A Random Image

Archive for November, 2006


To know, know, know him is to love, love, lurrrrve him.

I called in sick today. I usually work half-dead, but today everything save for my teeth and my hair hurts. Interwebnets, I am like Tinkerbell from Peter Pan, only I could give a shit if you believe in me. Pity is what works best for me. Yes indeed, if you people pity my sorry ass with all you’ve got today, then I should be right as rain and cursing somebody tomorrow.

Maxim, being the boss at work, decides his own day off. That day is typically Monday. Maxim, being the boss at home, chooses to use lots of his Mondays doing detail work on our rambly and unfinished home.

A while ago, snuffling and shuffling, I headed for the bath to soak in some eucalyptus salts. There were boards and saws and levels and measuring tapes and nails and drills and the like spread about (ON MY FETCHING WOOL RUUUUG!) in the family room; I was too sick to be a nutbag about it. Besides, usually I’m at work on Mondays and would otherwise know no difference, right? Right.

Ugly and in my fluffiest mint green robe, I shuffled past the music studio, where he stood semi-hunkered over a Magic 8 Ball.

“Will I get this done in twenty minutes?” he whispered to it, holding it firmly in his manly hand. He then looked offended.

Reply hazy, try again??”

No wonder it’s taking us so damned long to finish this place.

See also, “Dissecting the Magic 8 Ball” which is rife with scientific languagey goodness.

something old, something new, I borrowed your feelings and rendered them anew

I make art much like I do many other things in my life: Several things being worked up/on concurrently. However, with things like paint and glue and scavenging for materials, this is more a necessity than anything else. Many times it is a stepping-stone to stepping-stone process and I’m just fortunate that this dovetails nicely onto my natural ‘fifty-eight balls in the air, oh yeah!’ style.

A few weeks back, several situations and stimuli collided into one another and then began to sort of shift and mesh and coalesce into one concept inside my head. About a week and a half ago, I entered my studio with a particular thing in my mind, which is unusual. Most times I just go in there, turn on some musicks, sit in the egg-shaped chair and start digging through all the vintage bits and baubles until something strikes me, then I build around it until it just feels right, until the itch inside me is eased for a time.

The piece that came out, well….I found it to be the most overwhelmingly satisfying thing I’ve created in the longest time, so I’m being bold and doing a first: Posting some of my artwork here for you to eyeball. I’ve not done this before, I guess, because I am largely selfish; maybe I wanted to hold something in reserve, I dunno.

The photographs were made with Scout’s shitty Kodak digital (maybe I’ll get a beautiful, sexy new digital of my very own to play with for Christmas??), so they don’t really capture the piece well, but fuck it. I’m sharing anyhoo.

:: front view ::

:: side view ::

This work is titled “Blessed and Bent: A Lovesong Interpreted”. The title itself is representative, as it is a multilayered thing: I incorporated the poem ‘Lovesong‘ by Ted Hughes, as it is one of the most gorgeous and striking pieces of portry I’ve ever had the pleasure of being breathsucked by; I made reference to a song by one of my favorite singer-songwriters, Patty Griffin; There is a nod to the reverence I have for God and His crazily overwhelming love for me; I also steeped things heavily in the massively inexplicable and soaring, leadweighted love I share with a very dear friend.

I was verra, verra purposeful and intense and savage and driven when I was working on it.

Some basic info, if you give a shit at all about that sort of thing: It’s a one-of-a kind original and measures out at roughly nine by twelve if you don’t count the renegade tree branches. Elements used include beeswax, a vintage brass claim check, twill ribbon, 20 gauge steel wire, a vintage bronze watch fob, balsa wood, a vintage bronze catholic medal, acrylic paints, a sterling german cherub stamping, a brass washer, a vintage aluminum signboard numeral, a clay tile, archival rag mat board, antique brass stampings, art papers, a skeleton leaf, copper eyelets, tumbled pebbles, a shadowbox frame, walnut ink, translucent vellum, and the poem (which, of course, Ted Hughes holds the copyright to, circa nineteen-hunnert and sixty-seven in the year of our lord, ahhhh-MEN).

This thing, honestly, is probably the most cathartic piece I’ve ever, ever done. I was putting the dust cover and hanger on the back tonight to finish it up, and I felt so relieved and at rest. There is no quantifying that, you people. There’s just not.

|| November 9, 2006 || 1:33 pm || Comments (2) ||

(I think it just miiiight be working.)

This week I am taking great pains to do all things as neatly and precisely as possible.

Sometimes I do this when I feel I’m losing control. For some reason, it helps to settle my insides. Tapping out the CrazySap, as it were.

My melly used to joke with me, calling me ‘the Walking Head Wound’; I’ve always found this quite delightful and funny. I’m going to put it on a tee-shirt. Because, you know, I arrive in fits and starts. Which, in its own way, is charming and ludicrous and frustrating and all of those other contrapuntal descriptors that are used to not-quite-size-me-up. And, frankly, would also make for one fuck of an awesome warning label-slash-shirt.

pee ess….hellooooo, Kearney, New Jersey. Not quite sure why, but I feel like you may be feeling a little forgotten by the world at large today. So, “Charge on Calpurnia, your actions and words are not in vain; go forth boldly with the spirit of Boudica in your breast and know in The Very Core Of You that you are valuable, wanted, loved. Your own torc is your grace and longsuffering on behalf of others.” Also, see Amazing Story as accompanying illustration. I love that her first words were not, “Ohmyfuck, I can talk,” but were “Thank you so much.” There’s hallelujah all over that, you know?

|| November 7, 2006 || 11:37 pm || Comments (4) ||


Coming out of the gym, head down, look of concentration masquerading as a slight scowl, hair wet and kicking out unruly all over my head, rain thrumming the roof and assaulting the pebbled pavement in great, splashing drops, I passed A Guy.

“Oooh, you look mean,” he said, all misterflirty-like.

Stabbing him with scalding blue eyes, I peered from beneath renegade bangs and sneered, “That’s because I AM.”

So yeah, a notice:

Dear Random Gym Guy,

This week is not the week to play the Cutesy Pick Up Line game with me. I won’t fucking have it, and I will chop your ego into little juicy bits and devour it with great aplomb while employing a definite lack of social mores.

Yours In Health,

Jett “I Have Pearly Whites But YOU Won’t See Them” Superior

|| November 6, 2006 || 11:40 pm || Comments (3) ||

(it’s been a very Neruda week, y’all)

There’s No Forgetting (Sonata)

If you should ask me where I’ve been all this time

I have to say ‘Things happen.’

I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth,

on the river ruined in its own duration:

I know nothing save things the birds have lost,

the sea I left behind, or my sister crying.

Why this abundance of places? Why does day lock

with day? Why the dark night swilling round

in our mouths? And why the dead?

Should you ask me where I come from, I must talk, with broken things,

with fairly painful utensils,

with great beasts turned to dust as often as not

and my afflicted heart.

These are not memories that have passed each other

nor the yellowing pigeon asleep in our forgetting;

these are tearful faces

and fingers down our throats

and whatever among leaves falls to the ground:

the dark of a day gone by

grown fat on our grieving blood.

Here are violets, and here swallows,

all things we love and which inform

sweet messages seriatim

through which time passes and sweetness passes.

We don’t get far, though, beyond these teeth:

Why waste time gnawing the husk of silence?

I know not what to answer:

there are so many dead,

and so many dikes the red sun breached,

and so many heads battering hulls

and so many hands that have closed over kisses

and so many things that I want to forget.

// Pablo Neruda

|| November 5, 2006 || 9:57 pm || Comments (2) ||

Another Saturday.

I was sitting at the computer, hood up (it is co-olllld) and quietly debating whether or not I’d eat two cookies and take a nap or haul up and go to the gym for an extended weekend sweatfest. Scout was behind me on the loveseat, contently weaving scraps of fabric together with her fingers. She looks like a cherub, I swear: Head bent to task, serene face, hair falling smooth as silk against her nape.

There was a crash from the back of the house; it was quite beautiful, echoing up the dining room steps and resonating off of high ceilings, bouncing off of walls and shimmering through the wide facings of doorways. Crystal. Something crystal had broken.

I closed my eyes: “Please be something I hate. Please be something I hate.


“Was it something momma hated?” Scout shouted back to Sam. It was his kitchen day.

“It was a wiiiiinne glass!” he shouted in return. I hate shouting between rooms, always have. Please, all you people, my gut says, please let’s be civilized and converse, facing one another, in the same room and with softened voices.

“Which?!” I then shouted.

“UMMM…” he hollered back.

I made my way through the living room, the family room, the dining room and went into the kitchen, where Sam cautiously held an ornate stem aloft. It was intact (what?!) and had a silver dollar-sized curve of lower bowl attached to it: The fanciest coffee scoop you’ve ever seen. The black tile floor sparkled from one end to the other with crystal diamonds winking in the low morning sun. Some pieces were powdery-fine, some were jagged and gorgeous hunks.

Wedding crystal, given to us by the infamous and She Of Wonderful Taste, Aunt Brosh.

Piper stepped out of her room and watched Sam and me watching one another. I finally tucked in one side of my mouth and said, “For once, I sure am glad you’re wearing your shoes in the house. I’ll get the big hunks while you grab the broom and dustpan for the rest.

“You’ll have to sweep the whole kitchen, it exploded everywhere.”

“I’m really sorry, mom,” Sam told me.

“It’s okay,” I replied, stepping with floppy-socked feet gingerly from tile to tile. I was picking up the jagged, bigger pieces, examining them. Some I put in the remnants of the glass’ bowl; I sailed others toward the stainless steel trashcan.

“Doesn’t matter much. I’ll take these pieces and make something beautiful of them.”

Later in the day, while headed for my studio, I overheard Piper on the phone. She was recounting my words of earlier. “I swear to God, that’s why I love her so much, even though she’s sometimes hard to live with: ‘I’ll take these pieces and make something beautiful of them.’

“I don’t know any other mother who would say something like that. She’s amazing.”

I did an about face; instead of going into the studio to work I stepped down into the sacrosanct dusk of my bedroom. I made my way across the wonderful expanse of it to sit in front of the fireplace, where I placed my forehead on the slate hearth and began to cry in great and racking sobs.


(I need a camera to illustrate these sorts of things)

In the Emergency Tampon Box concealed neatly in my desk drawer at work, you will find:

+ two Kotex tampons of the ‘Super’ designation

+ one Kotex tampon, ‘regular’

+ a two-dollars-off coupon for a box of (five!) Zone bars

+ three packets Heinz ketchup (catsup? –I can never make a definite call on that one)

+ one packet spicy mustard

+ one packet soy sauce

+ two mini-size Rolo candies

+ one mini bag Reese’s Pieces

+ three napkins from Subway (mmm, breffus)

+ a crayon-shaped birthday candle (red.)

+ four cotton balls for keeping Tessa in line when she is bad.

Which, by the way, leads me to tell you that Tess has the wierdest fear I’ve ever heard of: Cotton balls. How utterly and magically fabulous.