The Battle Against Dust July 17, 2008

My face feels clogged full of whatever it is that makes dust:  ash from before we stopped smoking in the house, dirt, skin cells, whatever.  I think I have a pound and a half stored in my sinuses alone.  I realize now, in the act of packing this house that I’ve lived in the longest since I left my parents homes, what a terrible housekeeper I really must be.  I like things to be clean, I can live with clutter, and I can’t stand food trash or crusty toilets. How then, did I allow this much dust to accumulate in all the corners and crevices of my home?  Blech.  It’s shameful how much dust I was hoarding in my bedroom.  I can’t believe I escaped without some archaic miner’s lung disease.  Things looked good on the surface, but I see now that that doesn’t mean I can neglect underneath.  For three whole years.  Lesson learned,  I think.  A really good metaphor for life is hidden in here somewhere, I’m sure of it.  

Maybe I’ve never mentioned this before, but I really and truly despise the physical act of moving.  Nothing about it is fun.  Aside from that whole Inevitable Change thing, and how much fun it is to rearrange in a clean, new space…it fucking blows.  I hate how my fingers always end up scraped and raw from the tape-dispenser-teeth-cutter thing.  I hate how I get lost for hours reminiscing over books or pictures I haven’t seen in years, when forward progress is the only things that really matters in the moment.  I hate how my hands get so dirty I look like I’ve been gardening for three days without washing my hands.  I hate how sweaty I get, I hate lugging boxes up or down stairs, I hate dusting furniture, I hate waiting for the Salvation Army to come get the stuff I refuse to carry up or down a stair ever again, I hate security deposits, I hate finding someone with a truck to burden, and I hate, most of all, how, 12 years ago, I moved at the beginning of August.  Forever after, I have been relegated to moving on August 1st, the grossest, stickiest, most heinous heat of the year.  I am actually very happy that I’m subletting until November 1st;  the cycle may finally be broken, praise Jeebus.  

My first sublet, for the month of August, is in Jackson Heights, Queens.  Apparently, it is a heavily hispanic neighborhood, which I am really looking forward to, because it bothers me every day that I am not fluent in Spanish.  I keep saying I want an Immersion Experience.  It’s not the Peace Corps (not yet!  t-minus two years and counting!), but it can’t hurt to be surrounded by the language every day.  Also, the two women I will be living with are Ukranian and Croatian, respectively.  I’m ’bout to have a cultural adventure, y’all.  While part of me is quite nervous about moving into an apartment I’ve never seen (except in pictures), cohabitating with two people I’ve never met (except via email), the larger part of me is thrilled with the idea of completely new experiences, every single time I walk out the door.  I want to feel like I have brand new eyes, just like the baby in the Averett Brothers song, At The Beach. 

I can’t wait to discover the delicious ethnic restaurants around every corner.  I have dreams of Sunday mornings in the flower market.  When I imagine chasing a flaming soccer ball down the street, laughing and running with FireBall, I get a little misty, not because I’m leaving, but because I’m going.  And not a minute too soon, either.  Turning 30 in New York will somehow feel better than turning 30 here.  Less than a month, folks.  I have started to pay closer attention to commercials advertising wrinkle cream; my age anxiety is gnawing at me on a ridiculous subconscious level.  Is this normal?  It is, right?  Right?

Dollywood!!! May 2, 2008

As a student at an art school, I have embraced the unconventional.  This includes, but is no means limited to, the fact that our Senior Trip is taking us to Dollywood.  Six of us are piling into a big white van, and driving to Tennessee, to stay in a friend’s mom’s cabin (with two, count them TWO, hot tubs!) and seven bedrooms for six of us.  I couldn’t sleep last night for the anticipation.  

I know that must sound crazy, but Dollywood has always been a legend in my mind, a place I’ve always needed to see to convince myself of the reality.  This might sound bizarre, but it’s a bit of a dream come true that I finally get to visit (for free, luckily!).  It feels like a pilgrimage of sorts…which is kinda crazy, because I love Dolly Parton but her music isn’t exactly my jam.  I’m in it for the 9 to 5 Rhinestone Cowboy.  She won’t be there this weekend, but I will still enjoy the water ride.  

AND, to really make my day, we are stopping in Asheville for dinner.  I will spend the entire two hoursin the car trying to figure out what the best place to eat is, only to have TazerLaser complain that there aren’t enough meat and potatoes on the menu.  The man doesn’t eat a single green thing.  Not one.  Additionally, no bread, no cheese, and no sauces aside from ketchup or barbeque.  He lives on hamburger patties, no bun, and french fries or mashed potatoes.  Seriously.  It pisses me off that he’s skinny.  Where am I supposed to take him???  I want Jerusalem Garden, or Lucky Otter, or Sunny Pointe, or maybe even Doc Cheys.  He wants Wendys.  Oh, TL.  

And the weekend begins…  I can’t wait to see what kind of shenanigans I can catch on film for blackmail and entertainment purposes later.  

“Dear Lord, I Mean It!” December 28, 2007

On the eve of returning home to prepare for New Years and my next-to-last trimester before I get my effing BFA, I am feeling like, for all my crankiness and general Grinch-like holiday tendencies, I had a great time these last couple of weeks.  Pretty ideal, really. 

I’m feeling great…I’ve lost about 28 pounds already, which is awesome.  Most of my incisions are healed–the big one, containing the Dreaded Port is still tender, and bleeding just a tad–and I’m off of the liquid diet (which, come to find out, can make a person appreciate the taste of food Real Quick) which is pretty exciting.  I haven’t gotten nauseous except for once, after my first run-in with the mayonaisse in my Grandma’s famous egg salad.  Not bad.  I can’t speed walk yet, I have to move at a healthy but slower than normal pace…the up and down movement gets uncomfortable after a while.  I’m still not entirely acclimated to the fact that there is a foreign body inside of me, and I can feel it, inside and out.  It’s not bad, just…creepynew. 

I spent some more time with the friends from high school after Christmas…that may have been the highlight of my holiday “vacation”.  They’re all doing so well, and they’ve (we’ve?) all turned into pretty cool, grounded, productive adults that can still have Real Good Times together; I appreciate the relationships that you can just walk back into, like no time had passed at all.  Those are the ones that endure forever, I think. 

Me and Dad took Little Brother (who I shall call…Tiny Man, because he is) to see the new exhibit at the art museum, a decent collection of expressionist work, mostly French, some American and English.  The two scene stealers were a particular Monet (the name escapes me) of a multi-story building set on a waterfront, and an artist I’d never heard of: Potthart.  His gorgeous use of a triadic color scheme in purples, oranges and greens made for one of the most gorgeous and loose interpretations of the ocean I’ve ever seen.  Tiny Man got bored about a half hour in, but he was a good sport and talked about the paintings he liked and disliked.  I feel some responsibility to try and help him learn to love art; he’s a math and music guy all the way, who also happens to be a good visual artist with no confidence about being creative.  He’s 9, and he’s interested in what I’m interested in, so hopefully I can be the Good Influence I aspire to be for my much-younger brother.  He’s a really cool kid.  I like spending time with him.  Alot. 

My mom and I have seen a lot of each other, which has had it’s tense moments, but we parted laughing and smiling with no hard feelings, and that’s saying something.  Mom and I don’t make good house mates.  I never have figured out why. 

And holy moly, it’s 2008 next week!!  It blows my mind every year.  Time is crazy. 

The Progress December 20, 2007

I have lost twenty five pounds already.  Woah, dude.  I knew it would go quick, but it surprised me, still.  I’m going to have to go clothes shopping much sooner than I anticipated….Oh, darn!!! 

 My good meds have run out, and I find myself forgetting to take Tylenol or Advil because the pain is so minimal (lovin’ that…), and I have totally lost all craving for food, so my protein drinks and tomato soup are actually enjoyable.  Especially the soup.  Every time it hits my lips, I can’t help thinking, Damn This Soup Is Goooood.  It’s weird. 

We’ll see how torturous Grandma’s house is…the land of everything southern that I like to eat.  And of course I can’t get back on solids until the day after xmas, the day we leave.  That’s okay…at least I’ll be the only one who doesn’t gain ten pounds this year.  That’s something. 

But I will miss my casseroles.  Sigh. 

Gay Ball November 4, 2007

Tonight was the annual Local Gay Foundation gala…once again, an awesome time. The arts collective downtown rented out their space, which is a gorgeous, multi-level gallery, with stair cases twining through the open air of the atrium, allowing for viewing both up and down. The dance floor was on the bottom level; the music didn’t get really good until late in the evening, when the Drunk Gays took control of the dance floor, and the more Conservative Gays started filtering out for the evening. The middle level had art for the auction displayed on tables, winding around the atrium, complete with chocolate fountains. The upper level was a piano bar, where live entertainment played throughout the evening, rotating every 30 minutes. My personal fave was the Gay Mens Choir, who performed show tunes, mainly. They were dressed in button up shirts that created a rainbow when they were in formation. My Hot For Teacher crush also performed for 40 minutes…the fact that she can sing like that does not help me in my quest to Not sleep with her (although there was some delicious eye flirting while she was singing). After we had eaten some light hor’s d’oeuvres, and watched a few sets, we hit the dance floor. It took a bit of convincing to get me on the floor, in the form of a stage manager on a PA system–my shoes were all wrong for dancing, and the view from the middle level was awesome–but once I got out on the floor, it was such a good time! My instructor/shop manager/advisor is such a blast to dance with–he’s a skinny, goofy, 50-something gay man who likes to get down. It’s a great feeling to be on a dance floor, in the middle of an art gallery, with all the gay faculty at my school, shakin’ their asses with me. It’s a nice family. Anchors came along, which was great; she’s not a Gay, but she sure does love ‘em, and they sure do love her. She’s the best addition to any dance floor…that girl can dance!

I’m feelin’ the Gay Love tonight. It’s nice to be in the majority every now and again.

I could be feelin’ a different kind of gay love right now, if I wasn’t such an idiot…a fine sista got close on the dance floor, asked my name, and if I was queer or straight. Like a fool, I said, “Motorboat, I’m queer”, and then continued dancing with my friends. My friends that I can’t have sex with. My friends that are not eligible lesbians. I could have been riding the Velvet Thunder, and instead, here I am, at home, on my computer, having completely not picked up on the fact that she was trying to pick me up. Dumb. Dumbdumbdumb. Whatever. I have a date with the Cute Straight Girl tomorrow afternoon. She asked me. I’m not so sure she’s sure she’s straight any more. At least she’s askin’…

Chances are good that I will wind up with another attached, conflicted straight girl, if I let things continue. This is probably a bad idea. I will probably do it any way. I have such a weakness for the ladies that can wear a skirt, heels and makeup one night, and then look just as stunning the next day in a well-coordinated paint outfit (and I’d be surprised if this inclination of mine didn’t have even a little bit to do with a power trip or ego masturbation) I’d like to believe I’ll find the Femme of my dreams, but I am starting to think it’s going to take a lot of Sifting through all the slightly-curious-90%-straight girls. They have the looks I like the best. I can’t help it. I can’t help it that I’m just like every other human in the world and Looks Do Matter, because how else does someone initially catch the eye? Sassy fashion sense and bold color choices can give me an Eye Boner just as quick as a nice rack or incredible eyes will. I’m not entirely shallow. I just know what I like. Usually. There are the occasional, errant, butch girly-men that will peak my interest, but that’s the exception, not the rule.

It’s just that she’s got These Eyes that fuckin’ rock my socks, my favorite shape, my favorite color, so much intensity and sparkle, so much shine. I’m perfectly aware of the fact that I’m lusting after these Brown Eyes to try and forget The Blue, but at least I feel better. It’s been at least a week since I’ve cried. Preoccupational Crush is to thank for that. And my show opened. And I put an afro wig on, drank homemade beer and laughed for hours with a party full of people I mostly liked. The sun is starting to shine again.

National Day of Rest is guuuuuud September 4, 2007

So, aside from almost being too broke to pay for gas to get there, JJJ and I ventured to my grandmother’s house this weekend. My sweet lady had first time introductions to my grandmother, crazy aunt PeeWee, my waste of space uncle, and my young cousin J. Granted, only my aunt knew previously that JJJ is my girlfriend, and my grandmother and I have still never Had That Conversation, but it went really well. It was actually a whole lot of fun. My mom was there, and in good spirits…we laughed a lot, drank several pitchers of fresh peach daquiris, and played card games and Scrabble so constantly that, for the first time in a long time, we weren’t parked in front of the TV after dinner, til bed. Of course, I had to weather the requisite Food Coma (meant in the highest regards, naturally) that my grandmother’s cooking induces, twice a day, yet we managed to pack some good times into the day. My aunt, whom I absolutely adore, has just purchased a Playstation 3, never having been a gamer before in her life (she says it’s for the blueray technology), and brought the system so that I could get her past the profile stages of her three video games; that was fun. The graphics are really pretty impressive (although I’m not sold on it’s superiority to the XBox 360) but the controls are so extensive and complicated that I tired of each game after about ten or fifteen minutes. Also, PeeWee had her new-ish rottweiler puppy with her, and it was difficult to tear myself away from his soft, droopy, puppy eyes for too long when he was in the room with me. Such a peach. He’s seven months old, and 100 lbs of shiny black cuddles. I had a great time rolling around on the floor with him. His breed gets such a bad rap…two of the sweetest, smartest dogs I’ve ever known are Rotties. However, this weekend also proved the hypothesis that Rottweiler’s have the most frequent and worst smelling gas of any dogs on Earth. Granted, they’ve been PeeWee’s dogs, and PeeWee idolizes the Dog Whisperer, and trains her dogs with his TV guidance…his shit works, that’s all I know.

I’ve gotten so off-topic. It was interesting being at my grandma’s with JJJ. It was all very pleasant and easy-going, but still. I have a very good relationship with my grandma, and I don’t believe that her love for me could waver if we admitted to each other that I know that she knows, but it would most likely make some tiny waves if I actually said it out loud. However, Southern Etiquette and the fact that JJJ is charming made for a good weekend. My cousin, J, who I also have a good relationship with, wouldn’t stop staring at my girlfriend’s hot rack, so after ten hours or so, while we were playing cards on Grandma’s porch, I asked J if he knew that JJJ is my girlfriend. Oh, the look on his face was priceless, truly priceless. I can’t decide how the chips will fall from that question, but I guess I’ll find out. He loves me, we have a special relationship that we both value, and I think I’ve probably only given him pause for thought. I’m left feeling like the coming out process can be gradual, delicious anxiety that lasts for years. Tiers of Coming Out, you know. Progress, any way you look at it, and I feel good.

The biggest highlight of the weekend: four hours stolen at the public access of a particularly delightful beach. Perfect air and water temperature, a picnic lunch, and a boogie board…good times. We are both windburnt, which is better than sunburnt, because fire doesn’t come out of your soul through your derma, you just look like it does. Sandblasted might be a better explanation. Totally worth it, at any rate. We finished off our soujourn by eating Fried Seafood, complete with a view. My stomach hurts now from the amount of grease I ate, but once again, totally worth it.

Hom A Gen July 22, 2007

I have just returned from spending a weekend with my mom, in the small town where she was born, and where her mother (my grandma) was born. I have managed to avoid visiting the one place that could be rightfully called My Roots, and now I wonder why I stayed away so long. It was lovely.

My family has owned this farmland since before the Civil War. There are sprawling meadows, ponds full of geese and fish, and numerous outbuildings that bear witness to the fact that, once upon a time, this farm was all these people had to stay alive. It supported them, sustained them, and provided for them, as well as the community around them. There are five livable buildings on the property. One is a charming, smallish house that was built by my great-great grandfather, in the early 1860’s, right before the war struck; it has now been turned into the home office of my second cousin, a lawyer. The house I stayed in, referred to as The Big House, is where family reunions are held annually (and which I still have no interest in attending). The Big House is simply gorgeous; built immediately after the war ended, it has six bedrooms, two bathrooms (still fitted with the original porcelain…claw foot tubs and the likes), a kitchen that makes me wet it’s so gorgeous and perfectly functional, two sitting rooms, a dining room, a music room, a reading room, bookcases packed full of Good Literature every time you turn your head, and all of it is decorated with beautiful art, antique photographs of the family, or trinkets and regalia from the turn of the century. The front porch is a Proper Southern Veranda which overlooks acres of meadowland, dotted with deer and rabbits, blue birds, yellow birds, and more hummingbirds than I’ve ever seen in one place. It’s a perfect match to the idyllic visions I have of the Old South.

It was an almost overwhelming feeling, all this Personal History jumping out at me, left and right, everywhere I looked. Most of it was quaint and lovely, some of it was a reminder of the Ugly South—there were several outbuildings that have been refurbished for other uses (offices, artist studios, heavy equipment storage) but there was no mistaking the fact that they had once housed slaves. Although I prefer to think of my family as Genteel Southerners, the kind that preferred socializing to slavery, I have finally seen proof for myself that this was not always the case. It was eye-opening, to say the least.

I have always heard my grandmother’s stories about living out the Depression on their farm, and it is a joy and a privilege that I have finally seen the place of her childhood, and my mother’s, too, with my own two eyes.

The City of Oaks June 15, 2007

As per usual, when I get lonely or bored, I headed home to Raleigh for a couple days respite.  Respite from what, you might ask?  Yeah, that would be nothing.  School finished up two weeks ago, the only job I have lined up for the summer starts, ambiguously, “in July”, and the moths are flying out of my wallet every time I crack it open.  Again.  I hate being poor. 

I’ve been here for three days now, and I’ve successfully avoided having The Money Conversation with my parents, which is humorous, because we all know it’s coming.  There’s nothing that makes me feel like a failure more than asking my parents for money.  I’m almost thirty, for chrissakes!  My stepmother will tell me that complete finacial independence is difficult for anyone to achieve, and that I shouldn’t be too hard on myself but that I should get a job, and then my dad will hand the money over, telling me to make a budget, and then giving me more than I asked for, because he still feels guilty about divorcing my mom when I was six.  It’s like clockwork, really. 

 And it makes me feel like drinking hard liquor. 

 I realized these past couple of days that, truly, I don’t know many people in this city anymore, except for my parents, and women that would try to sleep with me.  This leaves me with zero social options, as my dad and stepmother go to bed by 8:30 or 9 (seriously), my mom lives in a suburb called Clayton, 30 minutes away from Raleigh and with no night life to speak of, and I don’t want to sleep with any of the aforementioned women.  When I stay in Raleigh, I watch cable and re-read one of the Harry Potter books.  When I stay with my mom, we sit up late drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, and talking politics, which all adds up to uneasy sleep.  Why can’t they all move to Asheville?  They’d all be happier there.  They could quit the jobs they complain about incessantly, they could get out of the city that they all have begun to dislike, and they could provide me with the Best Case Scenario; parents in a good city full of friends. 

 Maybe I should just shut the hell up and realize that I visit my family to visit my family and not to have a hot time on the town.  I tell ya, though; after three nights of solitude by sundown, I’m having a hard time being gracious, and not letting on to the fact that I am antsy to get out of here, already.  Raleigh, like much of NC, has lost it’s lustre; I feel, now more than ever, that it is time for me to move on. 

I have spent 28 years floating back and forth across this state, so much so that it’s hard for me to get lost, anywhere in NC.  I need a change of scenery.  I think, then, the visits home wouldn’t be quite so mind-numbing.  I could happily remember that Raleigh houses the largest, free, state-sanctioned art musuem in the country.  I might take advantage of the used book and record stores, the old coffee shops I frequented when I was in high school, the tasty restaurants I used to love.  Boredom would resemble nostalgia, if I lived somewhere other than two. short. hours. away. 

On the upshot, I have spent time researching two interesting topics: 

1. What kind of paints and sealants I should use to turn my dad’s truck into an ArtCar

2. How to get my insurance company to approve the Lap-band procedure I am interested in getting

The first is much more colorful, and much, much cheaper. 

Just As I Expected… June 10, 2007

See, here’s the problem with me and a new blog…I can’t stop thinking about all of the things that have been marinating in my brain as saucy topics on which to expound, and I end up going overboard and posting twice a day for a while. A new blog excites me, what can I say?

My recent visit to Asheville left me with much to ponder. I have only been away for three short years, and I already feel so disconnected. I understand now when my friends tell me that development is ravaging the mountains, some place new, every day. I can see with my own eyes the effect that an extra 200,000 people each summer season is having on the air quality…the smog was so thick Saturday evening at sunset that it brought tears to my eyes to look upon. I feel the burn of not actually being able to afford an evening out downtown, as restaurants become more crowded and more expensive, as the shops have changed from local hippie wares to trendy urban boutiques, as entertainment prices sky-rocket (I love the Rebelles just as much as the next lesbian, but $28 for some well-rehearsed, politically charged booty shaking? $40 to see Arcade Fire play for an hour? Come. On.) Oh, that I had the money to spend, would that I could. But I’m still poor, that being the main reason I left Asheville…only when I lived there, there was a whole slew of cheap, quality GoodTimes. The street musicians are gone…why? The sound of music floating through the air on a balmy Friday night offends the Rich Folk? And the Hummers, SO many Hummers driving through downtown…what’s happened?

I know what’s happened: people caught onto the beautiful magic that is Asheville, realized real estate was real cheap and interest was real high, and voila! Gentrification at it’s finest!! It’s a serious disappointment to see in a second-hand, I Lived Here Once kinda way. Maybe the ‘progress’ sticks out more to my eyes since I don’t see the subtle shifts of daily life. All I know is that there are a lot more naked mountain sides now than there were six months ago.

This is not to say that I’m hatin’ on Asheville. I will always love that city, fiercely. I found myself crying as I drove around Saturday night, the pain of Not Belonging Anymore was so intense. It’s a beautiful place, with a strong and vibrant heartbeat that no amount of development can stamp out. Asheville will continue to attract The Creatives, it will continue to attract The Rich, and it will continue to be a brilliant, glorious memory of one of the best (and worst) times of my life. I feel so much gratitude for the experience I had living in Asheville; those five years changed me more than any other. The atmosphere of the city, and living in the midst of natural beauty so breath-taking opened up a part inside of me that had been awaiting release. That part of me has become who I am, wholly, and that part has enabled me to like myself, and love myself. That part is responsible for a shiftless dreamer in a dead-end job turning into a hard-working artist with a promising future. That part of me saved all the other parts, and in salvation, released my need for those old habits and fears. Asheville put me on the path to who I am becoming, and I like that person much more than the person who arrived in Asheville, 21 and broke, undereducated, and completely lacking motivation of any kind.

I owe so much to the city, not one specific person, or one specific instance, and I believe that is why it hurts when I come back. Nothing ever stays the same, but I see what I love dissolving in front of my very eyes, and I know there is nothing I can do to stop it, nothing I can do to preserve the things so important to me, because That Is Progress. I don’t have to like it, though.