lazing

Crashing early on a Friday night, finishing up the whole cleaning the old apartment thing, taking an excursion with one of my homegirls to Oberlin on a sunny winter day, to drive through farm country listening to Soundgarden and Quicksand, walk around, catch up on life, gaze at sundry beautiful wares and artifacts at the art museum. Got all geeky over fragments of Turkish pottery and Durer prints. Oberlin might be a bit too hippie for my square self to dwell in, but it's a nice little place, and given that it was one of the first colleges to admit women and people of African descent, their activist cred is way better than my alma mater's.

Skipped out on watching the end of the football game, drank a lot of tea, slacked around last night with some kindred souls talking about everything, it wasn't like much happened this weekend, but what happened was good.

shivered

The chill piercing marrow, the darkness comes so quickly, the apathy of sleeplessness and I almost didn't go anywhere last night, curled up on the couch drinking tea and watching movies like the true bachelorette that I am but it was right around the corner and I'm glad I showed up, because sometimes you go and hang out with people you don't know and it sucks so much you want to run out screaming and then other times like this one, it ends up being pretty awesome, and more of the geekiness slips out but no one seems to mind.

And now to study, to shake the ennui, to get through the season and remember the light.

the last minutes

Cramming the first draft of a paper, trolling for citations, a brief interlude in Pittsburghia with friends from the old days. We listen to Creedence and the Stones just like old times, watch hockey, laugh, drink, play broomball Clerks-style on the balcony between two houses, walk up to the overlook at Mount Washington to gaze over the glittering metropolis nestled among rivers and hills. This little tradition has lasted eight years now and what I love about this little crew of people is their openness to others, the conversations had, and the way that we keep cycling back into each others' lives every few years.



I'm thankful that others have driven and that I can sleep in the car, lulled by the sound of 90's tuneage, waking up the next morning in need of caffeine, still feeling somnambulant and warm.

And then it's back to the daily grind after the lack of sleep, as we debate kinder gentler machine gun hands in class and I say too much incoherently, but I just can't agree with seeing the world through the binary of men and women, and it means nothing to me. Was I ever idealistic about people in large groups? Even in my days of starry eyes I don't think I ever was.

And the last hour is brutal, piles of things beyond my control and pay grade and ability because I can't be magical and compliant all the time, and I find myself getting angry, feeling resentful being constantly patronized, trying to hold in the angry salt eyes until I can be out of this building because I'm tired, praying for grace to keep calm and put things in perspective, trying to be thankful for what I've got yet resentful for feeling used, though that's the way of life for the peonage. I guess we're human resources and that's what we're there for. It's the ennui of perky holidays and innate nature sneaking up, just two more days til painting and sleeping in and just being away.

unwinding

Clocking out and driving to the east side to hang out with good people, wander through Coventry, converging to walk down the hill, Tangerine and the Marquess connecting quickly, me and Muk catching up since it's been a couple months and we've both had a lot going on. "It could be a little warmer," he says, nostalgic for warmer climes, but the weather is perfect for me, the perfect balance of sun and breeze, the crowds of people in the street below and despite the vast majority of whiteness, no hassle for our mixed company.

We get food and wander around, relaxed and a bit tired from long days of work, taking in the smells of grease and marinara, the guidos and bright young things, marveling at the imminent dangers of carnival rides near trees and power lines and laughing at the snarky casino runners and the sign for Holy Rosary Fried Dough, before walking up the hill past the cemetery joking about the free fill dirt and Coventry flash mob teenage zombie apocalypse, hanging out in the street watching the kids two doors down sing Lady Gaga songs on the front porch until their parents tell them to shut up, zoning out on the couch in his apartment talking, eating oranges, listening to Nine Inch Nails.

I cleaned off some of my acrylic transfers tonight and did mundane life stuff like grocery shopping and errand-running and making sense of the jumble of accumulation in the apartment.

But I did get a bike ride in, rode through the streets past condos and kids playing in the park to watch the sunset and slow down to take in at least some of the day that was mostly spent running.

let us go then you and I...

The days are not nearly so sublime as the nights, when the heat dies down and the stars glimmer. An afternoon spent in the shade of trees by the lake scooping up salsa and getting philosophical with those who share the same credo but different perspectives as kids and puppies tumbled in the grass.

I like having these conversations with people who aren't my age, who come at the issue from different angles, who've been around longer or seen different things, because otherwise it becomes an echo chamber of mutual affirmation. I thrive on these kinds of conversations

The neighborhood was quiet, but something's happened because the cops are out, lights flashing, flashlights shining on the house next door, sirens in the distance. I don't know what happened.

One of my friends from my Kent days who also moved back here, came over for general west-siding last night, and we bought pasta and fresh oranges and tomatoes from the West Side Market, spices from the Caribbean market around the corner, and I got a crash course in cooking really well. I picked herbs and zucchini from the garden, sliced vegetables as he concocted homemade meatballs seasoned with mint and coriander, simmered tomato sauce on the stove, concluding that Les Discrets is good tuneage to cook to before heading down to the beach for ice cream and the sunset, sitting on a broken picnic table half buried in the sand.

The park closed, and we wandered over to the Italian festival at Our Lady of Mount Carmel, where Cardboard Benedict was hanging out, little kids were dancing to Michael Jackson, the gambling was in full effect, and we enjoyed ourselves immensely in the basement watching some old Italian men play accordion and mandolin as a trio of singers worked their way through old pop standards. To see them having so much fun and playing well, warmed our little musician souls to see them suddenly so young and lost in songs they loved.

I feel like I'm in a movie, he says as we walk through the old Italian neighborhood after scoping out the carnival scene in the humid glow of Christmas lights still strung on balconies, big band music emanating from open windows, someone's dance party on a top floor, disco ball and Top 40, stray cats looking for love, ending the night with some mix CD-making and laughing at terrible movies until it got late.

I love the ease of familiarity, because when we were all younger, we had lots of random adventures like this, flying kites in thunderstorms, wandering through downtown late with a crew of people we picked up on the way to hang out at the playground at midnight, driving up to Cleveland or Akron to see bands, and I was wishing that some of our mutual friends were there to share the magic of summer nights like this again, thankful that the sense of wonder isn't gone even when other things are lost.

magic lantern show

Since I'm not the most social of creatures, and don't want to bore my real-life friends, here's what we do instead of slideshows nowadays.

Half my photos are on the Battery-Eating-Baby-Camera, but thanks to the recommendations of one of my friends who drives semis along the eastern seaboard, I exited the gridlock of I-90 for an epic jaunt through Erie, PA, past such fine establishments as the Hard Rock Motel (no pictures, sadly, as I was trying to not crash into other people's cars) and a detour to a record store stuck in an alternate 1988 where punk and thrash never happened, and there were rows and rows of still-cellophaned cassettes of Motley Crue, 12-inches of forgotten and the "alternative" section was mostly 80's new wave that even I hadn't heard of.

There were also a surprising amount of fundie churches through here, or at least the ones that said "Fundamental" and advertised it. Have I finally stumbled across the Real America? I'm not sure, because when I think of Erie, I think of the hardcore youth crew kids that used to come and fight with the Cleveland kids in the mosh pits I used to frequent. The rust belt ennui is in full evidence in a way strangely familiar and comforting, that the pain of hard economic times seems to be geographically universal.

I crossed the border into Chautaqua County, New York, which is full of vineyards and blue mountains in the distance. It was cool and breezy and I had good music in the car. Despite seeing signs for I-90 beckoning me so gorgeous that I stayed on there because it was so peaceful and love with the breeze, the greenery, the signage of gun shops and the paint jobs of stately Victorians, and the stack of good tuneage... the Clash and Stiffed, Kristin Hersh and Jerry Cantrell.

My mom had friends from college who never take an interstate anywhere and I see why they don't... when you're not in a mad hurry and give yourself time to soak in the scenery, when it exists, it changes the whole mentality of traveling. My legs got cramped from being in the same position for hours, so I'd stop in small towns to stretch my legs in forgotten cemeteries, call my lovely hosts to tell them I was running late.

Dinner was improvised and delicious, especially with the addition of Birthday Bash ice cream, which sounds like the worst idea ever but was actually kind of awesome in a Zero Zest kind of way.



Walked on the river breakwall walkway as the sun set, underneath the Peace Bridge ringed with barbed wire, ignoring the green piles of goose doo because it's not every day I get up close and personal with great blue herons.







Night drive and wanderings...



Late night conversations, oversleeping the next morning, diner food, a morning walk through the neighborhoods, being turned loose to wander through the city while my hosts were at work.



Maybe it was the weather, the sun, the new frontier of places never seen, but everything felt so bright and vibrant, there was just so much color, with the flowers, and the houses painted so brightly, murals on seemingly every other building, the people out walking resplendent.



City Hall is pretty damn amazing, with its stained-glass windows, epic murals and general art-deco swankiness.







I walked up the street, got completely lost, but somehow found my way into an old cathedral on the way to the cemetery. My inner goth kid was totally in heaven there, even if the humidity made me sleepy as anything. But not enough to fall asleep on this:











Leftist coffee is pricy.


Murals are lovely








So are old churches like St. Ann's and the people that love these places. To think about the love and care that went into this, carving every intricate piece by hand, building it brick by brick, it just astounds me.







Rooftop gardens on top of the Broadway Market... Polish flags, Stone Temple Pilots reference, made me feel right at home.



And, of course, my wonderful tour guides



The art show in the terminal was wonderful and I came out all inspired to try new colors and techniques with my work, and I love spaces like that, places that are art in themselves.





drive by photo-ing





Niagara Falls





There were other things... seeing Sharon Jones live again, sounding even better than the last time, worshiping with fellow brothers and sisters, and loving being able to sing in Kiswahili again, even if I've lost a lot of what I once knew, driving home into the sun, thankful for a change of scene, the chance to be around wonderful souls, and have my world opened up even a little bit more...

miscellany

A return to sun, a quickly flowing day for a change. I keep on going, doing my best, praying for grace, trying to channel my inner Kafka, to make catharsis and artistry in the face of absurdity, banality of small evils. There are two kinds of evil people: the kind that go out and kill and maim for kicks, and the more common other, who seem like decent and sometimes God-fearing folk who aren't so much outwardly mean, but have mastered the art of destroying others in a socially acceptable way. In wartime, the former butcher in the killing fields, and the latter would faint at the sight of blood but have no qualms on informing on their neighbors for the good of maintaining the social order.

So what did you do this weekend? and it takes me a second to remember... my brain sometimes feels so shot

live music


pinball wizardry of Medieval Madness



I've never played pinball before, but Justin, fellow lover of God, literal fire-breather and drummer extraordinaire, initiated me and we ended up talking to a Chicago hipster who played the Twilight Zone machine next to ours. He told us that when he goes to bars, he doesn't know how to talk to girls and just plays pinball.



I pulled muscles in my quads before the game and felt prematurely decrepit, limping and holding an icepack, only able to bat and catch, thankful for pinch-runners and tiger balm. I missed Bela Fleck to pass out on the couch for two hours, waking up to walk down the street where the arts fest was going on and the Bright Young Things were out in full force. It bothers me to not be able to move, and the soreness ebbed away.

Sunday morning is always a miracle, how my voice holds up, and I don't screw up too badly, and somehow God moves our souls like so many feathers caught by wind. I ended up getting lunch with two couples and their kids, before going to be introverted at the Museum of Divine Statues, which will probably merit a stop on the Great Cleveland Tour that I give my out-of-towners when they come through.



Can't wait to go and make art and de-stress. It's been a long day and this is only the beginning.

kitschtacular.

The sun was so bright Saturday, with my stack of CDs and traveling companions, one who was kind enough to provide me with a cup of coffee for the road, driving to the other side of the heart of it all, escaping the haze and smog enveloping the skyline for the greenery of the lands to the west and the clearness of Ashtabula blue sky.

The reason for such ventures was to help out a friend of mine from my Kent days who's getting married to someone truly wonderful. The venue for the reception is a Western-themed steakhouse on which we inflicted Martha Stewart tissue paper puffs of pink and peach. "You're going to love this place. It's kitsch heaven," she tells me and it is, replete with reliquaries of John Wayne bullets, movie posters of films I've never seen, and sculptures of cowboys and Indians.



We channelled Georgia O'Keeffe and stuck white tissue paper flowers in the eyes of the steer's skull over the dining room and tried to make it look girly and wedding-ish. "I think this is awesome, the guests will probably think it's weird..." I'm not really good at this whole party-planning decorations thing so after tying string to big paper puffs, I ended up at the table with her mom's boyfriend and her brother talking urban planning and other territory I'm a little more adept in.



While out in the exotic lands to the west, we took goofy tourist pictures underneath the World's Largest Rocking Chair next to a feed store, and soaked in the miles of green space and open sky.



After the festivities, we drove up to Geneva-on-the-Lake to indulge in even more uber-kitsch. I can't believe I've never been here before, because it's unlike any place I've ever been. It was once the premier getaway for the likes of Henry Ford and the Rockefellers, and my grandparents honeymooned here post WWII. It's hard for me to imagine it as a place that was once genteel. I also can't imagine renting a summer cottage here ever. At least Put-in-Bay has a quiet half of the island. Still, it was a great way to kill an afternoon.







Hot sun, an endless parade of bikers in Harley gear, women with big poofy bleached coiffures, pale teens with green hair and miscellaneous piercings working at the arcades, all manner of greasy food, countless headshops selling tie-dyed t-shirts, blacklight posters, and hippie dresses, and souvenir shops hawking fake wanted posters, hemp necklaces with the stars and bars, and even more biker couture. If you ever wanted a pin that read "I'm a Trucker's Girlfriend," this is the place to get it.



I did, however, score some nice earrings at Gypsy Rose's Mamas and Papas. Every storefront was blaring either country or classic rock, and from one end of the 'Crooked Mile' to the other, I heard Bad Company, Foreigner, Def Leppard, Poison, and Whitesnake.







It seems that back in the day, there were actual good shows to be seen at the Cove, not just cover bands called Bon Journey or whatever incarnation of Skid Row or Mushroomhead that's still touring.



Incidentally, this mural on the side is getting destroyed to make way for new renovations, but I'm glad I shot it before it vanishes.



This totally does not look like Jimi Hendrix.



We did not discover what the Exciting Fascination was.



On the way back, we drove through the vineyards of wine country, though we were all dehydrated and sleepy and didn't feel like being around more partying boomers so we drove back to Clevelandia and I've realized I really don't like driving when it's sunny out, though Kyuss is fantastic driving in the burning sun music.



Came back to feed the kitties, hang out at my apartment with the new neighbors before Muk came over, woke up with sun poisoning and missed church, took my sister to the Hessler Fair, and slacked around with my dad in the basement Sunday night listening to the Thirteenth Floor Elevators. I opened my windows and let the cool night breezes in. Summer is looking hot and beautiful already.