shift; intermedia

yay for the new intermedia class!! per the class assignment, will now use this blog to chart/reflect as i go.

side note: conjured up this old photo i took of the poster on jamie's ceiling because i need some sort of reminder. especially in light of this exciting week and obama's speech about the importance of being of service, i feel so selfish taking an art class. such unnecessary guilt, but the voice in my head can't help but ask: what about helping people? of all times to drop it! of all times to just sit around and create random artifacts instead of rolling up your sleeves and getting busy with the rebuilding of the nation.

but breathe: this is exactly the right time to make art (and artifacts) -- what time isn't? being a creative person does not mean being selfish. it will feed into the helping others. just trust.

~

submerge

new idea: books in water.

~

under the pavement, the beach

two san francisco portraits:

walking with a camera in this city -- one of my best things to do...

in these times

at least i do still have my unpaid job.

Poet's Work (by Lorine Niedecker)

Grandfather
advised me:
Learn a trade

I learned
to sit at desk
and condense

No layoffs
from this
condensery

~

sidebrow anthology

several copies of the sidebrow anthology have arrived at my front door. interesting layout, encouraging/forcing an innovative way of reading.

despite my love of books/bound pages/ink on paper, i was surprised to find myself much preferring the presentation of my work on the site proper. won't go into the reasons here but if anyone's interested in them i'll be happy to oblige.

also personally curious why publishing an excerpt of a project ended up halting my work on the whole. haven't made much progress since. or be honest, my dear: any progress at all. i just felt like moving on. why? should i never share anything undone? and then again, is anything ever done? for me: no. i can't think of one thing. and with visual art i've certainly been known to muddy things up...also w/ creative writing, i over-edit to a dreadful, almost ocd extent. a short story has literally ended up as a 2 line experimental poem. maybe this is okay. or maybe like a child i need some sort of parent-figure (within myself, this time) to 'take the paper away.' or maybe i have a gift for slicing. or maybe i am proving my point by not even being able to end this paragraph right now, even though i'm late for a meeting! sigh.

idea for later: replicate via external image (sculpture? video?) that queasy feeling that comes from moments like the above. (why?) (b/c it could be interesting to find out more.)

well then, before i hit the button...too lazy to read the links? i am too. (they're just for archival purposes anyway, as is this whole blog). here's a text version of my piece:


---------------------------------


Excerpt from MEANWHILE (A Movement Missive Series)

Fairhazel Gardens,

I am under the chair. See half a monarch wing in the dustbin. Backyard vixen squalled all night to her cubs. No need to look outside, but I did. Red apple with a broken neck. Every word is an unnecessary stain. Take back your eyes. Remove an ant from your arm without snuff. I am under the phone book which is under the wheel. I’m in an earth, call-less.

Swift,
Dutch Flat

-

Creature,

This isn’t to be marked for errors. After last night, please. I think Kansas is a fresh deep misery and much more pretty than I once thought. There’s the severity, but. I enjoyed our travels. I’m buying you a book. Remember crossing Mad River? Wyoming? Nothing’s like with you.

Hither,
Yours

-

Lover,

The smallest slants keep happening today. All day. It’s the loosening of eye teeth. Tastes intrude like how the classical can weave it. The moment more real. Snap of your head when you thought you heard something move in the foyer. Here, drawing shutters, nearing midnight, simultaneously you’re there, the morning train towards sea, sitting backwards. Newsprint on your teacup.

Liver,
Even

-

Curiousier,

Caught in the Gunnersbury train. Stack yourself against the window. Your voice rides the length of me. Two eyes serve a movement. Would empty veins for. Greyish bruise above the pisiform. It’s not your memory, it’s you. Bloody coming up.

Halt

-

Meanwhile,

Here I am in domestic bliss and blister. Sleep spurs tangles. I took a pair of perfectly, but they were yours. She threatened suicide the evenings I did not. It’s already inside you, and submission. Collections I hope to keep discretely. This year’s little sense. Your commentary: A twinned sigh across the airshaft. Dry crackle the blues. Soft metal. Buckled love.

Mine


~

elation!

no need to say it, because this date, when i look back at this, will speak for itself.
now, but about the play i'm writing...(project w/ j)- too late/ too early to shift shape? how can i even capture hope, anyhow? do i want to? just like taking a break from the camera to look out with naked eye instead, maybe this barack obama moment is a time to just witness it and feel.

~

day of the dead

feeling inspired, awed, reverent.

tried my best to capture the energy of the night.

heartbreakingly sweet, a shrine for babies.

spinning baby toys hanging from the tree. here, a sippy cup a-twirl.

crossing paths with a skeleton.

scribing messages for the loved and lost.

still life, with pomegranate.

ghost on a cell phone.

color and light.

the webs we weave.