20070817
Falling Apart
Well, I suppose that is how things work. We all have so many things to be doing otherwise. I really had hopes for this project. Oh well. Still I refuse to give up. Or at least I refuse to quit thinking. Anyone interested in working on 1) a short film script based on the creepy crawly comment? 2) I have a friend who would be willing to commission a film treatment for a film noir love story. I have the basic story line, I just don't have alot of time right now. However, I would work someone if the were willing. Just a thought. Still with my last breath of enthusiasm come on people!!!!!!
20070720
Creepy Crawlies
So the basic premise of this thought is a survey, via interviews, photos, etc. You know that moment when someone, usually a bum or a random passer by states something intrinsically true, enlightening, or just plain creepy with insight toward your very being. I want to put something together that captures this moment. Sometimes the moment is true and telling. Sometimes it just weirds you out for the next day and gets lost in the stew as words that floated on by. Sometimes it makes you pause and take a chance to change your ways. That is the moment that I want to capture. I am open to suggestions as to how this might be accomplished. If you get an idea pass it on, or hell just go with it. This is not a greedy place.
Keep inviting people!!!! And anyone with more computer savvy than me please remark on how we can make this unit less cumbersome without looking like a discussion forum 1962 Jeep Willy's intake valve.
Keep inviting people!!!! And anyone with more computer savvy than me please remark on how we can make this unit less cumbersome without looking like a discussion forum 1962 Jeep Willy's intake valve.
20070717
touching base
just a few thoughts. Firstly, please oh please keep spreading the word. Secondly, my hope is that ideas become the focus of this blog page. For example, Steph, tell us your intentions, what is the project you are working on. The writing is the writing and we all need our share of criticism, but my hopes are that minds meet and steer project ideas in the right direction, THEN we can let out our talents, whatever those may be. I am just scared that we are going to have pages upon pages of drafts filing the blog. Hopefully, if someone likes the idea they can contact you and work on it with you.
Right now I am working on a "memory project." I am writing a memoir essentially of a few weeks that I spent at home last September. My hope is that every year for the next 5 years I will write the same story, without looking at what I have written. I want to see what memories change, stay the same, disappear or come out of the blue. Compiling pieces for the final product is where I want some help. Sarah has read some of it, and she said, "that's not how I remember that day." So there is a possibility of going in a different direction, I suppose. I need people's thoughts, even if those thoughts include, "that's a stupid idea!!!"
Another idea that I have requires more people, more talents and more mediums. But I would love to have say a theme once a month. "Bums" or "Birds" or "Growing Old" I don't know. Then who ever wanted to participate could submit their project in what ever medium they feel most comfortable with. Some months may be duds, but some months might spark brilliant compilations. The end result, though, should always be a multi media collage of some basic theme. Those of us with the talents to do so, could compile and edit how they saw fit.
Anyway, I just thought I would pass my thoughts on since I still have not posted any of my own ideas. Just know that the hope is to inspire and motivate each other so that we don't sit around ten years from now going, "I was going to write a book once." Again please invite your friends, musicians, sculptors, writers, anything creatively expressive.
Keep thinking!!!!!!
Right now I am working on a "memory project." I am writing a memoir essentially of a few weeks that I spent at home last September. My hope is that every year for the next 5 years I will write the same story, without looking at what I have written. I want to see what memories change, stay the same, disappear or come out of the blue. Compiling pieces for the final product is where I want some help. Sarah has read some of it, and she said, "that's not how I remember that day." So there is a possibility of going in a different direction, I suppose. I need people's thoughts, even if those thoughts include, "that's a stupid idea!!!"
Another idea that I have requires more people, more talents and more mediums. But I would love to have say a theme once a month. "Bums" or "Birds" or "Growing Old" I don't know. Then who ever wanted to participate could submit their project in what ever medium they feel most comfortable with. Some months may be duds, but some months might spark brilliant compilations. The end result, though, should always be a multi media collage of some basic theme. Those of us with the talents to do so, could compile and edit how they saw fit.
Anyway, I just thought I would pass my thoughts on since I still have not posted any of my own ideas. Just know that the hope is to inspire and motivate each other so that we don't sit around ten years from now going, "I was going to write a book once." Again please invite your friends, musicians, sculptors, writers, anything creatively expressive.
Keep thinking!!!!!!
20070712
Mary Anne
As I rounded the corner to the Pine Street Inn, Boston’s largest homeless shelter, I took off my sunglasses and wiped away the sweat from the bridge of my nose. I stayed on the shady side of the street, distancing myself from the shelter. I caught glimpses of her bleach blonde hair down the block. When I neared the front door of the Women’s Inn, Mary Anne finally saw me.
“Oh hi!” she exclaimed, walking towards me, straightening her white t-shirt. “I didn’t even see you coming, I was thinking I had missed you.”
“Oh no no. I was just staying in the shade. It’s too hot.”
Together we turned around and retraced my steps to the soundtrack of her nylon running pants.
“Yeah, I know. Believe me. We don’t got any air conditioning up there and shit, it is hot. I’ve been working too, helping clean around there. Mopping and stuff. I don’t mind it too bad, it’s nice to have the extra money, but I’m getting so tired, you know? But, you know, you gotta do what you gotta do to survive. Yeah, and mopping kind of relaxes me.”
We turned north on Harrison and walked towards downtown. Here the broader streets provided less shade. I re-adjusted my glasses, quickly wiped the sweat away, and nodded at a few of the shelter guests leaning against the brick of the Men’s Inn.
“So what’s this we’re going to?” she asked.
“It’s a public housing interview,” I explained, again. “It’s like what we went to out in Randolph, but it’s different from the Section 8 interview you had.”
“So, like, if I move there, am I stuck there for the rest of my life?”
“Well not necessarily stuck, but there’s a lot of paperwork processing to deal with if you want to move. It’s not like Section 8 that you can take anywhere in the country.” We moved fully exposed into the sun and slowed our pace.
“Yeah, so I hope I get Section 8. A couple of the other girls just got Section 8.”
I nodded in agreement. “Section 8 is the number-one thing we’ve got going for you right now. It hasn’t been around for years but they’ve got the funding back now. You’d definitely be one of the luckier ones—if you get it. I can’t guarantee you’ll get it, but they’re a lot more lenient about CORI stuff with Section 8.
We passed the Herald office, a low brick building, an island of production in the middle of parking lots filled with Fung-Wah and Lucky Star buses. I threw my coffee cup away and we paused under the awning. Mary Anne was about to get a paper, two for one, when a security guard approached the door.
“Oh, nevermind. Let’s go. Don’t need to mess with him. Well, you know,” she started up again, as if I were a potential landlord, “I’m real quiet, you know? I’m real quiet. The landlord at Wall Street said I was the best tenant he had ever had.”
We walked in silence, I didn’t remind her that she’d had that apartment in the 80s.
“People won’t even know I’m there. I’m real quiet and I’m real clean. Have you heard of this new furniture store they have? Ikea? Yeah, real cheap stuff. I’m gonna go there. I got a lot of plans. I got those beaded curtains, you know. Gonna put those up in the window. Well first I’m gonna put up shades and then the beaded ones over them. I think it’ll look real nice. I got a lot a plans. I can’t wait for my own place.”
We crossed the bridge over the Mass Pike. Cars rushed by; the noise made it hard to hear each other speak. “I’m hoping to get in there by the end of September, before the winter sets in. Moving in the winter is not something you want to do. My mother never moved in the winter. Me neither. Once I get a place, I stay there.”
What about the 90s? What about all those years you told me about, when you were moving back and forth between hotels in Texas and Massachusetts with your son?
As we walked into Chinatown, the sidewalk narrowed and crowds thickened. We passed under a long line of scaffolding and the smell of fried meat began to work its way into our hair. “Ugh, I don’t trust these Chinese places,” she said. “My ex-husband, the first one, used to clean out vents, you know, for like fans and ventilators and whatever. Well he was down here one time and stuck his hand in the stuff they use to dye the ribs and then stuck his hand up a vent that came up off the stove and when he pulled out his hand it was covered in cockroaches. Oh no, I don’t trust these places. I’ll eat in that big restaurant over by the theatre, but not these little places anymore.”
When I bumped shoulders with a woman passing by Mary Anne dropped back and walked behind me. I led the way, trying to navigate the crowds and listen to her as she spoke.
“I used to come down here all the time. When I was like 21. I would go around to all the joints, ya know? Yeah, I knew Charlie, he owned that place Charlie’s, over there on the corner. He always took good care of me. Made sure I got a cab ride back home and everything. It was a titty bar, you know,” she laughed.
“I used to hang out in all those kinds of places. That was back when I was dating Donald. But then he got murdered. Yeah.” Her laugh knew it was fucked up. “So that pretty much ended that relationship. We were going to get married and everything. All I had left was the column from the newspaper and his Budweiser underwear.”
In the midst of an intersection congested with cars and delivery trucks and rising steam and cops and construction workers and lunchtime commuters and sweet and sour chicken, I tried to process what she had just said.
This must be how she feels, I thought.
“They took all that too when they evicted me. They took every fucking thing I had. Those people, I swear. They were monsters. Grabbing my guests by their throat. Locking me out. Calling the cops on me every other minute. Even the cops said they had no reason to be there. Those people, they left a refrigerator at the top of my stairs, left this much space to get through to the hallway.” She held her hands 12 inches from each other. “The cops came down one time to yell at them about it. Said it was a fire hazard. I swear. My mother died and I told them about it and that woman said she didn’t give a rat’s ass about my mother. I swear, Stephanie, I wanted to fucking pound that bitch,” Mary Anne growled.
We paused on the corner of the next street and through her shades, in the wrinkles of her forehead, I could see thirty years of mistakes, anger, abuse, pain. Her hopelessness crushed me, I felt it in my chest, my stomach, the back of my head. I wanted to remind her how strong she was, how things were going to change soon. But I can’t guarantee anything so I just listened.
“Ooh I was so fucking pissed. Can you imagine, someone saying that to you after your mother died? I’m glad I got outta there. I couldn’t take it no more. I almost prefered the streets to those assholes. At least I didn’t have no one bothering me out there. Except the cops those couple a times they picked me up for sleeping in abandonded cars. The judge knew my situation, you know, and figured jail was better for me than the streets. At least I had a bed and food and a decent roof over my head. But I wonder now with all this CORI stuff and getting denied housing whether he was actually helping or hurting me. Ah well, you know, I just want to get my own place. Something to call my own. It’s going to be real nice. And I’m getting anxious. My son is getting anxious.”
With the housing authority in sight, she sighed, “Yeah, once I get a place I wanna get me a little chihuaha. They don’t weigh nothing, you know. Weigh less than a cat, and a cat stinks. Dogs don’t stink. I need some companionship, you know? What with the depression and the ADHD. I need something to keep my mind off it all. I’m fine, you know, as long as I take my meds. But I think a dog will be nice, and I’m going to tell them that. Just so they know going into it. I’m getting me a dog and if they won’t allow it, well, then I just won’t live there.”
“Oh hi!” she exclaimed, walking towards me, straightening her white t-shirt. “I didn’t even see you coming, I was thinking I had missed you.”
“Oh no no. I was just staying in the shade. It’s too hot.”
Together we turned around and retraced my steps to the soundtrack of her nylon running pants.
“Yeah, I know. Believe me. We don’t got any air conditioning up there and shit, it is hot. I’ve been working too, helping clean around there. Mopping and stuff. I don’t mind it too bad, it’s nice to have the extra money, but I’m getting so tired, you know? But, you know, you gotta do what you gotta do to survive. Yeah, and mopping kind of relaxes me.”
We turned north on Harrison and walked towards downtown. Here the broader streets provided less shade. I re-adjusted my glasses, quickly wiped the sweat away, and nodded at a few of the shelter guests leaning against the brick of the Men’s Inn.
“So what’s this we’re going to?” she asked.
“It’s a public housing interview,” I explained, again. “It’s like what we went to out in Randolph, but it’s different from the Section 8 interview you had.”
“So, like, if I move there, am I stuck there for the rest of my life?”
“Well not necessarily stuck, but there’s a lot of paperwork processing to deal with if you want to move. It’s not like Section 8 that you can take anywhere in the country.” We moved fully exposed into the sun and slowed our pace.
“Yeah, so I hope I get Section 8. A couple of the other girls just got Section 8.”
I nodded in agreement. “Section 8 is the number-one thing we’ve got going for you right now. It hasn’t been around for years but they’ve got the funding back now. You’d definitely be one of the luckier ones—if you get it. I can’t guarantee you’ll get it, but they’re a lot more lenient about CORI stuff with Section 8.
We passed the Herald office, a low brick building, an island of production in the middle of parking lots filled with Fung-Wah and Lucky Star buses. I threw my coffee cup away and we paused under the awning. Mary Anne was about to get a paper, two for one, when a security guard approached the door.
“Oh, nevermind. Let’s go. Don’t need to mess with him. Well, you know,” she started up again, as if I were a potential landlord, “I’m real quiet, you know? I’m real quiet. The landlord at Wall Street said I was the best tenant he had ever had.”
We walked in silence, I didn’t remind her that she’d had that apartment in the 80s.
“People won’t even know I’m there. I’m real quiet and I’m real clean. Have you heard of this new furniture store they have? Ikea? Yeah, real cheap stuff. I’m gonna go there. I got a lot of plans. I got those beaded curtains, you know. Gonna put those up in the window. Well first I’m gonna put up shades and then the beaded ones over them. I think it’ll look real nice. I got a lot a plans. I can’t wait for my own place.”
We crossed the bridge over the Mass Pike. Cars rushed by; the noise made it hard to hear each other speak. “I’m hoping to get in there by the end of September, before the winter sets in. Moving in the winter is not something you want to do. My mother never moved in the winter. Me neither. Once I get a place, I stay there.”
What about the 90s? What about all those years you told me about, when you were moving back and forth between hotels in Texas and Massachusetts with your son?
As we walked into Chinatown, the sidewalk narrowed and crowds thickened. We passed under a long line of scaffolding and the smell of fried meat began to work its way into our hair. “Ugh, I don’t trust these Chinese places,” she said. “My ex-husband, the first one, used to clean out vents, you know, for like fans and ventilators and whatever. Well he was down here one time and stuck his hand in the stuff they use to dye the ribs and then stuck his hand up a vent that came up off the stove and when he pulled out his hand it was covered in cockroaches. Oh no, I don’t trust these places. I’ll eat in that big restaurant over by the theatre, but not these little places anymore.”
When I bumped shoulders with a woman passing by Mary Anne dropped back and walked behind me. I led the way, trying to navigate the crowds and listen to her as she spoke.
“I used to come down here all the time. When I was like 21. I would go around to all the joints, ya know? Yeah, I knew Charlie, he owned that place Charlie’s, over there on the corner. He always took good care of me. Made sure I got a cab ride back home and everything. It was a titty bar, you know,” she laughed.
“I used to hang out in all those kinds of places. That was back when I was dating Donald. But then he got murdered. Yeah.” Her laugh knew it was fucked up. “So that pretty much ended that relationship. We were going to get married and everything. All I had left was the column from the newspaper and his Budweiser underwear.”
In the midst of an intersection congested with cars and delivery trucks and rising steam and cops and construction workers and lunchtime commuters and sweet and sour chicken, I tried to process what she had just said.
This must be how she feels, I thought.
“They took all that too when they evicted me. They took every fucking thing I had. Those people, I swear. They were monsters. Grabbing my guests by their throat. Locking me out. Calling the cops on me every other minute. Even the cops said they had no reason to be there. Those people, they left a refrigerator at the top of my stairs, left this much space to get through to the hallway.” She held her hands 12 inches from each other. “The cops came down one time to yell at them about it. Said it was a fire hazard. I swear. My mother died and I told them about it and that woman said she didn’t give a rat’s ass about my mother. I swear, Stephanie, I wanted to fucking pound that bitch,” Mary Anne growled.
We paused on the corner of the next street and through her shades, in the wrinkles of her forehead, I could see thirty years of mistakes, anger, abuse, pain. Her hopelessness crushed me, I felt it in my chest, my stomach, the back of my head. I wanted to remind her how strong she was, how things were going to change soon. But I can’t guarantee anything so I just listened.
“Ooh I was so fucking pissed. Can you imagine, someone saying that to you after your mother died? I’m glad I got outta there. I couldn’t take it no more. I almost prefered the streets to those assholes. At least I didn’t have no one bothering me out there. Except the cops those couple a times they picked me up for sleeping in abandonded cars. The judge knew my situation, you know, and figured jail was better for me than the streets. At least I had a bed and food and a decent roof over my head. But I wonder now with all this CORI stuff and getting denied housing whether he was actually helping or hurting me. Ah well, you know, I just want to get my own place. Something to call my own. It’s going to be real nice. And I’m getting anxious. My son is getting anxious.”
With the housing authority in sight, she sighed, “Yeah, once I get a place I wanna get me a little chihuaha. They don’t weigh nothing, you know. Weigh less than a cat, and a cat stinks. Dogs don’t stink. I need some companionship, you know? What with the depression and the ADHD. I need something to keep my mind off it all. I’m fine, you know, as long as I take my meds. But I think a dog will be nice, and I’m going to tell them that. Just so they know going into it. I’m getting me a dog and if they won’t allow it, well, then I just won’t live there.”
20070711
Working Out the Kinks
So for now, meaning today and maybe into the weekend, send me a comment with your email, I hate to expose people that way. If you feel more comfortable send it to my blogger account or to my myspace account, that way I can let you in the system. Once you are in you can post. Sorry Steph. I will get you an invite this afternoon.
20070709
From the Ground Up!!!!
So as I was wandering home from the movies, the first project dawned on me. . . . this page. I know very little in regards to html and other webpage scripts. If anyone has a better idea for making this concept a well designed work space please let me know. Just remember it is a work in progress.
Welcome!!!!!
Let's begin. I have begun this blog for a single purpose in mind, to expand the reaches of our creativity and constructive advise. My own personal fears that creative projects maybe sitting dormant deep in the caverns of a rusty brain is depressing. At the very least, maybe I can inspire someone else. The basic mechanics are like a quaker's friends meeting. Post your thoughts of a creative project of any kind, writing, painting, video, mix media, sculptor, audio, anything. Other members can then comment on your ideas with suggestions, criticisms etc. and a cybernetic brain squeeze begins, late night coffee talk with a techie twist. Maybe even collaborative projects are spawned from the artistic release. My vision is to eventually become more focused on mixed media types that surround a basic theme. Sarah and I have a separate project in the abstract called the Life Observatory, based on perceptions of everyday life using mixed media. But for now the whole is an abstract, including this page. Thus any direction that it turns, I am willing to follow up to the ends of absurdity. If you like the idea, or feel that you have a project you want to run past people, please leave your comments including some contact so I can give you publishing rights. The most important thing is that we are discriminating in that only serious people will be apart of it, but the more the merrier. And so until the next..............
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