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...

How nice that fall began on the first day back to school! How can I communicate the sarcasm in that statement? How could last week have been so balmy and beachy, and today well, in the words of the Long Winters, "I can't face the cold gray cold."

And how nice that I crammed as much summery fun and debauchery into my last free week as into the whole summer season. More even. I feel like I ran a marathon of parties. I should get at least the silver. Only finally is my higher brain returning to form. Well, mostly.

The beginning of school has made me put my thinking cap back on. And here is what I've cooked up. My thesis has been coming together slowly in my mind. I knew that I wanted to do a digital chapbook, i.e. a flash poetry collection, and that the topic would encompass feminism, american history, hypertext, and geography. I want to paint myself into the timeline of american women. You'll navigate through paintings, poems, videos, etc. as if you we're travelling through a map. Only it's a map of time and space. You'll see. Anyways, I think I'm going to call it [size=l]Dare, Virginia[/size] after the first person born in the jamestown colony, Virginia Dare who disappeared with the rest of them. That means that she was the first white euro "American", the beginning of a new era for this continent. And she vanished into thin air. Here she is, and where I'll be, once I repaint it with me there: