I’m about to go out and search for a little foot stool or something chic and transportable to set my laptop on at either urban outfitters or world market. Two stores a block from my house with an assortment of colorful, half-unique looking home decor options straight from Taiwan and less expensive then the nob hill furniture boutique ran by middle-aged fruity men. But anyway, the purpose of this message is to really express my long-felt disgruntlement over the excruciatingly high number of “artists” in Portland, (and from my experiences Eugene and other nearby towns, not to mention the west coast, Austin, NY, etc.), who are known for being the artists in their community but really just a bunch of babbling finger-painting butt wipes. They are good networkers and portfolio-making winos. Many edit a good collage, understand printmaking, buy vintage outfits from Buffalo, and cut their hair lopsided with long side burns. They smell like coffee and cigarettes, or yerba mate and marijuana. They say things like “groovy” and “tight” because these old phrases disappeared off the radar and reintroducing them is appealing to historical connotations of hipness as well as innovative reintroductions of indelible phrases in new linguistic contexts. Yet these collages, reinventions, basic nostaligias are morphed with eager needs to please, and a swamp of character is lost in a blase mixture of gaudy egos, all bright colors and loud spirits regurgitated into a fad of ideas, long mustaches, and big bangs all pickled together in a package of controllable, quotable, calculable, marketable, and consumable widgets and wits. I see widgets because people are further morphing into one-click wonders, their personalities exposed in online portfolios and profiles, their entire character summed up in a paragraph of theories throw-up from a senior course in the philosophy of art, and a handful of photographs of their best friend dressed in a tutu and leather jacket, playing the fashion model of a make-believe cinema still. I am only coarsely judging these neighboring hipster fashionistas, designers, photographers, painters, printmakers, and artists of mixed media, because I too have expressed my share of magazine wall collage torn from Vogue, and scattered costume garments worn to work under a work shirt to express, as immutably as possible, the expression of a character that is at once vivid, youthful, and alive, and also extremely confused, complicated, and immersed in a capitalist world amidst critical parents, eager-to-please businessmen and egomaniacal entrepreneurs. I am merely trying to survive, and in recent months have mentally detached from my job of retail and socially detached from nocturnal outings with fellow creatives and networkers, in order to return to the roots of my inspiration devoid of bad credit and crimped spirits. I am returning to what made me tick at five, and love at twelve, fight at fourteen, and run madly away into the unknown at eighteen. I am reading, and bathing, and staring into the space of everything have yet to understand and can only feel when I’m in my world separated from histories and expectations. The lone artists, and naturists, the hermits and quiet types intrigue me. What is a loud voice but a need to be heard over the quality of your words. I want to hear the silent fellow who returns to his room to make art for himself, and hear what the natural world says apart from urban industries and profit. Profit in the quiet contentment of a product made for a feeling in yourself. Well, that is a big bundle of words I’ve again spitted out with my first cup of “morning” coffee. And now I’ll contradict my own stream of thoughts by going out and finding a foot stool, (one in mind, actually, a purple one at Urban, would complete the complete lack of color scheme in my room). And also time for more coffee…
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Everything is a matter of perception (if you don’t believe me go see the new Coen Brothers movie about a serious Jewish man because Ethan studied Philosophy and those brothers, like Colbert, seem to carry a lot of weight in the world with their strange humors and wits). I love their visual and musical sensibilities too.
I was in Eugene this weekend. Lolligagging on the Amtrak like the little girl lazily tugging her bunny roller pack along the tracks to the end carts, sandwiched between the dining bar and the bathrooms. I sat staring out the dark rectangle of night and thinking about what kind of relationship I would re-invent when I reintroduced myself to Adam, after a month apart, and nearly a year of speckled, incongruent conversations, some intellectual, and some emotional, draining and uplifting, and devious, and cleansing. I waited as he forgot the time and ran in a puff from his new place, a small cottage that resembled the Berenstain Bears’ tree house, with a loft and starry skylight, and spindly wood rails, shelves, stairs and cupboards inside.
He sat me down and I attempted to talk as he gazed at me smiling mischievously. He wanted to kiss me and I didn’t want to kiss him! I talked and I looked away and grinned at my feet and ogled all of the little details of his new cottage house. And then we kissed and I pulled away and insisted we go to dinner at the Lucky Noodle and we did. But after pad thai, and some wine, we returned and we did it again. We always do, of course, and then I fear that what piques his curiosity and passion the most has be relieved and the rest of the time will be some sort of compensation for stealing his life force. But this time I suppose I had heart break on my side, as it wasn’t directed at him or anyone else, but lately has been more in general, a general dampness of spirits. And we bickered some, and argued about the serious man, the cliche term “in-joy” so grossly exploited in Eugene, and about the countless guest singers in studio recorded pink floyd albums (because on Valentine’s day we went to an awe-inducing production of dark side of the moon in ballet…the dance of death with an angel stole my breath….and two modern existential compositions with smoke, lights, jetes, horns, long hippie hair and chiseled long limbed dancers)….but we also got along pretty nicely.
I suppose I’m stubbing out the grief of being his “whore”, it’s just a smashing pumpkins song, and I do adore him as he does me, even if he is a freak and will never ever give me a conventional love affair again. I am both finally completely at peace with my independence, and open to whatever relationship could pop up tomorrow. My anxieties concerning other parties that once broke my spirits have all but vanished. I feel cleansed by affections that don’t wane with difficult encounters. (Though increasingly melancholy again to think this is solely due to the impersonal nature of these affections, but I’ll stop short on that for now…)
Joy is all based within matters of perception, and good and bad can be measured by the scope of our visions, but I seriously do think real LOVE encircles friends and lovers in much the same way, and I have in this preposterous joker from the past a real good friend, if not boyfriend or anything else of consequence. I could never knowingly regress back into a romantic bondage. I watched the movie “Crash” (90’s with James Spader, the NC 17 version of course) and thought how numb these people were, aching to hit the edge, to feel something, and in repetition and perversion, feeding the numbness into a state of emotional oblivion. I can appreciate more the rarity of our affair, and find solace in again feeling seen, felt and appreciated. It has been a flustered carnival ride of relational fluctuations between various hearts. In short we have all returned to what we knew before. I for one, am only returning to myself, in-joying days with books, cat, bubble baths. Even dad and I are getting along as much as is possible with a shell. He called me, surprise! And he is going to do the annual winter week of solitude in the mountains and snow, with his small pack and clear head. Like him Adam is always going out and away from the world to his own corner to deliberate and to get immersed in nature. I guess I’ve been selling computers for enough months now to wish for only one thing, to have time to wander around in nature, and feel it against my skin, and in my hair, and all over me. Even in my lust there is no one right now I desire more than I can bare. I am happy to be alone. Finally again. I am grateful for Adam’s love, and to know the fickle short breath of the other boy’s heart, to have come to this conclusion in my own perceptions…I am rambling. None of my words really suffice, either, as Martha Graham the dancer said: “The body says what words cannot”.
I dreamt I was in this hotel with many elevators (inspiration: my work place) except this hotel was incredibly large and haunted (I have a thing for spirits and ghosts in my dreams), and it had an Olympic size pool in a secluded hidden area you could only find by one spiral ascending and descending, mini-white elevator (also have a thing for architectural enigmas, water, and secret hiding places). My predilection for bizarre architecture dreams leads me to think I should continue my schooling in architecture, even if according to every typical mom in the country it is no longer a top grossing income, and engineers are more loaded. Big fucking deal, it is that or starving artist, moms. So second part of dream, two people complained about me being stoned, including my hairdresser’s coworker, because my actual hairdresser (I mean in the dream) was extremely fat and wanted to charge thirty for a trim, and I thought, oh hell no, bye (maybe should hold off on pot as I find most chemicals except for coffee overbearing on my little system these days)…off to an expensive massage. But worth it. And I should shower first. Last night I ran in the rain than fell to sleep in a melatonin stupor. I have to admit the boy with dark locks was in the dream too. I fear he will never go away, but we know that’s not true, not nearly.