Wordstock

Picture by James Gill

New Dangerous Writing group? Praise from Poe Ballantine? It can only mean one thing. Wordstock.

Here's a picture, mid-ceremony...

Kronski

My Monster

I wrote this for Wordstock this weekend, but didn't hear back from them regarding this entry, so I decided to put it on here, timeliness considered.

I attended various workshops and readings, and returned feeling empowered, if not a little woozy.



I shot straight up in bed. It was the first time I had done that since childhood and it was the first night I slept alone after my husband left me. I dreamt of a large man, wearing a too small bear suit. We were at a Barbeque and I walked away to pee, staring up at the stars, and when I turned around, there he was, squatting underneath the bushes, chicken on a skewer.

He began to dance by himself, swaying in the night breeze. His stance was stooped, pointing downward, and when he spoke the softest, deepest voice came out. The mask was unfamiliar, and had big, exaggerated domes for eyes, the buttons moving of their own accord, the nose interrupting the flow of fur that started at his feet. The shoulders were too tight, and had holes from where he had worn this outfit before. He spoke quite elegantly, and I thought of him as my beast, even going so far as to caress his furry arm, held in place by the layers of frayed duct tape underneath the worn fur suit. The fur was the color of an aged orangutan.

Agreeing to dance with him, still a little frightened, but vaguely thrilled, I looked up at his face, and saw a patch of hair behind his mask. When I reached out to grab it, his docile face became rabid, smooth lines became angular, and he began chasing me around the outskirts of the party, while my friends stared restlessly at the empty keg with grave disappointment. I made it ‘round the side of the house, and straight through the hedges out into the street, running as streets became more unfamiliar, twisting and turning into desolate avenues and freeways. They took on visages of streets Id known when I was married to my husband in New Mexico, and at night we’d go jogging down the streets. I saw him there, across the street, wandering into a convenience store. It was all white neon when I walked inside and was greeted by the Lawrence Welk music on the PA system.

“Clean up on Aisle Four”, the voice said, even though it was a tiny convenience store, and as I reached for the ice cream bar at the bottom of the cooler, sliding back the door and gazing into the pool, pulling out the biggest goldfish of the bunch, I dived in after seeing the blur of orange fur towards my back.
Swimming alone, the light from the convenience store fading away, I became awash in a teal-blue light, whose light source was unknown.

Breathing became difficult, and finally not an issue, for the monster was right there with me, and docile once again. His eyes now commanded by something stronger, he took off his mask, revealing the face of my ex- husband, crying, looking into my eyes and telling me, plainly, that there was no going home, that I was on my own, and how my love for him made him a monster.

Coffee House Stories, Volume Two

Chronicling the Events, sketchpads, over-heard coversations, and revelations at the Twin Cinema Coffee Shop, in Chapel-Hill, North Carolina.


Ripped Page from a journal, found at closing time, on January 12th, 2003.

Coach whips, lollypops and Caterwauls, the visions on my pad today are of a more supernatural nature, coming off of a twelve hour sketching binge, where my only concern was not jumping out of my skin eternally crawling over the canvas. I figured if I could only keep up this pace, I might have enough sketches for the upcoming show.

Feeling restless about my work, like I may be stuck in a rut. The rat race in my brain keeps producing the same responses to stimuli. Perhaps a painful event might help.

That’s the inherent nature of art and pain, how you don’t want pain, none of us do, but that to truly create art, it must come from painful experiences, or at least reflecting on them.

But much of my painful past experiences have taken place years ago, or perhaps I’ve been too detached as an artist for awhile, and I need to get back into the swing of things. The nature of love is to feel pain, I hear this, and I know this, but at the same time the responses I get to my own pain, my own genuine feelings differ from that, until I feel that I am cycling in the same direction, with the same amount of force on each stroke.

Thought about Melissa again, despite what happened between us, the truth lingering above me, like an idea that won’t translate into an image.

What is it with my quest for the perfect picture, one that explains how I feel everyday?
Perhaps my own expressions are fruitless?

I wish I had more answers. Other artists have answers; they don’t draw puzzles, but solutions to the puzzles in their own heads. Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped, without any way to get out.

I called home today, leaving a voicemail message for my parents. Haven’t spoke to them in months. I get into these periods where it’s just the work, and nothing else. The sound of brush on canvas and the loud music, as my parents try to get through over and over again, it must be fucking maddening, having a son like me. Not that I would want to be anyone else.

I think I’ll tear this up, there’s too much incriminating evidence on this page, stinking of three day sketch binges and the notion that its all been done before.

Coffee House Stories

Chronicling the Events, sketchpads, over-heard coversations, and revelations at the Twin Cinema Coffee Shop, in Chapel-Hill, North Carolina.

Volume One: Barbara Knightly and the Untimely Arrival of Truth

Sitting on the porch, staring out at the considerable rainfall, it’s easy to see the whole thing in perspective. It’s on days like this, when the sky opens up and drenches the ground that gives us pause, reason to stop and sit here on the porch, replaying each scene, rewinding the scene and watching it in slow-motion.

I’m surrounded by dark skies, and I can see the burned cotton sending the misty rain down on me. Thinking back to why I feel this way, hollowed out, and confused beyond reason. Emotions don’t apply right now, they're too large, looming concepts, loss and love and how it all came out all at once.

I see her face, framed by her arm and the cup of coffee. Her face is paralyzed in fear, face locked in a grimace. She cries softly and thoroughly. I’m speechless. It’s beautiful to see her cry like this, just let everything out, years of doubting, now it’s over and were free to move on.

It’s my turn to talk, and where to begin? How to chronologically go through all the issues? How can I turn the phrases to represent all the ways I feel about this? Will words do them justice?

So I start from the beginning, telling her how in the beginning everything was smooth and satisfying, and how slowly, over time I fell out of love, with the lingering idea that she was cheating on me. I chose this way to disclose the way I felt, because it addresses the main issue, without sacrificing my own position.

She spent so much time constructing this façade, justifying it the whole time, convinced that what she was doing was appropriate, even encouraged. And now, it was time to let it go, in one frank wave, in public.

Building, Rebuilding, it's Spring Break

It's Spring Break for Washington Schools.

Time to rip up the carpet, install new stuff.

Turn your house upside-down and then back again.

Ride you bike all over town, soaking up the sun, even if for a few hours.

Write in the morning, the afternoon and the early evening.

See friends more often.

Listen to music...

Listening to:

Destroyer: Destroyer's Rubies

Yeah Yeah Yeah's: Show Your Bones

The Hold Steady: Almost Killed Me

The Fall: This Nation's Saving Grace

Twilight Singers: Powder Burns


Watching:

Inside Man

Ice Harvest

A History of Violence

Sopranos, Season Six

Reading:

Zadie Smith: White Teeth

McSweeneys: Quarterly No. 18