I must confess I have a big addiction that has gotten worse with my big move to the city: taking baths. The Hobbit Hole didn't have a tub and for six years whenever I was presented with a bath opportunity, I would jump right in, literally.
I was thinking about my bath addiction this morning while sitting in the tub. And how I took a bath last night with a cup of wine. And how I'd had a bath the day before, and yet another the day before that. I've got a fairly large hippie streak in me and I know about the wastefulness of bath water, but...baths are awesome! I recycle and walk/ride the bus most places, and I eat like a sea otter (vegetarian with all the tasty fish of the sea). And I can stop taking baths anytime. Really. And I'm not just saying that because my feet are all wrinkly from my several hour stint this morning.
But now that I AM out of the tub, it seems to be time for my other long-lived addiction: my espresso machine. I've only had one shot today and that is not nearly enough to get me through the next four hours of homework. And then who knows? I'll probably need a nice long bath to relax afterward...
Moral of today's story: kicking the edge of the bed hurts and that's why I've wrapped blankets around the dumb, pokey edge.
An Erinku:
thinking about
relocating this
homework camp
to a coffee shop
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
TV and Real Life
Today, during a long (so long) bout of homework, I had my favorite trashy tv Netflix playing in the background. They were dealing with the usual stupidly sincere dramas while running around in tiny bathing suits. But then, one of the girls started getting yelled at by her boyfriend for wearing a tiny bathing suit. This escalated as he pushed her down the stairs.
He's been a recurring character in the series this season and I've found myself muttering derisively about him whenever he's been on screen. And it turns out that I've not been enjoying my favorite trashy tv so much when there is a character transitioning from emotional abuser to physical abuser.
See, I've been on the end of emotional abuse in relationships a few times over the years. The first time, the relationship lasted for about two years before I finally escaped. The second time was a while ago and lasted only a few months, but that is still longer than it should have been. I was very grateful for several very wonderful women in my life who pointed out that what I was going through was not o.k. Being screamed at constantly is not ok. Being afraid to be who I am is not o.k. Being afraid for my physical well-being is not o.k. Walking around afraid to say or do something "unacceptable" is, itself, absolutely unacceptable. Contrast this with two people who discuss me and one who fairly recently told me, to my face, that they thought I chosen that relationship just to be dramatic and cause difficulties.
This all came up today as I watched Ms. Bikini Top on tv lie to all her friends about how her arm got broke after being pushed down the stairs. Yes, it's tv. But people don't actively choose to go into abusive relationships. I'm still pissed about the accusation and I hope my trashy tv can get back to the good old days when the bikinis being worried about having enough guys in trunks around before starting a beach bonfire was the big drama of the hour.
An Erinku (written as the ice cream truck goes by):
melting
heat and
homework
don't mix
He's been a recurring character in the series this season and I've found myself muttering derisively about him whenever he's been on screen. And it turns out that I've not been enjoying my favorite trashy tv so much when there is a character transitioning from emotional abuser to physical abuser.
See, I've been on the end of emotional abuse in relationships a few times over the years. The first time, the relationship lasted for about two years before I finally escaped. The second time was a while ago and lasted only a few months, but that is still longer than it should have been. I was very grateful for several very wonderful women in my life who pointed out that what I was going through was not o.k. Being screamed at constantly is not ok. Being afraid to be who I am is not o.k. Being afraid for my physical well-being is not o.k. Walking around afraid to say or do something "unacceptable" is, itself, absolutely unacceptable. Contrast this with two people who discuss me and one who fairly recently told me, to my face, that they thought I chosen that relationship just to be dramatic and cause difficulties.
This all came up today as I watched Ms. Bikini Top on tv lie to all her friends about how her arm got broke after being pushed down the stairs. Yes, it's tv. But people don't actively choose to go into abusive relationships. I'm still pissed about the accusation and I hope my trashy tv can get back to the good old days when the bikinis being worried about having enough guys in trunks around before starting a beach bonfire was the big drama of the hour.
An Erinku (written as the ice cream truck goes by):
melting
heat and
homework
don't mix
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Onomonopia, Naked Toes, and Pancakes
For my online art class this summer, I've been reading a lot of different articles, books, etc. This week's reading involved an article by Carl Jung about “Psychology and Literature.” Things were going all right until I got to the section where he said, “the lives of artists are as a rule so highly unsatisfactory—not to say tragic—because of their inferiority on the human and personal side.” And so another person tries to enforce the “tortured/starving artist” mythology.
I hate this mythology for a number of reasons, besides the obvious one that there are happy artists and there are tortured/starving mechanics, accountants, waiters, etc. Misery does not belong to one subset of the population alone; it visits people without any discrimination.
This was a huge issue for me at Naropa for my writing degree because there was this unspoken, even unconscious competitive thing where the more tortured you were, that made you (somehow) that much better of a writer/artist. I thought it was bunch of crap and so my happy little poems confused all manner of workshop participants. I was accused of being repressed and not in touch with how I was really feeling (which, actually, was happy. It was a good time in my life!). I accused right back that they were oppressing my happiness and thus were the oppressors, which should jolt their picture of themselves trying to be a permanent victim of life. It was a very odd time and has provided much to laugh at over the years since I graduated.
So to read about Jung believing artistic types to have sad, little lives irked me. Having a deficiency of caffeine also leads to this same irked feeling. I shouldn't always blame Jung, but it might be fun to start doing just that. It'll sound something like, “Grump, grump, grump, RAWR! Jung always does that to me on Tuesday mornings.”
Hmm. If a psychologist were to base their whole conception of artists on my life, it would probably look like, “the lives of artists are, as a rule, so highly powered by caffeine, onomonopia, and mismatched socks—not to mention sarcasm—that one should treat them as you would a cranky spring-time bear: placate them with blueberries and honey and for gods' sake let them sleep in because of their inferiority of having a normal napping schedule.”
Moral of today's story: pancake.
An Erinku:
my naked toes
peer at me
from behind
my little laptop
I hate this mythology for a number of reasons, besides the obvious one that there are happy artists and there are tortured/starving mechanics, accountants, waiters, etc. Misery does not belong to one subset of the population alone; it visits people without any discrimination.
This was a huge issue for me at Naropa for my writing degree because there was this unspoken, even unconscious competitive thing where the more tortured you were, that made you (somehow) that much better of a writer/artist. I thought it was bunch of crap and so my happy little poems confused all manner of workshop participants. I was accused of being repressed and not in touch with how I was really feeling (which, actually, was happy. It was a good time in my life!). I accused right back that they were oppressing my happiness and thus were the oppressors, which should jolt their picture of themselves trying to be a permanent victim of life. It was a very odd time and has provided much to laugh at over the years since I graduated.
So to read about Jung believing artistic types to have sad, little lives irked me. Having a deficiency of caffeine also leads to this same irked feeling. I shouldn't always blame Jung, but it might be fun to start doing just that. It'll sound something like, “Grump, grump, grump, RAWR! Jung always does that to me on Tuesday mornings.”
Hmm. If a psychologist were to base their whole conception of artists on my life, it would probably look like, “the lives of artists are, as a rule, so highly powered by caffeine, onomonopia, and mismatched socks—not to mention sarcasm—that one should treat them as you would a cranky spring-time bear: placate them with blueberries and honey and for gods' sake let them sleep in because of their inferiority of having a normal napping schedule.”
Moral of today's story: pancake.
An Erinku:
my naked toes
peer at me
from behind
my little laptop
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Billboard Zombies
Having moved to the big city in Colorado (after nearly a decade bouncing from small town to suburb) I've noticed there are many billboards about. I see them from the bus, on the bus, on the lightrail, and everywhere. After much consideration, I've concluded that all the people shown on billboards are actually zombies.
This is especially true of the people on the "Meth is Bad" billboard campaign. These ads are particularly disturbing with said zombies bleeding into sinks and having sex on toilets. I expect the next round with have them moaning about brains and losing fingers in inappropriate places.
Zombies would also explain the hollow stares from the people in ads by everything from Abercrombie (rhymes with zombie) to the Water Conservation guy mindlessly using the hose to water his driveway (probably in the hopes of it growing into a parking lot). And it could just be coincidence that there are a lot more zombie jokes recently, or it just could be the secret is getting out in an obscure, jokey fashion.
Hmm. I wonder about zombie modeling. How the modeling companies find new help, how they are paid (through an endless supply of interns?), and exactly how long did the billboard companies expect the general public not to notice the billboard zombies? Or it could be that I need some caffeine to clear out my cobwebby brain. Which, coincidentally, would be an absolutely un-tasty brain. I'm just saying.
An Erinku:
few things are sadder
than having a Japanese song stuck in your head
when you don't
speak Japanese.
This is especially true of the people on the "Meth is Bad" billboard campaign. These ads are particularly disturbing with said zombies bleeding into sinks and having sex on toilets. I expect the next round with have them moaning about brains and losing fingers in inappropriate places.
Zombies would also explain the hollow stares from the people in ads by everything from Abercrombie (rhymes with zombie) to the Water Conservation guy mindlessly using the hose to water his driveway (probably in the hopes of it growing into a parking lot). And it could just be coincidence that there are a lot more zombie jokes recently, or it just could be the secret is getting out in an obscure, jokey fashion.
Hmm. I wonder about zombie modeling. How the modeling companies find new help, how they are paid (through an endless supply of interns?), and exactly how long did the billboard companies expect the general public not to notice the billboard zombies? Or it could be that I need some caffeine to clear out my cobwebby brain. Which, coincidentally, would be an absolutely un-tasty brain. I'm just saying.
An Erinku:
few things are sadder
than having a Japanese song stuck in your head
when you don't
speak Japanese.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Bus Is to Avocado as Art is to Lightpole
I volunteer for an hour or so on Thursday nights. Tonight, since my car is having self-esteem issues, I rode the bus. I left my volunteer place at 7:20 pm and a mere five hours later, I made it back to the Vault. It's actually not that far from home: 28.8 miles. I am very accurate when I'm cranky, it seems. My commute involved three different buses and two separate light rails. It was overly complicated due to a car crash on the light rails that (rightly so) stopped all the trains.
After getting to the light rail station near the Vault at 12:20 am, I was muttering under my breath about how I could almost have walked home in that same amount of time. I then looked up and saw the Ominous Avocado of Mysterious Intent on a hill in the middle of campus. I first spotted this...enormous half of an avocado (not a euphemism) about a week ago. It is large, made of cardboard? paper mache? something?
My first sighting was while walking across campus with my friend. This Ominous Avocado was being carried on a bright orange crate by several people, complete with movie camera to document its migration. I slowed down and pondered this, because it was wierd. I saw it yesterday, floating in the pond. Today, it was on the hill. I wonder very much about this Ominous Avocado of Mysterious Intent and I especially wonder about where exactly it will appear next. Sometimes life is odd.
This happened about a week after the fenced off lightpole. I know it was fenced off because they put down new grass seed, but the stuff they used for a fence looked like those velvet ropes you see at art museums that are supposed to keep you from licking the lead-based paint. And the lightpole it surrounded was actually kinda new. I had a vision of typing up (and posting on the pole) something like this:
"LIGHTPOLE"
Artist Unknown, circa 2010
Mixed media: metal, glass, light bulb, maroon lacquer
from private collection at University of Denver
Please don't lick the paint
The fencing, sadly, came down before I got to my printer. I'm very glad the Ominous Avocado of Mysterious Intent appeared to fill the void. Thursdays are odd.
An Erinku:
brrrrrrrrrrrrrr
my toes
happy for blankets
on this cold night
After getting to the light rail station near the Vault at 12:20 am, I was muttering under my breath about how I could almost have walked home in that same amount of time. I then looked up and saw the Ominous Avocado of Mysterious Intent on a hill in the middle of campus. I first spotted this...enormous half of an avocado (not a euphemism) about a week ago. It is large, made of cardboard? paper mache? something?
My first sighting was while walking across campus with my friend. This Ominous Avocado was being carried on a bright orange crate by several people, complete with movie camera to document its migration. I slowed down and pondered this, because it was wierd. I saw it yesterday, floating in the pond. Today, it was on the hill. I wonder very much about this Ominous Avocado of Mysterious Intent and I especially wonder about where exactly it will appear next. Sometimes life is odd.
This happened about a week after the fenced off lightpole. I know it was fenced off because they put down new grass seed, but the stuff they used for a fence looked like those velvet ropes you see at art museums that are supposed to keep you from licking the lead-based paint. And the lightpole it surrounded was actually kinda new. I had a vision of typing up (and posting on the pole) something like this:
"LIGHTPOLE"
Artist Unknown, circa 2010
Mixed media: metal, glass, light bulb, maroon lacquer
from private collection at University of Denver
Please don't lick the paint
The fencing, sadly, came down before I got to my printer. I'm very glad the Ominous Avocado of Mysterious Intent appeared to fill the void. Thursdays are odd.
An Erinku:
brrrrrrrrrrrrrr
my toes
happy for blankets
on this cold night
Monday, July 5, 2010
Monday Dreams
Today was a sad day. I slept in super-super late and realized that every time I do this, my dreams always end the same way: in a series of very bad puns. Puns are my Achilles heel. They hurt and make me twitch. This series was especially terrible. In my dream, I was plugging my ears and running. It ruined a perfectly good 10-hour nap. Ugh. Puns.
To top this off, I am terrible at making pancakes. Pancakes were my only food option for breakfast as I've not been grocery shopping in a while. It seems that, pre-coffee, I can't do the basic math needed to halve an entire recipe. I only halved half. And I still managed to burn them even though they were mostly water. I was most pleased that my espresso machine was repeatedly kind to me during this very difficult time.
As are most of my stories after a long weekend, this one has no high drama. I slept, I dreamt of puns, I need another espresso, and I'm off to an art festival.
An Erinku (something like decaf coffee, but not):
books unpacked
art hung
fish fed
The Vault is official
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