A while back I was knitting an elephant for Beau... wait, I should backtrack... I had a ton of yarn left over from my knit alphabet I did for Type 3. I had a ton of yarn in small amounts of colors. Not really enough to make anything in particular, but still a lot of yarn. And I had about half of a small grey skein, and randomly decided to knit Beau an elephant toy, stuffed animal type thing. Anyway, it turned out very cute, but that's not the point of the story.
As I was knitting this elephant at some point I was texting Joe and told him I was knitting an elephant and he, I suppose, had this idea that I was knitting a LIFE SIZED elephant. He was very excited until I told him, alas, it was only a hand-size toy elephant.
But.
I still have all this yarn I don't know what to do with.
And half-finished projects that I've lost the patterns for, or can't remember whatever personal pattern it was that I was doing, so I bind them off because I need the needles. And I'm left with a half-project.
Well. Nothing is wasted, right? So I think I'm going to make an elephant guys. And I'm fairly certain it will take me ages to finish. So the plan is to finish off all the scraps I have now, and then start buying the discount yarn. It's going to be a patchwork elephant. And it's going to be as big as I can possibly make it. And it's going to be knit. And it's going to take me forever. I'm tingly with excitement.
10.22.2007
10.20.2007
Participate... (part 2)
So if you would like more background information on this post, then read Participate (part 1) directly below this post... much like The Hobbit, it's a nice prequel that gives you an inside look, but nowhere near absolutely necessary, and might make you fall asleep.
:)
OK. So I've been trying to analyze this experience. I think the saddest part for me is how quickly it faded and that I had to leave so early when I wanted to stay all night...
It's hard. It's hard. I've been trying for 2 days now to blog about this. What about it is so hard? I think it is the effort of trying to separate the experience from my experience. So... this is my experience.
Cookies. Cookies. Cookies. I walked in and smelled cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. My mouth watered even though I knew I wouldn't have any. Someone, someone handed me a schedule-ish type of thing that had the artists, their definitions of Performance Art, a map of Julia's house... something else I can't remember.
I saw people and found I was being drawn into conversations, and I didn't want that. I didn't want to socialize. I wanted to experience what was there for me. What beautiful thing I could make of it, and what beautiful things were being offered up. All art is revealing something about the artist. A pride, an insecurity, a hope, or a fear. I wanted to examine and feel for myself these beautiful things being laid on the tier to burn brightly for just one night. Just this night. This particular circumstance.
Videos. Home videos in Julia's room. I wandered in and the lights were off, and I was alone. There were voices coming from the attic where the audio installation was going, and a red light was the only light. This steady hum played background music and I filled myself full of these home videos.
It's Julia. She's turning four. She's playing. Playing. Other tiny four year olds are laughing. All little girls in dresses. Our little girls only wear dresses to church now. But these darlings... all dressed in fluffy things with bows and ribbons. Musical chairs. And the song was one I knew from my childhood. Some church song. The angle was odd so I found that if I sat on the floor and watched it through the mirror I got a better angle. I crouched down, drew my knees into my chest, and let myself exist only in that moment.
Musical chairs. And laughter. And I laughed with them. Shrieks of delight, high and piercing, and it hits a chord inside me and reverberates out into my own joy. It becomes my joy. I am four with them and looking for the last chair.
Then we are opening presents. Big pink presents. Julia is surrounded by tiny people who want to help and she says we can. En masse we attack the present. A skirt, one says. No, a dress, another says. It can be either, chimes a third. We laugh. I am laughing and I don't know where it comes from but I also start to cry. This is personal. Impersonally my personal torment. This love and joy that I can't have. This gets personal quickly. I want to withdraw, but instead I let the branding iron closer and closer. I let my own pain interact. I am making this what I want it to be. What I need it to be right now, for me. For me.
And I looked. I was staring in the mirror at this happy birthday. But I was staring at myself. And I saw that it was good.
I walked downstairs. The man had set up his life in the blue box. I was mesmerized. He was watching tv. He was reading. He was writing. It was Asian television. Extreme Home Makeover, Japan Edition, or something along those lines. He had a suitcase, a backpack, magazines, books. He existed within this tiny world, oblivious of us. I walked over so I could see his face. See him laughing, frowning, shocked, bored. I watched his face. He rubbed his eyes. Was he tired? I wanted to intrude into his little world and hold his face in my hands and ask him if he was tired. I wanted to hug him for being alone.
I made it mine. Once. Once. I was alone, and I lived in a little hollow world of my own. Watching him, even if it was art, even if it was a message, it made me ache. NONONO. We aren't meant to be alone. We are meant to interact. I wanted to.
We played a dice game. A game I didn't understand. Dice. Roll. Who is higher? You win, oops, now she wins, pass them, you win. Then Julia and Patrick are the winners. And three safety pins determines our President. Maybe there was something deeper to this, that I couldn't grasp. Maybe I had saturated myself too quickly.
The girl baking cookies is wearing an apron and has a vacuum. She is heading towards Julia's room. I laugh at her, Julia's, dismay. I would feel the same way. Part of the art is the destruction. Art is meant to strip away what we think we know, it is meant to make us uncomfortable. And then we settle in and get comfortable, as Julia will in a week or so... but then we delve deeper and make it uncomfortable again. That is art. To never be settled.
And then Julia sets up spin the bottle. There is laughter. LAUGHTER. It is pouring out of us. Our faces hurt. It's not about a kiss. No one really kisses the way you would kiss a lover. Instead two people come face to face and press their faces together. Flat lips. No kisses, really. It's more about barriers. How many of these people have touched each other at all the entire evening? And now, they are blushing. It's not as though one looks at the stranger and asks for a kiss. It is a random spin of the bottle, and wa-laa... old married man, embarrassed to discover he is coerced into pecking the lips of a blushing girl. But it's not about the kissing. You can look into everyone's eyes and see tears running down the faces.
I am reminded of Julia's comment about the phone booth stuffing... that, who cares if it is cliche, have you ever done it? I wish there had been a survey asking who had actually played spin the bottle. I think I was examining why this was so joyful, and part of it has to be adults, grown adults, adults who can have sex, adults with lovers... grown-ups, blushing at the aspect of kissing a stranger.
One of the most wonderful things I heard was as I was leaving. Thank you for kissing me, someone said. Why you're welcome, was the response.
I was sad I couldn't sit through the second game, which I heard was even better, even more rowdy. It's just amazing.
Instead I sat outside with the guy cycling a stationary bike to light the outside. He was sweating. I wanted to help him. I offered him water... or to wipe his sweat. I offered to help him take his jacket off so he wouldn't be so hot. He said he didn't need anything, he was almost done. I felt bad to leave him alone lighting the porch when no one was there. I felt obligated to sit there with him. Even if I said nothing to him, just to sit and use the light he was making for us. For me. I thought of god, honestly. I wondered, if he's really there, is this what he is doing... lighting a light when no one cares to look anymore... it was too much to think on for one night. But I think I understand the motivation behind it. I think I understand my take on it. It was beautiful and painful.
This is amazing. The whole night was amazing. I hurt from laughing so hard, and I had a deep emotional experience that I am still trying to understand. I cried. I felt joy. I felt giddy. I felt empathy, I felt alone, and I wanted to keep others from feeling alone. I don't know how something can be more successful, honestly. I wish more people had come, or maybe, I wish I knew there were more people who were touched deeply... Maybe, as always, I want to know that I'm not alone in this. But I don't think I am. I don't think I am.
:)
OK. So I've been trying to analyze this experience. I think the saddest part for me is how quickly it faded and that I had to leave so early when I wanted to stay all night...
It's hard. It's hard. I've been trying for 2 days now to blog about this. What about it is so hard? I think it is the effort of trying to separate the experience from my experience. So... this is my experience.
Cookies. Cookies. Cookies. I walked in and smelled cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. My mouth watered even though I knew I wouldn't have any. Someone, someone handed me a schedule-ish type of thing that had the artists, their definitions of Performance Art, a map of Julia's house... something else I can't remember.
I saw people and found I was being drawn into conversations, and I didn't want that. I didn't want to socialize. I wanted to experience what was there for me. What beautiful thing I could make of it, and what beautiful things were being offered up. All art is revealing something about the artist. A pride, an insecurity, a hope, or a fear. I wanted to examine and feel for myself these beautiful things being laid on the tier to burn brightly for just one night. Just this night. This particular circumstance.
Videos. Home videos in Julia's room. I wandered in and the lights were off, and I was alone. There were voices coming from the attic where the audio installation was going, and a red light was the only light. This steady hum played background music and I filled myself full of these home videos.
It's Julia. She's turning four. She's playing. Playing. Other tiny four year olds are laughing. All little girls in dresses. Our little girls only wear dresses to church now. But these darlings... all dressed in fluffy things with bows and ribbons. Musical chairs. And the song was one I knew from my childhood. Some church song. The angle was odd so I found that if I sat on the floor and watched it through the mirror I got a better angle. I crouched down, drew my knees into my chest, and let myself exist only in that moment.
Musical chairs. And laughter. And I laughed with them. Shrieks of delight, high and piercing, and it hits a chord inside me and reverberates out into my own joy. It becomes my joy. I am four with them and looking for the last chair.
Then we are opening presents. Big pink presents. Julia is surrounded by tiny people who want to help and she says we can. En masse we attack the present. A skirt, one says. No, a dress, another says. It can be either, chimes a third. We laugh. I am laughing and I don't know where it comes from but I also start to cry. This is personal. Impersonally my personal torment. This love and joy that I can't have. This gets personal quickly. I want to withdraw, but instead I let the branding iron closer and closer. I let my own pain interact. I am making this what I want it to be. What I need it to be right now, for me. For me.
And I looked. I was staring in the mirror at this happy birthday. But I was staring at myself. And I saw that it was good.
I walked downstairs. The man had set up his life in the blue box. I was mesmerized. He was watching tv. He was reading. He was writing. It was Asian television. Extreme Home Makeover, Japan Edition, or something along those lines. He had a suitcase, a backpack, magazines, books. He existed within this tiny world, oblivious of us. I walked over so I could see his face. See him laughing, frowning, shocked, bored. I watched his face. He rubbed his eyes. Was he tired? I wanted to intrude into his little world and hold his face in my hands and ask him if he was tired. I wanted to hug him for being alone.
I made it mine. Once. Once. I was alone, and I lived in a little hollow world of my own. Watching him, even if it was art, even if it was a message, it made me ache. NONONO. We aren't meant to be alone. We are meant to interact. I wanted to.
We played a dice game. A game I didn't understand. Dice. Roll. Who is higher? You win, oops, now she wins, pass them, you win. Then Julia and Patrick are the winners. And three safety pins determines our President. Maybe there was something deeper to this, that I couldn't grasp. Maybe I had saturated myself too quickly.
The girl baking cookies is wearing an apron and has a vacuum. She is heading towards Julia's room. I laugh at her, Julia's, dismay. I would feel the same way. Part of the art is the destruction. Art is meant to strip away what we think we know, it is meant to make us uncomfortable. And then we settle in and get comfortable, as Julia will in a week or so... but then we delve deeper and make it uncomfortable again. That is art. To never be settled.
And then Julia sets up spin the bottle. There is laughter. LAUGHTER. It is pouring out of us. Our faces hurt. It's not about a kiss. No one really kisses the way you would kiss a lover. Instead two people come face to face and press their faces together. Flat lips. No kisses, really. It's more about barriers. How many of these people have touched each other at all the entire evening? And now, they are blushing. It's not as though one looks at the stranger and asks for a kiss. It is a random spin of the bottle, and wa-laa... old married man, embarrassed to discover he is coerced into pecking the lips of a blushing girl. But it's not about the kissing. You can look into everyone's eyes and see tears running down the faces.
I am reminded of Julia's comment about the phone booth stuffing... that, who cares if it is cliche, have you ever done it? I wish there had been a survey asking who had actually played spin the bottle. I think I was examining why this was so joyful, and part of it has to be adults, grown adults, adults who can have sex, adults with lovers... grown-ups, blushing at the aspect of kissing a stranger.
One of the most wonderful things I heard was as I was leaving. Thank you for kissing me, someone said. Why you're welcome, was the response.
I was sad I couldn't sit through the second game, which I heard was even better, even more rowdy. It's just amazing.
Instead I sat outside with the guy cycling a stationary bike to light the outside. He was sweating. I wanted to help him. I offered him water... or to wipe his sweat. I offered to help him take his jacket off so he wouldn't be so hot. He said he didn't need anything, he was almost done. I felt bad to leave him alone lighting the porch when no one was there. I felt obligated to sit there with him. Even if I said nothing to him, just to sit and use the light he was making for us. For me. I thought of god, honestly. I wondered, if he's really there, is this what he is doing... lighting a light when no one cares to look anymore... it was too much to think on for one night. But I think I understand the motivation behind it. I think I understand my take on it. It was beautiful and painful.
This is amazing. The whole night was amazing. I hurt from laughing so hard, and I had a deep emotional experience that I am still trying to understand. I cried. I felt joy. I felt giddy. I felt empathy, I felt alone, and I wanted to keep others from feeling alone. I don't know how something can be more successful, honestly. I wish more people had come, or maybe, I wish I knew there were more people who were touched deeply... Maybe, as always, I want to know that I'm not alone in this. But I don't think I am. I don't think I am.
10.19.2007
Participate... (part 1)
I was sad that I missed the art festival this weekend, so I was glad when "Julia's Parent's Are Out of Town" was at 4411 Leeland, and I decided to go...
Wait, we have to go back a bit to understand this...
So in an effort to delve into the beautiful mind of Boyfriend, I ask a lot of questions, or make him tell me secrets, or random things he is thinking about. One of the questions this time was "if you could change anything in your life, what would you change?" And he gave the answer I would have given, but then qualified it in a way I never would have. "Nothing, you never know what little thing affected something else"
So this idea began to worm it's way through my brain. This idea. Nothing is wasted. All matter in the universe is consistent. This small moment, this was not a wasted moment. No relationship is wasted. No human exchange is wasted. Nothing. It all matters, it is all part of what makes you who you are. The Buddhist philosophy that you never enter the same river twice... you are never the same because this leaf fell in front of YOU today and you saw it or you ignored it. This rain fell on you, but that rain didn't. And it changes you. It makes a chemical change, the decomposition of matter, it releases endorphins and causes change, or it doesn't and that lack of change is just as significant in making you who you are.
Ok. So we have a basis here. A philosophy we can grab onto. So I took all these things in my house we didn't want. And I used them. I gave them new life. Thank you for being in my house and thank you for your decay and the particles you release and the way that changes my body. Makes my house smell like my house. Thank you for being effectual. Crepe paper from a party we never used and it got crushed so it can't ever be perfect and it can't ever be used for a party. Thank you, yes, I'll give you life again. A piece of gatorboard I never used because I got pneumonia and dropped out of school. Yes. Embroidery thread from sewing projects I never finished. Yes. Blue bags for recycling, and we forget to recycle... the blue bags become trash. Irony. No, I won't let that happen, shh I'll recycle you in a new way.
So I took them. And then the idea of perfection came into play. It can't be perfect. I hate that it can't be perfect. It can never be perfect. But does that make it any less valid? No. It's valid and significant, maybe because of it's imperfections. It will be exactly what it will be. My hair falls on it, my fingers smudge it, but it's not a waste. My dog is dying. Her hair is everywhere. It is working it's way under the fragments I'm sewing together. Good. It's part of it.
So this has been my world for the past week. And Julia's Parent's Were Out Of Town, as we all know, so this idea worked deeper, under the layers, delving deeper, a worm in my brain. David and Julia, for who knows what reason parted ways and my brain laughed and whispered, nothing is wasted. So I made him come with me, and then I left him alone as I went and delved into the art being created by our bodies in that house...
He was my participation, he was my piece. It was nothing being wasted... it was recycling. It was using the participation art for my own means. It was saying fuck you, everything I do is beautiful. And watch, I'll put this experience to use so I can experience it and David can experience it and Julia can experience it. And if it's bad, it's bad. And if it's good , it's good. And the time isn't wasted, and everything can be a new thing.
And it was beautiful. And it was good. Not because something good came of it, I don't know if something good came of it... and maybe in the end it will mean nothing, but it will. It will. Because for one night, even one night, they were in the house together, and David breathed in the air Julia breathed out. And Julia breathed the air I was breathing, and I breathed the air that all those other people breathed and we shared this thing. this life, this night, and we will always be different and nothing was wasted.
Wait, we have to go back a bit to understand this...
So in an effort to delve into the beautiful mind of Boyfriend, I ask a lot of questions, or make him tell me secrets, or random things he is thinking about. One of the questions this time was "if you could change anything in your life, what would you change?" And he gave the answer I would have given, but then qualified it in a way I never would have. "Nothing, you never know what little thing affected something else"
So this idea began to worm it's way through my brain. This idea. Nothing is wasted. All matter in the universe is consistent. This small moment, this was not a wasted moment. No relationship is wasted. No human exchange is wasted. Nothing. It all matters, it is all part of what makes you who you are. The Buddhist philosophy that you never enter the same river twice... you are never the same because this leaf fell in front of YOU today and you saw it or you ignored it. This rain fell on you, but that rain didn't. And it changes you. It makes a chemical change, the decomposition of matter, it releases endorphins and causes change, or it doesn't and that lack of change is just as significant in making you who you are.
Ok. So we have a basis here. A philosophy we can grab onto. So I took all these things in my house we didn't want. And I used them. I gave them new life. Thank you for being in my house and thank you for your decay and the particles you release and the way that changes my body. Makes my house smell like my house. Thank you for being effectual. Crepe paper from a party we never used and it got crushed so it can't ever be perfect and it can't ever be used for a party. Thank you, yes, I'll give you life again. A piece of gatorboard I never used because I got pneumonia and dropped out of school. Yes. Embroidery thread from sewing projects I never finished. Yes. Blue bags for recycling, and we forget to recycle... the blue bags become trash. Irony. No, I won't let that happen, shh I'll recycle you in a new way.
So I took them. And then the idea of perfection came into play. It can't be perfect. I hate that it can't be perfect. It can never be perfect. But does that make it any less valid? No. It's valid and significant, maybe because of it's imperfections. It will be exactly what it will be. My hair falls on it, my fingers smudge it, but it's not a waste. My dog is dying. Her hair is everywhere. It is working it's way under the fragments I'm sewing together. Good. It's part of it.
So this has been my world for the past week. And Julia's Parent's Were Out Of Town, as we all know, so this idea worked deeper, under the layers, delving deeper, a worm in my brain. David and Julia, for who knows what reason parted ways and my brain laughed and whispered, nothing is wasted. So I made him come with me, and then I left him alone as I went and delved into the art being created by our bodies in that house...
He was my participation, he was my piece. It was nothing being wasted... it was recycling. It was using the participation art for my own means. It was saying fuck you, everything I do is beautiful. And watch, I'll put this experience to use so I can experience it and David can experience it and Julia can experience it. And if it's bad, it's bad. And if it's good , it's good. And the time isn't wasted, and everything can be a new thing.
And it was beautiful. And it was good. Not because something good came of it, I don't know if something good came of it... and maybe in the end it will mean nothing, but it will. It will. Because for one night, even one night, they were in the house together, and David breathed in the air Julia breathed out. And Julia breathed the air I was breathing, and I breathed the air that all those other people breathed and we shared this thing. this life, this night, and we will always be different and nothing was wasted.
10.18.2007
Risk
Leaving home was an earth shattering event.
I walked through big terminals where he could not go. I watched all the people coming through the gates. Cold stone floors. Escalators going up forever. Delays and cancellations. A small red blanket I paid $12 for. The cold air was too much to fight when I was already fighting tears. Small cups of water handed out to the waiting masses. This should not be.
I wanted every minute again. I wanted time to pause for us.
These few days without him have been marked by a pain in my chest. A physical pain. Nothing tastes right either. I look in the fridge for the food we made together only to realize I'm looking here, not there. I wake up with words on my lips for him, questions, comments, wanting to tell him about the dream I was having. But he's not there. My brain seems to refuse this. Its fighting for this to not be real.
Shh. It's real.
That's what is so beautiful. This ache is incomparable. In fact I wouldn't trust this without the ache. Without the pain to verify I would always question. But now I know I have fallen into one of the rare and beautiful things that still exist in life. To love and be loved. The highly sought commodity is mine for a moment, and then I fly away to fast and pray to gods I do not trust that this be always always just this. Simple and unfettered. This always be just this.
And he reaches across the distance and holds me closer than I've ever been held with just his words and his voice. And I say, "Tell them it's real, tell them it's really real," and it's a song he doesn't know, but that doesn't matter I think of leaning my head back into his laughing kisses and how my hands know to make him happy is to make me happy. And the circle we are weaving around each other, the one that might drown us, we build it stronger, it takes a life of its own and it condems us to this love that just might conquer all, if we take this risk.
I think we will take the risk.
I walked through big terminals where he could not go. I watched all the people coming through the gates. Cold stone floors. Escalators going up forever. Delays and cancellations. A small red blanket I paid $12 for. The cold air was too much to fight when I was already fighting tears. Small cups of water handed out to the waiting masses. This should not be.
I wanted every minute again. I wanted time to pause for us.
These few days without him have been marked by a pain in my chest. A physical pain. Nothing tastes right either. I look in the fridge for the food we made together only to realize I'm looking here, not there. I wake up with words on my lips for him, questions, comments, wanting to tell him about the dream I was having. But he's not there. My brain seems to refuse this. Its fighting for this to not be real.
Shh. It's real.
That's what is so beautiful. This ache is incomparable. In fact I wouldn't trust this without the ache. Without the pain to verify I would always question. But now I know I have fallen into one of the rare and beautiful things that still exist in life. To love and be loved. The highly sought commodity is mine for a moment, and then I fly away to fast and pray to gods I do not trust that this be always always just this. Simple and unfettered. This always be just this.
And he reaches across the distance and holds me closer than I've ever been held with just his words and his voice. And I say, "Tell them it's real, tell them it's really real," and it's a song he doesn't know, but that doesn't matter I think of leaning my head back into his laughing kisses and how my hands know to make him happy is to make me happy. And the circle we are weaving around each other, the one that might drown us, we build it stronger, it takes a life of its own and it condems us to this love that just might conquer all, if we take this risk.
I think we will take the risk.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
