stand on, stand off, stand on music stands

When I work (when I work), my favorite times are times that don't include the editing lab called the Cave. Yeah, I work in a cave. But I like when the neanderthal film self can shed some cromagman and climb up a couple of floors to humanity. I've found an empty classroom which suits me meticulously. There are rows and flows of ordered chairs, all hideously functional in a color that is not quite grey and is chipping off. The doors are black and chipping, the carpet is nondescript the walls nondescript with sound panneling on the top. The corners are packed with out of date TV's, overhead projectors, and music stands. Black and chipping. I sit by the wall of windows in a chipping desk with my feet propped up on a tabletop podium. Minus the tabletop.

Not that it matters to the universe where I work.

It's that predicament of cementing your history and the joy you find in the world around you and the versus side that tells you to stop being self-full.

I feel self-full. gross.

I actually can't stay away from the internet sometimes.

the sans internet diaries

Did you know the internet is boring? Plus I like having the excuse, "Oh I don't have the internet at my house," so I don't have to keep up on my email. You knew that was going to happen since I frequently go through periods where I leave my cell phone on vibrate and hide it. On purpose.

Of course, my literary silence could also have to do with the fact that I accidentally shut my brain off a couple of weeks ago and am still searching for the "on" button. I'm convinced I will find it through sleeping more.

I will just let you all know that I love you and you make me chuckle. Soon I'm going to have a plug-in to my ipod that will let me record all your voices so I can sit at home and chuckle and then cut audio documentaries together and make the world chuckle and love you too.

Merci and buss buss,
ever yours and ever glad she's not in high school anymore,
Marge Bjork

Fiction people talk too loudly and have bad breath. Make them go away.

just to keep up with the times

Dear You,

I'm stealing a moment to write to you, it will be our secret moment together. I can only stand to watch so many hours of kindergarten un-interrupted and the massively large film student headphones wrestle my ears to the ground (c'est à dire*: squish my ears). My hair is so thick you didn't realize my ears poke out, did you? When I was a bit younger (14 years younger), I contemplated taping my ears back at night, hoping they would grow into the more socially acceptable flat-against-your-head-ears, but I had it from a reliable source that it didn't work (merci, mon père).

I've just had fleet flit thoughts lately.

1. The New York Times is lovely and/or/but overwhelming.

2. Still the best year ever.

3. oh...I don't know. Maybe I haven't had that many fleets of thoughts, I've been filling my days with daytime documentary making in the cave and nighttime-not-enough-sleep socializing. I go in bouts from foggy brain to clear and excited to I'm sinking in a sea of inexperienced filmmaker. I'm sure that's fascinating for you all to know.

However,

4. If I could be anyone for a day I would be Kim Jong-il. I wonder what it would be like to drive your country to starvation and defy the world with repeated nuclear tests.

5. If I could go anywhere in the world I'd try the Bermuda triangle. Or Russia. Or somewhere south of the United States. Or home.

6. Wonder, my trusty bicicleta and the only inanimate object I've named, is in the shop and I miss him madly. I've been six days without him, one more day to go.

7. I know more Armenian than my average blog reader.

8. Lists are silly.

Love,
Marge

*pronounced as if you'd just set down to some camambert on baguette and were saying, "set a dear," and means "that is to say"

skin on skin again

(or I'M bigger than hip-hop)

Sounds I never want to forget
(the prosaic list of any temporarily sentimental being)

: lawns being mown
: the screen door slamming on the original family cabin
: and my barefeet padding across its old red deck
: "hey girl hey"
: elbows resting in the grass
: leaves rustling in the breeze
: keys on keyboard clicking (tekla)
: the needle being set down on a record and subsequent crackling
: the tinkle of the foil when I open up my Lindt's chocolate bar
: the zzzzzzzzzp of opening up perforated cardboard boxes

but I could probably get over forgetting those noises. --I'm just sayin'

also, CONFESSION: when I'm overwhelmed by hours of watching kindergarten footage, my ipod and I go to the bathroom and dance. can't get better than Mos Def, mirrored wall, tiled floor, me dancing, and toilets in the background.

The end.
Love,
Marge

more morbidity

We decided how I would die today.

(it's ma camarade de chambre's question of the week)
(last week the inanimate object that I married was my bicycle, Wonder)

I imagine I would be wearing pearls and a pretty, classic dress. I'd knowingly frolic out my fate, traipsing through the forest; light through tree branches, green green leaves, the stuff of currently overly hip hand-done children's book illustration.

I'd hear music crackling off a phonograph player and meet the big brown bear in the glen deep in the heart of the forest, off the path that Little Red Riding hood is supposed to stick to. We'd waltz, the big brown bear is a very talented waltzer, like a dream. When that song ended, he'd maul and eat me to the accompaniment of some operatic aria.

Any opera suggestions?