Thu - July 21, 2005
Jigaboo Time, or Comedy?
When do you let bygones be bygones and
move on in the war of images?
OK. My seven year-old son is
mesmerized by television to the point of addiction. Recognizing this, I cut
cable when he was tow and half, resulting in massive protest and complaints from
my...MOTHER!!
OK. So he spent a year with the grandparents, who tired of watching kiddie shows at some point, so they purchased him (though they pretended that this was not the case) a mini TV/VHS combo for his room. I was beyond annoyed, they swore that he was just a pain in the ass with his TV selections.
It turns out, that they considered ANY animated fair, a kiddie show.
Now most of you I'm sure have watched Cartoon Network. How much of that is truly kiddie fare?
My son is an avid superhero afficianado and already considers himself a comics collector (thanks uncle bil). His favorite block of shows on CN? Toonami.
Now I gett to my point. A lot of this stuff is drawn in Korea and Japan, with impossibly wide eyes and strange vocal responses that recall Trixie and Racer X.
Wide eyes, twisted mouths, and grunting...Wide eyes, twisted mouths and grunting
OK. Maybe I am too sensitive, but my son not 10 minutes ago came up to me and showed me the classic sambo "o" mouth, laughing about how funny it was when Cyborg did that on Teen Titans when he accidentally shot a bird. Cyborg is the token brother on the show.
Is it now funny, since my son has no referent for coons, bucks, sambos, mammies and pickaninnies? Of is it my job to tell him what those images are, then show their simulations and ghosts in practically all the shows that he watches?
Would this finally cure him of his TV addiction, or ruin his chances of knowing joy and wonder?
I gave a very twisted-nouthed half smirk to his side-splitting gesture, wondering who he thought he was talking to.
How could he know anyway?
OK. So he spent a year with the grandparents, who tired of watching kiddie shows at some point, so they purchased him (though they pretended that this was not the case) a mini TV/VHS combo for his room. I was beyond annoyed, they swore that he was just a pain in the ass with his TV selections.
It turns out, that they considered ANY animated fair, a kiddie show.
Now most of you I'm sure have watched Cartoon Network. How much of that is truly kiddie fare?
My son is an avid superhero afficianado and already considers himself a comics collector (thanks uncle bil). His favorite block of shows on CN? Toonami.
Now I gett to my point. A lot of this stuff is drawn in Korea and Japan, with impossibly wide eyes and strange vocal responses that recall Trixie and Racer X.
Wide eyes, twisted mouths, and grunting...Wide eyes, twisted mouths and grunting
OK. Maybe I am too sensitive, but my son not 10 minutes ago came up to me and showed me the classic sambo "o" mouth, laughing about how funny it was when Cyborg did that on Teen Titans when he accidentally shot a bird. Cyborg is the token brother on the show.
Is it now funny, since my son has no referent for coons, bucks, sambos, mammies and pickaninnies? Of is it my job to tell him what those images are, then show their simulations and ghosts in practically all the shows that he watches?
Would this finally cure him of his TV addiction, or ruin his chances of knowing joy and wonder?
I gave a very twisted-nouthed half smirk to his side-splitting gesture, wondering who he thought he was talking to.
How could he know anyway?
Posted at 08:57 AM Read More
Thu - November 18, 2004
Morality, Musings, and Academics
OK, so Bush is back in with his
"mandate" of only 51%, which is being challenged as I type this. We are still
in Iraq. The world has not come to an end. Folks are getting
impatient.
So really, for quite a while now, I've
been pretty annoyed by lefty types, especially of the academic ilk, and their
humanistic superiority complex, even as they are confronted with the solopsism
of their positions on the divine. AND I AM ONE OF THEM! I am lefty, radical,
theory whore. Derrida rules! DeCerteau is my homey! Sylvia Wynter rocks the
house. Adrienne Piper wrecks heads. That's right, feel my theory
fury.
¡BUT!
I am one of those folks who beleive in the divine. I can get down in some bible, though I ain't no Christian no mo'. When I'm in a yoga class, it's all about me and Ganesha getting our groove on. In front of my meditation shrine She that is She moves me. I talk to animals, collect rocks that remind me of body parts, make mojo packets, read pennies, tarot, go to saint feasts, bembes, toques, where beads you ain't suppose to touch. In on the ONE, as we all are. So this humanistic thing has always struck me as spureme arrogance.
The idea that human's alone stand in judgment for what constitutes knowledge makes no sense to me.
The idea that we're each a unified subject, all alone out in the world, makes no sense to me.
The idea that history is moving in one line, creating a unified story makes no sense to me.
But don't get me wrong, I can throw down some Marx, have read Satre in the original French..but I digress.
What I'm getting to is this thing that the reactionaries have pushed on us in the academy: the liberal university.
Now first of all, anyone who works in a university can tell you they are anything but liberal. But deans, provosts, chancellors, and presidents are shaking in their boots, scared to death of not providing an environment that engenders a "balanced " education.
Now this is where it gets problematic. Reactionaries of any ilk do not like, nor cultivate critical thinking. The university, or really any educational entity is about teaching kids how to engage the world with the best tools for their age at the time. That their sheltered children must grow up and leave the fold of the fanatical community to which they belong in order to get, not an education, but a ticket into the "good life" irritates these folks to no end. We, the professors of the nation, are an obstacle to entrenching fanatical non-behavior, even when we are not communists, socialists, anarchists.
Non-behavior? Hold up. WAIT A MINUTE!
Yeah, non-behavior. When one has been inculcated to adhere to a doctrine of any sort without any thought about the veracity, temporality--its made-upness---then one has been written into a set of parameters, of behaviors that should never be questioned. Hence, one has a set of behaviors that are rooted in a belief of a supreme, irrevocable rightness, so actions are never created by a sense of self motivating, or even of communal coherence. This type of body is moving out of fear of failure of betrayal of messing up and getting caught by other bodies, or suffering the consequences of the Supreme doctrine.
Now, notice, I ain't said nothing about the Christian right here, though they up in this mix FOR SURE. I'm also talking about intransigent tree huggers. I'm also talking about vegetarians that sneer at omnivores. I'm talking about nationalists who repress inspiration because tradition is more important. I'm talking about lefties who think they can laugh at the notion of God in the lecture. I'm talking about Red States and Blue States. I'm talking about politicians who've hijacked the English language by PRETENDING to be everyman real in their rhetoric. I'm talking about those folks who believe that there is such a thing as "any normal, rational individual..."
I'm talking about allaus here right now. oona crazy sho nuff.
Where is this leading? To radical love baby! RADICAL LOVE OF THE ONE, WHICH IS ALL OF US.
I used read those Dr. Bronner's Castille Soap bottles and laugh soooooo hard. Remember those? Well, you'd have to be a bit of a earthy crunchy type to have actually handled one of those. At any rate, Dr. B. was determined to get out the message that we are all the One, we just have decided to acquiesce that power into different systems in order to have an ordering, but has that systemization resulted in an orderly procession of energy?
Not really.
So let chaos reign in your heart. Be willing to recognize that you are always already that other person and in multiple places at one time. You can be on a mission, but you got multiple points to make before you punch in that last ticket. And that last ticket...well I'm not getting all the way off in it today.
I just felt moved to bring to the attention of blue staters, even where they are isolated in red states that constantly talking about religious fanatics like you ain't one your damn self is hyper hypocritical. You got your therapist, you got your books (race matters, this bridge called my back, whiteness etc)--you have a humanist-based religion, which I practice, too, it's all good. But when fanaticism is involved, it's only a matter of time before the ridiculed get wind of the chatter and get mad, try to make a point.
What's my point?
Money is godless. The market reigns. And it is worshipped by all of us.
For better or worse, we all believe that in order to get ahead in the United States, a person needs an education. Even though we love the tale of bootstrap climbing entrepeneur, we just mostly feel like we don't have time for that type of crappy existence. Fanaticism aside, when it comes to money and the ability to make things happen in the social field across state boarders, class room walls and prison cells, we will get organized; entrenched.
So this push to equalize the university campus so that all sides can be heard is bogus, right? Yeah, you're true believers. But I want to challenge you to listen to the Moral Majority, not figure out tactics, but fell the points where they are of and in love. Meet them there and see what you can make happen for the One. 'Cause the way it is right now, that vibrating fluidity that undulates through space and time which is oona and eye, allaus her'nh right now, that's been done been itself, is gonna turn in on itself. Inertia. In error.
This is what the great scriptures of the world talk about. This is what the fanatics of father-figure worshippers are rushing to create, because they are insecure in their own sense of self and community, but rooted, emboldened by their knowledge of the sacred text. Can I get a Baudrillard amen up in here? Entropy. Entropy. I believe that those texts that recount the visions of seers are warnings, not documents that are to be followed. We sent ourselves those messages to remind us when we got to this place in the time warp NOT to act like we hadn't learned nothing across the ages. Humans have suffered social entropy before, but in pockets. This one here is being forced on the entire world, all at once, in a fanatical race to be right, to be redeemed. But earth, Momma got a tendency come back at ya, fiercer, bolder, wiser than before. http://www.entropylaw.com/
Ain't no body all the way right, nor all the way wrong, but there are a lot of indecent folks who owe us an apology. They should be removed from the big toys, offices and spread sheets of the world. But should that happen forcibly? Should it happen by ridiculing them? I don't know. I just know that just when you think you going to hell in a handbasket (even if you want to take that trip cause you righteous enough to survive the heat), you just as likely to find yourself unrecognizably reordered into something seductive and elegant.
This ain't nothin to chuckle about, but it's kinda funny in that bathetic greek-tragedy kinda way, cause we have been here before, and we know better. So smile, and get busy lovin'.
¡BUT!
I am one of those folks who beleive in the divine. I can get down in some bible, though I ain't no Christian no mo'. When I'm in a yoga class, it's all about me and Ganesha getting our groove on. In front of my meditation shrine She that is She moves me. I talk to animals, collect rocks that remind me of body parts, make mojo packets, read pennies, tarot, go to saint feasts, bembes, toques, where beads you ain't suppose to touch. In on the ONE, as we all are. So this humanistic thing has always struck me as spureme arrogance.
The idea that human's alone stand in judgment for what constitutes knowledge makes no sense to me.
The idea that we're each a unified subject, all alone out in the world, makes no sense to me.
The idea that history is moving in one line, creating a unified story makes no sense to me.
But don't get me wrong, I can throw down some Marx, have read Satre in the original French..but I digress.
What I'm getting to is this thing that the reactionaries have pushed on us in the academy: the liberal university.
Now first of all, anyone who works in a university can tell you they are anything but liberal. But deans, provosts, chancellors, and presidents are shaking in their boots, scared to death of not providing an environment that engenders a "balanced " education.
Now this is where it gets problematic. Reactionaries of any ilk do not like, nor cultivate critical thinking. The university, or really any educational entity is about teaching kids how to engage the world with the best tools for their age at the time. That their sheltered children must grow up and leave the fold of the fanatical community to which they belong in order to get, not an education, but a ticket into the "good life" irritates these folks to no end. We, the professors of the nation, are an obstacle to entrenching fanatical non-behavior, even when we are not communists, socialists, anarchists.
Non-behavior? Hold up. WAIT A MINUTE!
Yeah, non-behavior. When one has been inculcated to adhere to a doctrine of any sort without any thought about the veracity, temporality--its made-upness---then one has been written into a set of parameters, of behaviors that should never be questioned. Hence, one has a set of behaviors that are rooted in a belief of a supreme, irrevocable rightness, so actions are never created by a sense of self motivating, or even of communal coherence. This type of body is moving out of fear of failure of betrayal of messing up and getting caught by other bodies, or suffering the consequences of the Supreme doctrine.
Now, notice, I ain't said nothing about the Christian right here, though they up in this mix FOR SURE. I'm also talking about intransigent tree huggers. I'm also talking about vegetarians that sneer at omnivores. I'm talking about nationalists who repress inspiration because tradition is more important. I'm talking about lefties who think they can laugh at the notion of God in the lecture. I'm talking about Red States and Blue States. I'm talking about politicians who've hijacked the English language by PRETENDING to be everyman real in their rhetoric. I'm talking about those folks who believe that there is such a thing as "any normal, rational individual..."
I'm talking about allaus here right now. oona crazy sho nuff.
Where is this leading? To radical love baby! RADICAL LOVE OF THE ONE, WHICH IS ALL OF US.
I used read those Dr. Bronner's Castille Soap bottles and laugh soooooo hard. Remember those? Well, you'd have to be a bit of a earthy crunchy type to have actually handled one of those. At any rate, Dr. B. was determined to get out the message that we are all the One, we just have decided to acquiesce that power into different systems in order to have an ordering, but has that systemization resulted in an orderly procession of energy?
Not really.
So let chaos reign in your heart. Be willing to recognize that you are always already that other person and in multiple places at one time. You can be on a mission, but you got multiple points to make before you punch in that last ticket. And that last ticket...well I'm not getting all the way off in it today.
I just felt moved to bring to the attention of blue staters, even where they are isolated in red states that constantly talking about religious fanatics like you ain't one your damn self is hyper hypocritical. You got your therapist, you got your books (race matters, this bridge called my back, whiteness etc)--you have a humanist-based religion, which I practice, too, it's all good. But when fanaticism is involved, it's only a matter of time before the ridiculed get wind of the chatter and get mad, try to make a point.
What's my point?
Money is godless. The market reigns. And it is worshipped by all of us.
For better or worse, we all believe that in order to get ahead in the United States, a person needs an education. Even though we love the tale of bootstrap climbing entrepeneur, we just mostly feel like we don't have time for that type of crappy existence. Fanaticism aside, when it comes to money and the ability to make things happen in the social field across state boarders, class room walls and prison cells, we will get organized; entrenched.
So this push to equalize the university campus so that all sides can be heard is bogus, right? Yeah, you're true believers. But I want to challenge you to listen to the Moral Majority, not figure out tactics, but fell the points where they are of and in love. Meet them there and see what you can make happen for the One. 'Cause the way it is right now, that vibrating fluidity that undulates through space and time which is oona and eye, allaus her'nh right now, that's been done been itself, is gonna turn in on itself. Inertia. In error.
This is what the great scriptures of the world talk about. This is what the fanatics of father-figure worshippers are rushing to create, because they are insecure in their own sense of self and community, but rooted, emboldened by their knowledge of the sacred text. Can I get a Baudrillard amen up in here? Entropy. Entropy. I believe that those texts that recount the visions of seers are warnings, not documents that are to be followed. We sent ourselves those messages to remind us when we got to this place in the time warp NOT to act like we hadn't learned nothing across the ages. Humans have suffered social entropy before, but in pockets. This one here is being forced on the entire world, all at once, in a fanatical race to be right, to be redeemed. But earth, Momma got a tendency come back at ya, fiercer, bolder, wiser than before. http://www.entropylaw.com/
Ain't no body all the way right, nor all the way wrong, but there are a lot of indecent folks who owe us an apology. They should be removed from the big toys, offices and spread sheets of the world. But should that happen forcibly? Should it happen by ridiculing them? I don't know. I just know that just when you think you going to hell in a handbasket (even if you want to take that trip cause you righteous enough to survive the heat), you just as likely to find yourself unrecognizably reordered into something seductive and elegant.
This ain't nothin to chuckle about, but it's kinda funny in that bathetic greek-tragedy kinda way, cause we have been here before, and we know better. So smile, and get busy lovin'.
Posted at 12:26 PM Read More
Sat
- April 3, 2004
Bumbling boo boo
We saw it in the paper and thought:
that has to be an April Fool's prank
"Bach in a
Boubou"
For those of you who don't know, a boubou, or actually bouba is an elegant piece of clothing that women wear in Senegal and Mali (in particular) that is large, luxurious, and tends to slide off one shoulder at all times. It is sexy, demure and practical all at once. So what does that have to do with Bach?
My stomach was asking the same thing at the end of a tortuous "recital" of Bach fugues for organ in every minor key you could think of, accompanied by djembe drum and a slide show of snapshots of somebody's trip to the village of Yolof. SNAPSHOTS. SNAPSHOTS!!!
As if that was not irritating enough, the program didn;t nothing to warn us of the fact that our misadventures were not in fact guided by some ill-gotten musical theory, but rather was an insipid one-to-one comparison to Bach's life and...contemporary Senegalese djalle guilds (aka griots). A griot or more elegantly, djalle, is a historian/philosopher/musician/dancer/singer who is usually under the patronage of one wealthy (or important) family in their town and/or neighborhood. it is their job NEVER to forget, and if need be, remember ornately so as to make the customer look gooder than good. You know, Bach kinda did that?
And these folks are typically only paid with goods, not cash. Oh Bach sometimes got grain or firewood for his playing.
Bach also was at all the same important events that one would hire a griot to perform at: weddings, naming ceremonies, funerals. of course, he had a church.
INSIPID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (here, i would subject you to an audio file of the madness, but i have gotten out of the habit of carrying my ethnography gear with me no matter where i go. in this land of lakes, actually i'm in the finger lakes, no sweet or satly cream rising to to this top, i should always have my gear)
This, thankfully, was a short concert, what with the blasts of drum solo on the djembe with its head improperly pulled (ok, that's the trained dancer snob in me coming out) and the Ghanaian dance interlude by well-meaning college students, enough was simply enough.
My small child, along with my pal Ritsu we my co-sufferers. Having had enough, by the penultimate selection, my son began shout, with his hands over his ears, "I can't take any more of this!"
Did I mention that we were in an interfaith church in one of the side chapels?
This is funny, but oh so not funny. It was a fundraiser for the library that was shown for only two of the 50 slides.
SO the mostly white folks in the room got to show their hipness and world weariness and save an African nation from illiteracy in 45 minutes, never mind that Black people in this town LITERALLY feel like they cannot shop downtown. On Fen 18th, a six year old boy was shoved to the floor for putting candy that he BOUGHT into his pocket.
But those darkies in antiquated, authentic, just-like-Bach Africa are going to get some books. BTW, did you know that Bach liked food at his concerts, too, like the people of Yolof?
----
ENOUGH
set your clocks ahead if you have not already done so. Now, in classic high negressdom, I will go back to being late since I will no longer be an early riser.
I still must suss out just where in the body a chuckle point is located.
I lost touch with mine tonight.
Since I still have to finish my taxes, I better find it quick.
Though my forays onto eHarmony have me wondering if someone has made off with my chuckle point altogether!
And finally, a shameless plug for some I-Town music: http://www.oculusband.com ---- don't sleep!
until...
For those of you who don't know, a boubou, or actually bouba is an elegant piece of clothing that women wear in Senegal and Mali (in particular) that is large, luxurious, and tends to slide off one shoulder at all times. It is sexy, demure and practical all at once. So what does that have to do with Bach?
My stomach was asking the same thing at the end of a tortuous "recital" of Bach fugues for organ in every minor key you could think of, accompanied by djembe drum and a slide show of snapshots of somebody's trip to the village of Yolof. SNAPSHOTS. SNAPSHOTS!!!
As if that was not irritating enough, the program didn;t nothing to warn us of the fact that our misadventures were not in fact guided by some ill-gotten musical theory, but rather was an insipid one-to-one comparison to Bach's life and...contemporary Senegalese djalle guilds (aka griots). A griot or more elegantly, djalle, is a historian/philosopher/musician/dancer/singer who is usually under the patronage of one wealthy (or important) family in their town and/or neighborhood. it is their job NEVER to forget, and if need be, remember ornately so as to make the customer look gooder than good. You know, Bach kinda did that?
And these folks are typically only paid with goods, not cash. Oh Bach sometimes got grain or firewood for his playing.
Bach also was at all the same important events that one would hire a griot to perform at: weddings, naming ceremonies, funerals. of course, he had a church.
INSIPID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (here, i would subject you to an audio file of the madness, but i have gotten out of the habit of carrying my ethnography gear with me no matter where i go. in this land of lakes, actually i'm in the finger lakes, no sweet or satly cream rising to to this top, i should always have my gear)
This, thankfully, was a short concert, what with the blasts of drum solo on the djembe with its head improperly pulled (ok, that's the trained dancer snob in me coming out) and the Ghanaian dance interlude by well-meaning college students, enough was simply enough.
My small child, along with my pal Ritsu we my co-sufferers. Having had enough, by the penultimate selection, my son began shout, with his hands over his ears, "I can't take any more of this!"
Did I mention that we were in an interfaith church in one of the side chapels?
This is funny, but oh so not funny. It was a fundraiser for the library that was shown for only two of the 50 slides.
SO the mostly white folks in the room got to show their hipness and world weariness and save an African nation from illiteracy in 45 minutes, never mind that Black people in this town LITERALLY feel like they cannot shop downtown. On Fen 18th, a six year old boy was shoved to the floor for putting candy that he BOUGHT into his pocket.
But those darkies in antiquated, authentic, just-like-Bach Africa are going to get some books. BTW, did you know that Bach liked food at his concerts, too, like the people of Yolof?
----
ENOUGH
set your clocks ahead if you have not already done so. Now, in classic high negressdom, I will go back to being late since I will no longer be an early riser.
I still must suss out just where in the body a chuckle point is located.
I lost touch with mine tonight.
Since I still have to finish my taxes, I better find it quick.
Though my forays onto eHarmony have me wondering if someone has made off with my chuckle point altogether!
And finally, a shameless plug for some I-Town music: http://www.oculusband.com ---- don't sleep!
until...
Posted at 12:17 AM Read More
Thu - January 15, 2004
OK, now I KNOW I need to see more Black folks!
Chocolate Molds: Objects of Art
by Wendy Mullen
So, I have fallen down on the job as
far as blogging, not that I have an audience, but this is truly one of those
moments of Chuckle Points
moments.
I was finishing up an encyclopedia entry on Performance Art & African Americans, when I decide to see through amazon, if there were any new books. Actually, I was looking for full citation of the _Object of Art_, which I plan to put in the bibliography. The date was too old-yikes I'm aging!--so I went looking for newer, perhaps more radical encounters.
Then I came across the above title.
Now, who's to say that it ain't about black folks and how they have to redo everything to suit them? For about 2 minutes, I was baad excited about the boldness, the political incorrectness of the title. THIS, I thought, will truly be a book about performance art worthy of performance! The author even had the last name of a favorite poet of mine, Hrryette Mullen, so I was too excited. Smiling, I sought further info. It wasn't available just yet. Oooh! Newnew! But I noticed the titles around it.
I had gone from plastic arts, architecture, to random titles with the word "object" in it. The internal voice of castigation pipes up:
-"Fool," she said, "don't you know this book is probably REALLY about chocolate?!"
-"But why," I asked. "Why can't it be about black people fi--"
Oh, the qualification is in the wrong place. It should read, "The Objects of Art: The New Chocolate Molding."
Yes, technically, this does not qualify as a chuckle point. It is rather the howler.
Now on to more stuff.
So I am a preistess/scholar/artist living temporarily in an apartment building without my shrines, books, and most of my costume/prop construction stash.
Why would I be so foolish, you wonder. I am wondering myself, esp. since I am sandwiched between two floors with an exceptionally emotionally underdeveloped insomniac living above me. Girlfriend so uptight you would think that she wasn't gettin none, but she got a man!
When you know you are beseiged by a competitive, small minded neighbor (for aprtment dwellers only)
10. Upon seeing you walking home, she crosses street and walks faster to beat you to the door
9. Unaware that you have walked up behind her and said hello, she speeds up while talking, hoping to still beat you home and at small talk
8. Recognizing that you LIVE in your apartment, not just store your stuff there, she begins to assualt her floor with all manner of objects
7. Number 8 occurs even when your television is set at 5 out of 30 for volume level
6. She tells other neighbors what you do, with such a measure of disbeleife that they treat you like the lying fuck she needs you to be
5. She asks for musical advice in the genre you have been working lately, with a smirk
4. She checks in to see if she has made it impossible for you to conduct your business, but is stunned when you admit that you've accomplished a lot at a place even noisier than she's managed to make the building.
3. Leaves her fermenting trash on the landing for one day, next to the radiator
2. Always leaves the light on in the hall and the front door open, though she herself posted a not about not doing that--surprise! it's your floor.
1. Refuses to answer the door when you go up to ask her anything, because she knows that she is wrong, whatever it is, and can't take "confrontation"
YES LAWD!!
Ok, back to the other writing...
I was finishing up an encyclopedia entry on Performance Art & African Americans, when I decide to see through amazon, if there were any new books. Actually, I was looking for full citation of the _Object of Art_, which I plan to put in the bibliography. The date was too old-yikes I'm aging!--so I went looking for newer, perhaps more radical encounters.
Then I came across the above title.
Now, who's to say that it ain't about black folks and how they have to redo everything to suit them? For about 2 minutes, I was baad excited about the boldness, the political incorrectness of the title. THIS, I thought, will truly be a book about performance art worthy of performance! The author even had the last name of a favorite poet of mine, Hrryette Mullen, so I was too excited. Smiling, I sought further info. It wasn't available just yet. Oooh! Newnew! But I noticed the titles around it.
I had gone from plastic arts, architecture, to random titles with the word "object" in it. The internal voice of castigation pipes up:
-"Fool," she said, "don't you know this book is probably REALLY about chocolate?!"
-"But why," I asked. "Why can't it be about black people fi--"
Oh, the qualification is in the wrong place. It should read, "The Objects of Art: The New Chocolate Molding."
Yes, technically, this does not qualify as a chuckle point. It is rather the howler.
Now on to more stuff.
So I am a preistess/scholar/artist living temporarily in an apartment building without my shrines, books, and most of my costume/prop construction stash.
Why would I be so foolish, you wonder. I am wondering myself, esp. since I am sandwiched between two floors with an exceptionally emotionally underdeveloped insomniac living above me. Girlfriend so uptight you would think that she wasn't gettin none, but she got a man!
When you know you are beseiged by a competitive, small minded neighbor (for aprtment dwellers only)
10. Upon seeing you walking home, she crosses street and walks faster to beat you to the door
9. Unaware that you have walked up behind her and said hello, she speeds up while talking, hoping to still beat you home and at small talk
8. Recognizing that you LIVE in your apartment, not just store your stuff there, she begins to assualt her floor with all manner of objects
7. Number 8 occurs even when your television is set at 5 out of 30 for volume level
6. She tells other neighbors what you do, with such a measure of disbeleife that they treat you like the lying fuck she needs you to be
5. She asks for musical advice in the genre you have been working lately, with a smirk
4. She checks in to see if she has made it impossible for you to conduct your business, but is stunned when you admit that you've accomplished a lot at a place even noisier than she's managed to make the building.
3. Leaves her fermenting trash on the landing for one day, next to the radiator
2. Always leaves the light on in the hall and the front door open, though she herself posted a not about not doing that--surprise! it's your floor.
1. Refuses to answer the door when you go up to ask her anything, because she knows that she is wrong, whatever it is, and can't take "confrontation"
YES LAWD!!
Ok, back to the other writing...
Posted at 09:44 PM Read More
Mon - December
1, 2003
too fixed, or is that fixated?
you know how sometimes in trying to get
something right, you make it wrong, but it's still right?
like for example, I
drove across country this summer, trying to get to my new non-job so that i
could write some books, perform in shows, and dash off a few meaningless
articles. All of my pictures from that trip look like this. From inside my
car. Cause I could not slow down, since i had shipped my stuff well ahead of my
eventual departure date. By the time I left, I didn't even want to go. I didn't
want to do anything but lay down and cry for a very long time. I actually only
last week realized that I had not lost my will to dance, which was a relief
since I'm a dancer and
all.So my five year old son took this picture. I did discover that he was a pretty good shot. All of the good photos happen after I pick him up from Mississippi, which was half way the trip. But on to today's matters.
This morning, and actually late last night, kinda like right about now, I realized that I needed to black some tapes since I was transferring images in the morning from 8mm to MiniDV. For those of you not into all things video, you black tape to make sure that the time code is as accurate as possible, and also to find out if a tape is defective. The time code accuracy is established by setting one, continuous "image" of the inside of the camera lens for the duration of the tape. That way, when you actually start laying image and sound onto the blacked (if you say 'blackened' does that mean it's spicy?") tape, should you stop and start during the recording, the time code does not falter.
OK.
SO I Blacked these MiniDV tapes, and then I panicked--what if I messed up the audio strip by recording room presence, and the sound of sausage cooking (which was this morning's urgent project) while doing a sloppy blacking (if it's on a face, then do you get smacked?)? So I made it to my appointment on campus only to discover that the media help guy was a huge Mumia Abu Jamal supporter. In fact, he was the guy who launched the attack on Michael Moore's latest book, in which Micheal says that Mumia did it. My name is Bennett...
Anyway, I told him about my tape blacking (will it need to tap too?), then he kinda chuckled and said that since it's digital, that's not really an issue--yet another moment when good black goes bad. No really, so much effort trying to make it right for no reason, cause it was never wrong, or prudent.
Later on I was forced by the smell in my house to go to the laundry mat. I had made these discrete colored-coded piles like I used to back when I had my own machines, only to realize that I didn't want to spend $30 doing laundry. Less effort, more effectiveness.
Posted at 11:21 PM Read More
Thu - November 27, 2003
...and that's what makes it soul food
Holiday meals can really get you down
if you don't know how to get on down
Well, it's Thanksgiving, one of the
most darling and devious holidays on the United States Federal Calendar. I
could go into my big rant against my former favorite holiday, how we need to
transform it to accept and heal our relationship with the founding of this
nation, but instead I'll talk about actually doing that, just a little
bit.
Today was a very wonderful day as I shared a little bit overcooked turkey with new friends and their family. We overcooked the turkey, ignoring fate which had shut off the stove for us (we thought we might make some one sick, but my ancestors knew better), we had a time, me trying to show my fabulous media artist friend who claims to have no sense of how to cook, and she trying to figure out EXACTLY what I was doing to make things come out.
We had to talk about alchemy, basically because I'm crazy like that, but it seemed practical at the time.
I told her to measure according to her own body, HER fingers, HER hands, HER vision. This would make it her soul's food.
"SO basically about 3/4" thick, then?" I was stuck. We had to laugh hard.
The Measure of Man, as they said in the Renaissance was the basic unit before trades had to standardize in Europe due to transcontinental trade (big ass essay, so just follow the line here). But the Pyramids, Sun dials, and cave calendars were measured out of the constant pulse of sun rays in relationship to objects through which light could not pass, like human flesh. It's pretty interesting to think about needing to speak across your own body's signature, soul to soul.
But anyway, as the day swung along, we soon realized that we had found a new catch phrase for everything that is irreducible to its parts, trial after trial, or rather, a new phrase to add to the end of each fortune in a fortune cookie:
ME "stuffing the turkey allows you to bond with the carcass"
RITSU "and then that's what makes it soul food?"
RITSU "when do I take it out of the oven?"
ME "hmmm. I'll call you when it's time."
RITSU "Are you waiting on your ancestors to tell you when it's done."
ME "uhh, yeah, cause I can't smell it"
RITSU "and that's what makes it soul food?"
RITSU "Omigod!! I got up this morning and the stove had shut itself off! What do I do? This has never happened before!"
ME "Well, I guess its done then."
RITSU "Are you kidding?!? I don't want people to get sick. You think your Ancestors shut off the Stove?"
ME "Yeah, but if you are panicked, let it keep cooking, then I'll call you"
See earlier for results of turkey.
My son was showing off his karate training, and bragged that he had to touch his elbows to his knees. "Like this," we asked, lifting our knee and sitting our elbow on it while seated in a chair. "No," he shouted and got down on the floor to show. "What about this," inquired Stafford, pretending to strain to squeeze his elbows together in front of his chest. "No, that's Chinese," responded Baker, a little too matter- of-factly. "Oh, like Colonel Zao's Wings" retorted Stafford. We could not stop laughing.
Cause that's what makes it soul food.
happy rememberance day y'all.
Today was a very wonderful day as I shared a little bit overcooked turkey with new friends and their family. We overcooked the turkey, ignoring fate which had shut off the stove for us (we thought we might make some one sick, but my ancestors knew better), we had a time, me trying to show my fabulous media artist friend who claims to have no sense of how to cook, and she trying to figure out EXACTLY what I was doing to make things come out.
We had to talk about alchemy, basically because I'm crazy like that, but it seemed practical at the time.
I told her to measure according to her own body, HER fingers, HER hands, HER vision. This would make it her soul's food.
"SO basically about 3/4" thick, then?" I was stuck. We had to laugh hard.
The Measure of Man, as they said in the Renaissance was the basic unit before trades had to standardize in Europe due to transcontinental trade (big ass essay, so just follow the line here). But the Pyramids, Sun dials, and cave calendars were measured out of the constant pulse of sun rays in relationship to objects through which light could not pass, like human flesh. It's pretty interesting to think about needing to speak across your own body's signature, soul to soul.
But anyway, as the day swung along, we soon realized that we had found a new catch phrase for everything that is irreducible to its parts, trial after trial, or rather, a new phrase to add to the end of each fortune in a fortune cookie:
ME "stuffing the turkey allows you to bond with the carcass"
RITSU "and then that's what makes it soul food?"
RITSU "when do I take it out of the oven?"
ME "hmmm. I'll call you when it's time."
RITSU "Are you waiting on your ancestors to tell you when it's done."
ME "uhh, yeah, cause I can't smell it"
RITSU "and that's what makes it soul food?"
RITSU "Omigod!! I got up this morning and the stove had shut itself off! What do I do? This has never happened before!"
ME "Well, I guess its done then."
RITSU "Are you kidding?!? I don't want people to get sick. You think your Ancestors shut off the Stove?"
ME "Yeah, but if you are panicked, let it keep cooking, then I'll call you"
See earlier for results of turkey.
My son was showing off his karate training, and bragged that he had to touch his elbows to his knees. "Like this," we asked, lifting our knee and sitting our elbow on it while seated in a chair. "No," he shouted and got down on the floor to show. "What about this," inquired Stafford, pretending to strain to squeeze his elbows together in front of his chest. "No, that's Chinese," responded Baker, a little too matter- of-factly. "Oh, like Colonel Zao's Wings" retorted Stafford. We could not stop laughing.
Cause that's what makes it soul food.
happy rememberance day y'all.
Posted at 07:19 PM Read More
Tue - November 25, 2003
Passing the Point, Entry November 24, 2002 (but I didn't have any wi-fi that night)
Is it possible to go past one's chuckle point? I
mean, can you literally push the outer limits of nasal decency, plummeting into
the filthy abyss of the full out
guffaw?
Well obviously that was a leading question.
Today is a case in point.
Well obviously that was a leading question.
Today is a case in point.
After starting out the day, a MONday, on an
exceptionally good note (mainly I convinced my 5 yr old that walking to school
would improve his karate, so he got to school early without incident), I decided
to tempt the Keeper of the Crossroads and RETURN along the same path, in the
same clothes, laden with equipment of all types to walk myself to my
school.
The insertion to be made here is: my son begged me to go to school with him for the last two blocks of our walk to serve as a classroom helper. Foolishly, I declined, forgetting about the special mojo that all children are given at birth that they mercilessly use on their parents whenever we have the nerve to think that we have freewill, even though we have spawned.
My baby doctor divine having cast his fix on the rest of my day, I made it to my office missing one key from the ring--the key that opened my office door.
"No matter," I said, "I'll just go to the dance studio and rehearse, since I have on my gear." Couldn't remember the piece, had forgotten the tripod for the camera so I couldn't record the sections I did remember with the hope that the rest would flow back.
After I asked my reflection for the fifth time what happened next, I knew it was time to make my way to the library. But what to do with all the equipment?
So I huffed up the hill with all my stuff. I open the library door and run into a wacky musician/grad student, think nothing of it and make my way into the library café (yeah, sometimes being at an ivy has its perks).
After 20 minutes in a rather short line filled with designer espresso drink freaks who were being served by gals who remembered when a cup of Sanka was real brew, I find an empty table. I notice that the musican/grad student guy had come in, and sat down with some friends.
About 2 hours into my frantic web search for articles on African contemporary dance, West African Pan Africanist American dance, and other assorted bibliographic stuffers, I notice the musician/grad student/slacker looking for me. I also notice that I've had to pee for about an hour, but there were mitigating circumstances: the bib wasn't finished, it had taken me all twenty minutes of my coffee order wait to conjure this table by intense eye contact with a caring older gentleman who sat there long enough for me to get my drug so that I could swoop on the table in that extraordinary moment of private space collision known as change of occupancy in the public sphere..yeah, so I have to pee, KPFK is on the Real 1, Amy Goodman was signing off, my man Lionel Brazzil had just put on a shout out to the Owner of the Intersection, when fool asks me for a ride to NYC.
Right.
So I'm left holding my pee, alphabetizing and formatting the bib, ostensibly to send it off, but really so that I can listen to Lionel Brazzil (don't sleep!). I'm hungry, I still need to get a book, I need to send the e-mail. The e-mail is sent to wherever biblios go for a conference presentation proposal, weird I know. I receive another e-mail from a friend who works in the library. I e-mail her back, then notice that my computer is trying to tell me something.
My G4 puts itself to sleep one second after I get the last pane shut.
Out of juice, but full of it myself, I make my way the two city blocks down to the bathroom. I can barely get into the stall. I sling my gear on the floor, miss shutting the door, put no paper down, and sit, thankful, oh so thankful.
I look for the book twice, realize that I'm in the wrong library, and decide to call it a day.
Time for lunch. At 2:30 pm.
My cell phone dies 6 minutes into a call from a dear friend. It's my only phone. It's the middle of the day. I'm not near an outlet. I hope it's not a terminal battery. Lunch is served.
I finally make it back home, thankful that snow has not hit yet.
I lay down, and realize, "I have just hit my chuckle point." Laughing hysterically, I finish a few more time-sensitive e-mails, set up every Sponge Bob Square Pants game we own, put a chicken pot pie in the oven, pick up Hanuman's child and settle into the evening, knowing that I have appeased the gods of the Little Ones.
Mojo broken.
Next entry: how does one check one's chuckle point? I mean, does it have an actual corporeal location, or are we talking strictly etheric body here?
The insertion to be made here is: my son begged me to go to school with him for the last two blocks of our walk to serve as a classroom helper. Foolishly, I declined, forgetting about the special mojo that all children are given at birth that they mercilessly use on their parents whenever we have the nerve to think that we have freewill, even though we have spawned.
My baby doctor divine having cast his fix on the rest of my day, I made it to my office missing one key from the ring--the key that opened my office door.
"No matter," I said, "I'll just go to the dance studio and rehearse, since I have on my gear." Couldn't remember the piece, had forgotten the tripod for the camera so I couldn't record the sections I did remember with the hope that the rest would flow back.
After I asked my reflection for the fifth time what happened next, I knew it was time to make my way to the library. But what to do with all the equipment?
So I huffed up the hill with all my stuff. I open the library door and run into a wacky musician/grad student, think nothing of it and make my way into the library café (yeah, sometimes being at an ivy has its perks).
After 20 minutes in a rather short line filled with designer espresso drink freaks who were being served by gals who remembered when a cup of Sanka was real brew, I find an empty table. I notice that the musican/grad student guy had come in, and sat down with some friends.
About 2 hours into my frantic web search for articles on African contemporary dance, West African Pan Africanist American dance, and other assorted bibliographic stuffers, I notice the musician/grad student/slacker looking for me. I also notice that I've had to pee for about an hour, but there were mitigating circumstances: the bib wasn't finished, it had taken me all twenty minutes of my coffee order wait to conjure this table by intense eye contact with a caring older gentleman who sat there long enough for me to get my drug so that I could swoop on the table in that extraordinary moment of private space collision known as change of occupancy in the public sphere..yeah, so I have to pee, KPFK is on the Real 1, Amy Goodman was signing off, my man Lionel Brazzil had just put on a shout out to the Owner of the Intersection, when fool asks me for a ride to NYC.
Right.
So I'm left holding my pee, alphabetizing and formatting the bib, ostensibly to send it off, but really so that I can listen to Lionel Brazzil (don't sleep!). I'm hungry, I still need to get a book, I need to send the e-mail. The e-mail is sent to wherever biblios go for a conference presentation proposal, weird I know. I receive another e-mail from a friend who works in the library. I e-mail her back, then notice that my computer is trying to tell me something.
My G4 puts itself to sleep one second after I get the last pane shut.
Out of juice, but full of it myself, I make my way the two city blocks down to the bathroom. I can barely get into the stall. I sling my gear on the floor, miss shutting the door, put no paper down, and sit, thankful, oh so thankful.
I look for the book twice, realize that I'm in the wrong library, and decide to call it a day.
Time for lunch. At 2:30 pm.
My cell phone dies 6 minutes into a call from a dear friend. It's my only phone. It's the middle of the day. I'm not near an outlet. I hope it's not a terminal battery. Lunch is served.
I finally make it back home, thankful that snow has not hit yet.
I lay down, and realize, "I have just hit my chuckle point." Laughing hysterically, I finish a few more time-sensitive e-mails, set up every Sponge Bob Square Pants game we own, put a chicken pot pie in the oven, pick up Hanuman's child and settle into the evening, knowing that I have appeased the gods of the Little Ones.
Mojo broken.
Next entry: how does one check one's chuckle point? I mean, does it have an actual corporeal location, or are we talking strictly etheric body here?
Posted at 01:03 PM Read More
Sat
- November 22, 2003
How to Live Down a Typographical Error
Hello! Sometimes you have to just bend like a palm
tree in the hurricane and go for the laugh.
This blog's title comes from some early morning
hashing, otherwise known as working to deadline. I was charged with creating a
new course. Sent off the abstract with a missing comma, and voilá! You
now get to enjoy The Chuckle Point. I have a few to make. -Anna
Posted at 07:53 PM Read More
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Published On: Jul 21, 2005 08:57 AM
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Published On: Jul 21, 2005 08:57 AM