I remember when I first moved here feeling as though I had come to some foreign land. People said “pocket book” instead of purse or handbag and imagine my confusion when they asked me to “cut” the lights on or “mash” a button. I soon learned that here instead of giving someone a lift, you “carried” them somewhere and that the phrase “y’all” wasn’t really a mark of true Southerness. Rather, you weren’t really in the club until you could use “all y’all” (plural) and “all y’all’s” (plural-possessive) in a sentence both properly and without giggling. (I’ve yet to master that last bit).
Before moving to the South I’d never seen a June-bug, I’d never even heard of a Goober Pea or Kudzu, and I had no idea that there were actually people who considered bacon grease to be a major food group. Of course, I’d also never heard certain racial slurs said out loud. I’d never seen public schools whose student bodies were made up entirely of one race. And I’d never received literature in the mail from the Ku Klux Klan.
For all its charms, there’s still a lot of work to be done here.
~~~~~~~~
As [url=http://filbert.tblog.com]someone [/url] pointed out to me the other day, America is a huge place. Having lived here my entire life, it’s easy to forget what a massive country this is. I’m not sure I’d ever really thought about it before, but there is certainly a sense of being able to get lost here… of being able to hit the open road with miles and miles of black, curving highway ahead of you that seems to go on… well, just about forever. Sometimes I forget that there’s much (the vast majority in fact) of my own country that I’ve yet to explore.
That said… when you come to visit me, I’ll take you on a tour of the America I know.
The fake rock district. TS. and Ethel The place where I nearly got arrested. Our park. The veggie stand on old highway 66 The Stafford Farm The parping car. The mailbox that gets emptied at 11am (ya right!) … and I’ll even take you out for chicken-fish and a yum-yum salad.
Then, we’ll find our way to the train station and head north. And there I’ll show you…
At least one of Virginia’s beautiful [url=http://www.steveshaluta.com/b...]covered bridges.[/url] The spot where Thomas wanted to sing a spiritual. The [url=http://www.accommodationsusa....]Shenandoah Valley[/url] in spring with all its purples and greens. [url=http://kryon.com/inspiritmag/...]The Liberty Bell[/url] (since you know what it symbolizes) The giant colon museum. All the art I wanted to show you that day at [url=http://www.icassp2005.com/ima...]the museum[/url] where Vishnu was born. The part of Amish country they didn’t teach you about in King Pin. (*shakes her head*) … and I promise, we won’t visit a single battlefield.
Then, we’ll head south again for a stop off at [url=http://lindy.tblog.com]the home of another important historical landmark.[/url]
Once we’ve recovered, we’ll head west and I’ll show you..
Then we’ll rent a car and head north up the pacific coast highway. Along the way and when we reach my home, I’ll show you…
[url=http://www.bedford.k12.ny.us/...] Haystack Rock[/url] [url=http://uk-2-usa.com/Pictures/...]Multnomah Falls[/url] [url=http://www.snre.umich.edu/eco...]The Columbia[/url] The place where I first heard REM The house where I “broke the wine bottle” and lied. “Dead Man’s” The Park St. Mike’s The house on the hill. The house where Woody lived. The vents at the capital. The 101 loop. The woods where the bagpiper played. [url=http://s94694854.onlinehome.u...]Steamboat Island[/url] and the perfect spot for watching otter. … and a million other things I’ve either forgotten or am too excited to mention here.
Ed Ruscha is a contemporary American artist whose work has sold at auction for upwards of 3+ million dollars. Like a lot of contemporary art, (ok, all art for that matter), his work doesn't appeal to everyone. However, I'm particularly drawn to his use of language as a visual medium. I once read a review of some of his work in which the critic said that Ruscha's gift lies in his ability to “give words a physical voice.” Sort of like onomatopoeia for your eyes, as it were, and I like that.
That said, I was initially quite excited when I ran across an interview with Ruscha in the June 12th issue of The New York Times Magazine. (I was so excited, in fact, that I opted to read the article to [url=http://filbert.tblog.com]the person [/url] with whom I spent that lazy, but beautiful, Saturday afternoon reading things to one another from various newspapers). However, things soon turned ugly when I realized that not only was Ruscha an idiot, but that the person doing the interviewing was clearly not much smarter. The whole thing was just bitterly disappointing to me and I’m afraid I may have emerged from it a bit grumpy. As a result, I blasted the following letter off to the editor(s) of NYTM voicing my irritation. I have no illusions about the number of letters NYTM receives daily on their various articles/interviews/featu res, etc, so I’m not at all hopeful that it will be published and whatnot… but that’s not really the point now is it? The truth is, I just feel better having written it. Of course, that won’t stop me from posting it here because apparently, as Ruscha’s work above indicates, I too am “gasping for contact.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Editor,
After having recently visited the [i]Cotton Puffs, Q-Tips®, Smoke and Mirrors: the Drawings of Ed Ruscha[/i] exhibit at the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC, I was thrilled to see Deborah Solomon’s interview with this popular contemporary artist, ([i]Questions for Ed Ruscha: The Picture of an All-American [/i]- June 12th issue). However, my excitement was soon tempered by disappointment and even anger as I waded through Solomon’s series of weakly phrased and indeed pointless “questions,” which inspired little more from Ruscha than a few banal comments on such scintillating topics as the relative “hotness” of Gertrude Stein and the addictive properties of popcorn.
Although not easy, I can swallow that the byline of the piece, ([i]The painter talks about representing the US at the Venice Biennale, the connection between cars and American art and why artists rarely get rich[/i]), was nearly completely fabricated - as these topics were hardly even addressed, never mind the focus of the article. And, I can even accept it when Ruscha tastelessly compares his own move to California in the 1950’s to the forced migration of impoverished and desperate sharecroppers during the Great Depression. However, my patience completely reaches its end when I consider the fact that this pale attempt at an interview made the editor’s weekly cut and was published at all.
While this kind of lazy journalism might be acceptable in smaller, lesser-known publications, it is not what I have come to expect from The New York Times Magazine. Further, in an issue filled with important, well-written pieces, such as those exploring the use of coercive force in the “War on Terror,” ([i]Interrogating Ourselves[/i]) those in charge of deciding what gets printed and what doesn’t have managed to make a mockery of the fine work done by journalists such as Joseph Lelyveld by forcing him to share print space with Solomon’s substandard and disappointing offering.
Sincerely, juniperflux
Note: If you're interested in reading the original article you can find it [url=http://www.nytimes.com/2005/0...]here[/url] . However, NYT requires a free registration. Feel free to use the following: login: ruscha password: juniper
If you drive down to the end of my block and hang a right, then head a mile or two down Union Cross Rd until you see the old barn that sits at the corner of Union Cross and Old Salem Rd, and then take a left, (clearly, directions aren’t my forte) soon you’ll happen upon the most extraordinary thing. About a mile or so further on the right, there amidst a sea of nondescript houses, lies the one that belongs to T.S. and Ethel. Mind you, I’ve never met T.S. or Ethel… but I adore them both. I adore them because T.S. loves Ethel so much that he’s found it necessary to declare his love for her in the form of a giant, homemade wooden heart displayed proudly on a pole in their front yard. And I adore them because Ethel loves T.S. so much that she’s managed to go at least 13 years (the amount of time that I’ve lived here) without making him take it down. I’m sure there are other ways that are just as beautiful to declare to the world that you love someone, I’m just not sure I’ve seen that many of them.
When I was a little girl and I’d go through my mother’s records, I noticed that some of them had the word “Zenda” scribbled in black ink across the label in the center. For those of you who were unaware, [u]The Prisoner of Zenda[/u] is a [url=http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0...]film[/url] and [url=http://www.worldwideschool.or...]novel[/url] that, among other things, tells the story of two lovers who are kept apart by forces that are much larger than themselves. It wasn’t until much, much later that I learned that my mother had a secret affair (of sorts) with a man she had known most of her life but with whom she felt, for whatever reason, she could not be with. The situation was far more complicated than what I’m revealing here and the details of their decades long romance are sketchy to me, but I know now that over the years they sent music to one another and that these songs/albums (or those that reminded her of him) received the coveted Zenda branding on the label – her own private declaration of sorts.
There’s been some debate recently on some [url=http://www.webloxonline.com/b...]other blogs[/url] about whether or not love can be defined. I’m inclined to agree with [url=http://lindy.tblog.com]the camp[/url] that says it can be, but that the definition itself is ever changing and flexible; in other words, my definition of the big L may not be the same as yours… but that doesn’t make either definition necessarily wrong, now does it? But to be honest, I’m really not much into labeling and defining things so much as I am into seeing, touching, tasting and experiencing them. I may not know how either T.S. or Ethel would define love, but I know the simple strength and gentle purity of their devotion to one another by simply looking at the giant heart in their yard. In the same way, I may never know the details of the person that was probably my mother’s one true love, but I feel the bond between them by spending time listening to some of their songs and tracing my finger across her writing, which is forever etched into the paper center of their vinyl love letters. Personally, I’d much rather be able to feel and experience love (and most other nouns and verbs and adjectives) than to be able to define it. After all, what good is knowing how to describe the rain if you’ve never felt it on your skin?
To that end, thanks in part to the recent artwork of the [url=http://thejongleur.tblog.com]British equivalent of T.S.[/url] to my decidedly Yank Ethel (make that Elliot), I’ve been thinking a great deal tonight about what I consider to be one of the world’s greatest love stories: [url=http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0...][u]Harold and Maude[/u].[/url] For those of you who have seen it, then I’ll not interrupt your simultaneous sighing to bore you with plot details from the film. (Although I will point you towards [url=http://www.geocities.com/Rain...]a site[/url] where the original script is available for perusal. Lots of interesting changes were clearly made to the screenplay which true fans of the movie might get a kick out of). And for those of you who have not seen in it, I only have two words: See it. Now. (Ok. That might technically be three, but math[s] is not really my thing). And for those of you who are spending your time worrying about whether or not love can be defined, I can only suggest that you heed some valuable advice from the book of Maude: "go and love some more."
(Otherwise you got nothing to talk about in the locker room).
Recently, it would seem, I’ve been a little obsessed with all manner of super-hero.
Super-hero lingo has infiltrated my vocabulary, and I have, for some time now, been crediting my “spidey senses” with all types of created accomplishments and self-claimed discoveries. (Me: Wanna know how I knew that? You: How? Me: Spidey senses. You: Of course, dear). This coupled with recent conversations about the Justice League and the relative merits of the Wonder Twins verses Aqua Man (still my favorite), not to mention the awesome power of [url=http://spleengirl.tblog.com]Spleen Girl[/url] , has brought me to the conclusion that I am even more of a nerd than I previously thought. It’s ok, though. I’ve long since accepted my propensity to “geek-out” as it were.
All this has lead me to some interesting moments of self-reflection, though.
One of my favorite short stories ever, [url=http://instruct.westvalley.ed...]Kurt Vonnegut’s "Harrison Bergeron,"[/url] tells the story of a society where everything and everyone is equal. I won’t bore you with the particulars here, (you all know how to click and read), I will only say that Vonnegut’s prose challenge the reader in a number of ways, not the least which being the forced task of considering what his/her individual strengths are. We’re all very good at identifying and lamenting our weaknesses and perceived flaws, but when it comes time to list our true strengths, the spots on our fabric where things are woven together particularly tightly and beautifully, I know I often falter with a shy blush and a bit of “self-deprecating bollocks.”
And so… not merely content to consider which super-hero I might be, (should I ever decide to don a brightly colored cape and some serious latex), lately, I’ve been thinking about super-hero status from what is, admittedly, an especially Vonnegut-esque vantage point. And I’ve discovered something, (using my “spidey senses, of course). Simply having X-ray vision and the capability to crush my enemies by just delicately batting my eyelashes at them really wouldn’t be enough for me. I know I’d be left feeling unsatisfied with a laundry list of supernatural abilities that stemmed solely from an accidental run in with some toxic waste or the lurid bite of some tropical insect. I’d want my natural abilities enhanced. Like [url=http://spleengirl.tblog.com]Spleen Girl [/url] and [url=http://berlinbear.tblog.com]Syntax Man[/url] and (my personal favorite) [url=http://thejongleur.tblog.com]Upper Cut Boy[/url], I’d want to be this incredible version of… well, myself.
That said, I’ve been trying to think about some of the qualities I possess that would lend themselves to being super-fantastic-mega-abil ities. Let’s see… I’ve considered becoming Smart Ass Girl whose powers include the ability to drown her opponent in thick layers of sweet sticky irony. But, I think that one might already [url=http://lindy.tblog.com]be taken[/url] . Then I thought about morphing into Name That Tune Girl or even Fabulous British Accent Girl. Clearly, I need to work on this a little more.
In the meantime, I want to introduce you to someone. This is [url=http://www.tblog.com/template...]Spatula Hand Boy.[/url] I’m in the process of writing his story. I’m not certain of the particulars yet… but I know he’s going to use that little spatula hand to do big things.
There's just something perfect about when [url=http://thejongleur.tblog.com]the little guy[/url] finishes on top, don't you think? It's not so much about being #1, although that certainly is something. Sometimes, it's all about the karma, (baby) of who is [url=http://www.tblog.com/template...]#2 [/url] and about figuring out that you don't need spidey senses to be ok... but they sure help.
It was summer in New York. I was 16 years old. Even though I had grown up not far from Seattle, I’d never been to a city like Manhattan: a city that believed itself to be the center of the known universe – and very probably was right.
The paint in my cousin’s apartment, near the corner of 114th St. and Riverside Dr. was chipped and peeling. At night, I’d stare at the ceiling trying to count all the bits of naked plaster, convinced that the sweltering summer heat had caused the paint to bubble and burst in a reaction that to my mind was far more emotional than chemical. One night, I rose from my bed quite late and went to the windows in the living room… staring at the fire escape that dared me to step outside. The windows were open and even at that late hour, the city sounded just as alive as it had earlier that day. I marveled at that world and in the dark tried to convince myself that I would one day live in it… even though, deep down, I knew such a place would eat me alive.
Just then, one of my cousins emerged from his bedroom… full of sleepy eyes and yawns… only to find me perched at the windowsill. We giggled at the “small-town girl” who couldn’t sleep in the big city and tip-toed to the kitchen in search of sustenance. A few minutes later, we climbed to the roof of his building and sat talking till dawn, feeding on the stories of our lives, sharp chunks of dark yellow cheese and summer sausage, green olives and glass bottles of coca-cola while [url=http://www.ledzeppelin.com/si...]Led Zeppelin III[/url] played on the portable stereo.
Eventually, we stretched out on the concrete and watched the stars disappear in a black sky slowly going gray. We put "Friends" on repeat and fell asleep.
~~~~~~~~~~
I told this story the other day to [url=http://filbert.tblog.com]someone[/url] who understood and who made me want to write about it. Thank you.
Even though *technically* I don't think it's spring anymore, lately I've found myself immersed in what could very easily be called [i]spring cleaning.[/i] I have to admit, I'm not very good at these sorts of tasks because I'm just so easily distracted. For me, going through old papers and books and photographs involves not only sorting, stacking and chucking... it also involves reading, lingering, remembering and sighing. I find myself leafing not only through the piles of flotsam that I've collected over time, but also through the memories, people and places associated with each item. I struggle to keep on task, and I know I've lost all momentum when I find myself cocking my head slightly and biting my lower lip. At that point, whatever item I have in my hand has completely captured my attention and I'm a goner.
Today, I ran across an old portfolio from a college creative writing class. I read through the slightly aged pages of bad poetry and even worse fiction ~ cringing with despair. "Good Lord," I found myself saying out loud as I fumbled through the written evidence of my own idiocy. In truth, it was difficult not to be embarrassed, and I know my cheeks flushed more than a little as I struggled to listen to this voice that had once been me.
Then I thought back to the class itself. I remember the teacher very well. He seemed fairly young to me at the time, which of course didn't necessarily make him an idiot, but bunches of us in the class relished in pointing out his youth when we didn't agree with something he said. In truth, I just plain didn't like him very much. I had always been told that I was a good writer, and I'd come to believe my own press, as it were. [url=http://www.uncw.edu/writers/f...]Dr. Michael White[/url], however, was not impressed. Of my attempts at fiction he once said, "your characters seem fake." I made a great joke of this. "Um... you think?" I'd say shaking my head as I disparaged him to my pals. But the truth is, the words stung, and as much I hate to admit it, I tried harder next time.
Looking through the portfolio this afternoon I was more than a little mortified... not solely because the writing was *so* bad, but even moreso by the fact that it really wasn't *that* long ago that I was fairly convinced that it was pretty damn good.
Then I ran across one poem that had been an end of semester project. Dr. White ran his class in a workshop fashion. We brought our drafts to class ~ enough for every student. We'd read our work to the group and then listen to our classmates praise and/or berate us. (Most of us were nearly finished with school at this point and knew each other pretty well. And the fact that we no longer felt the need to tip toe around one another coupled by the late date in the semester left many of us with little patience for bull-shit. Thus, workshop criticism could be brutal. It was not a place for the faint of heart). Anyway, afterwards, we'd gather up the few shreds of dignity we had left along with what remained of our first draft, go home, and try again. This process was repeated several times until finally, we emerged with a final product that had, theoretically, been molded through a process of vision and revision.
To be honest, I'm not *really* sure how much any of that helped my writing. But in looking at that poem this afternoon I found myself also reading Dr. White's comments at the bottom with new eyes. On this particular offering he wrote quite a bit, but one section stands out:
[i]"All semester I've struggled to find you in your writing. You're talented and I'm pleased with much of your technique, but I wish you'd push yourself to write about the details you know... the details we all know. The last section of this poem is the best work you've done all semester. It's also the most real. The most you."[/i]
I read the last bit of the poem that he spoke of and realized that in those few lines I was not describing a feeling or trying desperately to convey an emotion. Rather, I was telling a story... an anecdote that, if written well, might have allowed the reader to have his/her own genuine emotional reaction, rather than the one I had shoved down his throat.
It's been years since college, but today, I felt like I finally learned something. Thanks, Dr. White.
(Ok. If you've made it this far, hang on... I'm about to make a musical connection).
Oddly enough, although seemingly unrelated, recent discussions I've had on lazy Sunday afternoons while swapping songs (those are called percentages, dear) across the ocean have caused me to draw similar conclusions about the lyricists I love most. Lyrics have always been a vital part of my ability to not only enjoy, but also respect and attach myself to a song or artist. I suppose it sounds ridiculous to simply say that the words have to mean *something* in order for me to be interested. It's that, surely, but it's also so much more than that. They have to mean something to me. What's more, I believe that lyrics, like so many other types of writing, are at their most powerful when they're anecdotal rather than laden with description and instruction. I want to be shown love or hate or silliness or embarrassment or disillusionment rather than simply being told about it. I'd rather share the author's experience and have my own honest reaction than to be instructed as to what I should be thinking and/or feeling. Even if I have no reaction, well... at least it's real. If I were an artist, of any sort, I can't imagine wanting anything else from those people who take the time to ponder what pours out of me.
That said... I am keenly aware that the ability to write in such a way and to evoke a reaction is a rare gift indeed. Whether it's fiction, poetry or music, the capacity to capture a real moment and lay it out for the world to see, in not only a limited number of lines, but also in just a few perfect words, *and* in a way that manages to pull something real and often very vulnerable out of another person is well... not only a very special kind of magic... but a gift that I admire greatly.
So... to that end, I thought I'd round this out by sharing a few artists, musical and otherwise, who -in my opinion- sparkle with that very magic.
And finally, one more note, in doing a little research for this post I ran across [url=http://www.fridrichdesign.com...]some work [/url] by my old teacher. Looks like he might have known what he was talking about after all.
Ed Ruscha is a contemporary American artist whose work has sold at auction for upwards of 3+ million dollars. Like a lot of contemporary art, (ok, all art for that matter), his work doesn't appeal to everyone. However, I'm particularly drawn to his use of language as a visual medium. I once read a review of some of his work in which the critic said that Ruscha's gift lies in his ability to “give words a physical voice.” Sort of like onomatopoeia for your eyes, as it were, and I like that. 
If you drive down to the end of my block and hang a right, then head a mile or two down Union Cross Rd until you see the old barn that sits at the corner of Union Cross and Old Salem Rd, and then take a left, (clearly, directions aren’t my forte) soon you’ll happen upon the most extraordinary thing. About a mile or so further on the right, there amidst a sea of nondescript houses, lies the one that belongs to T.S. and Ethel. Mind you, I’ve never met T.S. or Ethel… but I adore them both. I adore them because T.S. loves Ethel so much that he’s found it necessary to declare his love for her in the form of a giant, homemade wooden heart displayed proudly on a pole in their front yard. And I adore them because Ethel loves T.S. so much that she’s managed to go at least 13 years (the amount of time that I’ve lived here) without making him take it down. I’m sure there are other ways that are just as beautiful to declare to the world that you love someone, I’m just not sure I’ve seen that many of them.
Recently, it would seem, I’ve been a little obsessed with all manner of super-hero.
It was summer in New York. I was 16 years old. Even though I had grown up not far from Seattle, I’d never been to a city like Manhattan: a city that believed itself to be the center of the known universe – and very probably was right.