Though it may not look like it, I've been journalling fairly consistently since March...just in a variety of formats as for a while I had no access to the internet. The habit stuck as I waded through long hours, but I like not only the accessibility of livejournal but also the stability of records, so...I'll be back-dating a lot, uploading entries.

Consider it a retrospective introspection inspection.

In smaller news, I've been battling migraines and minor headaches more than usual lately. It is most likely just stress-related, but it makes me feel more unproductive and unmanageable than usual. Hopefully this will help, as this is a project I've wanted to catch up on for a while now.

Today's back-dated entries:
May 30, 2009; Dream
May 29, 2009; Dream

A series of dreams from the night before.


I was on a bright green soccer field, eating a bright green spinach-tortilla wrap. A man in a Peruvian jersey tried to convince me to play.


I walk out of my apartment to water my plants. There are all the usual fellows and the little chicken bell on my door, and I have at some point added some japanese rain bells shaped like fat little owls. As I water and talk to the plants, I glance to my new neighbor; they have totally pimped out their little porch. A bright blue multi-plant pot dominates the corner, and they have hung beads and wind-chimes around the awning. White blossomed plants turn in the breeze. I feel significantly impressed and hearing a noise, look to my other neighbor's porch. She gives me a weird look and is frantically trying to move things onto her porch. "Oh no," I say to myself. "Here go the Joneses."


I am trying to solve the murder of a little girl which has happened in the crazily confusing house of a rich man. The house is very old English style, located in a forest estate, and I walk through plushly carpeted hallways and beneath mounted game trophies to search for clues. At one point we interrupt a man and a woman in an affair, and the man begins to come after us with a shotgun. I am disturbed but we make it away, and he follows slowly; he speaks as if he is confused or not in control of his actions. I am hiding in the lofts above the stables when my companions locate a bottle of pills, and quickly pass out handfuls. In eating them, we are able to see a ghostly aura trail that will lead us to the body by showing us the past and the future...but now it is confusing to avoid the man as we are distracted by where he will be but we do not know exactly when.


I have a portfolio case. It is smooth leather and the inside is cedar wood.


I dream that I twitter about my studio, but then regret it for some reason.



And then I wake up.

A brief nap dream:

I dreamt that there were a wide number of zombies. Unlike the snapping, flesh-seeking movie zombies, these were more like voodoo zombies. They generally shambled around, getting in the way; their outbursts of anger were more out of frustration than rage, and their violence more an accident of their own power than a directed action. They thought no more of removing an offending arm than you would, while hiking, break off a branch that blocked your way.

They were susceptible to language, however, and had their own. I was a linguist, and while hiding from them, managed to understand their rudimentary speech. By speaking it to them, I could easily convince them to follow my lead. Unfortunately, I was not the only one, and more than a few people used the zombies for destruction. When the dream got started, I was on a prison-style bus with 50 other members, being brought to a fortress held by one of the Speakers. He planned to use the population as labor forces.

A mid-level Speaker was in charge of the bus, while the zombies watched over us, lazily chewing on the remains of someone who had protested the ride. Most were too terrified to move, but when the zombies grew distracted, I snuck to the Speaker and began to suffocate him. As he was not directing them in their language, the zombies paid us no mind, and when he was dead, I ordered them to stop the bus.

The 50 of us crowded off into the wilderness, a series of fields. This was not safe, however, as the wilderness was dotted with the occasional wild zombie. Even for a Speaker, this was dangerous: as the days passed, there was the ever-growing risk of encountering the wild ones whose hunger might be too much to convince them to listen first and eat later. Though the busload was hesistant about the idea, they allowed me to Speak to the zombies who trailed after us in the way of pets, to gather and herd them for protection.

We reached a scientific outpost, protected by a tall strong fence that surrounded the enclave. Groups of men in white labcoats worked there, keeping watch by way of a large tower. They allowed us in, but were at first terrified by the zombies until I showed how I could communicate with them. As they had never seen this before, they allowed the zombies to stay, and I was grateful. The dumb things had become strangely fond to me, and I didn't like the idea of them descending into savagery or being used for evil again.

Dream:

I was on a ship. It was an old, wooden galleon, the kind with an enormous hold and a wide deck. However, it was not too big; the size of it didn't overwhelm me, but it didn't feel crowded either, despite the crates and rows of antiques that filled the boat.

I began the dream by wandering through the hold, the light coming in as dim and full of dust motes. It was not hard to breathe or stuffy, though, just...old. I made my way to the top deck of the ship, which was crowded with more pieces of furniture strapped to the desk. The whole ship groaned when the waves rolled it, but the sea was generally very calm. I did not look upon these things with a sense of dismay or disdain however. They simply were.

The ship stopped at an island of it's own accord; I did not steer it despite being the only one aboard. The island was little more than a spit of land, but suddenly I found myself on the beach, my arms full of small boxes filled with costume jewelry and tarnished silver teapots. My feet sunk to the ankle into the orange, pumice littered sand, but I did not worry about the sharpness of rocks or the presence of creatures buried in the shore. The island was flat, with low green foliage, so I don't know where the pumice came from. As I walked around the beach to circle the island, I dropped bits of the costume jewelry behind me as if to mark my path in case I got lost.

However, the low green bushes were filled with the sounds of birds, and I have no doubt that some of them would take the shiny bits of glass, and yet, this did not bother me.

I find myself oscillating between hyper-connectivity and detachment almost to the point of shunning connection. Not sure why, but for the moment I'm at the middle of the pendulum swing and have no clue which way it goes this time.

We'll see.

Recent events have made me consider accountability.
I've been doing a little self-tallying lately.

I try not to count what I have left to do, but instead what I've done today. I'm far too good at the pressure of to-be-done; what I remind myself that I need to remember is that I need the feeling of accomplishment as much as I do the feeling of motivation. Also, to remind myself that doing things just for me is just as important and as vital as my service to those around me. Doing things to better my community gives me a sense of purpose...but it's not my only purpose.

I consider what I'm wearing: how many things today did I pay for? How many of those things that I paid for are things I have consciously been proud or glad to buy and treasure? How many things today were gifts I can be grateful for? How many things were restored, recycled, reused? I am glad to say that most days, aside from my rings and my underwear, the things I wear answer the last question first. I met an artist who made a pact to wear things that were only hand-made or bought from other artists, and while I am not so experienced in craft to rely on the first and not really able to afford the second, I have been trying to be mindful of the origins of things. I've been so-so in the past, but this lately has become my mantra.

I want to retake the statement of "Will Work For Food." It has such a pathetic and negative connotation, the idea that it means someone is broke, desperate. I want to empower it instead: wealth is evident in so many forms other than currency. I should be blessed to barter, to have people give and receive that kind of trust. We hold money over people's heads far too often, and it is a terrible double-edged sword. I feel - albeit perhaps a bit idealistically - that we could make do with so much less if we could just be assured we wouldn't starve, wouldn't lack for shelter, wouldn't be alone. Instead we - all of us, and myself included - hoard on so many levels because we're afraid we'll never have anything else.

I suppose I've had a lot to think about.

...

Post-script: Hah! Stumbled on Obsessive Consumption and Kate Bingaman-Burt" shortly after posting. What interesting places we end up at!

I dreamt that I went on a field trip to see a group of contemporary feminist art exhibits. In particular, a room installation that was a single long, empty, pink hallway lit only by track lights set into the floor, a series of soft pink bulbs whose under-lighting made the otherwise dark room visible at all. The installation was called "The Uterus," which led into the exhibition space, called "Exhibit U."

I knew a lot about the art but no one believed me when I tried to explain it. Afterwards, riding on the bus back from the field trip, I felt frustrated and stared out the window.

I dreamt that my mother exchanged my box of art supplies for furniture. I was anxious about the situation but had no clue how approach the issue since I knew she had meant only the best of intentions and would be hurt by my apparent ingratitude. I also did not know how to explain to her how important those had been, and how it was not her place to make the exchange. However, I felt like I should speak up.

A brief yodel from the mountains of cyberspace:

My trail is finally winding closer to home. I've gotten settled in an apartment and finally have internet on any sort of regular basis again. My schedule is still jam packed these days - the 9 to 5, the 5-10s, and the usual pattering of design jobs - but the empty spaces are far from empty. I know if I keep walking at this pace eventually I'll stumble, but for now the briskness of it burns in all the right places.

I have more than a few comics to upload, and a domain name to design. I'm taking a certificate seminar about the non-profit process and picking up a ton of business tips along the way. It's good to add those to my rucksack especially as several friends and I are in the planning stages of a whole new journey. Who knows how far these trails will wind, but I find it's a trip worth taking.

For now, I'm back on the road.

It's been a while since I've done anything more realistically-slanted on the visual front, but an hour or so with Corel was a nice relapse into the form and the process of the self-portrait. There is something about working on a realistic self-portrait that is different than the quick ink jots I normally do...while those are nice for capturing expression and moment, the longer process is more about capturing a...a "sense." It's hard to explain exactly. A presence. Working realistically constructs the figure out of so much evidence it becomes a crime scene.

Looking over it, it's me and it's not quite me. The face is a little too round, with none of the harder lines that have crept into my face over the past few months and the past few years. The forehead is still a little too small; the Freud in me wonders if that's some sort of subconscious effort to dumb down that ignorance is bliss. The lips do not look as near as chapped as nervous tendencies would indicate. And the nose is a little wide as I am sometimes prone to draw out of ethnic habit. But it was a nice enough process as is, and even if you discount artistic process, in terms of importance it was as much a part of the reflective process of staring myself in the face as I have forced myself to do each day this year.


...In other news, one of my resolutions was to draw a small loose comic panel every day, something not quite autobiographical, not quite coherent, not quite cohesive. I've given myself no limitations on subject or form or format, though I am prone to small portable notebook sizes and ink lines and esoteric poetry texts. The first week is already scanned, being sized and shaped, though I go back and forth on where and how to post.

a poem for heights

the fondest lemon:
teeth grip the rind; letting go,
the mouth cannot spit

my favorite mistakes were always made for you

Tonight, a good night.

Potluck food with friends old and newfound. Magic Tofu dish goodness to contribute. Ate my share of everyone elses.

Conversation to share. Got to know a few people and was glad for the experience. Got to know others even more, and glad for the experience. The possibility of work. The continuing possibility of more. A smile before leaving and anticipation.

Laughs and grins and nudges. Seeking. Being sought.

Found.

Man, nothing like life punching you in the stomach to get you blogging again.

The tongues are falling off the trees tonight.

It is consistent, wading.
Removal of things.

A night or two ago, a dream that a Japanese Art-filmmaker wanted to film one at my parents house in the early of winter. The scene: the road, slick, wet, damp like the back of a beast arching through snow only a few inches deep so that the tracks of our feet left sodden ground weeping through. A red ball, bright and stark against a white and walnut landscape, tall as a child, just as insistent.

Cut.
Scene: The same landscape but this time with broad red-orange ribbon cutting through the landmarks like someone let Christo out of his cage. It wrapped around things defining our boundaries.

Cut.
Scene: me as a child wearing winter clothes that were always hand-me-downs and far too thin for a child raised in the tropics. I have never gotten used to snow. The parka is dull grey like the snow, my own hair as mud. A distance away, the ball. I do not appear to have noticed it at all, my eyes on the feet kicking snow up like sand too petulant to keep together. I do it in the way of habit.

Dear Political Interviewers on TeeVees and teh entarwebs,

I don't like that candidate either. But don't cut him off with your "candidates catchphrase so the audience erupts into yourcandidateapplause" when he's talking, because trust me: he can put his foot into his mouth WAAAY better than you can insert yours there. Let him try to sound reasonable. Let him rack up soundclips where he says one side once and the other side the next time. Let him dig his own grave, because if you never lift a shovelful of dirt, you can't be blamed for putting him in it and he won't be able to climb out of it using your back.

Sincerely,
a viewer.

A strange but interesting ( dream... )

The past few weeks have been an exercise in exhaustion.

We're settled in the new house, in a manner of speaking. We've moved, at least, and physically exist in the space. Psychologically, I am forever leaving the right things in the wrong floors, hitting my head on the hanging lamps in my studio space, staring blankly at the paint swatches other people have picked out for us.

My biggest accomplishment so far is finding all of the ways to sleep in a room. I have stretched out on the rug that is the sole occupant of the living room. The couch that the old owners left here is a good place to nap. My favorite place is to sleep in the hallway, with my head propped on a wall and my feet extending down into the stairwell, precarious, threatening to slip. I am savoring the emptiness of these places, the unmarred floors, the unhung walls. In these rooms of air and light, I don't yet feel cramped by living into the city.

Before I moved, I borrowed a pair of hedgeclippers and mercilessly pruned the bushes in front of the old house into neat box shapes. I wish I'd kept them, snuck them along, trimmed off the wayward branch and draining vine from my own packed parcels. I am surrounded by that which I adore and don't need. I'll change my mind, I know, in the surrendering way of the long defeated, when I get back to writing my essays and doing my research and making my things, but for now I am struck blank, fatigued by the senseless order of unpacking. Before I moved down completely, I stayed the last week in the old apartment by myself, seeking the forgotten things, cleaning the left behind drawers, training my replacements. My life minimized to a futon, a makeshift dresser, a computer desk with a single drawerful of immediate books, a single cabinet with food and a paycheck. Everything I owned could be dissembled and investigated, declared necessary and meant it. Now, in the process of reassembling a whole house, examining the smallest sheet of paper to the largest bedspread, I question. I continuously question. Was this the right thing to pack? Was this something I could have given away? Was this the right move? Was this a means to an end? Was this just a stopgap to the inevitable? Was this? Was this? Was this?

The process is exhausting. It is easier to sleep on a rug, or in the stairwell, or in the narrow spaces of a unfilled closet, than it is to unpack answers from the closed up boxes I carry inside. I am stiff and sore more from beating myself up over this than I am from moving things. But I have to keep at it, setting one box in one room and moving it to the next, and in time the fullness of this house will drive me outside again to search for open places and air and meaning.

Wish me luck.

More house( housekeeping... )

I have realized that I both in love with and probably am Dr. Horrible.