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…
Tag Archives: hipster
Twenty-something and clueless- the never before told story of a lost young girl experiencing a quarter-life crises in a hipster city post-college, and in throes with her parents, and still coping with her childhood, which makes relationships a burden especially when she still sleeps with her ex because she is scared to go over a month without sex and so is he…yes the most original piece of literature to ever surface in this post-modern, existential, deconstuctionist capitalistic, overly-scholared American world. I would be at the forefront of groundbreaking beyond-hippie-hipster visionaries everywhere, embracing this new vision to pull us into 2012, and bridging the gap between driveling confused trust fund babies from gen X and soccer moms caught shopping at Forever 21 during school hours. In one book I would encompass a global view of communist capitalism from my experiences teaching abroad in Korea, which is like China but smaller and less original, and I would then blunder gracefully into stories about being unemployed post-teaching and college, confused about the ex thing, and trying to get inexpensive massages but failing after backpacking SE Asia, and being spoiled and no wiser than a fortune cookie, because my India and eastern spirituality loving ex ruined any ideas of enlightenment for me. He also failed to keep my cat alive when I moved abroad, and he gave me herpes so I lost a relationship with the next boy I really liked, which took me two years to find after I realized I had to move on, but you know, I’m not resentful or anything…I’m just a lost twenty-something writing an original tale about being lost in Portland, the capital of Happy Hour, bad credit, crack coffee, and tight pants.
I am returning from a hour at a Vietnamese beauty parlor where I entered to get my eyebrows waxed, and exited with my whole face waxed and freshly painted nails. I also had a mediocre foot massage from a lady called either Thing or Ting, who had named her 22month old Italy because her husband, who had two years ago returned to Vietnam to find a wife and tow her back to the states with him, had a soft spot for Italians. Ting/Thing and I threw at each other several questions in broken English like a crippled interview between Autistic teenagers, when she looked deeply into my eyes and asked, “Do you like Cocaine?” That’s what it sounded like and I stared at her and then asked her to repeat herself about ten times, each time she repeated “Cocaine, Coke-do you like?” and I finally was about to accept that my neighborhood Vietnamese community was submersed in drug culture, and maybe relate in choppy English phrases my most impressive cocaine story when I snorted about 22 lines in one night and talked about Nietzsche with a friend and decided by sunrise I was a genius and then crawled up in a ball and wanted to die…but then she spelled it out. “C-O-O-K’. Do you like? Coking?” Oh, that’s not as interesting a story, but yes, I like it.
I just cooked. I returned home, cleaned the litter box and then made dinner, and I really wanted protein so I opened a can of refried beans with a vision of Mexican tortillas, but the beans, after being coked up with cheese, onion, peppers and garlic, just looked like a big pile of colorful shit. But it tastes good.
So I just wanted to recount these stories, because they are going into this famous book I’m going to write about the nothingness of being nothing and getting old and feeling like I need to meet someone, and that every guy I pass is a potential husband, even the balding ones, because at least I know they are less likely to leave me or cheat on me, and at 26, you know I have a crippled heart and can’t take any more of that misery, because life is hard, and I still work retail.
PS. My Mucocele has gone down. In case you don’t know what that is, because I had it one month before I actually found it out on Google, it is (and this is according to Wikipedia): a swelling of connective tissue consisting of collected mucin due to a ruptured salivary gland duct usually caused by local trauma, in the case of mucus extravasation phenomenon, and an obstructed salivary duct in the case of a mucus retention cyst. The mucocele is a bluish translucent color, and is more commonly found in children and young adults.” It’s basically a lip cyst, or polyp for a friendly term. And to gross you out thoroughly let me tell you that I didn’t want to see a doctor and try to figure out the whole PSU insurance thing, because I hate insurance, bills, taxes and all of that boring shit, so I poked and drained the polyp twice (heavy drainage of mucus-like saliva liquid the color of faded yellow wallpaper), the first time a week ago, the second a couple days ago. And with the natural remedies prescribed by such reputable sources as Simplestepsdental.com and lumpinmymouth.com, I dabbed the drained lump with alum spice, bags of Hibiscus tea, colloidal sliver drops, and sea salt. My lip went from Hattie McDaniels- Mammie size (a Gone with the Wind reference that would be lost on most of my generation, and shunned by older righteous citizens for its political incorrectness), looking like I was punched in the face, to looking pretty normal now. I am relieved. I have a freshly waxed face, freshly painted dark blue nails, a whole new week of classes, a pile of shit at my side getting cold and hoping to be picked up and ingested immediately after I finish this rant of nonsense, and to be accompanied by a 3 dollar bottle of Trader Joes wine called Pink, and an instant netflix movie, probably something hip and unique and sexy because I don’t get laid enough and really need to live vicariously through my unlimited instant netflix movies, because they are reliable and committed and always await me after a long day of selling expensive shit to Mac-snobs, or bobbing around campus trying to pretend I still care about college, even though I don’t feel like a student because my professor doesn’t even know what avarice is and misspelled gluttony!; and I’m dreaming about traveling again or doing something, anything, but this…snagging that husband. Have you read this children’s book about a baby bird trying to find its mom? I can’t remember the title, something like , “Hi are you my mom?” or “Where’s my mom?” and so that is me lately, “Hi, are you my husband?” Pathetic.
I don’t even like responsibility. Imagine me in a committed anything. I can’t even imagine a rental that is more committed than month to month. This world completely befuddles me.