the fog is thick and low, and the water shines like mercury

If there's anybody out there.

2009-08-05T16:17:00.006-04:00

I'm starting a new tumblr. Please RSS or follow it. This blog is being decommissioned.

theelephantschild.tumblr.com

Yay.

It's just you and me.

2009-06-30T14:14:00.000-04:00

I was just thinking...

Last semester, Spencer won an award from Harvard for a short story he wrote. A big chunk of cash. And maybe it doesn't mean much, but in his first year of attempting to write fiction he was published three times in college publications. I've been writing my whole life, and I never had the balls to submit my writing to anything.

Spencer thanks me for inspiring him to write, for telling him he had it in him. I remember when it first occurred to me -- he told me a story about something that had happened to him, and I said, "It makes no sense that you don't write." Or something like that. He didn't think he could, but all he needed was a push. So he says I'm his encouragement, a provider of ideas, and sometimes a muse.

But, anyway, I was just thinking... it's not a one-way thing. Seeing Spencer's success makes me feel like I can do it too. And our mutual belief in each others' abilities is vital. Our old writing teacher once told me that as long as I lacked confidence in my writing I should rely on his confidence in it. I guess that's sort of the way it is with Spencer and I. We both have a lot of talent, but we sort of need each other to realize it. It's that whole iron sharpening iron thing, to use a Biblical reference. I'm not saying we're two brilliant minds who will be the next great literary couple, but I am aiming high now. Oh yes. And if it fails, well, you're allowed to laugh at me or pity me as you will, but never scorn me for trying.

Oakland, CA.

2009-06-14T21:05:00.003-04:00

We're subleasing an apartment that happens to be just a short walk from Lake Merritt. It's near the top of a hill in a pretty cute neighborhood, has big windows with great light, and comes with a small kitty named Miso. I guess I'm excited about this. We'll be here at least until September 1st, and then... maybe Chicago, maybe someplace else. Who knows?

We had a conversation with Spencer's aunt and uncle, who are in their 60s, a few nights ago, and they described in detail the years after they first got together. They traveled across the country several times and even spent three penniless months living on the beach in Jamaica (while she was pregnant, no less). Maybe I'm a romantic, but that sounds like quite a life to me. I mean, I'd prefer to do it without all the hippie dippyness, but there's no reason why we should settle down yet, slip into 9 to 5 jobs that make us queasy, and miss out on seeing and doing as many of the things we want to see and do as we can, right? We both want to work on creative projects, we're young, we're both kind of flighty. Why not? Oakland today, outer space tomorrow.

You won't believe how excited this makes me.

2009-05-21T18:22:00.005-04:00

Sorry, I'm such a bad blogger. Obviously. My tumblarity has dropped 170 points since last week. Not that anybody cares.

Tomorrow we head from Boston to Indianapolis with all of our worldly possessions. Leaving is going to feel soooooo good. And then we get to play a game of continental Twister!

Saturday -- wedding just north of Louisville, KY
next Wednesday -- apartment hunting and visiting friends in Chicago
who knows when? -- free but loooong bus ride (c/o my dad) back to Boston
Thursday, June 4th -- Spencer's graduation (YAY!)
Friday, June 5th -- leave Boston FOR GOOD, fly to visit family in California
some point in June -- ROADTRIP back to Indianapolis (yes, we will have effectively driven across the country, but in a stupid way)
July 1st -- begin our new life in Chicago!

So that's our itinerary. And now you know. Probably won't be online much as a result. If at any point we're headed your way, let me know!

What becoming insufferably middle-class has taught me.

2009-05-13T20:53:00.006-04:00

At some point last year, I met up with some members of my family who had little to say to me. Though they smiled politely and seemed to harbor no ill regard for me, I was surprised by their silence. When we were little, we were close. What happened? My mother turned to me quietly and said, "They don't know what to make of you, Camille. You come from a different world." But no! No, I didn't! I came from the same world as they. Grew up in the same neighborhoods, went to the same schools. Then I realized what she meant: I've changed. A lot.

My tiny family unit -- my mother, brother, and I -- are what you might call middle-class. I shudder at the word. I grew up in a dingy, crusty old house that my family was too poor to repair. When I broke the window in my bedroom, we couldn't afford to replace it. We covered it with plastic, and that was how I lived for years, rain or shine, winter or summer. In the winter our pipes would freeze, and we never had it fixed. We'd have to keep a tiny stream going in the kitchen sink so the pipes wouldn't ice up completely, and then take baths by filling pots with that tiny stream and putting them on the stove to boil. It could take an hour to get an inch of water in the tub (and think about how quick a shower is). I recognized the local prostitutes; my stepsister was one of them. My stepdad lent cigarettes to the bald wraith down the street who came over just to have someone to talk to. I went to a school that was known for producing criminals -- petty thieves and murderers. But I took pride in our hardships because I felt they made me stronger, more down to earth. It made me want something more from my adult life, made me more ambitious.

And this is where my ambition has gotten me. I'm a Harvard graduate, soon to be a yuppie (ugh) in an apartment on the chic and youthful north side of Chicago. My mother and my brother moved up simultaneously; my mother lives in a condominium complex in a small town where there's a swimming pool, a tennis court, a pond, and a Mexican day laborer who does the weedwacking. My brother runs a skate park and owns a skate shop. We moved up, just like we wanted. We're a black American success story.

I'm thankful for what I've achieved, but I don't necessarily like this world any more than the other. The people I grew up with, even members of my own family, think I can no longer identify with them. And it's true; I don't. I've become entangled in an entirely different culture. My mannerisms have changed, the way I speak, what I wear. How is it that I can relate more to philosophizing Ivy Leaguers than I can to the people who used to blast their music on my block? When I think about the people I left behind, I feel patronizing, condescending. I'm no longer one of them so how can I pretend to represent their interests? I live and work among people whose progressive ideas are charitable but whose actions reflect nothing but self-interest, and I realize that I'm one of them. In some ways, I miss what I worked so hard to get away from because at least there was something real and gritty about it, at least it was incentivizing. But I also would never go back; this life is just too comfortable. I love having the privilege of being complacent.

How can someone be propelled from the bottom rungs of society to somewhere much more advantageous and be satisfied? Well, those who move up are always forgetting the "little people," becoming the kinds of exploiters and opportunists they detest. What becoming middle-class has taught me is that the view, while broader from up here, maybe offers an even worse picture of humanity. And what I hope for from my life is to just figure out how to clean it up a bit, to see society more equalized, knock some people off the top, pull some people up from the bottom, so that we can all look each other in the faces without being bitter, or self-important, or ashamed, or guilty.

How much more lame can we get? The answer is none. None more lame.

2009-05-06T20:45:00.004-04:00

Separation anxiety much?

Spencer: fuck

i need to get rolling

okay, mangia, mangia

i have to pee

then i'll be back, working
me: ok

sorry for distracting you

my dear planet

my sun

the center of my galaxy

haha

anyway

Spencer: hey

don't get passive-aggressive ere

me: i'll go away for while

i'm not!

Spencer: i just have to pee, jerk

i'll be back online in a second

me: i was being serious!

i have to eat

Spencer: no

i will be

okay

fine

alright

me: and you really need to get to work

Spencer: i love you

god i have to pee

okay

i love you

bye

me: i love you too!

bye

(i'll be back in like 20-30 min., jeez)

(and then i'll pester you until your head EXPLODES)

i'm talking to blank space

Spencer: okay

okay

i love you!

me: fun

Spencer: ?

me: love you too

hmph

Spencer: okay

me: BYE

Spencer: i love you too

what's the matter?

me: love you too

nothing!

ok, time for this to stop

i love you

Spencer: ok

i love youtoo

bye!

me: bye!

Welcome to the Palace of Sans-Souci

2009-04-28T17:14:00.003-04:00

My senior project is now on view at the Carpenter Center. Go see it. Enjoy.

I chopped off all my hair.

2009-04-25T21:57:00.007-04:00

My mother is going to be very unhappy with me.

I was having a bad morning. The hair will probably go into my senior project. I mean, since I have it and all.

Bret Anthony Johnston told me

2009-04-19T13:31:00.001-04:00

I should go into a graduate writing program.

GRADUATE SCHOOL WAS NOT IN MY PLANS, BRET ANTHONY JOHNSTON.

And I said, "Listen, I've traveled every road in this here land!"

2009-04-15T18:04:00.015-04:00

Even though I graduated in January, it seems like it's been impossible to divorce myself from Harvard/Boston, and all the experiences I've had here... for obvious reasons. Because I still live and work here. I would like to say it's been the least pleasant 5 years of my life, but that's just because I've forgotten the frustration and tedium of high school. The truth is that it's been the same ol' nonsense since I was like 13. Whatever. I'm certainly not perfect (God no), but ambition and the ability to persevere are two traits I have in excess, almost to a fault. Oh, Icarus. Now I am about to begin the phase of my life in which I leave the bulk of my education behind, and I'm beginning to wonder what the next phase looks like. This is the first time I haven't had a real plan. We're moving to Chicago. That's all I got for ya.

I envision a top-story apartment in a building with no elevator in Uptown or Wicker Park. Sheer mauve curtains, or maybe sage or rich maroon (perhaps even some shade of yellow?), giant throw pillows on the floor, and bookshelves blocking every uninterrupted vertical surface. And, of course, there will be a cat. An old grumpy one -- if we ever get a dog, it'll be medium-sized, a friendly mutt from the shelter. Our refrigerator will always be stocked with popsicles, pomegranates, and beer (Harpoon White UFO and Cider, Sierra Nevada, Guinness... do they sell Magic Hat that far West? Also, Spencer, for some reason, likes Schlitz). We like to cook, so there will be plenty of that. We'll try some Chicago-style recipes: jibarito sandwiches with horchata on the side or polish sausages with peppers, onions, and sauerkraut. We're planning to splurge on one of those city-wide museum membership dealies, and we'll travel, of course. I have two destinations picked out so far: Stillwater, Minnesota and Copper Harbor/Isle Royale, Michigan. There are tons of clubs and venues, which we will probably only ever set foot in to see one of the many poppin' Chicago bands. My family will probably never leave us alone, but that's ok, because they and Spencer get along creepily well. And as far as jobs go, well, I'm looking at museums, libraries, and universities. He's looking into publishing. I guess the jobs are essential to make most of the rest of it a reality, but... eh, who needs pragmatism*? We have some other tricks up our sleeves, but those are secret. Oh boy, I can't wait to get the hell outta here.

EDIT: I almost forgot to mention the most important thing. When we are rich, WE WILL OWN AN XBOX 360. I will finally finish Mass Effect and BioShock. And we will watch every episode of Star Trek: Next Generation.

*Don't worry, we're not retarded. We are looking for jobs quite seriously.

Finally!

2009-04-14T12:26:00.003-04:00

Remember when I was all like, "I'm gonna try to get a children's book published!" and then I said I had to meet with my former creative writing teacher so I could show him what I was working on plus some other, more serious stuff? Well, I finally got a meeting with him. He's awesome, but also pretty much never around. He's also Spencer's creative writing teacher this semester, and they've cancelled or rescheduled like 3 classes already.

Also, Drew Beattie, the adviser for my stupid senior project, won't stop calling me. With his persistent goading, I'm sure it will be an exhibit worth seeing. I won't even be around when the show opens, but I will be sure to let my friends know when it goes up so you can all go check it out.

Men.

2009-04-13T17:34:00.006-04:00

Let's talk about them, as it's come up recently.

My mother left my father when I was 3. He'd scream at her, lie to her, and she couldn't handle it. He'd been married twice previously (and deigned to remarry after her too). He already had 3 children, and he was 13 years her senior. After the divorce, we lived with him for a summer as he tried to gain custody. In other words, he took us away from our mother. When she got us back, he brandished a gun at her and threatened to kill her if she "hurt his kids."

Of course, I was a child, and I knew about and understood none of this. I loved my father, and for years afterwords he was my hero. Until I realized that the excuses he gave when he didn't show up weren't real. They were lies. Until I realized he thought buying me a new Barbie doll would make up for seeing me only twice a month. Until I became a teenager and he began to treat me as he had treated the other women in his life, raising his voice and using the most incredible threats and profanities. "I will beat your ass if you speak to me that way. You're fourteen. You're not too old to be disciplined."

In the meantime, my mother married my stepfather when I was seven. Haha, there's a real good guy. Not only was he an alocholic, but he was verbally abusive and blamed my brother and I for everything that went wrong in his marriage. He told me I'd end up a welfare mother and my brother would end up a pussy on the shower floor of a prison with his butthole ripped open. He told us we were worthless, stupid. He threatened to put us through the wall if we didn't behave. Thank God he never did such a thing. Instead he beat us with a wooden paddle. He called it "spanking." I wasn't unused to finding him sleeping on the couch, reeking, pissing his pants. I wasn't unused to climbing out my second story window if he happened to not like something he overheard in my private phone conversations. Did I mention that he was white and, even though he was married to a black woman, heinously racist?

By the time I reached high school, I was totally unable to commit to relationships with boys. I'd let them "wine and dine" me for a while, then I'd discard them like so much trash. But then a boy came along so beautiful I thought I'd faint the first time I saw him. He was friends with my brother, and he started coming over often. I didn't care that he was a pothead. I didn't care that he treated me like shit or that he face-fucked the 13-year-old girl I had taken under my wing. When he was in a good mood, he was so charming, so perceptive that nothing else seemed to matter. I didn't get over that boy until my junior year of college, though nothing ever really changed. And even considering that, he will never leave my life completely.

Oh, I can describe all the men in my life, some quite good, some very bad: my brother, Ryan. He's hurt me in the past, like brothers do, but he's never let me down. My half-brother, E.J., so special to me. He's learning disabled and never finished high school. He got out of jail about a week ago, and hopefully his new baby daughter will help keep him in line this time. My grandfather, who worked hard his whole life and died last summer far too young. My mother's younger brother, a crackhead. The boy who used me as a sexual plaything when I was four; not a man, but a boy. The guys in my high school who I watched waste their lives. Even the pastor who, in the course of "counseling" my stepfather, revealed that I wasn't good enough for his son and said I'd amount up to nothing.

They're all flawed, all incomplete. Sometimes I feel quite resentful, quite bitter. But they're just men. They're just human. I love them -- or at least I don't hate them -- and sometimes I pity them. Despite all the ways in which they've totally fucked my life. If you want an example of someone who's depressed, anxious, paranoid, obsessive, psychotic, and, perhaps most profoundly, conflicted, look no further than me. I've ripped open a heart, popped the ventricles, gnawed on the arteries, and its longsuffering endurance of this procedure leads me to believe that I should remain optimistic. And, you know, the funny thing is that somehow the man happens to be about as crazy, flawed, and fucked as I am. And quite as scared too. I try to support him as he supports me because he needs it as much as I do, and as long as that works, I have faith in us.

I am not one to easily give a man a chance, but, in the end, I choose to approach it as I approach all things in my life: with grace, with hope, with generosity. Because I am the one who runs this shit, and all that bad stuff can kiss my ass.

Let me bore you with an account of what I did a couple of days ago.

2009-04-03T00:04:00.008-04:00

I bought a copy of R. Crumb's Waiting for Food, #3 as a cheap gift for my and Spencer's anniversary. Crumb is pretty twisted, but it combines one of our newest interests (underground comics) with Spencer's most prominent human urge (the urge to eat). I was looking for a either an American Splendor anthology or a decent cookbook he can stare at when he's hungry, but the Harvard Bookstore really sucks. So, no.

We spent the day in Ipswich -- dumb idea. It's cute, if kind of boring. We walked several miles down a random rural lane (which was also kind of scenic) waiting for the ocean to appear. It did eventually, but not before it got cold and sort of unbearable. That's one thing I love about Spencer: he's the only person I've ever met who is willing to go on pointless and arduous adventures with me, to press on with pessimistic optimism and self-deprecatingly high spirits towards some vague goal ("the ocean") until it gets dark and our breath turns to frost. We ate sandwiches and got drunk (and, er, enjoyed ourselves) on the beach, which was totally abandoned. It also had purple sand. Then we went home. All in all, it was a nice, stupid day.

Soon, we will live in Chicago, and our day trips will include excursions to such exciting places as: Gary, Indiana and Kenosha, Wisconsin. If we're lucky, maybe we'll be able to afford a small paddle boat, which we will use to escape to the UP to watch the Northern Lights and get eaten by wolves and moose.

The Palace of Sans-Souci

2009-03-29T19:45:00.006-04:00

That's what I just named my senior project, which is, by the way, almost definitely still going in the Thesis Show (no worries!). I couldn't think of a better name because, despite what everyone may think, I utterly lack a single ounce of creativity. And my artist statement? Oh, I sent that along with the disclaimer, "I know it's weird, but I don't actually like talking about myself."

Artist's Statement:
Everyone inherits the materials with which they are expected to build their lives. You cannot make a home from anything else -- only what's around you -- and that is essentially who you are. You do the best kind of construction you can and adorn it as well as you can. You hope that it stands, that your visitors will bring you gifts and treat it nicely, that good things will somehow arrive on your doorstep.

I swear I'm not really this pretentious -- just absent-minded and rash. It took me about 30-seconds to come up with that.

Oh, this is exciting!

2009-03-29T16:56:00.003-04:00

My mom, brother, and 15 (I think)-year-old cousin are coming to visit between April 10th and 12th. This is the first time anyone will visit me just for the sake of visiting, not to cart me to or from school. Yay!

We have no idea yet exactly how the sleeping arrangements will work, but we're super-excited to show the family around hassle-free (i.e. without having to load my crap into or out of a rental van, which is how Spencer spent the first few hours after meeting my brother and "adopted" brothers).

WORTHY OF NOTE: If you have a Boston Public Library card, you can get free passes and discounts to many Boston-area museums. Definitely a thing everyone should check out.

Reblogged: Africa's Sophisticated Mamas. I mean, artists.

2009-03-21T20:58:00.004-04:00

I wrote this some time ago, but I like it so much that I've decided to reblog it every few months until I get noticed by an industry insider and he gets me an audience with the agent who made the Jonas Brothers famous. Or whatever.

A couple of months ago at the Indianapolis Museum of Art I was very surprised and pleased to see a piece by Ghanaian artist El Anatsui ("Duvor [communal cloth]", 2007). He's one of the most renowned contemporary African artists, which isn't saying much because African artists are generally underrepresented and under-appreciated. Traditional folk arts and, if you happen to be superficially art savvy, Pablo Picasso are what generally come to mind when people try to conjure up an image of African art. But, y'know, Africa does exist in the 21st century, and Picasso isn't necessary to legitimize its art practice. Westerners were dumbstruck when they discovered Seydou Keita, a Malian photographer whose portraits are, in a word, stunning. It was inconceivable, an African man living and working outside of the discourse and still creating relevant and beautiful work. It's tempting to call him a third-world Mike Disfarmer, but Keita was far more secluded and self-inspired than Disfarmer who, by virtue of being American, could have ever been.

I'm not exactly sure how I feel about the fact that some of the most recognized African artists are white; it was my white South African professor, Paul Stopforth, who led me to choose VES as my major. And one of my favorite artists is Jane Alexander (pictured is "Butcher Boys" -- so freaking cool). White artists don't face the same obstacles or share the same history as many black artists, and they're far more able to avoid the cultural stigmas applied by overenthusiastic Westerners. Instead of receiving real respect and criticism, it often seems like black artists are being condescended to in order to appease both them and social conscience. New York Times art critic Holland Cotter, who (ironically) calls this sort of pigeon-holing trend "multiculturalism", often writes about ideas regarding black American artists, but his assessment applies to all artists of color, no matter where they are:

[Critics of "multiculturalism" saw] a relativism of aesthetic values in the interest of leveling the field; and a loss in the credibility, thanks to the subversive machinations of social art history, of treasured, power-bestowing concepts like “quality” and critical authority. As it happened, neither the best hopes nor worst fears were realized. Instead, a middling solution was struck, one that seemed to serve everybody's purposes but had intrinsic liabilities. Instead of a periphery-to- center integration, group affiliations were drawn deeper along racial and ethnic lines (“Beyond Multiculturalism, Freedom?” The New York Times, July 29, 2001).

I mean, race shouldn't matter, but until it stops mattering to the critics and collectors, it will always matter to the artists (and thus post-black/post-race was born). If exhibitors can look past what they're expecting and hoping to see (anything that will afford them the kind of reputation to keep "worldly" and "socially aware" patrons streaming in and giving money), then they will find a lot of really talented individuals out there. Instead, what they ask for, and what they get, is the usually kind-of-boring but "challenging and necessary" same ol', same ol' we've come to expect from African artists (artists who either don't deserve to be in the limelight or whose work is outdated). Still, white or black, I'm glad contemporary African artists are beginning to get more attention beyond the typical mask-and-skirt routine. It would be phenomenal to see another showcase the likes of Okwui Enwezor's The Short Century, which took place in Munich in 2001. I've been tempted to steal the catalogue of works, which is out of print and costs upwards of $300 (probably more since the last time I checked), from the Fine Arts Library. It's a freaking spectacular book, but it's incredibly rare. If contemporary African artists got just a little more exposure, I wouldn't be a stone's throw away from incurring a huge fine and losing my library privileges.

Why Aren't They Screaming?

2009-03-18T02:18:00.012-04:00

I was just thinking of Philip Larkin's poem The Old Fools. It's about old people, about the inevitable march towards the end, being close to it. How terrifying that must be. Every time I have read or heard it and thought upon it, I've been able to understand that more than I could ever wish just for the sake of literary insight. That is the intent, to some extent, to strike fear and understanding in the reader, but I know it more than I should -- that horror of aging. There's one line in particular that does me in every time: Why aren't they screaming?

I wonder that about everyone. I wonder that about myself. Why am I not screaming? The older I get the more I realize just how much of a hell this place really is. Of course, there is love and beauty, etc., but it can become so morbid, so shadowed by the part of reality that can only be attributed to unbelievably cruel chance or Satan (take your pick). Sometimes I am brought to my knees by the unfairness of my life. "I got run over by the cosmic steamroller," I once told Spencer. An exaggeration, of course, because so many are born with less, and I really can't imagine what their lives are like. But that doesn't invalidate what I've been through. I wasn't handed much in life, and what I do have has been a mixed blessing.

My family and some friends who have tolerated me through the years. My mother and brother are the loves of my life, my grandfather, my half-brother E.J., and some others to whom I have chosen to give love despite the fact that I don't have much inside me to go around. Spencer, who has my heart.

My brain, though sometimes I wonder if intelligence is enough to overcome the mentality -- the inferiority complex and the severe need to overcome it all -- of someone who came into the world impoverished. You may be born indignant and fighting, but eventually you come to realize that all of your positive affirmations and struggle are worthless. That your only knowledge and advantage is the grave awareness of just how impotent and fragile we all are, an awareness that "comfortable" people don't have, though they may theorize on the futility of life until the cock crows.

And the love of God. If I hadn't had that from a young age, I don't know where I'd be. Someone once asked me "What has Jesus ever done for you?" and I was forced to bite my tongue. So arrogant, so ignorant a question. "Well, he saved my mother when I was 4 years old, knocked some sense into her, made her realize she couldn't raise two kids on her own. He gave me hope that, as shitty as this life was, a better one lay beyond. A reward for my pain, so that it wasn't all for nothing. He gave me the confidence that I was made on purpose, that I was unique and there was some reason for me to be alive. He fought my demons, my bullies. He was my father when my dad didn't show up and my alcoholic stepdad was puking into the sink. He was my friend when I realized I was too weird, maybe too smart, for the other kids. He was my protector when people told me I'd fail because I was black, because I was a woman, because I would simply never amount to anything." That's what I wanted to say, but I didn't. I kept it to myself. Because how can you convince people of the necessity of such a divine figure when they have their material wealth and their intellect to guide them? I needed that when I was growing up, and I probably still need it.

Why am I not screaming?

You only get one life (one parade route, as it were). Your past is your past. This history, it makes you. I don't know if it makes you stronger, or if it only makes you weaker, makes you into the person trembling with pain and sorrow that everyone would be were reality at all fair. I carry on, so maybe that can be called strength. But I don't want to die. I don't have a choice, really, do I? So carrying on is nothing. It's what you do. But you pray and hope and strive for something better. I already feel so old, and at every moment I am acutely conscious of the lines that form, the sloughing off of skin, the whitening of hair, that is caused by each millisecond of pain this sinister life forces me to endure. But I carry on. I pray and hope and strive for something better. And, perhaps most importantly, I try so very hard to hold on to what I do have. Because if you let yourself fall into step with that death march, then you may as well throw your hands in the air, go on a hunger strike, and decay where you sit. You're giving in to the ceaseless torture of the past, to the fear that the future will be the same. And it can't be the same. You just can't let it be.

Down with Sal Vega! I guess.

2009-03-16T23:21:00.004-04:00

Somehow I've been drawn into the campaign to remove Sal Vega, mayor of West New York, from office. I'm not exactly sure of the details of this whole ordeal, but I'm on an insiders' mailing list about it. That's exciting!

I am responsible for this little blighted gem, which went into a New Jersey newsletter:

And so begins my life as a cartoonist??? Not my best work, but hey, it's the first time I've ever had anything published in any way! Except a VES course project from last year, which went into the department course catalog. I'm on my way to the top!

Guoops.

2009-03-16T23:00:00.004-04:00

Today I met with a guy (Ed) who's in charge of putting up and taking down gallery shows in the Carpenter Center. He wanted to look at my senior project to get an idea of its size, etc. and see how it would fit in the exhibition. I haven't seen the piece since January. I was not surprised to find that it was no longer standing, and I think Ed was kind of amazed by my laidback attitude. I mean, I'm proud of my work, and it made me a little sad to see that it had gone kerplop -- but I won't die if I don't end up being in the thesis show. Most of the kids in VES seem to be annoyingly particularly about their precious pieces of art. I can understand, you know, your work is your baby. But a student demanding a 9'x14' room for her work in a show that must represent 10 seniors is a little on the giant-ego side of things.

So it's not certain. It will take some time, money, and effort to reinforce the structure and make it safe and presentable before April 30th (when the show goes up). Not so sure if I have a reserve of any of those things, but I would get a lot out of having people see my work. I guess we'll see.

Quote of the Day:

2009-03-10T18:29:00.001-04:00

I just clicked a link on your tumblr so I could see your blog post about how you have a tumblr. And I subscribe to your blog separately, in my RSS reader. 'FML,' as the kids say. But also, F feeding your blog to your tumblr.

FYLL! (F Your Life, Leo!)

I am becoming technologically savvy!

2009-03-10T12:43:00.002-04:00

I mean, this is not ye olden days anymore.

I started a tumblr, but I'm not actually entirely sure why, especially since no one really reads this blog. And also, I just feed all my posts from this blog to that one. But who cares? They just look so cute!

Janelle Monae's second best song

2009-03-10T00:48:00.002-04:00

already posted the best.

Scratch that; I'm the one who's stupid.

2009-03-09T13:41:00.007-04:00

KS: I know facts trouble folks like you, but here goes: http://www.macleans.ca/article.jsp?content=20060116_119563_119563&source=srch Reality must be racist, huh?! stop dealing in old stereotypes of conservatives based on old Law & Order reruns and deal with today's facts on the ground.

PS: get back to work -- all those starving fat 'poor' people are hungry.

CG: Actually, this article is an interview, so much of it is not fact. It is based on the opinion of one man on how to handle crime in major cities. His statistics and the success of his methods are certainly interesting, but they have little to do with what you and I are talking about -- the fact that there are some lazy or violent poor black people out there does not mean that all poor people are lazy and violent (and black). You've got it backwards, dear. If I were to use your reasoning, I could assert the same about any group of people, including whites. Look at Northern Ireland, the former USSR and Eastern Europe, parts of Appalachia and the South (I could keep going) -- anywhere there is poverty, people are easier to take advantage of and crime proliferates. Likewise, anywhere there are historically oppressed people within a still thriving and hostile system, a ghetto develops where cycles of poverty are more difficult to break. Don't confuse cause and effect, here. For example: are all white people Nazis, or did the Nazis happen to be white? Do all Asian people eat noodles, or do noodles just happen to appear in a lot of Asian dishes? Do all rich people own little dogs named Tinkerbell, or does a little dog name Tinkerbell happen to be owned by a rich person? I mean, seriously? If anyone is laboring under the conceit of stereotypes, I think it might be you.

Did you even read the entire article yourself? Your hero, William Bratton, himself says (in this very article), "When you put too much emphasis on the idea of poverty being the cause of crime, you're as much as saying that just because you are poor or disadvantaged, you are going to resort to crime to get by. And that's a phenomenally racist and insensitive attitude. The vast majority of people who are poor do not resort to crime. A small percentage do. But he is correct that one of the influences on crime is poverty."

Crime wasn't even the issue, but I can see how it might be lumped into your vast array of complaints against poor people. Maybe, however, you should just admit that you're wrong.

Now, stop telling me to get back to the poor people. You've already used that one, and, in case you can't understand sarcasm, I do not actually spend my every waking moment at soup kitchens and homeless shelters. I do other things like shower, and eat, and occasionally go for walks. You know, things that even the president or an ER doctor might do, despite the pressing danger that the country might go to pieces or a million people might die in their absence.

I was actually pretty confused by her reaction but tried to respond to it anyway -- then I learned that sending the article was only in response to "Shouldn't you be out using minority children for target practice?" (She really seized on that one.) The only answer I got for all my work. I hate myself for bothering.

For the love of God, why are you so STUUUPID?!

2009-03-09T10:28:00.009-04:00

So I decided to email Kathy Shaidle in response to the blog post that so offended me because I couldn't stand being silent about it. The following is our email exchange:

CG: 1. Cellphones are relatively cheap, especially if you forego the plan and get a pay-as-you-go or prepaid phone. A refurbished one can cost as little as $10.

2. Simple means of communication are not luxury items. They are necessary to improve quality of life and accessibility of opportunities. For example, someone like you may never understand why a poor person in remote parts of Africa might want or need a cellphone (or why it might be all the more imperative for a poor person living in an American city to have one), but I don't feel like being the one to explain it to you. It might interest you to read the following article: http://www.cnn.com/2008/TECH/08/07/mobile.phone.poverty/index.html Have you considered that being able to speak on the phone with a potential employer may be helpful in finding a job, or that being able to speak to one's far-flung relatives might be nice sometimes? A person may be in the depths of poverty, but you're way behind the technological times if you think something as cheap and useful as a cellphone is an undeserved privilege for a poor man. And that's barring whatever else you haven't given a second's thought: have you considered that "homeless" may mean that someone's home has (perhaps quite recently) been foreclosed on or that one may have recently lost his or her job but can still hold onto the cheaper goods acquired in better times (like a cellphone)? Maybe "homeless" means squatting in a family member's house until one gets back on one's feet, skipping the trip to the movies, even going to a soup kitchen every so often?

3. I'm assuming you grew up in Toronto (where there is, btw, acceptable public transportation, so having a car might not be so cost-efficient anyway). Maybe not (and you can obviously correct me if I'm wrong)*, but based on my assumption, the fact that you grew up "below the poverty line" holds little clout when it was in one of the world's wealthiest nations, and where basic amenities like healthcare are provided by the government. In 2004, the poverty threshold for a family in Canada was about $18,000/yr* more than in an American household, and this is without healthcare and with considerable difficulty in the job market. I don't mean to belittle your experience, but I grew up poor and black in a major American city, my mother didn't buy cigarettes or alcohol, and I can say from watching her hard work that she was not a fat, slovenly pig. Maybe your parents were, but you can work that out with your therapist and not foist your hang-ups onto the world's poor.

4. I'm not sure whether it is racist or elitist to think that a poor (black) person wouldn't know what risotto is. I mean, between our Chef Boyardee and our fried chicken with greens and watermelon for dessert my mother sometimes found the time to whip up a mean beef stroganoff. Does it surprise you that an unrefined and lazy woman can cook a simple German meal? Probably so. Oh well.

5. What makes you assume the man taking the picture is homeless? (Because he's black? Because you have no ability to question what you see in a picture?) It's a soup kitchen, yeeees. But... it's the first lady. It's a public place. And Washington D.C. is largely populated by black people, who may actually work at the soup kitchen rather than come to it for food, or who may have come for the express purpose of meeting Michelle Obama. Did... did that occur to you?

*I also sent along a correction to this figure because I hadn't calculated the difference with the exchange rate -- the actual gap is $12,000 Canadian (still quite a lot). Also, I'm not including the end of the email because it might be too abrasive for dainty sensibilities.

*EDIT: Another thing -- she has a wikipedia page that says she grew up in Hamilton, Ontario, and she's waaaaay older than I thought. That still doesn't change much.

KS: shouldn't you be out helping the homeless or sumthn?

CG: Yes, that's what I do 24/7. I literally have no life otherwise. Shouldn't you be out using minority children for target practice?

KS: not quite 24/7 if you have time to email me. Actually, its minority children who are determined to use me for target practice here in Toronto, and Detroit, and New Orleans and... Smug bitch.

CG: Are you serious?

Why, oh why, did I waste my time?

Moving up in the world...

2009-03-08T14:42:00.005-04:00

*Sigh.* I was never as cool as my brother:

Good luck, buppy. Wish I could be there!

Please Read Aloud:

2009-03-07T15:12:00.010-05:00

"I am Sofa King Wee Tah Did"

I don't really want to be the millionth (and probably least important person) to re-blog this, but I am completely appalled that people like this still exist in the world. The good news is that while this weird bitch and people like her still insist on busying themselves spouting utterly backwards tripe, the people who are now in power have some sense. We no longer have to fear the overpowering influence of dumb people! That may, in fact, be the reason why she's received so little hate mail -- nobody really cares.

That being said, I am wondering what her "firsthand" experience is. Maybe a poor person asked her for change once, or something. As someone who actually grew up in poverty, I can think of a number of reasons why this "homeless" guy might have a cellphone. Why anyone would think they can derive from a random snapshot all the information they need to denounce the reality of poverty is beyond me, especially when we should all know that photos can lie. It might be the staunch parochial attitude -- or better yet, the confusion at having one's preconceived ideas of what poverty should look like challenged -- that would cause one to have such an hubristic reaction to something as inoffensive as an apparently poor guy with a cellphone. I mean, how dare they try to acquire luxury items?! Maybe this confusion can be assuaged by the knowledge that the poors everywhere worship the cellphone and make it their prerogative, in all their tiny-brained ignorance, to get their hands on them, though what use they could possibly have for them we will never know. Don't worry, dear elitists -- the poor still can't afford iPhones or Blackberries. You're still a few steps ahead!

Frances is going to hate me.

2009-03-06T16:29:00.004-05:00

Considering joining the Socialist Party USA:

THE SOCIALIST PARTY strives to establish a radical democracy that places people's lives under their own control - a non-racist, classless, feminist socialist society... where working people own and control the means of production and distribution through democratically-controlled public agencies; where full employment is realized for everyone who wants to work; where workers have the right to form unions freely, and to strike and engage in other forms of job actions; and where the production of society is used for the benefit of all humanity, not for the private profit of a few. We believe socialism and democracy are one and indivisible. The working class is in a key and central position to fight back against the ruling capitalist class and its power. The working class is the major force worldwide that can lead the way to a socialist future - to a real radical democracy from below. The Socialist Party fights for progressive changes compatible with a socialist future. We support militant working class struggles and electoral action, independent of the capitalist controlled two-party system, to present socialist alternatives. We strive for democratic revolutions - radical and fundamental changes in the structure and quality of economic, political, and personal relations - to abolish the power now exercised by the few who control great wealth and the government. The Socialist Party is a democratic, multi-tendency organization, with structure and practices visible and accessible to all members.

Stupidly, you have to pay member dues. Which makes some sense or whatever, except how do poor people join? Hmm.

Anyway, I haven't been through the whole website, and I haven't thought as seriously about my own personal politics as I am now in a very long time. In high school, I was very into social anarchism. Then I did a radical swing and went back to my mother's conservative politics through sophomore year of college without putting any real thought into it, except that I emphasized a pro-choice, pro-gay stance. Many of my classes in college, however, have involved a fair amount of Marxist reading. I was one of those people crossing their fingers for Obama to announce his presidential candidacy. Now I think I want a more defined stance on the issues.

Is the Democratic Party enough? Is it stupid to identify with a political faction that holds little clout, especially when it is considerably similar to the country's current most powerful party (as much a proponent of the unfair binary system that party may be)? I don't know. I guess it doesn't actually matter.

So, this is pretty cool...

2009-03-06T00:13:00.001-05:00

I don't know how I found it, but I like it.

No internet makes Camille a dull girl...

2009-03-04T15:17:00.001-05:00

Jesus, I have no idea what's going on in the world. But I am (illicitly) becoming reacquainted with my Google Reader and finding myself excited by all the news I've missed!

So hopefully soon I'll have more interesting things to talk about? Or not. I'm now remembering why blogs are stupid and I'm so bad at keeping one.

Curse you Old Man Cat Winter!

2009-03-02T18:44:00.003-05:00

He came back. =(

Spoiler Alert... but not really.

2009-03-02T01:32:00.003-05:00

This is really old, but still hilarious...

See more funny videos and Entertainment Videos at Today's Big Thing.

2009-03-01T01:54:00.003-05:00

A couple of days ago Spencer went for a walk and brought me back this strange, fragrant little bloom -- apparently the first of the season. Crossing my fingers that winter won't last much longer...

We went to see Coraline a couple of weeks ago, and got these cool 3-D glasses. We kept them because they help us disguise ourselves as hipsters. We're too nerdy otherwise.

ALSO, we finally had the housewarming party on Friday night! I think it was a success. It was nice to have people over finally -- makes the apartment really feel like a home. Unfortunately, no one would drink the Natty Ice we bought, so we have about 25 cans in the bottom of the refrigerator. Ew.

Spider Hair

2009-02-26T18:50:00.007-05:00

I've had a request to know what the children's book is about (what? people read this blog?), so I will give you a sneak peek. Mind you, this material is not nearly ready to be published (and there's clearly no guarantee that it ever will be), but I suppose I don't mind sharing it with you anyway.

I don't currently have photographs of the sketches that will actually go into the book, but here is a picture of Spider Hair that makes its appearance in (and is probably going to be removed from) my senior project:

This is not a depiction of something that happens in the story, so it's not really very relevant. The following is a (pretty lengthy) excerpt from the first draft. [And please do keep in mind that it's the first draft!]:

Now, Spider Hair was very different from all of her schoolmates. The other little girls had straight hair or big manageable curls that shone in the sunlight, but Spider Hair’s positively minuscule curls had a reputation for breaking combs in half and tearing the bristles off brushes. Her mother had such a terrible time trying to do anything with all that hair that she finally left it to do whatever it liked. It grew wild and long and bushy as a jungle fern. And whenever a little coil fell from her unseemly tresses, Spider Hair liked to think it looked like a skittering little spider. That’s how she came to be called Spider Hair.

It wasn’t just her hair that made Spider Hair different. She also happened to be the tommiest tomboy in the neighborhood. She spent all her time climbing trees, and walking barefooted in creeks catching frogs and salamanders, and playing in puddles. The little girls in her class wouldn’t play with her because they were too scared to climb trees and too squeamish to hunt amphibians and stomp in puddles. The little boys, on the other hand, wouldn’t play with her because they didn’t think it very much a boy thing to do to play with a little girl. What if she had cooties? Or worse – what if she tried to kiss them, as girls were wont to do?

So Spider Hair was very much a loner.

That is, until about halfway through the first grade. One day, in the dead cold of winter, a little boy who was a stranger to Spider Hair’s class blew in with a very wintry breeze.

“This is Thomas,” said Spider Hair’s teacher to the class.

“Hello, Thomas ” said the class.

He must have been a very shy sort of boy, because he blushed at this and muttered a simple, “Hi,” in return.

“Thomas, why don’t you tell the class a bit about yourself?” asked Spider Hair’s teacher.

“Ok,” said Thomas. He seemed not to know where to begin, but then all of his words tumbled out like water bubbling from a spring. “Well... I’m from California. We don’t have snow in the part I’m from, but we have redwood trees so tall they almost touch the sky! And every Sunday, my uncle takes me down to the coast to pick out crabs to boil for dinner! And when it’s cold, that’s when the elephant seals come from the north! And the house I used to live in had black widow spiders that have red stomachs and are poisonous and can kill you!”

At this, half the class giggled, and half the class gasped, and the teacher thanked Thomas and told him that was quite enough. Then, she told him he could sit in any empty seat in the room.

You know, you really must be careful if you are new to a class and are given the choice of any empty seat in the room, because the one you choose will show the kinds of friends you’d like to have. It was clear that all of the children were very interested in Thomas, and any of them would have been tickled to have him choose a seat next to theirs.

There was one next to Darryl, who was a very strong and fast boy. And there was one next to Caroline, who had long eyelashes and wore glittery barrettes in her hair. And there was also one right next to Spider Hair.

Thomas took a look around, and something in him must have instantly liked Spider Hair, because it was in the empty seat next to hers that he chose to sit. This pleased Spider Hair very much, for she wanted to know more about the redwood trees, and crabs, and elephant seals, and red-bellied, poisonous, man-killing black widow spiders!

And that's all you get for now.

Plunge into the sublime seas

2009-02-26T16:02:00.003-05:00

dive deep and swim far.

To infiminy and beyond! To infiminy and beyond! To infiminy and beyond!

2009-02-23T15:05:00.004-05:00

Once I was in this museum and this little kid was standing on some steps yelling that at the top of her lungs repeatedly. That was a weird day. It's infinity, stupid.

Anyway, in order to ground myself in reality/thoughts that don't make me want to vomit, I have been trying to focus on planning for the future:

First of all, there is the matter of another job. I do not have one. But I have an interview tomorrow. And I need to find a gig in Chicago, which will probably be harder. In fact, I don't actually feel like thinking about that at the moment.

Second of all, sooner than I'd like to think Spencer and I are going to have to move halfway across the country. I like to think that's going to be fun... we're trying to orchestrate it so that we move our stuff to Indianapolis and attend my friend Justin's wedding around the same time, go back to Boston for Spencer's graduation, fly to California to pick up Spencer's car, and then make a cross-country roadtrip back to Indianapolis/Chicago. I have no clue if that's actually going to happen, but I guess we'll see. The fun part is planning the roadtrip; everything else is nervewracking, but at least it's distracting.

Finally, I'm attempting to publish a children's book. Don't laugh. I've already got the text. The next step is to revise it and work on some sketches to illustrate it. Then I plan to show it to my old creative writing teacher, who will hopefully not think I'm a retard. He's pretty good about that sort of thing, but he's also hella busy. It's intimidating, but you know -- "Hold fast to dreams" yada yada yada. It couldn't hurt to try... except to completely crush my creative spirit. Haha.

my parts are diffusing into the cosmos!

2009-02-20T13:47:00.003-05:00

look at them go!

i can't really think along a linear path anymore. thoughts jumping everywhere. like mexican jumping beans (which are real, btw).

things that are good: my brother, ryan, is finally soon to become the manager of a skate shop, which he will eventually inherit. my brother, norman jr. (e.j.) has a new baby daughter named tina (suggestions for what i can buy to send to her? please not a baby blanket. it needs to be special), and he gets out of jail soon. (yes. yes, i do have a brother in jail.) i've talked to my dad 3 whole times in the past week-and-a-half, which is more than i talked to him in probably the whole previous year. he hates the taste of milk of magnesia and has been craving butter pecan ice cream lately because his own father (who died long before i was born) used to eat it. my grandmother just had her knee replaced. i don't know if that's good or bad.

things that are bad: i'm going crazy.

centrifugal force

2009-02-20T06:50:00.005-05:00

i think i've reached the point at which i spin so fast the elements of which i'm made separate and i become a nebula.

of course, that happens about once a month.

The issue of being "unequally yoked"

2009-02-18T10:08:00.005-05:00

C: You can't eat brains! It's in the Bible!*
S: I'm sure that, as one of the first zombies, Jesus has no problem with eating brains.

*Disclaimer: I'm not sure it actually says you can't eat brains in the Bible.

I leaned on the wall and the wall leaned away

2009-02-15T22:07:00.013-05:00

The day only got better after this.

On turning into a fat lard --

2009-02-11T15:43:00.000-05:00

We spend a lot of time just sitting in the apartment, talking or watching movies. We've watched a lot of movies. I finally saw Brazil, which is one of Spencer's favorites. Sometimes we can steal a little bit of internet, but mostly we're disconnected from the world. We watch the people down below or through their windows in the apartments across the street. Every day is a bit warmer; the snow melts. The Green Line goes by often. We cook dinner for ourselves. It's kind of nice.

Until we both get other jobs, we live this sort of slow, molasses routine. We loathe getting up on late mornings when we have to go to work or class. I'm relieved and yet disappointed whenever the WiFi shows more than a couple of bars. Whenever we venture out into the world, it's both pleasing and tedious. Great Scott is right around the corner, and we can hear the music playing when we walk by. There are lots of cute but expensive shops and "ethnic" restaurants on Harvard Ave. It's a new neighborhood! There are little Russian women! And hipsters (with their fur-lined hoods)! And transvestites! Brazilians, Koreans, Mexicans! A million large piles of dog poo line the sidewalk from the bus stop to our place. Up the street -- I haven't been there yet -- lies Chestnut Hill and the purportedly very beautiful BC campus. It feels like a different world from Harvard Sq., one I hide from and look forward to leaving, but one I still (in my conflicted way) am enjoying getting to know.

The library is closing in 15 minutes!

2009-02-02T20:48:00.004-05:00

There are about 5 guards hovering and repeating that statement. Ok. We're not deaf. After the 10th repetition I think we get it.

I'm a little worried about finding another job. Well, a lot worried. But on a good note: here is the link to view my senior project. With only 15 minutes of free WiFi available to me, I won't be able to explain it. So... whatever. Sorry for the blurriness and general confusion. Maybe it's better that way...

Ok, NOW I can celebrate

2009-01-29T14:02:00.004-05:00

I finished my senior project last night and I'm done, done, done! Now I actually feel like college is over.

I met with my adviser, Drew Beattie, this morning and he loved it. I'm ecstatic. He wants it to go in the senior thesis show at the end of this semester, though there are the issues of storage and preservability -- I mean, it's a house (sort of). We'll see. I took some pictures and will post them later, as well as an explanation of what it's all about, yada yada yada.

Now I can focus on getting a job and giving the apartment a new do.

This studio has no windows.

2009-01-27T17:43:00.004-05:00

Misery can make you convince yourself of a world that isn't real. That world can be so beautiful, so attractive, so fascinating that it becomes more than your escape; it becomes your yearning and your torment. Ignorance is not bliss, but an ignorant mind makes no room for dissatisfaction and indignation. A mind too keen feels those things acutely. And an imagination too inventive knows too well the painfully unavailable alternatives. Circumstances are not all of it, but they are so much of it.

Pictures are up on Facebook of our winter break trip to California. Many of them are actually not lame vacation photos, although there are way too many of Spencer's mom's jerk cat. (If you can't view the photos, just send a friend request to Spencer. Really. There are pics of the Central Valley, LA, and Big Sur that are sort of amazing.)

Oh, hello adulthood. I hadn't seen you there.

2009-01-26T19:58:00.004-05:00

And by "tomorrow," I meant "later today." Staying up the night before last was a huge mistake. We spent the entire day moving, driving around in a giant U-Haul van, and outfitting the apartment.

We live on the 5th floor of the building, which we agreed was not really a bad thing, but it turned out to be such a pain in the ass yesterday. After we'd finished moving all of our crap from Currier (Barrett was a pretty great help there), we still had to carry it up all those stairs. Then we made a trip to Ikea and somehow ended up with the heaviest bedframe in the store. Thankfully, the mattress we chose meant we got a $50 gift card, and using a debit card meant we got another $15 worth of free stuff. Awesome. Also, the mattress comes rolled up and vacuum-sealed in plastic so you're like "What? This is a mattress?" but the moment you cut the plastic it starts to expand and makes squealing, boinging noises. Kind of cool. And we spent an hour in a very weird Wal-Mart. This is all boring, but the point is that we are all moved in and even have stuff like a table and chairs and a big comfy bed! I'll put some pictures up when the place is a little less messy.

I have yet to finish my senior project, but I think it will be good when it's done. I'll share more about that later. Spencer is working on his thesis. We both need jobs. So the work isn't done yet, and we haven't had much time to relax. When we do, we'll soup up the apartment a little and throw a big (and by big I mean modest) housewarming party some weekend.

Last thing: we don't have internet. So no frequent blogging, but I just do it to procrastinate anyway. Like now.

So, I guess I'm a college graduate now?

2009-01-25T01:51:00.004-05:00

It doesn't feel like it. Hmm. Maybe that's because I'm still living in Currier and my swipe access hasn't stopped working yet. However, that will change soon because Spencer and I finally move tomorrow! I'm so excited! I should probably be in bed, but whatever. We just finished watching Spinal Tap, and laughter gives you energy, and so on and so forth... or something. Or maybe I'm just worked up about finally moving into my own apartment. All of our stuff is packed up, and I sort of feel like I'm sleeping in a storage facility.

Before taking an entire semester's accumulation of books back to the library, Spencer and I obviously had to build a tower:

It fell over right after this. Also, Spencer and I, sadly enough, can't afford a cat. But thanks to our good friend Matt, we have become the proud owners of an obese mouse. Meet Amelia (who is slowly starting to go by the name "Kitty." Sorry, but I sort of can't help it. I mean, I can't have an actual cat).

A note on a scandal:

2009-01-23T22:09:00.010-05:00

That sober expression on my face in the elevator? That wasn't shame. I was trying not to laugh. Some people can tell the difference between shame and amusement. Others can't.

Nobody cares -- at least no one who reads this blog -- and no one particularly wants to know, but I have never and will never be ashamed of my relationship with Spencer or of myself for being a slut/vicious wolverine who moved in for the kill when I saw that the prey was weak. How Spencer and I got together is nobody's business, but let's just say there was no lack of integrity or propriety on either of our parts; we waited as long as we could, but you can't force two magnets apart. Bottom line: it was going to happen anyway.

I like to illustrate it this way: in the movie High Fidelity, John Cusack's character Rob goes back to find all of his old girlfriends and figure out why they didn't work out. One of these girlfriends is Alison, whom he kissed on a bench. He finds Alison's mother and introduces himself as her first boyfriend. Her mother says no, Alison married her first boyfriend. Rob considers himself absolved... "Alison married Kevin! I am fine now! Married her junior high school sweetheart: kissed me on the bench, kissed Kevin on the bench - MARRIED Kevin. This is great! This has got nothing to do with me! This is fate, this is destiny; it is beyond my control, beyond my fault. I love this!" I'd hate to compare my boyfriend to a piece of consumer merchandise, but he was that gorgeous dress I saw somebody else trying on in the store. It looks better on me. It was made for me.

I am not delusional about my relationship with Spencer, nor am I an ignorant victim of his inability to cope as a single individual. If anyone is under the impression that I'm too oblivious to notice a pattern or too timid to hold someone's hand to the flame and demand transparency, they are wrong. I'm an intelligent girl, and I know how to say no. I had every reason to say no to him, but I couldn't and didn't because it wouldn't have been right. Both of our friend groups have been annoyed, frustrated, and creeped-out by our inseparableness (sorry). But when two things fit, they just fit, and someone else's supposed magnanimity in that case is irrelevant. I know Spencer better, have spent more time with him in the course of 10 months than he's spent with some people over a number of years. I've scraped every crevice of his heart and brain and wouldn't be with him if I had any qualms about his character or the sincerity of his love.

I can't believe I don't listen to more Neil Young.

2009-01-22T05:36:00.001-05:00

I just... can't believe it.

Wow.

2009-01-21T20:19:00.010-05:00

When else would you ever bother watching 3 minutes of a middle-aged couple dancing?

Our First Couple is so impressive. I mean, look at them: powerful, attractive, and utterly in love. Also, this New Yorker interview from 1996 will, at the very least, make your heart swell. Or if you're anything like me it'll make you start hallucinating that Barack and Michelle are your best friends. "Sure, Michelle, we'd love to come over for dinner! How's next Monday? And Tuesday? And Wednesday and every subsequent day for the next 4 years? What's that? You'd like us to come live in the White House with you and be your personal assistants? Of course!"

Housewivery.

2009-01-20T04:50:00.000-05:00

God-freaking-forbid.

Instead of studying for tomorrow morning's final in my art history class on modernism, I spent the past 15 min. writing a scathing evaluation of my art history class on modernism.

Now I'm idly but deeply considering my future career options. I'm beginning to fear that the directionlessness I've been experiencing for the past year or so won't solve itself, that it's setting me up to be one of those women who looks back and says, "Where did the time go?" I'd like to do something significant with my life rather than work a boring job and raise some kids and have some hobbies. I just don't know what that significant thing is anymore.

Graduate school is not a plausible option right now, at least not if I stay with Spencer. If we broke up I'd go batshit anyway, and you can't really attend grad school if you're institutionalized. So let's just say grad school is not in my immediate future. The problem is that every semi-practical thing I want to do, like curating a collection or being a gallery coordinator or artistic directing in Hollywood or reasearching pre-Columbian Mesoamerican art, requires some sort of advanced degree.

Bah humbug.

This is how college began --

2009-01-17T22:15:00.000-05:00

in a studio. I have two walls to my house now, both black on one side and white on the other. I've been painting them with my hands, even though it's wildly inefficient, because there are so many associations to be made with this sort of monumental finger-painting. Obviously, it's messy. It reminds me of being a kid. It reminds me of Paul Stopforth's class freshman fall; he taught me that uncertainty and destruction were as much a part of creation as those calculated brush strokes -- more so even. He legitimized my urge to throw shit around, twist it, sprinkle it with salt, dip it in water and let it run. See where it goes.

This is the first time all semester I've felt invested in this project. The past week has been the least glamorous end to college. This entire semester has. This whole year, in fact. I fell in love at the most inconvenient time possible. I lost my grandfather -- the most important male role model in my life -- and a huge chunk of my faith (in God? in heaven? in divine protection? I don't know) at the same time, many of my best friends, and any vestige of youthful recklessness I ever possessed. Now I move along cautiously, critically, terribly afraid. These are all things to hash out some other time, but at least I get the opportunity to commit this final all-expenses-paid act of violence/eruption/explication to shake out my limbs. To be back in a studio with minimal direction and a pile of materials waiting for me to mold them into something that is purely mine. I can take out all my fear and regret and rage on these materials. I can present them to other people in the most abrasive or gentle way possible (my choice), and no one can do a damn thing. They just look, interpret, and whether or not they like it, I gain something because I somehow managed to make a piece of my interior world materialize, and that just feels good. I speak volumes without saying anything at all; I release a memoir without writing a single word. It's the only time I get to bully the world-at-large into paying attention to me. I get to tell it exactly how I feel without any repercussions (that I care about, anyway). Nice.

If only I could always get people to pay for my pointless artistic endeavors, I'd probably suffer from less stress and anxiety.

So let me get this straight...

2009-01-14T02:04:00.000-05:00

Against what should be your better judgment, you decided to live on a futon for a week-and-a-half next door to your ex-boyfriend and the love of his life?

Ok... No skin off my back.

Today at work (aside: I work jointly at Houghton Library, which is a rare books and manuscripts library, and the Harvard Theater Collection, which houses everything from 19th century photographs of famous performers to set models/miniatures to galley proofs of scripts) I discovered two boxes of E.E. Cummings' drawings and doodles. Until now, my favorite find from this pretty bizarre collection has been a page of Nostradamus marginalia (he hilariously drew a bunch of strange bird-like creatures and wrote his own name like a dozen times on the title page of a very serious-looking book). Anyway, I had no idea Cummings was an artist, but apparently he was quite prolific. It's really worth taking a look at some of his artwork. I don't know much about his poetry, but he was definitely, well, sort of cool.

Spencer is sick.

2009-01-11T18:18:00.000-05:00

And he's asleep. Aw, look at his gaunt little face, so peaceful and vomity. (J/K; it's not vomity.)

Spencer is my Siamese twin. I'm lonely. But I have work to do. I don't feel very social. I wish this week were over.

Today we went to sign the lease for our apartment, and my feet got so cold on the way back that they began to feel like extraneous objects attached to the bottoms of my legs. Turned into numb, heavy, blocks of ice. Somewhere between the bus stop and home I got lost in the all-consuming shock of how cold they were, so that when I finally got to the room and propped my feet up on the heater I lacked any cognitive presence in the activity. My brain was still outside repeating "My feet are so cold, my feet are so cold!" And then suddenly they weren't, and I felt stupid and surprised by the fact that I was actually indoors and perfectly warm.

It's sort of a metaphor. Sometimes my brain, or my heart or whatever, does that -- reverts to the emotional status of being a chunk of ice. Sometimes I get stuck in a melancholic funk inspired by the persistent residue of the past. Sometimes I am crippled by the parts of my life that are/were shockingly painful. Ok. Get past it. Move on. I have something very good going on now. Goodness is hard to get used to, but it's Goodness. I mean, it's essentially a get-out-of-jail-free card. For that, why wouldn't I try my damnedest to banish a history that isn't worth remembering anyway?

Newest obsessions:

2009-01-10T13:00:00.000-05:00

I don't know why I'm doing this at work, but... I also don't know why I'm working on a Saturday.

Caffeine soap

2009-01-09T21:38:00.000-05:00

Spencer's dad gave him some for Christmas. It will come in handy in the next couple of weeks. I don't know if it actually works, but I washed my hands with it today and I'm still awake.

I have a shit-ton of work to do:
1. a final portfolio, including a revised story, for creative writing (maybe I'll let you read it some day... but probably not).
2. a 10-12 page paper for an Inca/Aztec art history class. I'm writing about a jade mask. Whoopdee doo.
3. VES (Harvard code-name for art, my unfortunate major) senior project. This probably won't go well. I'm building a house out of cardboard boxes, but so far I don't even have one wall up. Oops. I do, however, have an unassembled mannequin. Don't ask me what it's for because I don't know yet. Pictures probably to come.
4. 2 finals, both in art history. One is for the Inca/Aztec class, the other is for a horrible class that is supposedly about modern art. (It's actually about "Freudian penis-envy which is part and parcel of the Rococo Enlightenment aesthetic of The Death of Sardanopolus as a penis-envy self portrait orientalist bosoms." ???)

In, like, some number of weeks (I'm unsure how many because I can't count), it'll all be over! I'LL BE DONE WITH COLLEGE!!! And then I'll be a grown-up and have millions of dollars! Or, rather, Spencer and I will move into a really cute little apartment in Allston and have no furniture.

Spencer, ever so dear, decided to live off-campus with me so I can afford to stay in Boston. Also, it's apparently cheaper for him this way. Whatever. So I need to find another job so we can afford to eat and do fun stuff like that. Shouldn't be too hard, right? In any case, blah blah blah.

Phew!

2009-01-08T20:51:00.000-05:00

Hi Cami,

I just called Diane Cox at HCL Human Resources and she told me the information I had before was incorrect. If [you] still [want] to continue with us through the end of the fiscal year (end of June) [you] can. Diane tells me that this can be considered the same situation as when a student has graduated in June and we keep them through the end of August - their pay gets shifted from coding 6110 (student) to 6120 (temp) behind the scenes with effectively no adjustment to their appointment.

So... Cami, if you are still willing to stay on with us, we'd be more than glad to keep you - 15 hours/week max. I'm truly sorry for having passed on bad information the first time and I really hope you'll stay!

This means I get to keep my job! Because of Harvard's hiring freeze, the entire staff at Houghton Library was convinced I wouldn't be able to stay on because of my change in status (no longer work-study eligible). I was pretty sick with worry for a few weeks there, but now I at least have a small buffer of time and income as I try to find another part-time job to supplement this one. This news sort of made my day.

O hai

2009-01-08T00:07:00.001-05:00

I hadn't seen you there.