The Continuing Existence of Things I Do Not Understand

All The Knives, Emily Prince

After both my mother and sister telegraphed their concern, I have decided to retract last week's blog post. I do not hate nor do I love any of you. The great influx of estrogen has finally leveled off and things are back to normal. That is, if you consider harboring fantasies of dropping everything and running to Belize normal. For whatever reason we hit a relatively rough patch and I am still hungover from all the uncontrollable sobbing.

But really, I am OK. The dog is alive and sleeping. The apartment mostly unscathed and the boyfriend still standing albeit now with a limp. The comforter is perhaps a little less downy due to all the languishing that had to happen but the pillows are finally dry. Words were said and while some of them held meaning, hindsight–and a few Motrin–now tell us that many of them, in fact, did not.

All this to say we are feeling back on trackish. There are gyms to which we must begrudgingly drag ourselves. Food stuffs to be purchased and then consumed before legal expiration dates. And a certain opus that could benefit from some attention. Namely ours.

Messages in a bottle

Ann Hamilton, Reflection

You disappoint me. All of you. Each and every one.

But you,

You alone make me happy.

Cohabitation

*Emily and Her Pink Things, JeongMee Yoon

The tomatoes are in the pots. The sunflower seeds in the ground. And the new boyfriend has officially moved in. I'm not sure how any of these things happened. They just did. And for the record, this time around I have decided to take a particularly lax attitude. As in, so what that we haven't gone out and actually done anything 3 weekends in a row, who cares that you eat a significant amount more of the food products than I do and that when you do the dishes you always leave all of the cutlery unwashed in the sink, and really, honey, it's endearing when the night you decide you are going to actually cook a meal, you run out and buy burritos at the last minute. At least, well, at least you're not throwing the dishes at me, eating expensive meals without me, and um, the amount of crumbs you leave behind tells me that you must really exist. Let's just say that your idea of yelling at the pundits on Fox News for hours on end or obsessively writing letters to the editor of Salon magazine, is not really my idea of having a relaxing time. No, I haven't Googled your name in the last few weeks, no, I don't feel the need to watch the O'Reilly Factor daily in order to take the pulse of middle America, and yes, my dog is now your dog, too, complete with all feedings, walkings and sheddings that may occur.

It's been awhile, folks. And we are both a little out of practice. Suffice to say we are entering that blobby, somewhat murky period often referred to by psychiatrists as transition. We know not what lies on the other side nor how long it may take to actually get the hang of it. I don't need to tell you the exact measurements of our "one-bedroom" apartment for you to understand that it will take some measure of diplomacy for the three of us to come out alive. Perhaps, like the time I sold my house because I couldn't find a roommate or the time I moved four hundred miles because I couldn't sleep at night, or when I adopted a 60 pound dog despite the fact that I had no yard, I have once-again jumped the gun. And I want you to know. Mistakes were made. But not by me.


Ethan and His Blue Things, JeongMee Yoon

*Editor's Note: Any likenesses from the above blog post to JeonMee Yoon's photographs are purely coincidental and entirely unintentional.

No Comment

Closer, Tim Sullivan

Casey is taking a personal day. Even though she is not actually employed and only in theory works for herself, she is taking the day off from even that pretense. Casey prefers that she might have chosen a better day, say one in which the sun actually shown and the sky did not look quite so bleak, nonetheless, she realizes that the school-yard saying still holds true: beggars can't be choosers. Her plans for the day might include such exhilarating activities as: doing the dishes that have approached the dining room, buying more soil for the as-yet-unplanted cucumbers dying on her front porch, surfing the internet ad nauseum, and maybe, just maybe, twiddling her thumbs. We can only hope she accomplishes half of what she has set out to do today.

At first glance one might think that were Casey to take a day off from the utterly non-lucrative practice of pretending to be a filmmaker, she might want to engage in more productive activities, perhaps by: looking for a real job with real–and by real we mean not of the imaginary kind–benefits, applying for an art residency where, at the very least, she could be with her own delusional kind, or securing a proper mate who can better sustain her hobbies, i.e. one who doesn't need to be walked twice a day. But alas, Casey has decided to put her own self-indulgent needs above the more practical ones that society has to offer, namely the suggestion that it might just be time to grow up.

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter

Andrew Moore, Red Chairs

The days are getting really long. Too long? Is summer here? I can hardly tell. What I do know is that the weeks seem to be racing by. That I have been concentrating on one really important thing for far too much time and that that really important thing is actually going to end in the not too distant future.

A lot rides on that important thing. Which happens when you put your heart into something. And because a lot rides on it, I have a hard time letting go. This runs both in favor of the important thing and against it. In favor because you will not quit until your vision is met. Against because you completely loose perspective over time and can easily get stuck in the mire. Too much simply means too much.

They say, a film is never finished, but merely abandoned. They also say a film is never finished until it meets the audience. And I suppose I would add that a film is never done until the filmmaker actually agrees to stop looking at it in front of the edit bay. Until then, my friends, the important thing remains an important thing hanging over her head.

It's going to be long. And it's going to be uncomfortable.

Sweat. Blood. And tears.

Long Day's Journey

photo by Johan Bjorkegren

I guess it's been too hot to write. Or maybe it's that I have been out doing too many activities. Or perhaps the lack of comments has forced me to seek attention and recognition elsewhere. Whatever the causes I have decided to come back. Not because I have anything really of import to say. But mostly, so that when I die there will be some kind of record for which I could posthumously receive acknowledgement, maybe an award or two, like for Most Improved Blog, or even just a coupla thank you's from my former employers. I don't know. I guess it's pointless. But yet. We persevere.

My dog got bit on the face not too long ago. Blood gushed from his nose as I watched helplessly while he shook a Rottweiler, firmly attached to his snout, across the gravel driveway. The neighbors looked on and while they weren't exactly cheering, nor where they offering any assistance. As I banged the Rottweiler on the head with the only instrument I had handy: a DVD of Casino Royale as rented from Blockbuster, the owner of the aforementioned assault weapon ran out and got his damn dog off of mine.

We survived having only lost a t-shirt and dishrag in the bargain. The five-hour vet trip was pretty exciting however what with all the swallowed fox-tails, violently shaking Chihuahuas and the unexpected entrance of a hit-by-car that took up all of the resources of the staff. For the remaining four hours, I sat in silence next to the perpetrator's owner with absolutely nothing to say save a brief exchange about our dog's ages. Thankfully there were no stitches involved and all damages were assumed by the guilty party.

And that's the extent of it. Allergies. Sweat. Ripe Fruit. And more strawberry rhubarb pie.

It's gonna be a long summer.