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Someone may tell you they ate your dinner and you're out of luck but I'll tell you what you do in that circumstance. You just smack them and tell them your pet dinosaur will stomp their house to smithereens. That's what people get for eating your dinner, you tell them that.
ya comí.
I read this NYT modern love article and I like it because people are always letting themselves be limited by labeling, defining, classifying. Break the $^%&* glass box you've started living in.
Oh, well, I guess that's all I wanted to tell you tonight. Just be you, OK? Just be you regardless of dinner-thieves and Aristotle and the New York Times and me. You will love it.
ps. I have never smacked anyone and when pressed for the truth I would have to say I find the thought of smacking someone rather horrifying. So please don't steal my dinner.
I keep going back to this picture on the sartorialist and thinking, marry me? please?
Recent dreams:
A dream that was a bus commercial.
A dream that ended in an exploding pizza.
As a young Marge Bjork, entrepreneurship seemed risky and not worthwhile (although I longed to be a potter...).
As a teenager Marge Bjork, I still felt that being your own boss seemed fliberty-jibitty (even though I wanted to be a rock star...).
As a twenty something Marge Bjork I committed to a free lance life (of filmmaking) afraid of making my own way in the world and secretly imagining hiding away in a library or a restaurant my entire career.
It hasn't taken much time of being a twenty something Marge Bjork to get itching for a fully free-lanced life. I'll do it, I will.
I just want to make documentaries. Period.
I'm back.
And as I've gotten older I've piece by piece, processly decided there's no time for feeling sorry for myself or complaining so I'm not going to say a word about that.
Instead focus all our faces on: [dadadaddadadadadada!!!!]
Just the pretty news that I am 10 footsteps away from being a real free-lance filmmaker.
"Is this really how I will be making my living?" I just asked myself.
Myself replied, "How exciting!"
And I'm thinking about quilting bookmarks to sell. I've got bajillions of fabrics of yards. And I think bookmarks meet my talent level. I think there's some bazaar I could enterrrrrrrrrr...herm.
Went to lots of grocery stores (my favorite indoor activity) in California and stared at their olive bars. Never bought a single olive, just stared and thought. About quinoa salads. [sigh]
I've been thinking about my bits (or entire sections i.e.: arms, legs, souls, soles, fish, filet) of personality that need mending. Sometimes my independence isn't a silly loner streak kind of thing, sometimes it's nonchalance bordering (oh, I'm babying myself with that one) on hard heartedness. I could use ten (bajillion yards?) more compassion. But you're the greatest world and God out there, n'est-ce pas ? So you will be patient with how prickly I frequently end up being. I tell myself that. Mainly to remind myself that I am no two inch succulent split-rock plant, I've got infinity inches to grow and so I can have patience and not well...[deep breaths] not not have patience.
Last night I drank a mt. dew to stave off a migraine and I was a five year old for quite sometime and taunted Yanka with the return of nineties fashion*. She blamed it on forever21. I pointed out the Willow (from Buffy) inspired floral print denim overalls at H&M. I'm still delighted by it all.
Hey, parents, sister, do you remember that childhood book with the soldier in the red coat who found that trunk of treasure and there was that weird dog creature?
I got complimented on my vowel pronunciation tonight at a hot chocolate club meeting.
Well, I was tired an hour ago. Wish things like that weren't so fleeting.
And oddly enough, all I want to do right now is listen to Linda Ronstadt. You know, that album my sister and I always used to interpretive dance to when we were little? Yeah.
I have yet to have whimsical Bill Peet dreams. Nope, instead they are still an amalgum of the small town I grew up in and the university town I habitate now. Odd realistic, surrealist, final cut filtered dreams. Hier soir, or slightly more phonetically, ee-air swar (last night), there was a 52 year old looking man who was in love with me. He owned a rustic restaurant full of lots of unvarnished dark wood and he didn't think I could ever love him back because of our fourteen year age difference (that's why I'm guessing he only looked 52). While I used to be drawn to older men (I mean late twenties mostly) (they were so cool because they were in bands and were so wise about the world) this attraction has waned as I've gotten older (probably because now that I am kind of in adulthood I'm less desperate to be treated like a super-mature person). But the attraction hadn't waned in this dream. We were sitting at bar stools in his daytime-empty restaurant and his wrinkled, five o'clock shadowed face hinted he loved me but had no hope of reciprocation and I said he shouldn't be too hard on his stubbled self the fourteen years weren't a problem it was that I wanted to be married in the temple. Actually, I believe I used the words, "I want someone with whom I can have a covenant marriage." So we held hands for a moment of silence at the bar stools.
But I had to go to the bathroom.
So I went to Vector Field Harris's who had a house on Central Avenue by the high school administration building and the public library were mi madre works.
VFH had bathrooms in her house but the bathrooms were like shacks
of rustic dark unvarnished wood
full of people
and bunkbeds.
Balancing on bunkbeds and porta-potty holes and ignoring the people in the room was very precarious.
Then I woke up because I had to go to the bathroom fo reelz.
Drove across the Golden Gate Bridge.
And realized a childhood dream.
I went to a forest with really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really tall trees.
Redwoods.
Palo Colorado.
THE FUTURE WILL BRING
SOME OF LES PHOTOS.
probably.
They were like the trees in my dinosaur book. But I could not find any triceratops. I pretended to be a brontosaurus, Yanka was a giraffe.
They were like the trees I read about in elementary school science books, the books that spurred excitement and wonder. It was in third grade science that I set my sights on a trip to the redwoods.
Science
is
amazing.
When I was nine my mom and I found instructions on how to make a barometer. With just the simple bits we had around the house we put together a homemade atmospheric pressure telling gadget. That was the coolest thing ever.
Drove back over the Golden Gate Bridge.
with bff in CA.
ran past lemon trees.
ran past orange trees.
couldn't believe my eyes.
last night as I was drifting off to sleep thought: "if I could lay down music notes like paint, I would musician for you."
and
"archetype
arch type et al
ark typical
arc
thrift
bit
sore."
or in other words, Persistence of Vision.
(and my answer is no)
"I address you all tonight as you truly are: wizards, mermaids, travelers, adventurers, and magicians. You are the true dreamers."1
I read a book where Georges Méliès2 told me that Prometheus was set free, Prometheus who gave fire to man and gave us light to project our films.
In another book I read, "At the heart of cinema are machines that, in essence, pull a strip of sensitive plastic past a light."3
In my favorite book we honored the growers of turnips.4
I no longer droop from weariness/wariness of my dreams. I have a secret bad dream journal where all my nightmares go. The little booklet hides deep in a recess where no one can find it. When I write my dreams into it they lose their power. There's nothing better than taking power from the nasty night frights. A doctor I went to for heart burn told reminded me that I should have a bedtime ritual. I've started drawing a picture every night before I go to bed, I make it something whimsical and as I tuck the covers under my chin I imagine dreaming about my whimsical drawing. It hasn't happened yet but my imagination is coming to life.
Will you dream with me, please? This year can we imagine the fantastical, the wondrous, the unstoppable? Can we dance with Godzilla in the New York City streets, can we march through the hills, and craft houses like wild things? Can we speak beaded words and braid documentary tales and watch watch watch whales?
YES!
Everything,
EVERYTHING
is possible.
1. The Invention of Hugot Cabret by Brian Selznick, page 506.
2. Georges Méliès was a magician who quickly realized the magic of film. He is most famous for his 1902 film "A Trip to the Moon" which you might have seen revisited in the Smashing Pumpkins' Tonight, Tonight music video.
3. Page three of my very first film textbook, Film Art an Introduction 7th Edition by David Bordwell and Kristin Thompson.
4. The last in the Chronicles of Prydain series.
WHY
have we made our lives so stuffy and insided?
WHY
do I not live in a tree house?
Sometimes I look at our youth (as in the youth we possess and not an age group of people) and I think we've become renaissance men. I don't mean in aristotelian or neo-platonistic ways, I'm bored by those ideas right now. I mean we're becoming jack-of-all-trades-like. I was talking to a friend the other day who has at least six jobs. They relate to Twitter, illegal french fries, socks, and stuffed animals. KB is working on the start-up of an Esty shop because she restores antiques and paints furniture (as well as being the cutest usher you ever did see). She says, "Why not make money doing what we like?"
Of course, the fact that we all have a million jobs may have something to do with the economy.
But before economy, when I was only sweat-shop-work aged, I dreamed of hanging my artwork up outside and selling them to people. It seemed much more appealing than selling lemonade. I figured out I could clothes pin my drawings to hangers and string them up across the front yard. I chickened out.
I plan on all-trading-it for a lot of my life. I like it.
remind me later to tell you my story about the kites.
