Glass Vs. Leg

Know what happens when a giant piece of glass falls on an uncovered leg?  Oh, you do.  Well, good for you.  What we discovered (in addition to the deep cut on Matt’s leg), is that I can drive like a maniac when needed, the hospital is a five minute drive away (which will come in handy considering the amount of calamity that befalls this household), the hospital waiting room is mind-numbingly boring (really, ask me all about the news of three months ago, that ancient Newsweek I found totally filled me in on all the news that’s fit to be forgotten).  But, mostly what I learned is that it is really hard to get a decent photograph of a stitched up leg.

Six stitches and many lessons gained.

 

Hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic

We saw a lot of great things on our cross country trip.  I could go on and on listing them all, and Matt would more than likely dispute a few of them (or at least argue with their degree of greatness), but the one thing that is absolutely not in dispute is the unmitigated badassness of the Isaac Hayes’ gold Cadillac. That’s right, I said it, a gold Cadillac.  Unashamed and beautiful.  Just like its owner.

I feel very lucky to have been able to see him perform, and even luckier to live in world where his music exists.

 

Less Than/Greater Than

(The amazingly brilliant Jess wrote an amazingly brilliant post a while ago.  And so, I’m breaking my rule of blogging about the silliest of the silly, to add my thoughts.  I was originally going to leave a comment, but the comment got longer and longer, so I thought it best to move it over here. Also, I took a really long time posting this. I excel at planning, but suck at follow through)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the problems with professionalization or the problems that institutionalization brings to professions.

I think the main issue of the divide between professionals and, for lack of a better word, outsiders, is privilege.

Some voices, ideas, hell, some people are valued more than others and that is the nature of the beast. We know that in our society, there are just some things that are given more value than others. African, Asian, or any traditional folk medicine (including those here in America. I have two deeply Southern parents; ask me about the much-derided “old wives tales” style of healing.) won’t be considered legitimate until someone else says so.

The insitutionalization of art frequently makes it inaccessible and irrelevant to people outside of the academy. Why should art, any art, be contained within an elitist system? What good is it? And if someone protests that someone needs to protect art from being dumbed down, well–such comments echo/smack of the idea that the “unwashed masses” have such plebian tastes, they can’t be trusted to know what is good.

Ah, the art world, as much as we’d like to believe that artists could create a more egalitarian society, they just don’t. I learned that at Burning Man. A place full of artists still relied on the most basic, the most hurtful, and frankly, the most stupid stratifications. And also by its essential structure, Burning Man sets itself up as a playground for the privileged. Honestly, who else can afford those tickets but people whose first concerns aren’t basic necessities. (Not that Burning Man is some indication of the art world as a whole, and I don’t mean it to be a stand-in for the “art world”, just an example.) I think this attitude is why we see so many stories being appropriated. Think of the recent scandal with Margaret Seltzer. This is the story of many people of color, and somehow it’s not seen as worthy of telling until told by a white woman. It’s an experience that has been validated just by who’s telling it.

 

Thanks, Dick!

Americans say: “We think this war’s a bad idea, and that we shouldn’t be there anymore.”

Dick Cheney says: “I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

Aja says: “Not much longer now. . .”

 

Story of My Life . . .

 

It’s Simple. . .

If you’re not watching the Puppy Bowl, you’ve clearly made the wrong choice.Unbridled fucking cuteness. And no Tom Brady. 

 

The Beautiful Ones

This week, we went to see My Name is Albert Ayler, a documentary about the titular avant-garde jazz saxophonist. The thing I was most stuck by was Ayler’s insistence that he was a figure who was not to be appreciated in his time. In his mind, his was a visionary sound, a sound that may be misunderstood, derided, but at its core represented a pure and complete vision, a true and authentic voice. Are there people who walk among us now whose vision and voice are obscured by convention?

That is a truly depressing thought. Living each day, knowing that the things you do will never, could never be appreciated. What would be the motivation for continuing to do the work you feel like you’re meant to do?  Especially when you’re convinced it’s all for a future that you won’t belong to.

In my own life (though I make no claims that the things I’m doing will ever make a difference, now, or long after I’m gone), there’s work I want to do, and it all feels hopeless. How then, do the truly gifted, how do they keep going? How has this world not swallowed them, engulfed them in all the “can’t”s, “won’t”s, “impossible”s. Carried them away to wherever it is that dreamers are forced to go when everything around them tells them that dreamers aren’t welcome here.  I want them to teach me how to survive.

I have a book called “The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born”, and I used to believe that the title was a truism;  that somewhere there was a future waiting, and the ones who were going to figure it all out just hadn’t arrived yet.  But lately, I just don’t think it’s true. The beautiful ones are here, among us, and somehow they have figured out how to navigate this hostile world. They have figured out how to keep doing work that enriches, complicates, challenges, all of us.  Sometimes the world just doesn’t know what to do with all that beauty.

 

President Ferret Face

“And our fellow citizens have got to understand that by loving a neighbor like you’d like to be loved yourself, by reaching out to someone who hurts, by just simply living a life of kindness and compassion, you can make America a better place and fulfill the dream of Martin Luther King.”

-George W Bush

“It’s nice to be nice, to the nice.”

-Major Frank Burns

I can’t believe that it took me so long, or that this was the stimulus needed, but I finally figured it out. We elected Frank Burns president.

 

Unsolicited Advice

Someone found our little corner of the internet by searching “how to make everyone like me”. I will now offer a bit of advice:

You can’t. Please, for your sake, and the sake of every person you’ll ever meet ever, don’t even try. Everyone won’t like you, and if you attempt to be the type of person who wants to make everyone like him/her, you’ll just end up being the kind of person that no one likes.

You’ll be the person with no definable personality. The person whose ideas and beliefs change on a whim. You’ll be the person without a opinion (unless, of course, someone else shares an opinion you can co-sign first). You’ll be the person without a voice, and why in the hell would you want to be that person?

Now, there’s a chance that this person is looking for advice on how to make everyone like him/her in the “how can I make every person the same as me” vein. If that’s the case, well, what can I say, you probably won’t be liked much then either, only this time it will be because you’re an insufferable ass.

 

So This is Christmas, and What Have You Done?

Another year gone. This is always the time I start to tally up the year. Count up the losses, the successes. The small victories, and the crushing defeats. I start to examine my life, my place, my contributions. And I always come up short.

Every year my plan is to give more that I take. To create more than I destroy. To bring joy into the world, my life, and the lives of others. I failed miserably this year. I’m having trouble creating a meaningful life when I’m not entirely convinced that life has any particular meaning. I look at all I have; a roof over my head, a job (actually, two jobs), but somehow it’s not enough. I want to know how to create a life that’s more than just existing. I want I life that is creative, and giving, and fulfilling. People have music, art, writing, literature, kids, science, whatever- a thing that makes them open their eyes each morning, renewed and confident that their “thing”, whatever it is, is why they’re here. What does that feel like? What does it feel like to have a purpose?

So, to our tens of readers, (most of whom don’t comment, but I know you’re reading. I am all knowing, like a god, but cuter . . .) what’s your thing? And can I borrow it?