sawing copper

I finally finished (er, 2 months a go) my jewelry class assignment (er, 1 of 3)! Most people think it's a prawn, but it's supposed to be a feather; hehe. a fossilized prawn feather! which I think, the better it is, the closer it is to ugly - the more interestingly beautiful. I'm proud. so proud.

are dance parties over

in your neon hair bands, your eyelashes sharpened and coiled; the trumpets, the saxaphones your ears entrapped, released in loud sound headphones. dark like the night, Night come quickly. how time skips past with your skippits and scrims in melodic dane. gain the zinx from your slint of an eye drop, daze, and widened smile in energy gilded through your ribcage. shoulders sharp like The Knife; I used to sink under but now I'm a water-treader, mind-reader, hairband stealer

my mom's heart

is a leopard catching prey on a sunset'd day
I draw her heart with crayons, they never fill in quite right, they take away their own placings
I'll fill the places with strawberries, red like a heart but with seeds of armour. her bones, her sternum is a generous plate
she loves music like hot showers on tired shoulders, dreams to dance in it perfect, but she only listens to our mixes

dance party

When I used to go visit my cousins in Manitoba we'd be hanging out the homestead of a friend snapping sunflower seeds in our teeth, sipping ginger ale and someone would play a great cd that everyone seemed to know all the lyrics to, something a little obscure but poppy- like the SuperFriendz or old Sloan; a bit of enthusiastic foot tapping would begin, the volume would turn up, singing commences, someone would start mock head-banging, another would mimic the bass chords and before you knew it people would be up dancing! Maybe this happens in other places in modern times -- but aren't you all just dying for an impromptu dance party.

We went and saw Crystal Castles last night - so danceable them. You could play their whole album and just dance, so I was sad&mad when they only played for about 40 minutes and I was just basking in 17 and shows again. Better value with their cd; it was like a $1 a minute -- jukebox would be cheaper. I understand the hollering girl was tired, but like she's necessary? the music is vast and glorious in its electronic beauty; though I admit, I could stare at her for a long time, something about dark eye-make-up with perfect pale skin & that high-school frailty.

Things and their effect on focus

Would I focus more on specific things (like jewelery-making) if there weren't other things around like, even, a bookshelf worth of books, or a banjo in the closet. Am I more prone to making nothing because there is too much potential, and the choice just results in inactivity?

You know when you stay in a hotel. You've brought maybe 3 things to do or read, and that's it. There's a easiness about the simplicity (albeit, uninspiring?) of having only those 3 possible things to do.

Do people who live in minimalistic environments engage in more creative pursuits because there's less of a visual onslaught?

Should I put my books behind closed doors, and take some of the art off the walls?

the things you own end up owning you

www.nataliedee.com

We didn't think we had 'that much' stuff, and then we started moving. It seems now, we have A Lot of stuff. When you remove your stuff from their cubby-holes, place them into boxes where they are not nicely categorized, nor are they necessarily protected from harm (because, well, I have a really bad attitude about packing correctly), you begin to sense the chaos of what you thought was orderly and reasonable.

The true test of your love for something comes when you have to un-load it, clean it, cram it somewhere, and haul it on your back down two flights of stairs; pull it out of the vehicle, and haul it down another flight. Should you still be thinking when you bash your elbow, 'I love you, you are useful and beautiful,' then and only then may you keep this item. If instead you are thinking, 'I would happily get rid of most of the stuff you contain just so I don't have to deal with you,' then this is the course of action you should take. Following the haul, there is the cleaning around where this barbarian lived, the dust, the wall skufs, the baseboard grime - was he really worth it?

Now, in isolated cases you may say, 'yes, that's how I got it home in the first place,' but when you multiply that by all your other so-called loved possessions, certain ones will pale. There are many things I 'like' in my home - pretty much everything, but after moving, only a few that I truly Love.

Maybe it's just that I'm such an emotional creature, or so lazy I have to have a purpose for every exertion, but I really didn't think alll that work, which was definitely our responsibility - as we acquired it all - was worth the love I feel for those possessions.

From now on, before I buy or take-in anything off the street, 'do I love it enough to wash under it, dust it weekly, carry it on my back on a hike, protect it from wear & tear, wrap it for transport, spend the time and energy & money to have it refinished when necessary... If you consider that for not just home furnishings, but for every bit and bob -- I think your materiel will narrow to a manageable few. Look at shoes, for example, do you love them enough to weather-protect them, buy matching shoe polish, brush and buff them. Remember when people used to really take care of their stuff? That's because they weren't throw-away style, they felt the responsibility of ownership, and also, they didn't have to tend to the internet, so they had time to polish the furniture.

And another thing, will someone please create a sleeping system that can be rolled-up; mattresses are the most idiotic thing to maneuver.

place

new is romantic
eventhough the grid ceilings need mondrian, the toilet's chest cavity shows; snapping baseboards, stepping over tetanus
but it's New; romanticizing lino. It's made of linseed, it's organic

but I like to hear cats leaping, dashing
there's a yard for a herb garden and uncle Herb is eccentric muttering in the garage.
but I love the wallpaper wrapping paper new

but Still I love my peeling plaster making new art on pipes, walls, and how the primary blue towels brim from the brick tile, and the whirling radiators boil tea for everyone

to some is grim; to me a something to improve the saddest bones we can live in, and still be full of fleshy flesh

inter-view

The first question they asked, sitting around me like an obtuse triangle at an oval table, "Where do you see yourself in 5 years." Their voices in sharp-pitched unison. "Not here" (in this room with you), I thought. My words dashed into my back right brain, the only place they couldn't see in my periphery, my eyes looked up, left, trying to conjure something. What I imagined were holy breifcases of life preservers, my rosy-cheeked husband with my hand, the verges of great (glory!) tribulation. I thought of my (prophetic?) mousepad, a dove, branch in it's mouth, it's soaring belly reflecting a burning downtown. They must have seen my eyes glaze in quietness, and after some dull "uhm;" we moved on. Four whole people in a room, door closed, and nothing.