Mighty Casey

Wild Into

2012-01-22T22:38:00.000-08:00

Kathryn Spence, from the installation, Short Sharp Notes, Rolling or Churring Whistles, Clear Phrases

The other day, a hummingbird flew into my house. Have you ever tried to catch a hummingbird? It ain't easy. And the poor things never really want to take a break. The hummingbird flew round and round my living room and kitchen ceiling, beating its wings against the crown molding and scaring my dog so much he wouldn't come back in the house. After about 20 minutes of trying to coax the hummingbird back out through the front door by basically asking it nicely to leave, I started to panic. I had to leave and I really didn't want the death of a hummingbird on my hands.

I remember when I lived in Mexico, I was always surprised to see the rows upon rows of hummingbirds for sale laid out at the weekly flea markets along with the antique frames and rusted tools. I never understood who could possibly want a dead hummingbird. But when you actually saw them still, they were beautiful, startlingly kaleidoscopic creatures.

I left the house and came back as quickly as I could and heard nothing. For about 10 minutes. And then the hummingbird emerged beating against the door jam. Unable, once again, to find a way out. I watched him for a few more minutes, occasionally resting on a window sill, and tried to swat him unsuccessfully with a broom. When I saw my neighbor and her dog in the front yard, I called her in. She brought over a ladder, a metal bowl, and a flat piece of cardboard. She climbed the ladder and as I continued to swat, she attempted to trap him in the bowl as he flew past. As the bird flew by, more and more frantic, he left dark, tiny feathers on the ceiling.

But, no luck. Finally, after about 30 minutes, the poor bird rested on the sill again, and my neighbor caught him, slide the board over the bowl, and we raced out of the house to let him go. For a long moment he didn't move. And then, out of nowhere, he just flew off into the air. We looked at the cardboard and there was a tiny smear of blood. Hummingbird blood.

We both felt exhilarated by the release. But what did it mean? A hummingbird had never entered any of my homes before. Why now? Was it a good sign? A bad omen? And wasn't hummingbird blood a particularly powerful ingredient worthy of some kind of sorcerous spell. Did my house need a cleaning? Or had it just been blessed? My heart pounded as I shut the front door and wondered what the next wild creature would bring.

Things you should know about me if you don't already

2012-01-18T22:33:00.000-08:00

Eleven

2012-01-11T20:54:00.000-08:00

Photo by Thierry Bouët

We are in the precious remaining last few days before the semester begins. Yesterday I spent sleeping, eating bacon, eggs, and pancakes, and then napping some more. Today, I was a bit more productive. It's hard to predict what I feel like each new day. I am no longer in charge. My body, it seems, will make its own decisions for me from now on. It really is like a bad J Lo rom com.

In other news, who do all these pregnancy books think they are talking to? Decorate the nursery? Dude, that would require a two-bedroom apartment. Start picking out a crib? Uh, don't I have, like, 6 months and a baby shower before I really need to decide on sleeping apparatuses? And don't get me started on all the lame sidebars for Daddy, like, Why not a baby shower for Daddy? and Just for Daddy: Lamaze! Puke. I know gay couples have been dealing with that shi-ite for centuries. But it's so 1985. C'mon folks!

It does remind me, however, that I will have my share of explaining to do. My friend's son upon overhearing that I might be pregnant, promptly demanded to know who got me pregnant. Smart ass! Others want to know all about the sperm donor. And still yet, there are some people who know more and some less about exactly how it all came to be. And I kinda need to keep those stories straight. But with all that blood rapidly leaving my brain and travelling south, that I fear, will be a challenge.

So, next week I officially wave goodbye to the first trimester. And I start teaching four classes. I am hoping I can use the pregnancy as an excuse for basically everything, but in particular, for why I just can't seem to stay awake during their groundbreaking films and why I just can't seem to keep up with reading their mind blowing scripts.

Passing

2012-01-05T20:15:00.000-08:00

photo by Joseph Szabo from the book "Almost Grown"

I live near a school. An elementary school to be more precise. Because I have a dog, and because he is oft in need of walks, I find myself near the school at various hours of the day. I have always loved the sounds of a playground: rubber balls hitting pavement, screeches sent across the jungle gym, even the mechanical echo of the school bell. And I have always felt melancholic during summer when those sounds go away for months at a time. I was one of those kids that actually got depressed at the end of the school year. Even at a young age the end of the academic year marked, not the arrival of summer, but another year passing. I distinctly remember during those moments thoughts like How many more years just like the last? Will I be the same person I am now when I return in the Fall? and Will I ever make it to the 8th grade? Summer just seemed to be so purposeless, and though I appreciated the pool time which basically could last from 9 in the morning til 9 at night if you begged hard enough, I never really knew what to do with myself.

As a teenager, however, I did find that when I returned back to school for the 10th grade, I was a new person. I had had sex, I had gotten stoned, I had figured out how to elude my parents' reach. I had found late night bus routes to take me to the places I wanted to go. I knew where the skateboarders and the punks hung out. I suddenly had taste in music and movies. Even an appreciation for art and poetry. I was someone new. I could reinvent myself. And this new self that I presented to the world was believable.

I have spent many years inside some kind of school or another. Most of my life, you could say. And today, I have those same summers off. But teaching college doesn't make me feel the same kind of heartbreak that being connected to elementary and secondary school does. I guess the kids I teach don't seem to grow up all that fast...they are already more (or in most cases less) there. When summer comes, I am ecstatically relieved. The campus doesn't have those same playground sounds, and while the cafeteria may be just as bad, there are no ringing bells to remind us each hour of the time passing.

The Final Countdown

2011-12-30T23:42:00.000-08:00

Self Portrait as Art History: Mona Lisa in Pregnancy, Yasumasa Morimura

By the end of the 10th week, the embryo officially becomes the fetus. The embryonic tail disappears. The reproductive organs mature. And I am starting to officially feel pregnant.

Soon there will be people to tell and decisions to make. Will I move? When do I tell my job? What about my big pit bull? And does this mean I take my online dating profile down?

So far, the winter, the holidays, and the pregnancy have made me want to stay close to home, eat a lot, and watch bad movies at night. Is this what the next 7 months have in store for me?

In other news, I have to find a doctor who will agree to work with a midwife, and a midwife who won't be on vacation in the middle of summer when the baby is due. And I also have to find someone to be there for me. I am thinking I will just hire a professional, someone I can really count on, rather than, you know, mom. Can I hire someone to come to the Lamaze classes, too?

The other thing is that I absolutely have to finish the film. And I only have three short weeks until I go back to teaching four junior college classes a week. And I guess 6 months or so after that until my world changes entirely. So the pressure is on, even if the motivation is a little lacking. Let's just say, I am a mite distracted these days.

Secrets

2011-12-20T08:40:00.000-08:00

19th Century Pregnancy Doll

Last night I dreamt there was blood. I know it's because of the doctor's appointment tomorrow. It's odd, those ultrasounds. Peeking inside like that. It almost seems like cheating. I mean, for centuries, we didn't have this technology. Pregnancy was a matter of faith. And deep mystery. An alchemical process.

Eventually, when the organs start to rearrange themselves around an expanding uterus, and the cartilage begins to soften so bones can spread, and the blood once used to support brain cell activity flows south to instead encourage embryonic cell development, a complete mutation of the female body as I have known it for 41 years will occur. It's already begun.

I have heard the process continues once you have a child. That feeling of not belonging to your own body. Of, well, belonging and being for someone else entirely. How can something so common as pregnancy and childbirth, seem so wildly different from anything I have known thus far?

7 weeks

2011-12-17T15:20:00.000-08:00

Window Water Baby Moving - Stan Brakhage

I went to the doctor's office two weeks ago, and there is indeed now a little bean growing inside of me. Though the nurse both showed me what was supposed to be a faint heart pulsing and made me listen to what was supposed to be the faint swishing of a heart beating, I did not believe her. It all looked kinda empty and sorta unimpressive to me. But, I decided to take their word for it and accepted their sincerest congratulations. Now, I have a mere 5 weeks to go before it starts getting official. I do hope the little bean can hang on.

Like many who have come before me, I did decide to buy a few books so I could at least know what not to eat/drink/pop-into-my-mouth. And courtesy of Google, it seems, pretty much everything that hasn't been parboiled for 30 minutes is up for debate. But the thing that has proven most challenging (OK giving up coffee was pretty hard) has been keeping mum. So I pee on a stick, and I see a red cross, and then what? Just sit there for 12 weeks and not tell anyone? Not gonna happen. I know things can go wrong, and the risks are high at my age, but I just have so many questions, so many anxieties, so many moments of joy, they can't all be contained solely by my poor, slobbering dog.

So hence the blog. Hence the black and white ultrasound photo on the fridge...and if people happen to ask me why I am not drinking, well, I just tell them.

So here we are in limbo. Crossing our fingers. Waiting nervously for the next doctor's visit. And beginning to wonder just how a single, working woman with no family in town, might manage.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

2011-11-06T12:44:00.000-08:00

Photo by Tom Starkweather

In reasons pertaining to zen and the art of artificial insemination I find myself this early fall in New England, a place I have spent little to no time in. Not only that, but I have found myself jogging on the Robert Frost trail, and like most who would set foot upon this particular trail, thinking to his celebrated poem, The Road Not Taken.

Now this was a poem I was forced to memorize back in the 7th grade by a certain teacher that went by the boozy name of Mr. Hennessy. As far as poems go, this was a good one for 7th graders to tackle namely because it was short and spare, and hence, easy to follow. I can't say that it had a monumental impact on me back then, but I like to think that I understood the simple point of the matter and that perhaps, perhaps it was one more encouraging nod that I could head off and just do my own thing.

Today, I read the poem and like Frost, seem half-pleased with myself for the journey I have chosen. Maybe it's because of the crisp autumn air, or the delicious apple cider, or perhaps because this California girl gets to rub shoulders with the golden-red-yellow New England leaves that I am feeling generally all optimisic-y. Lord know, it has not always turned out the way I wanted (just read the last year, yes year! of trying to make a baby or the last five or so years of my heartache in romance), but it has been a journey entirely of my devising. And at the ripe, old age of 41, when I think about the road not taken, I have few regrets.

And so, with the Occupy fill-in-the-blank springing up all over the place and with a recent birthday under my belt and with the shortening days and with the here-I-go-again-trying-to-have-a-kid thing, I decide on this day, not unlike all others, to be hopeful. And maybe I can one day look back and think that that has made all the diference.

Things I know 2.0

2011-09-17T16:13:00.000-07:00

Things Fall Apart by Robin Schwartz

Redwood trees are drop dead gorgeous.
The combination of sweat and a cool breeze can drive me to ruin.
A bird feeder bound and resurrected by duct tape will still adequately feeds birds.
Yard work, like laundry, helps when feeling all blues-y.
Music can make it worse.
One can perpetually feel stuck at the crossroads.
There are few chances for do-overs in adult life.
Searching for clarity can keep one waiting.
Summer is over.
I miss you.

Mḕ kheíron béltiston*

2011-07-02T12:56:00.000-07:00

GrandMa’ SuperHero by Sacha Goldberger

Well, the good news is, um, it's summer-y. The bad news is that there is no embryo willing to develop inside of me. Rounds 3 and 4 have proved as unsuccessful as the first, and though I have had the pleasure to lie on my back repeatedly throughout the last couple of months, that has mostly meant with my legs in stirrups.

Last attempt we upped our game. This meant a new drug, a more expensive drug, that I get to administer myself. Daily. Via a shot in my gut. Who knew I would have a second career as a phlebotomist? My boyfriend couldn't even watch. But that wasn't the worst part. Besides not getting knocked up–my darling little pair of ovaries decided to do very little despite all the designer drugs coaxing them–I suffered 3 breakups, 4 melt-downs, and at least 1 full-on, snot-dripping tantrum in the Trader Joe's parking lot.

Needless to say, we are taking a month off from it all. In the mean time, I am looking into assisted reproductive science as they like to call it, in other, more affordable countries i.e. those on the verge of collapse. And yes, Greece, is at the very top of that list.

* Translation from Greek: The least bad choice is the best.

Round Two

2011-06-08T20:54:00.000-07:00

Painting by Wayne Thiebaud

Going into the doctor’s office this time around, we were much better armed for the job. Now everyone – ok maybe not everyone, but certainly anyone who has looked into the matter – knows that having an orgasm when trying to get pregnant is supposed to increase your chances of, well, getting pregnant. That’s like pregnancy 101. I have also heard, now that I have become a fertility expert, that laughing – and we’re talking gut-busting guffaws – after an IVF procedure can increase your success rate by like, 50%. At least so claims an Israeli study whereby women who are visited by medical clowns – yes, you heard me right – medical clowns, are that much more likely to get pregnant.

Well, trying to do both of these things at the same time in a sterile doctor’s office can be challenging to say the least. I leave the rest to your imagination. But, oh, add to your image a speculum, stirrups, and a tiny vial of sperm that I am supposed to keep warm in my hands. Suffice it to say that if someone were to ask me to write an R-rated situation comedy about female infertility, I swear I would be the woman for the job.

Like many things in life we are opting for the cheapest form of fertility treatment, i.e., the least likely to work. Ah, Western medicine. Almost within our grasps. Stay tuned for round three –which at this point is rather statistically likely – wherein the writer, and her partner, get to experience the joys of PMS for 14 days straight.

30 Days

2011-05-10T21:14:00.000-07:00

Laundromat at Night by Lori Nix

Another month, another period. Sigh. And I hate feeling like those women in the movies, so stricken with grief and their own barrenness, they can do nothing but sob and mope around and be utterly devoid of any other possible purpose. But here I am feeling exactly that same way. OK, a little bit busier than those women, it seems, but still. It's humiliating, people!

So, yeah. 28 days later takes on a whole new meaning these days when I find myself peeing on a whole lot of sticks, shyly buying prenatal vitamins at the market, and popping god-knows-what-they-do-to-me hormones month after month. It's hard, ladies and gentlemen, not to feel disappointed and angry and well, just a little bit stupid, after all that fuss. The other impossibly irritating thing is that way too many of my friends, family, doctors, nurses, and co-workers (?!) know all about my trials and tribulations. So like, I gotta break the news to them every time, and it's like I'm letting them down. The good news, is that eventually, they'll have to get sick of asking.

And here is the tricky thing (or so my therapist tells me) about expectations. You need to have, you know, hope for the future. Otherwise our miserable lot in life just wouldn't be worth a damn thing. But it hurts more, to want more. I guess, one is supposed to try and strike a balance. I think this is what they call managing your expectations. Sorta like hoping to not get picked last rather than hoping to be the one they all argue over.

And maybe that is something I have never been good at. I suppose I am the only one who can make it better or make it worse.

But really, who can let go of the wanting? And why would we?

Things I am discovering at 40

2011-04-22T17:29:00.000-07:00

Diane Arbus, Castle in Disneyland

That my cervix is off-center, that my uterus is tilted, and that it is really not recommended to give your boyfriend a blowjob when he is providing a sperm sample.

That women directors in Hollywood–for fear of being too old– will go to such extremes as telling their kids that they are up to five years younger than they actually are.

That constant rejection from (fill in the blank: grants, job applications, publications) does a decent job of preparing one for a wide array of life's disappointments.

That not having any religion makes certain ethical and moral debates difficult to articulate, especially when travelling next to a fundamentalist on a long plane ride.

That it might be ok if all my students want to make are films about shooting each other and throwing dead bodies in trunks....as long as they get it out of their systems now.

That it is nearly impossible to keep any hair-free zone in the house with two dogs.

That you should never go through insurance companies with a minor accident.

That making a baby can be a lot harder than it looks.

Things that bored me as a kid

2011-04-19T15:07:00.000-07:00

Frog Halloween in Harlem by Amy Stein

Star Trek episodes

Tom and Jerry cartoons

Having to draw on a yellow legal note pad

Having to color with a tri-colored bic pen

Saltines

Saltines with peanut butter

Waiting for the bus

Waiting to get picked up after school by my dad

Waiting in the unemployment line with my dad

Walking up the hill where I lived

Piano lessons

Prayer

Riding in the back seat of the car

Cause there ain't no cure...

2010-06-28T23:53:00.000-07:00

Droplets of water bead on the head of this blue dragonfly as it slumbers on a leaf

It finally feels like summer. I am getting used to not teaching, grading nor lecturing which all feels quite nice. The dog and I have done some serious bonding, as have I and the lake. There's a blush in my cheeks, a bounce in my step and a giddiness to the past few coupla weeks.

Meaning...it can't last. The long days are, from here on out only going to get shorter. The end of my vacation will eventually approach. And that feeling of encroaching doom that has always lurked around summer vacation's corners will rear it's ugly head. We all know the inevitables.

But for the time being I get to travel to the east coast. I get to try and make a movie. I get to go out and stomp around in my skirt and cowboy boots and sample the mens a little bit. It's precious the time, especially when we have it. And for now I get to ask myself: what is it that I want to do with this day? This hour? This moment? In figuring out how to spend the hard-earned currency of my precious time off, I invite wandering, getting lost, and staring out the window. And with each new day I look forward to the empty expanse stretching out ahead of me.

The Pin-Striped Suit

2010-06-15T23:25:00.000-07:00

Photo by Robert Longo

So the ex has taken off for the summer. The truck we shared is now sold. The apartment long gone. You could say the connections, for all intents and purposes, have been severed.

Except.

The suit. I am now storing my ex's suit. In my closet. Oh, and his pea coat. Along with a lamp and a bike that is not only missing the front brakes, but apparently, for which the back brakes need fixing, too. And so, my friends, we keep the links active.

I dunno. Call me faithful. More loyal than a dog. And of course, the fact of the matter is that once you care for someone, those feelings don't just go away. Unless, I guess, you can replace them with anger. Which I cannot. Not for any great length of time anyway. For the ex I will always have a soft spot. And he, I imagine, will occasionally be asking for something from me. For which I will most likely be obliging if I can.

So, the suit. The pin-striped suit now hanging in the back of my closet. The suit I actually purchased for him in exchange for his attendance at the wedding of a couple that we did not know very well. The suit in which he looked quite nice.

Yes, folks, nearly literally a skeleton in my closet.

But I'd rather be storing a suit for a man I once loved–for whom I can still look at and tear up, not for the feelings I now have, but for the shock that those feelings have now passed–than never to have known the man.

In Spite of Ourselves

2010-06-12T22:53:00.000-07:00

Cindy Sherman, Untitled Film Still #48

Well, it was one of those days. The kind with a lotta highs and a few lows, too. I blame the weather. Delicious. Which meant salty skin and puppy paws in the sand. And brunch outdoors. And some good ol'country on the radio. And the roommate is outta town! And stale, skunky Corona from the fridge! And the kind of nights that should never end!

Lord help us. It was the kind of day a lot of thinking got done. Some listening, too. And observations, oh, the observations! Like the pup is afraid of the incoming tide. Or that going to a beach alone can actually be better than with company. And that that duet with John Prine and Iris DeMent is best sung loud, with the windows rolled down, and the speed gauge well over 70.

Let's get lost this summer. You and me. Let's sleep with the dog and get sand in the bed. Let's forget to floss and remember to curse. Let's jump into the lake and get sunburned all over. Maybe we run out of gas. Maybe we get a flat tire. And maybe we fight all day. But maybe, just maybe, we make up our own song along the way.

She thinks all my jokes are corny
Convict movies make her horny
She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs
Swears like a sailor when shaves her legs
She takes a lickin'
And keeps on tickin'
I'm never gonna let her go.

He's got more balls than a big brass monkey
He's a wacked out werido and a lovebug junkie
Sly as a fox and crazy as a loon
Payday comes and he's howlin' at the moon
He's my baby I don't mean maybe
Never gonna let him go.

You can't take it with you

2010-06-07T15:45:00.000-07:00

The Naked Ladies Alphabet by Anthon Beeke

So I finally have some time on my hands...precious time for the professorial artist to finally get in some much need studio practice as they say in the halls of academia, but guess what? Well, one can only imagine the lengths to which I can actively do other things rather than attend to my art. Pet my dog. Water the plants. Google other people's websites and poke around over here on the blog. DISCIPLINE FOLKS! Oh, if only it were something I could purchase at the local vegan earth-friendly coffee shop in which I now write this. Or hell even Starbucks. I would buy that shit! Ladies and gentleman!

But instead, the weather is all nice-ish. The dog is too damn cute. The lake around which I live needs a good walking. And me? I guess I just need a little break.

Blank

2010-06-02T22:11:00.001-07:00

Painting by Paul Mullins

I am sure you have been all sitting on the edge of your seats wondering how was Casey's move? and what's her new pad look like? or maybe I was so worried for Casey, I couldn't stop thinking about her! The good news is that I got 100% of my security deposit from the old place and in the process found out more about the building than I had the entire time I lived there. The bad news is that I used a washer in the new place that apparently wasn't hooked up...to a drain nor any kind of pipe-like device. Yes, you can imagine. This when the entire contents of my life were sitting in boxes not more than six feet away. And to add insult to injury, after mopping up that entire mess with the moving blankets–which natch then I had to wash those, too–I couldn't get the damn washer to open. And so I spent the first night–without any sheets nor any towels.

But as far as moves go, yes it was relatively painless. And the new place is relatively sweet. The dog seems to have settled in nicely, even if the all the neighbors have reminded me about a zillion times about the importance of keeping my dog on leash at all times. And the neighborhood is about as ghetto fabulous as it gets, tumbleweaves and all.

So here we are. Back to square one in a way. Filling in the blanks. And charting our way to tomorrows.

Junk in Your Trunk

2010-05-25T23:22:00.000-07:00

Still Life with Banana, Purse and Change © Justine Reyes

The magnets on the fridge have come down, the blond wig–long awaiting that special occasion that never seemed to arrive–has been sent home with a pal, and the last little coffee mug has been carefully housed in bubble wrap. The walls now bare, the floors darn near close to naked, and the couch looking for a home still sits alone and unwanted by the users of Craigslist. And me? Well, I am trying not to let the echo freak me the hell out.

The simple mathematical equation is that shit just gets done if you begin chipping away at it. And the truth of the matter is, the more boxes that get packed, the easier it becomes to just give it all away. Thank the gods of Out of the Closet and the Salvation Army for their undiscriminating taste. NOTHING FEELS BETTER THAN UNLOADING AN ENTIRE CAR in front of one of those charitable establishments. There is an upside to moving after all and that is the process of clearing out. Because let's face it, who in their right mind would be able to let go of this much hard-earned JUNK, if it didn't mean lifting it all not once but twice?

I move in a few days, ladies and gentleman, and though the story is not an uncommon one, it is the only one today that I have to tell. Oh, there are other things...the exciting world of determining 150 students' grades in 3 days. The ensuing graduation I get to attend in cap and gown. And the large check I will soon be cutting to my new landlord.

The Things She Carried (and Can't Seem to Get Rid of)

2010-05-22T10:07:00.000-07:00

Marcel Duchamp's Fountain

The industrial mop bucket. This was a real Craigslist coup when originally found, but has, let's face it, rarely been seen in action. The industrial mop bucket comes in rubber-ducky-yellow, and sports a fashionable wringer to boot. This would make any janitor's day! But I can't seem to find any takers.
My giant TV. I no longer really want this and it has the extra added bonus as being heavy as hell. But I will give it to you for free, my friends, and even help you to the car. Were I to need another TV in the future, I hope it could be one of those lighter, flatter models. Until then, ye old You Tubes will have to suffice.
Wooden bookshelves not from Ikea. For some reason when I put it like that, this seems to scare people away instead of pique their interest. Not from Ikea was meant to imply made by hand, with genuine wood, and no assembly needed, but no one yet has been able to read between those lines.
Free bbq. Ok that one went pretty quickly. Turns out it is the season for free bbqs.
Charcoal gray couch. This is a couch with great bone structure not unlike some of our favoured actors (George Clooney comes to mind), but has succombed to the weight of my dog who has become quite taken with the right side of this couch. That being said, I think it is only the cushion that needs a bit of a cosmetic lift. Ladies and gentleman, this was once a very chic in that mid-century kind of way piece of furniture. And for 20 bucks, and some TLC, you could revive it's now faded career.

Boxes

2010-05-16T00:03:00.001-07:00

Joseph Cornell: Box with Bird's Nest and Oak Galls

And so the joyous task of packing up all my shit, sifting through the detritus of yet another failed relationship, and cramming a 2200 square foot loft's worth of furniture into a 2 bedroom shared apartment begins. And what will keep Casey sane, besides referring to herself in the third person, a healthy dose of self-deprecating wit, and that nice little bottle of pinot?? The simple fact that sometimes, a step in any direction is better than no step at all.

Today I gave away 2 of my favorite aluminum porch chairs for the simple fact that I will no longer be having a porch; I found a home for the bin of composting earthworms because, let's face it, that relationship was not the chummiest; and I boxed and sealed the very last of his stuff, conveniently stashed out of sight under the stairs for the last fours months. And though I have no idea who will actually help me lift the furniture, nor exactly how many bookshelves will have to be let go on the street corner, I am, little by little, coming to terms with the fact that I am actually leaving this space. This space in which I have spread my wings and made my own and loved so dearly much during a time when things have been so very hard. And, bit by bit, with each new box stacked on top of the next, I am becoming okay with that.

So onward brave little soldier. There comes a time for all of us when we have each in our own way–as one of my favorite writers limns–come through slaughter.

An unsolicted letter to the hetero men folks of ________Dating Site

2010-05-08T00:05:00.000-07:00

Photo/Sculpture by Heidi Johansen

Dear Hetero Menfolks,

I have a confession to make. I have not updated my profile in over five years. After the recent breakup with my last boyfriend, I simply turned my profile back on. In fact, I had no idea I still had a profile and I will confess again that I haven't even bothered to read what I last wrote. But I can safely imagine that who I was then, and the tone I was hoping to project, is now quite different from the woman I have become. Chalk it up to most likely not being ready to take dating seriously again, and I think you can cut me some slack.

But that's not what this letter is about. This letter is to politely inform you, the hetero men folk of my age bracket, how you are coming off to me en masse when I breeze through your profiles.

First of all, why is it okay for you to be upwards of 40 and yet, be seeking a woman of no more than 35 years of age? You know what, it's humiliating enough to to sift through this site, open oneself up to consideration, and possible rejection, without having to add insult to injury by making me constantly feel like shit. It's fine for one or two of you to seek woman 5-15 years your junior, but all of you? Really?

Second of all. Take better pictures of yourself! No blurry photos, no photos so teeny nor obscure they require a forensics team to decipher, no photos with other people clearly cropped out, no photos that were you at an obviously much younger age. Be honest with yourself, and most of all, be honest with me. Take the time to take a picture of yourself that celebrates who you are in as flattering a light as possible.

Third of all, run your profile by a friend. Everyone loved the sex scene in Secretary. But stand out you don't. We all need oxygen. We all think humor is the bestest, and athleticism is preferred to, oh, couch potato-ness, but as they say in Screenwriting 101: show, don't tell. I think we will get it. I know us hetero women, in bulk, have our cosas. We want a man taller than us. We all have read Eat, Pray, Love and are proud to announce it. But I have to say the women folk seem to be working a little harder here at crafting something with a little more, uh, attention to detail.

I guess what I am just saying to each of us is, read what the other men/women you are in league with are writing, compare and contrast, put a little elbow grease into it, and, at the bare minimum, run it by a friend. Let's make this a teachable moment.

Sincerely,
Not-so-ready-to-be-here-again Casey

Heavy Objects

2010-04-15T22:06:00.000-07:00

Coyotes by Kathryn Spence

It looks like I will be moving soon. I am not entirely sure where...or how, but I know that it just doesn't make much sense to for me to be here anymore. So goodbye to my wonderful home with the hand-painted birds on the walls and the wide open spaciousness and the tall, tall bookshelves and the concrete floors and oh, the sunny skylights. It will all be let go. And without getting too dramatic here, it all must.

As a devout and tireless nester, it doesn't take long for every space I move into to quickly become my home. Virginia Wolf's most well-known anthem, is one that I have always held true and dear. And I know the process is painful: the auditioning of new potential nests; the packing and sorting of what was once important, to what is relevant now; the sheer hard labour of lifting heavy objects. But oh the joy of shedding skin! And such the exquisite pleasure of settling in.

Paper Dolls

2010-03-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

Photo by Allison Brady

Single gal searching for single family home. Maybe I am just kidding myself, maybe I will just jump, but I am looking for a house. To buy. And that is a strange thing for one to do when one feels transitional. Perhaps the thinking is that this will settle me. So here I am trying to imagine what my life will be like five years from now, not even knowing what the summer will bring. And here I am amidst all the other buyers: couples, couples with kids, couples with babies, retirees. And here I am looking at the staged rooms: one staged as the nursery, or one as the home office, or one as a way-too-large dining room. I try to picture myself in each of these scenarios. OK, the home office is an easy one. But as I walk through the garden, take a tour of the garage-cum-woodworking shop, step through the gourmand's kitchen, I feel like a paper doll trying on her different outfits. And underneath it all, barely covered by my cardboard cut-outs, nothing but my knickers.

The Wolf

2010-03-20T16:11:00.000-07:00

Still from the film, Wendy and Lucy

In my dream the wolf is feriocious and attacking. He is also domesticated, but just, not by me. He belongs to downstairs' neighbor and one day the neighbor leaves his the chain link fence open. in his prowling way, the wolf begins hunting me down. As I climb the stairs to the front door of my house, I drop the heavy book I am conveniently holding. Whether this is an accident or in self-defense I am not sure. The book hits the wolf squarely on the front leg, breaking it and causing him to fall back immediately. I suddenly feel horrible. The wolf licks his legs and I know instinctively that he must be moved, that he needs medical attention, that I must help the wolf. The fear I have of the wolf and getting near him is equal to the compassion I have for the pain I have caused him. I step toward the wolf, whose lips and sharp teeth are now covered in blood. I must befriend the wolf, I must make him trust me, and I must keep him from attacking me. The wolf whimpers as I approach, frantically licking his leg, his mouth in a snarl. All I see are teeth, bloody teeth. I touch the wolf and he does not bite. I begin to scoop him up and awaken. It only takes a few seconds for me to realize that I have just had a thinly-veiled dream about my last relationship.

Slip

2010-03-06T09:13:00.000-08:00

Irina Rozovsky "Untitled"

Change. Transition. Adaptation. It has a been a slow process, his collecting of items, our official parting of ways. First a couple pans, a few days later the toaster, and then with what this morning has seemed liked startling finality, the coffee-maker. Meanwhile the few boxes of books, tchotchkes and the other more historical items remain left behind in stacked boxes. And the other stuff, the stuff no one wants, those items of ownership in between his and mine, those remain, well, exactly where we left them. The plants he never watered, now islands on the surface of his empty desk. The wool sweater my mom gave for Christmas, an abandoned figure on that side of the closet. A pair of scissors jutting up like Jaws from a hastily emptied drawer. One half of a pair of slippers peeking out from under the bed.

And so here I am. Reclaiming my space, puzzling my self, back together, piece by piece. And even though I nudge that slipper back under the bed every time I see it, it must be the dog that faithfully returns it bedside each night. Spring is just around the corner.

Blogging is so 2005

2010-02-25T18:34:00.000-08:00

Scott Kieran, Memory Holes (Random Access) II

Blogging is so 2005. My students, most of them in their early-twenties, had no idea what a blog was when the word was mentioned in class. When told to research a film blog for homework, they found the format confusing and the text hard to follow. How do I know how many friends this blog has? and Where are all the tweets? quickly led to Do you really want me to read all this? Students felt unable to follow the date, post, comment logic of each post and became lethargic when faced with so many words to sift through. Is this really how people used to communicate? they asked, shaking their heads in shock. One clever student, using the scroll bar on her mouse, realized there were even more paragraphs beyond the initial ones first seen on screen. Amidst the jaw droppings and guttural mumblings, I realized a simple class in film production had turned into a valuable history lesson about arcane forms of personal expression.

Woman sets fire at yoga class

2010-02-17T21:39:00.000-08:00

sculpture by heidi johansen

Woman sets fire at yoga class. While struggling to make it to her once-a-week much-needed yoga class, woman rushes in and pays for class at crowded register to suddenly smell something funny. When other patrons begin to yell smoke and point in her direction, woman looks down to see her jacket's sleeve aflame from one of many scented candles lining the studio. As the other women push her out out the door and throw her jacket on the ground and stomp on it vigourously, woman mourns the loss of her newly purchased, off-the-rack winter coat. When they finally throw water on the frock, she sheepishly looks for a way out of this moment but remembers that she has already paid for the class. After stuffing her wet coat into the yoga cubbie, she enters the yoga studio to whispers of what's that smell and oh, some woman caught her jacket on fire around her. Woman sits Shavasana admist the not-to-subtle fingers pointing in her direction and wonders if anything like this has ever happened before.

Therapist likens patient to Border Collie

2010-02-11T10:08:00.000-08:00

Liu Bolin from The Invisible Man series

Therapist likens patient to Border Collie. While patient freely admits to being born in the Year of the Dog, patient secretly begins to mistrust therapist. Therapists points out the Border Collie's many wonderful traits excluding their well-known nervous temperament such as loyalty, acute awareness to surroundings, and tenacity. Patient leaves office unsatisfied and more depressed than ever.

The house alone

2010-02-09T22:07:00.000-08:00

From Empty LA by Matt Logue

The house without the boyfriend feels big. Like one could suffocate in an ocean of too much space. The bed is too wide now, the ceilings too high, the couch twice as long as it should be. The list could go on. Everything feels suddenly new and completely worn out at the same time: the stains in the carpet, the scuffs on the wall, the chips in the paint. And I guess that holds true for me as well. Caught between the newness of being alone and the familiarity of having been here before. I think they call that deja vu.

And so we trudge onward. Trying to hang our head high and look at the bright side. Now I have this awesome space to myself. The dishes will more or less get done. The pantry will lean towards stocked. And I suddenly get to be the steward of my own imperfect life.

Ideas for Student Films Part 1

2010-02-03T23:31:00.000-08:00

From the series, Midway, Message from the Gyre by Chris Jordan

The Best Fight Scene Ever was in script form, to be precisely that. After the first round of shooting the title was downgraded to The Fight. When outdoor scenes were overexposed due to "too much sunlight" a decision was made to switch locations to the basement rec hall where the Christian Youth Group meets on Sundays.

The above photo is not related unless you think of my role as an instructor.

Tips #1

2010-01-30T14:15:00.000-08:00

From Cranes and Containers by Allan Ayres

If you are lucky enough to want to leave the house say in the middle of an argument on a Monday night, you will also be lucky enough to get a very reduced price on ticket sales for volunteering to sit alone at a midnight screening of Up in the Air. We're talking matinee prices. Perhaps this only happened because I was a woman and this was a particularly un-womanly thing to want to do. But what I say is never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Promise

2009-02-23T18:42:00.000-08:00

Handmade, Hannah Whitaker

Today while standing in line at the post office–something I seem to be doing a lot of these days–I overheard a conversation in the line ahead of me. A woman and her teen-age son were trying to mail a large box marked "dress outs" to a prison. I am assuming the abbreviation stood for "outfits", but I can't be sure. The woman–and again I am assuming this woman was the younger boy's mother–was explaining to the postal worker that the last box they had send had been returned. And that this time, she wanted to make sure her package arrived to its intended destination. The postal worker had to call her boss who then had to call another postal branch in order to determine exactly what-sized packages could be accepted by the prison. Apparently, the box was too big. They were instructed to buy a smaller box and roll the clothes inside, "military-style" so they could all fit.

I guess it was a mundane enough interaction. But I couldn't help wondering how the person to whom the box was addressed was related to the two standing at the counter. Daughter? Husband? Pen Pal? For some reason, maybe because it said dress, I kept imagining it was a woman. A woman in need of some outfits. It reminded me of a story a friend of mine once told me. He was working on an art project with a group of juvenile sex offenders. When engaging with them about their ideas for any projects, it became clear, that the daily hygienic products we all take for granted, were here, in prison, imbued with special significance. Shampoo, lotion, nail clippers were all highly prized objects...up there with cigarettes and other illegal items. The only time they ever had a moment to themselves was in the shower and the only thing they had any control over, was how they cleaned their bodies. That ritual–and the indulgence in that ritual–carried a significance beyond what any of us not in jail could imagine. Perhaps a reminder of existence. Of importance. Of visibility. What perfumed soaps and enriching lotions can promise, is that our body still remains.

I don't know. A moment to oneself. A moment with oneself. A moment alone. A moment of being valued and cared for, even if only by oneself, is a moment much needed. No matter where we are. And what we've done.

Things to do when it continues to rain and not even the dog wants to go out on a walk

2009-02-17T13:16:00.000-08:00

Stefan Ruiz: Kaydee Nelson, Miss Rodeo Utah 2004, Las Vegas, USA, 2004

Unemployment. Sort of. Unemployment while sending in resumes. Unemployment while trying to raise money for new film. Unemployment while trying to sell old film for which one is in much debt. Unemployment while not qualifying for unemployment. All equals something that doesn't much feel like unemployment.

Freshly Butchered Meat

2009-02-14T20:52:00.000-08:00

Freshly Butchered Meat, Emily Eibel

Things have been pretty spotty–I'll be the first to admit to that–and at this point I can't commit to anything regular, but...[stretches her arms and cracks her knuckles] it feels good to be typing in this tiny box again.

So there. The soup simmers on the stove and Piazolla accordions on the iPod. The rest of the house is quiet save for the occasional clanging pipes from the heater. It's Valentine's Day...or to be precise Valentine's evening. I've showered and changed to pajamas. This is it. And this is perfectly enough.

Well, there's more. A little bit more. My boyfriend is in bed. Watching telly with the wireless headphones on (how kind of him!) He, too, is in his pajamas...or whatever it is he wears to bed at night. The dog (all 60 pounds of him) is curled next to him. Around the bed are newspapers, comic books, empty water bottles, a couple dishes and some now-empty pill bottles. You see, this year, this holiday, is one of recovery, one of celebration-just-to-be-alive, one of transition from who we were to the better, stronger, more compassionate people we will become.

Because nothing changes one's perspective more than a hospital stay: with the rotating cast of characters even more sick and alone than you, with the never ending intrusions of staff whose full time job it is to equitably distribute the most intimate care to strangers, for the loved ones who sit by the bed quiet and inwardly anguishing, but holding hands and holding hands and holding hands until its all through.

I don't feel like it

2008-12-28T11:03:00.000-08:00

Weeki Wachee Springs 1945 © Toni Frissell

Posting that is. I need some inspiration, some reason to return. Perhaps a New Year's Resolution. But aren't there more important things? And why bother to do things, if it's gonna be half-assed? Besides, now there is Facebook.

Gunnin' for Palin

2008-11-05T13:14:00.001-08:00

Who here among us, is not ready to welcome some change?

2008-10-10T20:59:00.000-07:00

A scene from Ulrich Seidl's "Import/Export"

It's in the air, the sun, the sky, the sharp angles, the crisp wind, the deep, deep blue in these last coupla days. Everything suddenly feels different. Better. More vibrant. More real.

And so, we are hopeful. For the first time in a long time. And it makes me a little dizzy to think about. Dizzy, but anxious. It all somehow seems appropriate that I am now teaching again.

Much to my surprise, one of my production classes had 23 students. That's a rather large amount to teach the fundamentals of videomaking to. But after my first class, when they so patiently and politely sat through 3o minutes of silent Lumiere films narrated to an incomprehensible French accent, I knew there was potential building. When I showed them a random assortment of more contemporary short films, cries of holy shit!, and is that real? with a handful of that's crazy! thrown in, all let me know that we were on to something. As we reviewed the films a second time now with the sound off, and talked about the choice of shots the director chose, I literally heard a few gears clicking. Earlier, I had asked them all why they were here, and only one or two really seemed to have consciously chosen the class. In fact, I overheard one guy talking on his cell phone during the break relay the message that he didn't really realize he had signed up for the class. He thought it was going to be web design.

Slowly, however, we were winning them over: me, the Lumiere brothers, and the collection of shorts. I handed out the first assignment and was bombarded with questions at the first break. Questions about things I was sure I had not only clearly explained, but were also plainly written down on the assignment sheet. Nonetheless, their sheer eagerness, or perhaps it was more their maleability, that permitted me to overlook those small facts. They were alert, I had gotten their attention, and even if they had no idea what the hell they were doing there, at least they seemed game.

We shall see.

Everything that happens will happen today

2008-08-11T23:14:00.001-07:00

The view from the window

The series of tubes known as the internet are now up and running here in our newest neck of the woods! Although it took over 10 business days for the pay-for-service to be provided, we awaited patiently for the return to normalcy. Having to resort to outmoded means of interactions like reading, sleeping and holding up our end of the conversation, we managed to hang in there. But, boy was it tough!

Not as tough, however, as our new neighborhood! We hadn't even officially moved to the neighborhood formerly known as Dogtown–which, by the way, is adjacent to Lower Bottoms–when my catalytic converter was stolen right out from under me. In broad daylight. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my dented, over ten-year old Toyota Tacoma with it's bumper and plates falling off was apparently ripe for the picking. The mechanic didn't even blink when I drove the half mile to him and he calmly showed me right where it had been sawed off. But then again, I guess he could hear me coming.

All things being said or all equal being things, the new place is great. And when I say great, what I really mean is big! Big enough where we all, dog included, have our own special place in the house in which to hang out, kick off our shoes, and make a lot of noise (or whatever it is we do in our private time). Big enough where my boyfriend can bring home a discarded Best Buy shopping cart and use it as a laundry-basket-on-wheels without my eyes ever having to gaze upon its ugly horridness! Big enough where we never hear what each other have to say no matter how loud we shout and how many times we say what? Big enough, well, big enough where we probably will never have to go outside again.

Home sweet

2008-07-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

photo by Allison Brady

After searching for multiple ways to procrastinate from today's work, it's finally come to this. And I have been so successful in procrastinating from writing this blog!

At the end of the week we will be moving and somehow (miraculously) things seem under control. We may even eschew U-Haul and opt for using our own truck and our own muscles for labor. The BF and I are coming up with a series of safewords to insure we don't waste valuable time as every one knows moving can be so...stress free. I suggested the word trumpet, as it's in at least five different jokes I know, but he thought let's calm down could work just as well.

The only thing I am dreading is the final inspection and the cleaning of the house. Despite my captivating charm and overall cleanliness, the once blonde carpet is now more of a deep brunette. I seem to be missing at least one blind from an otherwise perfect Venetian. And those holes in the wall where I once tried to install an Ikea metal shelf, were, um, already there? I've heard rumor that these landlords are picky. They even offer a pre-inspection, a free service to all vacating tenants which, to my ears, sounds more like finding out if I have the breast cancer gene. I mean, do I really want to know how much money I am loosing?

Wait, I have an answer for that one. I do not.

But it seems like we don't have much of a choice. The neighbors have all been really friendly now that they know we are moving out. I've never had so many mailbox-conversations and it's not like we have a storage space that will be up for lottery. Perhaps it's the thought that we could be moving on to better things that brings out the nervous, chatty energy in folk. Or perhaps they are excited about the prospect of digging through all the crap we'll be getting rid of. Or maybe they just know something that we don't: like the fact that we were all really nice, albeit lonely people, looking for a point of entry to forge real relationships all along. That we move in a coupla days means we'll never know!

But I do know this. It has been a real treat to live here, and even though there is no decent sushi to be had anywhere on the island, nor a real market within walking distance, nor any rack from which to purchase Sunday's NYT, I will remember this time fondly. When you start feeling sentimental about the crazy shouting lady across the hall and her over-protective grizzly man-mate, when you reminisce about the teenagers who repeatedly scald the milk and char the coffee at your local coffee shop every morning, when you begin to wonder what will happen in your absence to the Little Caesars sign twirler and his teenage girlfriend who sits on the corner with him all day with their new baby in tow, then you know that you have truly embraced a place as home.

There Is No Rewind Button for Life

2008-07-21T22:15:00.000-07:00

A Nam June Paik image I found on the Internet to illustrate my point

That is the title for a life-retrospective book about one of my favorite pioneering video artists, Nam June Paik, who died only a couple years ago. What I liked about his work was that it was conceptual and simple, playful and direct. And when I saw that book in the Berkeley Art Museum bookstore, I told myself, Casey, remember that title. It will be useful to you one day. That day has not yet come upon us, but I am nonetheless hanging on to the phrase like some kind of good-luck-charm-for-tomorrow. As far as catch phrases go, I find that one to be pretty delightful. It rolls off the tongue rather nicely. It provides an easy-to-grasp visual. And when I am driving around in my truck looking for parking or when I am forced to watch Hardball on MSNBC by my politically impassioned boyfriend, it a useful phrase to shout out to all the asinine pundits or the meter maid who has just left behind a ticket.

It is also a nice reminder to get off my ass and do whatever it is I want to do with my life. Like now. And, from time to time, even I could use those kind of gentle reminders. So even though there was little of inspiration in the museum that day, and even though two floors were closed for installation and renovation, and even though when I first stepped into the bookstore my eyes instantly glazed over with the amount of, well, books, on the shelves, there was one book that stood out among many, and without even opening up its pages, I got every dose of medicine that I needed for the moment.

It really is that simple.

Leaving the island

2008-07-11T13:27:00.000-07:00

Robert Frank, Sick of Goodby’s via That's A Negative

The rumors are true. We are pulling up the stakes, hitching up the trailer and packing it in. Or any other cliche you can use to describe the phenomena otherwise known as moving. It's been a good run over here on the island and it seemed rather eerie timing that our local neighborhood cinema closed it's doors only days ago. That it might have had more to do with the gargantuan cineplex opening it's doors down the street, does not deter me from coming to the conclusion that it is the end of an era...albeit a rather short one only spanning about 23 months.

It's not that the quaintness wore on us, or that the endless beach access became, well, tiring, or even that our mere residence next to a park with lots of trees, plants and well-tended lawns had a kind of relentlessly upbeat positivity that didn't always jibe with our cynicalness. We could pretty much deal with all that. No, it's more the fact that we are lazy and needed more space and that the easiest thing to do was to simply take over our friends' lease when they themselves skipped outta town.

Not that there are things we won't miss. Like the sounds of the local baseball team cheering us on as we come home from work, or the sight of children haphazardly jumping off of swings or the smell of the nothing-but-barbecue summers. And it's not like there aren't plenty of things that we will be gritting our teeth over as we tip toe back to the ghetto, like, oh, people shitting on our front porches or car horns blaring at 6 in the morning, or the overall lack of fresh fruit and produce available at the corner liquor store. But hell, more than anything right now I could use a little more space. And I think all of us, family dog included, would benefit from a change of scenery.

Well, we had a nice run. When I first settled on the island, it was just me, some boxes and a couch on its last legs. Now, not only have I collected much more hand-me-down furniture, I have also accumulated a dog and a boyfriend (in that order, at least, chronologically speaking.) One day when I grow up, I would like to move back to the island as it seems like it is hospitable to young children and a nice place to spread out when you decide it's time to let yourself go.

Until then, we will miss you.

I'm sticking with you

2008-06-16T21:25:00.000-07:00

Jumping Rope, Jill Freedman, 1976

Hey whadya know, it's been a month! Congratulations to me! I've only had a few things to deal with this last month: like a paralyzed dog, a staggering vet bill, a difficult decision to make about how much the dog was worth, a laptop that was leaked on by a bottleful of water and, hmmm, what else? A new job, a looming deadline, a few parking tickets...ok, now I am starting to reach. I've been busy and I haven't even read any blogs, let alone write one. Not that I really read many anymore. Most of them have gone offline. I suppose it's cyclical and I admire those that can keep up. Kinda like keeping up with the latest in fashion, music and drugs! Impossible! As one reaches towards their, ahem, thirties, one has to let go a little bit.

I am sure you are all dying to know about my new job. Well, too bad I can't tell you! If I had to sign a confidentiality agreement at the interview stage, you can imagine the security issues as an employee. Let's just say there is a gun safe, surveillance cameras, alarms, locks, passwords and protections...you name it they got it. All for what? For a summer blockbuster that will be all over You Tube in no time. But who am I to complain? It's my first foray into the narrative world and it's a helluva lot better than the murder-reenactment reality TV stuff I was editing a few years ago. But don't get confused. I'm not actually editing this narrative blockbuster. No siree. I am merely editing the Blu-Ray extras. But for now, it'll do and it pays handsomely...gun safe and all.

The only other news is that I am traveling to the East Coast this week for my film. Yes, another festival has deemed us worthy of its laurels. Too bad we blew our wad on the premiere. We didn't even bother printing up postcards, and now I feel kinda like a chump. Oh well, it's too late now! So far none of the tropical island festivals have invited our film, but we keep applying. Right about now, I'd take a free trip anywhere.

The art of shameless self-promotion when you really don't want to say exactly what you are promoting

2008-05-10T13:53:00.001-07:00

No sooner have I returned, than I am back en route this time heading south on the well-trodden road down to the town of my birth. Most of my family still resides there, and really, with the miraculous climate, what reasons would there be to ever leave?

I was expecting balmy and warm, but the weather declined to agree and I was forced to suffer the cold in my summer-y party dress and sandals.

Why I am here you ask? Well, two reasons, which is usually how I like to coordinate trips down to my family. The obvious and best reason: Mother's Day. I think it's been and quite a few years since I've celebrated this one in person and my family is a stickler for all things birthday, anniversary and holiday. The other is that I have a short "art" video playing as part of a sideshow related to an exhibition at a rather fancy museum. Well, we didn't make it inside the museum this year, but, for two nights only, the video will be projected outside as one ambles the gardens of this marbled musuem. Hey, it's a free event and they even printed up a nice brochure with some rather studious text:

Lxxxxx Pxxxx and Kxxxxx Gxxxxxx-Fxxxxxxx consider the body as erotic object in Bxxx Txxx Ux. However, in this case. the nude female body placed on display is composed of glistening plastic, as if the constant deployment of the female-as-erotic object finally renders her completely non-human.

Who knew thats what I was up when I made this film in graduate school?

All that she desires

2008-05-06T10:18:00.000-07:00

polaroid by Patrick Romero via Amy Stein

I sat there bleeding on the airplane and watching the film about Jane Austen. I could not bring myself to get up and walk to the bathroom and the two, the blood and the film, seemed very much related. Do you know what it is like, to feel blood coming down and then dripping between your legs? I took pleasure in the feeling, in the knowing that without the other, each on its own would have been banal.

The flight had been delayed and I would be returning home late. I looked forward to the boyfriend and I hoped he would bring the dog when he came to pick me up. But, in some ways, I hoped more that the flight would continue to be delayed. I relished the idea of flying around the sky, never touching down, and retreating to some kind of limbo. Limbo was a luxury. A luxury I wanted to taste.

I saw the documentary about Cindy Sherman, an artist I have always admired. As a college student I had a box of postcards: pictures of her earliest photographs. I knew that she had taken the photos of herself, had become her own subject, but the photos didn’t reveal anything about her. Each of these photos told a story, melodramatic and familiar, and at the same time inconclusive. In the documentary, the filmmaker befriended the famous artist and, surprisingly, they end up together. But the shadow of her art and her success eclipse him completely.

On the plane, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my future. This is what all the self-help books suggest. It is even what a few of my friends suggest. I couldn’t seem to get past what the next step on the ground might look like. Tomorrow? Next week? I felt like an alcoholic in rehabilitation: one day at a time. Even when I tried to envision the secret to my success, I couldn’t get beyond the next day.

There are so many things to explore in the universe and it makes me dizzy to think of it. Like trying to count all the stars in the sky. A Herculean task.

I would like to close my eyes and drift instead of counting. I would like to feel the brightness of the stars instead of seeing. And I would like to know the limitless of the universe instead of imagining.

All that glitters

2008-05-01T07:01:00.000-07:00

photo by Brian Ulrich (don't know the title)

I may no longer officially be a blogger. I haven't written in months. But that most likely means only good things. That I am out experiencing the world, that I am too busy to reflect, that I am concerned about other things, for once, than my own miserable existence.

Oh, and I have been traveling. Currently, I am in that famous East Coast City where my film has been screening, and I haven't even gone to see that famous Biennial yet. I am tired. I am broke. And I hate to admit it, but I am kinda happy.

But don't worry, I am still a grump and curmudgeon. I mean, you wouldn't really be able to see a difference from the outside. It's still me.

So yeah a famous filmmaker (yes, I am talking about myself!) at a famous festival with no job and no next film. Not the best strategy for promoting my career. But at least I made it here. The place I am staying is lovely. And the weather for the most part, nice. And of course, every time I come to this famous town, I can't help but fancy myself living here. Especially when it's not winter.

So. Sigh. How dullsville it will be when I return. And how nice it is to feel special-and I don't mean in that special ed kind of way. It does wonders for the morale. Maybe it will be the boost I need to get the next project started. I just can't imagine being at the starting line again.

On my way home

2008-04-12T14:30:00.000-07:00

I have been busy blogging on my film's website so forgive me. I really can't blog like I used to! There just seems to be so many other things to do nowadays. Jeez. Really, I'd like nothing more than to keep you all abreast of all the fantabulus details of my personal life, but somewhere along the line a bit of that exhibitionist charm wore off.

What I can say is that I have been to Taipei and back. I have missed a flight to Mexico and managed to still arrive to and return from Ixmiquilpan unscathed. I have started teaching an editing class and shown up at least partially prepared. I have kept my dog fed and my boyfriend charmed at least when I have been around. The weather is lovely and I do mean lovely so the spirits–and those spirits belonging entirely to me–are high. Even if I do have to work on the computer all day on a Saturday, I can leave my windows open and the door cracked.

But I bet you can't tell which photos are from where and what I was doing at any of these exotic places. I certainly wasn't doing anything like eating...

On being blind

2008-03-22T10:37:00.000-07:00

Ariella and Crow by Sarah Small via, once again, Amy Stein

For once I can't really complain. The film will be playing at a major festival soon. I've almost cut an hour version for broadcast. I've cut down to 75mins. for festivals. I'm traveling to two different countries in the next month. If I could just get someone else to do my taxes and pay the huge amount I will owe this year, I would be feeling pretty close to perfect.

Finishing this film has been very weird. At a certain point you just let go and let it be what it is and what it is certainly isn't to everyone's tastes. I can't bear to watch it anymore, even though I have to go in again today to tweak and compress and burn screeners and finalize the mix. I am not even sure how I feel about it. Is it a good film? Does it have anything really to say? Every confident decision I made along the way, was eventually questioned. There are certain scenes I don't love, certain music tracks that could be better, and I have no idea how to gauge the pacing after having watched it a bizillion times. And trying to make it better for this festival coming up–which means, after all, at least one person will have to review it–has felt like painting in the dark. Certain things feel right, but at this point, I have such a blindness to the piece.

Everything is consumed with the upcoming events and my back and neck are shrieking in pain from being hunched over the computer. I was a real bitch last week to my producing partner and it was her birthday. So now I have to grow up and behave and make good. This nice weather and blooming cherry blossom trees should help.

At Last as sung by Etta James

2008-03-10T16:31:00.001-07:00

Print by Hannah Whitaker via Amy Stein's Blog

Well, there is good news...but I already got in trouble for announcing it on my film's website, so I can't really say here. Suffice it to say, the film will be playing at a domestic festival and not the Bakersfield Women's Festival of 90 Minute Docs That Took 7 Years to Make. A real festival.

And now the freak out begins. It's little more than a month away and I haven't had my hair cut in over a year nor a decent eyebrow waxing in weeks. And oh, not to mention how green I feel. Press already contacted us about screeners and stills and our director's statement and we are just feeling a little unprepared and a lot overwhelmed.

But the absolute most anxiety-provoking thought–the one which keeps we awake at night–is which version of the film to show. We finished cutting our 86 min version back in November but recently started cutting our hour-length version for broadcast. And well, now that some time has passed and I've seen it with audiences, I can certainly see a few places to cut. But it doesn't give me much time to sit with it. The festival wants to know, pretty much yesterday, how long the film is. And then we have to send them about 50 copies of it. And then-

Sigh. Yawn. Freak out.

And repeat.

What's in a name?

2008-02-23T22:18:00.000-08:00

The above title will most likely have little to do with this post, but as you may or may not know, once some tidy phrase or keen groupings of words comes into my brain, it becomes quite hard for me to let go of them. So there is lays. A question that rolls off the tongue quite nicely and begs an answer for which we will nonetheless be unrequited during the remainder of this post.

Onward!

A night of drinking, movie watching, and sentence boggle. A night of politics, film ideas, and poorly remembered video game playing. A rainy night, not unpleasant, which has left my head only slightly spinning and my obsessions, for the time being, quietly laid to rest. A night, a bar, a few friends. OK, I think you get the point.

A. Short film idea (in the documentary category): the history of bathroom graffiti. Who do you know who actually admits to writing this stuff? What compels them? What comes first: the idea of what to write or the compulsion to just leave your mark? Where does this legacy come from and can we claim hieroglyphics as it's ancestor?

B. Short film idea (in the scripted category): people trying to recall and tell jokes in a social setting. Some people just have this knack, most of the rest of us don't. In 4o minutes, three of us could only remember one punch line (it had to do with Arafat), two witty rejoinders (Beef Stroganoff and you can see your house from here, respectively) and a myriad of beginnings (Salvidor Dali and Pablo Picasso are walking on the beach...) You get the idea.

C. Something much harder to pinpoint here. Going to a bar alone and whether or not it can indeed be an enjoyable enterprise. That it is much easier to love a dog than your fellow human. Persepolis was equally lovely and underwhelming. Obama is not quite what we want him to be. Will Google soon rule the universe? And birthdays. Not everyone necessarily wants to celebrate them.

The dreams I have been having

2008-02-18T20:58:00.000-08:00

1. Dream that I got a ticket for driving 95 MPH in a 45 MPH zone
2. Dream that I was petting an eagle and when it flew away left a feather in my hand
3. Dream that I was in a slasher film–the kind where I was a counselor at a summer camp in the woods
4. Dream that I mispronounced my own name...repeatedly
5. Dream that I was trying to read The Biography of Diane Arbus, but I couldn't make out any of the letters
6. Dream that I was flirting and then having sex with my fourth grade teacher
7. Dream that I put the baby in the broiler
8. Dream that I was underwater and breathing
9. Dream that I was late for my finals [ed.note: Casey has been out of school for at least a decade]
10. Dream that I was running through the snow

Anywhere but here

2008-02-09T10:12:00.000-08:00

Wendy Small Photograms, Globe Fruit, Young Shoots

Casey is lifting her head up
Casey is fighting the blues
Casey thinks no one like her film
Casey thinks her boyfriend can be pretty sweet when he tries
Casey barely has enough time to walk her dog
Casey is headachey
Casey is trying to change her mood
Casey knows the cold is now behind us
Casey has to work today...but on a friend's film
Casey would like to hire someone to clean the house...she's heard of such things before
Casey wishes there was somewhere else

What we are doing

2008-02-06T23:05:00.000-08:00

photo by Zoe Strauss

1. We are appreciating our readers. All three of them!
2. We are remembering our friend, Cayce, who has been gone now for a year
3. We are voting!
4. We are starting to play too much Scrabulous
5. We are trying to get up early and go running with limited success
6. We are keeping our fingers crossed as the gods decide where our film will land
7. We are listening to podcasts of Fresh Air at warp speed
8. We are public transporting (?) and loving it
9. We are watching Jon Stewart again
10. We are getting along with the boyfriend but trying to ignore Valentine's Day

we are becoming again and it feels good like spring

My poor bunny

2008-01-04T09:22:00.000-08:00

We had a harrowing New Year's in the snow. It was beautiful and we did go snowshoeing, but an SUV ran over my dog. Literally. Over. I guess I should be thankful it was an SUV as my dog did not get crushed by any tires nor impacted by a bumper. But he did get thrown to the ground and rolled around and as you can see, got pretty fucked up, including a big fat black eye. I guess, we'll have to wait and see.

I can't really say much more, except that I feel really guilty (he should have been on a leash) and really thankful (I saw it all happen and thought for sure he was a goner) and really pissed (the SUV never stopped despite the fact that I was screaming my head off on the side of the road).

There's a big storm that came in last night. It's got all of us a little down after the rush of escaping death. Everyone is feeling all mopey and gloomy. Recovery can't be easy.

Santa baby

2007-12-18T15:16:00.000-08:00

Watch me here
...resurrected from last Christmas.

Dudes!

There are some things that are just always running through my head. Like corny things I almost can't help from saying and even cornier things I can't stop myself from writing. Like: no one writes to the colonel when, well, no one writes me. Or can't stop til you get enough when I am running around the house looking for my keys or glasses. There are more. Just stick around and you're bound to hear the music. There, didya catch that? That was just one of them: hear the music. Works well pretty much anywhere. Of course, put em on the glass remains a perennial favorito.

Nothing more except I totally promised to write more often. Because I have all this writing to do, you see. Grant applications, press releases, pleas to be accepted into various higher learning institutions as a, gulp, professor. I even had to write a letter of recommendation for a good friend. And yes, a treatment for a new film idea in the works.

But mostly I need a job. Sort of. Part-time. Until someone recognizes my brilliance and hands over the Genius fellow. Anyone looking to hire an editor out there? And no, I am not interested in editing your Survivor reel for trade. Sorry.

So my advice. To me? Keep up the good fight (there another one!) Keep on keeping on. Wait, shit, no, make it stoppppppppp!
Don't
stop
til
you
get
enough...

The world according to wonder woman

2007-12-15T13:10:00.000-08:00

What the hell happened here? Not only have I not gone running for over a week, but I haven't posted in god-knows-how-long? I think I will blame the weather. It's fucking cold! I mean, not cold by Montana standards, but cold to me. Like stay-in-your-covers-for-as-long-as-possible cold. Like arguing about whose turn it is to top off the quickly loosing any warmth mugs o' coffee. Like letting the dog sleep in bed with you EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. The cold sure brings on some bad habits, particularly when it comes to me.

In other news we had our first public screening of THE FILM last Wednesday. 3 out of 4 of the girls tat are in the film were there, the young woman that wrote our title song performed beforehand, and we had a short with everyone Q & A afterward. One of the girls from the film, R, kept to her decision to never watch that fucking film again, but hung around dutifully for the Q & A. R also decided to have a bake sale beforehand wherein she made 120 bucks. We can always count on R to provide some comic relief and she didn't fail to deliver that night: when asked during he Q & A what she thought of the film she quickly replied that she hated it. I can understand. Only 3 years from when we stopped filming, it's still totally embarrassing to all of them.

In closing, we have a new obsession (besides the roots of chicha album that has been playing constantly around the house): Wonder Woman. I'm not really into superhero comics, but she makes for an intriguing story, historically speaking. Created in the early 40's by a sort of huckster psychologist who was best known for inventing and promoting the polygraph and less known for having two wives and siring two kids from each while they all lived together. Wonder Woman was his first, last and only comic book creation. In this creation he played out many of the themes he had already tried and failed to promote in his various psychology tomes: that women were inherently more honest than men, that women could one day rule the world with their power to dominate men sexually, and if men simply submitted to the love of women, the world would be a better place.

Indeed.

I will always love you as sung by Dolly Parton

2007-12-05T10:35:00.000-08:00

James Deavin from the series The Games We Play

No mames

2007-12-03T17:25:00.000-08:00

Desiree Holman, Masks (Conduits of Fantasy) 1

The Online

2007-11-27T14:50:00.000-08:00

Brendan Lott, Oil on Canvas
What Are My Motives, Are They Selfless Enough,
Are They Righteous, Righteous Enough?

It is day two of the online of my documentary in what we estimate to be a 6-day painstakingly tedious process of color correction and tweaking of shots to a price tag of you-don't-even-want-to-know. Let's just say, had we not needed to go through this process in order to deliver our film back to the people who helped pay for it, I would be the owner of fairly new, fuel-efficient compact car.

So here we are, waiting to hear the results of who got into Sundance cuz we are pretty sure we didn't, filing our rejection letters as fast as we are sending out applications, and making everyone in the film look better than they actually did–or at least, better than how my camera captured them. I get to catch up on crossword puzzles and emails, while sitting in a dark room all day, wondering about what might happen next. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I am looking forward to attending a few festivals, like maybe those in Italy, France or Hawaii. You know, the kind that offer air travel, hotels, and happy hours. It's not the primary nor even close to the tertiary reason I got myself into this kind of mess (making films, that is), but I could use a little reward for all the energy spent right about now. I mean, it hasn't even played to an audience of more than 2 yet.

But back to reality. I suppose I should sign up for that loan deferment again. At least I made it a couple years this time. I've postponed looking for a new place to live til after the holidays, and I have a couple editing jobs in line through December. I keep thinking now would be the time to write that Great American Screenplay that's been cluttering up my desktop for a few years, but I can't seem to bear to open it to see where I left of.

All that to say, it's not a bad time for me. And if you know anything about me, you should know that I always sound more negative than I really feel. I generally like this time of year. I am not as stressed as I usually am. I don't have everything riding on the success of the film anymore. And the BF and I have been getting along, in our small, small space, despite the fact that we have both been working from home together. And for the record, while I was the one who whose brilliant idea was to rent the abysmally art school-y Fur, he was the one who paid for both of us to see The Mist. Haven't heard of it? Yeah, exactly.

The ice film done-ith!

2007-11-10T15:58:00.000-08:00

Camille Seaman, Tabular Iceberg, East Greenland 2006

Well, almost-ith.

For the last seven weeks I have been about ice. Call me the Snow Queen, call me Snow White, just don't call me Ishmael. I came on to the ice film as an editor a year after shooting in Norway completed, and a week after someone else finished assembling the scenes. Not a bad way to start a documentary and a real treat–after having just edited a film that took two years in post and probably logged in at about 350 hours of tape–to be on a film where the estimate for completion topped out at a mere 6 weeks. Of course, turns out they underestimated, but it wasn't like, by a year or anything. No, that would just be the underestimate on my own film.

So two films are done-ith and I am out-of-a-job-ith. There are a couple weeks left tidying up things here and there. Maybe a week or two of paid work, but that's it. And while I do get to enter a whole new phase with the distribution of my own film–one that means the rejection letters will be piling up faster than I can burn them–the time has arrived for me to move on. Just not yet sure to what.

My Master Plan had been to be spending this year traveling from art residency to art residency, amidst a flurry of film festival travel, oh, but if it weren't for those pesky rejection letters! Plan B offered the option to start teaching again and putting that degree to some use, but here we are mid November with the academic year well into motion. Plan C, well, we are coming up with Plan C right as we speak. One hopes one doesn't have to go to Plan: No Way in Hell, and start editing for television again.

My boyfriend's advice is to just spend less money. But I've got a dog to feed and house. And PPO health care with exorbitant rates and even higher deductibles. And a student loan the size of a median house in Manhattan. And. And. And. Just when I thought I had the time to finally start going to therapy again.

So here's to something new. Something wild. Something blue.

Ice, Ice Baby

2007-11-01T17:11:00.000-07:00

photo of ice guitar, lit on fire from the ice music documentary I am currently editing. Only the strings and the head and tuning pegs weren't ice. Click to enlarge.

And they said it couldn't be done.

Why Loaf Man is not a good screen name...

2007-11-01T11:04:00.001-07:00

list via to-do list

...but Mario Plimp is.

As I sit here and write this, I am checking off my own list of notes from the first rough cut screening of the ice music documentary I am editing. Note to self: try to do notes before too much time elapses as aforementioned list usually scrawled in completely unintelligible writing.

Tiny tumbleweeds

2007-10-30T11:23:00.000-07:00

Laura Nix, Abandoned Car, from the Accidentally Kansas series via Amy Stein

My birthday is almost here. I will be 37. If you add those numbers together that equals ten. A nice even number. I hope this year is more even than odd.

P.S. I am not going to Amsterdam.

The Good, the Bad, and the Blue

2007-10-25T09:23:00.001-07:00

Melanie Pullen, Blue (Water Series)

The Good:

My birthday is coming up. My boyfriend is coming down. And I was invited to Amsterdam. I haven't been to Europe since I was underaged.

The Bad:

Despite our best efforts, my boyfriend's son has decided to go through with his enlistment. Even though he is Native American, Mexican, Arabic and Columbian. Even though it looks like the Marines are coming back with more injuries than anyone else in the Armed Forces. Even though I am pretty sure he knows that the war in Iraq (and soon to be Iran) is not only a losing one, but quite questionable morally. And even though we offered him a place to stay and about a bizillion alternatives.

It's hard to imagine what he might be thinking...but then again, it's not hard at all. I know, having lived on the Rez for the past number of years, that he probably took one look around and saw how little opportunities there were available to him. I know that he thinks it will save him from the Meth addiction that runs so rampant in that community. I know that he desperately wants to become a man: in the eyes of his family, his girlfriend, the greater culture. I know that it became important to him not to drop out of his enlistment, like he dropped out of going to college. But it breaks my heart even to understand it a little. I mean, he only graduated from high school a few months ago.

Welcome to America.

The Blue:

I don't know what more to say here. I think I've covered the blue already. I remain optimistic about the year–after all, I finished a film, I fell in love, I found a dog. But, for the people around me it hasn't been that kind of a break out year. A friend, father and husband killed himself. My film partner is separating from her husband after 20 years. Same film partner's brother is dying from a long history of drug addiction despite the short span (36 years) of his life.

I wish I had more to offer today. Something funny or at least mildly amusing. But I guess none of it is really good nor bad. And it doesn't always make me blue.

It's just life.

And I carry it with me. Just like my boyfriend's son. Just like you.

The Iceman Cometh

2007-10-18T09:23:00.000-07:00

Justin Quinnell's In-Mouth Pinhole Photography

I've been in the process of moving over my old blog to this one-one painstaking entry at a time. The writing used to be so much better! Jeesh. Lo siento. It used to be up a little higher on ye ol' priority list. But for whatever reason I persist over here. Only now with a much lower readership (thanks for the comments Mom!)

But today just consider yourself lucky. I am sick and under deadline and yet I still manage to squeak in a post. For you? It's the least I can do. The weather back home is horrendous. The leak in our roof is still not fixed and the dog snores loud as ever. It's great to be back! Too bad I have to leave again on Sunday!

In other major news we are adopting a son! Technically, he's 18, but that doesn't mean he as any other place to call home. Actually, it's not really as adoption, since technically speaking the adoptee is my boyfriend's son. But it's pretty new to all of us involved. I shouldn't be joking. I should really stop kidding now, because it would really piss my boyfriend off if I made light of this situation.

It turns out, he had enlisted in the Marines (the son, not the boyfriend) and so my boyfriend begged him to come stay with us instead. I mean, what would you do right? Let the poor kid get his leg shot off, just because he didn't get it together to go to college? You would do the same, no matter how small the apartment, no matter how tight the funds, no matter how tenuous the relationship, no matter, no matter, I mean right?

Well, we'll see. For now the son is staying at Grandma's until I leave this weekend to go back south to finish up the ice film. And for the record, the son–while a bit overwhelmed and a lot undermotivated–is a sweet, charming young man–not unlike his father. I handed him Junot Diaz' The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao which he devoured in two days and which made me feel pretty right on considering that I had just met him. We pulled out some 20 more books for him to graze and I am eager to hear the reports back.

So here's to our wondrous new lives, with all the surprises they may bring: to the son, that he may not join the military; to the father, that he may get to know his son; to me, that I may survive with all wits intact; and to all us, that our dreams not be deferred too much longer.

To leave you with a quote which I was hoping would tidily wrap all things up from headline to finish line, but which only further exemplifies the enigma that is life (and this post):

What's it matter if the truth is that their favoring breeze has the stink of nickel whiskey on its breath, and their sea is a growler of lager and ale, and their ships are long since looted and scuttled and sunk on the bottom? To hell with the truth! As the history of the world proves, the truth has no bearing on anything. It's irrelevant and immaterial, as the lawyers say. The lie of a pipe dream is what gives life to the whole misbegotten mad lot of us, drunk or sober.

-Eugene Ionesco, The Iceman Cometh

Tell me

2007-10-11T09:43:00.000-07:00

Alessandra Sanguinetti, The Adventures of Guille and Belinda and the Enigmatic Meaning of their Dreams

Has it really been 3 weeks already? My time is about up here in this sunny town. I ate lots of Pinkberry, I saw a few films, a made plans to co-write screenplays, I drank coffee, I did yoga, I ran through the park, I saw one show, I watched bad television.

And, oh yeah, I worked my ass off. But now the holiday is over. I go back home, I finish up the film (and you thought it was done!), I look for more work, I apply to festivals. The cycle continues.

But while I was here I enjoyed completely not being in charge. Tell me what to do! Please! I look forward to stumbling on a new project.

But not anytime soon.

This about sums things up

2007-10-03T12:53:00.001-07:00

photo by Eliot Shepard

Trees and gum.

I can't say much more at the moment. Think about blowing a bubble. Or accidentally swallowing your gum. That's where I am right now. Somewhere in between those two places. I wish I could say more, but I'd just be complaining.

The evenings are long when you can't sleep. And lonely when you are 400 miles from home.

Short history of the earth

2007-09-27T08:56:00.000-07:00

Kim Keever, from Short History of the Earth

Ironically, I am here in the city where the sun gazes down on it's inhabitants cheerfully 365 days of the year to edit a film about ice. It's odd to be back in a place that changes so little. Buried in a stuffy little edit room, scouring through snowy vistas of alpine ski-resorts, shots of blocks of ice gathered from hundreds-year old glaciers, and people bundled up in fancy Gortex parkas, there was a moment yesterday where I actually felt a chill. And then I stood up, realized I hadn't put the fan on all day, and that my pants wet with sweat were sticking to my chair.

I know. Gross.

But that's not all. Besides being sunny, this town has an enormous capacity for consumption. Last night under the full moon and the warm Santa Anas, I walked with my friend, the struggling writer who lives with his family, through a part of town that while being quite lovely and walkable was nothing more than an elongated mall. Shops and shops lined this promenade, all of which remained open til nearly ten. Walking beyond the shops, the blocks than stretched into rows and rows of restaurants, large and windowed, waiters standing by to greet the guests that would never come. Did these places ever fill up? So much space! So little occupancy! I felt sad for all of us: for the businesses that couldn't fill their seats, for the customers who–judging by the amount of restaurants open for business, had never had to cook a meal–and for me, realizing that we as a society would never be cured of this kind of relentless consumption.

I know, I know. Speak for yourself. We aren't all like that all the time. Most of us can't afford to be. And I myself was there for a dining experience with a friend whom I hadn't seem in a while at a small inconspicuous bistro where the corkage was cheap, and his uncle supplied the wine.

And I know, I know, that same city where I live has the exact same problems. I just know the right places to avoid that don't remind me quite as blatantly of my consumerism, visit only the areas I feel comfortable in, all the while trying to support the local Mom and Pops. But I guess I am saying that it makes me sad to find myself caught up in the same mindset (I have a wedding to attend this weekend and had to shop for a dress, than shoes to go with a dress, than underwear to wear with the dress, a small bag to go with the dress). It makes me sad that this if often the easiest thing to do. To buy thoughtlessly, wherever the cheapest shit is available, no matter the unfair labor practices behind the manufacturing, the toxins released into the environment, or the lead-in-the-paint of the actual on-the-shelf object.

And it makes me sad looking around at all these shops and restaurants, at all the people out for the evening enjoying themselves through purchase, that once we behave like this, and once we have taken it all for granted, we will never be able to act differently.

View of artist's studio set-up

400 miles from home in a place that I used to call home

2007-09-22T20:59:00.000-07:00

Nathan Baker, Pot from the Rupture series via Amy Stein

Today, on the on-again, off-again early Fall rain, I drove four hundred miles south to the home of my family. For three weeks I will be living under the same roof as my parents (!), working as an editor (no longer a director), and most importantly, not working on my film which is supposedly done. I can barely admit it to myself, but the fact of the matter is that I am mostly depressed about the film, and I am not quite sure if it is because I think it could be better (there really is nothing more painful than sitting behind a sound mixer for hours on end, becoming inured to your own film as it's images flash repeatedly at varying intervals in front of your eyes and questioning every edit decision along the way) or if it is more of a post-partum blues kind of thing where the pain of letting go rivals the confusion of not knowing who I am anymore if I am not working on the film (something I have been doing for six years now).

You'd think there'd be some joy buried in here somewhere, and I keep waiting for it to hit me, some relief, some thing. But all I can manage right now is wavering between reviewing the credits yet again (gotta make sure I remember every one!), fucking around with the font size of my subtitles, chewing my nails over the score (which is actually the one thing I can't control since I am not much of a musician), and feeling like it may in fact, really be just, well, done, and even if it's not great, at least, it's all over.

I think the troops will rally here, and when I say the troops, I am really referring to me, myself and I. I am really, really looking forward to–at least, on a theoretical level–not being in control of every little thing, not having to look at my film every day, and diving into something new. I am also looking forward to establishing some new routines in my life, like writing regularly (as opposed to guiltily or desperately squeezing it in), making shorter, smaller and more introspective pieces, walking around and exploring the familiar yet always re purposed terrain of my crazy home town, hanging out with the good friends I never get to hang out with down here, and getting back to at least one of those things that are supposed to be good for you like yoga, or biking or whatever the hell it is, that'll put me back in touch with my neglected post-production corpse of a body.

There. Not very exciting. Not yet. But changing. And like the Phoenix from the ashes, or at least, the larva from the cocoon, we are hoping something new will happen here.

Negotiations, permutations and undulations

2007-09-16T21:46:00.000-07:00

Jonathan Gitelson, from the Dream Job series

The boyfriend and I negotiate everything from the moment we wake up to the hazy fog of our slumber. A morning ritual might go something like this:

It's your turn to make the coffee. I made it yesterday. I did the dishes. I bought the groceries. I'll make us dinner...

While the evenings' plays out more like an Abbot and Costello routine:

Did you take the dog out? I didn't take the dog out. But you said you would take the dog out. Yeah, but the dog didn't seem to need to be taken out. Can you take the dog out now? I can't take the dog out now....

And so it goes. Future deals are bartered, past ones invoked and present ones renegotiated. Each has to feel like the other is engaged in some kind of compromise, or all bets are off. It's an art at which we are becoming highly skilled, a habit to which we are now accustomed and just an oddly practical way of being in a relationship. No matter if it's returning the DVD to Blockbuster, which side of the bed to sleep on, or at what time and in what way we should be having sex, the negotiations are deliberate, quite often fervent, and most importantly, necessary to the health and well-being of our relationship.

Although romance has not been high on our list of accomplishments thus far, there are more important ways–my boyfriend likes to inform me–in which one can prove oneself. After all, when we are diapered and forgetful, wheel chaired and cataract'd, when no one else will want to hang around, romance and it's illusions will be useless. Dependability–with a concise set of instructions–will be much more helpful.

I like that my boyfriend challenges me on my ingrained, and un-feminist notions, but why must they be so hard to shake? And if I can't train my dog - nor my boyfriend - to bring me flowers and chocolate–ok, in my case it would be more like potted cacti and well, yes, still chocolate–will someone advise me who I can train?

Burbujas de Amor

2007-09-09T09:24:00.000-07:00

Jill Greenberg, Untitled #5

My boyfriend likes to sing in the shower. In English or in Spanish, it doesn't matter. He has this uncanny ability to remember the lyrics to songs after only hearing them once or twice. He's always telling me I should learn Spanish by listening to the music. But I have a hard enough time even understanding the words when sung in English.

This morning he was singing Burbujas de Amor, a song by Juan Luis Guerra that was wildly popular in every country where there was a sizable Spanish-speaking contingency around 1991. I was in Mexico at the time and I don't know if the song was written for the self-titled movie or if the movie came out as a result of the huge success of the song (and the same question came up in a recent dinner conversation about Against All Odds), but the basic translation is bubbles of love.

Guerra, known for reinvigorating the Dominican bachata-and there my musicology promptly ends, go to Sound Taste for the real scoop-became a crossover hit, went on to limn songs of protest before converting to Christianity and completing (or ending, depending on how you look at it) his career with albums of devotion.

Anyway, I suggest you download it. Although, the instrumentation sounds a little cheesy now, it's definitely a sing-and-dance-a-long. And not a bad way to learn a certain kind of ingenious double entendre in Spanish. Or for those in the know, a revisit of a classic that will no doubt take you back instantly. I mean, there wasn't a baptism, grocery store, or bus ride wherein that song wasn't played.

I wish I were a fish, so I could poke my nose into your fish tank and blow bubbles of love wherever you want … a fish, so I could adorn your waist with seashells and spend the whole night buried in your wetness.

The reason why

2007-09-05T19:01:00.000-07:00

stencils from the Wooster Collective

It's day one of my sound mix and I decided today was the day that my film totally sucks. What was I thinking! And who chose that composer? Egads.

Sigh.

Yesterday, I thought it was great. I thought it was the balls (OK, I don't even know if that's supposed to be a good thing!) And now I am questioning every decision I ever made on it. At least I can be sure the font that I chose looks pretty good...I think.

Oh, hell.

It's the constant internal dialogue. The needling perfectionism on one hand and the desire to just fucking be done with it on the other. I have been telling my boyfriend that I have been done now for months now, but it never seems to end. There is always another creative decision to be made lurking on the horizon. I mean, when, I ask, when do I stop having to agonize over every little persnickety detail??

And when will the benefits start to outweigh the gut-wrenching pain of making something from my own two hands?

Ways of seeing

2007-08-31T21:49:00.000-07:00

click to enlarge, Chris Jordan, Prison Uniforms, 2007
10x23 feet in six vertical panels

Depicts 2.3 million folded prison uniforms, equal to the number of Americans incarcerated in 2005.

It was this time a year ago I found myself in Ucross, Wyoming luxuriating as an artist for two whole weeks. It seems like so little time now, but back then, it was two hard-earned weeks that felt like I had worked all my life towards. To be fed three square meals a day without shopping, cooking or cleaning up! To have not just a room with a view, but my own studio complete with saw horses, spot lights and enormous blank walls–repainted, I was told, after every artist left no matter if they were a graffiti artist or an artist of the loom. And most importantly, to have someone out there validate me as an artist worthy of hanging out with other artists and allowed to spend my day art making no matter what the results!

Ah yes, it was another time indeed. And though I promised myself that within the year I would, no doubt, be invited to attend another such residency, the reality is that I have been rejected three or four times. Turns out, they are rather hard to get into...

So here we are, lamenting the fact that I don't get to roam around the dusty plains, camera in tow, cowboy hat firmly on head, tooling around a rusty bicycle, searching for anything that makes me open my eyes. If I were to be honest, it's the seeing I miss most. Having spent the better part of the year since then either holed up behind the computer, hurriedly walking the dog twice a day, or negotiating the peaks and valleys of a new relationship, it is an exercise to which I greatly look forward. Focusing for one year on a singular goal, makes one tunneled-vision to say the least. It's about time I take some time to start absorbing once again, for, as John Berger would say, we only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice, obviously one critical for anyone who even dreams of calling herself an artist.

And I choose.

Detail at actual size:

What's not to love?

2007-08-17T11:17:00.000-07:00

Corey Arnold, from Bering Sea Crabbing

My God, has it really been almost three weeks since I've written anything? Judging by the date of my last post, I have to assume Yes! Partly I've been busy. I mean like ass-glued-to-the-work-bench, sleeping-for-days-in-my-contacts, too-weary-to-even-run-for-breakfast/lunch/dinner busy. And partly, I've managed to piss off my family (again!) by writing something needlessly cavalier just for a cheap and most unlikely laugh.

So, insert deep breath here, to my sister who came up to visit with her family–kids and all–for probably only the third or fourth time in her own life and definitely the first time in their lives, I apologize. It was a pleasure to watch my nephew, scared and excited, delicately hand over the doggie gift he'd been holding onto for over four hundred miles, it was my honor to escort the gang through our city's exemplary children's museum of science–perhaps even redefining the "human scare response" exhibit–and it was with great sadness I left them standing at a long line waiting for a ride on our city's famous public transport (editor's note: Casey has perhaps taken some poetic license here).

I totally appreciated the visit and the only excuse I have, is that sometimes I totally suck. The girl who learns not to put her foot in her mouth is a girl I hope to one day meet.

Why come?

2007-07-28T21:14:00.000-07:00

Adam Fuss, Untitled, image from pinhole camera

We survived the wedding. We survived the in-town guests. Hell, we even survived the 70's. But let's get down to brass tacks here: the film is done! No wait, it's not really done! I may cut it down to an hour. I may cut it down to 75 minutes. But technically it's reached the length it's supposed to be and that time is 86:40.

I still have to work with the composer, which means I have to let go of my temp track, which is a lot harder than I ever imagined. How do I let go? One song at a time I suppose. But I am sure the composer is sick of me saying, can you make it sound a little more like this? Something akin to giving line readings to an actor I imagine.

There are still a few more shots I need to, well, shoot. And then there's that spot about 50 minutes in where time seems to stand still, and that's not in a good way. Plus, there's the fact that we still don't have a title. OK! Not so done! But feeling done-ish. And ready to let the editor go.

The good news is that I am finding ways to squeeze in smaller moments that I really missed, but couldn't place anywhere. Like when one schoolgirl talking to another says: puberty, I don't know whats that anyways and later, when that same schoolgirl talks about her boyfriend, explains, almost wistfully: we give each other pencils. I have fallen in love with the action in the background, the things no one would ever catch upon first viewing, and I find myself spontaneously repeating the film's lines throughout the day: c'mon slow children! polyester...100% and that is so a lie! We find ways to amuse ourselves. We find ways to let go. We find ways to ignore the following question:

How will we define ourselves when this is all done?

Away from home

2007-07-20T21:16:00.000-07:00

Jona Frank, Siobahn, Girl Scout, CA

A packed bag! An airplane trip! A family wedding to attend with my parents! OK, scratch the exclamation point on that last one. While I am happy to get out of town for the weekend, and happier still to be typing this up at my long lost friend's house while she breast feeds the baby, I do have to admit that I am not looking forward to another family wedding. Another family wedding where the bride and groom are at least a decade younger than me, another family wedding where I have to attend stag whether it's because I'm single...or well, because in the eyes of my family not being married means technically I am still single. And another family wedding where, in lieu of attending with a date, a partner, or hell even alone, I am tagging along with my parents. On the up side, at least I know that means I will be leaving early.

In other news, I have big plans for this short weekend in the city of my birth. There are palm trees to stand beneath, traffic to sit in, and star sightings to miss–and I'm not talking about those to be found in the ursa minor. Wish me luck! I'll have my screenplay in hand and a sharpened pencil for my free personality test.

A coupla three things to say here

2007-07-10T21:17:00.000-07:00

Christine Wong, Green Present, 2007, balsa wood and paper

I haven't written anything here because I have been obsessed with finishing the film. OBSESSED. Assessing the howmuchmorevulnerablecanIfeel feedback, setting a date to ohmygawd lock picture, taking Ihatethispart publicity stills. I simply have no more room for creative thought in my brain. And obviously nothing to write about here. Yeah, I could tell you about the pain, the suffering, the long list of minutia one has to attend to, the difficulty in trying to replace the scratch music you love with the actual music made by the composer you hire. Let alone the absolute trauma that sets in when I actually have to watch my own film. It's not that I don't like it, or that I think others won't either, it's just getting to be too much to bear. Six years my friends! I am ready to move on, know what I mean?

What I do have energy for is cooking, for organizing the wee apartment we all share, and for walking the dog. There's apricot ice-cream. There's finally getting around to watching the last Soprano's episode. And there's a night of spontaneous in-town guests and accordion playing. But, I'm not getting out much these days. And that's OK. I've hardly noticed it's summer, if it weren't for all the available fruit at the grocery store.

On the horizon. Hopefully, a trip. Optimistically speaking, a job. And one day, a larger apartment to share.

Stop freaking out on me

2007-06-26T21:58:00.000-07:00

Amy Stein, Halloween in Harlem

I am back, after a long, sweaty, and sticky weekend spent mostly in the car driving up and down our fair coast. Without air-conditioning. With one working window. And oh, including a 55-pound, panting dog squirming on my lap. Ah, the joys of owning a now-aging, gas-guzzling, pick-up truck. We arrived wilted and returned, if possible, even less unrefreshed.

All in all, it wasn't that bad. In fact, you might even say the trip was good. The boyfriend met the family. The family bought the dinner. The girlfriend, or, me, that is, felt comfortable enough to leave them alone together while she washed up. She returned to find both parties not only unharmed but actually engaging in conversation. To wit, she couldn't get a word in edgewise the rest of the night.

As for the rest of the weekend, it went smashingly well. And when I say smashingly, I do mean smashingly. The boyfriend broke the parent's shower, in addition to the side window on my truck. Though both events were, as far as he assured me, unrelated and accidental, I am considering a padded helmet and an insurance policy for any future southbound trips. Other highlights included: a pod of dolphins, a swarm of bees and a gaggle of siblings.

Jumping the gun

2007-06-21T21:59:00.000-07:00

pee chee by Shizu Saldamando

oh
never
mind

oh boy oh boy oh boy

2007-06-20T14:40:00.000-07:00

painting by Dennis McNulty

Take a deep breath. OK. OK. Did that. Now what?

Too much coffee. Too many things on my brain. Too much socializing. Too much beer. Too much homemade ice-cream (toasted coconut!) But all good for my health. The best, in fact.

The weather. Somewhat hot. The dog. Somewhat lazy. The boyfriend. Somewhat amazing. It could be worse. This order could be reversed.

¡Damas y caballeros! We could be reaching a break through here. Or maybe just a turning point. Or it could be more like the end of a really, really long journey. Like through the desert. Like being lost and then found. Like the coldest beer after the hottest car ride. Or the fizziest coca cola after unpacking all of your boxes. Do I make any sense?

I am talking about the film here. THE FILM! Other things, may be applicable as well. But THE FILM. It is nearing completion. It is nearing ohmygawd completion. Ready or not. It's done!

Shit.

SHIT!

And then what?

A vacation.

A much needed vacation.

No one cares about me more than you do

2007-06-11T22:01:00.000-07:00

Idris Khan, every...Bernd and Hilla Becher Gable sided Houses

The weekend. The weekend! Can you hear me, I said the weekend!! Can you d-i-g i-t?! (and I do not mean digit!)

In short, a barbecue. Strawberries that were planted. More blooming flowers that were bought and subsequently planted. A dog that was bad, very bad, and scared away the neighbor's puppy after whom we all had to run in a million different directions looking and whom was found, but not by me, and at a much earlier hour, much earlier than the hour I actually came back from looking for her.

To continue: a strenuous hike. With a view! A knowledgeable fellow hiker who pointed out a rattlesnake track on the dirt! A break! A much-needed break from the film I can't finish! Potato leek soup, even though it is by no means potato leek soup season!

!!!

Also, a day spent helping the fifteen year-old with her special final history video project for which she had done hardly any work at all! All semester! And for whom I could offer very little assistance, seeing as she hadn't done anything at all, and also who had very little to say about Nicaragua, the subject of her special final history video project which, in addition to, is the birthplace of her father.

One more thing. One more thing!

I saw an OK movie: Since Otar Left. A crier! But slow! I read some good stories, like those that were inside the last issue of McSweeney's. I continue to read that good book, Everything Is Illuminated.

And

Ali Farka Touré on the stereos! Mom on the telephone!

And

An argument with the boyfriend that was resolved amicably and quite possibly for the betterment of the relationship! Apologies accepted!

Plus

Successful annual gynecological exam at 9AM this morning! Even though I was reminded that I am past my prime for child birthing!

Success!

No one knows me better than you

2007-06-08T22:04:00.000-07:00

Hot Knives, Tim Barber

Coffee and donuts. No wait. More like cherries and peaches. More like, more like, chocolate. And tea. Fancy tea. The kind where the leaves unfurl like fists. Baby fists. The kind in the see-through tea pots. They kind they sell at upscale markets.

The kind I don't have.

That's what today feels like. Special and not special at the same time. But right. Just right. And me. It feels like me. Which is a good feeling. It means human. It means normal. It means I can feel excited and antsy and angry and sad and bored. And I promise I won't blame anyone else for it.

Tomorrow I hang out with the fifteen year-old. The one I made a film about.

Weird.

To quote Miranda July for no other reason than I just read her book and, whom, if you know me, know is both my hero and my nemesis:

I look forward to seeing you next week if you live in LA, SF, Portland or Seattle. It will be terrific, I will bow when I see you, you will bow when you see me, we will bump heads and knock each other unconscious and when we come to we won’t remember anything, we will mumble pardon me and shuffle off in to brand new lives. I really can not wait.

Coming through slaughter

2007-06-04T22:04:00.000-07:00

Buddy Bolden and band

This weekend was all decentish (thank you to Kurt's OPE for letting me borrow one or two of his idiosyncrasies. Although technically I didn't ask, I must also assume he stole it from some where else). Though the weather gloomy and cold–despite the fact that it is now June–we managed an outing or two. One thing is that we discovered our local library. We both got cards and have become quite compulsive in scouring their DVDs, CDs, and New Materials sections. Did you know you can check out back issues of Harper's, The New York Review of Books (which modestly claims the title: the premier literary-intellectual magazine in English language) and, well, we haven't actually located a copy of Hustler yet, but we can see no reason why it shouldn't be there, too.

It feels really good to go to the library. Like riding your bike to work. Like I am a good citizen of the world! Hooray for me! Because of all the doom and gloom we spent the rest of the day browsing through our materials. I got two cookbooks; I am finally able to read Everything Is Illuminated; and here is a tip for you: do not confuse the band Django with the legendary musician, Django Reinhardt. Not all of our CDs, it seems, can be winners.

Cookies were made. No cleaning was done. Intimacy was had. And while some were out triumphantly consuming hot dogs, we were watching movies outdoors, in the park, with cute kids, all bundled up, some of the cute kids being kids I knew pretty well. And despite an expensive and alarming trip to the Vet, the days felt leisurely and long. So leisurely, in fact, I have a hard time admitting to myself that I am now supposed to be working.

The continuing existence of things I do not understand

2007-05-30T22:07:00.000-07:00

All The Knives, Emily Prince

After both my mother and sister telegraphed their concern, I have decided to retract last week's blog post. I do not hate nor do I love any of you. The great influx of estrogen has finally leveled off and things are back to normal. That is, if you consider harboring fantasies of dropping everything and running to Belize normal. For whatever reason we hit a relatively rough patch and I am still hungover from all the uncontrollable sobbing.

But really, I am OK. The dog is alive and sleeping. The apartment mostly unscathed and the boyfriend still standing albeit now with a limp. The comforter is perhaps a little less downy due to all the languishing that had to happen but the pillows are finally dry. Words were said and while some of them held meaning, hindsight–and a few Motrin–now tell us that many of them, in fact, did not.

All this to say we are feeling back on trackish. There are gyms to which we must begrudgingly drag ourselves. Food stuffs to be purchased and then consumed before legal expiration dates. And a certain opus that could benefit from some attention. Namely ours.

Message in a bottle

2007-05-27T22:08:00.001-07:00

Ann Hamilton, Reflection

You disappoint me. All of you. Each and every one.

But you,

You alone make me happy.

Cohabitation

2007-05-22T22:12:00.000-07:00

*Emily and Her Pink Things, JeongMee Yoon

The tomatoes are in the pots. The sunflower seeds in the ground. And the new boyfriend has officially moved in. I'm not sure how any of these things happened. They just did. And for the record, this time around I have decided to take a particularly lax attitude. As in, so what that we haven't gone out and actually done anything 3 weekends in a row, who cares that you eat a significant amount more of the food products than I do and that when you do the dishes you always leave all of the cutlery unwashed in the sink, and really, honey, it's endearing when the night you decide you are going to actually cook a meal, you run out and buy burritos at the last minute. At least, well, at least you're not throwing the dishes at me, eating expensive meals without me, and um, the amount of crumbs you leave behind tells me that you must really exist. Let's just say that your idea of yelling at the pundits on Fox News for hours on end or obsessively writing letters to the editor of Salon magazine, is not really my idea of having a relaxing time. No, I haven't Googled your name in the last few weeks, no, I don't feel the need to watch the O'Reilly Factor daily in order to take the pulse of middle America, and yes, my dog is now your dog, too, complete with all feedings, walkings and sheddings that may occur.

It's been awhile, folks. And we are both a little out of practice. Suffice to say we are entering that blobby, somewhat murky period often referred to by psychiatrists as transition. We know not what lies on the other side nor how long it may take to actually get the hang of it. I don't need to tell you the exact measurements of our "one-bedroom" apartment for you to understand that it will take some measure of diplomacy for the three of us to come out alive. Perhaps, like the time I sold my house because I couldn't find a roommate or the time I moved four hundred miles because I couldn't sleep at night, or when I adopted a 60 pound dog despite the fact that I had no yard, I have once-again jumped the gun. And I want you to know. Mistakes were made. But not by me.

Ethan and His Blue Things, JeongMee Yoon

*Editor's Note: Any likenesses from the above blog post to JeonMee Yoon's photographs are purely coincidental and entirely unintentional.

No comment

2007-05-17T22:50:00.000-07:00

Closer, Tim Sullivan

Casey is taking a personal day. Even though she is not actually employed and only in theory works for herself, she is taking the day off from even that pretense. Casey prefers that she might have chosen a better day, say one in which the sun actually shown and the sky did not look quite so bleak, nonetheless, she realizes that the school-yard saying still holds true: beggars can't be choosers. Her plans for the day might include such exhilarating activities as: doing the dishes that have approached the dining room, buying more soil for the as-yet-unplanted cucumbers dying on her front porch, surfing the internet ad nauseum, and maybe, just maybe, twiddling her thumbs. We can only hope she accomplishes half of what she has set out to do today.

At first glance one might think that were Casey to take a day off from the utterly non-lucrative practice of pretending to be a filmmaker, she might want to engage in more productive activities, perhaps by: looking for a real job with real–and by real we mean not of the imaginary kind–benefits, applying for an art residency where, at the very least, she could be with her own delusional kind, or securing a proper mate who can better sustain her hobbies, i.e. one who doesn't need to be walked twice a day. But alas, Casey has decided to put her own self-indulgent needs above the more practical ones that society has to offer, namely the suggestion that it might just be time to grow up.

The heart is a lonely hunter

2007-05-10T22:51:00.000-07:00

Andrew Moore, Red Chairs

The days are getting really long. Too long? Is summer here? I can hardly tell. What I do know is that the weeks seem to be racing by. That I have been concentrating on one really important thing for far too much time and that that really important thing is actually going to end in the not too distant future.

A lot rides on that important thing. Which happens when you put your heart into something. And because a lot rides on it, I have a hard time letting go. This runs both in favor of the important thing and against it. In favor because you will not quit until your vision is met. Against because you completely loose perspective over time and can easily get stuck in the mire. Too much simply means too much.

They say, a film is never finished, but merely abandoned. They also say a film is never finished until it meets the audience. And I suppose I would add that a film is never done until the filmmaker actually agrees to stop looking at it in front of the edit bay. Until then, my friends, the important thing remains an important thing hanging over her head.

It's going to be long. And it's going to be uncomfortable.

Sweat. Blood. And tears.

Long day's journey

2007-05-08T22:47:00.000-07:00

photo by Johan Bjorkegren

I guess it's been too hot to write. Or maybe it's that I have been out doing too many activities. Or perhaps the lack of comments has forced me to seek attention and recognition elsewhere. Whatever the causes I have decided to come back. Not because I have anything really of import to say. But mostly, so that when I die there will be some kind of record for which I could posthumously receive acknowledgement, maybe an award or two, like for Most Improved Blog, or even just a coupla thank you's from my former employers. I don't know. I guess it's pointless. But yet. We persevere.

My dog got bit on the face not too long ago. Blood gushed from his nose as I watched helplessly while he shook a Rottweiler, firmly attached to his snout, across the gravel driveway. The neighbors looked on and while they weren't exactly cheering, nor where they offering any assistance. As I banged the Rottweiler on the head with the only instrument I had handy: a DVD of Casino Royale as rented from Blockbuster, the owner of the aforementioned assault weapon ran out and got his damn dog off of mine.

We survived having only lost a t-shirt and dishrag in the bargain. The five-hour vet trip was pretty exciting however what with all the swallowed fox-tails, violently shaking Chihuahuas and the unexpected entrance of a hit-by-car that took up all of the resources of the staff. For the remaining four hours, I sat in silence next to the perpetrator's owner with absolutely nothing to say save a brief exchange about our dog's ages. Thankfully there were no stitches involved and all damages were assumed by the guilty party.

And that's the extent of it. Allergies. Sweat. Ripe Fruit. And more strawberry rhubarb pie.

It's gonna be a long summer.

Whoa!

2007-04-19T21:20:00.000-07:00

Mary Conrad, Tell Your Stories Here

This week as I left the office for a lunch break, I ran into the adult-learners' ESL class in the stairwell. Literally, ran into them. It's that time of year. The time of year when the class escalates to a frenetic climax, where exuberance is at it's apex because the adult ESL students now know enough language to be allowed to roam the halls. Yes, it's Spring and apparently that means the students can leave behind the primitive instructions of the classroom–with it's ticking clock, assigned seating and dry-erase board–for the more tangible language experience that resides in our hallways, elevators, and, yes, even the stairwell.

Stairs
and then, in unison
sta-airs!
up
up!
down
do-own!
wall
wall!
carpet
car-pet!

Can I help it if I smile at the intimate class of little–and I mean all under 5 feet–old Asian ladies and a surprisingly tall and thin white lady, as they giggle and shuffle through the building, all the while apologizing profusely in a very well enunciated English? Do you blame me for finding the whole thing cute and, well, refreshing? Am I really that racist or ageist?

It's probably even worse than that.

But the good news is:
that I still find a couple scenes from my film funny
that the bike ride home only gets better
that pork chops are not only easy, but quite tasty to make
that, despite the tireless debates–about fashion, politics and who is doing a better job of listening–the man across the kitchen table
is a man I find quite worth the meal.

Ha Ha

2007-04-09T21:21:00.000-07:00

San Francisco in Jell-O, LIz Hickok

Isn't it time to be funny? Isn't that why you come here? Isn't that the point of surfing the internet? Who wants to hear about my problems? Certainly not you. Well, not me neither. I want to laugh. Right now. Goddamnit. Someone make me laugh.
Is it too much?

Now

2007-04-08T11:18:00.000-07:00

urban irony project , wroclaw poland 2007

Last night we watched someone hang themself on television.

Close Up someone grabs a seashell off the night table
Cut to Wide Shot a man clutching his neck, a paroxysm for air, legs kicking
Cut to The Next Scene wherein life goes on but not for our man hanging from the rafters

Fade into me on the couch with a pillow over my face. Pillow soft and smothering. Quick. Access to memory banks. Retrieve new memory to replace the one of Cayce hanging himself like the man on tv. Did his legs kick? Did he grab the prayer beads like the man on the tv grabbed the seashell? Was it just suddenly the only idea possible? The only one worth having? THE LAST IDEA?

The last idea.

Imagine that.

Or was the last idea regret? Did that one make it's way before the end of life did? Would it matter? Would it matter to me? Would it make things different somehow?

It's not unpredictable that these things happens. It's the risk of watchingtelevision, openingabook, walkingoutside. It's the risk of the living.

And I am not afraid of it.

I'm sorry.

I'msosorry.

A way to be with you. To be close.

Here.

And I mean now.

What love should mean?

2007-04-05T11:19:00.000-07:00

If I tole you that last night's dinner was baked tofu–courtesy of Trader Joe's, microwaved popcorn, and beer from the local liquor store. If I tole you three rejection letters in 1 week. If I tole you, if I tole you, if I tole you.

That.

Things aren't so bad.

The sky was pink last night for a real long time. And then a perfect water's blue. We sat on the wet beach. And sand got in my shoes, in my pockets, in my drawers.

There is a Foster's Freeze I walk by every day. At night they have an old neon sign they light up. The lights pop on and off and makes a nighttime sound as comforting as crickets.

We walked the beltway. We saw jackrabbits too fast for the dog to catch. We carried the dog across the brambles and still, afterwards, he stopped, paw in the air, waiting for someone to clean out the thorns.

Shortcake.

Strawberry.

With whipped cream except I forgot to buy the cream.

seventh grade excerpt from film:

what love should mean?
huh?
what love should mean?
i don't even know what the heck you are talking about.
first you don't care about anybody and then you do?
how 'bout generous? i don't know!

Very

2007-03-28T11:23:00.000-07:00

Squeeze. Erin V. Sotak is an installation and performance artist concerned with notions of absurdity, futility, consumption, labor, and aesthetics. Her work is best described as a moving tableau that is re-rendered through the photographic process. Sotak will fabricate a new space in the Sesnon gallery using a variety of materials including wood, wall coverings, raw silk, and pomegranates. The piece revisits ideas of constraint versus restraint, seen versus unseen, interior versus exterior, and the distinct blur of the separateness of experience that occurs in a singular shared moment.

Don't ask me why the TV is blaring in the background. Generally I hate TV. I mean I really hate it. It has a lot to do with having been a really bad cable television editor for two many years. It has a lot to do with having started my career as an editor for really bad cable television editor in broadcast news. It has to do with cringing every time I hear an audio-booth recorded voice over. Or see a Queer-Eye style animated show open. Or am manipulated to stay tuned for the next half hour by the much-repeated dangling carrot of a grand deus ex machina executed in a ten-second tease.

There. I just saw a commercial for Cotton. Cotton? Yea, cotton. Pussycat Dolls. Tyra Banks. It's been a while since I tuned in. Clare Danes and The Boyfriend Trouser™. Cheese-It Stix. I recognize none of the station bugs.

The mute button. The remote. My kingdom for the remote.

The week. In fragments. My week. Just like the TV. My friend who decided to don his Tibetan prayer beads, shortly before killing himself. The toxicology report. The Vicodin in his system. His wife. His wife. Who will never be the same. His kids. His precious kids. Who I love more than warm, straight-from-the-tap maple syrup on waffles. Nothing better than to hear them giggling. Nothing more reassuring. And thank god. There are still giggles. Thank god. Even when I don't believe.

And the leaves. How quickly they grow back on the trees. As if they were never gone. And we have forgotten what the bare tree is.

How quickly. We forget.

The difference between me and you

2007-03-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

Jo Hanson, Mother Courage – "from work that I call urban spirit figures, using metals that are crushed by street traffic."

It has been my goal to come here and write at least once a week. And I have to admit, that I have been having a hard time doing even this. So tonight I pour myself a small glass of my favorite whiskey–yes, the kind that's sealed with wax–put on some inspirational tunes and confess that I am just not sure what to write about. A free write? A political diatribe? A nostalgic walk down memory lane? What will it be?

I wonder. As for the music, I am listening to David Byrne's playlist. Too lazy and too–um, what is the word, non-committal? yes, we'll take that–I am allowing someone else to do the work for me. But listen to this. I always like the thoughtfulness with which he crafts his themes. Tonight it's: Pop as in popular. That's where this playlist falls apart. Not all of these songs reached or will reach a wide enough audience to be considered truly popular, but it wasn't for want of being poppy, catchy or sticking to your brain pan. David Byrne. I don't care much for his fine art. And he has this really earnest blog that's like, do I really need to know all about David Byrne's tarmac adventures in trying to get back to Newark, NJ from Austin, TX? But, you all know how I feel about My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts. And those Brazil Classic compilations he put out in the early 90's, I mean, we played the shit out of those albums! And they were, albums, that is, back then. But listen to this. Right now. How perfectly did Gnarls Barkley's Crazy ooze right into The Arcade Fire's My Body Is A Cage? The man knows his pop music. So why should I reinvent the wheel here?

Hunh. And now I s'pose I should write about something. Now would be the time, right? I mean, I have your attention and all. So. Do I write about helping my recently widowed friend sort through her husband's belongings and determine which items to save for the kids and which items get donated to Good Will? Do I write about the lengthening days and how encouraging Spring can be? How it always seems to come right when you need it most? Do I write about my nasty cough that has kept me and my neighbors up for the last week and how sore and tired I am from coughing? Do I write about the argument I got in to earlier today about whether or not one should aggressively confront another aggressive person, namely one who drives like a maniac, endangers other people's lives and then acts like it is his right as an American citizen to do so. Do I write about the woman's obituary I read that moved me so, a woman who died at 89 years old, but lived that life as an artist, an activist, who could teach us a thing or too if we bothered to listen, a woman who made her point out of trash, compiled an archive of city litter that showed us who we were and a time line of how we got here?

Where do I begin? And where should I stop? Where do I look to for guidance?

When was the last time you prayed?

2007-03-13T11:25:00.000-07:00

This morning I rode my bike to work. It took 45 minutes, and it was lovely. A lovely day. A lovely introduction to spring. A lovely feeling of accomplishment for riding my bike to work, for starting the week riding my bike to work. Course, that could all change tomorrow, but for now, things feel possible and, hell, downright rosy.

It wasn't until the ride back, though, that I really started to see. You know, the kind of seeing that only comes from practice, from a strict discipline of noticing the things around you, of seeing the new, of looking beyond the usual. I had forgotten. I had forgotten what that was like. But my field of vision opened and I was gifted the following. A brick factory boarded and empty, remnants of its industry being taken over by the earth. The sycamores that line the wide streets of this island, the tiniest green leaves shaking in the sun. A shiny black police car, reflecting the brightest, harshest light. The produce district where warehouses brimming with crates and crates are loaded, unloaded, and forklifts move in slow-motion.

Riding over the drawbridge I could see the water beneath the metal slates. There were crevices and cracks over which I rode, there were signs and lights that were disobeyed, there were helmets laid by the wayside, and there were motorists to curse. There were legs to get tired, an ass to get sore, and a face to get sun-kissed. There was grit in my teeth, there was wind between my legs and there was a certain music–traffic, down strokes, the last song in my head–I couldn't ignore.

The instances swimming around in my head are the instances in which

2007-02-22T11:26:00.000-08:00

1.

A man I once cared for far more than I knew was wise to, complained about his relationship with his ex: they were total opposites, she was a horrible communicator, he always felt like she had one foot out the door. Sick of hearing about it, I finally asked him why he even went out with her in the first place. His response was sure and quick. She's beautiful.

The ease with which he said it and the fact that he had never said as much to me, made me acutely sad. Not only for me, but for him as well.

2.

My office is next to an adult English Language Learners' class in Chinatown. Every day I hear them shouting in unison, with the enthusiasm of a grade-school calisthenics class things like
HELLO!
GOODBYE!
WHAT IS YOUR NAME!

Each phrase is shouted with the same absence of intonation that comes, well, with a group of people shouting random phrases while staring straight ahead at the dry erase board where a woman with a pointer taps each word printed on it.

As the semester progresses, so do the complexities of the phrases. And I don't know if this is the entirety of the class, or if things like conversation and comprehension are just done at a more hushed level.

But today what I heard was
WHERE ARE YOU GOING FOR DIM SUM!
and
I LOVE YOU!
and really, what more do you need to know how to say?

3.

In searching for a third instance, I must now admit to both you and myself that there is no three. At the end of the day, this is all I can really offer. But, this I know: things usually come out better in threes. So use your imagination.

Love Hard, Fight Beautifully

2007-02-16T12:03:00.000-08:00

I read that the other day in the lobby close to the elevators of the office where I work. It's part of an art exhibit–I'm not exactly sure for what–but it's a phrase to which I find myself returning daily. Like when my boyfriend and I fought all night on Valentine's Day. Or when I talk to my New York friend, who had a New York meltdown and left it all behind–the job, the apartment, the collection of short stories he couldn't get published–to move in with his relatives in sunny Los Angeles and is suddenly feeling a helluva lot better. But mostly I think of it because this last week has been hard as hell for me and for a lot of my close friends.

Cayce lost the fight last week and we miss him horrbily. He left behind a wife of some twenty years, two boys young enough that they still take baths together, and siblings as close as they make 'em.

You think you know grief. You think you know loss. And then along comes something that is as impossible to understand as Einstein's theory of relativity. And that's the thing. What one day seemed impossible to understand eventually grows to become something you just accept as true. And I guess, that's where I am with it all right now. Things are in the process of becoming true. And it's not an easy place to be.

I first met Cayce at film school many years ago. I was a graduate TA for a class that was small on a good day, and more like an intimate yet uncomfortable job interview on a bad one. I don't think I ever prepared harder for a class, and I don't think I ever ended up flailing more. Cayce was the only student who actually tried to respond to my questions. The only one who attempted to engage with the readings–even if he hadn't read them. And the student for whom I ended up teaching the entire course. Cayce encouraged me, as best as one of your students can, by, at least, acting like he was getting something out of the class. Years later, Cayce himself would become a teacher: a much more relaxed, genuine and knowledgeable one than I ever was. And from that first encounter, Cayce turned me on to more films, music and obscure Internet sites than seems possible for one person to be aware of. If you asked any of his friends, students or colleagues you'd hear the exact same thing. Anything Cayce championed was something worth investigating.

Cayce, his wife Chela and their boys, Django and Taj, made a home not far from mine. There's was a home I would visit, not just for the free meals and lively conversation but for the open door policy, the unlimited sustenance and playtime with two of the most mischievous boys I've known. I loved nothing more than to visit Cayce when his wife was out of town and watch him, overwhelmed with the boys, trying to give them a bath and put them to bed, and they, in turn, knowing just how to work the crowd to their own benefit. Trying to act the role of the father, you could see Cayce was clearly no match for them. And at the same time, you could see just how much he loved it all.

I could go on and on about Cayce. About how he was the best Sasha Baron Cohen impersonator I knew, about how when he left you a phone message it was so shit-your-pants funny you collected them all, or about how when he loved something, be it a song or a film or a new drink at McDonald's, he proselytized to such effect, you soon found yourself praising their merits as well. But it breaks my heart too much to think about. To realize the memories I have are the only ones I get.

Cayce was rock and roll. He was unbridled affection. He was for real when nothing else was.

And he was loved. And he was beautiful.

Not that the story need be long, but it will take a long time to make it short.

2007-01-30T12:05:00.000-08:00

Michelin Man, Christie Nielson

When I go for porno, it's of the vintage variety. That's not to say I don't indulge in the occasional pay-per-view when away from home, say touring a plummy Motel 6 or knocking around a Mid-Western Holiday Inn. There are some things that are simply more fun when done in the unfamiliar place. I imagine you all know what I am talking about here. Nonetheless, back at the ranch, I have my own stash of tried and true. The fewer the fake tits and the lesser the landing strips, the better off we all are, in my humble opinion. Sure we might have to put up with some blemishes, some bad–and I don't mean baaaddd–Shaft riffs. And yeah, the director might have fancied himself an auteur and thusly encumbered the porn with more plot than it could possibly accommodate. But I'll take my stray hairs and eggy breasts over any modern-day revision of My Big Fat Greek Penis.

To get to the point, when I went out of town last week to visit that film festival of note in the ski-sloped resort just south of the desert, my sort-of boyfriend opted to stay behind and vacation at my little resort on the island. The night before I left, let's just say, we indulged. Fast forward to me, bundled to the size of which would rival the Michelin Man and wattling through the snow to wait in line for the highly-acclaimed and very sold-out shows the festival of note had to offer. No doubt watching yet another independent film or queued up in front of the theatre in the six-degree weather, I missed the phone call from the sort-of boyfriend. But, oh, the message was well worth it's recording:

Hey dude, just wanted you to know, that when I returned King Kong, I had taken the first DVD out of the freakin, uh, player and it happened to be Deep Throat and that's what they saw when they opened it up to check it back. [change of voice] Excuse me sir, this isn't the DVD for King Kong....
...agh!

Apparently, he mumbled it's my girlfriend's...but we're not quite sure they heard that.

Of course, I played the message for my cohorts to hear, and, of course, we laughed until tears sprung and crystallized on our cheeks. In fact, I laughed all the way through the hour and a half line for a disappointing, soon-to-be released documentary. I laughed every time one of us said King Kong! And I laughed at the thought of this man, staying alone in my apartment for the first time, tentatively trying on the role of sweetheart, and trying to explain to a sixteen-year old, Blockbuster employee why the accidental substitution of Deep Throat in the place of King Kong was just an honest mistake.