"But ah'm not afraid of dyin'. Cause I know that when I get to heaven there are gonna be these wonderful trees, and ah'm gonna climb them. But you know what? Instead of leaves and flowers, those trees are gonna have fried eggs, and delicious Virginia ham, and big heaping bowls of biscuits and sausage gravy. And one day, Sammy, you're gonna meet me there, and we're gonna climb those breakfast trees together, and it's gonna be delicious and we're gonna be happy until the end of time."


Rose Like Rockets to the Moon

Exercise in posting for the sake of posting. Here we go.
Next week is the last week of classes for us, then finals, then I'm working for my professor for a week pulling cane and pouring castings. That appears to put me speeding back toward Oak Ridge 'round Christmas Eve-ning. I get the feeling the time between now and then will be one massive blur.
Thanksgiving was a worthwhile procrastinatory event to say the least. These are a few of my favorite things:
* Anna and Randy can somehow host a party of measurable size without technically inviting anyone.
* I have seven siblings between the ages of 18 and 27. And three more on top of that. Yes, Randy, you count as a sibling. Cope.
* I have 6 nieces and nephews under the age of six.
* 2 Mothers, 2 Fathers, 2 Turkeys. And a ham.
* Chad and his jacuzzi.
* The Graduate.

On another note, my mind has been so consumed and fragmented as of late that my subconcious has been taking the train through my dreams and disembarking in dusty corners of my concious mind. Where my dreams usually require a bit of decoding, this recent variety is about as subtle and metaphorical as a sledgehammer to the skull.

Jesse says I should read Preacher, and I wholeheartedly concur. If someone could make that happen I'd be forever in her debt. ;)

Post accomplished, this site will self-destruct in 5 seconds.


Underlay Bay

I almost hit a giant wild turkey on the highway today. I'd have hit it, but it gave the appearance of possessing the ability to inflict serious damage on the car, so I swerved. I take this to be a sign from the Gods that I am to return the the place of my birth, gorge on the bounties of the First World no less than thrice, and, most urgently, engage in some brand of mischief with the members of my true family.
And then I remember the shop is going to be deserted all weekend. Free blowslots look mighty tasty to someone like me with crits-a-plenty to look forward to. And the tumbleweeds a blowin' through the cold shop seem to be whispering my name.....
But who am I kidding? I'm headed east, sometime before Friday. I will eat and drink like it is my job. I can only hope to see you all there.
The breakdown-
Thursday- Farragut Turkey/ Rush's birthday/Festivities and Merriment
Friday- Oak Ridge Meatstravaganza/Continued Festivities, perhaps with a reduced portion of Merriment, though an increased amount would not be unwelcome.
Saturday - Sounds like Knoxville's out, we could...stir up trouble in O.R.? Or maybe I'll return to work? I'd hate to think it would come to that.

Okay, class, what are you thankful for this year?


We Love You

Sometimes words are painfully inadequate.
Does anyone know how to code a hug?


Stretched Out on the Bathroom Floor, Thinking

The new Kings of Convenience album. Get it. Listen to it (unless you're Adam, who picked a really inopportune time to devote to the umlaut). Love it.
'Love is No Big Truth' is already my new personal anthem, I dedicate "Sorry or Please' to Holly.
Really, get it before 'Homesick' becomes just another song in a Zach Braff film, 'Misread' is used to sell BMW's, and Röyksopp remixes 'I'd Rather Dance with You.' You'll say you knew it when.







My faith in The United States, Humanity, and Christians is restored, one by one. Sorry Everybody.





Even Pandas



Não confie numa mulher que tira tudo menos o chapéu.

And just like that, it's senior thesis season again. On tonight's agenda, the glass department's very own Charles Glasgow. Gallery opening this evening, festivities at Ben and Charly's sprawling estate to follow. Activities to center mainly on keg of Harpoon IPA. Being Charly's show, I would anticipate some degree of nudity, or at the very least wrestling and dirty dancin'. Charly told me I could invite cool people. If only I knew some...


Dear God, Are You There?

I have but one little request: Stop shitting on me and those I love. We've had our fill for awhile, thanks. You're smiting the wrong people. In fact, what's up with the smiting altogether? Try those asshats who are using your name for personal and political gain, there are tons of them. My friends are good people, just leave them alone, okay?
And when is judgement day, already? I'm trying to plan out a life here. All I need is a tentative date so I can get my repentance in order, nothing firm. Work with me here.
I'm still sleeping in on Sundays until I hear from you.

Not Yours Truly,

P.S.- Amen, or some crap.


But Where Would We Find Rubber Sheets and a Priest at this Time of Night?

Let the healing begin. Living well is the best revenge.

Swing Low

Fun AND Depressing!



Lit out of Tennessee on zero sleep, tried to catch up in the car through Kentucky, but it was a lost cause so I took reading. Kentucky's tourist trap industry is apparently booming, if anyone was worried. Drove the length of Indiana, which was boring as hell, and we all remarked, repeatedly, we'd rather die than live there. Could barely contain our excitement as the flat-ass terrain gave way to man-made mountains of steel, glass, and brick, until we discovered we'd arrived in that magical hour named for our driver, Rush.
Checked into our hostel, which I still couldn't believe was 30 bucks a night in the middle of the South Loop, met our roommates Sybil from Glasgow, and Sarah from Sydney. Wandered "the Loop" aimlessly with rumbling tummies, and stumbled on a delightful Vietnamese joint, where the water tasted like cucumbers. I had Giant Tiger Prawn Curry. Our waiter advised us to get hell out of the loop for the night, so we hopped the blue line to Wicker Park, but not before checking out The Ghery Ampitheatre and that fucking cool shiny bean-like Anish Kapoor sculpture in Millenium park. Immediately felt at home in Wicker Park, if not entirely destitute. Seemed even the bespectacled hipsters and dreadlocked leather and chain crowd were decked out in couture. Had a pitcher of wheat brew and a couple of Sauzas with training wheels at a pizza joint, where a hot nubian princess was laying down some favorite funk on the decks, prompting Anna to note that "Chicago loves the 80's." This would become a theme.
SOFA. Was. Amazing. Fifteen minutes in and I was deep in sensory overload, so I took off for a slide lecture of Keith and Deanna Clayton wherein I firmly decided to attend the electroforming workshop at school this summer come hell or highwater. Wandered back into Festival Hall and set about weaving in and out of the gallery booths, with my spritual jaw on the floor. Came to the conclusion that I really need to go to the Czech Republic. Soon.
Enjoyed a Turkish Coffee and a hookah down on Division Street, where Anna couldn't wipe the guilty look off her face every time she inhaled, even though no wrongdoing was involved. Somewhere around Saturday evening, we dubbed ourselved the "50 Dollar Club," because no matter where we went or what we consumed, the bill always arrived at 50 bucks.
Back in the Loop, the Anna/Rush pseudo-rivalry reached a fever pitch when Anna complained of a sore throat to which Rush replied she should stop ramming cock down her throat. We decided there should be a scientific term for sore throat cause by excessive giving of head (see post title). Massive overuse of the words rimjob, dickface, asshat, and skank ho ensued. Had a Keatonesque moment when my hat flew off, it taunted me for several blocks as I gave chase.
Sunday found us back at SOFA for further digestion. Used the time to take notes, and people watch. Art Collectors are nutjobs. Really. Who gave these people money? Overheard "When you visit our newer house, you get your choice of guest suites (ooh ahh)," "I'm meeting with architects to discuss the new wing, and I'm thinking about a Chihuly installation for the breezeway" and "Marge and I have decided you'll take the pink one and we'll take the green one and in six months, we'll switch! Ha ha ha." Just a few gems. The gallery reps themselves are the pentulimate kissers of ass, and the successful artists are the ones who can keep a straight face and pretend to give a fuck in the face of "Honey, wouldn't that look great in the foh-yay? I think it's just diviiihhne. Or would it clash with the Lichtenstein? Maybe the guest house? I just love it. I'll build a place for it if I have to, or just give it to MOMA." They have the same attitude toward a $60,000 piece of art that I have toward a ten dollar shirt.
Long trip home, but with plenty to think about. Sunset in Indiana almost enough to make me rescind my earlier statement. Indianapolis, Louisville, Nashville, the skylines kept getting less impressive, and too soon the only skyline was made of treetops. It occurred to me I had given almost no thought to the depressing events of weeks previous, I felt refreshed (if slightly exhausted), and ready to roll up the sleeves. I have a head full of new ideas, and I'm exited again.
Bring it.


An Advantage to Hiding in Bed All Day

From a Salon.com article entitled "Let's Get Real"--

Many of my liberal friends are seriously discussing leaving the country, for Canada or Europe or New Zealand. It is, of course, tempting. How could we not feel a violent disillusionment and disconnect when we discovered this morning that the majority of voters in the country have a worldview we cannot comprehend? That hate and fear and ignorance can run a successful presidental campaign; that people will respond to these things with eager glee?

And if I wasn't tempted before leaving the house, one look at my car with its Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker -- the only car with such a sticker in the lot -- and how overnight it suddenly acquired a political statement consisting of eggs and shaving cream -- the only car in the lot so decorated -- certainly pushed me in that direction. I imagine the decorators (or their parents) voted on "moral values," as so many Bush supporters did.

But I'm not going to leave, and I made a list of reasons why.

Because this is my country.

Because I'm not letting them have New England autumns, New Mexico sunsets, the Grand Canyon, or Revere Beach.

Because Barack Obama, Ted Kennedy, Barney Frank and a few other stalwarts are isolated enough in a Capitol gone mad without their supporters pulling up and getting out.

Because over a million people voted for Alan Keyes, and that means even in Illinois we can't relax.

Because Massachusetts elected a far-right religious zealot in a gubernatorial race no one bothered to vote in.

Because I do, honestly, want my kids to be American citizens.

Because 200 years ago Americans believed in a separation of church and state, and if there's one thing we seem to be good at, it's regression.

Because we have to speak up even if they're not coming for us personally yet. We're educated and energized and relatively financially secure, and there are a lot of people out there who are none of those things and are at least initially going to suffer far more than we are. We have to speak for them if they can't speak for themselves.

Because this is still my country, and being female and pro-choice and pro-gay rights and an environmentalist and a pacifist and a believer in intelligent leaders and an atheist does not make me un-American or unpatriotic -- and that needs to be screamed from the fucking rooftops.

Because they vandalized my fucking car, and that is their level of discourse.

Because I am not afraid anymore. I am angry.

-- Mary Meiklejohn

Damn Right, woman.

I'm going to flight school

Loss for words, though I do have one thing to say:

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. "Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."

I'm gonna go postal now, see you on the 11 o'clock news.
And read this.
When they said "if you are not with us, you are with the terrorists," I think they may have been right.


Dramastic Plastic

Standing next to the open casket containing the papier-mache reproduction of my grandmother, my mother the ordained minister confided in my she hadn't been quite sure there was a heaven until her mother passed. Obviously not the time to launch into theological discussion, but...what? I think this further reinforces my idea that religious people tend to draw their strength of belief from whichever idea hurts less. The choice between seeing her mother again one day and a big black void was all she needed to make that leap of faith, even after her years of theological study. It made me more sad than I was already. I think she lives for the idea that one day, my brothers and I will be "born again" and we'll all resume our active church lives that characterized our childhood. How do I tell her it's just not going to happen?
I watched The Royal Tenenbaums no less than four times last week. Partially because we got a new DVD player and it's one of the few DVD's we have, and I was on an escapist kick. I was also heavily identifying with its themes, estrangement, reconcilliation, life, death, taxes, mescaline, everything about Margot, barring the wooden finger, and the overall general family dysfunction. And my family lived up to its reputation on Saturday. No tragic family event would be complete without someone pulling me aside to tell me about someone else's impending incarceration. In this case, those someones were my two brothers.
I was invited to five parties on Saturday night, which was great, except I couldn't attend any of them. This was the first (and hopefully last) Halloween that passed me by entirely. At least I got to carve pumpkins, and watch movies with Anna and Ross Thursday night. I haven't heard much from the other fronts, but I completely missed out on the nudity at the Craft Center party. I'm glad I missed out on seeing Charly's penis, but I'll never forgive myself for missing Charity and Anna dancing topless.
And now Anna's going to kill me.
Which, depending on tomorrow's outcome, may actually be a welcome and worthwhile activity.