Dysfunction is spelled with a Y.
and a D: Do you ever stop talking?
and a Y: Y why aren’t you treating me like a hero when I tracked down information you were too lazy to get?
And an S: Saying the same thing over and over- and over
And an F: Feeble
And a U: Understanding anything I’m saying?
And an N: Not the way it’s done
And a C: C-c-client
And a T: Totally annoying
and an I: Ignorance is bliss
and an O: Oh
and an N: Normal for you maybe
As an Independence Day treat I offer this silly valentine I picked up today at an antique shop.
On the back in lovely Palmer-methodish writing, it says:
Miss Golda Newton, Ewing, Illinois.
2-13-17
Golda,
Will try to see you before very long cant say what day. It was so cold I suppose you did not look for me Sun. Write me soon. Emery.
You will note that the verse refers to bread, pie and cake, yet the rosey cheeked young scamp has only a bag of hard tack to snack on.
You will note also there are two bluebirds of happiness lurking around the 11 year old boy with holey hose. He appears to be contemplating marriage or suicide. He also bears a strong resemblance to Connor Oberst.
What can we conclude then from this example of early 20th century ephemera? Simply this – that women and children were exploited, that it’s difficult to attain the American dream when the bluebirds of happiness are pecking holes in your hose and that pie is an important symbol of wealth and security. God bless America.
I’m moving things around. Still. Boxes, books, photos… God I was young then. Almost shimmering with unfaltering love.
I could pile everything in the garage and start all over again. But there isn’t enough time. I have a pile of new library books, 2 calligraphy books making their way through the mail and So You Think You Can Dance tomorrow night.
I take down a painting and hang something else in its place. Repeat a couple of times. My hands are a business.
After a while I’m left with a bunch of little holes in the wall. I spackle and touch up with paint. The cat bites at the phone cord until I chase her away.
It’s fresher now. I feel contentedly wired.
Later Sleep betrays me. I listen to “Weird Fishes Arpeggi” over and over. “Phantoms I follow to the edge of the earth. Everybody leaves if they get the chance.”
New Age wisdom would say this is symbolic – this patching and smoothing and feathering of the nest. Repairing my heart. Patching the holes , sanding the rough spots, refinishing.
New Age wisdom is bullshit and I’m no handyman. I hit repeat.
A couple of months ago I read The Secret Life of Cowboys by Tom Groneberg and I fell in love with his writing. His wife Jennifer’s a lovely writer too and she once commented on my blog, which made me happy.
I have quotes from his book written down and sometimes when I’m hungry I read them – “As August ripens, things sour.” ” Night is gathering. I can smell the burning stars.” Delicious. And fat free.
I’ve gone and memorialized Tom Groneberg’s words on an egg.
“This place I’m dreaming of is tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. And if it doesn’t exist, I do not want to know about it.”
The end.
I’m fairly trembling with energy.
My tiny chihuahua-sized cold isn’t stopping me.
The weekend before I got my chihuahua sized cold, I had no energy. I languished by the TV watching the Food Network all weekend. “Such amazing people. They cook. Why does my face feel like it’s melting off?”
This week I am my own HGTV/Food Network star.
Lots of scrubbing, sometimes with my newly acquired Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. I like bald men.
Lots of pile making. Weeding. Whittling. Stacking. Straightening. Storing.
New piles in new locations.
Making omelets and chicken and biscuits. Baking cakes with rosewater flavoring. Copying recipes. Grinding coffee beans.
Would this [ugly] $10 metal shelf be tolerable if I painted it pink and hung it in the bathroom? No, it would actually be cute. Note how tight the screws are. This shelf is sturdy. You can put things on it.
Planning projects…and I could do this and this and this. I just need more tools.
Putting dvds in alphabetical order. Rearranging Dave Matthews Band cds so they are in order of release date. (I realize this borders on abnormal but I’m just going with it.)
Closing files at work. They’re not even my files , but just look at all the room I’ve made. Praise please.
Pulling weeds. Sharpening pencils. No task too small.
I like being like this. This making chaos out of order and order out of chaos.
Finishing books and closing them shut with a satisfying snap.
*HE WON
Vote for Black Skeptik in MTV’s Best Freshman Video.
http://www.mtvu.com/music/the-freshmen/nominees-062209/
He’s a cool guy and super clever wordsmith.
It’s bloody hot and my brain’s melting. Sometimes I feel dizzy. Before too long I’ll be reduced to a puddle of steaming sweat. Picture the wicked witch of the west after Dorothy threw the bucket of water on her. That’s what I’ll look like. Except I’m not wearing black obviously. Who wears black when it’s hot?
To commemorate It’s Definitely Hot Enough to Fry an Egg or my Brains on the Sidewalk Day – more pysanky made in 2009 – before my brains started leaking.
I’ve met someone.
He’s quiet, thoughtful and down to earth.
He enjoys gardening and evenings at home.
He’s cheerful and a good listener.
We’re planning an October wedding.
I have no tales to tell. No reviews, no yarns, no funny anecdotes. Definitely no lengthy narratives about cleansing my physical space, in-betweenness, artistic journeys or nourishing my soul. Because stuff like that makes me kind of want to punch my pillow.
This is all I have.
Today 3 SunTrust employees told me to have a wonderful weekend. Two of them literally shouted it from their desks on my way out the door. Way to drive the point home. This bank doesn’t just urge you to have a good day – it demands that you have yourself a wonderful weekend.
Yesterday at Publix, a manager came up to the male cashier and whispered something to him. The cashier, who was older than me and had grey hair, looked down, fastened a button on his shirt and said “Oh. I didn’t know it had come undone.”
As I looked for books at the library the other day I became aware of arduous grunts and exhalations of ecstasy resonating through the closed door of the family bathroom. It continued for some time. Eventually the grunter emerged, alive and well.
Now go on. Get out of here and get back to those pretty, soul- inspiring blogs. Because all you’re going to find around here are some observations about weird corporate policies and grunting.
I think I’d live in
Tinkertown just to tell folks
I’m from Tinkertown
_____________________
BFA thesis
illustrating the question
what is art is what?
______________________
was it the cold wind
or empty campus sidewalks
causing nostalgia?
_______________________
