Archive for October, 2009

A Brilliant Idea Whilst Packing

October 29, 2009

I’m on the move again…

I think I’m going to gather together all the single earrings, socks, and shoes (yes, I have two,) dump them in a box, title it “Loss” and try to sell it to the Guggenheim Museum for a million dollars.


M: i just lost a glove today:(
ID: oh the worst
you should give the remaining one to me for my art project
M: i know!
that’s why i told you!
Everyone with one sock/earring/glove/mitten/shoe/uh, anything else?, please contact me so that I can provide with an address to send the remainder to, and also your name, age, and hometown so that you can be credited on the project. Feel free to put on your resume as “collaborator.”
Becca says…I have several single shoes. Probably about 7. I have kept all of them through my last several moves in hopes that one day the other will show up. Will you be keeping an archive so that long lost souls of the shoes (pun!) can still find one another?
Great idea!  Please email me at um TBA and I’ll send you the paperwork.  You can send the paperwork and the single item to Itinerant Daughter, c/o the Guggenheim Museum, 1071 5th Avenue, New York, NY 10128.


October 27, 2009

Too energetic to do anything!




October 26, 2009

“You’re only here because Mom says it’s our Christian duty!”  –– Stephen King’s It

Looking Goooooood

October 25, 2009
Mr. Haring...

Mr. Haring...

In A Book I am Giving Away

October 25, 2009

“Hearing a rumor that one of Lafayette Square’s most delightful young women, Emily Beale, was in love with [Clarence] King, Hay asked what he thought of her.  ‘To see her walk across a room, you would think someone had tilted up a coffin on end and propelled the corpse spasmodically forward,’ King replied, effectively closing the subject of Miss Beale.”

––The Five of Hearts: An Intimate Portrait of Henry Adams and His Friends, by Patricia O’Toole


October 25, 2009

Where I live, people sometimes leave free things on the street. Not exactly Utopia, but you can get some cool shit –– particularly BOOKS! I have my one secret spot where some church leaves out old texts, usually language dictionaries and random religious things, but I won’t tell you lest you raid it and I am left sans-free-book-spot. This week, though, I came across a bin left out by what was probably a theater going out of business or moving, as there were a number of plays and books on theater production, etc. I grabbed Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, as every house ought to have one, and Samuel Beckett’s Company, of which I have never heard but hey, I’m a fan of the original merciless one. Plays are great reads, too, as you can usually consume the whole thing in one day, thus making yourself feel super smart and accomplished (though you’ve only read a mere seventy pages, and not even fully filled in pages at that.)

So Company…the back cover describes it as “an extraordinary blending of thought and memory with poignant glimpses of childhood”…for the beginning 84 pages (large type!) I wasn’t blown away. I mean, yes, it’s Beckett, so it was lovely in a soul-sucking kind of we’re-all-alone-“a-voice-in-the-dark” kind of way, but other than one really terrifying story about a hedgehog (don’t ask,) I wasn’t so moved. There wasn’t anything solid or beautiful (even ugly-beautiful, the best kind, on second thought) to latch on to. Faint breath, soft voice in the dark, “such and such a day” like any other day, etc.

But then…

The end. And it may not be as good out of context, but I leave it here for you, and think about how last night all I could imagine was reading this every night before I fell asleep, and being comforted by the last words, and not afraid, if I wanted to be.

“Somehow at any price to make an end when you could go out no more you sat huddled in the dark. Having covered in your day some twenty-five thousand leagues or roughly thrice the girdle. And never once overstepped a radius of one from home. Home! So sat waiting to be purged the old lutist cause of Dante’s first quarter-smile and now perhaps singing praises with some section of the blest at last. To whom here in any case farewell. The place is windowless. When as you sometimes do to void the fluid you open your eyes dark lessens. Thus you now on your back in teh dark once sat huddled there your body having shown you it could go out no more. Out no more to walk the little winding back roads and interjacent pastures now alive with flocks and now deserted. With at your elbow for long years your father’s shade in his old tramping rags and then for long years alone. Adding step after step to the ever mounting sum of those already accomplished. Halting now and then with bowed head to fix the score. Then on from nought anew. Huddled thus you find yourself imagining you are not alone while knowing full well that nothing has occurred to make this possible. The process continues none the less lapped as it were in its meaninglessness. You do not murmur in so many words, I know this doomed to fail and yet persist. No. For the first personal and a fortiori plural pronoun had never any place in your vocabulary. But without a word you view yourself to this effect as you would a stranger suffering say from Hodgkin’s disease or if you prefer Percival Pott’s surprised at prayer. From time to time with unexpected grace you lie. Simultaneously the various parts set out. The arms unclasp the knees. Teh head lifts. The legs start to straighten. The trunk tilts backward. And together these and countless others continue on their respective ways till they can go no further and together come to rest. Supine now you resume your fable where the act of lying cut it short. And persist till the converse operation cuts it short again. So in the dark now huddled and now supine you toil in vain. And just as from the former position to the latter the shift grows easier in time and more alacrious so from the latter to the former the reverse is true. Till from the occasional relief it was supineness becomes habitual and finally the rule. You now on your back in the dark shall not rise again to clasp your legs in your arms and bow down your head till it can bow down no further. But with face upturned for good labour in vain at your fable. Till finally you hear how words are coming to an end. With every inane word a little nearer to the last. And how the fable too. The fable of one with you in the dark. The fable of one fabling of of one with you in the dark. And how better in the end labour lost and silence. And you as you always were.


Sleep well.

How To Get On a Plane Without An ID

October 25, 2009

No, not ME ID, like proof of identification…which is weird, why do we need that?  Pinch me.  I exist.  I think?

PS: magically I was let on the plane

step 1. look as innocuous/friendly/geeky as possibly
step 2. know your address, your mother’s maiden name, your birthday, and where your dad keeps his boat
there are only two steps
I’m ready to go off the grid
also 2a. chat up the TSA woman and in a vague way hate on chinatown together, which we all know stands in for a subtle racism
bond over that
then head to balducci’s [british airways terminal loc.] and spend $30 on soups, sandwiches and juices

I Wish I Had Twitter, Part II

October 24, 2009

Lot Lizard: truck stop prostitute

Things That Worry Me

October 24, 2009

missing buttons

scratches on one’s neck

My Dad Sent Me This…

October 20, 2009
I think he thinks it should've been around when I was a Brownie...

I think he thinks it should've been around when I was a Brownie...