(e:terry), your dream of my momma is spot on [inlink]terry,322[/inlink]. She would ride a snowmobile across a frozen pond, face death, and still come out cacklin'. It was a dream right? I miss my family. Now that school has started and my weekends have been full I haven't gotten to see them. I want to run to my momma and bury my face in her generous snowy bosom. I turned down a trip to visit them all in Ellicottville last weekend to lick my wounds. It would have been better to have gone.

Soon we will crosscountry ski to the moon, you and me (e:terry). and (e:matthew). and (e:southernyankee). and (e:flaccidness). And anyone else who wants to strap some plastic slides to your feet and face death on terror mountain. Really, it's more fun than it sounds, facing death.

It's funny that Terry wrote about dreams, since in lieu of having something else I want to write about here, I was going to write about mine. (It's actually my homework to write about my dreams, for my purgatorial Seminar in the Image class.) Basically, here's what's been weird in my dream life right now. I keep dreaming very literal dreams that are almost scenes from my real life, which I guess is currently dramatic and surreal enough to qualify for dream logic. Usually there is little real world correspondance in my dreams, but lately, it's like I'm continuing waking events.

But here is what is really weird. My dreams insist on being optimistic. In real life I'm realizing once again that pessimism is the safest route. Intensity from containment, and all. But my dreams stubbornly continue to hope. It's almost cruel. To demonstrate, I will tell you my dreams in a Munch and a Chagall:

How my dreams see my world:



How waking me sees it:



Usually we go about our day, burying our frustrations and fears, which then emerge in anxious dreams. I'm scuttering about during the day like a starved brown leaf, while my dreams are full of laughter and warm sun and the fuzzy hairs on the nape of the neck. Perhaps what I'm repressing is my tragic capacity to wish...

So I spent the day hung over, depressed, and unable to do any of the five million firggin' things I should have done today. So instead I watched movies. I saw Dogville, the newest Lars Von Trier movie, and a documentary on the Weather Underground, which I realized I had seen part of on PBS. Both were really great, I highly reccommend them, and both were also critiques of American culture, which we all heart.

Dogville, if you've seen any Lars Von Trier movies before, was in the same stream as Breaking the Waves and Dancer in the Dark, with an important difference at the end. Both Waves and Dancer are about vulnerable women who fall prey to the cruel desires and demands of society, and particularly men. The movies aren't critical so much as documentary, I've always thought they were about human necessity and frailty. In Dogville, same thing, a woman in need is subjected to every human degradation you can imagine. But she gets her revenge in the end. Oh yeah does she. Bingo, Grace, bingo. Nicole Kidman was as usual delicioso as the beleagured heroine. You gotta see, basically.

Then, the Weather Underground documentary is a must see for anyone interested in radical politcs and the history of revolutionary acts in the seventies. I think few people know that there was a faction of the Student Democratic Society, the largest youth anti-war group in the country during Vietnam, that broke off and bombed stuff. Like for example, the Capitol. They luckily never killed anyone. And none of them really went to jail since the FBI Cointelpro infiltration tactics had rendered all the evidence inadmissable. They are mostly now professors and political organizers. One guy owns a bar and won $23,000 on Jeapordy. It's amazing to hear them talk about it now, 30 years later, some of them still conflicted about their actions, some of them still ardently committed to the struggle for social justice. If you ever wanted to throw a brick through Starbuck's window, this is the movie for you.

Paul helped me delete my cookies. That worked. Here is the Mark Lombardi image I wanted to include in the journal below (#100).



george w. bush, harken energy, and jackson stevens c.1979-90, 5th version, 1999
graphite on paper
20 x 44 inches

Mark Lombardi Artist Statement from

"In 1994 I began a series of drawings I refer to as "narrative structures." Most were executed in graphite or pen and ink on paper. Some are quite large, measuring up to 5 x 12 feet.

I call them "narrative structures" because each consists of a network of lines and notations which are meant to convey a story, typically about a recent event of interest to me, like the collapse of a large international bank, trading company, or investment house. One of my goals is to explore the interaction of political, social and economic forces in contemporary affairs. Thus far I have exhibited drawings on BCCI, Lincoln Savings, World Finance of Miami, the Vatican Bank, Silverado Savings, Castle Bank and Trust of the Bahamas, Nugan Hand Limited of Sydney, Australia, and many more.

Working from syndicated news items and other published accounts, I begin each drawing by compiling large amounts of information about a specific bank, financial group or set of individuals. After a careful review of the literature I then condense the essential points into an assortment of notations and other brief statements of fact, out of which an image begins to emerge.

My purpose throughout is to interpret the material by juxtaposing and assembling the notations into a unified, coherent whole. In some cases I use a set of stacked, parallel lines to establish a time frame. Hierarchical relationships, the flow of money and other key details are then indicated by a system of radiating arrows, broken lines and so forth. Some of the drawings consist of two different layers of information—one denoted in black, the other, red. Black represents the essential elements of the story while the major lawsuits, criminal indictments or other legal actions taken against the parties are shown in red. Every statement of fact and connection depicted in the work is true and based on information culled entirely from the public record."

—Mark Lombardi

And it's just to say, (e:Paul), the image upload isn't working for me on Mac Safari! I want to add a Mark Lombardi! I still love you anyways. Thanks for giving me 100 chances for ranting and panting on this here (e:strip).

Ah, Peeps there is so much to say... But I'm too confused to say it (and still slightly drunk and/or hung over this AM.) In some ways I miss the Mini:(E:Strip), back in the ole days, when I could post my private thoughts and personal events without worrying about them popping up on Slashdot! 8* Eeep, Peeps! Nuff Said.

So I will tell you all a little bit about Toronto, where I ran away to mid-week, to see some film festival films. I had to cancel like, totally everything in my life, but spur of the moment is always worth it. And those are always the most fun times, don't you think? Too much planning seems to take the spirit out of things. First thought, best thought, as the Zensters says.

Here is the quip I keep making about Toronto (whenever I think of something I think is witty I continually repeat it. Do I quote myself? Very well, then I quote myself.--HJ (WW)) Toronto is like the face of someone very beautiful. You know not to look too directly at it since the more you look the more you are entranced by it. So you kind of have to look at it only peripherally or only a little part at a time: an eyelash, a tower, the upper lip, an art museum. Otherwise you can't resist.

The first film I saw was sadly disappointing, since I really love the other films I've seen by the director, Alejandro Amenabar. He did The Others and Abre los Ojos, the film Vanilla Sky is based on (but is so much better than.) This movie, Mar Adentro, was about a quadriplegic who wants to die, and his family/legal/romantic struggles with said dilemma. It was pretty much a one trick pony. Oh so sad the poignant poet can't move and loves death. We're all trapped in our bodies in one way or another, I say. But then, I've never been paralyzed, so I should probably shut up. But the one cool thing was that the actor in it is one of my favorites, Javier Bardem, and he was there to introduce the film. He's in a great movie about Cuban writer Reinaldo Arenas [inlink]holly,9[/inlink] called Before Night Falls. Anyways, he's so grand and beautiful. Even from the high red velvet balcony seat where I was sitting I could see his lovely giant hands. They were as large and soft as fresh loaves of bread. I wanted to inhale their warm scent and nibble them. Too bad he was fakely bald and in bed the whole movie. What a waste of a beautiful man.

Anyways, after the sadly disappointing film I went to the Horseshoe Tavern, a really great bar for live music (and the inspiration for one of my longest journals [inlink]holly,9[/inlink]). The band that was playing was called Divine Comedy, they're from the UK. They were very drole but not ironic. And they hand a banjo. I thought the singer sounded quintessentially English, a cross between Bowie and Morrissey. My friend who is English thought he sounded like Jim Morrison, very American. Mind the culture gap, I guess.

The next day I went to the AGO, Art Gallery o'Ontario, where I had just been on Sunday to see the Turner, Whistler, Monet show, but nothing else. So I went back mostly to see some really lovely Inuit carvings, and works by this artist Mark Lombardi . He makes these really elegant anatomical maps of global influence and corruption. There'll be a little circle that says George H. W. Bush and then lines drawn to banks, sheiks, gov't front agencies, etc. It all has its own grammar and timeline and aesthetic. The future of information, if you ask me. I showed some pictures and tried to explain it to my freshman Critical Thinking class, and they just stared blankly at me. Maybe I'm as confusing as I am confused...

Coming up on hour thirteen since I've been home. My poor cat. Matthew has just informed me that it is indeed illegal to keep livestock in your suburban house. If my sister gets arrested it won't be the first time a Johnson's been in jail! We still love you Daddy, in your great big padded holding cell in the sky.

Okay, a little stream of consciousness from my beleagured brain. I kinda wanna update just because I haven't in a few days. I feel so loyal to you peeps. Plus I want the hits. The hits! I'm hit hungry.

So the first Swan screening was tonight. Our classified ad wasn't successful, but we were able to interview some people from Brian's class since he was there with them to do the taping. Brian rocks, by the way. He gave me some pointers on how to conduct interviews better. I was kinda "reading off a list" in my head, mostly because I didn't want to lead the responses (I tend to do that in conversation, I think, although I've been trying not to fer like years...) We interviewed the men too, since they were very forthcoming with their opinions. Have you ever noticed how men are encouraged to have an opinion on everything, including womens' body images? The women were far more sheepish about it. I'm just a raging femi-nazi I guess. But not all you fellas out there need reprogramming, and I'm grateful for that. And I'm not exactly your typical sheepish co-ed either...

In other news, all is well with my figure drawing class at last. I had a long talk with the head of graduate studies in Fine Arts and he rocked, he was so cool, and he was really into my idea. Why didn't I just get a fine arts degree, whhhhyyyyyyy!!????

Okay, so funny story to end this theme-less journal. I'm teaching a class of college freshman about critical thinking. So I talk to them for awhile about the imprtance of evaluating sources and thinking independently and being sceptical of authority. Then I told them that we were going to talk a lot about current events. So I asked them if they knew what recently happened in Russia, and they had some vague ideas about a hostage situation and the children etc. So I said right, a group of Chinese rebels took over a school, because China wants to be independent from Russia. And then I asked why China might want to be independent from Russia, and people responded, but more and more faces started to look confused. So finally I said, does anyone see a flaw in this logic?. And some girl raised her hand and said "uh, China isn't part of Russia?." So then I told them the real story, about Chechnya, etc. But I said in the end, you're in college now folks. You've been taught your whole life to do as teacher says. When I say think for yourselves, I mean trust your instincts, and when I say question authority, I mean me too. Nobody ever got exiled or sentenced to death for corrupting the youth or being a gadfly, right?

Last night I went over to my sister's house because they just got some new animals: a baby mini-pig (not to be confused with a "meat pig", which we've also had), three fancy feathered-feet chickens, and da da da dum, a goat! Yes, a baby goat named Carmine (after Carmine Gotti) who now has a punky pink dyed mohawk and a pierced ear. He looks a lot tuffer than he is. Sometimes he likes to wail BAAAAAAAAAAAA! so loud your ears ring and also he drinks from a bottle. So! Cute! But since he's only a few days off the farm he's not house broken in any way. He likes to stand on the leather couch and launch little goat turds out his butt like a gumball machine. Cute, but not really tenable in the long run, eh?

So my sister's plan is to keep the animals in a makeshift stall of chicken wire and rubbermaid storage containers in their suburban Kenmore basement, complete with UV sun lamps. See, they're trying to hide their managerie from their prying old fogey neighbors. Is it illegal to have livestock in the suburbs? We're pretty sure it is. I said "Oh! You can't keep this goat in your basement! He needs to be free and feel the breeze" yadda yadda. But we're all cramped up in our little apartment boxes, aren't we, when maybe we'd rather be scraping in the dirt and wandering around in animal pelts. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?

So all this resolved into a new idea. My sister will buy a house with some land on Grand Island, and I will move there with the goat, the pigs, the ponies, and whatever other furry creatures we have laying around. My goat farm dream is coming to fruition [inlink]holly,47[/inlink]. I asked my sister if I could have ragin' parties there, and she replied "I don't see why not." Do you all love me enough to rock out with me on Grand Island? If not I'll just fufill my other dream of becoming a reclusive artist who paints giant canvases and writes into the wee hours.

What a weekend, huh? In reverse, here are my memories: yesterday riding my bike around Hoyt Lake I smelled an overripe apple tree, squishy shriveled purple fruits still hanging on the branches and giving off a warm, sweet, fermented late summer scent. Saturday the beach party was divine. The stars, the lake, good folks old and new. I'm still finding fine grains of sand in all kinds of crevices. It was so luxurious to be damp and half nude and slightly inebriated talking about who knows what, Indians and bodies and bands and national identities, and whatever else moved us. A physical, mental, spiritual respite. And earlier that day (e:Ajay) and I had a really nice hike in the Niagara Gorge. Once you get the hang of it, leaping from rock to rock in the stony river basin is like an athletic ballet of balance and strength. One false step and your ankle would go "snik!" and there you'd be. But of course I thought it was funner the faster you went. I have a pathological aversion to going slow, and following. I gotta be out in front, sweating and huffing, in order to get the full effect. Of course my thighs and butt still feel a little sour and sluggish. My body's revenge for too much sitting.

So on the docket for today is... more sitting. I have to put together the syllabus for a class I'm teaching, which is why I'm writing this now... avoiding my real duties. But in the background I have the US Open on TV. I also used to be somewhat of a tennis freak myself, so I would play if people want to [inlink]paul,1876[/inlink]. Although late-night half-drunk half-volleys with flat tennis balls is hard to top...

::Download Flash SWF::

Here is my first baby steps attempt at animating the giantess. Yes, I know she limps. But the poem words also give some idea of what I want to do, word movies that morph meaning.

Why should it be so hard to draw naked people! Is it so wrong? I'm beginning to think it should be a requirement for everyone before they graduate. I can imagine conversations like "Dude, did you fufill yer figure drawing requirement" "Uh, shit, no. Do you think spring break in Cancun counts? I took a lot of pictures..."

In case anyone hasn't heard me whine about it, my life's energy flow is still being blocked by the bureacracy, and just when I thought it was over, it all fell apart.

Non-students, ignore this detailed explication, which will seem cryptic, kafkaesque even, and just plain inane: See, the grad Media Studies people wouldn't let me take figure drawing to count towards my master's thesis, since it was an undergrad course. So I thought I had it worked out that I would sit in on the class, and register as if I was taking an independent graduate study with the prof. Everything had been given the okay, but then the prof went to Sri Lanka to care for his ailing parents, so he can't sign my stupid form work. Soyeon warned me, but did I listen? The prof will be gone for two weeks, well past the last registration date.

So now what? I say fuck it and draw. Here is what I made my first day in school, mommy:



It's okay, I think. But after living in the nurturing womb-like bubble of support from you, my dear peepers, i had come to believe i was a talented artist. Well, I have discovered, much to my chagrin, that undergrad fine arts majors can draw circles around me! (heh heh) But that's awesome. I feel like I can really learn something in the class, and I really want to learn it, and I've paid my own (future) earnings to learn it. And isn't that what education's all about? Me setting out to learn what I want to know, despite any obstacles? Sheesh! Hasn't anyone seen an after-school special?

End rant transmission.

(e:drchlorine), is (e:mang) available? hot kitty! [inlink]drchlorine,24[/inlink] I love a cat with a sense of humor.

Some nuggets of Gertrude Stein wisdom, just to give everyone a (eyebrow) lift:

"A writer should write with his eyes and a painter paint with his ears."

"It takes a lot of time to be a genius, you have to sit around so much doing nothing, really doing nothing."

And some film recommendations: all you lonely office gals and ex-cons out there should watch this movie called "Read My Lips (Sur Mes Levres)". I've already watched it twice this week, and will show it at a movie screening on Friday, I believe. Lonely Parisian office gal, mostly deaf, hires ex-con to be office assistant. Imbroglios ensue.


Oh, and Buster Keaton too.

Okay, so today my own life is so boring, filled with bureaucratic glitches and oh, wait, i did almost wreck my car by driving up over the curb accidentally, and boy that gets the heart thumpin', but, vehicular suicide notwithstanding, my own life is so boring, i say, that i must spare you the bore-y details. Even last night in the bar, though I thought I could pry details about last week's event with R from M, M was not forthcoming with the goods (this teaser for Exxon-Mobil Hollypiece theather brought to you Elmwoodstrip.com) But do we really want to know the bumpin' uglies truth anyway? No, none of that is very interesting. Nor is the Republican Convention, I'm ashamed to say. Yesterday evening I scrubbed fungus off my tub rather than watch the talking heads talk. It just felt somehow, I don't know, more socially relevant?

Anyway, the point of this whole thing is really just to post a joke I plucked off my sister's daisy chain. Now, usually these jokes give me a hearty har-har, especially when they're about the devil or politics, but I think, conventions and fungus and near-death in mind, this one might make you laugh:

While walking down the street one day a US senator is tragically hit by a truck and dies. (See that's funny right there --holly)
His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance.
"Welcome to heaven," says St. Peter. "Before you settle in, it seems
there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts,
you see, so we're not sure what to do with you."
"No problem, just let me in," says the man.
"Well, I'd like to but I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is
have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose were to spend eternity."
"Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven," says the
senator.
"I'm sorry but we have our rules."
And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a club and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him.
Everyone is very happy and in evening dress.
They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at expense of the people.
They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and champagne.
Also present is the devil, who really is a very friendly guy who has a
good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that, before he realizes it, it is time to go.
Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator
rises.
The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him.
"Now it's time to visit heaven."
So, 24 hours pass with the head of state joining a group of contented
souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They
have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.
"Well then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now
choose your eternity."
The senator reflects for a minute, then the senator answers: "Well, I
would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been delightful,
but I think I would be better off in hell."
So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell.
Now the doors of the elevator open and he's in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags.
The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder.
"I don't understand," stammers the senator. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and club, and we ate lobst
er
and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now all there is is a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What
happened?"
The devil looks at him, smiles and says, "Yesterday we were
campaigning......
Today you voted."



BTW, I'm very down with Paul and Matthews Habitat for Humanity idea [inlink]paul,1857[/inlink]. I've always wanted to do it. Who could pass up the wholesome, socially-responsible fun of spackling with friends...