garfield was the first thing i taught myself to draw.
also, i'm not sure why i'm logging my b's again. i hate apostrophes when they aren't indicating the possessive, as in 'b's' or WMA's. usually i don't put them in.
i believe that the black-and-white farm dog i mentioned in the previous post--one half of the best dream i've ever had (the other half was the windy wheat he was surrounded by)--is my animal totem. perhaps he is my spirit animal and i should consider mailing a dog in as a mail art submission (also below). when i awoke smiling, i thought, "remember this! this is the only good dream you've ever had! it's not about tornados, bloody babies, or a penis that pops out of your belly button and looks dangerously close to a wagging pinky finger!!"
i am working toward a career in nursing. i never thought i would work toward a career. part of the nursing allure is the gore factor, and part is the latent catholic guilt/golden rule neurosis. in second grade, i sat right in front of a laminated golden rule. once i asked my teacher, mrs. gladhill, if i could go to the bathroom. this was a big deal because my sister and i used to be so shy that we would only talk to each other. ms. gladhill wouldn't let me go. i thought i peed my pants, but i went to the nurse, and it turned out i didn't. once i peed in my pajamas on purpose as an attention-seeking device, to get my m0ther to wake up and come into my room. pee seeping down my flannel pajamas and into their plastic feet taught me a lesson: pee in bed, but do it in the right pajamas.
what else...what else might kevin, justin, and ryan want to hear about...tonight transmodern starts--experimental films. saturday i'm an 'oddience' member and will be subverting the dominant paradigm, damning the man, and turning conventional gender ideals on their head with a paper bag over my head labeled: "DO NOT DISTURB: THINKING ABOUT DEATH." actually i'm just lazy and feel less self-conscious when no one can see my face, and this way i can just sit in a corner and think the same thoughts i always do, and can even grimace if i want.
when i move in with my sister we will have three dogs and four cats, and her boyfriend.
i like the lorraine graham chapdisc for its packaging and the recognizable narrative which peeks through her work, in terms of relocation, 'heritage,' and the personal through a topographic medium. her delivery is often sarcastic, which lends a little more cynicism than i would like. i can say that because it's exactly how i present myself to the world. hearing her makes me think about the shapes her mouth makes when she reads, which would happen even more if i was listening to a mark wallace disc, except then i would picture his mouth.
my first daffodil bloomed today. mating a red flower and a white flower disproves an early genetics theory, but i can't remember which one.
and the answer to the prostitute joke/header below is:
one shucks between fits.
Mail Art Call:
Is it an aspect of your psyche?
Is it your companion animal?
What is your spirit animal?
Send your representation to:
UHSKEE - SPIRIT ANIMAL
PO BOX 639
OSLER SK S0K 3A0
Size: Minimum 4x6 postcard
Deadline: None - ongoing
what's the difference (beyond the obvious) between an epileptic corn farmer and a prostitute with diarrhea?
i just told kevin this on the phone, but the tetris that happens in my head after a nice, hot, challenging game, when i'm falling asleep, is more competitive than you might imagine (as often as You imagine Me playing head-tetris). the pieces, they fall onto the block below, but not the pieces i need. it appears that My brain actually creates a game for Me. which is interesting. in context.
kevin and i just talked about context. a girl asked him if when he commented that warhol could be considered a minimalist, he meant "in form or content." kevin asked her if she was interested in conversation or academic discourse. sometimes i'm that girl. it's true. kevin knows--ask him.
tonight's autism ravioli score:
daily show/600-piece puzzle: 1
trying to force robitussin down throat: 0
now i have to go imagine kevin in the shower as i wait impatiently for the next L-shaped piece to fall. (that's not meant to sound predatory; we had an agreement).
i'm so bored with everything, including gallery art and red mill 10-grain hot cereal.
well i recently got a car. today, it didn't start right. i don't know. it just wasn't right. so i opened it. i opened the car. there is a space, under the hood, where something should be. i don't know what should be there, but something is missing, and it's probably a tube of some sort, and maybe a cover for the tube, and maybe also some bolts. (see above; this picture is taken directly behind the right headlight).
it is possible that when i was at work last night (autism ravioli), in the neighborhood where the words "CRIPS ZONE" are spraypainted with an arrow pointing down the street of the house of the boy of autism ravioli, someone took whatever is now missing.
(this is all true)
(i was killed seventeen times by a hunting rifle)
(every time my family eats a guinea pig i feel compelled to tell my own personal story)
although my various organelles continue hard at work eradicating whatever it is in my body that is making--among other things--my skin hurt, i sit freezing in my basement making sheep drawings on scratchboard. nothing against sheep, but i wouldn't be doing this if i didn't have to.
li'l boi blue
have you seen it?
or, my selected lifestyle
is pasteurizing supremely.
we go to a special school
where we scratch out the "weee."
ryan mentioned bks, and i find this particularly compelling at the moment:
But I don’t have a fact in me.
I let the blog date this poem.
2. this morning i sweated through my pajamas in my sleep. it was extreme.
3. if anyone reading my emo blog is considering buying me a birthday present (which they're probably not, because here are the prospective readers:
a. justin: clearly does not need to buy me a present since we will shortly be in love
b. kevin: see heating bill post below
c. ryan: doesn't know me well enough; might think i'm morbid
d. kaplan: doesn't know me well enough; might have offended him during reading
man, look at all that man--where my bitches at??
(e. miriam: might forget that i told her i have a blog; not sure we're doing presents this year))
here is what i would like (women's small):
4. one weird thing about blogging is that as public and self-involved as it is, there's still a good amount of censoring. i almost think, "what's the point?" there's no almost about it. and yet,
right now putt-putt the cat is licking otis the cat's eyebrow.
right now miriam is coming over for a birthday hello, and some gatorade.
just now miriam dropped off the gatorade (she knew not to buy me the lemon-lime kind because of its color, and bought me orange and blue instead--it's nice, the feeling of someone knowing these things).
earlier ryan said he will kill me. i don't remember why. something about blogs.
speaking of death, my old boss sent me a birthday e-card in which she said she's seen many people recently who look like me, and that usually happens to her when someone dies. that, in combination with my tendency to spiral into my own brain when ill, was not particularly helpful. there is consolation in the fact that heaven probably does not resemble hampden, but maybe that's what i get.
more death: watched 'that obscure object of desire.' didn't like it as much as i'd hoped, especially once i found out that using two separate actresses for the same role was an accident (more of a capitalization i guess), not a plot device.
i have to go make sure i'm alive by eating a microwave dinner.
i think at this point i'm only keeping a journal so that i can have some type of conversation with the few people who i know will read this. i hate 'i.'
how's your dad?
how's your dad?
today commemorates the fact that my sister and i have been alive for the exact same amount of time. we worry a lot that this won't always be the case, but then we remember that we're never going to die. what a relief!
my roommate brought me breakfast in bed: blueberry muffins with crumblies, blueberry jam, butter (the jam and the butter were in little glass bowls), on a blue plate. i don't think i've ever had breakfast in bed, except that our parents used to coax us out of bed on vacation with donuts at the hotel table.
m o r m o n s:
my roommate is a 42-year-old mormon. we're the same height.
u t i l i t i e s:
kevin says he has a gas bill over $700.
v i r a l i n f e c t i o n s:
the zicam chewables have lost their charm, and my lymph nodes could be described as "shoddy."
if i have children, here are their names:
1. shoddy nodes
2. mr. buzzle
m o v i e:
last night i watched all about my mother. i like almodovar--i like the permeability of drama on drama and the ease with which i accept the sometimes obvious visual aesthetic/beauty. i also like the narrative between films; not a linear one but more of a conceptual one. i guess this could just be because of that overt aesthetic, the way that any director's films could be linked together, but there's something else there--some sensibility that is tangible enough to imply a narrative.
l o o k a l i k e s:
is anyone reading this? why the hell am i keeping a journal? i hate journals. i had to do it for therapy once and the only part i liked was the gold star stickers. of course, the only celebrity look-alike comment i ever received was that i resembled judy dench, and in her most recent film she keeps an obsessive journal with gold stars, and suddenly the trajectory of my life makes sense.
my sister is on my driver's license.
b i r t h d a y for m o r m o n s
like a christmas ham
that's right (embalming)
(water bears make good witnesses)
(u t i l i t i e s make good friends)
some sort of v i r a l i n f e c t i o n
mistakes were made in symmetry
or an error in identification
we divide; i are not we
(a m o v i e of
l o o k a l i k e s
t h i n g s being exactly as they should
is the most terrifying thing
(literal)heart blown and kicked)
justin's going to talk to my sister's boyfriend about various autoimmune disorders involving only one side of the body so that he (justin) can date me. i am at the top of justin's list of everything. if justin and i were in a kitchen full of enchiladas,
the issue of awake! they left is about, according to one of the witnesses, "educating young people about the dangers of the internet." i guess she doesn't have a blog.
according to awake!, water bears (tardigrades) love god because they can go into a deathlike state for up to 100 years by virtue of sugar conversion and their ability to cover themselves in wax. "in their own quiet but wonderful way, these tiny "creeping things" praise jehovah."
i just ate my first ever zicam cold remedy chewable tablet. it was like a starburst until i got to the inside, which was more like a wax candy bottle. still, probably the most pleasurable medication experience i've ever had.
now that i've blogged about one personal problem, i'll blog about a not-so-personal one: well, i can't think of any. maybe later i will blog about one.
maybe i'll only post about the day before and tomorrow (see how plans match up)
maybe i should have blogged under a pseudonym or something equally distant
maybe i will feel compelled to measure up to all the man wits
maybe i'll describe my realization tonight that my room is set up to appear as if a very specific kind of person lived here
probably no current events commentary
not a lot of time to read for fun; probably not a lot of literature commentary--feel insecure about critical ability in something i know relatively little about (but plenty of time to play hand-held tetris if tonight is any example)
some time for art shows but no real time/interest right now in own art; probably some commentary on shows though
might not share blog address with parents (don't want to appear self-indulgent)
will probably decide, "who cares?" and delete blog; will probably wonder if this manifests a problem with commitment or a problem with ubiquitous insignificance; will then feel bad about it and wonder if i did the right thing.
(see top of post.)
but, tonight, from susan howe's singularities,
This is my birthday
These are the old home trees
and from rob halpern's rumored place,
No infinities--more like endless links.
and from a card from my grandmom,
(would like more of a justification, but am not an academic; would like to keep a diary but am not not conceptual.)
you can't see me,
you can't hear me.
(poem for helen keller)
(blogging announcement to kevin thurston in 3...2...1...now. wait, now.)