Junk in Your Trunk

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)

Marcel Duchamp's Fountain

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. Free bbq. Ok that one went pretty quickly. Turns out it is the season for free bbqs.
5. 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.