Quote from "Bluebeard" by Kurt Vonnegut
Drawing: classic yellow number #2 pencil
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Maybe if I Complain, It will Write itself...
I'm trying to produce a complete story out of the flash fiction piece "A Frame" (previous post), but I'm stuck and it refuses to finish itself. Here's what I have so far...
Old Liebemarlene stood barefoot and sturdy, without a detectable wobble, on the cool cement of her little porch. The creek that ran behind our houses regularly stirred up imaginary memories, and that’s why we were there. My mother was always nagging me to go next door with her, to bring Liebemarlene dinner (miniature models of the family dinner, neatly prepared on the good china), but I protested every time. I could see right through my mother’s exasperated smile and light hearted “Oh come on, it’ll just take a minute” whinny, the one she used when basic parental yelling commands failed to alarm me into compliance. But her ulterior motives to lure my into the presence of the elderly involved exactly the thing I sought today: wisdom.
Or was it simple information? I was not accustomed to swallowing my pride, and a lack of patience, unlike my mother’s undaunting sense of duty and decency, plagued me. My neighbor and partner in crime, Kinny, nailed a wooden cross above my bed, to ward of the spirits, but it seemed to hold no real importance or function, except to hang my drying bras. I would wake up with broken bits of mug next to my bed, and nearly cut my feet while stumbling with morning blindness to the bathroom. The cross was also once found on the opposite side of the room at dawn, when a screeching bird awoke me at the unusual hour. The information the old woman could provide was vital, and I could already feel the pride easily melting away.
That day, the brutal warmth was a burden, hindering my ability to move much like a winter cold would inhibit the motivation to leave the comforts of home. We took Liebemarlene’s cue and removed our shoes to absorb the coolness of the floor, licking our lips over and over again.
“I see you have a brick there kids,” she said, her jaw sideways, munching on a green apple. I could see its tartness, and the wince she tried to cover up.
At this point she was, say, 87? 88? Later, still on this street, she would be 98, then 99. Still to this day, no one ever held his breath in anticipation of her death.
I suppose when you’re that old, everyone is a kid. But out of habit, I rolled my eyes at Kinny, who looked bored, yet still her nervous self. She rolled her eyes back, also using them to tell me to get to the point.
But it was a sensitive matter, nothing I could just jump right into; the idea of disturbing the seemingly blissful obliviousness of Leibmarlene’s life was another sin I did not have room to commit. It was obvious I had already done something wrong…why else would this be happening to me? I couldn’t just tell her that the dead from the burnt down hotel crawled up the sunken creek walls on hot summer nights (days of which Kinny and I disturbed the ruins with our tennis shoes), through our overgrown backyard where they peered inside at my peaceful rest.
“Do you know anything about it? The brick?” I asked, as nicely as possible, knowing full well that she was aware of our daily explorations in the creek.
“It’s a-“
“Shh!” I snapped at my companion. I had to see her honest reaction, unclouded by our infantile, and unfounded, ideas.
Liebemarlene took a break from her apple, setting it down directly in the dirt over the edge of the porch; the apparent strength of her teeth was incredible, considering her age. She squinted to read the faint indentation on the brick-‘Hotel Moon Bay, Est 1889.’
“Oh yes, oh yes,” she mused, acting surprised. She knew where it came from, why we had it, that much was obvious. “We loved watching the fancy people walk up that grand staircase…”
“Wooow,” I said, playing along and feigning surprise as well. Kinny smiled, as if sharing the memories with the old woman was a wonderfully entertaining way to spend a summer afternoon. But I was tired of wasting time; tonight would pass just as every night had for the past month, ever since we had found the metal box and sketches. Kinny would call me in the morning, ask me how the events had unfolded, and I would repeat the same rapport, that things had happened that could only happen in dreams.
Silence elapsed for an indeterminate period of time, but enough for Kinny to become so bored and uncomfortable to the point where she decided to remember that her mother needed her home at four o’clock to help her water the entire backyard, which would take hours, so she should better get home. Plus she had to be finished in time to watch The Simpsons at 6. That left old the old woman and I alone. As Kinny shuffled away, I watched in awe as old Liebemarlene’s strong, masculine hands picked up her broom and began sweeping the porch.
I seemed to barely register in her peripheral vision, and when I finally gained the courage to speak, to ask her a more bold question than my first, my voice seemed louder than the ocean waves crashing on the shore not far from her house, louder than the two lane highway just blocks away, and louder than the persistent swishing of her brittle home-made broom.
“Well, actually, we know it’s from the hotel. That much we figured out. I think I might know more about it than I really want to, actually. It’s weird, this is going to sound weird, I know, but I think these bricks, and the hotel, it might have to do with what’s been happening to me lately…”
GAH, it really sucks. It's quite upsetting. Also been watching a lot of Woody Allen because I have been holding Mitzi's pirated copy from Japan with about 10 of his movies captive. My favorites so far, other than Annie Hall, which is a given, have been a short, "Life Lessons," and "Don't Drink the Water." The former is artsy and serious and visually stunning and teaches...life lessons about avoiding become the prostitute/muse of a filthy washed up arrogant artist. The latter is hilarious...Woody and his family become holed up in the US Embassy in Italy after mistakenly being labeled American spies of the communists...or something like that. But worthwhile...watch 'em.
Life Lessons
Don't Drink the Water
(http://www.flickr.com/photos/66853325@N00/2772543845/)
(http://seul-le-cinema.blogspot.com)
Old Liebemarlene stood barefoot and sturdy, without a detectable wobble, on the cool cement of her little porch. The creek that ran behind our houses regularly stirred up imaginary memories, and that’s why we were there. My mother was always nagging me to go next door with her, to bring Liebemarlene dinner (miniature models of the family dinner, neatly prepared on the good china), but I protested every time. I could see right through my mother’s exasperated smile and light hearted “Oh come on, it’ll just take a minute” whinny, the one she used when basic parental yelling commands failed to alarm me into compliance. But her ulterior motives to lure my into the presence of the elderly involved exactly the thing I sought today: wisdom.
Or was it simple information? I was not accustomed to swallowing my pride, and a lack of patience, unlike my mother’s undaunting sense of duty and decency, plagued me. My neighbor and partner in crime, Kinny, nailed a wooden cross above my bed, to ward of the spirits, but it seemed to hold no real importance or function, except to hang my drying bras. I would wake up with broken bits of mug next to my bed, and nearly cut my feet while stumbling with morning blindness to the bathroom. The cross was also once found on the opposite side of the room at dawn, when a screeching bird awoke me at the unusual hour. The information the old woman could provide was vital, and I could already feel the pride easily melting away.
That day, the brutal warmth was a burden, hindering my ability to move much like a winter cold would inhibit the motivation to leave the comforts of home. We took Liebemarlene’s cue and removed our shoes to absorb the coolness of the floor, licking our lips over and over again.
“I see you have a brick there kids,” she said, her jaw sideways, munching on a green apple. I could see its tartness, and the wince she tried to cover up.
At this point she was, say, 87? 88? Later, still on this street, she would be 98, then 99. Still to this day, no one ever held his breath in anticipation of her death.
I suppose when you’re that old, everyone is a kid. But out of habit, I rolled my eyes at Kinny, who looked bored, yet still her nervous self. She rolled her eyes back, also using them to tell me to get to the point.
But it was a sensitive matter, nothing I could just jump right into; the idea of disturbing the seemingly blissful obliviousness of Leibmarlene’s life was another sin I did not have room to commit. It was obvious I had already done something wrong…why else would this be happening to me? I couldn’t just tell her that the dead from the burnt down hotel crawled up the sunken creek walls on hot summer nights (days of which Kinny and I disturbed the ruins with our tennis shoes), through our overgrown backyard where they peered inside at my peaceful rest.
“Do you know anything about it? The brick?” I asked, as nicely as possible, knowing full well that she was aware of our daily explorations in the creek.
“It’s a-“
“Shh!” I snapped at my companion. I had to see her honest reaction, unclouded by our infantile, and unfounded, ideas.
Liebemarlene took a break from her apple, setting it down directly in the dirt over the edge of the porch; the apparent strength of her teeth was incredible, considering her age. She squinted to read the faint indentation on the brick-‘Hotel Moon Bay, Est 1889.’
“Oh yes, oh yes,” she mused, acting surprised. She knew where it came from, why we had it, that much was obvious. “We loved watching the fancy people walk up that grand staircase…”
“Wooow,” I said, playing along and feigning surprise as well. Kinny smiled, as if sharing the memories with the old woman was a wonderfully entertaining way to spend a summer afternoon. But I was tired of wasting time; tonight would pass just as every night had for the past month, ever since we had found the metal box and sketches. Kinny would call me in the morning, ask me how the events had unfolded, and I would repeat the same rapport, that things had happened that could only happen in dreams.
Silence elapsed for an indeterminate period of time, but enough for Kinny to become so bored and uncomfortable to the point where she decided to remember that her mother needed her home at four o’clock to help her water the entire backyard, which would take hours, so she should better get home. Plus she had to be finished in time to watch The Simpsons at 6. That left old the old woman and I alone. As Kinny shuffled away, I watched in awe as old Liebemarlene’s strong, masculine hands picked up her broom and began sweeping the porch.
I seemed to barely register in her peripheral vision, and when I finally gained the courage to speak, to ask her a more bold question than my first, my voice seemed louder than the ocean waves crashing on the shore not far from her house, louder than the two lane highway just blocks away, and louder than the persistent swishing of her brittle home-made broom.
“Well, actually, we know it’s from the hotel. That much we figured out. I think I might know more about it than I really want to, actually. It’s weird, this is going to sound weird, I know, but I think these bricks, and the hotel, it might have to do with what’s been happening to me lately…”
GAH, it really sucks. It's quite upsetting. Also been watching a lot of Woody Allen because I have been holding Mitzi's pirated copy from Japan with about 10 of his movies captive. My favorites so far, other than Annie Hall, which is a given, have been a short, "Life Lessons," and "Don't Drink the Water." The former is artsy and serious and visually stunning and teaches...life lessons about avoiding become the prostitute/muse of a filthy washed up arrogant artist. The latter is hilarious...Woody and his family become holed up in the US Embassy in Italy after mistakenly being labeled American spies of the communists...or something like that. But worthwhile...watch 'em.
Life Lessons
Don't Drink the Water
(http://www.flickr.com/photos/66853325@N00/2772543845/)
(http://seul-le-cinema.blogspot.com)
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Coast to Coast
The scanner at Kinko's in Davis is a pile of shit. I think the computer it's attached to is from 1999. So this is the best I can offer you. I do kinda like the way it makes pictures look oldish...but ideally I wish for better quality.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Growing Pains
For my teaching credential program starting this Fall we were asked to begin writing a casual journal about what kind of teacher we want to become, thoughts on teaching, or really anything related to our future goals as a teacher. I was pretty much not excited about summer homework, because that's basically what it is, but so far it has actually been fun. Here's an excerpt from my first entry about the differences between being an adolescent and emerging out of your twenties, the fear of growing old, and the glorification of youth.
(some background info: this was influenced by a half drunken conversation between Kai, myself, Jesse and Jordan at Sophia's)
...she [Kai] exudes a strength and self-confidence I have never known, that seems to have emerged only with the passage of time. It is this self confidence and overt happiness that show everyone around her that she is comfortable in her own skin, in both the mistakes and successes she has experienced in life so far, and that she is not afraid of growing older. In fact, she welcomes it with opens arms; if she has learned one thing about surviving her teens and early twenties, it is that life only gets better and better. That is, if you let it.
Last night she explained her “philosophy” on this subject in more depth; she claimed that emerging from her mid twenties she began to experience a sort of “second awakening,” much like the wonder that a child feels towards all the new stimuli in his ever expanding world. This second coming is even better though, according to Kai, because one has all the memories and experiences of the last thirty or so years, and one begins to see all of those things, and the new things, in a completely refreshing light, with wonder and excitement. She said it was like going outside and removing dark sunglasses; she now appreciates the little things, taking joy in seemingly typical activities like getting coffee with a friend, or being thrilled by the notion of going to the zoo.
While hearing her talk about these things, it almost made me a sad to think about how often teenagers and twenty-somethings miss out on these little joys because they are too busy worrying about what their peers, or what society, will think of their interests or attitudes. I did, and still do, sometimes feel trapped by the pressures of what is “right” and what is “wrong” and the turmoil of finding oneself and growing up is so exasperating, that depression and anxiety are now very normal phenomena in the young (the nonchalant deaths of the girls of The Virgin Suicides come to mind..."Obviously, Doctor, you've never been a thirteen year old girl"). There is almost something wrong with a person if he is comfortable and content with his life at a young age.
Kai is also extremely frustrated with the glorification of youth, and I completely agree. The youth of today are taught from a very young age that they are special and envied by the old and wrinkled. Contrary to popular belief, simply being 18 does not mean you have done anything worthy of praise. As these teenagers age, they carry with them the fear of decay and thus go to extremes to maintain their youth for as long as possible; this creates bitter adults who feel as if they have done something wrong by being 40, when in fact they should appreciate the knowledge (some might say wisdom) they have acquired over the years, and should be more happy as their lives progress. Instead, most are high strung with children they cannot relate to, running frantic errands in palates gear, getting chemical peels, and marrying for money. This is an extreme example, but one all too prevalent in those approaching middle age in this youth obsessed society.
All this being said, I want to take the unique opportunity of being a teacher and mentor of the youth, by showing them, by example, that growing up and becoming comfortable with oneself is a beautiful thing. There are, of course, many, many things to enjoy in youth, but they need to understand that the discoveries they make each day will increase and only make them happier and more fulfilled as they age. In turn, I hope they fear aging less, and maybe even gain respect for their elders, who can show them that the wonder of life is available until the day they die.
Sometimes I feel as though I am on the brink of this second awaking myself, and sometimes I feel like it is a million miles away. Fits of depression and confusion still sometimes plague me; I feel tired and bored and unmotivated. But the good thing is that I am aware of how I feel, and the fact that I will grow out of it sooner rather than later. My self-consciousness will fade away, I will exude a feeling of genuine joy; I am already excited for the future and the new things I will learn and see with my sunglasses off.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
The Road
I made this about a month ago...I suggest clicking for enlargement (as if it were that easy har har) because it is impossible to really grasp the artistic genius of this piece at its current size.
*acrylic, sharpie, and pencil
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Paper People
They had never been in a wedding before, and they had not anticipated this much waiting around. Tania and Josephine, in the itchy tulle of their buoyant dresses, kept the bride, Marie, company.
Each sat hunched over (ignoring the ‘no sitting’ rule), with chin in palm, silently sighing. Tania held a glass of room temperature water in her free hand, fantasizing about her own wedding, seemingly undeterred by the dullness of this particular event. Josephine wore a sterner face, continually rubbing her arm as if experiencing a chill. All Marie could think about was the constricting (cheap, thick) lace that sleeved her thin arms, and the faux white splayed rose perched upon the forefront of her head.
“We are certainly not white roses…or any color roses for that matter,” Marie tugged at the thick papery thing upon her head, but thought better of it and kept it intact.
Each sat hunched over (ignoring the ‘no sitting’ rule), with chin in palm, silently sighing. Tania held a glass of room temperature water in her free hand, fantasizing about her own wedding, seemingly undeterred by the dullness of this particular event. Josephine wore a sterner face, continually rubbing her arm as if experiencing a chill. All Marie could think about was the constricting (cheap, thick) lace that sleeved her thin arms, and the faux white splayed rose perched upon the forefront of her head.
“We are certainly not white roses…or any color roses for that matter,” Marie tugged at the thick papery thing upon her head, but thought better of it and kept it intact.
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