Boots Are Made …for Watching

Mood: Forgetful
Drinking: Done for the day

You know that there’s a new cinepoem on site, right? Did I forget to mention that?

Every time we finish a new one, I think, “Now this, this one is my favorite.”

But this time is different. Boots is special. She was an accident, actually. The unexpected child. See, M and I decided to put together three cinepoems for submission to film festivals. We chose Object, Slow Roast, and the not-yet-finished Alice is my middle name. But we needed something to string the three poems together. A transition piece.

So I started writing about a journey — a long and winding road, and then Boots quickly took shape. And the more time I spent with this little four-part poem, the more I fell in love with her.

When M and I went out to shoot the video, we were surprised with a glorious day, and the shoot that we thought would be “bare bones” (we didn’t even take our usual crew along) turned into something more spectacular. We decided then and there that Boots was more than a transition piece. It was its very own cinepoem, with its own two legs. So we edited the festival version, and then we went back and stitched together a solo version.

And here’s the part with the secret confession: Boots is the first cinepoem to make me cry. Trust me, that’s a damn hard thing to do. When you write these things, and you plan the shoot, and you stand in front of the camera, and you sit in the editing room for hours, it’s kinda hard to be surprised by what you see. It’s even harder to actually cry about it.

So if that doesn’t sell you on seeing it, nothin’ will.

So. I’m very proud to introduce Boots Are Made, playing now at a Cinepoems page near you.

-Lo, who’s a sucker for the third chapter. the one with the rabbit trail.

Junk Poetry

Mood: Almost Free
Drinking: a.m. Caffeine

In a case of truth being stranger, these four lovely bits of nonsense arrived in my work inbox this morning.

They are just too weird to send to oblivion with a push of “Delete”. Maybe they carry a hidden message. Or a bit of inspiration for later…

JOHNSTON ALPHONSE
wrong speak use
The allow draw
someone believe fit
i watch start
them take draw
Of cough dance
can ask close
Go travel wakeup
of need count
true study borrow
him open cough

DAY TONIA
Be ask watch
Is believe hurt
from fit fit
Have fly worry
To play stand
sleep stand sing
not rain listen
My swim forget
to speak eat
the take say
so change can

STAFFORD LORAINE
Of say smoke
but change give
sleep translate comb
To take stand
she teach hear
Of hurt dance
on turnon leave
those fit sign
somewhere organise smoke
by type translate
Have try sing

KIRKPATRICK FABIAN
Be swim rain
then listen fall
With cut believe
active begin rain
not comb send
in worry know
wrong shut fix
eat translate read
Is draw spend
active count allow
wrong change wakeup

-Lo, who is familiar with the “hurt dance”, but not so much with the “open cough”.

Fits and Starts

Mood: Tolerable
Drinking: Diet coke with melty ice

For the last few days, I’ve had bits and pieces of this little poem wearing a circle around my brain:

FITS
you live so many hours when
no one is watching…

and you break the feeling in, you
wear it out until the loneliness fits
as soft as an old gym shoe
loosened by hours of sweat
in phys ed

it’s ugly and sour but
you know it. know how to tie it
and just how to wiggle your toes
so they miss all the holes and
somehow you love it. familiar
misery. beloved depression.
predictable solitude.

then one day you turn and
someone is sharing your space
watching you walk through
your everyday hours.

and the new fit feels strange so
you save the old one. stash it
in the back of the closet. hide
it with dust and excuses. you know
you might need it again.

I wrote “fits” back in the days when Boy had just started hanging around. I had a passionate love/hate relationship with my singlehood, and though I didn’t always enjoy it, I was very used to being alone.

Boy has been away a lot lately for work so I’ve been on my own with the Loo, and my sister’s year-and-a-half of solitude just ended with the return of her husband from Iraq. Which explains why I keep thinking about the hours you live when no one is watching.

Even though I’m now quite used to being watched, the solitude, when it returns, retains that old gym shoe comfort — but without the sour smell.

I love my nights alone. True, I’d love them less if I weren’t greeted by an intricate Boxer dance of wiggles and spins when I walk through the door.

But with couplehood came the discovery that I am a person who craves solitude. I love being two. I love being with Boy. But I love being alone, as well.

I like to wallow in the silence. Perhaps it’s because the rush of words in my head isn’t as furious as it used to be. Perhaps because the silence is no longer accompanied by the quiet press of desperation. Perhaps because I’m no longer afraid of it. Or because now I know he’s coming back.

I never knew that before.

-Lo, who has found a lot of undeniable crap whilst searching through old piles of poetry.

I’m It

Mood: Busywork
Drinking: Schnapple

It’s time for a lazy post. It’s rainy outside. It’s boring inside. And my sister-in-law tagged me to do this little survey-questionnaire-trivia-thingie and I’m feeling the Mondays (even though it’s a Wednesday), so I’m all over it.

Fun and meaningless trivia for you…

Four Jobs I’ve Had
1. Horse Wrangler. Although it sounds more sexy than it actually was. A lot of my wrangling time was spent coralling my riding instructor’s daughter, who was fond of dancing on the coffee table while wearing cowboy boots and singing “Leader of the Pack” at the highest volume setting.
2. Dairy Queen Chick. Just doin’ the cones… make sundaes, make blizzards an’ put stuff on ’em. Sometimes people just came by for a Coke…*
(*name that movie!)
3. Newspaper Reporter. A la Lois Lane. Only there was no Clark to my Lois, and it turns out that I was lacking in my Nancy Drew abilities. (Which is to say, I wasn’t nosy enough.) And also, the pay sucked.
4. Cookie Namer. “Hob Nob” oatmeal cookies and “Dark Chocolate Imperials” are among my favorites.

Four Movies to Watch Repeatedly
1. Serenity. Joss Whedon’s space western is out on DVD now and I’m wearing a groove in it.
2. Donnie Darko. “Smurfs are asexual. They don’t even have reproductive organs under those little white pants.”
3. Run Lola Run. I have the soundtrack, too.
4. The Fifth Element. LeeLoo Dallas Multipass!

Four Cities of Residence
1. Dixon, Illinois. Hometown of Ronald Reagan. No, seriously.
2. Virginia Beach, Virginia. The beachfront McDonalds-es don’t make you wear a shirt OR shoes to get your cheeseburger.
3. Indianapolis, Indiana. Three months only, for a fellowship at The Indianapolis Star. I’ve never seen so many rednecks in pickup trucks. I still have nightmares.
4. San Francisco, California. And I’m not leaving.

Four Favorite TV Shows
1. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Dearly departed.
2. Dead Like Me. Oh, to be a Grim Reaper.
3. The Daily Show. Who doesn’t love Jon Stewart?
4. Veronica Mars. My substitute Buffy. With 09ers instead of vampires.

Four Vacation Destinations
1. West Virginia. We drove there in a camper when I was 10 to visit family friends, including the woman who gave me my middle name. She had twin sons, Garrett and Jared. We had a little love triangle, where I was crushing on Garrett, but Jared was crushing on me. (And no, they were NOT identical. That would have made things much easier!)
2. The 4-H Fair. Every summer for 10 years, my dad took a week off work and we camped out at the fair, rushing between the horse show (where I never did very well because my horse, Fantasia, was psychotic), the goat show (all our goats were named after flowers), the dog show (my beagle, Mitzi, won obedience trophies and my cocker spaniel, Biskit, totally cleaned up in the showmanship department), and the sheep barn (NOT the smartest animals).
3. Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Honeymooning!
4. Italy. As you well know, if you read this thing at all.

Four Web Sites I Visit Daily
1. Overheard in New York. Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it’s funnier.
2. Go Fug Yourself. A couple of wicked bitches after my own twisted little heart.
3. The Wicker Chronicles. My friend G is fucking brilliant. I keep trying to tell the world.
4. My Space. Stop looking at me that way.

Four Favorite Foods
1. Thai. Especially red curry.
2. Bagels. An everything toasted, with cream cheese.
3. Berries. Specifically strawberries and red raspberries.
4. Pickles. I’m really into bread and butter pickles right now. And by “into”, I mean I can eat an entire jar in 1 day. (No, Tater, I am NOT pregnant!)

Four Places I’d Rather Be Right Now
1. At home. On the couch. Curled up with the Loo. Watching a movie. With Boy in the kitchen, cooking up something scandalous for dinner.
2. Venice, Italy. Again and again.
3. Shopping on Melrose in Hollywood with my sister.
4. Wandering New York with the Boy. I know I just did that last month, but it never gets old.

Four Bloggers Who Have to Answer These Same Questions, or Kittens Will Die. Or Something.
1. Trin will totally do this. Right, sweets?
2. SnickySnackity. Save the kittens! Save them!
3. Ms. Crafty. I know you want to.
4. Homoheretic. Giiiirl, I know you need another update to make up for those long months of internet silence!

And I’m spent.

-Lo, who totally has ants in the pants today. Time to play hooky!

Never, Ever

Mood: Cloudy with chances of rain
Drinking: Yes

How much is enough?

Really. When does the resting come, with accompanying laurels? When do the questions cease? The nagging needle-teeth of doubt. When does silence finally reign supreme in heads, in beating hearts?

Never. I think that is the answer. Never, ever.

The rule is that you’re only as good as your Last Big Thing. And if your Thing happened in, say, 2005, and the calendar has rolled over to 2006, well, you are old news. You are yesterday’s leftover. You are a rerun.

And if all your work and sweat and toil is cloaked in obscurity, if your fan club numbers in the single digits, if you have no agent, no studio, no publisher and no papparazzi, who then is there to look over your shoulder? Who sends the has-been alert? Who pushes you to go faster, swim further, climb higher?

I do not think I’m alone when I say that I am my harshest critic, worst enemy, loudest heckler, creepiest stalker, fiercest competitor. Everyone who attempts art does so with the fear of failure breathing down their neck. Even though said “failure” is all in your own head. Even if you are the only one to pronounce all your efforts null.

So no matter what my word count is, no matter how many cinepoems created or poems recited, the answer is never. Never enough.

There is always the next one, the next line, the next project, the next concept, the next shoot. And before that’s even over, start planning for the next one. Because the next one will be better.

There are just some of us who will never be satisfied with what we create. With what we have. With what we know. Because you find the answer to a question, you find the line that finally rhymes, you find the stick to scratch the itch, and in the next breath you wonder why. Questions lead to more questions. And, really, that’s the way we like it.

To quote my friend G’s Wicker Chronicles: “Sweet spot? Comfort zone? Boring. Where’s the sour spot? The salty spot? What happens if I set the spot on fire?”

What happens, indeed. The fire burns and your skin sizzles and inspiration flies, phoenix-like, from the flames, and for one brief moment, for one tiny second, your breath comes easy and you watch it all gloriously burn.

But the moment passes and it’s on to the next one. Time to set another fire.

-Lo, whose next “fire” involves following a white rabbit.

And So It Ends…

Mood: Intact
Drinking: Sweet tea

Another year. Another new year’s eve. Another one of these.

I just can’t be bothered to get all aflutter about this one. Actually, I can hardly ever be bothered when it comes to this holiday on the heels of Christmas. It’s just so anticlimactic.

You’ve got all the bustle and hubbub of Christmas. The giving and getting of presents. The finding of trees. The unpacking of glass baubles. The baking of cookies and reunions of relatives and cross-country flights jam packed with winter coats and unfamiliar boots and squalling, squealing children.

And then suddenly it’s all over and you’re back at home and you toss the tree (which is now a veritable tinderbox) to the curb and all the baubles go back in their boxes and then you’re supposed to have one last hurrah with the bubbly and the countdown and the funny little hats and no one ever asks if Dick Clark is some kind of well-preserved zombie/vampire type creature.

I just can’t muster any excitement for it.

Truth be told, I always get a bit depressed this time of year. This end of a year. Everyone gets all hopeful with resolution and big plans for the new four-digit number but really, who are they kidding. They won’t have lost any weight or cleaned out the attic or stopped being so crabby with coworkers when the new year ends again. It’s just how we are. Who we are.

Don’t count me among the hopeless, though. I know this whole glittering new year is an important ritual, a bright shiny thing, for many. I get it. It’s just that I’d rather find my hope in the everyday kind of day, instead of load all my portent on this one winter night, on this one chime of clock, on this one midnight dream. There are so many others coming…

Oh, I’ve got plans. I’ve got resolutions. I’ve even squirreled a few predictions away. But I’ve had them all for quite awhile. And I’m not giving them up anytime soon.

So let them go on with their music video countdown and year in review broadcasts and 2006 predictions. I’m going to sit here in my living room with my cup of tea as if it’s any other night and tomorrow is any other day. Because it is, really. It just is.

-Lo, who will review 2005 just by saying that at this time last year, cinepoems were just an idea. Now there are six. Pause for the warm glow of pride… Four. Three. Two. One.

The Season of Objects

Mood: Stuffy
Drinking: Liquids

I haven’t celebrated Christmas at “home” for five years. That’s mostly because Boy and I have been busy making a home of our own here in San Francisco. So every Christmas we do the present thing and then throw the Loo in the Jeep and drive up (or down, depending on our mood) the coast to see what we can see.

Christmas at the beach. It’s better than snow.

But this year, we’re breaking with our little tradition and heading back into snow country…all the way back to Illinois. We’re going to spend the season with my parents, assorted grandparents and friends, and my most favorite sister.

See, said sister (who is also a Californian now) has been husband-less for over a year, since right after her wedding when her brand-new-husband was shipped off to Iraq. He won’t be home until next year, so we’re all going to attempt to make up for his absence by doing the big family Christmas gathering thing.

Truth be told, I’m excited to see a little snow. Not so excited about the accompanying cold (which I got my fill of in New York a couple of weeks ago), but everything else will make up for it.

Not one to break with tradition, I’ve managed to come down with my usual stuffy nose, sore throat, and hacking cough just in time to return to the homestead. (This happens *every* time I go back to Illinois.) So I’m celebrating the season with pocket packs of Kleenex and steaming mugs of TheraFlu. ‘Tis the season, after all.

And speaking of seasons of glitter and giving, I have a little something for my Internet world. A shiny new present that will be waiting for you all on Christmas Day, not under a tree, but here on this site.

M and I just finished editing our 6th cinepoem, “Object”, late last night. So it will be up in time for Christmas, on the cinepoems page.

So after you’re done with your stockings and cheer on Sunday, come visit me here. I promise you won’t have to wear any red sweaters or take any photos with a leering “Uncle” Bob under the mistletoe.

Just sit back with your ‘nog and watch a little “Object” in action.

-Lo,who thinks sugarplums dancing in anyone’s head is just kind of weird.

If You Can Make It Here…

Mood: I love my life.
Drinking: Water to wash down the sour patch kids.

I’m far from home right now, sitting on the 30th floor and staring out at the lights of dowtown Manhattan. Boy and I took a spontaneous trip to NYC with some friends this week. Our excuse was to see Depeche Mode at Madison Square Garden (and those boys rocked the Garden pretty goddamn hard last night), but really, what excuse do you need to see New York in December?

So we packed our bags and found a condo to sublet for a few days and here we are. Boy and I spent most of the day today wandering the East Village, shopping for random fun shit like a green canvas cap with a red glitter handgun on it (for me) and some pinstriped pajamas (for him). We also stopped on Christopher Street to ogle some puppies in the window and purchase a punked-out plaid collar for the Loon. I love vacation shopping.

Actually, I just love New York. Especially at this time of year. As one of our New Yorker friends said yesterday, You can be all cynical and grouchy at the crowds and the tourists (of whom, admittedly, I am one) and the slush and the rush and then you round the corner and see the angels and the glittering tree in front of the Rockefeller Center and all of the sudden you’re all melty and soft inside. (H&M on Fifth Avenue gives me that feeling, too.)

It’s very cold here, though, and snowed a bit today. I won’t miss that part at all when we head back home to the green and the palm trees. Every time our friend M (also from SF) slides on the sidewalk ice, he yells out, “I LOVE San Francisco!”

So between the cinepoem editing (Object should be done and up before Christmas), and the real life busy-ness and the spontaneous jaunts to the East Coast, I have begun work on yet another huge and exciting project…Book Number Two!

It’s not a tease this time. I have a designer (the fabulous Kathy Azada), a photographer (the lovely Patti Monaghen), and I’m hard at work. This book will be more than double the size of Angel Skin and even more gorgeous than she was. It should be finished by the summer of 2006, if all goes well.

That’s all for now. I’m off to soak my tired toes so I can put on my boots again and hit SoHo tomorrow.

P.S. Jo, I WISH YOU WERE HERE!

-Lo, who fell in love with lipstick #88 at Sephora today.

Pin a Medal on My Chest

Mood: I’m a weiner!
Drinking: Purifying, hydrating water

This just in…
My fabulous and talented friend, Michelle Brown, and I have just been informed that we won a Best of Festival award in the Arts category at the Berkeley Film Festival for our submission, titled “Three”.

We entered the festival earlier this year and had only finished our 1st three cinepoems (hence the title), so we entered Freezerburn, Bored Now, and Slow Roast. And we won!

Now back to work…

-Lo, who is feeling the guilt for short updates and plans a longish one, later.

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