tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81695318932338156842024-03-12T21:18:47.742-07:00Do Not Go GentlyClare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-71407431423126448022012-05-13T08:08:00.000-07:002012-05-13T08:27:53.258-07:00The Death of the Author in Street Art<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">You are an artist. You have a painting you want to share, but fear it would lose
impact if shared exclusively on the Internet (you do not want to shrink your
design to iPhone dimensions). If
you want to share your painting with a broad audience, there are a few options:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> A).
Fight the market for gallery space<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> B).
Fight vandalism laws and risk exhibiting your painting in a public space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> If
you choose A, your success might depend on your name—your relevance and talent
are important, but there are hundreds of artists who want your gallery
space who are just as relevant and talented as you are. They could be from anywhere in the
world. They could have never
stepped foot in your gallery—they might be dead---but their names are known, and
this can be enough to secure them space.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8169531893233815684#_ftn1" name="_ftnref" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Still, there are ways of
getting your painting into a gallery.
Your drawing professor in art school might know a curator, in which case
you are fortunate to have the combined
$180,000 to pay for 4 years of tuition, room and board at the art
school. You are also a minority. According to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">U.S. News World Report,</i> tuitions of the top art schools in the
United States range from $22,270 (Tyler School of Art) to $32,858 (Rhode Island
School of Design) per year. The median yearly household income for Americans is
$50,211 (2). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">For many, art school--and
all the professional connections it secures--is not an affordable luxury. Hence the appeal of option B. Though often dismissed as punk
graffiti, alleyways and bathroom stalls can offer more accurate pictures of a
culture than galleries, especially because so much of what is left in these
places is left unsigned.
This erases any preconceived notions the viewer might have based on the
artist’s name. In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Death of the Author, </i>Roland Barthes says
of anonymous texts:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 150%;">“We know that a text does not consist of a line of words,
releasing a single "theological" meaning (the "message" of
the Author-God), but is a space of many dimensions, in which are wedded and
contested various kinds of writing, no one of which is original: the text is a
tissue of citations, resulting from the thousand sources of culture.” (1)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Barthes is a true sociologist. In this passage, he suggests that
authors—and artists---do not go about their business in sterilized bubbles. Their work is a direct result of the
conventions their culture has established based on age, race, sex, education
level, and a million other factors.
Like the texts Barnes describes, street art functions in “a space of
many dimensions.” The fact that it
is often anonymous strengthens its legitamity as a cultural artifact, a “tissue
of citations”. The artist could be
anybody: They could be your mother, brother, or neighbor---<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they could have been you</i>. The intimacy this creates is disarming, and can
strengthen the aesthetic or poetic experience of the viewer who might feel
distanced by the cold sophistication that is so often the stereotype of
galleries in America. For
instance, to be a street artist, you do not have to be a college graduate. You do not need to know somebody or
knows somebody. What get you noticed
are priceless attributes: Courage, and a flippant regard for authority. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">In his essay<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i>Barthes
suggests the goal of a text should be “to reach, through a preexisting
impersonality” any reader or viewer. (1) An unsigned image presents this very
“impersonality.” Graffiti is art <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in the now</i>. It is experienced for a moment (a lot of street art is
designed to look good from a moving car or train) before vanishing again,
traceless. If it is successful, it will leave an impression without the
intrusion of the artist, whose biography can be found only when diligently
sought out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Here are two unsigned
street poems:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">We do not know if the
author is a man or a woman. We do
not know their race, how old they are, or if they went to college. We have no idea where the poems come
from, and so focus on their content—and con<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">text</i>. The poems share a theme of neon grief,
the strange loneliness that comes with being surrounded by bright lights in a
city of unknowns. They are
appropriately located in busy, well-lit urban areas, and are stylistically
similar, taking up spaces traditionally reserved for adverts. Coming across the poems in the same
city, it is safe to assume they have the same writer. In this way, says Barthes, “the modern writer (scriptor) is
born simultaneously with his text.” (1) Coming across the poems, we, the
readers, assign them personality and meaning. There is no artist---no history, biography, or tradition to
guide us. The “message” of the poems depends on<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> us</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> It
is in the spirit of giving credit where credit is due that I reveal the name of
the writer: Robert Montgomery, who, according to his website, “works in a poetic
and melancholy post-structuralist tradition.” (3) Montgomery is known for
hijacking advertising spaces and using them as platforms for his poems, which
are almost always left unsigned.
He has made himself easily available for interviews, but speaks only of
his work—his biography is avoided with careful precision. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Not all street artists
are so willing to reveal their identities. Banksy, by now well known, was determinedly elusive in the
80s, when his images first appeared on Bristol walls. Since then, Banksy’s work has turned up on walls from London
to Los Angeles—as well as in galleries and auctions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I want to talk about
Banksy because he is an unusual case: A street artist who, despite all efforts
to maintain anonymous (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Banksy </i>is a street name<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">)</i> lost control of his reputation when a
culture, seemingly at random, decided that his work was worth selling, and was
therefore valuable. Banksy did not
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">try</i> to sell his paintings. People scrapped his images from walls,
plastered them on canvas, and sold them on their own accord. In his essay, Barnes stresses “the necessity of substituting language
itself for the man who hitherto was supposed to own it.” The culture separated
Banksy from his art, and it is the culture, not Banksy, who owns his
images. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: x-small;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: x-small;">Keep It Spotless, a 2007 Banksy piece
that sold for $1,870, 000</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><i> </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: x-small;"><i>The
Rude Lord, a 2006 Banksy sold for $658,025</i></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The Rude Lord, </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">pictured
above, was first exhibited in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barley
Legal, </i>an anti-art show put together by Banksy in the Hunter Street
warehouse in Los Angeles. By
putting his work in a warehouse—a neutral, unpretentious space—and by not
charging admission, Banksy was able to draw a considerable crowd (needless to
say, the artist was absent from his own show). That <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Rude Lord</i>,
a painting made in the spirit of lowbrow fun, sold for more than half a million
dollars is a testament to the power viewers can bring to an image. Roland
Barthes would attest: “The true locus of writing is in its reading.” The same goes for art. To this day, Banksy only appears in
interviews with his face hidden, voice electronically altered. Yet his
paintings continue to sell. If the
artist is anonymous, the culture is free to make of him what they will—and
because art is, for better or worse, married to the laws of economics, we have
chosen to make Banksy a commodity.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“A text,” says Barthes,
“consists of multiple writings, issuing from several cultures and entering into
dialogue with each other.” (1) What
makes street art truly open to the viewer is it’s interactive nature. A viewer
can add to it, much in the way that comments are added to Internet
threads. Because street art is
wholly uncensored, these comments can range from profound to obscene to
completely ridiculous. Here is
some graffiti I photographed in an alley behind the Castle Arcade in Cardiff,
Wales:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I noticed a name
scribbled on one of the St. David prints:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> <o:p></o:p></span><img src="webkit-fake-url://A6B3FCED-C052-457C-8F46-05F49B29794B/application.pdf" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Who is Becky?
Becky is whoever I want her to be.
Because I know a Becky, I am imagining a girl with short blonde hair who
likes David Bowie, and who could take better care of her teeth. Reading the name <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Becky</i>, not every one will think of the Becky I know. Deciphering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Becky </i>as anything other than a name is useless. Everyone will think she is someone
different; Barthes would call her an “open text.” With street art, it is often impossible to “close the
meaning”; texts seem to dangle as open-ended questions. Here
is some graffiti I photographed by the railroad tracks in my hometown of
Indiana, Pennsylvania:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It is strange how a
specific name can be anonymous. I
don’t know the Chris the artist is referring to, but have, in my head, a
concept of who I think he or she is.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I do not know what the writer of this
intended, but I interpret it as a beautiful statement on the syllabic
disintegration within language. Or
it could be a waste of paint. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> “The
unity of a text is not in its origin, it is in its destination,” says
Barthes. “…this destination can no
longer be personal: the reader is a man without history, without biography,
without psychology; he is only that someone who holds gathered into a single
field all the paths of which the text is constituted.” (1) If, as an artist,
you share your design anonymously in a public space, you are erasing your
biography. Because there is an intimidating pretense in galleries (supposed
“high” art) that does not exist on the street, your viewer is, more than ever,
liable to relate with you: To make a direct and honest connection with your
work. Your viewer could be a child
or a very old man. They could be
homeless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> They
could be you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Word Count: 1,650<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Works
Cited:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Primary Text:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">1.
Barthes,Roland, ‘The Death of the Author’, in </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';">The
Routledge Critical and Cultural Theory Reader</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">, ed. Neil
Badmington and Julia Thomas (London and New York: Routledge, 2008), pp. 121-125.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Secondary
Text:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 58.0pt; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">2. "Income." <i>- U.S. Census Bureau</i>. U.S.
Census Bureau, 15 Mar. 2012. Web. 13 May 2012.
<http://www.census.gov/hhes/www/income/income.html>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">3. "ROBERT MONTGOMERY." <i>ROBERT
MONTGOMERY</i>. Web. 13 May 2012. <http://www.robertmontgomery.org/robertmontgomery.org/ROBERT_MONTGOMERY.html>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<div id="ftn" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8169531893233815684#_ftnref" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">M</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 10pt;">onet never went to
Pittsburgh, but a section of his water lilies hang in the Carnegie Museum of
Art on Craig Street</span></div>
</div>
</div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-74719399621563661492012-05-12T18:00:00.000-07:002012-05-13T16:45:48.649-07:00note from a rogue film maker<div style="text-align: center;">
Dear Very Bored Person :</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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My film is about the people who stopped me from killing
myself. It is 3ish minutes long. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ish</i>
isn’t me being cute---It’s me
saying I don’t know how long my film is because it isn’t finished yet. Some of the people who stopped me from
killing myself are dead. Audrey
Hepburn died of cancer in 1993.
Picasso died sometime before then.
</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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Most are alive, though. Bob Dylan is in my film. So are Werner Herzog and Jack Nicholson and Morrissey. So am I.</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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So is Sherilyn Fenn, the actress with the beauty mark on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twin Peaks</i>, a TV series written by David
Lynch<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i>who is old and will die
soon. My film is mostly
about how the people who stopped me from killing myself are old and will die
soon---if they’re not already dead.
For the first 2ish minutes the person holding the camera, which is me except when it's not, mopes. He, she, it—the child, I’m certain it’s a child
holding the camera—sees suburban houses as fancy tombs. The neighborhood is husked in silence,
but the child hears atomic blasts everywhere: <i>Ka-boom</i> the wind through the clotheslines. <i>Ka-boom</i> the sun-glint of windshields. <i>Ka-boom</i> the book on the windowsill (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Americana </i>by Don Delillo, who is old and will die soon). </div>
</div>
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When I realized that even artists must,
at some point, die, the feeling was like the blast from an atom bomb, but cold,
somehow, as if the smoke were blue: A negative film. An inverted winter. Shell-shocked, the child wonders in winter. Lies down. Waits for a plastic bag to blow over her face and kill
her. Kill him. Kill it. Kill our Post-Gender Hero.</div>
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It doesn’t, though.
The child realizes it’s not that easy. Nothing ends. Nothing ever ends. A million Hitlers couldn’t end
things. Neither could a
million atom bombs. Life stampedes
over the bones of a million Audrey Hepburns, flushes the lyrics of a million
forgotten Dylans into the sea. </div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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Waiting to die won’t stop a six-lane highway. It won’t stop computers. And it certainly won’t bring the dead
back to life. You might as well
get the hell up; After all, isn’t that what the people who stopped you from
killing yourself did? They got the
hell up and got the hell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out.</i> Made things. </div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
The people who validated the child’s existence are gone. Wielding
their memories like magic cameras, the child must validate existence <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">its way</i>. </div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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The film is unfinished because the child, who is me, doesn’t
know how to validate existence <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my way</i>. I didn’t even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">use</i> the word “validate<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">”</i>
until this year. I’m not
completely sure I know what it means.
Because I took Latin in high school, I know it has the same root as “vitality”,
which means life. Validate,
I think, is the verb: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To life</i>. </div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
In the wasteland outside Pittsburgh where I grew up, kids
spray paint train tunnels with wacky pictures. Once I saw a worm eating a piece of cake. Scribbled above the worm’s head
was the phrase:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
SLOW MOTION </div>
</div>
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BETTER THAN NO MOTION</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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These 6 words are brilliant. They are my mantra as I validate my existence, which
I do by making things that, because they are mostly pictures, I call Art. Making Art is a slow process, like a
really fat person getting up from a chair. I cling to the vitality this process gives me. Slow motion better than no motion.</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
The music in my film is by Lana Del Rey and Jeff Mangum,
neither of whom stopped me from killing myself. I like their songs “Summertime sadness” and “In An Aeroplane
Over The Sea" anyway. You should
listen to the songs by themselves, without my film. They’re hip tunes.</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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Walking back to my room from the library, I saw a boy
playing a guitar. I saw a seagull
eating a sandwich on the roof of a car.
I saw a shiny, silver banner tapped to a door that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY.</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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And these things are important. I would not have seen them if I had a bag over my head.</div>
</div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<i> Love, </i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i> Rogue Film Maker</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
P.S. Because I am a <i>rogue</i> film maker, or a cheap one, I did not use a pretty camera. I did not set out to make a pretty film. Just one that made sense to me. Filming was done with a potato. When this failed I used a loaf or bread. To be honest, I even stole some footage from other movies and screen-tests. How else was I going to get footage of dead people?</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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P.S. There's nothing after the white noise except the memory of something beautiful we thought we saw once. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyI7iV1XlUToABn7kidQmfTqYHVIgANupVHQ_fBCQ6qSlj-QzdF1FUKt4xmWVgRd1LGV-Z61vkoSb29Iavh7A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
But that's okay. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-32049198306618520412012-05-09T12:14:00.000-07:002012-05-09T13:34:54.282-07:00some old photographs, some poem.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVnKb9P5-Lhof81CfZKkmkwS_9vTgx9UHtOEypuOJ5Q98pYekGh6_pIU-7HqPreV8Yxx81YKQnjEFRdlhdEbhIu69YbzTSnq9w9bWk57hwqaUxcAHet8q5Mm4jrIFPdwzuSWmhBqMKoM/s1600/DSCN3910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVnKb9P5-Lhof81CfZKkmkwS_9vTgx9UHtOEypuOJ5Q98pYekGh6_pIU-7HqPreV8Yxx81YKQnjEFRdlhdEbhIu69YbzTSnq9w9bWk57hwqaUxcAHet8q5Mm4jrIFPdwzuSWmhBqMKoM/s640/DSCN3910.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Eulogy for a
Philosophy Major Who Believed in God</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">I.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">And this is how things begin, with questions </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">you or me or even Dr. Ault can’t answer like</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">What is Karma and Why do young people die</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">in the Spring?
Our after-class cigarettes smell</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">wet and wormy. Soggy
sticks. Corpses--No! Kids don’t
die</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">in real life.
Not Here not Now not Ever and what’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i>
anyway,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">man? Puff. Tastes
like Europe. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Puff Puff. Spain. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">II.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">You roll your paper <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">delicado,
</i>a scroll unraveling</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">a Don Quixote myth, his vision, your vision, my vision---</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">I’m confusing your vision with mine. Puff. Remember. Puff. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Remember the night I saw your veins </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">for a second. Your
match shone through your skin. Hot. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Delicado. </i>I used
to paint skulls over the Bible verses<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">in your pocket, saying Dr. Ault can’t be right about archetypes
so</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Why exist? And
you said Puff. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">III.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">I don’t want to lie. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">I don’t remember what you said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Your match went out.
I went so Spain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Your match went out so I went to Spain where your vision became my vision</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">And I am hot and unfair. And this </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">is how things end.
Thick. Indelicate.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">With questions.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfUT6QTrl9qnXb-0bUmDPUQnIj0EsRtIwJcXW9kj_6tmoBrvMgsOnfAx6P4Axl8OERi-ObTPNL8OQLpjZfnQBQA4jDVrTas2GKRq_1Bok4Gv62n5C2tPZB8_aAg-lrD_hGOM8wKDfzcg/s1600/DSCN3743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfUT6QTrl9qnXb-0bUmDPUQnIj0EsRtIwJcXW9kj_6tmoBrvMgsOnfAx6P4Axl8OERi-ObTPNL8OQLpjZfnQBQA4jDVrTas2GKRq_1Bok4Gv62n5C2tPZB8_aAg-lrD_hGOM8wKDfzcg/s640/DSCN3743.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-85689680167468996482012-03-22T20:50:00.011-07:002012-03-23T04:11:42.073-07:00This is a post in favor of censorship<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(80, 80, 80); line-height: 24px; font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I only know that I love strength in my friends</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(80, 80, 80); line-height: 24px; font-family:'courier new';"><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; ">And greatness</div><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; ">And hate the way their bodies crack when they die</div><div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; ">And are eaten by images.</div></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">--Jack Spicer, <i>A Poem Without A Single Bird In It</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjT11ppudQbWG8nPQYl1-kCn6KB16KdhQdLKMx9HLRjJzoasPAPot1d8vR0hLs9_9OZpoa7QXta8mAtgFiYqIEkjPu7QBVjTWOh6S3fD9d2dv-uVGUJEoEta-uLOrSbT8QIROWVmhnm88/s400/best-sex-ads-600x450.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722954975986528178" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:100%;">I am a visual artist who hates images.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Correction: I am a visual artist who hates <i>untrue</i> images.</span></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">An untrue image is a picture of a fairy. People believe in fairies. People create their reality. If enough people believe fairies, the fairies become real.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Mainstream fashion is notoriously discriminatory towards most body types. Gemma Ward, a young model, was criticized for looking "bloated" in 2010, when she walked for Chanel in a denim bikini:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQjoe0BOZHtyN3d9qouUuu6Mrsk7N145oxf6sBgtCP3Fh412qLxeJ0pu98wLzYzAXh8rLpL6EPXF5gsvRICmhDKH2eUF95rp0GxP6r-4jO36vJB4BNQ9QmF5UpTTtbti9ICTZ2t9TMSc/s400/Ward_reuters_600.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722939041616393330" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px; " /></span></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 21px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The <i>New York Fashion </i>website commented on the issue: </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px; font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;">"</span><a href="http:/" style="text-decoration: none; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Coco Rocha</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"> has said that when she weighed 108 pounds, at 5'10", clients told her to lose weight. So how much can Ward have weighed at that show? 120 pounds? And that is, according to the industry, "big, almost bloated." A photo agent who worked with Ward said that for every model with staying power, there are twenty who don't make it past age 18 — that time when girls become women, and grow breasts and hips, and gain the weight that is a natural part of growing up."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 21px; font-size:100%;">We've accepted a realistic representation in fashion as a lost cause, but have failed to consider the impact that these images--not only fashion photography, but advertisements, films, etc.--have on a society.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 21px; font-size:100%;">On young people.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">On my friends.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 21px; ">And, selfish fuck that I am, on </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 21px; ">me.</span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"> I am tired of how I <i>look</i> prefacing what I <i>do</i>. I'm tired of a society that values a single, untrue image.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cuL9R2bdibE4m0UdHjtE1hpKU9Ju86hrUHO1QP5avLsQJCNPTvBy0vEX0WdGi6Hzy3_Erxy9HqSwfDwY3cMxOyUy7joXwuPgsC98xMSGJiViLzNHpjik-8DRO11nDF-shnm0HzLWrY8/s400/dolce-gabbana-ad-sexist.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722954969559506690" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 21px; font-size:100%;">So do I think that untrue images--images that diminish a person's humanity--should be censored?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">Yes. Why? Because control of media is control of everything. Period. And an image that advertises an agenda rather than the truth is propaganda. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">Buy mascara! Lose 10 pounds! Bleach your teeth! THIS IS WHAT YOU SHOULD CARE ABOUT WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU YOU FUCKING MONSTER, WHY DON'T YOU CARE THAT YOU CAN'T COOK VEGAN CUPCAKES?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhphihutsRk4NdIhxqnX5_knYejZCOJryY3WI9Kw2DDj7HMx-rbzFwxn2e95njjXadDf8sDfIy5GeQxm_ic1P9uGPPrxp03tRAcs_RLhc4nF6VRCVtoVLQX6oYZenKw18hXVHyCU5YyY-A/s400/zooey-deschanel8.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722958611789381218" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 298px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">If I'm going to be criticized, I want the criticisms to address my character or my commitment to my craft. Not what I'm eating or not eating for breakfast. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">I'm afraid that if anyone reads this post, they'll read it as a "FUCK YOU FOR SAYING I'M PRETTY" rant, when I mean it as a "FUCK YOU FOR SAYING I'M <i>ONLY</i> PRETTY" rant. There's a branch of feminism that maintains that as long as the woman has power, she is a feminist. If she wants to degrade herself, that's her choice, and isn't that <i>just</i> beautiful?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">Fuck that. I don't know any <i>human</i> who, outside of fun&kinky sex, <i>wants</i> to degrade themselves. It's a slave mentality, the Uncle Tom of feminism: A woman who, happily, chooses to be seen as two dimensional. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">Naturally, the same goes for men who want to be seen as more than muscly, car driving wage earners. This, too, is a single, <i>untrue</i> image often portrayed in fashion, film, and--worst of all--advertising.</span></span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">Why can't we advertise self-reliance? Confidence? Generosity?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">I hate that i wake up an hour early to do my make-up. I hate that all my methods for "self-improvement" revolve around weight loss instead of character. I know blaming the system is futile, that change starts within yourself, but this is the first time i've become truly <i>aware</i> of how toxic tour image culture is. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;">And here I am, working within it! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 21px; ">I have only ever made images. It is all I know how to do, so I will do what I can:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">Tell</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">the</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;">Truth</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"><i>and Run.</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:100%;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center; "><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsu2QRh_Rg9omLofwPu0vpJlF6iNzfplEKsjW1503EqB-O4ZAPj2PUoMsp6UyxTHF_P9GbGqhdsuBaqWyUBylcAKZPnmjKWNw-_7p2R7Lvv0yLqMMLrzmfViJheXkjAbLC2_aPCvVmWug/s400/self+portrait+12.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722961449113700578" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 400px; " /></div><div></div></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px; font-size:100%;"> </span></span></div></div></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-8484728800744617582012-03-18T12:00:00.004-07:002012-03-18T16:23:17.207-07:00stay golden<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9K52wVTjzejTi6uFyFEm-gt5Hl2RWawxkAZCk6oTqam_TNdr2xl6fCM-uoPHsZFAUqnHirdg25WWMhXUqOKx_wj6dGxlHCaahP5-tJ1xpMoNsjKqX_tPNeo-HsVzVYBYS8FALYa0xQ8/s400/DSCN3626.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721314690146605554" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKyFJIwTGbiqw_tT-5IkwSuNUrj0FYnUsrqm_sDO89RG141R2-8QCNGbPZ8o5RBm5JI3LU35hAbVwaDCNQr6xQyEXKRMi2H1neEhh4v563Dh-PMIte32POAgT09MJfIykOYC2dg6BUw0/s400/DSCN3640.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721314722115555266" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_OkcPyl5zqQxRREKsyOcY92OcnAvbdhBCGsRWdDuLv5_J96zwiwVmgMoh77y1XbrThl8jc6UJkxGWlvmHDlQxS8xGFZ2yag2sl_6ezJ4bghUtGgEEP3MPnRtlIWg8KkL9cc-VMLwsuwQ/s400/DSCN3625.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721314695740157842" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rGFG6ezEZspzXb_Bkhr5ujz-fwYHfkxR8HQC2PCwCjoaT5E-UnlsRv0RYWQTdo7xaRKTtgcim5VARgEftfj_eoBL5zPPnd4CroZzyrkSg2wIZE32hGItNbvNR2YesFjSf4RDcOUNH64/s1600/DSCN3638.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rGFG6ezEZspzXb_Bkhr5ujz-fwYHfkxR8HQC2PCwCjoaT5E-UnlsRv0RYWQTdo7xaRKTtgcim5VARgEftfj_eoBL5zPPnd4CroZzyrkSg2wIZE32hGItNbvNR2YesFjSf4RDcOUNH64/s1600/DSCN3638.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Gold, gold, gold. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFD_LL3mdUL39dzohEXvM5ZhtEvNF25Yn73R80brBjcPyLXqbNlsAAEyX8hc0aAHV9z-cc_ix4pf95xth9Y9mcH4vqNbPevoyZOApcPDwOLhGFH7wGMN1hiTYIpcPDLg05OXBOygcxXNk/s400/DSCN3623.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721314707117711394" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Someone was bound to find it. Dig it up. Weigh it. Price it. I wonder who was the first person to say "This mustard-colored rock's <i>gotta </i>be worth<i> </i>something."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-x7nRafhwrTRDZ7pNPk2S3ZW5LO3Bjam2EmJMlZM-s2csGjTT6xH7mDvC9DucEHkdfPwvoJ4UosxH0NTunq6PpfneSgX3pDHdQMFVFIUNtX4s0Hvd1gnKOJRJcLfL6wscfuczg-bm4cg/s400/DSCN3628.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721314715129044210" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVsRxa2-90dcM0pTqLRhhc60XVg7xBOvOdpJqtzh9iMfhXv94td9Wh0vUrpd7bp7uhtG1wOxKYvquiQJMMqHwozgbGbwCAFpk20zMrEbLq-CcrWllYGoELratzkmMJsyxJGbd6IvK7As/s400/DSCN3637.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721315520354749762" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPuq8DTImPIP8blDOLpI8GP2SzcEXvqsxseXhYJxMWJEKLLpyEtV2ntU4-7qBKa0_Yn-NZ1RvjNNOh7_gSvDbQOGSlnUgVkRA_yzndL8TFCI7SDmFvmGZlySQKcKdedkW0naMSQ1Iwlbo/s400/DSCN3633.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721315509468483778" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">I'm remembering an Andy Warhol story, how he started painting money after a lady friend asked him <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "> "Well, what do <em style="font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); ">you love</em> most?"</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" >Loving money is traumatic. It's always coming and going, switching hands, hanging out of some stripper's G-string. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" >I remember in kindergarden, being asked how I would make money when I grew up. "Veterinarian," I said because I wanted to bandage dogs. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" > In my public high school, we learned how to balance check books--there was a whole class on it.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" >I wish no one had to love money. I wish it didn't matter. No more poor people getting fat because they can't afford vegetables. No more humane societies killing dogs. All the kids who want to go to school in New York can just <i>go</i>.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: normal; ">Then I wonder: What would New York be without money? Or</span></span> Los Angeles?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Or Vegas?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">O America, land of a million sunset traumas, even now I hear the greasers in abandoned Allegheny junk-houses whisper...</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 16px; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rGFG6ezEZspzXb_Bkhr5ujz-fwYHfkxR8HQC2PCwCjoaT5E-UnlsRv0RYWQTdo7xaRKTtgcim5VARgEftfj_eoBL5zPPnd4CroZzyrkSg2wIZE32hGItNbvNR2YesFjSf4RDcOUNH64/s400/DSCN3638.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721315518064562066" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">"...stay golden."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-88128837726664462052012-03-14T07:15:00.059-07:002012-03-25T13:46:20.219-07:00You Are My Ulysses That I'll Never End<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719850919025861314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidNCjyW1gLo9uhxOaftzm9LPol1OGZu03oOvHmXsgDCN1vvOI9YqJeDXnn63KY91MSyRfgAzJea1YeV6ngYF7xsAQfPMWlN8-7_EsXuFLlivLRF_hwu3rNlv30k755D7HfilS7j6vWc-U/s400/DSCN3262.JPG" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719838289273148722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqsSX1KQ-wdWBCwQWKsyNIKcshbMN5RVTzXQ5pr9OUJvllen7TgLCdeKibIdjlDn2SeRRRR6XceNi5CmXmeDjlLRuuVd9QtXFU9v0idyoPcm55Jc5IfTK2migvNXfbDhHoIZ0nGYTPlzM/s400/Photo+on+3-13-12+at+10.12+PM.jpg" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">The streets howl with ghosts, the smell of cold rocks.</span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 293px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719830367161162914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi66IoS7UHwR9bN-oozJsp1u_h4sW-1JxjhQUuGeYsAxLq5EnF76QErjxUdDaVNvxKnwK8xTyZtbfAvXW1r0bHmcqOCvWg5MVQxm3Yvje42kQfuxfa1umzO979AGWMvldPuEbOXbfXDIHM/s400/DSCN3518.JPG" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719830374441370546" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTp9Ct812aj3OcguRvQgKqPz7HU2pTYNfMpSHHiGh9uP6AIpQqpqU5v-vxn32aU_pRl68Q_OWeWyDi5zsAYUM16Mg4NRkppwD2nX95LcojjA5-2IEHRJw0Q47R6MYKCVwG76wM0LKFTpY/s400/DSCN3509.JPG" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Edinburgh: Warm people bustling outside thorny houses.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">I spend much of Scotland drunk/hung-over. Despite this I meet few Scotsmen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The hostel is run by Australians, and<o:p> o</o:p>ur roommates are French.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span> When we meet, it is in an open door.</span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">“</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><i>’</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><i>Ello,"</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:0;"> </span>they say.</span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">“Hello,” We say.</span><br /></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">“</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><i>’</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><i>Ello,"</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:0;"> </span>they say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span><br /></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">And so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We must have stayed there, in the doorway, for at least two minutes greeting each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> We</span> told them to eat a Hershey bar<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">.</i> They told us to watch Godard.</span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br />You have two minutes and an open door to communicate your cultural legacy. What will you say?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">That night the Australians take us on a pub crawl ending at <i>The Hive. </i>Take the house from <i>Mask of the Red Death </i>and put a deejay in every room. Hang disco balls and strobes from the ceilings. Give Poe's worried guests cheap drinks and gyrating hips.</span></p><div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><i>Violà Hive.</i></span></p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719833604003639730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_9F93rIyh018uQQtPoZUFdECC_lEenM2wUoF9G2wGByECu9HutHA3MI5bh5Okok_y55xB1uibR140ig-NxE6I3aL-er2qdjPrlKSp3n2c3Dv4LzRRmAj_UwnSF9rV1-a9cC9uMg5ULU/s400/DSCN3295.JPG" /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">The next morning, I nurse my hangover with a peanut butter banana milk shake. Chelsea stirs a bowl of porridge. She's so groggy, she's talking about the future.</span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i>The Future: </i>What I'm always preparing for / what I hope never-ever comes.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">When we get to Dublin, the first thing we do is feast with our hosts, students at the local university. The three boys juggle studying and music (two guitars, some rat-a-tating) with happy yet critical cooking:</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">"Remember when Gregg burnt the chips?"</span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">"Let's not speak of it."</span></p></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">When it's our turn to make dinner, I diligently chop half an onion before giving in to the Bailey's, already open. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">All is saved by Chelsea, her spicy, angelic pesto. I aid digestion by reading Flan O' Brian in a Yankee drawl.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Then, a party. The guests arrive. The smell of loose tobacco. A song by R.E.M:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">The fear of getting caught</span></i></div></div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Of restlessness and water--</span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>They cannot see me naked--</span></i></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">James Joyce is the slurred subject of the night. I never finished <i>Ulysses, </i>though I reference the book in my poetry. I love anything making me feel small: Highways, movie screens...James Joyce. My poems try and fail to hold oceans in paper cups. "No one's <i>actually </i>read Ulysses."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">A chorus of objections. I stand corrected: At the Dublin city college, there is a whole class devoted to the book. The Irish fetishize Joyce much in the way that Americans build shrines to Hemingway's baby shoes.</span><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">Joyce and Hemingway: No, <i>Joyce/Hemingway!</i> By the time I finish a bottle of whisky, I'm convinced they're the same person, one far-flung sailor following s siren.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">I've discovered the bridge between modernism and post-modernism. I want to call everyone I know. I want to give high-fives to animals. Break my bones and build fires.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Pour another drink.</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">The next night is spent in tense sobriety, huddled around a deck of cards. The game is Higher/Lower. We successfully guess that 34 cards are higher or lower than their previous card. The next card, card 35, has us biting our lips. We've come so far, we've drawn diagrams. Calculated probabilies. "Surely it's higher."</span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">"Surely."</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">"Higher?"</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">"Higher."</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Chelsea flips the card, and we flip a shit.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">The card is lower.</span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">---</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size:85%;">Thus concludes my Scots-Irish-week-long-bus-hopping-hubaballoo.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><img style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px; cursor: pointer; " id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719833583403469826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlpbIBVmX2frp7VuRIRqDrDysfGPpXh2Ek-LQP1zswlv1EDMKn6GW2YhOCsjVXbsrEfQJ3Rob7AwomSiwPO3Ph3zTcidNL-I-tbXDlJDNA_mmbmIFskQluyZ-fAvSw-bH1LtVl9g8Two/s400/DSCN3524.JPG" /><img style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px; cursor: pointer; " id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719833591105642658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5xrn_gBDe2l-EXgz0aQlghSWC24wF2u7S8kBzvS_DtYubFFqbar-8Et4S6mOy9C4uUtFYgrAeH634zWxHVVfCmx6b5j6Y4EBq6zITIHVF1Z8MejmZ9hXeXug6mvIKp7H46DFK1wvxNM/s400/DSCN3540.JPG" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">The sun was too bright, the cemeteries too old. I can’t describe it. The people were too generous. So much happened, and in so short a time.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">You know when film makers adapt Hunter S. Thompson by layering images in glittery, drug-induced sequences?</span></p><img style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px; cursor: pointer; " id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719838283110558466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMrhSep5wfRQ_51iS8SZpT61VOers2GymxJG_tFcSlfuA0qyzVGw_N4JakEigX5cvkUXdLaZqFeqzlcVe-CMeHO8IBHNXTu5OfdyDpIWoWQ5p4ja5guSaxs96kp5lH_OTJcxCmuqBtt4/s400/224985_783837441552_23117477_38693777_8009519_n.jpg" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">It was nothing like that.</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">It was a bottle of whisky with no hangover, a night talking about childhood bedrooms. Another night spent dancing. Birthday candles. Castles. The most masculine lip-ring you ever saw. <i>"Jaysus!"</i>. The smell of seagulls. A ghost story.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Then, my forehead against the bus window, highway lights stabbing my eyes as if to say “wake up, wake up—”</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><img style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; width: 300px; display: block; height: 400px; cursor: pointer; " id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719833612534138658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrx9OPgyyB3JsdXB1VTdfT36cnRfyaYL8NRRWu7xDsWrk6DpSObk1-bykzocHaiq8Uu3d9BIQj53WmbMfWnAS9Rl5Stp2Jjpz37AUTO0WwYVAHv78VWgWUVxyKB20RegkzicV1RuVfhNk/s400/DSCN3366.JPG" /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">The feeling of missing something I never lost.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">In the song <i>Voltaic Crusher/Undrum to Muted Da </i>(typical title for Of Montreal), Kevin Barnes sings "You are my Ulysses that I'll never end."</span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Even though I'm back to writing essays and drinking shitty English coffee, part of me is still traveling--Hell if i know where.</span><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><img style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px; cursor: pointer; " id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719833622886359234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJ7j4YXG10YTA3fYIXFXU_u3ugwxLMV88H8FPBLzQUUMni14oP_hqfK5MLhmp8_qU9TXnkWmBx-yrh68REOioSF63zmM4bqChQgb95ccBPs2-3BzYQSz0DQABj986ErH273suG2di2cA/s400/DSCN3373.JPG" /><img style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; width: 400px; display: block; height: 278px; cursor: pointer; " id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719837231729377010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiklpabL1mvawvEpJxFe4mc2szgrdYIr9GWnkKoo3jzVt9MN-AV5pemZxf_v6jsSibLTpW8htyOGwUjIvdXrUu7WoH_I6hNcY7T_9Og2EB5dPXCBSX2NONDyCYaeXroUejWTuHYyalcn3E/s400/Photo+on+3-13-12+at+10.27+PM.jpg" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Somewhere, I'm putting off a shower, writing a book I'll never end.</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><!--EndFragment--></div></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-22317860619687404942012-02-26T10:51:00.017-08:002012-03-14T07:15:37.908-07:00lightness<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_43XSuWWplqvZetlaWKii1SoXMZKLZl-11IHLa8JdiGVfzsW9R-_3aZ2EOmn0XbV3aRJkA1AZh9H5A44RCkFWz9jDzY_x1XLkEE0rJ_zsNImeSNSLVCysFu2V0tyGKpP8e2nPwXTWHq8/s400/DSCN3466.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713519147468456370" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeG8j1Loap2rsgr0Z3_j_ynGGmWNyu9RuTTLfG9FsIKKeob4f9iNIMYEmrO64One8w2Suxs6dFgZGAC21686o9eg79HgQYxP0_iRbkN8hT6OZM0ALFmfYZMPVrVnz6TUrb7vL12I1_VYI/s400/DSCN3485.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713519155144504994" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:78%;">I call this 'Two Wes Anderson Houses Almost Kissing.' It is the best photograph i will ever take.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">This morning, I got an email saying my paintings were accepted to be featured in a lil' lit' mag. Every time someone accepts my work, this is my reaction (sans the panning shot of past awards and published novels) :</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/KzDuEooXruA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">I love the city. Especially now that spring's here.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqLuxTdRHqY-U8w1DsdrkVRf4FW4aYCqfDXB3c7hyf_uB8_Fp3096GQFwQXNHPX-bVulQcmlTxR4Y1_3OA9-clDIud8JpYbw7PuKA6bFtd-K6wHD20NExn421o6IjyZTAC-JwnynwRuI/s400/DSCN3481.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713520948205691378" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH3SiMnhQxnitrb4E3jLZsXbmEbTlkBhvvGnls4jXwchfaqNi-zrRgRnZeXRJM60wqZ3oIMozjSE7l46uiVVpGADsV9BWFUjymf14nSkaVUKXB3X_tcY5F-tsYVQ7NIf_KdifADSzKaCM/s400/DSCN3486.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713520950745850770" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:78%;">I call this 'Two Colors of Levi Jean Almost Kissing.' It is the worst photograph I will ever take.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">While getting my hair cut, back massaged, and feet detoxed at <i>Ocean </i>(a luxurious yet inexpensive salon. I didn't spend more than 70 pounds), I browsed the latest <i>Vogue.</i> Lana Del Rey was on the cover. I admire her (recorded) music, and her style--"Lolita gets lost in the hood"--so read the interview.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPF2YfaIfbHoWDWjVHcbt6FaQx4ONIRwdWhPka0acjf4JkuWfAiVi4_JLbBYkSvx2OYJ72-bUuztkO81jkSGjKTiwtimxrQi6HWXFZJ5DquqKf5CJR7QWoHpNTRQ27hcRQvY78mEtZzss/s400/Lana-Del-Rey-Louis-Vuitton-for-British-Vogue-March-2012-090212-5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713524809554028530" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:78%;">From the intersection of Nabokov and David Lynch</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">When asked why she didn't want to make another album, Lana shrugged: "I've said everything I want to say."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"> I feel like there's something heavy in me, a book, maybe. If i could just <i>get it out</i>, i know i would feel so much lighter. I wouldn't have to make anything again.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><i><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center; display: inline !important; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"> </span></o:p></p></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Academics are second to traveling. From March 4th - 10th, Chelsea and I will be in Edinburgh and Dublin. That said, I've taken to my Critical Theory class, especially our discussions about Untranslatable Terms. Here's an Arabic word that doesn't exist in the English language:</span></p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;"><i><b>Ya’aburnee</b></i>: <i><span style="color: rgb(52, 52, 52); ">Both morbid and beautiful at once, this incantatory word means “You bury me,” a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them.</span></i></span></p></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(52, 52, 52); ">It's Sunday, and I don't want to do homework. Goodbye Internet. Hello dead white poets. Hello a song to pass the time:</span></span></p></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;color:#343434;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;color:#343434;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i><iframe width="420" height="30" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UYoo6VwAh7E" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><i><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center; "><i><span style="color: rgb(52, 52, 52); "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center; "><span style="color: rgb(52, 52, 52); "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--></i></span></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-73099821519947660712012-02-22T07:28:00.007-08:002012-03-25T13:51:57.855-07:00Every time I'm Told to Write less like an American, I write more like an American<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 392px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711995009525188098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwPlvLs7l3NTbJpMnHhPUvB2JWImfz1874pcek-h8v5WJHVXHElwLylb2-cUScnY-GHEE5Dq4ZyLbUfrMYrU_kHFuhQ1nKNt-s7SrKaO0HtCAkPT8RQcF4374PjEuZbOtxnN4Te0DK_8/s400/0b4a8808-d5ce-45b3-beae-a84f29b21eba-0.JPG" /></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 309px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711995006845650114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGgOiUBzgxk2rfwoOotpuh1OEDva9OXgxqhfZ1fHzkJarCw0ZvfeMSbjTwBeXVJbiaCiXbYOmjtal_VqEDri9OJXSXwmwfc92zDS-9XZ_5wG7jixR4HfkOwPLaZ7Hi4I91a2yOUoZw80/s400/comic-layout-2.jpg" /></span></i></b></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br />----</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><b><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">Deep Cuts<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">For Jack London<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";"><br /></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">The idea is a vibrant thread—or is it a scar<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">left by a blade of hair, the memory of an ice flash?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">Vibrancy ignites his oil lamp, the end<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes">o</span>f a match. He strikes…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">There: The story of a man lost<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">in the wild. He can’t build a fire, but dreams<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">of cutting open a dog so he can crawl inside. Somewhere<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:13.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">he’s blowing into his mittens—a thread clings <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">to his scabbed lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Smiling, he cracks<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";">them open, whistles a dog call. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><o:p> </o:p></i></b></p> <!--EndFragment--></span><p></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; font-family:'courier new';font-size:small;">---</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">This is the poem i handed in for Friday's workshop, o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';">ne of many of my odes to the Author Jack London</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711993000078722466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjELR6AB5Zd7WxCTYSkKecZaqi1CmRC1lHG82v29FqK3u_DIQZN306y7DDb0ZxYdUO_2Ym9ql9UDzuNbU7hhjdhAMv0VbbcprR8JSPaYoMg-YlGdutKv_mDCNIrJjqTE2VBG6KPtW_NWP4/s400/DSCN3365.JPG" /></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /><br /><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';">In 9th grade, my Geography teacher showed me pictures of Route 66. Dylan unintentionally describes it best: "A highway of diamonds with nobody on it."</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">After my sister was born, My dad sold his motorcycle (didn't want to risk an accident). He keeps one of the gears--at least i think it's a gear, a tiny wheel i used to spin just to smell the metal on my fingers--in his desk drawer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Recently, I discussed with another American how the longer we're abroad, the more we think of home; not wistfully, but in comparison. At home, there's so much <i>space</i>. We put up billboards just to make the sky smaller. </span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Here, every lawn square is fiercely staked and gardened. Even the countryside seems full.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">In my Critical Theory class, i was asked if there were any American ideas that couldn't be translated, that would be impossible to understand unless you were intimate with the culture.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">I said "Waffle House."</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-71959444008603691642012-02-16T13:49:00.000-08:002012-02-16T14:50:21.467-08:00Cardiff Art<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVOpoo93oIx5RzoSJrvE4nDtUeUTqFyYqeQBJrFxmo8D5spJgvirjcZ1JHePgtEwUjd8294N1BqILFQTGMduAnGkc5J5U6H88RgHs02H5OP02norK64Qn9cQ3FXvJtzACMeoYJ3Iuhxk/s400/nmwa27903.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709857723383014658" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><i>Partially Buried, James Rielly</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYDWEYrfvLbPGA_vTM66R-LOlmWhcuiKEXkntr5EJnCUYuHeNT9LTFeHmEggnZIsCWpZLbktnKLasIlb2aU3ReKLg-n9NK-UGc1e0in6kjri5sEWJRIS-p6MQ55P6zvtPVxmCY5fBAwZA/s400/004_+feel+like+I+live+in+a+small+box_2009_oilpaint+on+linen_80+x+100+cm.jpg.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709857711029364818" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;"><i>I Feel Like I'm Living in A Box, James Rielly</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Of all the artists on exhibit, James Rielly is my favorite. I love big, simple compositions."Partially Buried" takes up an entire wall. It's perfect.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 297px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcyen3wEu6AzZWStmq1biM4lNbavKzaz60uab_JZKqCySWCFBKO_CehqTNPr6yhyO4xUhXfGSykJAS2lrYfb8HhZwvtiiFzSk9QiYTJLZuJa5E4TMa8yAwmpDdmIPQZ8HMxBYCVsFKEDY/s400/81244.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709858126231491026" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><i>Mutual Congratulations, John Banting 1937</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Banting's "Mutual Congratulations" is apparently a class comment. He often represents the upper classes as talking skulls. <i>Mmmyes.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvPT45qiZIwkfooCOhnZuYxQueIFpn67IJUh1Qhr6sLSNVRqPhwgj_FZA_pbCXT5ZjctFJRskSbrGmHLeNM7YZc-zP8-ln21nmQJaM4J4OCG0X1pUBAIWQgR9gbOxn5aC1T6zLj8OFbw/s400/BACON460.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709857960876062850" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><i>Study For Self-Portrait, </i>Francis Bacon 1963</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"> "Study For Self Portrait" is postmodern poetry: We experience war, and suddenly we can't recognize our own faces. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">An all-inclusive self-portrait is, in most cases, impossible. The artist has too many Selves: Past, present, future, and then all the Selves he imagines he could be if only he studied harder, took the 9:05 train instead of the 9:16. His <i>what if </i>Selves.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"> Picasso had the right idea, but he didn't go far enough. We're rotating cubes. Even in 4-dimensions, it's impossible to catch ourselves at a glance. We'd need eyeballs in all spaces at all times.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">When I attempt a self-portrait, I resign myself to one awkward, sick Self. I invest significant energy in trying to be a graceful and well-adjusted person. I reserve the right to be a demonic chimera in portraits.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 347px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4EwAT1W0sdzwygfuC2C6b3nXmar-nNBnF5eOk8sX65kvlcFJSEJ7Gpld41nu-weZ-4rmZ42vCjGa3YomYosolM-HUH4ecQW0TswU_kjFPE_vsPOmGDGLchwpBVkV6RHXJuEpYKjrQNI/s400/Photo+on+2-16-12+at+8.31+PM.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709866206490026290" /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Dear Cardiff: I think you're one fine cup of coffee.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgOCR1dfpm8_5ObWOPXmSizzPI7of5Cy3yetGUQ6PepEyB7d9FNti7rlNHwhxlLbp-7kOn2ROxBaTrcePL6OxDfgBt6B2B1R4-EjgVUXEfPO9SZcnFcJW01GgbSuR0fsWAQSB4z-8orVY/s400/Photo+on+2-16-12+at+8.42+PM.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709867633162469954" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 303px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-34407250591783304152012-02-11T14:52:00.003-08:002012-03-14T14:02:50.573-07:00SWANS<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWT5WUv-pokfDdtwbvz1tWM_XNaegACLnPRZrILmfhBezXGsewitwMhtuus23YH5btn5muHFgtLQCb1uQnefEQPL3fXNDRHIlb9_ol_kFWAOQqbAKXVYpT9wzDkNzVzqA5_XzH4yn65uM/s400/DSCN3400.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708015095196536546" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheemdKV6SbXvnbLt9T3eLXMoMuJVyYeE888qLvt6JBgTKxVfIjkImxAC-iWi3fzcgoqo_9HGuHAIkdXVae0CV_NB8Xv1NKBeRiyd9S8-Aq9tW9BmIo3AGOxqn2obUL8RVecJPPjpTzrJA/s400/DSCN3410.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708015106147259026" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I am 8 years old, and my dad tells me a story. A curse is put on a princess, turning her into a swan. She is banished to a lake with 12 swan maidens.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The princess can only appear to the man she loves in dreams, but even then she is terribly shy and never speaks. Instead she plays the harp. She makes the most beautiful music, more beautiful than Debussy and Arcade Fire put together.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The man falls in love with her. When he finds out about the curse, he doesn't give a damn. He makes his wizard turn him into a swan too.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">After the wedding, the 12 swan maidens turn back into humans. The cursed princess and the self-cursed prince stay in the lake as swans.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">This is the story in my head as, twelve years later, the swan follows me around the lake. I don't know why he's following me. I don't have bread. When I try taking his picture, he buries his head in his feathers, like one of those boys who look down in Facebook pictures.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="text-align: center;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeG4al2y6Gp3UIwet1U1T_aVP0HH9SBViQIP51M9GcTe3U-AsG4XN-S2INWFmjeg1FbhZtVVuU9qBfqJ2MYWv1twb3RsB5suR2jlqgdtj6ARGsnV-fiNeWlnuQLZLGeydkxkp_ZvEZC5w/s400/DSCN3405.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708015121149317074" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTtWqjMIQo0klIC2QRpkirXoXY_fyIQuShVVIRCvZnphZ6GPt_ubNTR18HLFhwcoUFvv5ZXv1RraXDEsojXuRx8eXJrDZiAkVR57mlQbff9NkMSvnwK7weazIZk24EsPqIJc1_E00GfXE/s400/DSCN3401.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708018453649647570" style="text-align: center;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 232px; " /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxFGPVml2OaMAU98FPx1dyw3WAZRA3rYkG_sX40OzW4Zgk-qSv6i-Tt0FDKpqeNLnERemEgynk2JszKTij0UJ4fCi1tcalkWb2Iygk6aa_fPRdhw9MC_MsHfsUUW-HseXtCc1PtXsZMZI/s400/DSCN3411.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708018455579976338" style="text-align: center;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">The park is beautiful.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_sx6JU0GjgTkdrl4D8k110hp3ZiKfjFtb3Q1bWTXzWfro-cfUOQD7_xa4OXdV5vs3keXLKyrshdLLIG7pLlkSCXO74dONw8nAoO9FwgjsYanydj7MUSgDJLS4NZ8lyt2JVzZmn7BnpEM/s400/DSCN3413.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708018469180520594" style="text-align: center;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">That night i work on my comic book. My drawing is okay, but my pacing is slow. Comic books are like movies. If you don't edit the panels, the reader gets bored. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzge6JAuUp-HygeSaf5sPjIMOt5FoxJeVF735jm1CxSU9D7bgIbVO86bqwfiO_E1pV6KvZUToSG2RYegejSL-XOzmJdJ-esWFiY6r2pdaVH4KOUIrJgqlyGuYNhSSw2VVQsy6vtf06kAk/s400/DSCN3418.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708020478936270898" style="text-align: center;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 400px; " /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">i want to finish the comic before i come home for spring break. Since arriving Cardiff, i have been remarkably productive. Every day is another drawing or poem.</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Next weekend i'm visiting Carolyn in Sheffield. The last time i rode a train across Wales, I sat next to an a man with giant thumbs, which he licked generously before turning the pages of his sheet music. That's the thing with Wales. Everyone has sheet music, a cello on their back. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The man on the train was a concert organist.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">May we meet again, Big Thumbs. I raise my Mug to you.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlh13MO3NstgoS0-ZnKh-3rw4qGfZaKTl0N8TC2qTbn9WwOCnffFc5dhWhieNv8xf_VEDj1SRiWhy4M4sHH9rKyJ11l0CdkUz0JTzhMcAlVHYRoAr3Hc8uG45REkRFnEvMH64SqAKHRjw/s400/Photo+on+2-8-12+at+8.03+AM.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708024721670562994" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 359px; " /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-48089701874025847712012-02-05T11:21:00.000-08:002012-02-09T04:46:35.898-08:00it gets dark quick<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSPPh_HwNFM2PCA9Evephmsb9DbExN03IBlrMyKwtCzGylVx3UX_aZFe0tGg5sgekJPYy_WanAI8ezdNtgF28um1VF51ogn3tJSNWwPvD0nwX77ggc1rSSVQtisgm1JFaWBajde9snWPw/s400/DSCN3364.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705734296864056946" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Q4BUe2TUXryECdxobiYJrlMOj0ljO4YVhXUhPeg8-PWjKz_70__ag-_0IDJuOnKOOuzPmTG069PAiGIQghkm6JHbJswmzwoO86sTEnpGusKXudarf5IUulklO06afPZ82VpeTMKvLTM/s400/DSCN3368.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705734487720339490" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXgx3UTTKokgad-ibr2O6bQ_gsoRi-38k_HnGD1MGLZAPKpZH25SxxYfJuqTh3RYKfMWqSh5jJZlwZwYULycdSwbruDEBcuRwE1uT67Jt-mIQVfNQDtHaNAy21XYLULIlo2XI76JHtBI/s400/DSCN3373.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705735469970184258" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I cross the bridge and walk over the highway on my way to class. I walk over the highway on Saturdays and Sundays, too.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiplUy_8rqGcLrDs7965NWqak6FgZCDPHkCgPSGHpAJat_wfXfAi38q1QUncXoYfaFLQjOJhQtC3K-hrEvgLYhj-e9LvprLxzJit264BVOX0KiriuL4i_8qB6fEaCEcE-JAxFzWxrKNr78/s400/DSCN3366.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705735972837063362" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGgw5Ic2Sb4-EizffmEkjvsrBfKOLxxmwqdnUvk93ehz-Efgw9NaFZoF5Moz2CDvWM6gYCsfkgiyqQ7_YkS216YADk8jUObf0nBfFGrgkRch98NlYwcDBTaeTOXOVB7VON-qih_QJDnc/s400/DSCN3365.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705735984800279698" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">It gets dark quick. I've been looking up those bands you keep recommending. They're pretty good.</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Air is my favorite. Their new album, <i> 'Le Voyage Dans La Lune', </i>is about flying to the moon. It's based on a silent movie that was made in 1902, before there were atomic bombs and UFOs and The Simpsons.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm happy that even people without atomic bombs and UFOs and The Simpsons thought about flying to the moon, which is <i>La Lune </i>if you're French. Once, I watched the silent movie, the one from 1902, in a class. Darkness pulsed around the edges of the picture, as if the camera, which when you watch a movie is your eyeball, was very tired. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When the camera is very tired, it is called <i>vignette.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">When the camera is sleeping, it is called <i>blackout.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">When the camera is dreaming, it is called <i>fade. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">My eyeballs fade, and the highway isn't <i>the</i> highway at all, but another one, a bigger one that goes further than London, and I read somewhere that France is smaller than Texas, and the United Kingdom is smaller than France, and the highway in my head ends somewhere in the Pacific Ocean whose edge you are standing on because it is too cold to surf and anyway you don't know how.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I don't know how either, but I'll learn. I'm learning lots of things, like how to make coffee so I don't have to buy it every day and how not to wear ballet flats in the rain and how to draw people without them knowing and someday I'll know so much that I'll never have to tell anyone where I'm from.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-50601365879850024212012-01-29T08:49:00.001-08:002012-01-29T15:49:41.903-08:00In the Future, Winking will mean the same thing as "Fuck You"<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VFMMpSdBnrt-O6mRg1gvuNpkaQt7j1JCbBsve-ju-AgFyGfAOPkJuufNgWRE46qBMnO5-cDWrX6ZsmWgaBAV-S7c2EGXbrVrxViRZt9fTzbKYzq9z92KrUX3ZeaOU7naxInbjjFrcag/s400/DSCN3323.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703097780561135138" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJy4eu0RMFzJkQSmKNPiGqe7FbHD__LxLWVZpZP04F22sK5QFZ2YOVTF43juPZbCkPmolhBmaaNTjyUg8FIyX1Y0mZWXTaqX9a-RJp732TA7U4z9C6jUi0BHnLK6vjFXFfqPdCOTonJMk/s400/DSCN3322.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703097779304592530" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 327px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Panty</span> sniffer." </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Marta learns English insults from TV. "<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Pedophile</span>." </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Squeezing her head out the window--we can open it just a crack--she adds "What is a flying fuck?"</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">It's too cold to smoke outside. Afraid of setting off the fire alarm, we resort to craning out the kitchen window. Anyone watching--and there's always some one--would see two asphyxiated chipmunks, cheeks squished between glass.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">"It's an expression." I say. "It means not to care. Like, 'I don't give a flying fuck about your ham.'"</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">"<i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Punta</span>." </i>She uses the mild Spanish word for <i>slut.</i> "My ham is tasty."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Marta raves about Spanish ham, a glorified raw bacon. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Curiosity</span> drives me to break vegetarianism . The ham tastes like stale Crisco.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirT86cumQJuAWr-QuL_-JT-rmOI7JIortau8baTymVqBYlKHvbGNy-VceOItQhTjxf5tGwoubDVxMbVFx3sXL8lSEL3uTb0rRD8DKRXunEfnJh3d3qT1nAzaBKXymlCgLYPMM30nkgQB8/s400/DSCN3321.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703109521079580946" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 309px; font-family: 'courier new'; font-size: small; " /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">"Does the fuck fly in an aeroplane?" Marta persists. "Where does the fuck get his--her--" She struggles with the masculine/feminine dilemma, remembers English is supposedly gender neutral. "--<i>it's</i> wings?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Our breath is thick in the humidity. Before coming to Wales, I didn't know it was possible for a place to be simultaneously cold and humid.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><i>Tu <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">eres</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">más</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">feo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">que</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">el</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">culo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">un</span> mono," </i>says Marta. "You are uglier than the butt of a monkey."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;">Spanish is a dirty language. "More."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">Yo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">cago</span> en la <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">leche</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">tu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">puta</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">madre</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">I shit in your whore mother's milk."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">Many Spanish insults are family based. Later, I learn<i> </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><i>Tu <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">hermano</span> no <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">tiene</span> la <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">ingle</span></i> , or 'your brother has no groin', as well as </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><i>La <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">concha</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">tu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">madre</span>: </i>Your mother's cunt.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;color:#333333;">Cunt. A good word, probably old-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">english</span> judging by the vowel. I often wonder what makes a word taboo. Is it purely the sound, or is there a larger history at work? In Spanish, insults concerning shit are the most offensive. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';">"<i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Cagaste</span> y <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">saltaste</span> en la <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">caca</span></i>," says Marta. "You shit and jumped in it."</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:small;"></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';">In English, anything <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">connoting</span> strong sex--a fuck or a cunt--is censored from daytime TV. Both words have prominent "u" sounds, but the Spanish word for shit--<i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Mierda</span></i>--is beautiful. I imagine an English audience applauding the word in a Spanish opera:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';"><i>"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Miiiiieeeeeeeerdaaa</span>!"</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';">I return to my room and eat a banana to cover the taste of ham. What if 'banana' was a swear word? What if<i> '</i>if' was worse than 'cunt'? What if censorship becomes so out of hand that--forbidden to use even articles--we are forced to communicate in chirps and coughs?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:small;"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">In the future, a wink will mean the same thing as 'fuck you.' And don't even <i>think</i> of sneezing.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'courier new';font-size:small;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5qrPGw9nYHebtTehkgbDbeU3KEoK3QUQ817jMor3IhxSg94gX5Ikb0sooMZ6gz1CeycyV2TDHJpR6paHs2AEL_3C2lfRwIIPiRKY-3SUV-e-5rK2nWJgzwDEJLu6YyxyS3m8bujdTuWs/s400/DSCN3312.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703119438606249874" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 400px; " /></span><div></div></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center; "></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'courier new';font-size:small;"><i>A-choo!</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'courier new';font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:85%;color:#333333;"><br /></span></div></div></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-74696884632710846262012-01-28T14:18:00.000-08:002012-01-29T05:32:18.904-08:00Dragonless Ballet<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyU9ehM3WXTm9uFa8A0rdTw_8Rxcay6PsRZ_RDUJyJ63Q1w7Pa7PpofrMlRJENfw0J5YNM1JgBDW5fLHp0WO7dScDCKK6K4j9RSwI0pSXWqJdP5fVaa7vvL0UzB9v7qITNWyMYAz-tS4Y/s400/DSCN3289.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702811252869235794" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5cdvoErSc6wSJcpuhxpE0ceVt7LQ3nHSFYmztmtXsYcHyYhEE4ynP1Hyi-X0PDdWwOciHrR8YY3B1Crsj5KPFTaWwx62OP3L3Zo0YxiJMgpn7TIqk1CEq7AtN0om4UemRPb7hwInr_-c/s400/DSCN3295.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702811259152080162" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPSPicVjMzffZ-TvP7IfRUtOMtkZnSEe1yfkriHWEeDWqcpBwlS_pBQ5DpvqbPX1ed2Cojl1i5_6H3ABksd6PtFhH5lQJeobCh4vsRSbLJ79uQCoLNfgPLFgv0oXD2FmBd4Bindng5NQ/s400/DSCN3276.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702811265432223298" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I go to the city to photograph dragons, which balance <i>en pointe </i>atop<i> </i>most public building: the libraries, assembly houses, theaters, and art museums. In the ballet of Cardiff architecture, the dragon is the prima ballerina.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When I return, my photos consist of graffiti, trash, and food.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBbp5MQlD_EqUA31R11kLq_WXNpBuMRPB67K5BNw1R4Nuk0jyweaxCqNF2QeB5rUhhp2b9RmY5ai4CRSlRd5xtykUOVIzwtHorhBzt3GO6IWbMdza1OmaGvIKgawCbvZdg1NjNLkwWbfo/s400/DSCN3300.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702815898012153618" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When I'm in a new place, even the ordinary is mythical. A plastic tarp shimmers in the wind like a magic carpet. When the tarp/carpet becomes tangled in a low-hanging branch, I<i> </i>personify further: how <i>dare</i> that tree piss on that carpet's parade.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1yZyMVrs3YdKWyYf0nB3C60Bv0qfK0zGOAXg4Qk6nCX1UVHV9kZm-RCj4KHu8uO1-jIpfezqRV9Wp2AWbIm84P1OKjGTfVt43qc0y3sFJ0bESw5jC0oPXQZ8sUBizHBOesletn6mHHbg/s400/DSCN3292.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702814097760762194" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">There's a play going on, I'm sure of it, a drama so serious I can't stop laughing.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkefEnHose7RDNxa_yb3vihCtWDwbQUNO5R8ajj4QXdLz-P9FK3P3uC_-_ULY9dY-8sq0EWerHZVXIb0lO_s9dpA1mn9mbn_2I8HoyPWQXNe73DQ4HTQzfo8GrjnNgAH5__R_i56hWKxA/s400/DSCN3304.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702814103726187026" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The city hums with imaginary actors. The objects we leave behind are dancing in our footsteps.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jff160tqJ4zd2nsIfYtGyYAopsR-tYBtuYRxwtrvlHdDAlDJX8ke70e1GejSR1qNYvkifW-j7SMyRsQdsu0pX-B0IeXTOA9dfe4SNeUFrK8GzHJ9CDXfwENmpbTFJWysu0qAf_CSJPw/s400/DSCN3286.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702815128825809410" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /><div><div style="text-align: center;">Turn around. You might just catch the ballet.</div></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-52128654044562742912012-01-28T02:36:00.000-08:002012-01-30T06:28:18.491-08:00"History"<div style="text-align: center;">Natalia hates the Copenhagen beer. "3.8% <i>alcohol</i>." Her Polish accent is harsh on the word<i>. </i>"Do you drink soda? Do you go to the--how do you say--<i>disco</i> for root beer?"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"It was cheap." My feeble defense.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"America is a rich country where everyone is cheap" Then, resuming our earlier conversation: "You say America hates reality, and that is bad, yes, to ignore your history. So much <i>future</i>! Your country loves the word."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"I think it's because we're ashamed of our past."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"The past," she laughs. "In Poland, we are always in the past, always a victim. We were invaded by Germany forever ago and---No, you must have cigarette---"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I take her Marlboro light. They say this is how it starts. The first cigarette is out of politeness, as are cigarettes 2 through 4. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Every year we relive invasion. We <i>parade</i>." She drops cigarette 2 on the ground, stomps it--"like in American movie"--with the toe of her boot. "Our history is beautiful and violent but<i> it is history." </i>A pause as she contemplates cigarette 3. "This week I go to Amsterdam. I will bring you back, um, treasures."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Van Gogh was dutch." </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Right! You are <i>art</i>ist. I will bring you back Van Gogh." She starts to raise a can of non-alcohol, stops. "No, he is dead."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"He killed himself."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Natalia waves her hand dismissively. "History."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZtB1fJTuL9C4HBWeKH9MhbZdyqXDLOfm02UAlhPRs8kZt28dtjgzHIGD218DZAwB2lhPD1HuFq7KjsXNwnM2kqsx8ia0U6wyd19yxM9aI3CQxE8Rfv7YK4zPSL_IQ1qPfCrUqDq9HlY/s400/T058799A.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702638086199215826" style="text-align: center;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 245px; " /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-67849116161155424092012-01-27T04:25:00.000-08:002012-02-09T04:49:00.913-08:00Cafe Sereno (Gezus Kars)<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I don't know if they remember me. The last time I walked into the Cafe Sereno, I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">blonde</span>. My identity crisis is represented by a repeating decimal: A sometimes imaginary, sometimes real number multiplied by an equal and opposite fraction. I call this number <i>balance.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 383px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTs-xtl0ZtzT1SpZtyrGGl4QrQUdM-qZwuvToTZ1vYVNEgyGr-yfssoTtpBCTO10Wu14lVggyJAZkgHc3HJ8DcfDRWxECpLqBc2y9EYWmbl4vOqj4V7dmffopoT08lCup_55WMZVH-ViY/s400/27237_1386046808060_1138726361_31198925_832841_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702399742323015490" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><i>Balance!</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">"The dark hair suits you," <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">tuts</span> Jo, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">barrista</span>. Of course she remembers me. I order the same thing as last time, a pot of Earl Gray contaminated--ruined, <i>disgraced </i>with two dollops of cream.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Nasty," says Jo. "Yeti, Clare's here." She treats me like a regular, as if I stepped outside for a smoke two years ago only to return two minutes later.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Still pouring sick in your tea?" Yeti is the cook. He never went to University but believes, given 10 years time, those able to open pickle jars with their bare hands will have an advantage over those with Arts-based degrees.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">"All I'm saying is: does <i>your </i>scarf have your name on it?" He holds up the scarf he stole from the Salvation Army like a banner:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">YETI.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> "Came from Tibet."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Knit under YETI is another phrase:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">GEZUS</span></span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">KARS</span></span></span>.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Jesus cares," Jo, who has the angled, winking eyes of a fox, winks extra hard. "Do you find Atheism--what's the word--offensive?"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Religion's funny." I don't know why I categorize <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Atheism</span> as a religion. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Before coming to the cafe, I talked with a Theology major who never read C.S. Lewis yet managed--in a fuzzy, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">gesticulative</span></span></span> way--to mention the only idea of the writer's I find <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">truly</span> intolerable: "Jesus must be the son of God."</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> "I'd rather talk about the weather--or art, even," I tell Jo. She sends me to the gallery next door. The drawings--nudes, horses, a sea cliff in Northern Wales--are just expressive enough to maintain marketability. For me, the only one inciting aesthetic feeling is a splashy smear, a border collie crouched in grass. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center; "></div><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"> I still miss my dog. Suddenly I don't want to talk about art. <i>Jesus doesn't have to be the son of God. It doesn't matter, and it's not our business.</i> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> C.S. Lewis, and my vague Theology major for that matter, believe Jesus <i>must</i> be divine, or else the apostles--all the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Pauls</span></span></span> and Matthews by the dozens--are wrong. I wander back into the Cafe. "Jesus was just the best one there: Smart and <i>really </i>kind."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center; "></div><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">"I'm smart," says Jo. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I remember a song: <i>I guess it would be nice to give my heart to a God, but which one?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Me too," says Yeti.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Later, the song adds <i>but Physics makes us all its bitches.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1Pj991HQ9yL-7ho3RQMQWTvQQCjTzw4cK_y1GhZWDjhJSVdZVESKyTGR559rFfBcGPi21FLlgtqHLPXFHlRqZ2SC8453Z3XxyptIydelWetdd2t8Yyv3beZBURWVmC6kiCxwPB9uxo0/s400/Screen+Shot+2012-01-27+at+7.23.40+PM.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702395262160899410" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 80px; " /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:78%;">An Atom <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Unsplitting</span>: my attempt at film photography</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i>"Me too." I step outside and shamefully light up. I never<i> </i>smoke. Want of conversation makes me a social smoker, though I'm alone for this one. Every time my mom lights up, she turns away and says "Have patience with your mother, who has fallen from grace."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> I look inside. Jo cleans the espresso machine as Yeti holds his scarf up for a table of girls just expressive enough to maintain marketability: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">GEZUS</span></span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">KARS</span></span></span>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-76828379639188742842012-01-25T14:48:00.001-08:002012-01-25T16:00:02.768-08:00"Wake Up!"<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSY1osW215t8ygoeawCxAkhAj4fyQxvSCHsqJm0kPanYWgKZ3n0S-f9T9vwXOwtgy2D1ujU8HsZF3zrJScNvYPhl4fPUiLTUvAsCWaGMVNLOsVYpoPEX4tE_7HsDYT0O5YSMvzgpSHrk/s400/DSCN3263.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701705345909265426" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJWoSD7HypwKsPzPN6HXXWAy_X6770sf-M740i3teB_driDdmsIAXdn-4SiEOQrjcPzPYu3H9TORV5n2f588FOVcp3poQhexPYLjfNA-Xv8vZhjkBhBY0C3NrXRoE6gCBqgwenmDoJN0/s400/DSCN3267.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701705453267340146" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I follow the cat under a bridge spray painted with subversive graffiti: </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">TORIES OUT</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">RIOT ON</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">IT'S AN INSIDE JOB--WAKE UP!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I don't know enough about the country to agree. I don't know enough about the cat to be following it, either, but here I am, chasing a bushy tail through the gates of a Welsh cemetery.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_iumsn8mD2s77w-WKMsRjYIvu1J4H_ABE5THBW9ee7ioJhUOxtG3ugRgVQf5CAVMSKMWdELDPYRpuEJla67cMKrH7yDSqhE6T3DK-0TP_zVns5dhGI76b_OdkpCNFMcaj8BUyuH-dWw/s400/DSCN3265.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701708046815454050" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I don't know what death smells like. Anyone who's seen death--actually seen it--wouldn't write about it. Death has no smell. It just <i>is.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSD3Iv2dc8eYdZ3w2FLRlr89ZGhc9i6WgqgtlaRQNrfYYYO5ofr_kYwByPFr9636DixQqLgYFsTGPMrl0VZNA7fQoPZDsbQCtlkKPXM10UXdcasscihRK5_DOtk0HDsSOS9ry6jU5QKiI/s400/DSCN3268.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701707429088382386" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtIXfkBYT6gZvJNq2rOfMQcIRA6jwM-WMnSmipSDW2whzhzD3986fSKN-LCsofq9y7bmh7yVyM3vmW66bNEq55aQmlpCU63SrZIATd0ad0P4TONWu8A6HriSvGqA2ypdyRWghmcTy2VkE/s400/DSCN3273.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701709411094477442" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">My ballet flats squelch in the mud. The cemetery goes on forever, grass and worms and upturned earth---a gnarled tree. The cat slips between the roots and is gone.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Remember: <i>Gone</i> isn't <i>dead. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The cemetery is ancient. If radiation makes zombies of corpses, only a fine dust will rise from the graves. Buzzing, the dust will fly through our ears--<i>Brains!--</i>and carve away what we don't need. All those heavy, heavy thoughts. The song lyrics and movies we replay to torture ourselves. All that <i>life</i>.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I climb a crooked monument, stare into the face of an angel. "Wake Up!"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-36359070867978496952012-01-24T10:44:00.000-08:002012-01-24T10:46:04.614-08:00when you think more than you want you begin to bleed<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JOBlr0OUfD0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-84066771004332291662012-01-24T00:36:00.000-08:002012-01-29T15:47:44.514-08:00Post-Apocolypse Street Lights<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">On the box I threw away, there is a clearly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">diagrammed</span>, 4-step instruction on how to use my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Bodum</span> Original French Press. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I navigated the labyrinth of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Tesco</span>--think <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Wal</span>-mart with mod furniture--only to pay 5p for a plastic bag. Wales is very environmentally conscious. Either you bring your own bags or pay for plastic.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Brown soot swirls in my coffee. I didn't wait the suggested 4 minutes before pressing it, presumably because I didn't read the directions. Still, I am fiercely proud of my coffee, which I made myself. The soot is my <i>signature.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When my coffee is reduced to a lumpy residue, I contact Ollie--editor of <i>Gair Rhydd ("</i>Gay Read" if you're English)<i>,</i> a subversive, student run paper nothing like <i>The Penn</i>--and get a job that will get me free tickets to art shows and post-apocolypic adaptations of King Lear:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVUTo_lKUhwignAl0MbQDoCwiBnHtD5eWcwTxqlpX_s6cabaS3L5dSSSb4G8K8K2czJ6sS1aiUQTjEBeiIfg91O-1XOdzEERB9xKhi8CZkxRrc6aE7Z1keyxDgz3v3T4jU8AE07vvFvIE/s400/King-Lear.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701275947332274562" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Ollie is my only Welsh contact so far. Most students I meet are American, except a guy from Kuwait, a "high risk" country according to English flight regulations. He wears Brooks Brothers, drinks Dr. Pepper, and speaks better English than I do. Naturally, it took him four times as long to get through customs.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center; "></div><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjROwYo4_a74YeOECBwCSKMWVG1Blw-SdMi8nWxlXvPb79Jquj-YtGjYsr4U91GfU0n8QZtzx6Lo2XLNJhW7R7a2hlRl_WWHnWqyeIeKqzoDAisEDi2b1nVGOBUZg2azSgeGsUEYUxtqQc/s400/DSCN3260.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703198770352672850" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I sent 3 letters today, and felt appropriately hip for arranging the stamps in accordance with The Elements of Design. I also felt home sick. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"It's not easy, having a good time."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-32946514764961977142012-01-22T11:33:00.000-08:002012-01-30T06:35:01.855-08:00Hotel 100 (I'm a Vampire Too)<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">I have an attic room in a skinny inn with fat pillows. A window looks out on weather vanes piling chimneys piling slate piling new stones piling old stones. Somewhere, a wailing seagull. Somewhere, a complaint about the recent soccer match: "Fuggin' Chelsea."</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">Always, the smell of rain.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">The innkeeper has been to the U.S., where her daughter is a professional ice skater. Imagine being paid to be excruciatingly graceful. Imagine your mother hanging pictures of you, a sequin swan, in her hotel 1,500 miles away.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">Imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">I meet my flat mates tomorrow. I haven't met any students yet, except one, a philosophy major at IKEA who finds my sloth attacks on the British card reader hysterical.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">"Our card-gummys are <i>really</i> stupid." An expert on card swiping as the act applies to God, Freud, and the Human Condition, he swipes my Visa, just <i>swipes</i> it in the manner of a food critic fluffing his napkin after a delicious yet unsurprising meal.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">"It's the same in the U.S. Just a different brand of stupidity." The Humanities: where philosophers and readers of Rilke bond over a shared cynicism of things that go <i>bleep</i> in the night.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">When I get back to the Hotel 100, I stand under the chandelier and wonder: </span></p><div style="text-align: center; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBKeYUVV3MJyqOOUk_Ots1-sPQUVNu6IVYCUM29CXKMe7zQT5669_pm-Ne5tv3XIS3zaNT3UNNOCub6xOUBikWPFhH0BiNrMlHEW2QjcKq18jYFcnkRfy0C3HEv6z_J9AMGWQ0wgwV9w/s400/DSCN3246.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700547816665251730" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0VoUG70JN7Yx86B6vE9d_qJtbDgD3bnprKWVPDVduw7W49qFtnGYOEBnEQTW_dO_kOjHfAS7jIyc5XQGoysTO9ydZbXlnxfXn2R0DXE29tSofKqbD7E3dGpWuEdEKKG_MSlQQg5JdLxw/s400/DSCN3247.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700547821225844914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">What the fuck am I doing 1,500 miles away from everyone I care about, a small fish--microscopic plankton, really--in an ocean where you need a degree in philosophy to swipe a credit card? What if I find out I'm not talented? What if everyone hates me for ending my sentences with the phrase "so yeah"?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">Homesick, I flip through <i>The New York Times. </i>"There's not much news in your news," says Abby, a fellow guest visiting family for Chinese New Year.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">She's referring to an article about the Republican primaries. Mitt Romney embarrassed himself in a debate. Suddenly I'm not so homesick.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:85%;">"It's the American Tradition. We call it Yellow Journalism, which isn't yellow so much as bloody neon." I try flipping to the Comics, remember there are none. "Our politicians are vampires. It's a beautiful country with lots of vampires. I'm a vampire too. So yeah."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-58239240491269625632012-01-19T06:43:00.000-08:002012-01-19T13:07:33.422-08:00dog with a broken leg, tendons too torn to beg<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/rRDP4g5eiyM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-18599507321053188682012-01-18T17:55:00.000-08:002012-01-30T06:37:15.421-08:00Two days: Goodbye, Iorek.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLmIP7dgggMs85Nf2Q3J5XaeslDzNBUeUwtmbYTswmJlpx4B2k1QRCxaHTPwgViCyk6WxEWajDPd7akJXXegT6Zq6TaRPqhGnema0s9eP1fcqBPldagkNoluKOAdbG-8eA_unGHx8NjM/s1600/DSCN3231.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLmIP7dgggMs85Nf2Q3J5XaeslDzNBUeUwtmbYTswmJlpx4B2k1QRCxaHTPwgViCyk6WxEWajDPd7akJXXegT6Zq6TaRPqhGnema0s9eP1fcqBPldagkNoluKOAdbG-8eA_unGHx8NjM/s400/DSCN3231.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699156771894837586" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_Jpmu9c2zaVbwUdhxvU2jTi4HrlUeu_-ZcY2GYpr8H44d9_RAC5HiuT_tJ5I776peAWcr42amUQ7oAt4OwsuRyYPSEJCN5B7yD-ucUSWFrv8rNGRPWqslf9J32qrPzgBkXrjlfhJ2zU/s1600/DSCN3230.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_Jpmu9c2zaVbwUdhxvU2jTi4HrlUeu_-ZcY2GYpr8H44d9_RAC5HiuT_tJ5I776peAWcr42amUQ7oAt4OwsuRyYPSEJCN5B7yD-ucUSWFrv8rNGRPWqslf9J32qrPzgBkXrjlfhJ2zU/s400/DSCN3230.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699156768428779170" /></a>Goodbye Iorek, my bear, my love, my flame. If you were a smaller bear, I would fold you in my suitcase, put mittens on your claws. Airport security will never know.<div><br /></div><div>But a bemittened bear is a humiliated bear. I could not ask you to humiliate yourself. Not <i>you</i>, Iorek. </div><div><br /></div><div>You must maintain dignity in my absence. Rule with a mighty paw my kingdom of lesser bears, action figures, and My Little Ponies.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will see you when the seasons have changed thricely. Actually, twicely. Thricely sounds better though, so let us pretend, Iorek, that May 19th--my birthday--is a season all its own.</div><div><br /></div><div>Farewell, Iorek, and please, <i>please </i>do not be offended that I am taking The Unamed Tiger in your stead. He is nothing to me, my cuddly seal-slayer. Small animals are always changing, and are never named. You call them Pamela, and a year later it's "Call Me Jessica."</div><div><br /></div><div>You know what comes after "Call me Jessica", Iorek?</div><div><br /></div><div>"Call me Brittney." "Call me Angela. " </div><div><br /></div><div> "<i>Arwin</i>."</div><div><br /></div><div>My kingdom is not a vague, fan-made adaptation of Middle Earth. It is a season all its own. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is <i>your</i> season, Iorek. Be sure to keep my cactus watered. My <i>Of Montreal</i> albums listened to. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and Iorek: Get the hell in my suitcase.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8169531893233815684.post-85704731838137619552012-01-17T15:43:00.001-08:002012-01-30T06:52:51.544-08:00Four Days<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-U_kg2VchuYRFHTs0OkINMJUSicVi-YmM2KCLXVOfRR0OHp1v0LpSJrF8EN5ruSfXS1L4oG_ZQ6beIhOgQyTA3kt4MgI7M_jzxWeEfgkzZzU58wVQ2HkPg6SwPnklY_EPg3ChTyhk8S4/s1600/DSCN3209.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-U_kg2VchuYRFHTs0OkINMJUSicVi-YmM2KCLXVOfRR0OHp1v0LpSJrF8EN5ruSfXS1L4oG_ZQ6beIhOgQyTA3kt4MgI7M_jzxWeEfgkzZzU58wVQ2HkPg6SwPnklY_EPg3ChTyhk8S4/s400/DSCN3209.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698752753419343026" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">My father told me not to stick my fingers through my dreamcatcher. </div><div style="text-align: center;">"Why?"</div><div style="text-align: center;">"Your bad dreams will escape and haunt you."</div><div style="text-align: center;">"What about the good dreams?"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">My father stared at the parking lot outside my window as if a great drama was unfolding, a Greek play like the ones he taught to college Freshman at Rutgers University. <i>Enter, Stage Left, </i>Sisiphus with fire from the Gods, his great gift to humans: The Knowledge to blow ourselves up. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Sun fell on the windshields of cars, the freshly painted lines between parking spaces, and--I know because my father saw them too-- the trees that used to be there, the magnolia petals clogging the stream between our house and the town.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Dad, what about the good dreams?" </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSBmo1jSHnxNVIRbi5go7HbR7XGHiBNn8M0Q-Sos9zCOEiTaO3hewtg2ODIXF9bKpiebpfW5AOW_wA0_tJRLwFmS_bYMaux3LSIy9uun9gh5xf1HdYT3u3_fYarTFxUeZGUMFCRe4NHU/s1600/DSCN3238.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSBmo1jSHnxNVIRbi5go7HbR7XGHiBNn8M0Q-Sos9zCOEiTaO3hewtg2ODIXF9bKpiebpfW5AOW_wA0_tJRLwFmS_bYMaux3LSIy9uun9gh5xf1HdYT3u3_fYarTFxUeZGUMFCRe4NHU/s400/DSCN3238.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698752247321147266" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2TBQxCWgqFVCG1C8lzKHr3Go2LjmF6ZAz3P1HQJbhSzyfEZpmQGbrA5lLkUYBLKqty4AoT0CldC9gT_-4GUc73BForxx8mHqxG4VeqYA_xO1MP0vZQnuqqOgRHDJ-qXagKHJ4FCkMz4Q/s1600/DSCN3229.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 381px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2TBQxCWgqFVCG1C8lzKHr3Go2LjmF6ZAz3P1HQJbhSzyfEZpmQGbrA5lLkUYBLKqty4AoT0CldC9gT_-4GUc73BForxx8mHqxG4VeqYA_xO1MP0vZQnuqqOgRHDJ-qXagKHJ4FCkMz4Q/s400/DSCN3229.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698752230743297458" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_Ktam5KTD-s0tyKAn-pwtpsoY1xzBczICM0bZhYJLmMQwl1j-1j5_BC71oA-eA4t_XizaKKMDGbDpIsc0vqgssWKWtXCpbp__WgzsgTJVYv6LZ70ETzGV811Ztw4p9Qo0tr2XzmPJH4/s1600/DSCN3237.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_Ktam5KTD-s0tyKAn-pwtpsoY1xzBczICM0bZhYJLmMQwl1j-1j5_BC71oA-eA4t_XizaKKMDGbDpIsc0vqgssWKWtXCpbp__WgzsgTJVYv6LZ70ETzGV811Ztw4p9Qo0tr2XzmPJH4/s400/DSCN3237.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698752223440241474" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">If we don't poke our good dreams from the dreamcatcher, they will rot between the strings. They will droop like the skin under our eyes. They will grow old.</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When I was young, I looked for adventure in books, or in the clothes in my attic, dresses and mink coats like in the movies my mom watched when she was blue. I ambled in the woods looking for talking lions, Jimmy Stewart, a glimmer in the stream.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Just looking.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I watched many good dreams rot before I realized that adventure is not something you look for. Not outside, anyway. It's something you find under the ribby ruins of that shrine you built to your past. All those bad dreams you let haunt you. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">This is what happened to Sisiphus: After giving us the power to blow ourselves up, he was punished by the Gods. He was forced to push a very-damn-infinitely heavy boulder up a very-damn-infinitely high mountain. <i>Forever.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">When you're haunted, the bad dreams roll over each other until you're pushing a putty glob of bones, your personal snowball from Hell. Adventure is letting it go. You jump from the mountain into an unfamiliar lake.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Adventure isn't the slimy boulder you're used to. It's thin air and the water like a wall of bricks, your breath knocked from your lungs.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Then you shudder. Then you breathe.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWhlVQBgJmrg0UlfZGaX_TfPOxxON5Tur3xiG1w9CcUfwpe4t7qDkCNircnIh3_addQpdgCakeAUv6X5xaooM7RF3iWp44pyC7O7zIUbm6YvgYLEH4w8uQbcyf_ueQXPqFqd8C0KYgwD0/s1600/DSCN3226.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWhlVQBgJmrg0UlfZGaX_TfPOxxON5Tur3xiG1w9CcUfwpe4t7qDkCNircnIh3_addQpdgCakeAUv6X5xaooM7RF3iWp44pyC7O7zIUbm6YvgYLEH4w8uQbcyf_ueQXPqFqd8C0KYgwD0/s400/DSCN3226.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698752207266446370" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvSnLeL9pQPYNnzqOY-4jU9h7uxwuY8FhOwVbcKWUfMpzPWwCUvTnKQ9R2Ix-uXVq2xU3lgLouxaTpJhsfvyfuFgKUDsLaZ3gGaNHOcWNjzZr-WboYw1fsttjGYrZLaZIS-xXkXXi5Rw/s1600/DSCN3223.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvSnLeL9pQPYNnzqOY-4jU9h7uxwuY8FhOwVbcKWUfMpzPWwCUvTnKQ9R2Ix-uXVq2xU3lgLouxaTpJhsfvyfuFgKUDsLaZ3gGaNHOcWNjzZr-WboYw1fsttjGYrZLaZIS-xXkXXi5Rw/s400/DSCN3223.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698752204069864050" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Four days until my adventure begins.</div></div><div style="text-align: center;">*</div>Clare Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00642082309473241915noreply@blogger.com1