom I determine "with or without animals," could possibly be intended. (While the Asshole Flag is undoubtedly flying high over her online avatars, I somehow doubt that "Lesbian cunts" shows up on PETA's radar.) I guess, if you're going to cry hood pass, you may as well be thorough.

Then it just gets downright silly:

Now, here's where I feel enlightened: I had no idea the Attorney General was in charge of mediating commenting rules on social networking and media websites. Huh. Learn something new everyday.

Anyway, the Tweet that started it all:

I'm sure you can deduce all you need to about the Baios' political affiliation from there. Nonetheless, this is also coming from a man who capitalized on his being 45 and commitment-phobic. I don't know about you, but I'm inclined to say that Reality TV Featuring a Big Washed Up Bum doesn't really qualify as "hard-working," but that's neither here nor there. We're talking about the lost art of the insult today.

After recognizing that he'd blipped up as Republican/Whiny/Angry on the Jez site, he goes into full on defensive mode, no holds bar:

To which, I'm sorry to say, writer Irin bites and makes a rather flimsy attack:

And then..

Oh GROAN. We're pulling the "take the high road" line and praying for one another now? AND arbitrarily throwing around the R-word? I think it speaks to his bigotry, that when he goes on the defense and attacks with abandon, the first thing he can think of is "a ignorant racist.**" Kind of like when Perez called Will.i.am a "Faggot." I love that he, like his wife, is completely thorough when they take the gormless road-- "blocking tweets" is the Twitter equivalent of "AND you can't come to my birthday party anymore! So there!"

Again, I'm a little sad that Irin took the "Go to hell" play, even if she did try to elevate it with a cutesy "sir." While I'll spare you the play by play for today's onslaught of the Baios' tweets and status updates (they're still taking the holier than thou road, undoubtedly reveling in the confidence that comes from being so tight with the Attorney General) but I will say this: if we are going to take the time to engage in a passive aggressive repartee via Twitter, Facebook, or any other social networking site, I implore the usage of your thesaurus. There's a widget for it, people. Then, at least when we're being forced to witness your temper tantrums, we won't have to look at words like "shitasses," or hear about the levels of "class" in your piss.

And maybe, one day, one of your awesome lesbo friends will let you know that while it's true some men "couldn't put up with their cuntness," the nature of being a lesbian means that the woman is not attracted to the man. Not the other way around.

Muttonhead.

** I didn't want to go SNOOT on you here, but "a ignorant" pretty much slammed what would otherwise have been a mildly uninteresting insult into full blown dumb ass territory.

This is why I do not own a TV

2010-04-19T19:57:00.000-07:00

We are tortoise sitting for Josh and Liz, and part of the deal for taking on such an inconvenient, demanding schedule of ripping up limp lettuce once a day is that we get full access to a television set. Tonight we watched the pilot for a new Alyssa Milano show featuring an effeminate male trying to learn how to embrace softcore S&M via his disdain for Darth Vader.

What the cuss happened to TV?

Oh for the love of Blog...

2010-04-18T21:33:00.000-07:00

I have some difficulties with this noxious tendency to want to sort and order and organize everything from sock drawers to blogs.. and I think I'm just slowly coming to terms with the fact that this blog, quite simply, is purpose-less. Agenda-free. Completely without motive. And that's mostly okay with me.

Well, not really. Because I cannot leave well enough alone, I am going to give this blog an objective, however small: Daily Blogging. That's right, I will be posting once a day, every day, until.. well, until I don't.

And now for news: I was accepted into the Hollins University MFA program, and will be attending in the fall. (!!!) I get a rush when I think about being back in the Blue Ridge.. I just can't get enough of the mountains. I was also recently awarded a Baltimore City Artist Fund Grant for poetry which makes me a ....

Yes, that's right. I'm a WINNER! Who says there's no money in poetry?

And now, for a little gimmick that may become standby for bad days when trying to blog through fatigue: the Poem of the Day. Today it is a poem by Mr. Cummings, one whose volta has always left me a little conflicted: misogynistic or gracious, I can never decide. Certainly not what one would call Local Color, that's for cussing sure.

it may not always be so; and i say

that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch

another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch

his heart, as mine in time not far away;

if on another's face your sweet hair lay

in such silence as i know, or such

great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,

stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be, i say if this should be--

you of my heart, send me a little word;

that i may go unto him, and take his hands,

saying, Accept all happiness from me.

Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird

sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

What the cuss?

2010-03-29T11:50:00.000-07:00

A friendly PSA from the folks over at Elephantine: in an effort to clean out our mouths (and, as a tribute to a favorite film) all further expletives on this blog will hereby be replaced by the word "cuss." Or they will simply be much, much more interesting.

That is all.

Dear Diary: A Cautionary Tale

2010-03-10T18:14:00.000-08:00

Tucked into the broken drawer slats of my nightstand was a composition book that belonged to the previous owner. As far as found objects go, you can't get any more innocuous than a black Mead marbled schoolbook, but the instinct to open it and flip the pages (something we must learn by rote in our formative book years) reveals that this is no homework log, but a diary. And this diary is no diary like that of a writer-- there are no painstaking efforts to describe events, flush out characters, or even to ascribe to basic grammatical convention. This is the real thing, the classified raw emotions of someone genuinely turning to the pen for release: it is, without question, the most terrifying object I have ever encountered.

I have been keeping a journal of some kind since I was thirteen, which means that my entire life has been fastidiously documented for over ten years. There is ritual to my journaling: the vessel is important and selected with care; pens and handwriting are wielded with the tedious patience of a taxidermist. I have experimented with logging the times, noting my location, music, clothing, food. For a time I was even writing prayers. I have mastered the art of paraphrasing dialogue, so as to never lose a poignant conversation to the hazy well of memory (which I'm certain makes some people very, very nervous). Every important player in my life has been chronicled down to the most minute detail: I've noted tapered fingers, large pores, cadences and speech patterns, a peculiar method of eating popcorn, or the odd moment shared after a line is crossed. I have written love letters to teachers, detailed fantasies of wild success, delivered deliciously vicious diatribes against politicians, family members, and dear friends. I have hulled emotions from myself and given them to the page, writing until my fingers cramp, my forearm burns, and I am gutted.

But I have never, not once, given in to the reckless abandon of writing for only myself.

This composition book diary is only a rough dozen entries, delivered once a month or so, with absolutely zero consideration for a reader. Names are thrown around without explanation, emotions are contradictory and unjustified. Heinous acts are mentioned but left undefended, are then violently but briefly regretted. Her prose is underdeveloped, the handwriting harried, secrets spilled without apology. A repetitious line of self-loathing strings together chronicles of someone resigned to be sex-addicted and lost.

I met this girl a few times before she sold me the nightstand. After reading the diary I've Facebook stalked her a few times, searched through her friends to match names of regrettable hookups to their digital visages. My instinct was to judge, to note the youthful smiley face and the addled disconnect from her dimples to the sparse admissions of "Got drunk. Had sex with J----- even though I didn't want to. I am disgusting. He is gross." I mean, I also bought her bed, and spent almost a year of ignorant nights nestled amongst the ghosts of hundreds of drug-fueled romps, often with men who are "Okay, 48, but he's so sexy and made me feel soooo good about myself."

Maybe it's because I read Anne Frank's diary before I began keeping one myself, but I was always far too guarded to ever write like the Girl from the Composition Book. The thought of posthumous publication is enough to keep my feet to the fire, but I think the most imminent danger was that of a snooper-- you know, the "concerned parent," or jealous boyfriend. While reading my journals has proven to be a deal-breaker at least once in my life, I totally get it. We want to know what everyone is "really" thinking, who they "really" are. But while I now know that the owner of the composition book wanted so desperately to find meaning in her life (goal lists included such arbitrary stock-do-gooder items like "Help AIDS victims in Africa" and "Become a yoga instructor"), unfortunately for my snoopers, my diaries are more calculated and guarded than a well-timed conversation over a couple of glasses of wine (I'm a bit of cheap drunk, as it turns out, and not much of a secret-keeper).

This composition book is hands-down the saddest thing I've ever read, but absolutely solidifies my commitment to journaling for the Phantom. Doing something therapeutic for yourself is a fabulous notion, but do yourself a favor and never, ever put it in writing.

Playing Dress-Up

2010-02-10T16:53:00.000-08:00

Day 6 of Snowpocalypse 2010:

Boredom was not allowed in my childhood. The oft-whined, "I'm booooored," was usually met with a list of productive, not-so-interesting suggestions to clean my room or get a head start on a research assignment. Worse still, my stepfather would sometimes bait me into a political discussion or try to wrangle me into home projects like organizing audio-cassette tapes or relabeling the pantry shelves. But the biggest deterrent for me was the pride-crushing mantra used when none of the other aforementioned options were viable:

"Only the boring get bored."

It was a good quip for a teenager whose self-image was all-important. Thus, the whining dwindled, and the quest for cabin-fever anecdotes began. I'd like to think that as I've matured, the activities in which I engage to occupy lag-time have also become more sophisticated. Unfortunately, this week completely debunked that hope. I apparently still inhabit the private world of a little girl who, when left to her own devices, will spend all her time:

Writing in her diary
Painting her nails
Experimenting with makeup
Dressing up in all her clothes
Practicing french-braiding her hair
Baking cookies and eating most of the dough
Singing out loud, and thinking it sounds great
Writing poetry
Reading to her cats, using made-up voices
Admiring the voices she makes up to read to her cats

Of course, there were a few more grown-up activities (wine-drinking, apartment-cleaning, David-loving) but mostly, I've spent the days doing exactly what I would have done with this time as a child. I've even begged David that later, when we go for our late night walk through this white, muffled world, that we can make a snowman.

All this aside, I do have one new grown up obsession I've been meaning to discuss-- lipstick. More specifically, this lipstick:

A very kind, generous woman gave me the Chanel Lover 09 lipstick last year, and save Halloween and Valentine's Day, I was very reluctant to wear it. But thanks to the recklessness that comes with pure, unadulterated boredom, I found myself swiping it on for the trek out to David's show this past Saturday.

Now, I'm thinking this could become my staple. I used to shy away from lipstick in general because I had this whole weird idea about "trying too hard." I was obsessed with looking like I "effortlessly" pulled a look together, but often this just resulted in spending hours trying to layer just right, with the tiniest bit of sexy peeking from a whole lot of casual. For awhile, this idea manifested itself in tight, lace-lined shelf-bra tank tops (no actual bra, a truly misguided psychology that governed my sartorial decisions in high school) under mens' open Oxford button downs. Accompanied with a series of attempts at the "tossled" hair updo, barely-there makeup (that somehow looked VERY there and took at least half an hour to achieve) and some ripped up jeans (of which I had ripped off the waistband) I still wonder how my mother let me out of the house. Somehow, in my twisted mind, my look was "effortless and sexy," not Walk of Shame.

If only I'd known then what I know now: Lipstick. I instantly took my last-of-the-clean-clothes outfit into something that made me feel hot. I mean-- I was wearing a cardigan. And a yellow scarf, that was just a tad bit off-shade from the yellow dress I had on. Over jeans. If Lover 09 can make that outfit work, it can do anything.

The [snow] comes on little cat feet..

2010-02-09T10:47:00.000-08:00

The Snow Globe

2010-02-08T09:15:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'll admit it: I had been skeptical about the imminent storm that had all inhabitants of the tri-state area absolutely hysterical (needed to make a quick stop at your local Target/Rite Aid/Safeway Thursday night for something casual like toilet paper, cereal? HAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAA. You mean you didn't stock up on a lifetime supply of Charmin and Kelloggs the moment the weather girl cried "snow"??) There was a general air of terror and knee-shaking that only seemed to amplify as the sky pooled snow clouds overhead.

We tucked in with some Snow Day Stew (potato-broccoli-cheddar soup I made up combining this and this recipe) and our well-timed Netflix of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Season 4. And we waited. And I've got to say, I was all but rolling my eyes at the dribbly, innocuous, slow snowfall that fluttered down Friday night.

Ever heard the phrase "Slow and Steady wins the race?" Yeah, okay. You win, snow.

Here we are, knee-deep, under a sky that just won't quit.

Below you can see the Hello! sign in lieu of a snowman. This was sheer carving, no piling necessary.

That night David and I trekked out to his show at the Annex with our friends Josh and Liz. We'd started the afternoon delights with hot buttered rums (and though I strangely had no aversion to the thought of drinking melted butter, sugar and alcohol, I would really only recommend this one for the brave at stomach. Also, a rum that doesn't taste like gasoline might be the way to go) and had quickly progressed to a case of Tecate. Despite this, the involuntary faceplant into the unplowed roads was still highly possible. Here, Josh trips in front of a hill that used to be a vehicle.

Baltimore is still a snow-globe;everyone's on gchat "working from home." I'm making Valentines and beginning a very exciting collaboration project that I'll be sharing soon..

EDIT:

We are SIX DAYS into the blizzard. We are working on an additional 20 inches, as I type. Also, there was apparently an earthquake in Chicago last night... Anyone else feel like Mother Nature ain't just crying wolf anymore?

The Lotus Feast (or, On Pleasure)

2010-02-04T10:48:00.001-08:00

In 1997, Brian Gilbert directed a sort-of biopic on Oscar Wilde, which you may not recall because a little ol' movie by the name of Titanic dominated the hearts, minds and credit cards of Wilde's intended target audience-- women ages 18-44, and gay men the world over.

I call the film a "sort-of biopic" because the focus is largely on Wilde's homosexuality (a point drilled into us about a quarter in, when David noted that we were on semi-explicit love scene #3), leaving the complexities and nuances of his working life as mere plot fillers for lag time.*

In fact, a viewer unfamiliar with the writer may walk away from the film forgetting the fact in lieu of the oh-so-more-juicy events surrounding The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name. Yes, his work is mentioned; theaters feature his plays in the background; Constance reads his stories to their children; but the only time we actually witness Oscar writing is in one scene, a truly incredible scene (maybe the scene that made the film worth seeing) when Lord Alfred Douglas decides he is bored with Oscar's frugality and throws a hissy fit that is just so, to put it mildly, delicious:

"You're always so vulgar! No gentleman ever knows what his bank account is!" the very young and very convincing Jude Law screams, right before he runs from the house with abandon-- spit flying, arms flapping like some maladroit bird attempting a first flight. Child-like at vocal pitches maybe only dogs can register, his anger transcends even his vanity, and as you watch those delicately carved, pretty little features mangle in rage, you will have difficulty suppressing the image of Dorian Grey's matted soul. (And a good giggle.)

Nonetheless, the film, based on the celebrated biography by Richard Ellman, does shed a rather sensitive light over the man who brought us such quips as "It is better to be good-looking than to be good." We see him as warm, thoughtful, and compassionate, though certainly willing to forsake solemnity to entertain and be well-liked. In the scene where he is drilled by an irate Irish prosecutor while on trial for "acts of indecency and sodomy," he gives a very poignant, compelling speech that (paraphrased) while there can be no morality or immorality in thought, in truth it is not pleasure, not happiness, but one's true nature that must govern a life. Gilbert's Wilde seems willing to accept his, though he does appear somewhat shy and befuddled by it.

As any diligent neophyte of the School of Wilde, (circa 2002, junior year English class, The Importance of Being Earnest) I vividly recall the romantic tugs of Oscar's "Not happiness! Above all, not happiness. Pleasure!" The memory has me contemplating the frustrating dualities of such a seemingly simple concept: we all want to feel good, but there is a hairline border between evil Vice and acceptable Indulgence. And we humans are exceptionally prone to crossing the border.

Hedonism was hardly a foreign concept in my formative years: those who enjoyed themselves (or, lived for enjoying themselves) were usually the brunt of many-a off-the-cuff morality tale delivered if I was too entertained by a movie, or singing too soulfully with the radio. It became a challenge to even read a novel without someone accusing you of enjoying yourself too much. In the world of Wasps, you are trained to value suffering, to savor the right to complain about what you've endured, how many things you don't get to do; pleasure nullifies one's claim to a good sob story. And what would a Wasp do without her soap box?

Equally as important in my household were the Others, or, Those Who Made Us Feel Good About Ourselves Because They Are Not Whole And Pure Like We. (A.K.A, Democrats and Aggies.) As far as I knew, attending A&M meant you didn't know how to screw in light bulbs and voting blue was on par with petty theft. I remember a classmate parroting their parent's Clinton vote on election day and staring, mouth hung, as though he had just announced that he was, in fact, a voluntary Eunuch. And liked it.

As when, for the first time, I met intelligent Aggies and kind people unabashedly proclaiming themselves Democrats, I was agog when I heard my friend Ariel's parents shrug at a price tag for a family cruise to Bermuda (in the middle of the school year!): "Money is made for spending," her father said. It blew my mind.

So I did a quick thesaurus search for "hedonism" and discovered that "lotus eater" is a Macbook approved synonym. Otherwise known as lotophagi, this tribe consists of the pleasure-seekers from the Odyssey who lazed about doped up on lotuses.

(Above, Odysseus removes his men from these indolent pleasure-junkies.)

"Pleasure" certainly has it's negative connotations (which brings to mind that Mean Girls scene when the high school coach says, "Have sex and you WILL get chlamydia and you WILL die." Never mind he spelled it "Klamidia," he speaks the truth!) But what I've always struggled with is how the general school of thought, as distinguished by dear Oscar, seems to be that one can pursue pleasure OR happiness. But what about pleasures that beget happiness? Like travel, reading, bubble baths, or a really really good piece of cheesecake. Is it because I enjoyed it I can't possibly feel real happiness?

I'm just not buying it. To completely re-contextualize a Bill Maher quote for my own purposes:

"And it really is outdated in some ways - the "Life sucks, and then you die" philosophy was useful when Buddha came up with it around 500 B.C., because back then life pretty much sucked, and then you died - but now we have medicine, and plenty of food, and iPhones, and James Cameron movies - our life isn't all about suffering anymore. And when we do suffer, instead of accepting it we try to alleviate it." **

I mean, I'm down for a life with brunch, Amazon.com, cocktails and Netflix. Who's to say that these "simple pleasures" aren't actually little pieces of real Happiness? How is anyone who's ever found a 90% off flight to Hawaii, or completed a full marathon, or even just had a really solid, productive day, going to deny that the calm, quiet feeling nestled in the wake of accomplishment isn't an unalloyed bid for the Big H?

Whatever the case, Oscar's presence in Pleasure's corner just got me thinking about the complexities of definition, and the inevitable rupture of ensuing schools of thought. As usual, I tend to not choose a platform, but rather swallow the big gray pill with relish; to me, it is the mark of measured thinking to at least straddle the fence for a good long while before throwing a hat on a donkey or elephant (for example). Likewise, Wilde himself is not a compelling enough mascot for me to completely throw myself behind. Even if he did wear lush purple waistcoats and stand trial for something he (and I) believe in.

But I can throw myself behind hardback books, and french press coffee makers. And red wine and letters, runner's euphoria and yoga. Because, while happiness is certainly a concept worth scratching the head about, pleasure, dear, is not so difficult.

*This was a point that somewhat disappointed me, as I've taken a rather strong interest in the habits and schedules of writers. Annie Dillard's A Writing Life is a good source for anyone else interested in the exercise habits of Chekhov or the sleeping patterns of Octavio Paz.

**Bill Maher's comments on Tiger Wood's "Sex Addiction." Remarkably applicable.

I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way.

2010-01-25T15:23:00.001-08:00

So, in light of the fact that I'm apparently talking in my sleep about this, I guess I need to try to air it out in hopes that I will give my subconscious a rest.

The title post is taken from Jessica Rabbit's famous line in 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit." Jessica is, um, one hot mama, sporting every single physical jewel that plastic-surgery junkies consider mere modus operandi to "looking like the best me": soft, enormous, pillowy lips (often referred to as the Angelina Lips), teeeeeeeny tiny nose (think Heidi Klum), and, duh, some big ol' titties.

If Jessica Rabbit were real, I'm sure her repertoire would have been extended to an ear tuck, brow lift, cheek injection, and many additional "nips and tucks" to keep that waist so trim it's a miracle she doesn't crumble from the weight of such impressive décolletage. She may even have had some more personalized procedures, such as having an elongated chin shaved down, or implants wedged into her flat trunk ... sound familiar? Maybe like a certain young "starlet" who not only did get that chin shaved and butt "augmented" this past November, but also underwent each and every one of the aforementioned procedures in-- wait for it-- one, completely unnecessary, ten hour surgery. (Click for full photo)

As much as I wanted to resist joining the ranks of Heidi Montag's critics, I simply cannot get over these interview quotes that keep popping up over my dear Jezebel. (That and, when David informed me that amidst all the sleep-talk garble I'm famous for, my subconscious was apparently fuming over how she "looks like a tranny!") There have been some true gems that came out of her post-op interviews, but some quotes were, well, gut-wrenching. I'll let you differentiate:

In response to whether she had chosen to unveil the new look in order to promote her conveniently timed release of her first album, she responded swiftly that, "Ohhhh no! That's all God's timing."
On how young girls are supposed to respond to the apparently superficial and self-loathing message she's sending: "Well, my message is really that beauty is within."
On if she thinks DDD is large enough: "I actually want H for Heidi."
"I'm not addicted [to plastic surgery]. If I was addicted I would have had ten plastic surgeries" (Um... she did. Ten.)
"I had to look through hours of photos for what boob size I wanted in Playboy...if you're going to do surgery, it's like doing research you know, for a paper you're writing."
Paraphrased: "It's a spiritual transformation. God made Dr. Ryan who made me so it's okay with Him."
"I went to an after-care place, and I was in so much pain, and like, literally crying, and just saying I-- I felt like I wanted to die, almost."

Wow. I love how she talks about the recovery with a definitive air of surprise, "It really.. hurt." What? Really? You mean that injecting all those foreign objects and substances and fats into your body didn't feel awesome? Because I always imagined that having my jaw bone sanded down would feel amazing.

I'm not really anti-cosmetic surgery, just to be clear. When I was growing up, the only kind of plastic surgeries I knew about were the standard boob/nose jobs, lipo and face-lifts that were generally frowned upon and seemed to only happen with the rich, bored, and unhappy. Now, while limelight, insecurity and shitloads of cash seem to make up the dangerous combination that launches many-a young celebrity into the rusty jaws of cosmetic surgery, I know many women and men who undergo the knife for reasons that are entirely reasonable: relatively so. While I don't think that multiple procedures (and certainly, some procedures even by themselves) are all that healthy for your body, I can definitely sympathize with the feeling that you're missing something (or have too much of something) that has nothing to do with exercise and healthy living. In an effort of full disclosure, I should say that I fully plan on having a boob-job of some kind after my breasts have served their purpose (after a life-long struggle with these guys, I will savor reclaiming them in my later years).

But while I don't necessarily love my chin or lips or nose, I think that shelling these features in favor of some stock plastic replacements wouldn't possibly bring me happiness. And while I don't know Heidi Montag, I just can't imagine that now that she looks like the Cat Lady's little sister, she's 100% happy with herself. And I can guarantee she isn't 100% finished getting work done either. One doesn't get neck liposuction at 23 and just ride out the fruits of that labor til death. Tis not exactly an endeavor with totally solid long-term effects.

Animalia

2010-01-13T18:22:00.000-08:00

I'm finally getting around to sharing trip photos, a task that becomes quite daunting once your photo counts surpasses 500. My very human instincts are telling me to do so in a methodical, organized fashion, one that presents the photos by motif, and most importantly, in much more manageable sizes. Today I offer a small sampling of Animals Encountered (with the sub-theme of "Animals with whom we directly interacted.")

Llamas in San Pedro de Atacama, Chile.

Sea lions at Las Islas Ballestas, "The poor man's Galapagos."

Kitten on Las Islas Flotantas in Lake Titicaca, (Uros woman behind me)

Kitten in Llauar, Colca Canyon, Peru.

Llama at Machu Picchu. Those things are a little frightening in person.

A staple of South American streets: stray dogs. Atacama desert, Chile.

Addendum:

There were alpaca and vicuna herds, condor sightings, flamingos. Those will probably be included in a more touristy, picturesque category like "Landscapes." I've begun with these photos because these are some of the moments from the trip that I recall most vividly and with much relish-- I remembered sitting on the back of a llama on a childhood trip to Santiago, and hunted down the sequel experience as resolutely as I scoured shops for the Nestle Trencito chocolate bar my abuelita used to send Christopher and I in the mail. Nostalgia is a powerful motivator and I found myself, an otherwise somewhat nervous foreigner, demanding candy in almost-perfect Spanish and staring down those cow-like, long-lashed placid eyes of South American livestock without trepidation. Someone would be proud.

But I really included these photos not for their uniqueness (cats, incidentally, are equally as impassive to their human companions across the Americas, though South Americans appear to have the good sense to be impassive back) but because I, much to my humiliation, never quite shed that childhood impulse to want to keep, love, and be the best friend of every solitary living animal I meet. Thank god for Customs, or I would have returned happily but stupidly a-lugging quite the array of companions for my two feline friends.

I don't know how, why or when this idiot love of animals was born, but it seems to have become exponentially illogical and emotionally-fraught. As a child, my father used to cook these semi-raw, fatty steaks a lo pobre (with a fried egg on top) for dinner. I remember barely grasping the ability to poke the flesh, pooling in its own blood, with that obscene strip of fat gleaming on the sides. "Be a man!"my father was known to exclaim. "That's where all the flavor is; don't be so American!" My brother, ever the sycophant and red-blooded hispanic male, devoured the cow while I choked back bile. My only saving grace was Lent, when Dad permitted abstemious vows. At 14, rebellion coincided with my father's death, and he was thus spared the event of becoming a vexed witness to a six year stretch of vegetarianism.

For monetary and health reasons, college re-introduced fowl and seafood to my diet, though I can only maintain the appetite if the foods in question in no way still resemble the animal from which they came. Granted, this tends to stem more from a "gross-factor," than emotional attachment, but I am hardly immune to Peta, or worse, Homeward Bound. Eight Below. The Never Ending Story. Once, on a very crowded bus crossing the Peruvian border to Chile, the same discerning film censor who had brought us Homeland Security and Human Trafficking just hours before, puts on the Will Smith blockbuster I Am Legend. Guess who lost her shit when the dog gets attacked by the zombies? And I'm not talking about one shining, silent tear-- no, that would have been mildly acceptable to our stoic and seemingly blood-thirsty passenger companions. I was sobbing. Blurred vision, hyperventilation, dry-heaving. The couple next to us, who had been ascribing to the South American tendency to offer zero consideration for personal space the first 6 hours of the bus drive, were looking at me with the dawning realization that I wasn't just some American tourist, but a very unbalanced American tourist. They inched away with the cautious deliberation of a level-headed hostage held at gunpoint.

I'd like to think that my pets feel love for me. I'd like to imagine that when my cat curls himself a nook on my chest, he is consciously cuddling. When my dog met me at the door with such violent tail-wagging he knocked himself over, I liked to think it was overwhelming happiness to see me. Do I understand that these are wildly fanciful notions meant to feed my ego? Yes. Does that deter these notions? Absolutely not. Consider the dust bitten.

..After a word from our sponsors

2009-12-16T21:29:00.000-08:00

These past few weeks have been quite the busy ones.. I quit my job, took the GRE, applied to grad school, found another job, baked more banana bread than Curious George could ever eat and wrote a tome of new poetry. Christmas seemed to sneak itself in there, didn't it?

A few years ago I illustrated a children's book about the nativity story. I have a small box of the beautiful, first edition hard copies left I should probably start peddling:

So here's my shameless sale pitch:

If you know children, have children, or have ever encountered a child, this is the book for you! Send me an email and we'll get down to business.

In the meantime, I have turned our little den into a tissue-paper snowflake extravaganza. Christmas cards this year are handmade, yes, though I'll have to admit that the kitsch that another person with an art degree may achieve in such an endeavor is wildly lacking in mine; this card would be at home on your refrigerator, right next to your first grade art project where you were introduced to Elmer the glue bull.

Vale la pena.

2009-12-02T03:50:00.000-08:00

I feel politically endowed somehow, with this official badge:

Yes, I did.

Spelling it out:

This Christmas, everything I'm giving (including my holiday cards) will be completely handmade. Given the state of most of our bank accounts to daily expenses ratio, plus the fact that I know so many artists/writers/crafters/bakers/thing-makers, this seems to be the absolute best way to get into my usual holiday fervor with nothing but construction stress (and what's a few lost sleep hours to way-too-much spent cash?).

All that said, I still have an Amazon wishlist, and there are absolutely books that I desperately, hopelessly, endlessly want for my own.

---------

Since my last, somewhat embarrassing and manic post about all the wonderful new things I'm doing in the place of the things I should be doing, I need to appease my ego by announcing that I have successfully sent off my first-ever submission to a residency. Hurray! I am now in the full throes of GRE study, which is proven to be a slow but somewhat painful process while I'm reminding myself of math that I have never, not once, in any capacity had to employ outside of my high school classroom. My brain feels kind of like a plucked chicken.

Undergoing such a futile process can cause me to tumble into discouragement, and so I offer the following excerpt that's been the proverbial light at the end of this muddled tunnel:

Give up all the other worlds

except the one to which you belong.

--David Whyte

To the library!

Subterfuge

2009-11-25T11:41:00.000-08:00

Deadlines are looming, deadly things:

True to form, I'm a mere 4 days from a travel essay contest, 5 days from a residency application, and a week and a half from the ugly GRE and guess what I am doing? Baking. I'm baking like my life depends on it, because every time I pick up a flash card (a flash card... that I made. Because I couldn't remember what a prime number is) I am filled with such dread, such angst, such discouragement, that I resort to an old trick my step-dad used to use to help ease the tension from childhood migraines:

"What color is the pain?"

"White."

"If it could fill a glass, how full would it be?"

"Overflowing."

"Would you say that it is hard or soft?"

"Soft. And dense.. and maybe creamy."

"What color is it now?"

"Still white. Like powdered sugar."

"How much would it fill in a bowl?"

"Ooh, just about halfway.. but it needs butter."

I don't know how or why my anxiety manifested into a dessert-vision, but I'm not one to ignore a good auspice. And so I began to bake. Under the delusion that it would be, ultimately, the catalyst I need to a calmer, saner, more productive state of mind. I made a cinnamon/chocolate/banana bread. A pear/raspberry/cranberry cake. Moroccan chicken with raisins and lentils. Dutch peppermint cocoa with homemade whipped cream.

I have created a recipe bookmark on my computer and am obsessed with David Lebovitz and this recipe for homemade marshmallows (WHY don't I have a standing mixer???). I'm dying to have a try at French macarons, though everything I've read indicates you need to give yourself supplies and time for at least half a dozen failed batches before success. Tomorrow, I'm making 4 different kinds of shortbread for the orphan's Thanksgiving we're attending at my dear friend Eric's house.

Have I written anything? NO. Not in almost two entire weeks. Have I even been reading? Nope. With the exception of recipes and baking blogs, I have been a pseudo-illiterate for almost a fortnight. How am I feeling about the GRE, the contests, the residency, and (sigh) the eventual applications I need to pull together for grad program deadlines? Um, I don't have time to answer. I'm a nebulous elf made entirely of cinnamon and cream.

Deadlines are magical, motivational rainbows:

I've learned how to bake! My secret ingredient is sour cream, and I'll throw cinnamon on anything (including chicken). I've been remarkably productive in thousands of other, non-academic ways that include:

Yoga-- I'm finally learning some of those incredibly scary twisty moves that put a lot of pressure on your elbows and involve Lamaze-esque breathing.
I made a Christmas card list and began designs for my first ever holiday card.
I drew a fairly convincing aardvark.
I drew a terrible fig.
I braved the 3 week pile of laundry.
I signed up for Netflix. Finally.
I set up my Christmas tree.
I began my Amazon wishlist.
I updated and revised and constantly admire my iCalendar.
I've painted my nails.
Trimmed my bangs.
Written a blog update..

There's something about looming deadlines that make me remarkably productive in areas of my life that aren't nearly as dire. But nonetheless, I am grateful to have at least discovered a penchant for baking, abilities to organize, and the willingness to undertake such challenges as the drawing of the complicated innards of a freshly cut fig. That's not so easy, you know.

Preface to an essay: myself and place.

2009-10-19T19:01:00.000-07:00

We, the grant recipient and tag-along, first-time backpackers in a hemisphere that was not our own (that did not possess our language, our climate, our high-pressured plumbing) were mostly alone for the better part of two months. I suppose it would be drab to simply call it "American," but our tendencies were very introverted; I was often plagued by the guilty knowledge of some of my more well-traveled friends-- Carol, who went to Portugal alone and would simply find pick-up soccer games to troll for companionship; Mina, who offered the simple and stately advice over her many chicly casual Chinese polaroids that the only way to travel was to wake up early and stay out late. "Saves on rooming expenses, anyway." I could see them shaking their heads disapprovingly in my mind's eye as one might envision a particularly prim relative rolling over in their grave.

We paid the rooming expenses, nightly, and after being robbed we stayed in private, unfashionable rooms that most backpackers would have scoffed at even if they could have afforded them. I only bathed when there was the promise of more than 5 minutes of consistent hot water and we often caught movies on our cable TVs while we stayed in after dinner; David working on drawings and I under the pretense of taking extensive notes. (Incidentally, many of my notes on Religulous turned into a full-out essay grappling with some delivery similarities between Bills O'Reilly and Maher... I have a one-liner about the restaurant we ate in that night: "Pasty pasta." I'm on the yellow brick road to travel essay hell.)

In our defense, we were coming off of almost three months of total exclusivity in the Catskills from the summer, and had gotten in the habit of being each other's sole companions (a habit we are clearly still nurturing seeing as we are currently g-chatting whilst sitting a mere 15 ft away...).

Nonetheless, the characters we did briefly join as traveling companions are all the more poignant given their brevity and rarity. We were inexplicably partial to German pairs, and often, people well over retirement age. There was, in no particular order, also:

a mid-thirties Frenchman (5 months into a solitary 2 year trip around the world, excluding Africa...) who we met in a deathcab to a vampire bat-infested cave
a young French guy with his Polish-born, Austrian-raised, Russian/English/French educated girlfriend (who we ran into all over Southern Peru, and whose face was eaten away by a deadly milkweed found in the Colca Canyon on a hike)
two Swedish guys who taught us how to play a card game called "Diminishing Wist" (that's a lot like Spades/Dungeons and Dragons) while discussing the cruelty of neutering dogs (note: neutering, not spaying).
Two German students: pre-med with a ponytail and a dentist in a Dave Matthews cover band
Keith, the previously mentioned boarder and Rottweiler-breeder from Cockney who, as it was discovered over a farewell beer and an overheard cell phone conversation, was fleeing drug charges for the past two years and was simply dealing internationally ("Nah, mail is the safest. And I've me dogs in case.)
Behrnard and Francesca, both retirement age physical and speech therapists from Germany whose humor and aggression made our entire experience dealing with hotel staff and taxi drivers in Chiclayo very, very uncomfortable (Behrnard, who could barely say "Hola," would simply start babbling incoherently and animatedly in mock-Spanish until someone, usually David, tried to explain to the frazzled driver/tour guide/waiter that he was trying to be funny, not insulting. He was also known to pick up discarded toys or trash on the sidewalk and wave them indiscriminately at innocent passer-by, while his wife indulged in innocent chuckles.)
Nilton, our Peruvian guide to the Colca Canyon, who opened our very first conversation with the statement that his wife "lives with another man. My life is very sad." On our last trek up the largest mountain in the canyon, he was overcome with fever and refused medication, insisting that "Inca people are very strong." He still outstripped everyone on the trail with astounding ease.
Two Polish retirees who claimed that Peruvian cheese was delicious, their son made portraits that were spectacular, and Polish family trees allowed the woman to remain free of the title of "grandmother" until the child in question was a boy, which was stupendous.
Karla, a boisterous dresser and, though possibly battling pneumonia, avid smoker who took us out for drinks in the desert and later in Santiago. Possibly the only "friend" we made on the entire trip.

The experience wasn't about people, a fact that I struggled to understand as the rest of my life's experiences are entirely dependent upon them. I have always described places by the people I have met there, the conversations I had. But there, amidst the Germans and card games and treks, I found vague stimulation from those interactions, and my usual intensity when meeting someone new was replaced by the adolescent response of boredom: I would find myself seeking something more interesting around me (a view, a landmark, a pastry) while David had to pick up the languished conversation hanging awkwardly between us. I didn't need to "connect" with anyone, and was more inclined to marvel at the way my thoughts naturally wandered, and marveling at these ordinary things I was seeing in an unordinary place. All the while these people still talking to me like the pigeons at our feet weren't inordinately fat, or the vendor on the corner wasn't selling gargantuan carrots that seemed almost obscene in their girth. These are my interests now.

Someone once told me that the most important power she believed in was the power of place, and I didn't understand the profundity of the term until last month. South America was about transport, sure, but also something else, something reflection on myself will reveal; something having to do with landscape, family, observation, fear and self-management. I was discovering my upbringing in restaurants (my grandmother's meat empanadas, manjar-coated desserts) and recognizing my father in every South American man (the authoritative voice, the oily skin, the thick fingers that gesture unceasingly in conversation).

And thus travel may be for me, simply, obviously, about place: a thing that puts me so outside myself that in retrospection maybe I can see myself more clearly. Maybe.

Home again home again, jiggity jig.

2009-10-08T19:55:00.001-07:00

We arrived in Washington today at 11:00 am, raced to Baltimore where we saw back-to-back apartments, and signed a lease in the magical neighborhood of Mount Vernon by 5:00. When I say "magical," I am primarily referring to the fact that not only are the art museums and independent bookstores within mere meters of my doorstep, but I can also freely wander the charming tree-soaked streets for almost 6 square blocks without once witnessing

a) an armed robbery

b) crack houses

c) poop (the human kind)

Hurrah!

Also, due to the mangled scavenging of electronic communication that was South American internet cafes, I have allowed a month of anecdotes to slip by, and have thus decided to allow a gestation period to commence. A la Hemingway in A Moveable Feast, I will produce a small collection of essays, throughout the next few weeks, where precision will be a small sacrifice for the greater recollections of toilets, deathcabs, and canons. Stay tuned.

Huanchaco via Cockney

2009-08-25T15:53:00.000-07:00

I´m on the clock at an internet dive by the northern shoreline of Peru, in a town called Huanchaco. I´m about to make my way over to the mini mercado [re. alleyway] where I´m going to haggle in Spanish over the price of some beautiful hand crafted, hand dyed leather sandals. It should be noted that I am a terrible haggler... while I was trying them on the other night for the first time, I had the very American woman reaction that would have probably been more appropriate over a pair of Frye boots in a Nordstroms [¨Oh my gosh I loooooove them! Don´t you just looooove them aren´t they just precious!!] The Peruvian keeper smiled and her eyes gleamed as she immediately raised the price about 20 soles. David ushered me away and we practiced looking vaguely unconvinced over delicious postres and the freshest ceviche in the country.. the takeaway is that I should basically never, ever gamble.

Peru has been a pretty charming trip thus far, as we´ve lazily drifted from Lima up the coastline. We´ve seen some good ruins [basically, if it´s broken and covered in dirt, it´s a ruin...learned that lesson about guides and booked tours the hard way in Trujillo] museums, beaches, and nightlife. The food has been mostly fried [chifa is a big one here, which is fried rice with everything they have in the scrap pile mixed in] or a product of corn, but I´ve had my fair share of scary chicken parts [Mallory, you take the cake with the goat liver in Africa].

The best thing about Huanchaco so far was the luck we had with lodging. As we were lugging ourselves up a random street toward the shining oasis of a Hostal´s neon sign, a lovely young local called out to us on behalf of her middle aged, beach worn patron sitting behind a stack of fried donuts. Do you want a room overlooking the beach, hot water and a private bathroom in a large, open air beach house for only 25 soles a night- yes. Keith is a 40ish Brit ex pat who lets rooms and hammocks in his rottweiler-guarded beachhouse at the end of the strip. It´s like staying at a luxury resort in Kona-- quiet, white washed, with low hanging hand woven hammocks grazing a glossy wood panel porch with a brick layed barbecue pit in the corner. Keith has given us great tips about where to eat, buy gifts, and where to see the ´real´ Peru. We spent the day trolling the mercados for fresh fruit and chasing crabs on the beach. Before we had keys yesterday we had to wait for Keith to come to open the door while Rocky the bilingual rottweiler lost his shit on the other side of the wall, and not five minutes past the point of wondering if we were lost Keith comes speeding up in the back of a bicycle taxi clutching dog biscuits and an industrial size package of toilet paper. He speaks what he calls ´Cockney Spanish´ and is thus a little less decipherable than the most articulate Peruvian, but so far we´ve figured out the important bits-- don´t walk by the rottweilers at night, and if we need towels or want to flush paper down the toilet it´s an extra 25 soles.

A small album

2009-08-17T05:33:00.000-07:00

Yoga at the highest peak of the Catskills.
Sitting on a very wonky dock at the top of the mountain.
I used to play Mario Cart with this guy.
Nigel enviously watching as grumpy Chaucer goes for a leashed walk.
Nigel hiding out in David's suitcase while Chaucer tries to figure out how he did it.
Nigel's favorite thing to do.
A new nook. Getting my clothes all covered with hair is a small price to pay for this cuteness.
Jasper checking out my studio.
My studio!
At the Butterfly house in Oneonta.

We're heading to the airport in a mere 6 hours to begin our journey to Lima! I'm getting more and more anxious to get there by the minute. The only tiny nag in my excitement is my kitties: we dropped them off at their foster home the other day, and Nigel was so angry to be in someone else's territory (there are two male cat roommates for them) that he just stalked around, hissing indiscriminately at table, chair, cat, carpet, looking more and more like a tiny deranged panther. Their foster mom is great and her place has plenty of space for all the kitties, but it still made me a little sad to see my super friendly guy being such a little asshole.

We're watching Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet in Spanish and they're about to get married. Somehow, Shakespeare in Spanish is really making a lot of sense to me. Adios!

So much for blogging: an open letter to my two faithful readers

2009-08-12T03:52:00.000-07:00

I could blame it on the mountains I guess.

"There really wasn't an internet connection anywhere and when I could one it was on the library's 1998 tan, cracked Compaq... you know the kind from 7th grade computer class... and the guy who plays tetris on it stood by, picking at his stubbed, black-rimmed fingernails and sweating nervously over my shoulder until I finished checking my email and I mean, you know, could you blog under such nerve-wracking conditions??"

That's about 15% true. I'll admit to it. I'm a lazy blogger, my dear two readers, you need to know this before you jump into a blogging commitment with me. Also, I am not super keen on the length of time it takes to upload photos, so though I know this lowers my chance of you dear two readers actually reading my rare and scant blog updates by a frighteningly large percent, I must reiterate: I am a lazy blogger.

Here's where the actual update begins:
If I had been blogging all summer, I would have mostly been writing as I did in my previous post: star-struck by flora and fauna, you would have been regaled (I mean, you know, in this passive and unobtrusive way that we call blogging) with tales of beaver-sightings and bear poop and having to keep coyotes out of the sandbox where a particularly stupid rabbit built her nest of bunnies. I would have written about that rainbow, which became an almost daily sighting, and about eating a chanterelle pizza made entirely from the mushrooms found on the long hiking trail at Minekill Falls. OH and then I would get started on the food-- almost everything, from the sushi to the bluberry-lemon jam to the panini have been homemade. And delicious. Lee is an adventurous and undaunted chef, who, according to the cooking book that strikes his fancy, will go on these culinary themes for full summers. We picked a lucky summer to leech on to their kitchen-- this year is the summer of bread. Last year was pickles.

Now, we are less than a week from departing for South America. The part of me that has been climbing mountains and trekking woods and following rivers all summer is super excited and ready to be there; likewise the part of me wracked with the guilt of claiming Hispanic heritage and only a compositional (not really conversational) level of Spanish.

But then there is the part of me who had never voluntarily hiked a trail before this summer in her life (forced, family-friendly hikes fraught with frequent consultations of a tree-identification guide, sure) and whose only international travel over the age of 15 are tritely European (and exclusively in large academic groups) is a little nervous. When did I get old enough to plan and fund a trip to another continent? Itineraries always came ready-made with the check that was turned in to the school... I didn't even have to worry about keeping track of a plane ticket until we were at the security checkpoint and had counted off to 40, and nevermind holding on to hotel reservations or museum ticket stubs.. half the time I would sort of wake up as the bus stopped and groggily inquire which city we were even in.

Now, that lush kind of travel is long behind me, and I'm going to cities whose elevations reach 3600 m (when we were first hiking up the mountains here, we had mistakingly read that as feet and were patting ourselves on the back for the 3500 foot mountain we conquered here.. turns out, we're only prepared to be at a quarter of the elevation point in Bolivia) and whose guidebooks tell of phony police officers who will demand foreign fees and papers from gringos or a mugging chain whose cheif form of distraction is to spit on you.

We have to be prepared to identify real officials, money and modes of transport from their counterfeit counterparts. And, my favorite line from the guidebooks describes a city where "panthers stalk locals from trees." Now, I took all those years of Texas standardized testing and I excelled in reading comprehension in my SAT. But nowhere in this book can I determine if this is meant to caution or relieve: do the panthers strictly hunt locals? Am I in the clear? What do you think, dear two ones?

I will be blogging on my travels, from various internet cafes and hostels, as much as the availability and my dedication will allow. I therefore beseech you, my dear readers, to keep your faith in me. I will come back to you. I will deliver, queridas.

Daily things

2009-07-18T09:14:00.000-07:00

These are from the documented slide images David took for the Rackateer piece he's showing in Philadelphia right now. It put the clothesline to final use during a rare hour of sunlight-- mostly, it's just been this sad, dropping thing, dangling tiny forgotten socks and dirty towels in the rain.

Summer has finally graced us with her presence, and next weekend we are going blueberrying (a dollar a pound!) at a nearby berry farm. We are entranced by wildberries; on a hike a few weeks ago, we discovered a handful of wee strawberries growing near a stream-- stragglers at the end of their season who, though a poisonously vivid scarlet, would grow no larger than a thumbnail. Our inexpertise reasoned that tiny did not equal edible, and we ignorantly left these perfectly ripe little jewels for some lucky squirrel or deer.

Once enlightened by our hosts, we've been all-too-eager to pounce upon the first glimpse of red, purple or blue within the bushes along the trails. Mostly, this has been succesful (early elderberries are apparently only meant to be made into jams) and yesterday we feasted on bruise-colored blueberries by the pond. This morning, we stopped mid-run to devour miniscule juicy raspberries, barely pausing to brush off the occasional insect resting on those plump little seeds.

With the better weather also comes the daily rainbow, and for the first time in my life, I have seen the full arch across the sky, as though that elusive end were really just over the hill and in the apple orchard.
For the fourth of July, Lee and Kirsten invited us to their friends' house for an annual effigy burning party. Almost all of the guests were art professors and colleagues from Bennington, Cornell, and Ithaca, and many of the effigies were cardboard representations of academic buildings or dean's offices. Lee and Jasper made a giant beaver, and David and I burned a happy earwig, whose population boom has made them so ubiquitous even our cats don't bother chasing them anymore.
This unusual summer has very chilly evenings, and I've taken to reading books curled up with a cat and a sweater, and a warm mug of tea. I've started to listen for the animals at night, and recently I've heard a small pack of coyotes, but I'm mostly listening for bobcats, whose cry is apparently indistinguishable from a woman screaming. There were half-eaten moths hobbling all over our doorstep yesterday morning, and that kind of strange carnage can only mean bats, so we're going scouting for them tonight. I've heard you can throw up breadcrumbs and they'll come swooping down gently like seagulls.

Shoestring wanderlust

2009-06-23T11:37:00.001-07:00

Our tickets to Peru have been purchased! We are arriving August 18th in Lima and then we will be flying out of Santiago October 7th. I have purchased the first three levels of Rosetta Stone and all our South American shoestring travel books arrived a few days ago. We're budgeting $10-$50 per person per day and I think we'll make it back with enough money for a security deposit on a new apartment (that we don't have yet) and some foodstuffs until we start our new jobs (that we also don't have yet).

It seems a little reckless sometimes when I think about it, but it's also kind of ridiculous to expect to be able to find a job now that doesn't start until October. I'm hoping that I can just show up at some inner-city early childhood program, mention that I've encountered children before and know CPR, and have a job. My absolute last resort is nannying, though in all honesty it's probably generally more lucrative than a job in a school to begin with.

And so now I wait. I began painting portraits of the more Germanic versions of my favorite fairy tale characters (I'm laboring over what I'm hoping will be a more sympathetic Rumplestilskin.. is it just me, or does he sort of get screwed over in that story?) and researching their origins. The most widespread of the classic princess tale seems to be Cinderella, though across cultures and centuries, we've still been fed the most watered down, sugar-coated version possible. From the most inane and only slightly scandalous discrepancies (in the French oral tradition, fur and glass are almost indiscernible, but they go with glass because a Prince trying to find the perfect fit of a fur slipper on every maiden in the land makes him seem somewhat less.. noble) to much more disturbing details (the wicked step-sisters hack off their toes and heels to fit in the shoe and later have their eyes pecked out by birds for their wickedness) to the absurd (in China, the fairy godmother is a giant talking fish) the most boring is the Disney version. It seems bestiality, mutilation, and incest are hardly uncommon themes, and unlike the Scandinavian versions (which sought to frighten children into desirable behavior) most of these tales were for adult men in seedy taverns.

My favorite so far has been Sleeping Beauty. In an early version, she doesn't get pricked by a spindle but rather gets a piece of flax lodged under her fingernail. When the prince finds her sleeping, he doesn't nobly awaken her with a chaste and dutiful kiss but simply is so "overcome by her beauty" that he beds her, which of course does not awaken her as the flax is still beneath her nail. So, he leaves. She then becomes pregnant and gives birth to his twins while comatose, who eventually suck the flax out while searching for milk. She wakes, and presumably has a lot of questions for the prince who knocked her up, only he is in his other kingdom with his wife. The end.

Rumplestilskin is hardly a disappointment as well-- the little man throws his tantrum as we've all learned, only he either rips himself in half or lodges himself in the Queen's vagina, depending on the translation.

Beaver fever

2009-06-13T12:51:00.000-07:00

I am currently at a coffee shop outside Albany, a good 60 miles away from the house in the mountains. I would be a liar if I said we came for the coffee and not for the wifi.. to our credit, this WAS the closest Bank of America and we had $2000 in checks we needed to deposit (and neither one of us trusts the whole mail-in system...) But I'll be honest: once we connected to the high speed internet we both sort of did this sigh/shudder combination so intense that it resembled a drug-addled Watutsi dance.

The house is unbelievable: built in the late 1800's and the product of a quirky series of renovations by the decade since, it hosts chartreuse cabinetry, wood burning stoves, exposed birch support beams and large, wrap-around glass porches. The property is also in the throes of being reclaimed by nature: there are foxes living in the storage barn, blackbirds in the studio attic, chipmunks burrowing through the stone steps and bright yellow finches that erupt around you in the grass like butterflies.

Outside our window, a mother hummingbird has nested above the porch light, and she has mistakenly seen my poor cats through the screen as potential threats. She spends hours taunting them-- these slow, lazy and completely unobservant indoor cats who never would've known she or her babies existed if she hadn't started dive bombing them through the window. Nigel almost threw himself through the glass in frustration and I've had to barricade them from view with my luggage.

One of the artists we are living with is an amateur chef and in the mornings he whips up home made scones and frittata. Last night we had a smorgasbord of fish tacos, sweet corn, lemon-broccoli and fresh guacamole.

My studio overlooks the pathway to the garden, and beyond that there is a pond swarming with beavers: every morning, someone has to go down and break up the dam they rebuild each night in front of the tiny stream that runs through and down into a ravine, catching frogs and small fish in the mud. The beavers wait outside and slap their massive flat tails against the water, and you have to be careful not to slip and fall on the thousands of beaver-made stakes surrounding the shore.

Pre-Columbian Mountaineer

2009-05-31T22:09:00.000-07:00

This cake is from the crafty Miss Hall, baked for my pre-going away going away party held at the beginning of May due to scheduling conflicts. Now, the beginning of June, I have taken flight and with nary a backward glance; adios Houston!

Every now and then I allow myself a book that I call "in-flight reading," namely, "something I found in the airport bookshop 5 minutes before boarding and it looks like it may keep my from falling asleep on the person next to me for the next few hours." High lit is not necessary: page-flipping fluff is the general objective. I have sought and received in-flight insurance against drooling on strangers most recently with the following: Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, Dying Inside by Robert Silverberg, The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, and The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie.

The results? Shoddy on the whole. Gruen's was by far my favorite, if not only for my penchant for elephants and Depression-era circus trains (elephants love alcohol! And lemonade!). As for Silverberg and Niffenegger? I tried.. I tried to get into the fun (is that why they do it?) of telepathy and time-travel but in the end find the whole bag so fraught with gimmicks and problems I can't help but roll my eyes. Also, each author had sex ticks that really got under my skin; Silverberg is a breast man, and he will never be able to convince me of an equally as vested interest in a single other subject on planet earth, and Niffenegger couldn't quite pull away from a lilting dependence on Nora Roberts-esque lovemaking scenes. Even if they happened across time, across worlds, the presence of a tuxedo and white opera gloves whilst swiping a V-card does not equal romance.

And Rushdie: I cannot get that image of him from Bridget Jones out of my head. Not even long enough to marvel at the breadth of languages necessary to catch those pithy name puns. Jerk.

Anyway, the in-flight pleasure of my move to Baltimore was The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. This is not one of those obnoxious-looking Sweet Potato Queen books, but rather a collection of correspondence taking place directly following WWII. Even though the chief recommender on the book's cover was that Eat, Love, Pray Operah-nite, I was fortunately undeterred and am very charmed by the thing. I may even take up real, carpal tunnel-inducing correspondence once finished.

Now.. packing, storing, and trekking off to the mountains in a week.

Unpaid plug

2009-05-23T08:34:00.000-07:00

So I am one week until take off and I'm finding myself becoming a little nostalgic about Houston. More specifically, I'm feeling nostalgic about the Houston I've experienced as an adult, not necessarily the Houston I was exposed to as a child. By the time we were in high school, we were all ready for adventure in some exotic out-of-state location that wasn't humid, polluted, boring, humid, crowded, humid Houston. We found ourselves in Virginia, Wisconsin, Ohio. We figured anything in these rural, cold towns just HAD to be better than some tired Texas city with the climate of a mouth.

Returning as an adult, I found Houston to be busy, diverse, quirky, romantic, cheap and yes, still very humid. But all of a sudden there were places to go, delicious food to eat, cheap drinks and long happy hours, and many, many venues for music, dancing, art, and sports. And here go my unpaid plugs:

U of H has poetry readings at Poison Girl every month, and each Wednesday at 10 Agora faithfully provides belly dancing. There's sangria and margaritas in Rice Village, ethnic and vegetarian fare in Montrose, karaoke and dancing in midtown. Rothko Chapel has poetry/music happenings, and the art scene can be as formal as an MFAH members' only reception to the very casual house-parties at the Joanna by St. Thomas, complete with Christmas-tree bonfires in homage to Heath Ledger. You can go hang on the President's busts at the David Addicks studio and watch the sunset over the downtown skyline. You can have brunch picnics on the Menil lawn. You can buy Mexican dresses for $20 at the supermarket. Adulthood has even offered insight into this humidity issue: Houstonians may have terrible hair, but we have fabulous, ageless skin.

How did I miss all of this when I was growing up?

Fiesta! Where you can buy limes and avocados and jalepenos by the barrel...

..and then you can go around the corner and pick up a new pair of boots.

Dan Flavin

Dan Flavin

Cafe Adobe: happy hour from 11am--7pm, everyday.
The Big Show!
MFAH
MFAH

Montrose; I've seen this delightful friend stopped at many a street light, banjo at the ready.

Kool Aid man at Poison Girl

Armadillo Palace

Procrastination station

2009-02-18T11:32:00.000-08:00

I guess I was under the misguided assumption that procrastination ends outside of the academic realm. I thought I would never have to pull a single additional all-nighter for the rest of my days, save the possibility of a 13 hour baby delivery or maybe trying to move out of an apartment before the 5 a.m. lease expiration. Sure, I expect to stay awake all night for various reasons, but they tend to be enjoyable, music-filled, wine-flowing, kind of evenings with bonfires and sunrises. I could not have prepared myself for this sudden return to the stranger nocturnal side of college: tenth cup of coffee in hand (I've done the legwork on that coffee-inducing-hallucination theory), staring wild-eyed in the blue glow of an overheated computer monitor, the pulsing cursor on the word document nothing short of Chinese water torture.

FREE LANCE GIGS ARE A CROCK. Or, I should say, GHOSTWRITING gigs are a crock. Of poo poo.

As is life, so are cats.

2009-02-15T16:03:00.000-08:00

This is what Nigel likes: big empty laundry baskets.

So is it a little lame that my first post is a heavily-edited, bleak, somewhat defensive photo of my cat? I haven't "blogged" since my all-too-sincere livejournal days, and I'm feeling a little like the new kid on the playground; how do I make new friends around here? Maybe that's not how blogspot works; maybe that's a Myspace thing. So I will channel the cat and write with cool, aloof poise that indicates my empty comment space goes unnoticed.

Though I am clearly here of my own accord and hardly forced to participate, this is the only time I will admit to a reluctance to name this thing I am adding to my lifestyle (Today: wash clothes, buy groceries, eat veggies, blog). Oh well. The convenience and seduction of casual messaging media is great (re: powerful, large, imposing) and I am not immune.

But consider this my solemn vow: I may blog, but I will NOT "tweet."