Unsilence

Santacon tights

I just uploaded several images from my day into this post in no particular order.  But although I engaged in a myriad of holiday activities, one to which I forced a kid, another to which I was unable to force no one but myself, I almost burst into tears several times.  I'm so upset by what happened in CT--it has colored my day and why shouldn't it?--especially reading about the ages of most of the victims.  As a parent of children who were those ages not that long ago--my heart is wrenched.

As someone who grew up the daughter of a struggling school teacher and who loves teachers and school workers and believes that they are generally underpaid and under-appreciated, my heart is wrenched.

As someone who worries that Americans still won't take issues of mental health and gun control seriously even in the aftermath of this, my heart is wrenched.

Here you will find images from Unsilent Night--an annual event where individual boomboxes and MP3 players broadcast a different element of Phil Kline's composition.  Everyone presses play at once and we parade across town.  Lara, SLC's installment is happening on the 23rd.  Check the Fb page.  

Before that I went to the marathon reading of A Christmas Carol, and all around us, throughout the day, were hordes of bar-hopping Santacon revelers, dressed as yes, St. Nick, but also as Xmas trees, candy canes, elves, dreidels and most awesomely, a latke complete with applesauce and sour cream.  

Let us grateful for revelry, food and drink and happiness and Dickens and the opportunity to grow older to enjoy these things year after year.   

My only photo of the event doesn't begin to represent Santacon's critical mass.

Reading aloud aloft--Xmas Carol at Housing Works

Assembling for Unsilent Night

ExistentialLIST

1.  Started the day at The Secret City.  The theme of "Ancestors."  Katherine Gleason presented her work on Alexander McQueen; Susan Birnson had everyone taste her canned cherries and apricots (lemongrass, etc--turns canning on its head); we saw Toshinori Hamada present traditional Japanese dance; we listed to Andru Bemis and his banjo, and The Secret City Singers sang Sweet Honey in the Rock.  

2.  Went from there to the dramatic conclusion of the marathon Moby Dick reading.

3.  Headed to the New Museum for the vintage Bowery artists exhibit and Rosemary Trokel exhibit.  Have you heard of her?  I hadn't.  And I have a hard time finding a good link to her online.   There was also a tattoo artist tattooing humans in the New Museum's window.  

4.  The conclusion of our year-long GITP blog experiment looms.  I'm still not sure what all these posts have added up to, if the daily blog practice has helped me in any way.   Still feel in so many tight places.  I still haven't accomplished many of the goals I set on 12/31/11 with Lara.  In fact, I feel like I've barely made a dent.  

Pretty/Ugly

Book browsing in bowling shoes

After a long day at work, all I was in the mood for was some old school, sloppy street fashion photographing with my inferior camera phone.

I had very much wanted to go to the Free Pussy Riot reading at the Ace Hotel (if you've seen Portlandia, the Deuce Hotel is a riff on the Ace), but couldn't get the kid to go along and my sitter's out of town.  (Plus, I had nothing to wear that would make me feel cool enough to be in the same room with Chloe Sevigny.)

Kid #2 consented to go to Housing Works Books with me where we spotted this woman (above) in a calf-length sundress and two-tone bowling shoes.  Why don't I ever think of this?

I then dragged K#2 to an art opening at The Hole, which always has the hippest crowds.  By comparison, I feel completely dowdy, like a Relief Society matron for Yuma circa 1980, Lara, although maybe that look's back in now?  (We did see the Prada/Schiaparelli show at the Met yesterday, and Prada is all about importing "the ugly" into fashion, and reconfiguring what beauty is:  "If I've done anything it's too make ugly appealing."  Miuccia refuses to cut any of her dresses on the bias because it's too conventionally beautiful.  And I just now discovered that Miuccia Prada has a PhD in political science and worked as a mime.  No wonder I love her so much.)

At The Hole, the art was influenced by Mondrian and cartoons.  You can read about the Adam Green show "Houseface" here.  I feel like I need to completely change my style or amp it up.  But I don't know how.  Miuccia says she hates when women play it safe when they age.  Here she is again on aging:  "Thinking about age all the time is the biggest prison women make for themselves."

Lots of back action

Yellow stovepipe pants and yellow platform sandals.  

More back action.

Hero Worship: "There Might Have Been Something To Enjoy in Swallowing that Color"

That subtitle above?  Diane Williams wrote that.

Last night,  I sped into the night (well, it was still light) on my bike to catch one of my all-time fave contemporary literary heros, Diane Williams.  I used to carry her first collection fiction (short, slanted stories that gave me permission to construct askew sentences and leave oddly shaped gaps between them) around like a tome of scripture that I'd consult with great reverence and awe.  I've been taking this book around from place to place for the past 22 years, so the fact that it had taken me this long to see its author was a little unnerving.

The reading was in one of my favorite spaces (to write and eat) in downtown Manhattan--a bookstore cafe which generates cash for people living with HIV/AIDS.  All the books/food are donated.  The entire staff is volunteer.  They host weddings there, and I would totally have a wedding there if I weren't already married.

The reading was sponsored by McSweeney's.  Diane went on last.  She read about six flash fiction pieces from her new book to often uncomfortable silence.  It was hard to interpret the silence, actually, was it uncomfortable?  Or just stunned?

From the back row, I rose and took her photo with my phone.

She was a good reader, confident and clear.  She is 66.

Afterwards, I went up to the little table at the front and fondled the books stacked upon it.  I opened one of them and read.  I decided I had to have it.  You would have decided that, too.

Some older woman with overwhelming hair and obtrusive energy, arms around a stack of books,  commanded Diane's attention, so I went and paid for my book.

Then I stood and waited.  When the seat opened up I sat down reverentially:

Me:  Thanks for reading.  I have to say that your first collection totally inspired my master's thesis.

Diane (visibly touched):  Oh, wow.  That's wonderful.  Where did you write your thesis?

Me:  The University of Utah.

Diane (seemingly unimpressed):  Oh.  What is your name?

Me:  Julie

Diane:  Julie what?

I told her.  She had never heard of me.  Diane signed the first book and then opened the new one.

Diane:  Is this my copy?

Me (trying to sound wry and ironic and fun):  Uh, no!  I have the receipt!  (In reality, I sounded panicked and anxious, desperately afraid she was going to swipe my new copy of her book, because how often--in my tight place--do I get to buy a new book?)

Diane:  Okay, weirdo.  (Well, she didn't actually say this, but it's what I heard.)

Me:  Thanks again so much.  I can't wait to read the new one.

Diane smiles.

I run away and find my bike.

I have to tell you that I NEVER seem to be able approach an author I admire without coming off feeling like Travis Bickle, or some other genre of creepy stalker.

Is it just me?