Excavates

Once upon a time:



160 eyelets. inserted by hand. do you know what that act is? first an awl, to make a small hole. then a chopstick, to make the small hole bigger (sometimes the chopstick squeaks and sticks, which is irritating).

then take one of those tiny metal grommet things, about the size of the holes you use to lace shoes if you aren't into velcro. it's got sharp edges. force it through the hole, make sure every thread around it is laying as flat as possible (use the awl). put the tiny metal cap on, then hammer the die or use the pliers to finish it off. about 90 seconds of work, if you're doing it while you're watching gary oldman play beethoven.

one more seam and this is complete. i'm done with this project. my hands are mangled from it. working with the vinyl i cut a deep v into the middle finger of my left hand that's still not fully healed.

and i have a hand fetish. mine are scarred now, from this.

but it is done, at least. almost done. my "boss" was abrasive and at times insulting and more than once or twice flaky but tomorrow i deliver and it's back to corsets and miniskirts like hand grenades.

i don't know what to say except to quote immortal beloved. hearing someone say

i could not hate a man that could write such music

or whatever. yes. yes. we all say that. most of us.

i couldn't hate a person who made something of note. couldn't hold a grudge against a person with talent or beauty or kindness or a way with words. couldn't hate a man that wrote a song that bumped on every block while i was in highschool. couldn't hate a man who built a waterfall. couldn't hate a man who made a mural for a little girl's bedroom.



we crawl to artists. all of them. we say

render me

and hope to learn something that we didn't already know about ourselves. how we look in certain light. what we say that is noteworthy. what makes us attractive or unattractive. natural curiosity. my roommate handed me a picture of myself today and i was like "who is this woman?"

like those eyes over there. alyssa sees me as a fairy princess so she gives me enchantress eyes. i was underslept in that photo, having been on a bender. but alyssa is beauty so she rendered me beautifully.

this has been discussed before. artists only render themselves, with any luck more and more accurately as they hone their craft.

with any blessing, what they create becomes more and more flattering, also. i don't see pretty or ugly most times. tall or short or thin or anything. i fall in love with genius or what i suspect is genius, hoping to learn a thing or two. sometimes i do.

a complete. mental. landscape.

i want to see my own terrain, so i must make things. i must write and speak and curtsy and dance and sew and write some more. i've no choice cause no one else can make that map. no one else would know what it should look like.

finis.

savage is okay. better than okay. it is dips on the dancefloor and growling, plus more than that. i don't know what it is but i find it, lose it, love it, choose it.

i wish on a star and burn my candles.



and poe is all:

i am come of a race noted for vigour of fancy and ardour of passion. men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence -- whether much that is glorious -- whether all that is profound -- does not spring from disease of thought -- from moods of mind exalted at the expense of general intellect. they who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who only dream by night.

and i'm all. preach it poe, word to the mother.

did i ever tell you about singing backup at the marley festival in long beach at the arena when i was 19 years old? remind me to tell you that some time.