29 December 2008

the doll's role was not to leave presents on your doorstep, hélas

"One of the more confusing facets of American independent music is that, all too often, its purveyors refuse to operate outside the confines of California and New York. Like scattering insects, record labels and bands head for the nation's extremities when they get the itch to hit it big, leaving the red meat in the middle of the USA fattened with nothing but country acts and regional hip-hop groups. For an art form purportedly devoted to the rise of authentic sound, indie's hotbeds are certainly skewed."
-Cord Jefferson
("OK in OK happy with Other Lives."
Magazine, Holiday '08.)


26 December 2008

the way you brush the hair off your forehead

I have a confession to make.
Not a real ousting of sorts since I assume most who read this know me.
I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.
I wanted to say that because I've been looking through the November 2008 Ensign, the General Conference issue, and it's full of documentary.
The black and white photos that they tuck in with dear messages remind me of everything I love. I'm sorry I'm not sure where to find a link for you to enjoy them also. I've included a few of mine though.

Have I ever told you why I'm studying documentary?
Because I'm rosy-eyed, or something of the sort.

Because I love every wrinkle in your face (botox is my nemesis). Because I love every moment spent with you, the trinkets I find on the ground, your stories, your doodles, your efficiencies and inefficiencies. I love your stutters, your word patterns, your differing ideas.
Now why?
Because you are divine.

And maybe by sharing and recording our divinity we'll all have a few more answers, we'll wear each other down like polished rocks, we'll sit on front porches and play banjos and do mad-libs, we'll see God a little bit more.
That's all I wanted to say today.

Love you all. Love you world.
rosy-eyed Marge

23 December 2008


you can subscribe to me on iTunes.
My videos anyway.
search "beeyork."
And don't watch "lunch" it's the worst thing I've ever made in my life.
all my love,

12 December 2008

whispering after jokes and weeping willows and your odd timing

I hate when I don't take a sleeping pill and then three in the morning rolls around and I'm staring at the ceiling.
I've been trying to ignore dead horses all night. I try to tell the horses to go away, they're dead, I don't like beating dead horses. They insist they're only mostly dead, just in need of some CPR. I tell them it's uncouth and unthinkable to give a horse CPR.Nothing doing.
-We're only dead, they tell me, if you don't take any action.
-Well, you will always be dead, I say, because all courses of action pertaining to you dead horses sound like raving lunacy.
-In that case, you won't sleep tonight, they say as they waltz around the room. Changing into different spectral shapes, acting out Shakespeare, Milton, and my life.
After the first hour of this I read 'The Hiding Place' for two hours. I may love books, but I love my sleep better.
I tried sleeping for another hour after that. And I've tried silently shaking my fists at the dead horses while mouthing, "I don't believe in you, you are dead. Dead, dead, dead. There's more of gravy than of grave about you."
-Ha, ha! You're a funny one, they say. You're a funny clever little one and that's why we've come to stay.
-Oh no, don't do that! Send in the sheep, I beg of you. I'll count them one by one. I'll count every mutty hair on their backs. Only please, go away. I'll drink tea! I'll drink tea, I swear I will! Warm milk!
-If you didn't want to have this argument, says one dead horse, you should have taken that sleeping pill, but now it's too late.
-Can't we have this discussion in the daytime, like rational people? I ask.
-No. Says another dead horse, You should never go to bed angry.

I never did like horses.

08 December 2008


Tonight I walked past a sad sight, on Nina's Pizza window scrawled in ugly red letters was the word, "CLOSED."
I'll have to find a new place for karaoke, a new place to buy that dark, bitter San Pellegrino, a new place for cheap large pizza slices that I can get topped with artichoke.

05 December 2008

untitled number 357

Watched a film, yep, at a dollar theatre.
When the time was up, and we stood and shuffled towards the front to the exit door, I was still thinking over the title I saw on the credits, "First Assistant Accountant." First thought that had flashed my mind, "I don't remember seeing any accountants in this film." Ha. Ha. I am a film major, right? N'est-ce pas ? Then I paused underneath the screen as the white titles kept stretching up above me, names and claims. I might, just possibly, be on one of those lists one day. You may see a film and deep, dark, down on one of those lists will be a little name of mine and you will never know. Maybe partly in my heart I'll be saying, "the views expressed in this film are not necissarily the views of my own. The sense of humor in this film is probably most definitely not my own."
But I worked. And you watched. And it was all ok.

04 December 2008

j'apprendre lentement le français

These are the times that I wish I were more focused, for I wish to know all about squash. Squash, squash, squash shall be on my grocery list for Saturday. I am terribly excited to be reunited with the grocery store as it feels like I haven't been there in forever. However, it's been less than a week.
Did you know that, Dear Reader? I am in love with grocery stores. I don't care that I've been shopping small town, limited stock, not the best quality grocery stores my entire life. They are my favorite type of merchant. Ohhhh wait that's hard...thrift stores have more spontaneity (say that "spon tan a it ee" with that first "t" pronounced, because that's how I wrote it today).
I wish I were more focused to have a more squash knowledgeable audience. Do you cook squash, comrade? What's your favorite? I want to know it all.
Because on Saturday I am going to wrap up in scarf and hat, listen to a podcast (because I'm in a podcast obsessive class and family) (the better grammar inducing kind or maybe the latest from our President-elect or relisten to Hergé's documentator's interview) (Hergé because I decided the reason I'm studying French is for Tintin) and promonade en velo to the supermarché.
Found lots of good readings for informing on squashes, however, my frontal lobe is squashed under severe head cold and glasses strain. (also discovered a place that sells herbal chai and recipes for bagels, real boiled bagels!)

Tell me all your squash secrets please. You can even whisper them in my ears as I walk around these next couple of days. Or a good poem. Need a new poem. Maybe I'll pull out my little pocket Emily Dickinson again.


*translates: therefore. You know it well, "Je pense, donc je suis." Yet another favorite of my old 101 professors: ten times a day she'd say donc or alors. 101 is full of lots of sweet madness including practicing your french hesitations. Never say umm always say eh, errr, bon.

promonade en velo=ride my bike

Eh bien, je finis.

01 December 2008

an overly long letter to one who does not hear but only creeps. Yes, I am young but something*

Dear Spider,
In this, my postmortem address to you, I would like to go over a few things I could not explain before the consequences of my no-tolerance policy killed you.
You crossed the line tonight. You invaded my privacy in an act that mounted near sacrilege. You are not allowed near my bed, let alone on my bed. That boundary has been clearly drawn for all my 21.5 years. There has always been a rectangular area marked "bed" and the free space beyond that is marked "not bed." This should not be difficult for you to understand. I trust that since your species is still around you have evolved to develop some sort of intelligence.
We do not have the kind of relationship where you are welcome in my bed. We are neither married nor in love. Your little brown body does not seduce me and I do not find you to meet my qualifications for cuddly pet. I find you repugnant. So repugnant that I sent my roommate to deal with you. Yes, I called in a third party. I do not feel sorry for this drastic and impersonal action although I suppose I hope you rest in peace.
As ever,

Would you like to know that yours truly (Marge, in case you had any doubts) is carrying out her promise to classy-fy and paint towns red? I find myself brushing up my grammar (I worry about my comma usage and the placement of my prepositional phrases), watching to see if my blind date's flappy shirt cuffs will get in his food (I hate saying things like this that verge on criticism of a person's style, especially a boy who is taking me out, because of my theory of differing priorities and biting the hand that feeds you and other compassionate and mumbling reasons---THEREFORE it is not meant in a critical manner I just noted that my grandmother would have had similar feelings), contemplating the proper way to sit up straight and cross my legs (though I still die for a footrest tout le temps!*), and I am bestowing the status of "crush" as liberally as if it were noblesse oblige. ¡Viva!
That included too many words for a mini saga update.

*The last part of the title is in reference to a line from Macbeth that actually reads "...I am young; but something..." The semicolon giving an entirely different meaning (Vivian Bearing and I should have a party about that one).
The French means "all the time."

27 November 2008

the testing center

Today, if you met a Martha while you were being Mary, don't judge too harshly. Martha probably just felt like she fit in more with the dirty dishes. She probably knew them well and was a little afraid of Mary and co.

That's all.

26 November 2008

oh for your pathos and another theory of relativity

Do you ever wonder who is reeeeeallllly out there? Do the heavens hang as the sphere depicted in quelques paintings, draping about our shoulders with their million tiny stars, the fires that give hope to our souls and mourn with those that mourn and delight with those that delight? Will anyone notice if I eat this entire jar of nutela in one night? Are our worlds made up of a mosaic, each tile from a different source? One for the time mon père m'a partagé de sa connaissance, one tile for Don McLean singing of Vincent's eyes of china blue, another tile for Victor-Marie Hugo's belle poem Demain dès l'aube, a tile for ma mère rounding the corner and saying, "have you seen my orange-handled scissors," and one for the time she told me she wished I could paint in the sand for a week. And still more, others and others for all the bits and pieces I've read--I could go on for a velly velly lon time, you'd stop reading if you haven't already. So many tiles, a tile for you, and you, and you and you and yooo-ou.

Well, for whoever is out there making tiles, I would like to talk to you about homeostasis. Every creature is created to stay at a state of equilibrium. I heretofore will refer to you all as human buoys who bob and bounce and stay at a good level of not drowning most of the time.

Not going home for Thanksgiving? No worries, buoy up and eat more pie. Not working? Don't let your equilibrium esape you, just hit your yead against the wall a few times till a certain amount of cloudy confusion sets in and then make a wish on that turkey wishbone.

Single? Psh! What's so bad about that? Like I've always said, being single makes you more intelligent. Since you're having a Totinos pizza for one, you can read the dictionary or wikipedia or layout plays by Marlowe and Shakespeare side by side and you can form your own well-informed decision over whether the chicken or the egg came first.
Nextly, you can sample every fish in the sea and then throw them back without ever having to worry about global warming. Being single is like not having a conscience. Goodbye Jiminy Cricket, I'm a real girl.
Thirdly, there's no one around to find out exactly how much chocolate you really are eating. Everyone can go along with assumptions like that of my roommate's, "You eat more vegetables than anyone I know. It's like you're a vegetarian. Oh wait, you are."

Alors, I must split, but you see, the theory of relavity was meant for you and me.
Now go out there and take back your homeostasis my dear tiles and buoys.

18 November 2008

ode to the need to stop sitting at cafe tables with sartre

Maybe I should stop voicing this reocurring theme....

Does anyone have any suggestions for how one stops pensive-ity and takes action and all that jazz?

Sometimes I sit here on my tuffet (in my wee little basement home) and think, I didn't mean to be Emily Dickenson. I didn't mean to philologize so much I sat behind a wall of words in wistful sentiments staring at my ceiling. I really intended to be the girl in glitter dress dancing on the table. But then my voice was so silent when I opened my mouth and now I find myself getting phone calls from peoples who find my voice comforting and talk no sense to my ears. QUOI ?! OUI !! people who make no sense to me!! Pourquoi est la vie si méfiante* ? As my 101 prof would say each time she turned around, AH-lohr-a (alors).

Been listening to too mucho Joanna Newsom but she's such a great friend.

I would like to be an action type of person for a day.

*ummmm it's something like "why is life so unreliable" like a misbehaving child or something.
alors in this sense is akin to saying "And so..."
oh and Quoi, pronounced kwah, kind-of, means what.

15 November 2008

à cause de

Your words,
live and paint the dreams I've had.
Not the ones of terrible travels (travails) my conscience takes me on at night;
O no, the beautiful ones
of stories of moraccan rugs,
Of days when the sky will sun or not sun in a rainy sort of fashion
and inspire those tableaux that hang on the museum wall,
My dreams of the stars that spice the best children's stories,
of wanderings paired by descriptions from dictionary pages-
their etymology calling me on like sirens in a greek sea.
and then I'm left writing a poem just to comfort me
without any senses made in it for others.

AAAAAND end scene!
I found this. an on line etymology dictionary! So that's good...

13 November 2008

the christmas bird settled happily between the nutmeg spiced winter squash and the family favourite: goulash

Remember the days of, "It's just/ a little crush/ not like I faint every time we touch*." Whatever happened to those days? This isn't out of bitterness, I never took that speaking in portuguese critical life step, I've just been...
Well, why don't we dress up? Why don't we date? Why don't we paint the town red just for laughs anymore?
I went truly vintage this year and decided to support crushes, high heels, and dresses ten times more than I have in the past.

I could wish a thousand suns upon your plastic credit cards.

*song by Jennifer Paige.

12 November 2008

the day I also accidentally poured basalmic vinegar down my shirt

I...stepped in pee today.
My bare feet stepped in little boy pee.
I don't think I've ever done that before.

left me speechless.

09 November 2008

after all the fruit flies died

So I'm considering taking this big step in my life, you know, the telling the boy from "Alaska" that he's charming in Portuguese step. We all face it at some time or another. It's a new phase in life and that first step is awkward and I might misstep and tip over like I did that one time when I was carrying my cousin's baby and now I have a little dent in my shin...in the bone of my shin. I feel such hesitance because you don't always know the boy from "Alaska" as well as you'd like before you start saying sweet nothings in foreign languages but then again in other phases I've hesitated and lost my chance.
Why step this time?

I will not let the Portuguese 'r' defeat me!


08 November 2008

ruttatut tut

Here's an experimental session for you:
Bonfire. Country Music? Chaperones. GED. Professional writer. Superheros and Neptune and Bermuda Triangle. Kid Rock. Puka shells. Dead Pheasant. Yes, a floppy head pheasant. "Let, me guess, Bon Iver." Have I met my stalker? Religion, yes. "I feel like I understand the scriptures." Still the dead pheasant. High school. When will we leave? Oh, you speak Portuguese. Teach me how to tell this boy he's charming. Dueling truck stereos. More hard rock woes. I'm walking towards the car and everybody better follow! Wait! A hug? You just kissed me on the cheek! This has been a very strange week.

06 November 2008

just an obvious truth that makes me reflect on what are the pros and the cons of being an adult with a more comprehensive understanding of history

I'm guessing that when I start talking about Thanksgiving with a four year old I shouldn't spoil it by bringing up small pox and collonialization and racism and fire water.

05 November 2008

can't help being young and happy

I love the United States a lot.
I can't keep it in, I love the Midwest and I love Obama.
I want to get my copy of today's New York Times laminated.

04 November 2008


beware the opposition

The clouds ate the mountains this morning. In one big gulp the top half of the eastern chain was gone. The wind dug at me and the leaves were soggy colorful on the ground. Soggy with a slight crunch.
I couldn't help rejoicing with this big gulp of mountain underneath the heavy poofy sky because:
It's never been done before by me and I did it. You can all probably guess who received the cast of my ballot, but I stand by my father's famous words, "I don't have to tell you that" (said smugly every time).
I couldn't stop staring at my vote, I wanted to gaze forever on those names, "that's important!" my brain kept exclaiming as it danced inside my head, "that's important stuff right there!"

The excitement had been building for times and times and 21 years. It burst forth today on this little wobbly electronic booth, one of five, in the barest of rooms, empty of people save the two other people voting at the time and the four poll guardian-ing women, in a little public library. The steps of the adventure being explained to me by the four middle aged women.

Previous to this excitement I was reviewing this state's voter's handbook, which I couldn't help laughing over. All of these little local politicians were accusing each other of socialism. In these accusations I imagine socialism embodied by the 1954 Godzilla chasing after us. Stomping on the American dream. The cry wolf of socialism seems very...well like a cry of wolf. As far as I can see we've all be enjoying bits of socialism in this country for over fifty years. Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid. Etc. We all know we're not completely free-marketed. I haven't seen anyone reach any political popularity in my lifetime (it may be a wee span, but it's a span indeed) who would turn us into Sveeeden.

Anyway, I did the coolest thing today.

29 October 2008


I wore a backpack to campus this morning.
I haven't done that in four years.
It hurt my back.
It did not make the grade.

28 October 2008

moon stoppage, extra wattage

My nannykins are dear.
Children are frequently foreign to me, as I am the youngest of two. By almost eight years. I used to be afraid of holding babies.
Mais (pero, but) aujourd'hui as I felt the weight of a couple of square miles of university (the cement, the 13 story buildings, the three thousand page books, the 30,000 people, a few cars and trees) pressing down on my soul I didn't have the same care-free stamina to ignore Monstruo Dos's protests at nap time. Monstruo Uno was a fuera (dehors, outside) with a Monster Mash singing Halloween gimmick (it was a graveyard smash). So I checked on screaming baby. I held him and sang the little songs me mutha taught me. He started snoring on my shoulder. Oh.

O, Dear Monstruo Dos,

if I could sit in that rocking chair and let you sleep on my shoulder all afternoon, I would. So now, I write here my apology that I had to put you back in your crib where you woke up and commenced screaming again. I assure you, I wanted to die when I heard your crying.

Tia Marge

En plus, in Isaiah tonight we talked of the times when a prophet stopped the sun in the sky and when the sun moved backwards as a sign for King Hezekiah. Why are we extending daylight hours? I would like the moon to stop so that I may sleep a little this week.

27 October 2008

the forest to protect your great great grandchildren

I quit you terribly a long time ago,
Did it because you dragged me 'round too much,
I burned and burned and burned til I felt to leave you there,
And now I feel much a bit better 'bout my levels of care.

But I've been trying and trying and trying
to plant these trees that will someday be my home,
They're wee little now
But they're starting to grow,
'Cept the one that you're sitting on,
I've asked you to move,
But you sit on that little tree,
And by proxy it feels as though you're sitting on me.

I watched today as you near bent it right o'er,
That tree is losing its spring and I worry to death
That you might be stifling out its last chloroform breath.

Stand up! I pray thee,
And get off of my tree,
For I would like to see it get older than me.

23 October 2008

will a pilgrim meet me 'round the corner?

Out of all the fanciful things and stalwart heroes that go through all those throes, I've finally found my patriotism. It stands on the firm foundatation of the Upper Midwest. I believe in the life I had, cashing my paycheck chatting with my regular bank teller, getting the gossip. I believe in knowing all of the workers at my grocery store, knowing where they went to elementary school, high school, and if they even went to college, and their grandparents country of origin. I believe in diners with knoefla soup. I believe in library ladies who tell me about their grandkids. I believe in wind.
They have the funniest accents.
The winters, you ask about. Each day I hear someone say, there? It must be cold there. Well....yes. Winter tends to be cold in many places. Maybe ours were extreme. Though I guess I've begun to romanticize the cold that makes you run out to your car periodically during the day to run the engine so that later, when you need to drive, you can. Running from car to house, then sitting under blankets and blankets while you watch a movie at a friends. Yes multiple blankets even though you're already wearing two pairs of socks and a long sleeved shirt and a sweater and a sweatshirt. All the autostart buttons, a few more minutes with a chum because their car has to heat up. The space heater in the kitchen because of the draft from the back door. Thoughts about foot amputation.
That one evening when it was dinnertime and snowing and black as night. I stepped outside to the middle of the street with the black arms of trees arching over the fresh snow. No tracks, only glows from street lamps highlighting flakes in rainbow colors.
Driving through the prairie on frosty winter mornings when the shelter belts (rows of trees between fields) are fuzzy white and one can only tell the sky from the trees from the land by the different shades and textures of whiteness.
Februaries with days that warm up to 40 degrees and everyone goes wild and stops wearing coats for a day.
Late springs that everyone feels hesitant about. Is it really spring? Is it really getting warmer? Roads covered in rootbeer colored slush. Muddy yards. Sweatshirts and damp chill. Cool sun afternoons.
Junes full of drizzle. By the end of grey June you ask yourself, will we be able to light fire crackers this fourth of July?
August full of voices carried over from the pool. Actually my augusts started running season. Waking up for a four mile run at 7am followed by another three/four miles at 7:30pm. In the mornings and afternoons when you run, you run through the country. no matter the direction, one mile or so and you're in the country. Mornings past the airport. Past one red house and their adjoining fields. Afternoon the other direction, sky (Oh the sky! gloriously large and wrapping you all about) threatening rain storm, running past the cemetary and a few more farmhouses. Gravel, gravel, gravel ways.
Octobers of Halloween costumes made useless by winter coats and cross country races through snow.
Thanksgivings with my dad's colleague playing an indian flute for us. The little pilgrim people that sit on the bathroom window and in odd little corners about the house. The Mayflower here, a stalk of corn there.

Oh for an afternoon in the heartland, listening to records all day, playing Global pursuit and eating ice cream and watching Algiers with mes parents, then off to the chums.

But my room has become an adolescent relic.

20 October 2008

tomes of the reference librarian

what were we talking about? Neopolitan ice cream, the creamy three layers popularized in strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, il vient d'italie.
Autumnal times and all their ravings leave me with curiou
s and unidentifiable cravings. I'm missing something, but what? What among all the crunchy leaves and golden little rays and wrappings of scarves that I love oh love, love, what am I missing? Familia? Ma and Da are far far away (vous me manquez toujours*), but I still have ma soeur et mes cousins, mon oncle et ma tante. I play with my cousin's sons for 3-4 hours a day. I have lots of time with familia. New music? Now that's a difficult one. Art, not missing. Food, glorious.

I need to love more.
I've outpoured on crunchy leaves and scarves and cocoas and families and chummy close friends. And it's not Belle's "who cares, no big deal, I want more." It's, I should more. I've got a world I need to tear down my cardboard box walls for. The world isn't bothered by these shy cardboard walls, but I am. It leaves the heart a cold cold uncrunchy place. An empty shade of grey.
Shades, shades, and sheets and sheets, I tear you down and play repeats.

See the photo From The Sartorialist

I shall take my que from childhoods and yellow leaves and pretty pretty settings, and knowledgeable german men, and create again.

Are these ramblings self-centered? I wish we could sit over tea and chat more.

ps. Shining Time Station sounds American because we remember George Carlin not Ringo.
* Miss you always.

19 October 2008

trust me, I'm an occupator

When I was a young, young child, I learned the term Jack-of-all-trades (a lower class version of the Renaissance Man). I knew at that little age I wanted to be a Jack-of-all-trades.

How blissful to play at occupation.

17 October 2008

wish you were here because there was an elephant in the room

THOSE are my legs. Those ones, up there. I was well-dressed tonight, well well well dressed so mod-est-lee. Modesto, California that is me. Me mutha would approve. And that's not even what I care about. It's not so much that I was on some stupid group date tonight standing next to one of the girls as she said, "I hate when girls wear leggings with little butt-length things, it's sooo not appropriate."
Mainly frustrated because I either end up in mis-matched groups of people who make a special point to talk to me by opening their eyes wide, talking really slowly and opening their eyes even wider when I reply to whatever they're saying. "Good! We just made the odd girl talk!" The other part of the either are the dates with boys who graduated university in some art field ten years ago but have still made no plans for their life and don't seem to know their own age.

I know, I know, c'est la vie.

and we continue to take courage, Samuel Beckett.

Because it could have been better if I'd used my whispery voice to get to know them all instead of sitting on it.
because the elephant can be pretty charming when she gets over herself.

16 October 2008

die cod uh me vs. dual at tea

When I went home this summer ma soeur asked me to philosophically analyze a little cactus that was on our kitchen table. She thought I would be good at it. Poihaps this means I philisopholize a little too much.
In that case, let it be said that I miss The Gang's (you know who you are and those of you who are not have never known you are not but don't feel disheartened. I heart you still.) discussions about what if's and solutions to world problems. Par exemple: Ricky has a handle on the worst case scenario. If you are ever stranded on a deserted island you should have McGiver with you and you should play Minesweep incase you are ever in a mine field. For foriegn policies, Taradise plans on capturing the Loch Ness monster to hold and then breed to keep terrorists, nasty dictators, etc in check.
I like to pose the subject of Pangea to people, it's a viable solution to alleviate nationalist tensions. Laquina can take care of humanitarian aid with her plans for orphaned and homeless hungry children. That's only the tip of the iceburg, I'm telling you, we're much more productive than Angelina Jolie adopting cambodean children.
Not that any of this merits having a blog at all, but then furthermore, I want to discuss right here and now my adolescent dreams of becomming a documentary filmmaker (I picked that up from *GAG* Serendipity). I was founded on the principles of the American Dream. Then I found out the American Dream is a misnomer. Vernacular-wise we know what's going on. But I remember having a vivid realization while watching those "I...am an American" commericals on ChannelOne TV in some highschool homeroom. Canadians are Americans and Peruvians are Americans. I had this wild dream to see a commercial proclaiming, "Soy uno americano."
What is the American Dream? West Side Story? Wait...I mean Romeo & Juliet? I mean, Shakespeare? I mean the archetypical romance that dates back before the beginnings of recorded history and was made famous by the three-hundreth person to put it into verse? I mean, I sometimes feel I've been educated to analyze all forms of media and story-telling so much that I could have a great carreer in digging?
(Pardon me as I step back for a moment and apologize for myself, since I am most decidedly a pretentious 21 year old who is hardly the most coherent person.)
But maybe I shouldn't consider the American Dream a misnomer. Because Canada provides a fresh start and possibilities. And think of how many people emmegrated to Brazil after WWII and at other times in history.
However, what I'm saying is that in elementary school we had these Weekly Readers that told me America is a melting pot and that by the year 2000 our cars would fly and our fridges would talk. I was enthralled by melting pots but a little afraid of flying cars. The Jetsons were too uniform for my tastes. Afterall it was about this time in my life I told my parents I was a flower child. They insisted I wasn't but refrained from explaining about the drugs. I remember reading about the possibilities of solar panels but noticed my calculator would stop working if I covered up the little solar pannels at the top. Bill Nye would say, "What's up with that?" Yeah, Bill Nye, what's up?
What happens is that at somepoint someone theoritically grabs you by the ear and drags you away from your café table where you've been mulling over some ideas with Jean Paul Sartre and tells you, "You know, someday you're probably going to have a job where you're going to be working for a TV show and the rule book will not allow for jump cuts and you will edit two minute pieces together from twenty hours of footage and it will not be profound and it will follow classical rules. You probably won't be making a carreer out of wowing people on the independent documentary film festival circuit."

Anyway, I figured out that life just keeps going no matter who wrote Romeo and Juliet. And it's great.



Enter me, Marge the pragmatic.

13 October 2008

must wash my Mick Jagger hair, must wash my Mick Jagger hair

oh my darlin'
oh my darlin'
oh my darlin' marxist foe,
oh I went to california
now I'm back in old _____.

I was a country bumpkin cousin
excited as could be
to see a strip of sky between
the passes over me.

there was wind to hold my soul and
lots of charm and fall and sand
you were my autumn time-oh
now i'm back in winter land.

what am I doing?
What am I doing
what am I doing with my life?
I don't know, no I'm not quite sure
but I'll maaaaake the best of it.

A nice bright spot is being back to my nanny-kins. Love them. Monstruo Dos was full of hugs and he made a fish face at me which I finally deciphered correctly as being attempts to kiss my cheek.
Monstruo Uno showed me his tricks he's been practicing all morning which look like the beginnings of break dancing. He told me he learned them from his Grandma in Florida and that I should tell my family. OK, I will, I said.

Ya lyublu tebya.

The end.

07 October 2008

blip, blip, blip, blip

Delaware state flag

There are the best of times that you may remember always and take with you past the grave and then build the life after upon those cinderblocking memories. Well, yes, I've had some of those.

Monstro Uno and I have been cinderblocking it. Hier (ayer, ieri, gisteren, yesterday) during the perfect fall day, We sat on the curb and watched as the wind picked up the leaves at the end of the street and sent them skittering towards us. I'd never seen anything like it. We chased the leaves around.
Today, we held our tri-weekly wrestling pillow fight. Then he decided to give the pillows different magical properties. "This one is Burn Danger, this one pokes, this one is Accordian Danger."
Wait....What? "Accordian Danger?"
"Yeah. Which one do you want?"
"I want Accordian Danger."
He also told me that for his dad's birthday last year instead of blowing out the candles, his dad sat on the cake and squished it and so then they made another one and he squished it again and he squished all the cakes.
Later we were looking at state flags. "What does Delaware's flag have on it?" I asked him.
"A diamond...and a band."
"Yes, I think you're right, Delaware does have a band on their flag."
Connecticut has a police badge on it and Florida has a pirate ship.

And finally the triumphat average French student has found a new clé (keeeeey): post secret in French! HA! There I'll get jargon and terminology and phraseology and sentances that people actually use! VERNACULAR!!! Hail the conquering hero!

PS. peut-être I'm the only one who's interested, BUT aujourd'hui the French writing lab tried to correct at least three things that were correct in the first place. I even pointed one out while I was there and got the WHITE OUT on my paper. L'arc de triomphe ! This gives me hope.

06 October 2008

the steps from measles to maysles

I would like to orient you to what is about to take place. School has crept into my blog, I shall post writings for this little film class I take and maybe eventually you see some-uh-da films I shall make.

I would like to bring to your attention the Maysles Brothers, ladies and gentlemen. Pure documentary film landmarks. Categorize them under historical happenings, cinema verité, brothers, driving force, and find them at this website of theirs.
(You might have heard of their documentaries: Salesman, Grey Gardens, Gimme Shelter)

I've perused and re-rused and pursued this website a bit. And I have mixed reactions.
Reaction one : awe. A bit of awe as I'm entranced by the magic of cinematographically masterful black and white films made by people with horn-rimmed glasses (Albert Maysles has horn-rimmed-ish glasses now) (i.e. Billy Wilder). I get a bit of inspiration from this website because Albert Maysles proclaims his why for documentary,
"As a documentarian I happily place my fate and faith in reality. It is my caretaker, the provider of subjects, themes, experiences—all endowed with the power of truth and the romance of discovery. And the closer I adhere to reality the more honest and authentic my tales. After all, knowledge of the real world is exactly what we need to better understand and therefore possibly to love one another. It’s my way of making the world a better place."
Oh, heart!, for documentary to make the world a place of hope because we can hope when we love one another better.

But I kept looking around the Maysles' pages and I found reaction two: the muddied muddied little doubts of mine.
Dear Maysles,
You see, I'm impressed by your films and what you've done. I'm excited you are in support of the digital revolution because you understand how many doors it opens up for documentary. I know I should be studying and learning and practicing as you have so that I might make such well-made films. I guess I just feel like I'm sitting on a tree stump wondering again what exactly it is that I intend on doing with my filmmaking skills and degrees. Where do I want to go with documentary? I don't need to know all the answers now, but I guess, dear readers, you know me. I love to know you and to know all about the world but I would really just like to stay in the bookshelves. There's little place for that, though. There's little time, there's too much to be done and there is no use for me to study without acting upon what I learn. It's not the question now as to whether I will make grand films that will stand out for generations to peer at and remember (quel horreur !). The question now I should be working on is to stop questioning for once. To stop shying away from camera cords and internships and editing jobs. These things are not enigmas.

(I'm getting long-winded and confusing again, I'm sure.)

So the perusing of this website makes me very aware that Albert Maysles has practiced, practiced, practiced and made himself comfortable in the filmmaker world. Not comfortable in the puffed up sense, but he's made himself at home. Marge Bjork, on the other hand, is still waking up every morning repeating affirmations of: "camera cords are not enigmas," "I WILL push every button on that camera," "I WILL try a new filter in final cut today," "I WILL check out a tripod."

I'm not sure whether or not this is the full and exacting response I should be giving about this website. But to end with something concise that might make sense: The Maysles are a million steps ahead of me, which is always intimidating. If their legacy is an ideal, it is important to understand and to know that there is such a standard in existence (a standard outlined on their website). And that standard is what we must reach towards. No matter how many little steps it takes to get there.

So I'm stepping.

04 October 2008

puis-je écrire BIEN ? qn ? qn ? qui sait ?

Things I've Learned While Trying to Write an Informative Paper in French on the Effects of our Preoccupation with Eating Healthily
(writing that title made me wish we were French where they only capitalize the first letter of a title. Makes SO much more sense and looks A LOT less silly)

Nous voilà propres ! - Now we're in a fine mess!

Ce n'est pas la peine d'y penser ! - Don't get any ideas!

C'est simple comme bonjour - It's as easy as taking candy from a baby

Gobelet en carton - paper cup

saponification (english word) - the conversion of an ester heated with an alcali into the corresponding alcohol and acid salt; specif., this process carried out with fats (glyceryl esters) to produce soap

Santa Gertrudis (english again) - [so named after a section of the King Ranch, in Texas] any of a hardy, red-colored, American breed of beef cattle, developed from a cross of Shorthorn and Brahman stock and able to thrive in hot climates on sparse forage.

flummery (english) - 1. any soft, easily eaten food; esp., a) orig., boiled oatmeal or flour b) a soft custard or blancmange 2. meaningless flattery or silly talk

Muzak ® - musique enregistrée

how to type ®

avorteur - abortionist

03 October 2008

hold yer horses. harses.

So I hate writing papers for my french class because she makes us use Times New Roman font. Ich. I ALWAYS use helvetica. TNR is visually like nails on chalkboard. What is one to do???

02 October 2008

Ju ju fruits. it just happened: ju ju fruits

Soooo...the presidential debates.
I was watching them this morning and I got stuck on one thing: in all of the talk of military ramblings and different nations etc etc somehow McCain warned of the "existential threat" to Israel.
Existential threat?
I'm trying to figure that out.
Here's a definition of existential.

I'm trying to figure this one out and it's not working.
So does Israel begin to question its existence because of these threats and military-isms? Are they wondering about the afterlife?
I just want to understand, but it's not coming.

I was watching Turner Classic Movies this summer and they went through a run of old political films. At this political rally two of the characters were remarking on the audience seeming brainless and fully mob-mentalitied out, as demonstration the man stood up and yelled, "FISH FOR SALE!" and the crowd cheered.



no disrespect is meant by the picture. I think Israel is great and I don't think McCain is an idiot.

01 October 2008

but you do let that slide

lets expel lots of things.
I'm not in France watching citroëns drive past me.
For all the things I do not believe in or support, most of all I don't support regrets. Regrets are for all those who muddle down backwards heels over head down the muddy steep terrain. Sans regrets. Always sans regrets. Scarlett O'Hara has Tara and tomorrow. I have fuzzy brain and NOW.
I'm saying this because I sat today and saw some pictures and read some things and knew that others were enjoying the miracles I had worked for and hoped for and failed at.
But failing can be good.
Otherwise how could I have enjoyed watching my short française professora waving her arms at our class and saying "ne paniquez pas ! ne paniquez pas!" over our homework assignments?
Nor would I have taken big strides in the right direction to take my life.
I'm humbling it up in my little basement hovel and I'm thinking that since I'm here, I should climb up to the roof top in glitter dress and throw down my noblesse oblige as I yell it. I AM HERE! WHY DON'T YOU JUST TRY TO TAKE ME DOWN! I tripple dog dare ya.

28 September 2008

Iraq, a rack, aracna, faux be uh

I live in a basement. It's "finished" because it has carpet in my bedroom which is perfectly acceptable to me because I am hopelessly romantically in love with cheep little nanook 'n crannied hovels. I can fill in all the cracks with books and scarves and drape the oatmeal floor in my lovely rugs and paint the walls with my crafty fabrics and old time photos. That, madame, is how I make a home, hurrah.
But when I was arranging the furniture (cinder blocks and 100 year old box springs) to my delight, I remember what basement stands for: SPIDERS. Oh no. Oh no. No, no no. I called my parents (yes, I'm twenty one, emphasis on ONE) who spent un demi heur on the phone convincing me the spiders wouldn't kill me and none of them had actually tried to run at me. I might have told you this story five times before.
OK. I will be sensible, I breathe deeply and remind myself. I now just yell at spiders as I search for things with which to pound them down.
This is good, I have decided, it gets all my yellings out since there are too few people to yell at here.

But...ce soir, I stay up late late late to death's door to finish my sacrificial worksheets for France. I sit with knees a-folded up a jimbo-like with books piled in me lap and I résumé and synonym my eyes out until it looks like lint is crawling across my knee....THAT'S NOT LINT!!!! SPIDERS ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO CRAWL ON MEEEEEEEEE!!!


24 September 2008

donc your electric organ

Aujourd'hui it looked as though someone (with better cutting skills than I) cut out the mountains and laid them against a bright blue sky backdrop. Was someone who had great connections (connexions for the UK inclined) filming a fine day? It was perfect, all the shadows were crisp, leaves turning colors were crisp and still, the sun lay out so nicely on the pavement and the air was warm warm warm but not too chaud. Summer was welcoming your fall nicely.

d'où je vien.

do any of you happen to have french audio books? It's my new plan for mastery. I'm lacking in the comprehension business.

23 September 2008

el gato con sombrero

It's Fall!
Look at this beautiful sight.

Que lindo, I LOVE seasons.

I read a Cat in the Hat book in Spanish today. I was fine until we got to all the gatito's and we had to go through the entire alphabet. It was a completely unpasteurized alphabet, a mix of spanish, english, and french. Ah, bé, cé, dé, é, F, G, ash, I, J, k....

20 September 2008

youuuuuuuuuu, youuuuuuuuu, youuuuuuuuuuuuu

REALLY France!!! Is this necessary?!?!
Il ferme la porte de la ferme d'une main ferme.

Felicitations ma cousine et beau-cousin. Feliz Navidad.

Sometimes I feel as though I love what I'm studying, but what I'm asked to project-up for class is prodding me up a jungle-gym, baking cupcakes when cupcakes make me sick. Last week I was supposed to write up 12 story proposals. I have one down. Still, just one and no others are following. Read the newspaper, internet, take a walk, then write 12 story proposals. Oh no. Oh no no no no.
Alors, I've been reading the internet, my favorite sites, and what I find is my online literary journal (McSweeneys) has dedicated itself for the present time to the memory of David Foster Wallace. I've never read a word by the man, but I'm reading about him now. I'm captivated by all of the ways he touched these people's lives, this author and professor, and yet he committed suicide at age 46. How often do we not see the little things we do to make a difference in others' lives. He, he he...which gives me an idea for another story. O inspiration what a fickle mistress you are.

I've been remembering how much the bathrooms in the homes here all have the same aura. A compeletely different aura than the midwest I grew up in. Maybe because these homes were made in the 40's rather than the 1880's? (Indoor plumbing, no way!) Or maybe tis the bathroom windows that are actually openable, meant to be opened, and frequently have no screens. Probably tis because they have not been homes swaddled to boot through a blizzard. I will try to phonetically spell this out in Russian for you: étta interry-ace-na.

C'est l'histoire d'un ver vert qui va boire un verre vers Anvers.

18 September 2008

seasons of transfixture


had me at hello.
And then I was looking around today and I saw the boy who was the first...oh no, the second to ask for my phone number but I was so naive I believed in platonicy, I mean we were all there as a chummy little group and I thought, great wonderful I'm in a new place lets all have each others' phone numbers, and I asked for his friend's number.
He's married now.
And she, over there, is a widow.
And we're all 21?

What markers do we rate ourselves by? The generalizations of age and grade and promotion. Class descriptions and money makers lenders borrowers takers.
Well, I'm 21, sometimes aimless, frequently on the quiet side, happy to curl up in my hovel and imagine everyone's stories. My friend from high school who is a month younger than I am is married with a child who is almost two. I explained sex to her when we were 15. My junior prom date is married and has two kids, one named Bubba. That transfixes me.
The Onion Cutter I used to work with, I think is 24. He would write love notes on paper towel to the Danish girl. And he dreamed of being a chef.
T is 22 and she dies her hair black and feels like 21 is so very young.
The Dreamer is 30 and he's my best friend. Sad, I think I've neglected him since I left the grille. Must rectify that.
Ma soeur âgée told me she sometimes thinks I'm more mature than her. I think she likes to make jokes, sometimes.
Some day I'll be 50 and I'll still feel like me. Not like one of those people who are 50. But like I'm me and 50 and all of my peers (all 50 of them) are just 50 like me. So to speak, when I came to university and they put me in a world full of my peers I realized it will be like this for the rest of my life. There will never again be that mystery of having mature people to run the world. Tomorrow they will expect me to run the world. It's utter mayhem out there. None of us are qualified and we're only skin filled with organs, blood, opinions, heart, inspiration and sometimes lice.
I have no lice.
Thank heavens.
But somewhere a 21 year old has lice.
If you think this post is confusing, heads up because I get to vote this year.
Il mondo è bello perchè è vario. Vive la difference!

whether tis nobler to have no mathmatics skills at all

As a film student who is supposed to be figuring out how to put together a video and pitch an idea to people, I am fascinated by this. I mean, it looks like they got the handiest camera(s) they had, but...there were definitely concrete ideas put into work here. There are some really beautiful moments. I'm transfixed by it all.

And did they really make a giant working metronome? Maybe the moon told them how to do it.

video: The Music Tapes' "The Minister of Longitude"

17 September 2008

hello, my name is Palate

A Black Orpheus to set you dreaming.

I've said I hate to dream.
But then my father read me some spare journal pieces:

Fall 1992 (the year when I was five)
Marge and I drove over the prairie last night and we saw the quarter moon. She told me during the day the moon's mom moved his bed back to where he started and at night the moon moved his bed wherever he wanted to. The moon's mom's name is Andrew. He has lots of brothers and sisters and three silly boys, three silly girls, and three stray girls. The stray girls just seem to be part of the family. When I asked her how she knew all of this she said the moon had written her a letter.

Oh glory! That I was pen pals with the moon!

And although I begin to wonder at how our lives are so filled with things that can break--I'm getting tired of my own voice saying "Cuidado, you can't do that, you will break all your crayons; your plate is going to fall off the table and break; you're going to fall; fireman's hats sometimes just break," I have a tiny little voice in my head haunting me with "you'll shoot your eye out"--and although Black Orpheus was filled with all the feeling of inescapable dread my dreams fill me with, we can still in the end have loved and have been pen pals with the moon. Then make the sun rise with a song we've just made up.

16 September 2008

Ahab, your professor clips his heals together

The add/drop deadline for mi universitio being yesterday kind of makes me feel doomed. Doomed-io. Ooohhhh France, WHY?!?! Why have you drawn apart all of the grey squishy curls of my brain, drawn them all apart to different points on different maps. Your syntax is a confusing fog blown into, through, and clogging up my ears. I hear no evil, see no evil, and taste no french pastries. French leeches are sucking out my blood. My heart is faint.

Monstor Dos that I love little dearly every afternoon is trying to defy gravity. We have been conducting scientific experiments. If he climbs up on to another precarious perch while I'm not looking, will he fall this time? Yes, I say to you. He will. Again and again. I've never seen him fall so many times in one day. He screams, I pick him up, he pushes away from me to start climbing again. He is one determined person. And we must respect him, for defying gravity is a very noble aim.
He is also trying to create space. If he shoves a thirteen inch wide kitchen chair into a two inch spot, it will fit, right? Where there's a will there's a way, isn't there? Monstro Dos carries around a heavy aura of frustration. There's some more doomed-io-ness.

14 September 2008

to the ends of factories

When I was five mon papinou and I were driving across plains and we saw the quarter moon. I told him about a letter the moon had written me.

13 September 2008

chiasmus, papinou, and veggies too

I was reminded of why I'm studying le français, ce soir.
J'ai vu The Diving bell and the Butterfly (Le Scaphandre et le papillon).
It was in the opening credits that I remembered.
They were beautiful scribbled script over shadowy x-ray sheets. It feels crass to describe them. But the film is centered in a mute and paralyzed man's brain, following his imagination of venus fly traps and Napoleon the third's wife. All words were accompanied by an appropriate image as is the way of film, but half of the images were poetic. Poetic in the way described by my Isaiah studies book which explicates poetry as a tool in which people can recognize symbols/images/phrases and relate to them with their own experiences therefore enriching their understanding. I'm sorry I just dragged text book definitions into wordy embraces, but if that's not enough I could also impose upon you the description given in the early learning literacy research I've been doing for this documentary: Poetry combines code and meaning based learning.
In the film there are litle memories, here, tied to imaginings, horrible uncomfortable hospital feelings, dedication of peoples, small moments, and the kind of ideas you know would catch me. All kitestrings wound to some central idea.
Maybe I love it more than anything we've got in anglais because France really does practice it all so much more beautifully.
But I'm thinking I love it more because it is my metaphor of my mental process. The cinematic of kitestrings practiced in a language I study but struggle with. In other words, a cinema I love but I feel I will never be able to accomplish. As my sixth grade teacher proclaimed, "It's Greek to me!"

However, it is most important that I feel a bit more faith-filled to study that French stuff.

11 September 2008

today's revelation

cantique* is one letter away from antique.

*le franch word for song

10 September 2008

fork in your neck, oh child, oh child

One January I went to the Sundance film festival with a bunch of chums. There were six of us in a little '98 mustang. We took turns having one of us lay across the others' laps in the back seat. In Park City we wandered up and down the streets, my best friend SVo and I crossing our fingers that we'd see Adrien Brody and Nicole Kidman. It was cold and none of us knew what we were doing so we wandered the afternoon away with pink noses and hands, hiding our fingertips from frosty air in pockets and gloves. I would stare at the creaky beautifully painted houses that sat all over the twisty roads and tried to ignore the snow seeping into my boots. We found a shop and the owner told us stories of how P Diddy shopped at her furniture store. We walked up a long road through wooded woods back to the car that night. The sky was clear (the air was clear!) and there were twinkly stars abroad. Our love-birded friends were up the road (slowly), their silhouettes being outlined by a passing car's headlights. We were about to drive to Salt Lake to see the film we had tickets for. It was my turn to lay across everyone's laps and I looked up at everyones' chins tinged with starlight. It was like living one of those cinema magic moments that are sung out by Nick Drake or Sigur Ros or something other ethereal.

We're young and alive.

I love religious art. If I were to get a tattoo it might be of the Virgin Mary.

A(n) [Old English] poem by anonymous called "Jesus Comforts his Mother"

09 September 2008

bibliophile in the nursery-the horror of the twentyfirst sentry

My favorite conversation of the day started as I saw G teetering on his trike-bike.
"Cuidado. You don't want to fall."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because then you could fall." (And I've seen you fall just like that five times)
"Then what?"
"Then you would be hurt?"
"Then what?"
"Then you would be unhappy."
"Then what?"
"Then the world would end."
"Then would you tell my frie-would you tell all my friends?"
"Yes, I'd tell all your friends that the world had ended."

I should have thought CUIDADO as I signed up for this writing writing writing frenchy class. I no longer have fear of the french lady who teaches me. She doesn't look at me as if I am a repulsive alien when I speak french as some frenchies will. I do have A-nnoyance because she insists I visit my arch-nemesis at the frenchy writing lab. France is being a difficult spouse that you think you might have to divorce. There is no comprendre going on anywhere. Germany has jumped on their back and offered them good German beer and I'm sitting in a pile of half-eaten granola bars from babies. Tomorrow I seek out a marriage counselor. And since France won't let me in, I'm preparing a french speech to ask France to come to Canada, you know, meet half way and add in spice.

Yesterday I found a dreamy little nursery rhyme I'd never heard before:

If all the world were paper,

And all the sea were ink,
If all the trees
Were bread and cheese,
What should we have to drink?

06 September 2008

I rode my bicycle fast fast fast away from you for an hour or two. jolly nickles.

Tonight I will curl up on my newly purchased mattress pad and bed frame. What's a girl doing being so responsible as to study finances, buy her own bed and bedding, and turn down invites to hang-out at house shows with boys she's always loved so she can do homework and write a documentary proposal?
It's the end of week three of the children and they finally have me convinced that I was the most normal child and not at all depressed or cynical as my sister sometimes jokes or alludes to.
Today as I hammered my bed frame together I decided the hammering went a whole hammer of a lot better when I thought "angry hammer, angry hammer." So I thought of all of my pet peeves and frustrations that I know don't have any eternal merit and so I let myself carry on in my normal happy fashion brushing things off my shoulders. But the hammering went so very very well when I thought, "here's to your meaningless flattery!" "here's to rejected internships!" "here's to my fear of speaking in languages in front of people!" "here's to your poisonous spiders!" Maybe if I made one bed frame a day I'd have arm muscles and five minutes more courage to stand up and shout "IT DOESN'T MATTER BUT I DON'T AGREE!!! NO!!!"


ps. I call this page color "Milly"

05 September 2008

still celebrating the cheeseburger. further chronicles of one who goes by green light and ignores your voice

Today was an awe, happy family day.
Monstro Uno took us on a walk around the neighborhood. Twenty feet in front of me he waited on his bike.
"You see that I waited? I remember what you said the other day."
Monstro Dos is teething and wanted to be held all day long. I sat at the kitchen table reviewing my math for financial class when he crawled into my lap. I read my chapter of setting financial goals outloud to him while he gnawed on a jumbo strawberry. After a few minutes he tugged on my thumb and turned my hand palm face up. He needed someone to hold his slobbery strawberry while he played with my calculator. That's right, don't worry, Monstro Dos, I love holding your gummed-up food in the palm of my hand.

I've found others who concensus with me: campus is ugly and young this year. The flowers are beautiful the weather is great, but I feel like there is a marked lack of people who are creative and interested in their wearings. Sure it's marvelous that we don't all have the same priorities, but where's the art? People can make campus pretty, but people you're leaving it blah. Ima step up my game.

04 September 2008

well you asked for spice. but that's an herb.

Monstro Uno and I conducted some scientific research today. We have solid proof that lack of sleep somehow inhibits your hearing ability or maybe it's the synapses that bring the sound to your brain.
Monstro Uno is still not satisfied with our findings that not listening means that something is taken away.
"You're not going to listen? Ok, I'll just carry your bike in the air in one hand and push your brother's stroller with the other. That's fine." (Luckily that only lasted five steps before we all started listening again.)
But you know, I have to say, I was at a loss as to what to do with a child who was upset with everything ("I can't eat [the pear] cut that way, what if it falls apart?!" "Don't put tape on it!...How are we going to keep it [paper boat] from falling apart?..Nooooo not tape!"). Do I make him take a nap? Not possible. So I sat down in the kitchen and started reading about a woman who had this constant feeling as though she were falling. Even after she hit the floor she felt like the floor would open up underneath her and that she was still falling. A couple of minutes later, my dear Monstro Uno asked for a popcicle.
Yes, have a popcicle even though no toys have been put away. By you.
Yes, please. I don't want to argue or fight with you.
And that popcicle made all the difference.

My first assignment for my dear little documentary class is to write about five little things that normally no one notices. We must be ever watching! Always! Be aware! As my last documentary professor instilled in us the mantra, be wildly interested.
At one point this evening I was walking my bike down this busy street. I'd noticed a man hesitate to see if a woman needed help with her fallen groceries, a shameful amount of litter and this boy's black socks. Then three boys (men? age generalizations are so difficult) sitting on a tailgait of a truck in the Burger King parking lot called out to me. I thought, odd, but why not.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
They wanted to know why I was walking not riding. And they wanted to know my name. And they wanted to know all about me.
They told me they were "hicking." Ten points if I could guess what hicking was.
"Well, I'm guessing hicking is tailgaiting in parking lots."
I won the ten points.
They inspected my groceries, told me I was cute, talked about Curious George, asked me to put them in a movie, offered me strawberry milk shakes and said I should hang out with them.
Acutally I should clarify, they didn't really just say I was cute. One kid/man said, "I was feeling really talkative earlier but now I'm kind of not sure of what to say. I mean you see a cute girl walking past and so you start talking to her and then you realize that she's not just a cute girl but that she's maybe a little weird (thanks for your honesty) and impressive. There's something to her." (He was impressed I had peas and tomatos in my grocerey bag).


Melodica that.

03 September 2008

"You met him on the streets. And he gave you his card... Snap a picture because you'll never be there again"

There's something to be said about nannying. People write books and make movies about six year olds pulling their pants down. They make some nice sum of money on their darndest moments. Maybe I should get in on this.
The children, or los monstros as I think of them, are making me remember a lot.
1 The first time I tried vanilla extract even though I knew my mother wasn't lying to me that it didn't taste good. (Last week, "Crisco doesn't taste good." "Just let me taste it." Ok. you taste that Crisco.)
2 Mom's distaste for Shoots n Ladders. "Now I get two turns." "No you have to play fair otherwise no one wants to play with you." "Then I get three turns." "Then I get three turns, too." "Ok...or no you just get one turn."
3 Richard Scary books
4 Mom's Camelot record as she explained about the weather in Camelot.

I'm still amused that the older monstro cautions me to be careful so that I won't break a nail.

I ate a cheese burger today. I haven't eaten a burger in two years.

31 August 2008

Ah gentility you've made me fall but you can't make me laugh yet

After two weeks of living out of a laundry basket and eating bagels and donations and riding my bicicleta for miles and miles and miles (of ocean) (making my thrift store dresses fit me mucho betteroso) I'm about to settle down.
How crass and materialistic to have a house, he said.
How wonderful to build up my own little hermit shell, I rebounded.
Tomorrow is the Labor Free Day. Did you know, I started out this blog with a Labor Day? Because I'm rarely interested in life without manual labor I decided to celebrate by trying out a blog to see if I wasn't boring. I don't know if it made me less boring or more (don't tell me in the comment box, I'll cry), but I'm enjoying the typing typing typing.
Typing therapy, he said.
You don't exist, I said.
I think, he said.

What lessons do you learn in a year?
I learned to muddle slowly and listen to my gut.
I'm hearty (hearty appetite-ish).
I love my bicicleta (Il s'appelle "Wonder") and hate driving.
I love wind (that's "le vent" en français).
I learned to believe in astronauts.
I learned the Russian alphabet.
And boys are crazy, but aren't we all.

28 August 2008

no more meetings for you, dear.

I'm dreaming again and maybe that's fun for some of us but it's not the fun for the one of us that is me. I only dream in distress or I should say, my dreams are distressful. Some kind of manifestation of inner turmoil and confusion etc etc etc.
Last week I had a dream that a friend of mine started smoking. I was stressed in my dream as I opened up her car door, took the cigarette she was smoking and started smoking like a pro myself. The rest of the dream was me smoking and I woke up at the point when my mouth became full of ashes. Not just smoking, but smoking UNFILTERED. Whoa-ho-ho. And everyone was impressed by the smoke-rings I could blow. What caterpillarism.

One night I had a dream that highlighted all of the darkish, sketchy areas on my bike route to this "hostel" I've been staying at.
Last night I had a dream that my friend started smoking Hookah. Except that this hookah looked like an extremely large roll of pot so even my dreams are demented. And I was in western North Dakota or probably Glendive, Montana (some such city full of creepers) searching for my purse that I had somehow misplaced. I was really happy when my roommate woke me up with her sinus/allergy hacking cough.

Does anyone know of any kind of magic trick, cloth, or 16 hour manual labor job I can use to knock all of the dreams out of me? Because once the mind starts muddling, it muddles up a storm. Maybe this storm will break when I can finally stop living out of a laundry basket and Mini suitcase.

23 August 2008

i'm from a different country where they call you cosmonauts

I’m apt to get sentimentally attached to things. Everything comes along with a string attached to it (an unbleached cotton string, the kind that comes all wrapped around a cardboard roll and was always found in our kitchen drawer at home) to tie on memories. Like kite strings with all the little flags. A story parading through my brain as I ride around on my bicycle (which is what I mostly do these homeless days). Raisin toast always reminds me of sitting on the back stoop of my Grandpa’s when he’d take us out and point out the stars. Maybe he only did it once but it’s stuck in my brain and so as I’ve sat these last two days munching on raisin toast I think of constellations and warm nights and green carpet and white cinderblock walls. Maybe I’ll even remember my Dad’s stories of hiding beets so he wouldn’t have to eat them or maybe I’ll remember that one Easter when I left hints EVERYWHERE that all I wanted was a loaf of raisin bread. I was thinking about being sentimental because I was finishing up a movie* when I was eating the last little bites of raisin toast. It had this song**, the kind that plays through credits and makes you want the film to go on and on because it’s pulling at you and ties up a million kite strings and sets them afloat.

I learned how to gut a fish last night. It’s a good thing.

A poem that leans nigh unto tartuffe but I'm the hypocrite:

I'm from a different country where they call you cosmonauts
I'm from a different time o they don't let their garbage rot
I'm from a different kind of place where space and time do not exist
oh not as yours or mine or theirs but merely someone's its

It's not too far to walk to school or the little corner store
We sometimes pass the time by remembering there's no more
and what you do is not of yours oh not your chores and not your choice
but part of one well mechanically smoothly flowing voice

oh east germany
what you do to me
you know the best of bands
and maintain local brands
but you've tied up all my hands

at the stately parties i'm feeling super fly
because we've all got the same suit, shirt and tie
just one, because we're locally conceived
convictions of sharing and looking how we all believe

I was going to add in another line but I don't think i will.
The end.
DC al fine.

*Goodbye Lenin!
** Summer 78 by Yann Tiersen

20 August 2008

ode to the consistency of dinosaurs

I have a feeling that if I were ever really homeless, the question of showering would never be a problem. I have come to this conclusion as I have been showered many many times by sprinklers this dusk as I rode my bike about town.
Before all this showering I had been sitting on a park bench watching the sprinklers for an hour or so. Here's the secret: yes, I am a film major. No, I do not enjoy watching movies that often. But I certainly am mesmerized by watching sprinklers. I definitely do enjoy watching sprinklers more than I enjoy sitting in meetings.
Which I accidentally found myself sitting in a meeting this evening. I think I've gotten roped into helping with the upcoming local arts festival. I'm going along with it too. And not for any good reason.

19 August 2008

you can stop coming here if you want to. chronicles of the stoppage of the shadow job

The new occupation has commenced.
I am now a part time nanny for my cousin's kids.
"Everybody seems to be nanny-ing. That's a popular thing."
-someone I know, but can't remember who.
Well, I still call them kids and have not yet felt like I was attacked by monsters. I'm expecting it to happen. Waiting. I'm sure it will. But so far, I still haven't felt too bothered by anything. Except that I feel like I'm not doing anything. I'm not feeling tortured every morning at 7:45 am when I wake up to go to an 8am shift. Because that doesn't happen anymore. And I'm wondering if it's a problem that it doesn't ruffle my calm one bit when I'm standing on a street corner with a 1.5 year old in a wagon and a four year old lying on the ground crying because he can't go to his friend's house. Should I try to sound upset? Maybe I'm just in a daze because I've just made a few drastic changes in my life and I woke up in someone else's bed (the someone else is in Greece) and then ate cereal sitting next to a headless film-stunt dummy as we, or really I watched people come and go in a parking lot. I feel all twiddle-thumbish because I'm not spending my mornings running a restaurant. I feel like I should go back to the grill and set up a play pen in the corner so that I can nanny and grill 150 chicken breasts for a football team dinner and learn more Russian.
It's good to change.
It just takes me a while to adjust.
A long while.

I enjoyed reading about Cowboy Slim today. He taught me some new lingo, "That's a dinger!"

08 August 2008

strum, swing looooow sweet -strum- chariot-strum

I'm about to take my pulpit, but I'm sitting down on it so don't worry. It's kind of like an Iron Man thing or something....

here are some coool things I've found recently.

the Teacher Salary Project: activism is generally not for me. I will sit in my log cabin reading a book, thank you. Actually, currently I will sit in the upstairs of my apartment playing the AUTOHARP. I've had enough of peace protests, Cheney protests, Critical mass bike rides, hard-core vegetarians, analog lovers, and "modest is hottest"s, but the one thing I will take up a harpoon for is education. Public education.

Extended Play by Janek Schaefer: rad little music peace I read about this last winter in an art journal I read instead of doing homework and then I was reminded of it today. It's a little inspirational but better than a poster of a mountain silhouette in front of a sunset. Funnily, at the top left hand corner of the screen that girl with her eye being held open is from this film "Un Chien Andalou." Guess what happens to her eye.

Kim Jong Il's live journal: thank you Taradise. I haven't found something so snicker-ish in a long time.

07 August 2008

I'ma grow me some turnips some day

The countdown is on: six more days at the grill.

I can't believe it.

It's not that I relish scrubbing out the big boiler and all surrounding equipment and drains after the mixed vegetables boil over and leave their mark over everything in the surrounding square mile area. It's just that two years ago I started pestering my boss about his scheduling habits and he told me I needed to be dedicated and despite my best efforts I did. I dedicated myself. to my job. at a campus grill. It's half ridiculous but I've ended up loving it terribly.
I hate the uniforms we have to wear, but I kind of love swallowing my pride letting myself be masked up in baseball cap and aprons. For two years there were 15-60 hours a week where no one would pay any attention to me for how I looked (plain as heck in the uniform) but only for what I can do for them. I don't want to throw on too much cheese but I'm going to miss that.
And every minute I can spend scrubbing the grimiest pot or for smiling at the crabbiest customer was another minute I could thumb my nose at stupid politicians, block buster movies, Juicy Couture, vegetarian clubs, activists, and "F-you"'s scribbled on walls. In the most unphilosophical job of the century, I felt a little better for escaping that "mad, mad world."

That being said, I will admit that this is the loveliness that is my job: Every morning I eat my granola bar as I ride my bike to work. I no sooner finish that granola bar and tie on my apron then I have to wrestle crates full of gallons of milk and 50lbs of cow to unearth raw pork and chicken that will inevitably baptize me with their blood as I prepare them for the smoker.

BUT: Today at work I heard a woman take her daughter to the bathroom. I hear her say, "I knew they'd have bathrooms in here because even football players have to poop."
The little girl says, "Football players go poo-ooh-p" over and over again.
Again the mother, "Everyone poops."

How disgusting. But I'm laughing. O profundity!

05 August 2008

je ne te quitte pas

Sometimes I like to pretend I look like this. Almost. Or something.

02 August 2008

i am spartacus

Once again a night when I wanted to yell what I was thinking so I could order the world up nice and right. Yet I correctly held my tongue and didn't scare anyone. Really, I would have scared us all with this one.
If anyone wants to send me back pats...

01 August 2008

a most laconic post.

Have you noticed I put in orange titles to throw in some color?

I've run into some people lately and they ask me what I do with my time.

Work has been fairly smooth this past week as I still have not lost my temper with any trainees, which isn't too much of a surprise I guess, but there is always the possibility.
I enjoyed the morning when I was serenaded by a coworker singing obscure 1970's rock songs, playing the air guitar as I mixed beef gravy. And I've learned some Portuguese.
However, it will never stop being disconcerting that I at anytime may turn the corner and find my nose two inches from a seven-foot tall mans bellybutton. A fully clothed belly button, but D is reeeaallly tall.
AND...I just put in my two weeks notice.
The thought of another football season is too much.

Mes parents kept kidnapping me this past week and I think Stockholm syndrome is not always a bad thing. Especially as they take me to fix my autoharp.

I have a friend that sends me poems he writes. I can't remember how it happened. Well, no, I can. He doesn't write the poems FOR me, it's just that one wintry month I discovered his writings and made a comment and now we share poems that we find or that he writes and I tell him what I think. And they're marvelous! This is why I love documentary! Because we're alive and I'm fascinated by how we live and think and travel and what we create. Sometimes it's idealist love, sometimes casual, sometimes in a Samuel Beckett way, but sometimes it's more real and charitable and substantial. Substantial because we've all had times of despair and yet we live on. He just recently sent me a poem and I thought, this is not right that I'm reading and seeing and hearing wonderful things from all of these people. YOU should be reading and hearing and seeing as well. I had just been looking at a website thrown together by a local that produces and sells local music and I thought, AH HA? Can I make up my own documentary production of these writings and showings and sayings and artings? One that's not mode-ish, one that crosses all divides and scribbles out "scenes"? That's why after reading his poem I went immediately to read up on how to form a non profit. I mean, I get ideas sometimes and for five minutes I'm on the moon or even the sun and then we land at the clouds, but maybe I'll finally put together some publication. I'll just start it. With whatever I can get my hands on.

The other quarter of my life is that I reeeeeeeeeed.
For instance,
It finally ended far from the madding crowd, although, I had high doubts it would ever happen. I mean, the book. I was reading Far From the Madding Crowd (that really is the madding crowd until the last chapter when you finally put some distance in there).

Now I'm reading My Antonia and the first few chapters have me dreaming of my prairie home. There's a magic in that landscape.

Lastly, I have one exclamation to make and if you've made it this far...I don't know how I actually feel about blogs. I just told you how I spend my time. I wrote it out for you I know and you I don't know. What is the meaning of this? Is it good? I don't know.
The end.

26 July 2008

At least I model my style after Nana Mouskouri and not the others

I have an awful confession. Well, some of you may know it already. I might be the last person or the first person you would expect this from. But when it came out, I bought the Ashlee Simpson Autobiography album. And I listened to it. A lot. I still own it.
And you know what, sometimes I love to listen to female pop singers on repeat. Not even the good ones like Gwen Stefani, I mean Hilary Duff or even....Avril Lavigne. Or the millions of other girls who dress trendy and sing trendy and have trendy music videos and sing about love and sunshine. I kind of love it. I eat it up. That's right, I EAT IT UP. Even though I've been taught to despise it, you take your despising and shove it. I don't care if their lyrics aren't clever, I don't care if their voice was digitally altered to actually sound good, I don't care if it seems that they shouldn't be singing about love because we can't in much honesty believe they know what the word means I'm still EATING IT UP.
I'm not sure how to tell you why I love a little cheep poppy music every once in a while.
But there you have it.

14 July 2008

oh ho ho ho ho loves the elderly*

I saw a potato bug on the sidewalk when I was walking home lastnight.
(after being kicked out of the editing lab at 23h00).
This week the hours from my two jobs have been warring against each other and I feel confused in crossfire. I might not be so confused if maybe my brain would work concretely. But you might've noticed it doesn't.

Sometimes I want to wrap up in my mind and room and quietude since the famous restaurant job is dipping more and more into circus dramatics (yesterday the Dreamer punched the Onion Cutter in the arm and according to the Dreamer the Onion Cutter took a whack at him with a cookie sheet but there are no witnesses to this). I did pull a fancy move today, though, when I almost dropped a large pan of macaroni and cheese but instead smoothly saved it all as I spun to my knees. They (mainly the co-worker who says I have lying eyes) told me I won the Olympics with that one.
I've loved my bicycles rides to and from, though. and I loved the potato bug and the quails I see running about everywhere and the large snail I saw tonight. I decided I needed to see some friendly faces and I went down through the secret garden to the historical apartment of a friend where people were meeting to draw cartoons and eat cake (cartoons? It was interesting). There are snails everywhere in his secret garden, you have to take care not to step on them and I took care to take a few pictures.
*excerpts from a Felice Brothers song