...and that's almost tragic

From the new library of self-pity.

2008-03-07T03:06:43Z

Nights like these are what I call rainy. It really works much better when it's actually raining, but as the sky is lamentably cloudless, I'll call it a Sylvia Plath night. I become acutely aware of all lethal substances in and around the apartment. I picture the actions of loved ones. The picture begins to move, and I'll usually cry like a little girl a few times, because I'm so very full of it. It's like laughing at your own jokes (which, incidentally, I also do).

I am made of stone. My mind is made of stone.
In a black box, in big black boxes we reside.
Nothing when I leave will spill over with meaning.
Pens will spill over with ink, and manholes with sewage -
but with meaning
nothing

fleh

2008-03-05T20:05:08Z

I have to wonder, as I sit in my cubicle, people buzzing around me, if what I feel now is what the buzzing people felt before their spirits were broken. I know I’m not held prisoner by these curtain walls. I’m free to go if I wish. I know this. I know it. But I know many things that have no affect on my soft current of pessimism, or on my actions, and this is one of them. How long will I sit here, will I walk back and forth between scanners and printers before I actually start caring that my “team” isn’t producing to capacity or that the Rancho Cucamonga submittal is a week past due? It’s been almost exactly 17 months, and though my spirit isn’t exactly broken, it is beginning to show some serious wear.

I regularly iron my clothes. The little tabletop board lives next to my bed with the iron. They’re really very quiet, but their presence reverberates in my consciousness, reminding me that, whether I like it or not, I need them. I’d rather they lived in the closet. This morning, they were helping me prepare for work- I’m almost beginning to enjoy the pleasant popping and hissing noises they make together when Michael trundles in (I don’t normally like using that word, but nothing else describes it. Perhaps I don’t like the word because I don’t like trundling- the first thing you learn in dance is how to hit the ground lightly, so there’s no need to trundle or lumber unless you are very angry or very fat). He’s looking somewhat cross. He has just showered, and the expanses of black hair covering most of his body are plastered down in squiggly lines. It’s really rather mesmerizing sometimes, but not now. Because I am ironing in the nude, he squeezes behind me and gropes at my thighs for a while, then clamps his fingers on my nipples while thrusting at my backside. I resist the urge to iron his hands- something I want to do not out of anger, but because I’m holding an iron.

As he goes back to drying and dressing himself, I address a topic that has felt, as of late, much more urgent than it probably is.

“Soo… I’m going to meet the head of Printmaking at Georgia State next Wednesday.”

He silently dresses.

“Of course, it’ll be fall of ’09 before I can actually go, but it never hurts to get a head start.”

He continues, silently, to dress.

I tack straight into the wind.

“Do you think I’m a bad mother for wanting to go back to school?”

This time he replies, careful not to look at me.

“Not as long as it doesn’t become more important than (pause) doing things that need to get done” (What the hell does that mean? I’m going to forget to feed a wailing toddler for weeks at a time because I’m too busy kettle-stitching books? I think this, but wisely opt not to say it.)

“I don’t plan to go anywhere unless I’m not paying for it. I’m sure I’ll have to get a loan for the rest.”

Now he looks me dead in the eye. “Well, there’s insurance. You’ll need to pay that, about $500 a month, not to mention rent, and I guess Julian won’t be in daycare anymore.”

I silently iron.

“And I’m sure you won’t go back to school for no reason- I mean, you’ll be making more money after you leave.”

I continue, silently, to iron.

Several other comments drift towards me, but I only hear little snippets. Something about not going into debt over anything, and wanting a house. In my mind, an escape hatch somewhere is having additional locks installed. I put on my clothes, now very flat, and don’t even kiss Julian as he and his father disappear and reappear and disappear again, setting out for his school.

I turn off the light, and wait for a minute as the record plays “you didn’t wake up this morning cause you didn’t go to bed, you were watching the whites of your eyes turn red, the calendar on the wall, was ticking – the days off, you’ve been reading some old letters, you smile and think how much you’ve changed. All the money in the world couldn’t buy-“ I realize I’ve heard it too many times before I quickly shut it off and leave for work.

And here I am. I had to write this because I want to have chronicled at least one of the days before my spirit broke. I’m sure I’ll try to remember it differently. I honestly don’t know how anyone keeps accurate record of their personal history.

I’m reminded now of something my best friend, a recovering conservative, told me two days ago about the way liberals are viewed by non-liberals. They see complaints, criticism and calls for action as general negativity; all liberals are clearly malcontents in their heart of hearts. I can’t possibly express in words how comical I find this. I mean, they’re not talking about me, because I’m not a “liberal”. Liberals are Negative Nancies, but they’re at least human. Socialists are succubae who ritualistically feed on the blood of babies (and they’ve totally got me pegged…but I digress…). The part of this that I find not only hilarious but very strange is that someone somewhere is telling themselves everything is okay- in their life, in the world- because they don’t want to be negative. What the fuck? If this is all there is- pursuit of material wealth or empire, cloning yourself in your offspring …geez, how much more depressing can you get?

It sucks now. It could be worse- my headphones are working today, and I had ice cream for lunch- but it still sucks. I want to remember how much it sucks, lest I begin to care about the Rancho Cucamonga submittal. As it is, I’m so overflowing with ideas it’s making my hair grow faster, and that’s almost tragic… I mean, not remotely tragic.

From the new Library of Terrible Poems: Skin Upon Skin, Vol.1

2008-02-22T20:39:20Z

I was walking down my street of dreams

and came upon a man.

As always, in my street of dreams,

where nothing's ever what it seems,

I tried not to speak, I tried not to breathe, and, rounding the corner tentatively, my hand was in his hand.

Not speaking, not breathing, soon not seeing
we slid into an alley on my street of dreams.

And trying, and failing,

to grasp something of him,

the pavement was liquid under my chin.

We were sticking most painfully, skin upon skin, and I still don't know now what I didn't know then.

we are all weak

2008-01-24T19:56:30Z

and given to greed

nonsense, drivel and ba-log-na

2008-01-21T20:55:08Z

Ah, a new month in a new year… like going home to a hot shower after a shameful one-night stand- somewhat cleansed, but with a lingering fear of unwanted pregnancy. It is usually recommended that you look forward in a new year (or, indeed, after a one-night stand), rather than back, but I am still lingering on some realizations from the end of last year that will likely impact my year ahead, and in all probability the rest of my life, for the worse.
As I’ve said many times, much of being an artist is knowing yourself- knowing how you work, your own tastes, sifting through what you’ve been taught, gleaning your own leanings, trying to learn as much as you can about other artists and the way they work without letting them dictate your own process… it’s all really much harder than it sounds. There’s no right way to make art, but there is your way, and therein lies the struggle.
I am an artist and a writer. Equally. I spend a lot of time thinking about making art, and my sketchbooks are really notebooks embellished with sketches. I spend a lot of time looking back. Looking back at events in my past and in the vast, foggy past of everyone and everything else. Time and feeling are a great ball of string- age and place mean nothing in the spectrum of human experience, feeling, want and lust…
Anyway, many a young artist has groped for “concept”- for glue to hold together their need to produce. I’ve always been fond of artists who use genuine insanity as their inspiration, or those who feel no need to have a starting point in their all-consuming need to create something.
I’ve usually had something or another to write or draw about, somewhere between the last two I suppose, which spares me from any sort of groping- I just look back at a body of work and watch, like I have for these past twenty years or so as an observer of the skyscrapers popping up in our fair city, as the landscape of my personality takes shape. It’s quite wonderful, and queer- it’s felt as though I haven’t actually done anything- simply watched and taken notes (Oh, Meg, how grown-up you’re getting. How refined your tastes. I’m never disappointed in your unfailing pursuit of truth and passion...).
And so it happened, late last year, that I made two equally nauseating discoveries for which I was not at all prepared. The first one came upon me as I sat in bed looking over a set of drawings for a suite I’d been planning (yet another dream sequence), the most recent of which I’d done in a blissful, post-copulative state a few nights previous. The subject is dream-dancing into her adventure, giant-legged and smiling, and the sketch itself is of the type I most like to look back at- smooth, light and completely un-labored; a perfect extension of my thought.
“Michael?” I called to my husband in the next room.
“Ypmh?” he replied.
Mouth full of pretzels, he came and sat down beside me.
“In all honesty, I know this sounds crazy, but does this look like a comic book drawing to you?”
He looked very guilty for a moment before replying, in a muffled sort of way- “I wasn’t going to say anything.” Michael was not the first person to know of my distaste for comic books- indeed, I’ve made a sport of insulting and even violently destroying comic books in many a psychotic-girlfriend rage for as long as I’ve been a psychotic girlfriend, only to discover this, the most horrible of truths… I felt as though I’d just been told my beloved uncle Charlie was a child molester. Cold. Sick. I, of self-proclaimed “perfect taste”, have been for years shielding my eyes from this now very obvious truth- I work in the style of a graphic novelist (Oh, my. Why did you feel the need to hide this from me, Meg? You’ll forgive me if I don’t entirely trust you right now. Such pretensions you’ve held… I’m so very disappointed)-excessively angular poses, showing much more of the physique than one would actually see. But this is merely a matter of form, and at any rate something I've already commented on...
Looking back through my writings and drawings and searching my spotty memory, revitalized with a familiar sense of self-loathing, the second painful reality surfaced- though much more gradually. Not as shocking, but just as hypocritical… nude self-portrait after nude self-portrait (not to mention the nude drawings of your sisters), cats with gaping vaginas, pregnant bunny-rabbit-headed women, silhouetted phallus landscapes, long narratives of sordid sexual encounters (real and imagined) with recurring mentions of the fascination behind incest and pedophilia. If there’s anything worse than graphic novelists, it’s graphic novelists of the smut-peddling variety.
I’d always passed off my excessive preoccupation with sex-through-the-ages as an interest in the erotic mind as a cross-section of universal human feeling. Sexual behavior, after all, is rather constant- only the rules attempting to quash it change from time to time and place to place.
(No, Meg, it’s all just fucking fucking. For shame.)
How I’d hoped for something more meaningful after all this… or should I feel grateful that I’m capable of attaching meaning at all to my smutty product? As with any identity crisis, there is surely a silver lining to be found. Perhaps it’ll be the test of my theory that any boring subject can be made interesting by a good writer (replace “boring/interesting/writer” with “smutty/tasteful/artist”). My shameless self-obsession has never bothered me, after all, so why should this?
(That’s the spirit, old girl!)
Still, it’s hard to admit I’m so fond of something I’ve been so down on for so long- I suppose it’s a much milder version of what all those closet homosexual / evangelical Christians must feel… and it goes a long way in explaining why I feel the need to turn everything into an allegory of love and sex (refer to paragraph 1). The best part is that neither of these truths was ever hidden- ‘twas my own delusion all along.
(Poor thing, guess it’s time to pull all those old Sandman comics and anonymous adventures in Victorian erotica out of the closet and to re-live your adolescence- and this time, don’t destroy the evidence. I'll still know.)
I hate growing up. It’s so hard to be self-satisfied.

meallstrom @ 2008-01-06T13:48:00

2008-01-06T19:42:16Z

I'm in the process of hiding under a rock. Obsessing about "what" I plan to "do" next, alternating between feeling sorry for myself and feeling happy for myself, continuing writing and illustrating two book/artist's book projects (still not sure what makes an "artist's book"- is it enough that it's been made by an artist?) and illustrating someone else's book and coming to the painful realization that somewhere deep inside me, a "graphic novelist" is trying to get out. Yet another persona I would probably have been better off NOT knowing about- I've never been very fond of comic books, and have actually thrown away many of them in the wake of bad fights with boyfriends, which probably puts speaks ill of me to the gods of comic books.
It'll probably be another good while before I say anything else here- I have nothing interesting to talk about. For the three people who read this, check back in a couple of weeks.

from the archive of terrible poems: please vote for the new red, white and blue flag

2007-12-21T00:28:46Z

I saw no elephants on the beach that day
only smaller kinds of armies.
The truth, as always, holding firm to my waist
was suspiciously absent from peripheral view.
They now have our numbers
and they know what to do.

(I didn't even know what the red, white, and blue flag was, but needless to say, I didn't vote for it.)

from the archive of terrible poems: "You & Me" (an alcoholic love poem)

2007-12-20T17:51:50Z

it's just you & me
in the room, alone, right now
and the pain that hovers
just above the covers
can't touch me when you're in my mouth

it's just you & me
up in the attic this evening
and the cars that beat
on the panes at my cheeks and the wood at my feet
do not seem to care because they can't see
how kind you are

(In a series of poems to non-living objects, this is the most tragic, as it was written for Gin. Beefeater, even- not real high standards at the time. I've vowed never to re-print the poem I wrote for Cooper [the font].)

from the archive of terrible poems: sad constellation, part one

2007-12-20T17:45:04Z

(from frontispiece of "Book of Dreams" 19)

This is where it fell-
the sad constellation
When you held it, it hurt
And when I told it then,
it stuck in me like pins
on a pillow that's become something useful again

Out with the borrowed, in with the blue
Sometime your time is gonna come, too
and when it has
I'll be there with a rag
to mop up your sad constellation.

(sounds now like lyrics from an "emo" band)

I'm going to stop mutilating book titles for my blog entries

2007-12-18T03:00:20Z

Rick is no longer my boss. He was the man who hired me (funny story about that later), and he was the man who threw me around like a rag-doll for a good year before leaving our company, and leaving me cleaning up after him for, well, probably forever. He was short and mean; a tiny, bald furor with a gingery mustache and faint liver spots on his head. He constantly insulted everyone; he exercised his power in the company in cruel and manipulative ways. I know for a fact that he ridiculed me when I wasn't there, and he always dangled the possibility of a pay increase just out of my reach, gleaning some perverse pleasure from the spectacle of my struggle. These are all horribly true things, but strangely, I still have fuzzy, pleasant thoughts of him. There is one reason for this- it is my single greatest trait; it is the bane of my existence- it is the fact that I like everyone. I. like. everyone. I can think of one person I've ever met and wholly disliked. ONE PERSON. I suspect she may have been a demon disguised as a human, but I digress...
I can get very mad at people, and I have said some very cruel things (though usually only to myself). I think I shall dig up one of my scathing monologues, so that it might be forever preserved as a testament to my pusillanimity.
I wrote this about a friend of mine:
"I am writing this because I cannot say it aloud. I am a very tolerant person, and not without flaws- monstrous, gargantuan, behemoth flaws. I am self-centered, self-obsessed, and I constantly make mistakes. I make irresponsible decisions, flawed judgment calls, and often grossly overestimate my abilities. I am distractible, spacey, and on some days downright lazy. Even with all these undesirable characteristics, I look like a stand-up citizen when placed next to you.
I don’t know where you got your sense of entitlement from, or why on earth you think that everyone -or anyone for that matter- gives a flying flapjack about your daytime television melodrama of a life.
When you complain, you are a wall of misery. You take no advice, you heed no sympathy, and you learn absolutely nothing from your mistakes. I wish there was a colony somewhere full of people like you- people who do nothing but whine and bemoan their tragic situation. Actually, I think there is. It’s called New Jersey. Move there."
So you see, even though I like everyone, I am not an entirely NICE person. I just insulted everyone from New Jersey, a very large place I have only been to a couple times, and where I was really only exposed to my future in-laws, but once again, I digest. The fellow I wrote those things about got fired today from the place I work, and as my fellow cubicle dwellers quietly boxed his things, as the big boss sent a company-wide email about his "pursuit of other endeavors" (whatever the hell that means), as the machine rumbled on and the company spackaled carefully over his existence, I found myself incapable of performing my day's useless busywork as I tried to conceal the RIVER OF TEARS. While all his other friends were able to acknowledge the tragedy then turn back to their own tragic lives, my brain was actually consumed with the grief of John and his wife. Not my grief for them- their grief.
It's all well and good to insist that we "teach our children empathy", but I genuinely hope we aren't too successful. Historically, the ruthless, at least the mildly ruthless, are the happiest, the most prosperous and wealthy.
Though I'm known from time to time to pull out Darwinian theory, I shall never argue that the concept of "survival of the fittest" necessarily favors the brute. No, survival of the fittest simply means that the traits most fitting to the atmosphere in which a species must survive are the most likely to remain in the species, as they allow its carriers to better weather hard times. Empathy is a human trait that's survived because of its usefulness in preserving fragile babies and children, but in the past, and in the present elsewhere in the world, that's where its "fitness" stops. Liking everyone, seeing the world through everyone's eyes, "feeling everyone's pain", these are recipes for failure.
This "capacity for empathy" makes you an easy target for criticism, makes you an easy stepping stone for the ambitious, makes you a sucker and a fool, and makes you susceptible to the disease that is the pain of others. History is crawling with cruelty, and I'm not entirely sure we're the ones to change that. How lovely it would be to live in a utopia where everyone placed the needs of others before their own, and how incredibly stupid we are to think that it could possibly within the reach of fragile, ghastly human nature. As long as there is one speck of greed in one human, there is a society of wealthy Ricks, of insufferable Johns, and of gullible Megs who like them all anyway.

less miserables

2007-12-05T01:37:48Z

I’ve fallen in love with so many impossible (or at least improbable) dreams, I could hit myself. I know why it takes a lifetime to reach enlightenment- because it takes a lifetime to get want out of your system.
I want to eat salad that’s been pureed into a fine paste.
I want my children to be better looking than I am.
I want to convert all the heathens.
I want a raise.
I want to stop getting the hiccups all the time.
I want to die in peace.
Though the only religion I come close to subscribing to revolves around the concept of ridding yourself of want, and thus of suffering, it’s easy to argue in favor of want. Personally, I’ve always wanted to hold the world record for “largest spit bubble”. Enough do I want this that I’ve several times submitted the claim to the Guinness World Book, only to be rejected because not enough people have submitted a similar claim to make it a viable contest (incidentally, if you ever have spare time and internet access, don’t be afraid to submit your own spit bubble claim). This is indeed an improbable dream, but my desire to see it fulfilled may well save my life at some point during one of my particularly low lows.
Then of course there is irony in the quest for enlightenment- the desire to eliminate desire. The people I know who have come closest in theory to enlightenment are those who have become so disenchanted with life that they no longer care what happens. Wilted flowers who’ve either been given so much or so little they no longer experience the thrill of pursuit, the pain of lust, the sinking sadness of rejection; the small, pointed pressure of hope, the swelling sensation of love. That hardly sounds like the life I want, but I can’t help but wonder if those were the conditions under which the concept of enlightenment was born. He had so much, he gave himself nothing, and only through that polar experience could he see the meaninglessness of all of it.
All of my coworkers consider themselves Christians, with very few exceptions. When my boss Ralph’s Mother-in-law passed away, he sent out an email to the effect of “we are so happy she is finally at peace with the Prince of Peace”, indicating that, to him (and I assume to other Christians), life is turmoil and death is peace. I know that for certain people, in certain places and times, the concept of Heaven operates as the giant milkbone awaiting the few good among us as a reward for having endured the pain of life. I imagine this is an incredible comfort, something you can bury your face into when all hope seems lost.
What, then, are the rest of us to do? It’s really difficult for a lot of folks to trust that you can get something so awesome for so little. All you have to do is ask for forgiveness and you get to spend eternity in bliss? That’s what the flyer says. Sure you have a waiting period, but what’s a measly lifetime next to eternity? Unfortunately, you can’t actually check this guy’s references, because they are all dead (As an aside, I feel it worth saying that I actually do think people can speak with the dead in dreams, but for some reason, I never remember to ask the right questions- I’m always like “Do you think I make a good looking redhead?” or “Have you written any good songs since you died?”).
I don’t think I’m any cleverer for not believing in it, just incredibly untrusting. If man was really created in God’s image, chances are good that God is a flake, swaying like a reed in the breeze. Seriously, though, I find it rather wonderful that such a giant group of people can be so wholly trusting that all this business will pay off.
Hmm... I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but it'll do for now to say that enlightenment is a looooooong way off for me. Suffering may be caused by want, but strangely, it is often wants that make suffering worthwhile. They give us things to look forward to; they give us things to work for. Some day, I'm sure we will all realize how little all of it matters, but why not continue to live in constant agony until then? Without suffering, life isn't any fun at all, and that's almost tragic.

the Island of Dr. Morose

2007-11-30T19:50:11Z

I don't have much time, so this will be short.
I was driving home from work the other day, listening to a bit on NPR about the development of drugs to slow the process of age, starting with "Resveritrol" (sp?), developed as an over-the-counter super-dose of red wine, minus the buzz. It's supposed to eliminate free-radicals and repair cell damage, but as a dietary supplement, it is not FDA recommended for the treatment of illness. A new version of the supplement is being developed to market to doctors and is currently undergoing lab tests for treatment of rodent diabetics (human trials still a way off). NPR, ever thorough, had the drug's developer speaking excitedly with the host about the potential benefits to patients suffering a range of diseases, especially diabetes. He moved on very casually to say that he has no worries about demand for the undeveloped drug, as "diabetes is a two billion dollar industry".
Don't get me wrong, I'm not shocked that a DISEASE -not it's treatment- is thought of by pharmaceutical companies as an INDUSTRY (after all, our Government finds the concept of declaring war on a human emotion [terror] as a reasonable pursuit), but I am surprised that sufferers of this or any other disease actually think these people will be their savior. Pharmaceutical companies and (most) Doctors consider it their duty to fix our broken bodies. Insurance companies agree, and therefore cover doctor visits, surgeries, and medication. If they wanted us, to quote one famous company, to "live well, be well, and thrive", they would cover visits to licensed dieticians (almost none do), memberships to gyms, yoga and meditation classes, acupuncture and massage (some do cover massage). Injury, old age, poor diet, and inactivity are four of the biggest reasons our bodies get broken to begin with. At least two of those can be treated without a doctor. Stress plagues America, but most don't seek treatment for it until it manifests itself in the form of Cancer or Heart Disease.
Many intelligent, informed people argue that the world thrives on our sophisticated drug research, and that the medicine we have is the best in the world. But as people struggle to be covered by insurance, they destroy their bodies, and as billions of research dollars are spent on drugs, the causes for disease go untamed. Why are we so much more focused on costly "solutions" - in medicine, in politics - when the causes of poverty, disease, hunger and political unrest are waiting to even be discovered?
hmmm... more later.

probably shouldn't bother reading this one.

2007-11-26T17:43:24Z

This is really more diary-esque than my previous entries, but I just had to say some stuff I can’t really talk to anyone about.
It is expected of reasonably sane young mothers, or mothers of any age, that you be thankful for your children, whether you wanted them in the first place or not. At this point, I haven’t been a mom long enough to reflect back on what is and what could have been, but I can’t help but try. Most women with intelligence, ambition, talent and education wait a good while before considering roping themselves down with the ineluctable obligation that follows childbearing.
My mother had her first child when she was 20 years old. Her husband left her less than a year later, shortly after they found out little Eric was to die of cancer. Her next marriage would produce three children, and I was the last. I was 2 when my mother, who had only held odd jobs for her entire adult life and who was caring for three children while facing the collapse of another marriage, decided to pursue a career in law.
When I made the admittedly foolish decision to have a baby, I convinced myself that, like my mother, I would find the strength to pursue my ambitions not in spite of having a child, but because of it. Most days, I’m not sorry. But when a commission comes to me, or an opportunity to show my work, I have no time. And when my boss at my square job requests that I perform yet another nearly impossible feat of corporate cleanup, what am I to say? “Not today, Jim, I’d really rather be drawing” or maybe “If you’d hired me two years ago, Rick, I may be able to find your receipts” or better yet “Ralph, I’m considering tying my performance with my pay”. If I want to continue paying rent, having medical coverage for my child, and pulling together the insanely high “tuition” for Julian’s daycare, I shall continue to NOT say any of these things, however much it pains me to go through the motions of a normal life.
Will I be stronger in the long run because of it? Probably.
Do I feel stronger now? Hell no. I don’t even know if I want to be strong. I’ve made my bed, and I cry into its pillows every night.
I’m very glad I had Julian- he’s the best kid I could’ve hoped for, but I honestly can’t say what I would’ve done if I had the chance to go back and think it through a little more. If I believed in Satan, I might have made a pact with him to let me wait a few years and still be able to have the same child. As I don’t believe in Satan or time travel, speculation is my friend for now.
I worked for so many years to unearth my identity, and I don’t want it to dissolve into the great salty sea of mother-and-wife-hood. And I sure as shoes don’t want to lose a decade of my life to administrative work. I’m not bashing it, and I’m not exactly a die-hard feminist. There are many women who find work like this is quite fulfilling- endless data entry, being ordered around by old white males, making reservations for other people’s travel… just not my cup of tea. Three out of five days I don’t want to rip my eyeballs out of their sockets, but there are always those other two…
Ah, well- "sunrise doesn’t last all morning", and on the days when I wake up before the sun, and return home when it’s already gone, I remind myself- "it’s not always going to be this gray". And that's not tragic at all.

All in the golden afternoon, full leisurely we glide...

2007-10-16T20:36:48Z

The greatest gift Hollywood has given our culture (and there are so very many) is a resplendently unrealistic way to imagine our lives. Normally, I’d only accuse myself of something like this, but I’m pretty sure most -if not all- 21st century youngsters are guilty of writing little movie scripts in their heads. Some of us have made-for-TV movies, some of us write the artsy type you might see at the TARA, or a fuzzy romance you’d take a date to see at the big purple off 85. Some might write movies specifically intended for the Starlight Six- cheesy, short, uncomplicated, and with a lot of dramatic facial expressions that last way longer than they should. I like to write movies that I might then hire Wes Anderson to direct- little commentaries on the constant condition of the human condition, with lots of hilarious lines delivered so deadpan that most of the audience doesn't know when they're supposed to laugh.
I remember trying, several times, to think of theme music for my movie- the songs that would follow me around on my humorous misadventures, sometimes so subtly that you would only notice on the 4th or 5th viewing. I'm flashing back now to when I was in college, still living with Slash, after the demolition of the old dorms. The intoxicating substance was sugar- a giant box full of smaller boxes full of nerds, to be specific. Our bloodshot, disturbingly dilated eyes rolling back in our heads, our voices strangled with laughter, we rolled around on the floor, using the tiny boxes of nerds as maracas while arguing over who got to use which Boston song as their movie theme. That’s right- Boston. You read correctly. If you are not familiar with Boston, I highly recommend you never become so. Boston captures the addictive repugnance of chocolate-coated coffee beans and Parcheesi combined...but I digress...
It is easy to wonder if dreamers of days past imagined their lives in poem or prose, epic tale or morality play. Probably so. I must say it sometimes takes the edge off of diaper changes when I imagine the diaper change as directed by Wes Anderson. Trips to the hospital for accidental overdoses are made less depressing with Paul Simon in the background. In absence of religion, something has to make the agonizing mundanity of life worthwhile- in this case, pretending it's not so agonizing seems to work just fine.
Some would argue that the presence of hyper-reality presented in movies makes us think our lives suck, when they're actually fine. But this notion was present long before skinny models appeared, looking like they'd never had a bad day in their lives. Even before Venus floated out on her half-shell. Most people will, at some point, feel like have-nots, but only for the constant human state of dissatisfaction that ever eludes defeat. And as long as it does, I'll happily imagine the trajesty (It's a real word as long as I keep using it) of my life for all to see, playing all day and all night on the silver screen...
... and that's almost tragic.

Re-writing the moral code

2007-10-12T01:02:58Z

When I was 10 or 11, a movie called “Babe” was very popular. I don’t remember much about it, but I think it was about the mildly tragic yet whimsical life of a piglet, or some crap like that. Maybe there was a spider- or maybe that was something else… anyway, it inspired many “tweens” to become vegetarians, because whenever they saw bacon, they saw adorable little Babe the pig. Frankly, he thought of eating Babe didn’t really bother me that much, but it really, really bothered Emily Clark, who was my best friend at the time.
We saw the movie together at the dollar theater in Avondale, a good while after it left the “normal” ones, and I still remember walking out of the theater, very slowly (for those of you who are unfamiliar with the dollar theater, you should know that the floors of such establishments are usually so coated in chewing gum, spilled coke, and melted cracker jacks as to make it impossible to walk very fast), when I noticed she had been crying. When I asked why, she burst into tears again and said that she would never eat an animal again, and as far as I know, she never did. Being a true follower at heart, I knew I should vow to do the same. The big stuff was pretty easy- we didn’t eat red meat at home, chicken had not yet become a staple of my diet, and I had already burned myself out on bacon (you don’t want to know). There was one delicious animal, however, that I had a very, very hard time saying goodbye to, and that was dolphin. I mean tuna. Yes, the chicken of the sea, the fish cats ask for by name, delicious in salad, sandwich, or sashimi… but my real weakness was straight-out-of-the-can tuna.
One by one, I had eliminated every other kind of meat from my diet, but after a week, I still could not give up tuna. Although it was more than eleven years ago, I remember it very clearly- I was alone in my mother’s house on a Thursday night, sitting in the dining room, with only the light from the kitchen casting a yellow glow over the oak table where I sat, crying like a little girl (I guess I was a little girl, so that’s not so shocking) as I shoveled forkful after forkful of tuna into my mouth; the oily, fishy taste mixing with my own tears. How could I be so fond of something so evil? The life of an innocent fish was sacrificed for my own enjoyment. I knew what I had to do, and it pained me greatly. After I had picked the last succulent morsel from the can and, through staccato breaths, consumed it, I did not eat meat again for the better part of a decade.
But then something happened- I enrolled in college, and officially became a beggar of food (a condition that would eventually prompt me to marry Michael, but that’s another story entirely), and you know what they say about beggars… they smell bad and are probably drunks. And, additionally, they shouldn’t be terribly choosy about gifts. I had to start eating meat again, or I might perish. How, after subscribing so wholeheartedly to a certain belief, was I able to do it? I re-wrote the moral code of my life.
Don’t act like you haven’t done it- every human action that strays from sainthood is a result of such creative interpretation: wars in the name of “Christ”, fishnet stockings in public school, infidelity of every sort. Everyone's done it, and everyone pretends they haven't; that it was always acceptable to do that thing, or at least for you to do it, so long as nobody finds out. I made my decision, and I stand by it. I’m back on the meat-restricted diet, but if a beef tip finds its way into my stomach, I’m sure it’s got a good reason to be there. I feel no guilt whatsoever… and that’s almost tragic.

Trajesty

2007-10-12T00:39:50Z

Few of us ever encounter true tragedy in our lives. The loss of a child is a tragedy. Genocide, torture, slavery, draught, famine, and the premature death of rock stars are all tragedies. But seriously, in our seats of privilege, and if you are reading this, you most likely have a seat of privilege, we are far removed from the most devastating tragedies. I have never been hungry for months at a time or been kidnapped and sold as a wife or prostitute. I’m pretty glad, too.
Of course, the human brain is a resilient thing. Our perception of tragedy is adjusted to our realm of experience. One person’s injustice may not seem equal when compared to another’s, but I’m quite sure that the injustice felt by an airline stewardess who has been robbed of her overtime pay is just as strong as that of little Ollie Twist, begging for a spoonful of gruel. If our perception of tragedy were relative to the severity of the tragedy, either those who experienced true pain and hardship would explode or the rest of us would float around on air 24/7.
Many people who go through something genuinely traumatizing cannot think upon the tragic event without crying for a good time after it happens, provided they remember it at all. I have not had many of those in my life. My cat died when I was 16 and I wept like a widow for weeks. My parents divorced when I was 6, and I still keep forgetting to sit town and tabulate all the negative effects that has had on my tender psyche. I’ve experienced several other minor tragedies I’d rather not touch, but for whatever reason, it was a sunny afternoon in the spring of, um, let’s say ’92, that I could not think about for several years without being flooded by the bitter, stinging tears of loss.
I don’t remember where the balloon came from or what color it was. I don’t even remember particularly liking balloons all that much, but in the way children often do, I had attached something of myself to that balloon that I felt very protective of. Looking back, I’ll say it was my innocence. Maybe it was trust. Trust that when you set innocence free in the world, it will remain intact.
As usual, Della and I were fighting- pretty routine for the walk home from school. She was refusing to hold my balloon so that I could find my key and let us in the house; I was surely being bratty and trying to get her to look for the stupid key for me if she didn’t want to hold my balloon. Looking back on it now, it should not have meant so much, but as I tried to hand the balloon to her, time seemed to slow down, and I still remember watching the helpless thing bounce lightly away from me, across the yard, and as it made its slow arc onto the concrete of the neighbor’s driveway, and instantly popped, I fell into a deep and extremely un-called-for depression.
For years- YEARS- I could not look at a balloon without crying. I could not think of the incident without choking up. Every time I went to the grocery store, I had to avert my eyes from the little corral of floating silver orbs trying to wish me a happy birthday. I hid my face when toddlers at fairs would traipse by with a bunch of full, shiny balloons, because they had something I didn’t have. I don’t know what part of me popped with that balloon, but to me, it was a true tragedy... and that's almost tragic.

The questionable existence of mental illness.

2007-10-11T18:34:02Z

Having been alive a slim 23 years, it can be said that my opinions have not been given sufficient time to ferment, and are thus of little substance. Although this is likely true, there is at least one topic I have wasted enough time and thought on to be a self-proclaimed aficionado: mental illness. Although I do believe mental illness exists, and is largely responsible for crime, severe drug addiction and homelessness, I still have a hard time thinking of "garden variety" mental illness as a condition worthy of the label of disease.

This means a lot coming from someone who has "suffered" from "suicidal depression" for her entire living memory. A half-mellinium ago or so, someone might have said I am of a "Melancholic Humor", and that my relative bodily concentration of water, my level of acidity and state of mind are guided largely against my will by the movement of the planets. Someone with "social anxiety" would've been a "hermit", and may have been lovingly portrayed as a wide-eyed old man with a beard to his knees, eating rats and drawing with coal on stone tablets to while away his hours.

The collective epiphany of modern psychologists and drugmakers that half the world is actually mentally diseased seems to me a symptom of the narrowing of the world and of accepted avenues of thought. The structures, the massive and impenetrable bureaucracies, and the echelons of boxes we place ourselves in all conspire to create a world with very strict limits on acceptable behavior (I could go off now on how Christianity is responsible for many of these limits and moral codes, but there is so much literature to back that theory that I don't find it necessary).

There have always been winners and losers, opressors and opressed, and in many ways a modern world is a good deal more accessible to the average person. The average person has the mental tools to endure public school and to sort through average emotional ripples, or even to cope with major loss and oppression- the sacrifice of parents or children to AIDS, or the brutal supression of a peaceful, democratic resistance. The world, ever changing, is simply becoming less welcoming to the variety of people living in it, ever the same. I speak from better knowledge of the "developed" American colonies, but I suspect we're all headed in a direction where rather than recognising eccentrics (or people of melancholic humor, for that matter) as eccentrics- as good variants in the experiment of human nature who make life harder or easier in turn, but always more interesting- we recognize them as horrible buboes to be lanced, as diseases to be cured or cancers to be removed and returned to normal, lest they infect us all.

Strangely, although I don't believe in all but the most severe mental illnesses, I'm not writing this to speak out against brain drugs. My life may well have been saved at some point by anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, anti-ADHD pills or some combination of these, and I'm not sorry for that. The unfortunate truth is that strange, sad and flaky old me needs the occasional mood stabilizer to lubricate my round self into a square place in the modern world.

Suffering from mental illness is a luxury of modern life, as is its treatment- like candy and the availability of midol and tampons to keep women out of the red tent- and although I'm glad I can afford that luxury (after all, it's the only way I will ever be able to hold down a job or go grocery shopping without fear of police confrontation) It does sadden me a little. I can, through the miracle of medication, make myself normal- something the weirdos of the past only dreamed of. But as an artist, these unusual qualities are little treasures that allow me extra sight: I have a melancholy that allows me to empathise deeply, and a mind that wanders to wonderful places from which I pull the wonderful visions that congeal into drawings and prints.
Not everyone can find such pleasure in their disease, and even I can't defend it all the time. In the real world, that of capitalist progress, I need to consume about 3 times the average adult's daily allowance of coffee just to keep myself in the desk.
But I'm okay with that, and with the fact that all us freaks have the choice of artificial normalcy, and that's almost tragic.

hello, and quite possibly goodbye.

2007-10-09T20:43:25Z

This blog is an attempt to stem the flow of incoherent, spacey ramlings that issue from my various email accounts. Safely in this dusty corner of the electronic spiderweb, my thoughts will be cause for less boredom and bewilderment, because nobody will feel obliged to read them. My thought for the day: I'm really very bad at finishing things once started, and that's almost tragic.