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Major In Eros
I’ll place this1st, as this is of the utmost importance to me of late. Are any of you familiar with Ray Johnson? If not, I implore you google him. He is the father of mail art. I have always wanted to organize some little collection of people to whom I could send my own little artworks, collages, poems and receive some in return (Ah, this is the primary goal of mail art. Sharing bits of yourself.). So if any of you are
interested, please do not hesitate to email me! I would adore a few pen pal parallel companions.
As for this mail art movement I would love to start, any and all are welcome to collaborate on this! That you proclaim yourself an artist is not a prerequisite to participate. No experience required. Really, if you have something to say or share don’t be shy. Art is about exploration after all. This is all in good fun. And it is nothing less than fun to receive things in the mail! Delightful surprises. Aside from junk mail and the like….what a sad mailbox. So if you think you would like to accrue to this procession…feel free to contact me :)
And now I will have a “Back in my day…” story to share. I will grumble to the children upon my knees, “Back in my day we saw gas prices around 2 dollars. TWO!” Granted, if the prices keep increasing the way they do, by the time I have children on my knees, we may see it at nothing less than twenty five. Oh my. I’m not one to worry, even in the pinched places, but this dependency upon oil is starting to cause me to fret. Imagine if we had a nation day where everyone didn’t use their car?
If everyone walked or took mass transit for one day? Think of the oil we would save! And the money…wow am I ever on a progressive, productive track to date. I think if more people just stood up and took note, then maybe we could turn this nation around. Maybe. All it ever takes is one person, so whatever these words are worth to you…even if you don’t agree I hope you can draw at least one thing from these words. I hope you can find something to get out of these masses of the alphabet, just strung together differently.
You know what I find grotesquely fascinating? Sickeningly compelling? Television. I apologize, but I can not for the life of me understand why some people watch the shows they do. How celebrity infatuation stems from subsequent concepts. Why you would ever waste hours of your precious day to vegetate. Furthermore, I cannot understand why some people act the way they do, and in doing so they provide the world with a horrible picture of themselves. Most unattractive, really. Shocking. Some behavior is best not exhibited! The way in which people portray themselves is just…ugh. Distasteful. Have a little class America.
I do not recall moving to Seattle. Since when has my lovely little island in the Empire State become so dreary? Of late, it’s been rain and cold and naught of the niceties for us. It is very nearly June, and the weather is horrid. Blech. We have not even opened the pool yet, which we do in April just about every year. Interesting. This mercurial weather is not pleasing me in the least. I have been in all winter! I want to go outside! J’ai besoin les dehors! Ah well. Looks like I’ll just have to stick this out.
“Chivalry,” She grumbled, “Is dead.” She lugged the suitcase off of the conveyer belt with all her might. I helped. It weighed more than me. I would like to agree with her. However, there’s something holding me back. It’s because I want to believe. I want to believe that they must be raising young men in other areas of the country with greater manners than they are over here. This must be the only thing keeping me going. Thoughts of men better than the ones this place has to offer. Nothing is more refreshing than a chivalrous man. So attractive.
If you ask a kindergarten class how many of them are artists, they will all raise their hands. Ask the same question of sixth graders, and maybe one third will respond. Ask high school grads, and select few will admit to it. You are an artist. I promise this! You have to stop doubting yourself, your insight and your talent already! Enough is enough. Art is the one thing by which you should never compare yourselves to others in. This medium does not call for that. Learn to trust your own existence and the subsequent ideas that spring from it!
So today, I opened up my planner (yes, I do keep a planner to maintain some semblance of order in my hectic life haha) and the quote resting at the top page read, “You take people as far as they will go, not as far as you would like them to go.” I think too often we become in love with who we want people to be. We expect certain things. We set a bar to a certain height and sometimes drag people over it. Or, if they won’t go over, we pull them under. Face down if need be.
Have you ever been in this situation before? One of your absolute favorite people in the world has chosen to align themselves with one of the most asinine characters in an over a year relationship that has been prolonged far past your approval. Problem is, she has not asked for my opinion of him, and quite honestly? It is not my place to say. She thinks the sun rises and sets on him. She admits they have their rough patches, verbal spars and disagreements. Yet? She loves him. Above all other men she has dated in her 20 something years.
Action speaks louder than words but not nearly as often. Why is it people are so afraid to act? Act, not in the theatrical sense, but in the sense of taking it upon yourself to do something. Will, I think I will ask you this question. It would do you good to answer it. I think men and women act not for fear of being rejected by one another within the confines of the dating game. It is far harder to act, as in doing so you can allude to your emotions. And what a horror to have them known.
I think if I were to take out a dating ad, it would read something like the following. Seeking poetic, artistic, chivalrous man who can keep the bed warm. Bonus: Record collection. Or maybe, Looking for insightful man who unabashedly bursts out in random song and possesses a healthy respect for imposing fathers. Musicians a plus. Ah, what of the man that enjoys quiet nights in and weekend camping and road trips? Or, how about all aforementioned apply? I’ve all the time in the world. I think I’m far too young to have experienced any depth to the dating pool.
Everybody loves you when you’re six foot in the ground. And I despise how everyone, after the departure, continued to worship and idolize on the basis of perceived partying. To the youth, it was the rock and roll star that caught in their eye. My own mother didn’t like the character. Because of the media parade. Let it be known it was never about the drinking. It was never about the drugs. It wasn’t about the sex either. It was never for a moment about the fame. It was about the poetry and the messages beneath. That no one got.
The littlest things delight me. The simplest things excite me. My idea of a good time: Printed inside pockets of jeans. Green Tea. Earl Grey Tea. Fresh flowers. Blank canvas. Finding a gummy bear in the back of the cupboard. Skeleton keys. Devils hockey games. Popping Wintergreen Lifesavers into my mouth while swinging my legs atop my tack trunk at the barn. Catching snippets of French conversation from passersby. Hugs. Burning wood fireplaces. Horseshoes. Hot Sauce. My Aunt Cheley’s hand knitted mittens. Sidewalk chalk. 12am horror films. Family road trips. Bright colored rain boots and a good day for puddles.
A record store all to myself. Pillow forts. The once a month open mike poetry readings at the BJ Spoke Gallery (you bet I get up there and participate). Gummy worms. Musicians. The Saturday 5:06 pm train ride home from my FIT class. Flea markets. Thrift stores. African Violets. Camping upstate underneath the stars. Listening to older folks talk about their lives (past and present). Senior Citizens. Lady bugs. Reflective surfaces. Mismatched socks. Uncle Steve’s Big Bo’s Hits mix tape. Mulling over quotes. Making great music and creating great art (with friends of course!). Chunky Blue Cheese. Meeting new people.
I am not a preacher. I am not a teacher. I am the reflection of us all. I’m not going to tell you how to feel. I’m not going to advise you on how to have your emotions. I am not going to condone conformity. I am not going to solicit the eradication of it all. I’m going to ask you to form your own opinions. I am going to suggest we find another way. I want to attempt to express what we all feel. Not to dictate what should be felt. Cause you can’t put a label to that.
If you could pick one person to handcuff yourself to, who would it be? Today, I would pick my friend Mike. I would handcuff myself to him. Because he occasionally amazes me. Like today for example. He remembers precisely where we met. When we met. How we met. He remembers nothing short of what I was wearing (it wasn’t in fact a memorable outfit with an outlandish statement affixed to it). He has kept his inner child, even though he’s not within the age limit childhood allocates permissibility to. He doesn’t mind how people perceive him. He’s gorgeous in soul.
What is with this recurring theme?
Hitting a count of two wouldn’t designate a recurring theme, now would it?
Possibly not….However, I am seeing a pattern and wondering if it is intentional.
Oh I see where you are coming from. Most definitely. For sure. The original intent was to level the playing field, so to speak. What with my deep seated love of psychology, it wasn’t altogether fair of me to delve into an analysis of this individual’s life without examining my own. My coping methods, the tactics I employ to hold things together and keep things revolving..
Temptation. Is it truly an exhibition of weakness to yield to a temptation? Do you think that? Are there no temptations, lures, enticements, attractions, appeals, excitements, persuasions, pulls, and inducements that require great displays of strength to yield to? Can you think of a few that require immense courage to give in to? Not all things must be kept within the lines through the use of valiant resistance, directly followed by crumbling upon a yield. I think it takes courage to recognize what mercilessly tempts you. It takes courage to acknowledge that. It takes courage to declare a forthcoming yield.
“You are unforgettable.” I was taken aback. Luckily, we weren’t face to face, so he did not have the pleasure of viewing mine. I have always told myself that I want to be the type of person that is not merely memorable, but unforgettable. I had never disclosed this desire to him. In fact, I have never shared this outright. With anyone. I know that you are wondering aloud whether or not a one night stand is the reference point for this boy? Absolutely not. Don’t be silly, I don’t do those. This is a college friend who is away.
I love nothing more than psychoanalyzing myself. What a nerd, I know. (Said with the utmost affection. I love my inner nerd. Love him I say.) In my spare time, I like to mull over the actions and feelings of other people. I enjoy trying to understand others. I love psychology. Freud is my hero. My mother holds a PHD in Child Psychology. Only fitting I adore the science as well, hm? Then sometimes I act like my father. I dislike those around me in my educational setting. Hey, I don’t blame me. This island is damn full of cretins.
I do understand that my fishbowl is a mimicry of the real world. For I do live in a fishbowl. What else would you compare educational institutions to? Look! My setup even comes complete with sex, drugs, and social interactions. See here! All you need in a startup kit, eh? The other day over a game of chess, I happened to say to my friend, regarding the people we go to high school with, “I can’t believe you act like that.” You here refers to the majority of these kids (you wouldn’t believe some of them). He laughed at that.
What are friends for?
What are friends for.
This colloquial expression raises quite the question. Save two or so of my friends (alright, more like a handful), I don’t perceive myself as having much emotional attachment to anyone, save my mother. Even then, my mother of course holds first chair and everyone subsequently falls in somewhat after. In no particular order. I think I keep the other friends for company. To talk to, even if they aren’t involved with my concepts. For it is always interesting to converse with those on other walks of life. Amazing what the others see.
What kind of parties can we have? Surprise parties. Political. Super bowl. Stanley Cup. Tea. Birthday. Communist. Bachelor. Bachelorette. Bridal. Graduation. Communion. Sweet Sixteen (what exactly the significance of this number is, I will never know..). Study. After. Pre. Welcome to the Neighborhood. Block. Cast. Holiday. Cocktail. Dinner. Over The Hill. Earth Day. Peace. Corporate. Brand New Baby. Keg. Garden. Girls Night Out. Home Renovation. Camp-In. Wild West. Hotel. Pool. Pony. Children’s. Adult’s. Chuck E. Cheese. Wake. Going Away. Welcome Home. Prom. Crush. House. Beach. Bush. Dance. Karaoke. Traditional. Fourth of July. Labor Day. Just Because. Halloweenie. Costume. Black Tie.
I don’t know about you, but I was so afraid that they would find it. Despite my best efforts to hide it. It found its way under my mattress…under the bed even! Met the laundry hamper…the linen closet too. Cupboard wasn’t bare with its newfound inhabitant! Growing up, it seemed I never could prevent my diary from falling into their tiny clutches. Funny then, that I should take two and bare soul to the world through the use of this venue. Perhaps it is that I no longer fear having my innermost emotions on public display. I am not afraid.
If I get a taste of you, I know I’ll never go back to solid food. I eat ice cream with a fork and still delight in constructing pillow forts. I chew ice (most improper according to Grandmere) and consume lemon wedges as if they are bon bons. I wear barn dirt in lieu of makeup and my hockey game habits err towards excessive engagement (not that the players can hear me through the TV screen). I’m overly competitive. I speak in rapid French when riled up (oh bother to those who can’t understand) and find cursing in English vulgar.
When he’s home from college, I throw my neighbor’s beer cans (and a few extra additions) back on his side of the fence. I don’t read newspapers and exhibit an affiliation solely to BBC World News and Le Journal. I put hot sauce on everything and cringe from anything involving the participation of mayonnaise. I am no physical match for any man over the age of 9 (found that out babysitting!). I don’t hold grudges, but I do hold to objects and papers that inspire me. I have eclectic taste in music and boast a record collection of 9,000 plus.
I can’t listen to the radio. Fake tanning the world owes me everything juicy clad teenagers make my skin crawl. I’m a picky eater. Oh and I have never been drunk off of drinks themselves, but rum balls at the last family Christmas party (Ode to Joy). Frequently, I burst out in song and dance and have been known to possess the attention span of a goldfish in certain instances. My eyes glaze over when playing dutiful role of listener. I play guitar on the couch with the television on. I pander too much to my inner five year old.
Today, my pool has finally been opened. Summer’s cruel and merciless taunting is becoming more prevalent, as the bloody two final weeks of school drags its feet lazily across the month. Mmm. What I loved about last summer comes to mind as I envision the one laid out before me like a blank canvas. Just out of reach. Can’t have it yet. Finally, I will have time to just relax and simply enjoy the company of people I was not able to devote a lot of time or attention to, due to the rigorous curricular nature of my junior year.
I love the feel of my wet jeans in a temperate rain. The feel of the supportive, buttery smooth pommel of the saddle against my pubic bone. Your scratchy, abrasive scruff against my far smoother cheek. Waking up next to my best friend after an amazing sleepover, as the time we spend together is bottom line amazing. The warm fuzz of a ripe peach aligned with my lips. The gritty sand underfoot at the sunset hours. The blonde, thick mane of my pert little pony that I clutch to continuously, when I feel down. The sun against my whole body.
She gets more sleep these days. But don’t take that to mean you should keep lengthier hours anyhow. Despite all this. Appreciate who you have while you have them. Especially at this age. We learned the hard way that the youth is full of disappointment. Goddamn full. Fools. Arrant knaves. The lot. Trust not too closely. The ability to effectively judge character is imperative. I’ll bet all teeth in my skull on that. Standby. Walk with a cautious heart today. Heed what bleeds. Take care with your glass houses. Wipe the windows, but leave no streaks. Paint the doors red.
The Tip Jar