April 27th 2010Satuday, John took Erin and I to the NW film schools student documentary night which is where I learned about Rangoli. Outside the front stoop, the little cement patch by the first step is my first Rangoli design, pink ohm symbol, circled, traced in white chalk. Rangoli is the art of impermanence. It's raining outside and washing away the chalk and this? This is how it is supposed to be. This is the true reflection of what is - transience. It is a reminder of mortality and the ever changing give and take of the universal tale. I will come and go. In the mornings, Indian women come out of their houses and form geometric designs with sand, rice or chalk setting the intention for the household. By the end of the day the image has been brushed away, eaten by the birds, blown by the wind. Outside it rains. It takes away my picture. And I must learn to let go.  April (what is it?) 22nd 2o1o  Heard a story the other day about multi-tasking and how it's actually impossible to be doing two things at the same. One will take priority. There was another study I heard of where they tested people on cell phone operating and driving. The study concluded that people can't be fully funcitonal drivers when they are working in some way on a cell phone. This is very believable to me. I am one of those people for sure. And at this moment I will take a breath and try and let go because there is too much going on right now and not enough of the NOW. I am losing my mind most literally these days. Really losing it. And I am not even drinking much. Maybe it's the up and down weather. Maybe it's because the light on my desk will not turn on no matter how many times I shake the lightbulb and screw it back in. Something out of the film Amelie where she sneaks in and pulls all these little pranks on the fruit vendor on the corner. The one who is mean to his employee. Perhaps someone snuck into my house and tweaked all the little things - things I only notice on the subtle level. But this is not true. This person has come into my very brain and messed around. They say sleeping too much can be just as bad as sleep deprivation. So it goes.  April 16th 2010 Egg Nog. Found Art. Below my bedroom window in the front yard. 4.15.10. Printed word on Paper & Pencil Print, folded cease in middle, vegetable oil. Chocolate, Cocoa, Cocoa Syrup, Coffee, Tea, Egg Nog.
  April 13th 2010 Our time to share. Poem in your pocket is the atheists day to pass out unconventional truths. Evangelizing of a darker kind to a religion where you worship in an armoir with a cat on your lap breathing through a thick cloud of incense. Though the goal is salvation it may not be the raise your hands hailjesushallayluyah kind. Take a moment and share. Camalli is crafting a gathering of the literary minded to create something profound and meaningful; a pocketful of words, a handful of plastic gems. Words words words. Happiness is Marge Piercy. Love is e.e.cummings. Pain is Sylvia Plath. The way to survive you can find in an Jenny Holzer quote. The path to righteousness is Robert Frost. The path to ulcers and lonely Sunday's is Charles Bukowski. I like this momemtum. Keep telling me stories. Pour me tea and read me more. Share with me. Dog ears welcome.




 March 27th 2001Daily comics are taking their toll on me in a very real way. I look at every single day since (checks) January 12th and think - this is it? This small stack of papers is what amounts to my life for the past three months? It's very unreal and very depressing. Take any random daily comic. It involved me eating, my sleeping, me going to work, me going to the store. Is this life?

My thinking needs to be changed. I need to actually write down my processes. All the images are symbols of something going on right? Like I am getting somewhere? To some higher understanding of god and life and beauty? Maybe my simplistic drawins make me feel this way. Because the drawings ar so chidish and cute I can't even take my life seriously anywhere. And really, if my memory lapses and I have to use my comics to back up stories and dates and events isn't it kind of scary to look back on something so adorable? There's not a lot of hurt in the comics and when it is mentioned, what? It's just mentioned and nothing more. A solitary moment of nothing essential. I mean, what if Charles Schultz drew your life story?

I am human and I need to be loved. Just like everybody else.

In other news.

March 22nd 2010

Welcome new notebook. I have already lost you once with barely a story told yet I still love you strongly - tearing apart the apartment and making th ecat nervous in search of you. Never again. I write my name and address in you new friend. Live long.
 

February 6th

Ok. So. It's snowing outside as I work on my winter zine and I think, "ha! it cannot be so late to write a winter zine if there is snow on the ground.." In a way I am redeemed. Winterwinter. I have been doing yoga a lot more lately - having strong conversations with my body about what it is we can do to help each other and I've been apologizing for my cruelty and misunderstanding. Treating my body like an abused child I force it here and there and never explain. "You! Run!" I tell it. "You are so lazy! You are so tired all the time! Get up!" Being so cruel and not listening. By talking to my body I hope I can reach my brain to help swallow the darkness that has been coming up lately. But this will take a long long time and much patience. 

December 19th

What I am thinking about:

Last night, trying to convince everyone at the gingerbread-house-makingpa-rty to go caroling and sing Gangsta's Paradise with o urh ands open for tips. Dancing where sudde nlythere is too much gravity (or maybei missl ia) and my boots held me fast to the floor so I took off my shoes and feared broken glass. DJ played my jam and th epeople knew all the words . I am writing a booko fwisdom -a collection of quota tions by a ne wfriend Amon who feels more of an ambassador o fne wyor k than a fri endand naming the book "Salmon" with the S crossed out but that is somewhat hard to imagine. All kinds of nonsense but choosing to remember thewa lk to t hep arty - earliest in the night at 6:00 where it was such a rutted out path that I wanted to cherish. The stretch of concrete path under lamp light in Drake Park where passerbys on the bridge look the other direction and come up with conversation rather than saying hello. Dark bridges over cold water make one socially nervous I suppose (when you can't see faces leta lone intentions for tossing up into the current). But wha tha ppened in the end? The bed called to me and sleeping long and hard I have a morning alone to make ceremony of lazy Saturday french press coffee brewing and imaginings of fabulous cook book to pull together tomorrow or the next until Christmas Ih ope to have a handful of colorful pictures - limi tedre lease. You wills ee.

Word of the day: comconitant (discovered in a medical article regarding lithium poisoning while Kevin and looked up if anyone in the google world ever used the term "categorical influx monitoring." They have not.

December 7th

I need to talk to my imaginary therapist.

December 5th.

Peter tells me is the day of Krumpus, the Santa Claus meets-billy-goat-spin-off of Chirstmas calamity.

According to said friend, Krumpus has horns and wears a sheepskin and trots around the streets of town intimidating woman and children and punishing people who have been bad. Apparently, it's a German thing.