The above statement has passed Katie of Contraband's request of "Could you turn the lights down? We're a little evil." as my favorite moment of off-hand context.
My experience at On the Boards yesterday was pretty incredible. I received a phone call yesterday offering both free booze*and free tix if I would just show up and bring some friends. Their houses had been pretty dismal and John Moran and Eva Müller typically played for houses of hundreds not...five.
Once there, I was discussing this with one of the volunteers (who told me I could have the beer for half-price if I signed up to be on the mailing list I'm already on**) and she commented that all the artistic things she'd done this weekend had been poorly attended but that the Seahawks Stadium was packed.
Both her tone and subsequent statements made it clear that she thought football was somehow responsible for the poor attendance, that sports had lured those erstwhile arts patrons away from their decision to go see two obscure performance artists visiting from New York.
Well, that's taking things a bit too far, isn't it? I mean, I wasn't even planning on going until my friend called me and told me to come for free. And that lured me away from my previous choices of either free dinner or a not-free theatre performance.
But, Moran and Müller. They managed to create an evening of highly technical Arty Art that was welcoming and unpretentious. How? Levity, for one. Charming nature, for two. And it's not like what they were presenting was fluff: we're talking a musical about Charles Manson; we're talking blatant anti-consumerism in the form of singing Egyptian tomb paintings (which is where the "shadowy figure" comes in). We're talking juxtaposition of the plight of the Irish worker with the plight of the McDonald's worker.
I could talk about why this worked for hours.*** I'd see it again and pay if they didn't close last night. But there's no way I'm going to try to convince football fans that they'd be better people because "Dude, you couldn't even tell what was live and what was lip sync-ed. Like, this guy used to live behind Phillip Glass' couch. She's totally from Germany! Oh, hey, you can't take that beer in."
I'd go to a game for free, though.
*I paid for the beer.
**I tipped, too.
***If you want to read unstructured ramblings of theory and art and the making of meaning, look here.
I spent a good portion of this morning in bed trying to decide whether or not something were wrong with me. "There's something wrong with me," I thought. "I'm sleeping above black mold. I'm developing a limbic disorder. I can't feel my arms!"
Luckily, X invaded and saved me with "I must not think bad thoughts."
Yeah. That trick never really works, but because I like that song I was able to drag a towel downstairs and take a salty bath. Eventually, I made it to work. Somewhere near the elevator but before the coffee I realized: Hey, I feel normal. Not the kind of normal that is resignation to a life where misery is the constant, but the normal that is the feeling of steady calm. No misery, no elation, just present. And then I felt that tada!awaketada! click. Oh! Heh.
There had been other proofs apparent, the silly things that I'd noticed without force:
That's why Andre Codrescu is always right.
The trio at the elevator this morning was a living photograph from a Diversity of Women in the Workplace brochure. As the MetPark publicity folk seemed not to notice this opportunity (and I'm sure they're lurking somewhere in the greenery), I stopped looking professionally patient and checked out everyone's shoes. At least that was my intent. After a quick scan, I knew my fashion thoughts would remain with Hispanic Woman in Pantsuit. Her footwear out-pedded White Girl in Corduroy's square toes and African-American in A-line's stylish boots:
Her shoes were Pointy.
Pointy. The sort of shoe that get stuck in the wall when you kick it. The kind that Pat Benatar and Stevie Nicks never quite wore because these are the Pointy Shoes of the New Millenium, the shoes whose toes are so narrow your feet end a good two inches before the tip of the shoe, providing storage space for possible workplace contraband. I picture this woman slinking through her office, glossing spreadsheets and returning phone calls all while stashing paper clips, rubber bands, and Post-it notes in narrow hidey-holes. At home, she has an entire room devoted to the inventory and display of Office Organization from the Perspective of the Downtrodden.
Quite a stunning sacrifice, feet for art.
These days my imaginary friends are real people.
The shirt I am wearing today should absolutely only be worn by someone who is pregnant. That someone is not me, but I'm wearing it all the same. I'm having a similar experience to the time I wore my mother's wedding ring for three days in a row: apparently, clothes make a difference.
Not that I've ever denied this—I embrace anything that helps me to justify the purchase of shoes or a kicky skirt—but I'm pretty fascinated by the new personalities I created for myself while wearing the wedding ring and this shirt. Although those experiences were eight months apart (not quite a whole baby shy of symbolism), I'm pretty sure the personality I created for each is the same: I'm the me of the future, the me who is calm in commitment and whistles while painting the nursery.*
And I think I'm going to be pretty disappointed if the whole day passes without a single person asking me me when I'm due.
*(It should be noted that if I were actually pregnant it would be unlikely that I'd a) be wearing these pants or b) have painted a nursery.)
Cataloguing medical journals, I notice that certain words swim into focus with sharper clarity: fanconi, narcolepsy, nemotodes. My knowledge of science equals my math skills, but I am curiouser and curiouser. Spelunking through articles, my concentration falters when my little brain recognizes a word and says "Aren't I smart? I could have been a scientist!"
It would be much easier to read if these words would sit still. How can I comprehend something new when what I know that I know is so loud? Slight of hand is simple in these circumstances: instead of "look over here" these words shout "look at me! look at me!" They are not tugging at my sleeve in sweet demand of attention, but blocking my ability to comprehend by shoving memories of themselves into focus: Libby, Uncle Van, and devastated potato fields.
I guess I'm not reading these for the articles...