Life in the Empire
Bo's Request (an Art Thread)
Been writing cover letters for job applications (two submitted yesterday). More of a movement artist than a wordsmith but, to get things started, here is something I wrote for Migrant, my section in Train.
Where is home?
Moved twelve times in the last 16 years. The transient in transit. Pierce Transit runs through it. Before I came here I was in Rush Limbaugh’s home town before I was surrounded by corn fed Norwegian bred Lutherans singing praise in perfect four part harmony to that Home on the Plain before I’m taken Home – Praise Jesus. I grew up in Iowa, Little Town on the Prairie an island afloat in the ocean of corn. Lived in SoCal, in the Desert where golf and plastic surgery reigns, might have the grit to stay in rainy Tacoma, but, I always say I’m from San Francisco - though I rarely visit anymore.
Home, where is home?
Home is where you are. Correction, home is where you and the two cats are.
What is home? That safe place. That place with love. I love that old car, it always brought me home. The ’75 Westphalia could be home. Or rather, the place that used to be home. Too old, too unreliable to be trusted anymore. Baling wire and duct tape. Just like the U-Haul I drive to the next place, hoping for home.
Searching for home. Migrants with heavy furniture. U-haul. Our orange travois with wheels keeps getting bigger. Full of stuff. Heavy Stuff. Stuff that anchors us. To a home of nostalgia. Anchors to a home that never really existed. That place. This is the place! Well bully for you Brigham Young. Bring ‘em young. Not young anymore, with more stuff each move to stuff in the moving van and every move leaves behind anchors that are mourned in passing.
A house burns down and the anchors are cremated and the past has passed on.
The bubble is burst. The house is on the market. The anchor is weighed. The trees we planted are left behind. Do the new owners love that Japanese Maple we planted as our 10th anniversary gift to our dream of home? Have they maintained the landscaping? Have any of the plants, the dreams, the love we planted been cared for in our absence? Or have they been torn up by the roots to make room for the next owners’ dream of home?
Where are the anchors? Is there a home port? Adrift. Without a home. Drift wood is picked up for beach fires to warm the beach rats without a home. Their shacks have been bulldozed like West Bank ancestral olive groves to make room for more condos and home-loving dreamers blowing a bubble. Pop!
Where is home?
Moved twelve times in the last 16 years. The transient in transit. Pierce Transit runs through it. Before I came here I was in Rush Limbaugh’s home town before I was surrounded by corn fed Norwegian bred Lutherans singing praise in perfect four part harmony to that Home on the Plain before I’m taken Home – Praise Jesus. I grew up in Iowa, Little Town on the Prairie an island afloat in the ocean of corn. Lived in SoCal, in the Desert where golf and plastic surgery reigns, might have the grit to stay in rainy Tacoma, but, I always say I’m from San Francisco - though I rarely visit anymore.
Home, where is home?
Home is where you are. Correction, home is where you and the two cats are.
What is home? That safe place. That place with love. I love that old car, it always brought me home. The ’75 Westphalia could be home. Or rather, the place that used to be home. Too old, too unreliable to be trusted anymore. Baling wire and duct tape. Just like the U-Haul I drive to the next place, hoping for home.
Searching for home. Migrants with heavy furniture. U-haul. Our orange travois with wheels keeps getting bigger. Full of stuff. Heavy Stuff. Stuff that anchors us. To a home of nostalgia. Anchors to a home that never really existed. That place. This is the place! Well bully for you Brigham Young. Bring ‘em young. Not young anymore, with more stuff each move to stuff in the moving van and every move leaves behind anchors that are mourned in passing.
A house burns down and the anchors are cremated and the past has passed on.
The bubble is burst. The house is on the market. The anchor is weighed. The trees we planted are left behind. Do the new owners love that Japanese Maple we planted as our 10th anniversary gift to our dream of home? Have they maintained the landscaping? Have any of the plants, the dreams, the love we planted been cared for in our absence? Or have they been torn up by the roots to make room for the next owners’ dream of home?
Where are the anchors? Is there a home port? Adrift. Without a home. Drift wood is picked up for beach fires to warm the beach rats without a home. Their shacks have been bulldozed like West Bank ancestral olive groves to make room for more condos and home-loving dreamers blowing a bubble. Pop!
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Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by littleoldme on
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Women, History and Art -- and the Fight for Voting Rights in Florida
http://www.buzzflash.com/articles/analysis/277
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Permalink Reply by pan on
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Preview of Train
Our composer flaked on us. A week before we open an hour long work he pulls out because we didn't pay him enough even though he was excited by how much we had budgeted when we first told him - no wait - we didn't clarify until three weeks ago how much we were asking even though we have been communicating with him for two years about the project - no wait - we didn't micromanage him and budget in enough preparation time in the four months since we told him exactly what we wanted and we didn't force him to actually read the the contract and detailed emails we were sending him and we didn't prevent him from being completely nonfunctional for a week due to the meds he was on for anxiety attacks so he "made an executive decision" and pulled out.
Oh well, we put together underscoring in 5 days that works well and now we get to keep his stipend. Still a lot to do but we are on the downward path. It is a great show. Really happy Bo and Bo's Mrs. are coming.
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Permalink Reply by BO on
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Well, damn. Sorry to hear that Pan. I should send you some of the fine blues songs my son and I have been composing on the Mac in Garage Band.
And yes, the Mrs and I are looking forward to the performance.
Was the composer the fellow who you met through the smirking chimp?
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Permalink Reply by waldopaper on
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Hal Crowther's "writerly" tribute to Kirk Varnedoe...
Hal talks about the South again... and flips a booger at us Marxians... but I love him just the same. He got a home and I envy him that. I suppose I have one too... but it will never be finished well enough to pass along to the punkins who brood in the basement.
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Permalink Reply by Mouse on
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Things going backwards over here, rather a sad change in UK drugs law ahead :
http://www.lewrockwell.com/armentano-p/armentano-p26.html
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Permalink Reply by Cal on
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I tried to find Yo-Yo Ma plays Ennio Morricone in the music shops here but had no joy - so I ordered it on the internet a couple of weeks ago and today it arrived in the mail ... Oh frabjous day calloo callay !! .... so I am enjoying playing it over and over again. Thanks for the recommendation Mouse.
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An artist whose inflatable sculpture flipped into the air and killed two women a year or so ago, is to face trial in January 2009, charged with manslaughter by gross negligence.
I wondered what had happened to him. I gather it was lovely inside, would have liked to see it, but £5 is a bit steep for the likes of me, and it is always nice to escape with one's life.
Have managed to rescue some brushes that were out of commission for years. Soaked them in vinegar for several days on the windowsill, working my way into them, gradually pulling the hairs apart. Altogether it took a week or so, including lots of washing and soaking in turps during the later stages. So glad I kept them. Lovely and soft now, perfect for my favourite scumbling way of doing things.
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love it! GOR! I just lost the "u" in color!
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