30 October 2009


Would someone tell me how to be creative again, please?
Would someone get me out of this funk that's been creeping in and over for a long time. Because now I need to be creative.
There's million thoughts in my head. M told me to write them all down. Make lists and lists and lists and then when the right idea comes along you'll be ready for it and you won't let it pass you by. Unaware.
Good thoughts, too. There are quite a few good thoughts in my head. But I don't want to see them through.
Maybe there are too many unfinished projects bogging me down. Bog. Bogged. I'm bogged.

Hooo ooh bog.
Help me out! I'm in quicksand!

24 October 2009

just clipping

This morning I stuffed my roommate's speakers into my backpack and rode my B.C.clayta up to campus. I was dying for somebody to stop me to ask what I had in my bag so I could tell them about my odd cargo.
No one stopped me.
The speakers were for an interview via Skype for our (D, C, and me) documentary project (the one on women who have struggled with postpartum mood disorders/depression). There were two highlights of the interview. One, she went to school with a couple of our professors here, back when the three of them made up the entire body of students studying documentary film. We got her to tell us stories about them and you know they were good because she kept checking with us, "You're not recording this part are you?" Secondly, she was candid. And she told us a story about how she became entirely not herself and her husband of only three years never balked. She was suddenly, six days after giving birth, not the woman he married. But he just loved her. You can imagine a flitter-flat thinker like me was inspired to waxed sappy over lunch today.

This afternoon I sat on stools in a bookstore with my sister looking at books about mixed media art projects while my brother-in-law updated us periodically on the time and the rain.

And then it hailed. I had forgotten there was such a thing as hail.

And then I was at a halloween party this evening--my costume was amazing, I felt like I could make headlines--and I looked around at the kid dressed as a Japanese tourist fiddling with the Ratatat-like playlist, the Mexican Panda Bear playing the moraccas, the mermade dancing solo in the middle of the room and I thought, "Gee, this is grand."

And I meant it.

22 October 2009

you're in my little red book

Dear you,

All I want is Otis Redding and you.


p.s. And Sam Cooke and my bicycle.

p.p.s. and James Brown.

21 October 2009

yoga tells me to breathe but I quit that

Quit yoga or breathing?

Quickly, fast, get ready for it! Before I go to bed tonight I have to figure out what I'm doing and write a treatment (pitch) for MY documentary and send it off to the FACULTY REVIEWERS (You know the documentary that I need to figure out and plan the next year of my life around and then convince people next week that they should give me $1500 and I'm only kind of sure of what I'm doing right at this moment), plan everyone's wardrobe for Friday and Saturday for that fiction film, wrangle up camera and sound equipment to do an interview tomorrow, cram for the test of the class that I'm terribly bad at and magically become a genius again, set up an interview for Saturday for the one of four documentaries I'm currently working on, go running and do yoga. So now you see which one I quit doing. I quit breathing. Who has time for it?

Does anyone else feel really exhilarated right now?

My professor's advice to me today (which will actually mean something if you've ever had to take documentary history) was "Helluva good time; no whales." So I keep repeating to myself as I sit here, "Helluva good time; no whales. Helluva good time; no whales. Helluva good time..."
Another professor saw me this afternoon and asked me what I was doing then asked, "Is it crazy and different?" I thought about it for a minute, "Yes, yes it is..." and he replied, "Because we like that kind of stuff."

Helluva good time.
No whales.


18 October 2009

could you tell me what the bottom of the Red Sea looks like?

There's been a million things to write and I've written them but when it comes to pressing the garish orange "publish post" button at the bottom of the screen I stop. I crumple my tongue and merely hit the hi-line blue "save now." All this holding in of ideas after I commit to SAYING IT.


This is harder than I thought.

Oh wait! Tonight I did fall off my chair in an attempt to tell my cousins I loved them. Progress.

The other night I was sitting up with dead horses. We were playing some dead card games and the D.H. I call Ione made a particularly magnificent dry witted comment about the Grim Reaper (you see they're not so bad once you get to know them) when I looked up at her and realized, with a severe start (the kind that E1's car hasn't been capable of in a few years), that Ione and the others looked alive. In fact, I reached over to Q who was directly to my right and felt the pulse on his foreleg. He had a pulse.
"Pinch me," I said to Cliff.
"Are you trying to make a joke? I've got hooves not apposable thumbs."
"Oh...yeah, no...sorry..." I felt so confused. Have I been wrong this whole time? "Hey guys, did you know you're alive?"
They stared at me.
"We're alive?" Bea threw her cards on the table. "Why have you been lying to us?!"
"I didn't mean to lie! No, I wasn't lying, I didn't know!"
Arnison smiled, "So are you going to buy a ranch for us?"
"No, on this I will not budge. You are going away."

On another note, I am Egypt.

11 October 2009

meet: eternity

I will never die.

You see, I know this because yesterday JG, E1, and I were discussing denim pursuits so I, of course, put on James Brown's "Hot Pants" and then I, of course, stood up on my chair and started dancing. Because that is a natural reaction to hearing James Brown.
"Gee, it's great to be 22 and dancing on chairs to James Brown," I thought. But then I realized I would do this at any age. Someday I will be old, frail, and wheelchaired and someone will put on JB's "Make it funky" and I will naturally stand up in my wheelchair and dance. But wheelchairs and my legs will be unsteady therefore leading to death. HOWEVER, by the time I'm 133 (which is the age I figure people will be dying at in those days) we should have gyroscopic wheelchairs. And hip implants. Ergo: my gyroscopic geriatric hips will really be even better at gyrating to James Brown.
Ergo: no dying.

speaking of gyroscopes...

I have a segue resolution to lead between 2009 and 2010. I've done very well with 2009 and it's led to this and we'll see where 2010 takes us, but the point of this paragraph is my INTERIM RESOLUTION. Il s'appelle*: SAY IT.
Tis an attempt to reduce the lag time between what I'm thinking and what you hear. Tis an attempt to reduce my seeming to lack emotion. Tis an attempt to make sure I never leave you thinking that you have lost my interest because I've remained quiet. Tis an attempt to reduce the distance between us. Tis the season to SAY IT.

*It's called

09 October 2009

kenghis ghan, kangas gone

Tonight I watched a film about a holy prankster, sat for hours in an italian restaurant laughing with friends about kangaroos and stuff. After leaving from JG's awesome parking spot we saw a friend mopping at the end of her restaurant day and we stopped in to dance. Empty restaurants and dancing are good reasons to be 22.

I just thought you should all be jealous of me being 22.

06 October 2009

butchers, les buchers, boosh, goosh, gosh

Have you ever noticed a lag between what is going on inside your head and the English language? Or whatever it is you're speaking these days. I'm fairly certain I have not had a stroke but I have been talking about strokes a lot to my speech pathologist nerd roommate and so maybe I'm having sympathy strokes? But really that's a lie because there's been a lag my entire lifeline long. In other words, there are things I've been trying to tell quite a few people but I'm not finding the way for expressions.

Words are boxes that tell you things and my thoughts aren't finding the right boxes. They don't seem to be divisible like that. They're indivisible. Like this nation. Ha.

I could try to paint a picture (water color or oils? OK, all I have are cheap-o acrylics) but that's hardly effective either. Pictures are even less communicative these days. It's the economy. They've gone down in wordworth. Dang economy.

What I'm trying to tell a whole bunch of people goes something like this: GHokmdflskj, fsjdifj lgiiiinb slidfuldk boji ahdnawe $^sdfij bni *&UHB sjidjf dkkf ergo I'm really glad I know you.

Hey, Speech Pathologist Nerd Roommate, do you think that first part is cantonese?

03 October 2009

just a little somethin' I had up my sleeve

last of summer from Marge Bjork on Vimeo.

i made this for when it's cold.

an inner round that flouts Augustinian precepts

notes on what happens after you answer an unanswerable question with a spoonful of nutella.
1. You read the plot synopsis of The Body Snatchers on imdb and then add it to your Netflix queue.
2. You watch some bits of a movie noticing that two of the characters are also in that TV show Northern Exposure.
3. You browse music on the internet.
4. And you wonder why you lost the talent for writing horrible poetry. Life would be more fulfilling if we hadn't lost that knack over here at Bjork Enterprises (a subsidiary of Willard Wonder Inc).
5. Realize that you really are disturbed by the double "ue" in queue and imagine what it would be like to have a nightmare about long queues and excessive vowels.

There was once a little girl who sat down in the middle of a shallow river.
"Why did you ask me to walk to the other side of the river?" she called out to the cat who sat on that opposite bank.
The cat never answered, either he couldn't hear her or he wasn't a talking cat. It was probably that he couldn't hear her because she had a very feeble voice which
likely wasn't projecting over the babble of agua. The girl was frustrated that there was a communication breakdown and it had nothing to do with how tight Robert Plants pants were.
"Hello!" she yelled with all her weakly lunged force.
Still nothing, the cat just sat. Just sat.
And she sat in the middle of the shallow river. Just sat. With her hair that curled just so, just a little bit. Remember the hair because in a year she will chop a large chunk of it off, at the left crown and then they will take her to the beauty parlor (which she will subsequently remember for the rest of her life) so the beautician can try to fix this drastic action into some kind of girlish pixie cut.