Sunday, June 14, 2009

Another poster about the film and the trailer.



"The Collections" Trailer from turnitloose on Vimeo.



Please come to the opening Saturday, June 27th if you are in the Austin area. $10 admission gets you the DVD or one of Jill Pangallo's books, plus performances by featured collectors and others.

Austin Art Authority is the venue, 10 p.m. start time.

Sunday in the park with Buster

Saturday, June 13, 2009

And other than practicing,

I am drawing. And I had a great drawing day.

Saturday, June 27 I'm performing...


and I'm one of the collectors featured in the film.


The Collections: Screening and Performance
a delightfully inexplicable meditation on the topic of stuff
Host:
Max Juren, Jill Pangallo, Monofonus Press
Type:
Music/Arts - Performance
Network:
Global
Start Time:
Saturday, June 27, 2009 at 10:00pm
End Time:
Sunday, June 28, 2009 at 1:00am
Location:
United States Art Authority
Street:
2908 Fruth Street (behind Spider House)
City/Town:
Austin, TX

View Map
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Email:
info@monofonuspress.com
Description
"The Collections," a new video series by Max Juren and Jill Pangallo is about what people save and why they save it. Inspired by Ann Stephenson's poem of the same name, the series features twelve, short interviews with collectors that provide a jumping off point for Max and Jill's multi-genre video and performance work. Their impulsive and improvisational responses cross-pollinate with the interviews to create a delightfully inexplicable meditation on the topic of stuff. It’s a new, 40-minute collection unto itself, completed from start to finish in just one month’s time.

Conceived, Written, Directed and Performed by Max Juren and Jill Pangallo
Executive Produced by Monofonus Press
Inspired by the poetry of Ann Stephenson

Including the collections of...
Christina Campbell, Juan Cisneros, Michelle Devereux, Kate Hersch, Jen Hirt and Scott Webel, Suze Kemper, Rachel Martin, Haleh Pedram, Michael Smith, Jack Stoney, Josh , and Ross

And featuring…
Elana Farley, Carlos Rosales-Smith, Amanda Joy Venerable as the “Dream Together” cats

Juren and Pangallo will host the premier screening of “The Collections” on Saturday, June 27th at the United States Art Authority in Austin, Texas. The screening event will include a variety of performances by local artists Michelle Devereux, Scott Eastwood, Elana Farley, Rachel Martin, Paul Soileau, Brannon Via, Haleh Padram, Amanda Joy Venerable, and more. The evening begins at 10pm. Entry is $10 with which you receive your choice, FREE, of “The Collections” dvd, Max Juren’s recent compilation DVD release, or Jill Pangallo’s recent book, “Let Me Entertain You,” all published by Monofonus Press. We hope to see you there!

I made Buster an ....



Edward Gorey-esque dog stroller or rickshaw so that I can still go on long walks with him even when it's 100 degrees and he's overcome by the heat. I think it still needs mosquito netting for the total effect I was going for. He is a Goth dog, after all.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Just finished: Bride/The Key


18 x 12" watercolor, ink, Prismacolor on Arches

Feeling a little sad and vulnerable

I think it's because June 7 last year was the first day of the real-life romance I wrote about in Les Très Riches Heures. And part of it is Bob's death.

And maybe it's because coming to the end of a huge artistic project always triggers a kind of post-natal depression in me. I had been writing since January, then editing feverishly during the past month, and now it's all done and out there and I wait. It's a new experience for me, putting what I've made out there. Usually I just make things and never show them to anyone. Since I put this work out there, I feel a little on pins and needles waiting to get some feedback from someone. Ali was, of course, right there, reading in the first few days and she's already given me notes. I do have to examine how I feel about making and showing vs. just making and never showing. Part of me feels that maybe it's time I do put my work out there. I think maybe some lessons I learned from Bob are talking to me these days...

I do know what I'm doing next, though, and started working on the first color plate for that series Sunday night. And I have too many conceptual ideas to even count. But it seems fairly obvious I am going to have to learn some HTML to pull off most of what I can imagine doing in the future.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Quiet Sunday Morning photos up on my flickr.

Book is done!


I made my deadline, even with Bob's sudden death. It was 98% finished last weekend, but I finished dropping in all the bells and whistles last night and today.

Here's part of what I wrote about it: (there was a lot of other heady stuff about devising a Rhetoric of Love and creating virtual intimate spaces, voice being the evidence that the body still exists in modern art and assorted other art school blah-blah-blah.)

"...In other words, I hope I have created a post-modernist naturalistic feminist transmedia Existential Romance novel, with a family tree extending back to Richardson's 1740 work, Pamela." Of course, I have no idea WHAT will happen next with this work, but making it is what I care about.

Now I can sleep again. When I get in "the zone" there's just no stopping me. But I did finally clean house and do laundry today after one month non-stop burning the midnight oil. I'm going to go outside, stare at the moon and have a well-deserved cocktail tonight before I go to sleep to celebrate. My family and friends will probably be glad when I emerge and rejoin the living.

If I can just learn that song by next weekend, I think I'm still doing a music video with Cindy, Jimmie and some of the Kings and others in their circle. It has three chords; surely, even brain-dead I can pull that off.

*****

Beautiful side-effect of Bob's passing: people from decades ago are suddenly making contact with me, or I saw them at the memorial. That's a marvelous thing to come out of a sad event and reminds me, as an artist, that I am not an island. I am, in fact, a member of a huge, vibrant artistic community.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Dear Bob, We celebrated your life tonight...

as an artist, a dear friend, an old love, a magnificent teacher, a family member. Did you see us at Okay Mountain? We all expected to see your white pickup parked in the neighborhood, and all evening we spoke of how eerie it was that we all pictured you in the same spot in the yard in the same seat, with your long legs stretched out. Suze and I went together, fittingly, and brought a huge bottle of your beloved Bulleit bourbon with us for everyone to toast you, with a tag I made for its neck that read, "For Bob, with love, from Hard Women." Your students from all the way back to the 80's (including Suze and me!) were there. Did you hear the stories we shared, and how I told the crowd how it was you who named us Hard Women in the first place, and how you never missed a single show? (Suze had said earlier, "Maybe we should have shared more men?" And I said, "No." You were enough, separated, even, as you were by fifteen or so years in our romantic histories. But that is a funny shared experience between best friends! We'll always have YOU in common. And she told me about how she left a wedding to go have hot sex with you, while the bride, Malka, went next door and visited your beloved friend, Steve Jones.)

And did you see that Suze and I embraced your beloved Peggy, and she clung to us all evening, sometimes with the three of us putting our heads together? We took care of her for you this evening, Bob. She loves you so much, and it was so wonderful to know that you died at the height of a great love. I am so genuinely happy for the two of you, and so sad for Peggy that she must find a way to live on without you.

Your exhibition was beautiful, and even more so because it was works you gave each of us, not work for sale. Everyone shared their stories of how you gave them the works, and there was a tack-up wall of the drawings you'd always made for each crop of your grad students. You were so generous to us!

And I finally met your sister. She said to Suze and me, "You knew him better than I did." She said, "Now I understand why he didn't want to come to our house for the holidays. He had all of you, and was part of this artistic community." Bob, she finally gets it. She sees what you meant to us, that you weren't some kind of crazy recluse. She finally gets it, by hearing our stories and seeing the crowd there to celebrate your life as an artist. Yours was the biggest opening of the year!

There are so many people who will miss you here. We toasted the sky and talked to you -- could you hear us? Go in peace now, my old, gentle, mad sweetheart. Peggy is afraid you'll hover near her and she wants you to be released and find peace. Please hear her heart and do as she needs you to do now. We will take care of her, and her children are clinging close to her.

I regret I didn't have the opportunity to look into your watery blue eyes one more time and see your crooked grin. I regret what I didn't get the chance to say to you, so I'll say it now: Bob, thank you. Thank you for our brief time together, thank you for your art, and thank you for teaching me everything I know about artistic discipline. You were a great artist, a great teacher and a pure, perfect soul. You are loved, and you are missed. At every party we will miss you most of all because we know you would have loved to be with us; and you will be. Linda Montano sends her love, and as I told her just now on the phone, please go back to sleep now, and sweet dreams, my tall boy, my Ichabod.

Sending you my love tonight,
Rachel

And now David Carradine is dead!

This is eerie! Because David Carradine was the movie star doppelganger of my dead former sweetheart! If I had to cast Bob's life, Carradine always seemed to be the perfect choice to play him!

We have no idea how profoundly connected we are to our movie stars. They act out our issues for us. They are our surrogates. This is so strange, that Carradine had no reason to exist now, without Bob.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

But obviously life is still worth living with a child and



...daughter-in-law like these two!

And Freak Show A-Go-Go was incredible -- like a queer Cirque de Soleil! And Jimmie's father and wife finally managed to make it to a show after, what? Seven years. I spoke with them for a minute and Jimmie's father made me very happy by saying Hard Women's artistic legacy obviously continues in our child. I was rocking the old Hard Women three foot long pony-tail, Madonna-inspired ringmaster outfit, leopard spats and high-heeled tennis shoes, so I was glad if he was only going to run into me once every six years I was rocking an outrageous look. And he did behave very nicely. I am so glad he was finally able to see exactly what it is his child does as an artist. And I was so proud of all KnT and Jimmie and Cindy had done to pull off this marvelous show.

A dear, old friend of mine has died.



He was also once my love for a few fleeting months five years ago. I am so sad. He was a sweet, gentle, crazy soul, and one of the best and most productive artists I've ever known. He taught me so much about artistic discipline, just as he taught generations of students at school about what it meant to be an artist. I hadn't spent any time with him since October, but I know he had a wonderful girlfriend of a few months with whom he was very happy. It appears he had a peaceful passing in the night. So many more drawings he would have made, so much more fun he would have had.

He will be much missed by so many, including me. Rest in peace, Bob. I will remember you fondly.

I have been constantly surrounded by death since December. When will it let up?

I finished the first final draft of the book and put it out to those who had agreed to be first readers. Now I wait. I would have been high on finishing, but my sadness over Bob's passing has damped down my mood about the book. No one has time to read right now, it seems, so I must be patient. But I stayed on the schedule I established months ago, so I am proud of myself for that.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Death. DEATH.

Why can we not ever have a Commencement without death?

I am completely wiped out from the one that occurred this time. I am just going to crawl into a hole and ignore the world for at least the start of this blessed four day weekend.

Commencement went beautifully, but I cannot shake the dark cloud hanging over it because of another student suicide, this one of a young Korean woman who would have been granted her PhD with flying colors tomorrow.

It's beyond understanding, and my heart is so troubled.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

The human heart is so mysterious.

At work, I am dealing with yet another tragic student suicide. I don't want to trivialize the great tragedy by writing about it here. I'll just say it's very sad and my heart goes out to the poor, lost young woman.

Personally, I am suddenly furious with my former lover for his freeze-out since our parting in January. My contempt for him, long coming, has arrived. I am really angry with him now. As Ali says, "He's renting too much real estate in your psyche. I assure you, you aren't in his."

She's right. But I am truly angry, four months later. I guess it took me this long just to get over the sorrow, numbness and horror. But I am now. So the anger has arrived. Cue the orchestra: Carmen's made her entrance.

Another possible trigger: the book's so close to being finished. I think it's very good. My goal is to finish it by symbolic June 7. If I can finish it and simultaneously do the music video and all the other opportunities I have next in queue, that is. If not, shortly thereafter.

I take up no space in his heart or mind or he would have contacted me by now after reading my final posts to our private blog in the last few weeks. I'm erased, invisible, banished. Got it.

Why would he orchestrate this pathetic ending to a beautiful romance, knowing full well I'd lose all respect for him forever in the bargain? I suppose I'm angry with myself for being duped. I loved him, so I thought I knew him. I couldn't have been more wrong. As I wrote him, "I broke my own heart." I own that.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Déjeuner chez Tiffany


Déjeuner chez Tiffany
Originally uploaded by diebuechse
I have been cropping and editing for hours, but most of the shoot is up!

B&W Breakfast at Tiffany's

Just had a great photo session with Ali! I'll be editing for days. Movie Shoot II.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

"Love is my religion - I could die for it" John Keats

And evidently one of my former advisees did last week, by his own hand. Tragic. A beautiful boy, a sensitive soul of thirty years. I'm haunted by his death these days.

I always think at the end of a love affair that I will die (or must die, or should die), but I don't. Perhaps that's my tragedy: I live on. I put one foot in front of the other, I breathe, I take meals, I work, I see friends, I shop, I make plans for the future. My life goes on. I survive. But, truly, a part of me has died forever -- the part of me I shared only with my lover.

But, perhaps, with each ending something is also created? A timeless, transcendent space, a kind of metaphysical empty room full of blinding light? An intimate space that may only be shared with one other human being in all the world? And maybe will be again someday? Or so it seems to me.

"In my father's house there are many mansions." And in some of them dwell those I once loved so much I believed I would die if they ceased to love me. Perhaps one day, outside of time and space, we will love again in those rooms full of white light.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

I had the most splendid...

Parent-of-a-Specified-Gender Day with my family! Thank you, Jimmie and Cindy and Maya Naomi and Autumn for the gifts and swimming and fun! Love you guys!

And thanks for a wonderful show on Friday, the Kings 'N' Things Seventh Anniversary. Hard to believe you guys are now senior kings of the troupe!

I got leopard spats made for me by Cindy for Mother's Day. I am gonna rock them all over town, and in Paris, too!


Happy Mother's Day to one and all.

Man, woman and child. Because isn't trying to learn be good mothers to each other why we're all here? You know, nurturing, unconditional love, a shoulder to cry on, to teach one another? Without the icky parts of motherhood like constantly worrying, being neurotic or controlling or too critical? I think we should all be like the mother birds and protect each other so that we develop the confidence and independence to fly!

Saturday, May 9, 2009

How I love to sit on my patio in the dark..

and play melancholy gypsy melodies on my accordion!

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Can't shut my mind off = insomnia, followed by nightmares

A terrible dream last night:

Ali and I were doing a photo shoot in a long, narrow space, walls and floors like my apartment, but easily a hundred yards long and only about six yards wide. The dream had three passages to it, and we moved down the space in thirds.

1. People bundled up in coats and scarves came in as we arrived, as if coming into the space from winter weather. This seems to set my dream in Italy. And the people were all academics known to me from meetings at school or X's colleagues in Italy. Academia. They ignored us as we set our lights and began the shoot.

2. We moved on to the middle of the space. Today the second passage is wiped from my memory, although it was vivid and I didn't think I'd forget it when I awoke from the dream. I think it had to do with X and a tattered top hat in need of repairs. The photo shoot continued in the middle of the space.

3. At the far end of the room we continued the shoot but were having trouble getting my arms in the position needed for the picture. There was a small curtained window in the wall there, and the space behind it was dark, seemingly a deserted, cluttered storage room. It occurred to us that if I put one arm on the sill of the window we could get the shot.

My hand accidentally went into the space behind the curtain as I took the pose. Then, out of nowhere, a dry, hot hand seized my wrist violently and angrily held on. The hand's skin was old, papery. I was terrified and screamed for Ali to help me detach myself from the hand, which would not release its death-hold on my wrist no matter how I twisted and jerked. She couldn't force the hand to release me, either, so reluctantly I struck out with my nails at the person who attacked me behind the curtain. With a sickening feeling I realized I was scratching my attacker's face as my fingertips dug into eyes and a mouth. I didn't want to hurt this invisible attacker, but felt I had no choice since she wouldn't release my wrist and clearly meant me harm. I told myself to wake up so I could end the dream.

The hand belonged to X's friend J, I realized upon awakening.

Horrible! I could venture a psychological analysis but will abstain.

I hate the end of the semester when I am so stressed out at work that it carries over into my dreams!

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Photoshop: cheaper than surgery

What I wanted out of life when I was a little girl.

The reality of how it's turned out for me.

These are two things I ponder sometimes as I take Buster on one of our hour-long walks through the park with the iPod earbuds in and music playing in my brain. Listening to music while I walk really facilitates deep thoughts, I find.

I've been fighting off a teeny tiny little attack of the blues; part of that, I'm certain, is my still dealing with the emotional aftermath of the end of my relationship with X. If I get a little blue I always get extremely philosophical. And part of it is probably being 54; it's clear my life is more than half over and I can't waste a moment of what's left for me.

What I wanted "when I grew up" when I was a little girl:
1. To have two children, a boy and a girl, with two different fathers. I wanted one of my babies to be black because I thought black children were much more beautiful than white children :)
2. To join the circus and become an aerialist, trapeze performer or tight-rope walker.
3. I said I never intended to marry.
4. The technical skill to draw, fabricate or sew whatever I imagined -- drawings, dolls, costumes, books.

And, when I became a teenager, these things were added to my wish list:
5. To speak French, to go to Paris and maybe even to live there permanently.
6. To be a stage actress or dancer. Or a writer. Or an artist. Or a photographer. To be famous. To live "la vie Bohème" as much as it's possible in the U.S. in the 20th century.
7. To live in a gypsy vardo or an Airstream. Or an Airstream tricked out like a gypsy vardo.
8. To get my fair share of love, affection, kisses and great sex out of my life. To be thought beautiful by my beloved.
9. To march to the beat of my own drum and be true to myself. To be authentic and sincere.
10. To travel the world.

And then, as a grown-up, after my children were raised and I had fulfilled my obligations to others:
11. To own prescription designer sunglasses, a Louis Vuitton wallet and an Hermès scarf.
12. To make love in and have a great romance play out in Paris and Venice.

It's interesting to assess, at mid-life, how well I succeeded in my original goals. Pretty well, n'est-ce pas, all things considered. I find myself at this stage of my life worrying more about the "will I have time" issues: Will I have time to make every drawing I wanted to make? Will my health and vitality hold up so that I can continue to travel and hoof it relentlessly once I'm at my destination?

Why do I have to sleep eight hours a night? I'm wasting time!
Why does work have unpredictable hours and so many special events that derail me from my personal agenda?
Why do I often just walk around my house in circles finding stupid little putzy things to do rather than the grand projects? And then another evening's wasted, and how many more of them will I have in my lifetime?

That's the issue that seems to emerge as critical for me now, as a woman of a certain age: is there enough time?

And did I get all the kisses and great sex and loving I hoped to get out of this one life of mine?

Another semester draws to a close.

I've felt "meeting'd" to death recently, but things should really begin to wind down next week when the students are no longer attending class. Because of the swine flu epidemic I'll be gladder than usual when class is no longer in session and students aren't thrown together in confined spaces. We'll have a full stop for a couple of weeks before summer term and orientation start up, so maybe that will put the brakes on virus transmission here on campus. I do worry a little about our many international students who'll head home to Mexico at the end of the semester, but perhaps most will stay away all summer.

Awards banquets and concerts and other special end-of-semester activities have kept me up on campus later than usual most nights lately. I look forward to getting back into a routine with walking Buster and drawing nightly once all these special events cease for the summer. We'll have to shift our nightly walks to just before sundown soon due to the oppressive heat and humidity.

Commencement is the 22nd, and, after that, it really will become deathly quiet up here for a while. Honestly, I look forward to that. It's spooky, though, not to be leaving for Europe the day after graduation as I usually do. It will be interesting to be in Austin all summer this year. I'll find ways to stay busy and entertained, I'm certain!

Monday, May 4, 2009

A Woman is a Woman homage...


A woman is woman edit
Originally uploaded by diebuechse
quite tongue in cheek.

The shoot with Ali was exhausting, but fun. I will likely be editing for days, and we didn't get to do six more setups I had planned because they're exteriors and we lost the light. Plus we need to shoot downtown when there's no one around to see the madness! Maybe in the next couple of weeks we'll finish, but it's a good start. 250 photos, but only about two dozen will go in the project.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Violetta? Mimi? No.

Musetta a little. Carmen: yes.

*****

I passed a man on the hike and bike trail today walking Buster. When he was completely past me, I suddenly thought, "Wait! Was that my second husband?!"

Monday, April 27, 2009

Je m'ennuie aujourd'hui!

I bore myself and I am bored, that is. It's been terribly quiet all day at the office due to horrible black skies and rain. We've had barely anyone come in for assistance with anything. I've busied myself cleaning out my email box and other housekeeping tasks, but the day has seemed terribly long. If I had been home there are so many things I could be doing. And now, because of the rain, I won't be able to take Buster on his long walk when I go home and both of us will feel off. I'm really addicted to our hour-long daily walk and get so cranky without it.

But I suppose I can hoop to music indoors if all else fails.

I've been thinking about the next drawing suite I will start, and I think it's Things I Thought I Saw at the Water's Edge -- because as I walk along the shore of Town Lake daily with Buster, a trick of the eye often makes me think I see something I didn't really see at all in the water. Maybe the series will be about a dozen black and white drawings, but the one that gave me the original idea will be big, and in color. I need to tear down paper now that I know what I'm doing next, and do some preliminary studies of water movement and ripples. I've had six months off since I wrapped the last series -- always need battery recharge time between projects -- but I couldn't start the next series without committing to a theme. So, that's settled. The reflective nature of water also will be a good opportunity -- images of duality.

I doubt I'll get much drawing done this week, though. Two evening events for me as the semester wears itself out and ramps down.

I was thinking as I walked Buster yesterday about French popular music, and how common it is in French love songs for the singer to face up to the likely eventual failure of the love affair in advance. They sing things like, "If tomorrow you should cease to love me..." "If you go away.." "If you should have a change of heart..." "If you should no longer love me.." It's odd. I don't think English-language songs as often acknowledge the transitory nature of romantic love. Because my iPod is loaded up with French pop music from the 1920s until now I seem to listen to a lot of those "it's inevitable that our love will end" songs. Piaf sang her fair share of them -- L'Hymne à L'Amour, for instance. And so did Charles Aznavour. I think it's healthier just to confront that probability head-on. Maybe it's a very French thing to realize the love affair is doomed just as you begin it with the first kiss? I always have that feeling myself, I must admit. Still, it doesn't stop me from loving. Because, as Piaf sang so movingly,


If the sky should fall into the sea
And the stars fade all around me
All the times that we have known here
I will sing a hymn to love

We have lived and dreamed we two alone
In a world that's been our very own
With its memories ever grateful
Just for you I sing a hymn to love

I remember each embrace
The smile that lights your face
And my heart begins to sing
Your eyes have never lied
And my heart begins to sing
And my heart begins to sing

If one day you should ever disappear
Always remember these words
If one day we had to say goodbye
And our love should fade away and die
In my heart you will remain here
And I'II sing a hymn to love

O for love, we live eternally
In the blue we'll roll this harmony
With every day we are in heaven
As for you, I'll sing a hymn to love

Don't you ever worry, dear
And the stars shall fade from the sky
All the times that we have known here
I will sing a hymn to our love
Oh darling,
Just for you I sing
A hymn to love

****

Speaking of Piaf, over the weekend I bought my ticket to Paris for October and reserved my hotel rooms, one on the Droit and one on the Rive Gauche. I'll mix it up and enjoy two neighborhoods this trip. I can't stay away from Paris much longer than a year, and passing through those two snowy days at Christmas at the airport don't count. Life is too short not to spend as much of it as possible in Paris.

Detective Movie


Detective Movie
Originally uploaded by diebuechse
Fun photo shoot tonight with Ali as her persona Carmelo Carillo. I'll tidy them all up and post to Flickr soon!

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Dialogues of the Carmelites

It will take a long time to get it out of my head. The sickening sound of the metallic clank that accompanies each chop of the guillotine as all the little nuns are beheaded at the end of Poulenc's gorgeous opera Dialogues of the Carmelites, that is. I went last night to see it performed (beautifully!) by Austin Lyric Opera. I could only afford a third balcony seat, but the acoustics were marvelous even there and I do have those mother-of-pear folding opera glasses.

The first time I was exposed to DotC it was twenty some-odd years ago on the radio -- probably one of those weekend broadcasts from the Met. I had been cleaning house and not paying very close attention until the middle of the third act and I still remember how the sound of the chops of the guillotine triggered actual dry heaves in me that first time. I find this work so incredibly powerful and I read it on so many levels.

There's, first, the primarily female cast; rare in opera. The men are the throw-aways in this one. There's the mothers and daughters motif, although they are nuns and spiritual sisters. I can put some feminist reads into it, and a would-be lesbian love-at-first-sight story. There are the existential issues of freedom and transcendence. To me, DotC is less about religion and more about fear, and about the fear of fear. I know those are probably not the things Polenc wanted me to ponder, but I'm a post-modernist and I can't help it.

And there's one of the greatest lines in opera: to paraphrase, "She got somebody else's death, as one might mistakenly be handed someone else's coat in the cloak room."

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Rocking that Missionary Look




...like I said I would!

Love these Dutch wax African batiks. I got two skirts, one black, one turquoise, on ebay! I wear them with the Massai-inspired towering sandals and the ubiquitous leopard sweater of which I am so fond. This is a happy ensemble!

But I am still trying to get over that damned stye.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Everything's moving so fast.

It's dizzying, like being on a crazy carousel, as Jacques Brel sang. But it always happens like this in the spring semesters. Everyone waits until the very last moment to conduct business they were either in denial about, or procrastinated beginning. That goes for faculty members AND their students, by the way. Of necessity, this is the season for final recitals, exhibitions, defenses, presentations. And end-of-year banquets and ceremonies and receptions.

As a result, I don't have time to fully write about the many wonderful happenings lately. (B)Easter with Jimmie and Cindy and the little girls was marvelous. I went out to their place for brunch and enjoyed hiding Easter eggs for children to find, something I haven't done for many years. Jimmie made some nice photos of the day which you can see in a set on flickr if you click through from the image of my grand-beauties below.

Friday night's premiere of Queenie Pie, Duke Ellington's opera, was also marvelous. The young, vibrant African-American cast really delivered, and it was a memorable production. Unbelievably, the ninety-something year-old white woman whose notes are what made this staging possible attended the premiere. She had broken her hip a week ago, so none of us expected she'd be able to travel. But travel she did, and made her pre-performance appearance on stage wearing a colorful sequined gown she said Ellington bought for her years ago, with her red-dyed hair and six handsome young men in zoot suits escorting her in in her wheelchair. I loved Queenie Pie's plot about dueling beauticians -- rather Carmen-esque, and the magical Bali Hai island Queenie Pie sails to on a 1930's ocean liner like the Normandie. Hard to believe it hasn't been fully staged somewhere with all the trimmings -- wouldn't it probably do well in London? It needs the kind of production values that, say, Cole Porter's Anything Goes had; the orchestra was also on stage in that one when I saw the 2004 revival.

It enjoyed getting all dressed up to meet up there with friends and to go to the reception afterward to congratulate everyone involved in this ambitious production. I have to work on overcoming my shyness and getting out to do these kinds of things more often. I'm fine, once I'm there. I just don't know what to say to people when it comes to small talk, but it seems to get a little easier with each outing. Practice helps with overcoming the shyness, I'm finding.

Saturday night was my Grey Gardens viewing party. I got HBO just for the week and Alison kindly let me borrow her monstrous television for the evening. It was a potluck affair with cuisine inspired somehow by Grey Gardens, and bizarre couture was required. It was fun to be in a room full of Little Edies, and my photos later revealed an orb hovering over performance artist Jill Pangallo's head. I can only assume it was Little Edie giving us her blessing. The Barrymore/Lang Grey Gardens piece was all I expected and hoped for and I really enjoyed its visuals and insights. Great acting on the parts of the stars! Loved the very believable prosthetic aging effects, too, particularly Barrymore's arms. I haven't watched the Maysles' original documentary for a couple of years and now feel I need to add looking at it again to my already lengthy to-do list for the near future. The viewing party did cause me to have to undertake a major no-holds-barred housekeeping incident, so that was a good side effect. There is still more stuff from those boxes from Italy I need to deal with or find homes for hidden about. There are still materials for future steam-punking projects lurking in cabinets and closets.

Work will be hectic all this week and we've got construction-related activities going on to further complicate everything. Friday night it's Dialogues of the Carmelites. Whee!

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Me as Little Edie, Buster as Raccoon

...at my Grey Gardens viewing party last night. Click through to see the whole set, including the ectoplasmic orb!

Beaster at Jimmie's house


DSC_0704.JPG
Originally uploaded by jimmie d. jewell


with my beauties, my little granddaughters. Click through to see the whole set.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Headed out for a night at the opera


... and I am so excited! World premiere of Duke Ellington's Queenie Pie at Butler School of Music tonight!

Streaming video here:
http://www.music.utexas.edu/calendar/details.aspx?id=9595

I don't know if the technology will work, but you can try checking it out. I attended a recital yesterday by the young woman singing Café Olay and her exquisitely lovely and powerful voice made the little hairs on my forearms stand up, so that's probably a very good indication that the production will be marvelous. Full report later.

Today's the twenty-ninth birthday of my firstborn, who is far away tonight in Portland or environs. I miss him so, and it's hard to believe he's now only a year shy of thirty. Twenty-nine years ago he'd just come flying out of my body after only four hours' labor. He was always in a hurry to fly, mon petit oiseau Nicholas. He said he celebrated by going up in a private airplane -- always hoping to get his pilot's license, that one.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Oh, yes I did!



buy that Hermès twilly in the design Brides de Gala. And, yes, I did wear it as a headband and walk the dog in the park just now. And, yes, it felt fabulous!

The little Hermès hat box with ribbons it came in is also a little treasure!

And, yes, I do have a stye in my left eye I'm getting over. I attribute that to the fact that it's been a very stressful week at work. But this gorgeous little scarf has gone a very long way toward making me feel wonderful today!

Saturday, April 11, 2009

A letter I won't send: It's tragic that you deprived yourself of all this...


because, when all is said and done, it all boils down to this: truly, you could not take the risk. (You could not eat the peach.) You preferred the familiar sadness, the moral "correctness" of staying in name only in a marriage from which you continually seek to escape, whether through moving halfway across the world or through your several emotional or sexual affairs. It's sad, too, because you were so completely safe with me. But you were afraid. It must have been terrifying, to have all you said you dreamed of right in front of you, for the taking.

This is my family. One of my little granddaughters wears a dress and bonnet made for me in 1961 by my mother; the other wears my leopard heels. My own younger child, out of frame, takes the photograph, and I play the accordion.

The younger of my granddaughters is singing a song, à la Piaf, while accompanied by two melodicas, an accordion, and her sister on one of your minor key harmonicas. Our eight-year-old chanteuse composed her song on the spot. It's about an ended romance. It's about all the things that were sent back in boxes. The last words of her song are, "He's just a little man." She's brilliant, and her lyrics come from a deep, authentic, healthy place. We're a tribe of adherents to a philosophy of radical honesty, you see. We inhabit your Paradise Lost. And we rag-tag gypsies WILL BE HAPPY. We seek, and find JOY on a daily basis.

You've lost not only me, but all this. A tribe of women and girls will now wear what once were your clothes, your ties, your sock garters, your watch, your rings. They will play your harmonicas.

It's a tragedy. You, as my beloved, had earned the right to partake of this magical, nomadic feast, to enter a world of radical truthfulness to which you'll never, ever again be offered an invitation. My people were all standing by ready to welcome you as my chosen one, my beloved. It is a world of great beauty -- unimaginable, in fact, to outsiders -- and I am sorry that you will not be part of it. It might have filled some of that abyss inside you. It might have helped heal some of your terrible wounds.

It's on nights like these that I'll remember you most often and be a little sad. Not because I miss you and you are lost to me. But because of all you yourself deprive yourself of and have lost. Tu es perdu à nous et tout est perdu à toi. But the red wine will flow, we will make the music and I will sing and dance. Because, unlike you, I am always passionately committed to being fully IN LIFE.

Ultimately, that's why our relationship could not work out: I am committed to being fully in life and you most probably have chosen to turn your back on all these joys and spend much of your time in darkness. I'm not angry at you for rejecting ME. I'm angry that you reject life, and joy. What a waste. What ingratitude to life for all its riches.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Cool.

Someone wrote me asking if they could publish one of my flickr portfolio photos. I said yes. Another was picked up to go on a fashion web site.

The internet is a wild and wonderful place, huh? For artists, it's a way to finally get published and exhibit without cost. I like that part.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

I can rock that.

I figured out a way to tie a silk bow tie from Italy so that it makes a rather charming choker with a bow. And there's a pocket square to coordinate with each of the two bow ties. When I want to wear Dietrich drag to work in the future, I can rock those ties as chokers under an open necked shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, which I'll wear with a vest. And argyle socks. And spectator shoes. And with that cologne, Heritage, he selected at Guerlain on the Champs Elysées.

Because he sent that back to me, too.

Part of me really wants to know why the ending of the romance couldn't have been like Intermezzo (1939). Or Brief Encounter (1946). "How apt that this beautiful film is named Intermezzo, a term that connotes a short musical piece played between two longer movements. --Netflix"

Saturday, April 4, 2009

New Works Festival.

I have seen such incredible young, raw, fresh, vibrant works. For a whole week now. But now my feet are killing me from traipsing around to all these spaces wearing ridiculous shoes, trying to look nice out of respect for all the shows and their young directors, choreographers and performers. And I'm sleep deprived. I started just crashing on the couch when I came in at midnight -- stripped out of my clothes, left them lying on the floor. Didn't have time to do laundry this week, go to the grocery store or eat any vegetables most days. The festival's over tonight though. Wah :(

But (sigh) of relief. I will try to clean house tomorrow. And I just went and got a massage, which I sorely needed after this long, long packed week. Another unbelievably marvelous festival.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

A box arrived.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 10, second part of 11, 13. And a bunch of other objects, once gifts from me to the sender -- or little things of mine with no value at all.

Still missing:
6, 7, 9, first part of 11, 12.

What kind of head-trip is this anyway? It's baffling. It's my things and the sender's things, not clearly one or the other, in these expensive-to-send boxes full of pathetic, unwanted objects.

I suppose I'm meant to feel erased? Whatever comfort he can find for himself is good. Or perhaps I'm meant to feel grateful that he went to the trouble and expense to send the things after I asked him not to? I don't feel at all grateful. It seems so ungrateful to the universe for the rare gift of love and intimacy it once bestowed on us to now return the symbols of our romance. I find all this endless box-sending, frankly, inexplicable in motive, materialistic and, really, quite sad.

Life is, after all, simultaneously so long, so short, so rich, so painful. And all we have is today, and when today ends, only our memories, which are our treasures.

But I guess I'm a romantic...

Friday, March 27, 2009

I like this photo.



I took it at my desk yesterday. I have really big hair. I was trying to look like Brigitte Bardot in an old movie. I was wearing my ballet flats, a printed full skirt and a sweater set. And liquid eyeliner.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

A list of random objects?

1. Venus in Furs
2. Yellow cashmere sweater, argyle pattern
3. Two silk bow ties, four pair silk knot cufflinks
4. Ferdinand, the Flower-Smelling Bull.
5. Burgundy flats, spectator style
6. Rubber riding boots
7. Velvet dress, vintage, sleeveless sheath, the color of old theatre seats
8. Ballet pink 3/4 sleeve top
9. A little fur piece -- dyed rabbit?
10. Blue jeans skirt
11. Chocolate brown nail polish, greenish-black eye shadow
12. Waterman pen
13. French Foreign Legion button, beribboned

It's a kind of Joseph Cornell assemblage of the wardrobe.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Facebook is truly evil.

I really don't have anything to write here. Too much "Six Degrees of Separation" research to do on facebook at the moment. And too much flair to make and send to people. I am seriously addicted. I love to make things on the internet.

A "six degrees" facebook example: it turns out one of my former students is friends with someone who was an undergraduate in art school with me during the last century...

Monday, March 23, 2009

Plath's Son Commits Suicide

...in Alaska

Associated Press

Monday, 23 March 2009

Nicholas Hughes, the son of poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, has killed himself. His death was 46 years after his mother committed suicide and almost 40 years to the day after his stepmother, Assia Wevill, did the same. He was 47.

Hughes, who was not married and had no children, hanged himself at his home on 16 March, Alaska State Troopers said. An evolutionary biologist, he spent more than a decade on the faculty of the University of Alaska Fairbanks. Marmian Grimes, the university's senior public information officer, said he left about a year ago.

Hughes' older sister, poet Frieda Hughes, issued a statement through The Times, expressing her "profound sorrow" and saying that he "had been battling depression for some time."

Nicholas Hughes was only 9 months old when his parents separated, and still an infant when his mother died in February 1963. A few months earlier, she had written of Nicholas: "You are the one/Solid the spaces lean on, envious/You are the baby in the barn."

Not widely known when she died, Plath became a cult figure and feminist martyr through the novel "The Bell Jar," which told of a suicidal young woman, and through the "Ariel" poems she had been working on near the end of her life.

The immediate cause of their breakup was Ted Hughes' affair with Wevill, and Plath's fame would long haunt her husband, hounded for years by women who believed he was responsible for her suicide and by a procession of scholars and fans obsessed with the brief, impassioned and tragic marriage between the two poets.

Ted Hughes would relive the tragedy not only through the constant reminders of Plath, but also through the suicide of Wevill, his second wife, who in March 1969 killed herself and their four-year-old daughter.

Hughes, England's poet laureate, was reluctant to discuss Plath until near the end of his life when he published the best-selling "Birthday Letters," a collection of deeply personal poems that came out in 1998. He died of cancer the same year.

Gay Bi Gay Gay

...is where I spent yesterday. It was pretty fab. It's the gay/bi/trans/? version of SXSW. Imagine Woodstock in someone's backyard in East Austin (the ghetto) filled with typical Austin pierced/tattoo'd funky-clothes wearin' folk with live bands taking the stage every hour. Jimmie and Cindy were face painting there and I had had the little girls, feeding them lunch, taking them swimming, for the earlier part of the day before I delivered them back to their adults. It was fun. I saw people I haven't seen for twenty years in some cases. And all my former daughter-in-laws. And all Jimmie's former housemates. Old Home Week.

I can see that facebook is going to be a major competitor for my leisure time and blogging here. I can't get over all the gift applications people have created. I was sent "the line between past and present" from the Grey Gardens Treasures by a friend. And I spent the better part of the past two days on the site making flair (buttons) to send friends. The first set was Art School Stuff (Duchamp readymades, Surrealists) and the second set was Cross-Dressing Female Movie Stars (Katharine Hepburn, Dietrich, Garbo, Brooks, Moreau, etc.). I like the "play time" aspect of facebook more than the social networking part. Evidently everyone is up in arms about a recent redesign, but since I just got on it last Thursday, it's fine with me. Downside is you can only write about a hundred characters in each post, keeping it short and sweet. Guess I still need the blog to totally unburden my wordy self.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Sad. Terrifying. Pathetic.

I spent most of the evening making Art School flair for my new facebook page. Facebook could suck up my entire life.

Like that website that you could make and dress cartoons of yourself on that Jimmie turned me on to a few years back...

Monday, March 16, 2009

Just added a lot of new photographs to my Flickr portfolio...


http://www.flickr.com/photos/diebuechsepics/

Most of them from my daily walks in Austin -- my park, bridges, graffiti collections. That's what I did with my three-day spring break weekend!

Thursday, March 12, 2009

It was like this.

His behaving in the ways this article describes really began to frighten me when I visited him in December: his extreme emotional reactivity was not only scary, but made me feel as if I was walking through a mine field or on eggshells.

It's so difficult to know that someone I loved so much now hates me, and wants to hurt me as he feels I hurt him by honestly communicating my concerns. I was "too real." And not in a good way, like the Velveteen Rabbit.


The Frustrating No-Man’s-Land of Borderline Personality Disorder
By Harold W. Koenigsberg, and Larry J. Siever

THE NEUROBIOLOGY OF AFFECTIVE INSTABILITY

In addition to vulnerability to impulsive aggression, people with borderline personality disorder are unusually emotionally reactive. They may be content for a while, then become intensely angry or hopelessly depressed or unbearably anxious—each state, although intense, lasting only a few hours or a day.

To those who are close to them, borderline patients appear to have random and unpredictable emotions. On closer investigation, those emotions often seem to involve heightened emotional reactions to other people. Borderline patients may become distraught at ordinary criticism, which they experience as a blow to self-esteem; may react with rage to a disappointment or minor slight; or may feel terror at a separation that they experience as virtual abandonment. Their emotional, or affective, instability may contribute to their turbulent, often unstable relationships and the inconstancy in their experience of themselves that leads to a confused sense of identity.

Infants who are very emotionally sensitive may respond more intensely to the comings and goings of their mother or caretakers and show much greater distress at separating. This may lead to a more insecure attachment between infant and mother. If the infant is more impulsive and aggressive— that is, likely to express emotions forcefully— he may have crying spells and, later, temper tantrums when frustrated or left alone, which can wear down even the most supportive parents and overwhelm those who are depressed or who themselves have trouble with emotional reactivity and impulsiveness. Parents may become frustrated at their inability to soothe such a child and decide not to respond to its distress; at other times they may try everything to indulge the child to appease its upset and rage. These inconsistent (and, to the infant, unpredictable) responses may make it likely that the child will learn to deal with unpredictability by means of emotional storms or tantrums.

Only by looking at the behaviors of someone with borderline personality disorder in that person’s social milieu do we fully understand their meaning.

As the child matures, he may draw on these interpersonal strategies in order to regain emotional equilibrium. For example, when an upsurge of depression follows a blow to self-esteem, the borderline person may try to bolster her self-esteem by devaluing someone else. When feeling alone and abandoned, she may behave recklessly to stimulate the worry and involvement of others. To onlookers, these behaviors may appear manipulative because their purpose is to bring another person to attend to the borderline’s needs. But because of their heightened sensitivity to the availability of others, people with borderline personality disorder often feel that they are not in charge of their own emotions—their emotions depend on the behavior of those around them. Attempting to control their own feelings, they find themselves trying to control the behavior of people they depend upon and care about. Repeated again and again, these patterns of behavior become ingrained. The borderline person experiences these styles of relating as the only way to survive emotional ups and downs and the feeling that others cannot be trusted to support her.


By the last month of our relationship I often felt we were thrashing in a lake, that he held me by the neck in the crook of his arm and that he would accidentally drown me. I felt and (perhaps still feel) terribly guilty that I couldn't save him, and I felt ashamed that every self-preservation instinct in my psyche was screaming, "Fly! Fly!" I thought I was so strong that I could help him, and that my great love for him could help heal his terrible psychic wounds. What I hadn't realized at the beginning was the terrible risk I had willingly and lovingly put myself in; I feel ashamed that I ultimately had to make the choice to save myself. What I'm trying to become very clear on is this: I could not have saved him. He is the only one who can save himself. I feel such compassion for his wife of many years; how frequently she must have felt as I felt, and how sad and helpless she must feel. She can't save him, either.

But I predict his brilliance, charm and boyish qualities will insure a steady future supply of women riding in on their white horses, hoping, as I hoped and as his wife surely must have once hoped, to save him. There were, what? Three other women I quickly discovered in his life in addition to his wife and me?

I don't think his is a histrionic or narcissistic personality. I think he has suffered unbearably most of his life from a borderline personality disorder that the circumstances of his early life set up. Too bad I wasn't able to do the research as the behaviors occurred; it was all completely baffling and very painful for me at the time. Poor man. Will he ever be able to move on past those wounds? Will he ever begin to heal a little or feel at least a sense of peace of mind? Will his vicious self-loathing -- which he sometimes turns outward on others -- ever end?

Thinking about him makes me terribly sad.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

It's the twenty-fifth birthday of my beloved younger child.

March 11 was a Sunday in 1984, the year she was born. I had insisted on doing the birth naturally, without any drugs, exactly as I'd delivered my son four years earlier. I labored nearly twenty-four hours and was going into shock. The doctor told me it was a Victorian childbirth since she was breech and huge -- nearly nine pounds. He told me we were both going to die and I'd be buried with her inside me like something out of a Thomas Hardy novel if I didn't allow them to perform an emergency Caesarean.


That got my attention. I agreed to the c-section and she was out of me in minutes. The doctor scooped her out of my womb, held her up and she looked around the operating room with her huge cobalt blue eyes. The radio played, "Isn't She Lovely?" by Stevie Wonder, as if on cue. She sucked on her wrist -- in fact, she'd already given herself a hickey since she was post-term and hungry those last days inside me. Her father had to hold her while they sewed me up and then moved me to the recovery room for an hour. When he finally laid her on my breast -- how huge and beautiful she was, like a pink rose! -- I said, "So there you are, Miz Pie!" I guess it was a pet name I coined based on Sweetie Pie, but it stuck.

She latched onto my nipple and nursed voraciously. I fell in love with her immediately.

She is still my treasure, my brilliant, unique, loving, talented, funny, complicated younger child.

I'm meeting her, her partner and a few of her friends to celebrate at a favorite Indian restaurant after work. I have a "Pat the Bunny" birthday card for her with cash in it, a harmonica and a few thrift-shopping finds that looked like her to me.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Belle de Jour shoes!



Don't these want to be Roger Vivier Belle de Jour shoes? But they are just cheap (but very cute) Etienne Aigner instead? My sister and I went to DSW (she had coupons! Thank you, sweetie!) this weekend and I scored these. Plus some other really outrageous ones I'll show you eventually to go along with that Missionary/modern African Queen look I'm planning to rock this summer. I am wearing the faux BdJ shoes today with my wants-to-be Hérmès sweater that's really Ralph Lauren, bought on ebay.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Since a picture is worth a thousand words...



I think today or tomorrow is the ninth anniversary of my divorce from my younger child's father. I don't remember the number of the date. I do remember it was Ash Wednesday that year, because I planned it that way.

I think today or tomorrow is also what would have been the thirty-fifth anniversary of my first marriage, to my elder child's father.

It seems to me both these events occurred within a day of one another. I'm very bad with dates, just as I am with names. I do remember The Ides of March have been a recurring motif in my life story.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

I'm bored now.


Everyone besides me (and my assistant) is at a conference because I had a meeting this morning which meant I couldn't attend. And because I have a HUGE meeting and presentation to prepare for that occurs tomorrow. A whole academic year's work will conclude tomorrow with that meeting!

But now, at late afternoon, everything's ready. And now I'm bored. I cannot wait for this day to end!

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Creativity determines sexual success

The research, by the University of Newcastle upon Tyne and the Open University in the UK, found that professional artists and poets have around twice as many sexual partners as those who do not indulge in these creative activities.

The authors also delved into the personalities of artists and poets and found they shared certain traits with mentally ill patients. These traits were linked with an increased sexual activity and are thought to have evolved because they contribute to the survival of the human species.

Some 425 British men and women, including a sample of visual artists and poets and schizophrenic patients, were surveyed for the report, which is published today in the academic journal, The Proceedings of the Royal Society (B). Although creative types have long been associated with increased sexual activity, this the first time that this link has been proved by research.

Study participants filled in questionnaires which asked about their degree of creative activity in poetry and visual art, their psychiatric history, and their history of sexual encounters since the age of 18. They were also required to answer questions on a ‘schizotypy inventory’, a breakdown of characteristics linked with schizophrenic patients.

The average number of sexual partners for professional artists and poets was between four and ten, compared with a mean of three for non-creative types. Statistics also showed the number of average sexual partners rose in line with an increase in the amount of creative activity a person took part in.

The lead author of the study, Dr Daniel Nettle, lecturer in psychology with Newcastle University’s School of Biology, suggested two key reasons for the findings. He said: “Creative people are often considered to be very attractive and get lots of attention as a result. They tend to be charismatic and produce art and poetry that grabs people’s interest.

“It could also be that very creative types lead a bohemian lifestyle and tend to act on more sexual impulses and opportunities, often purely for experience’s sake, than the average person would. Moreover, it’s common to find that this sexual behaviour is tolerated in creative people. Partners, even long-term ones, are less likely to expect loyalty and fidelity from them.”

Dr Nettle added that the results suggested an evolutionary reason for why certain personality traits that serious artists and poets were found to share with schizophrenic patients perpetuated in society.

He added: “These personality traits can manifest themselves in negative ways, in that a person with them is likely to be prone to the shadows of full-blown mental illness such as depression and suicidal thoughts. This research shows there are positive reasons, such as their role in mate attraction and species survival, for why these characteristics are still around.”

Yet although some 'schizotypal' traits are linked with high numbers of partners, schizophrenic patients do not experience this level of sexual activity. These people tend to suffer from acute social withdrawal and emotional flatness - characteristics that the researchers found were linked with a reduced number of sexual partners.

SOURCE INFORMATION: ‘Schizotypy, creativity and mating success in humans’ Daniel Nettle and Helen Keenoo, Proceedings of the Royal Society B, November 2005. Doi:10.1098/rspb.2005.3349

Monday, March 2, 2009

No Camille for me this spring.

I hadn't much wanted to talk about it here, my ongoing health issue. Today was the long-dreaded day when I went for the follow-up imaging, and prepared myself for bad news, as I've had in the past after the imaging, and then the scheduling of a biopsy, and then the torturous weeks of waiting for the biopsy day to arrive. And then the hellish days of waiting for the biopsy results.

Good news: there's no change from the imaging six months ago, which equals No Biopsy. I'm off the hook for one year, told to "keep on keeping on" with my normal healthy lifestyle. I have a separate, early June blood work retest to do, but was told that one was hardly abnormal and not to lose sleep over it. If the June blood tests come back okay, I'm off the hook on all accounts until summer of 2010. If you know me in real life and knew the scary thing I'd be enduring alone this afternoon, thank you for your thoughts and prayers and good energy today. It is always a little sad and frightening to go through this by myself, but you know I prefer to do it alone.

But tonight, I'm so relieved. I've felt since I returned from Italy in January as if I couldn't or shouldn't make any long-range plans until I had these medical test results. Now I know I have a year-long dance card, at least, to start filling in without fear of the issue for which I'm being poked and prodded. I could, of course, be hit at any moment by a Mack truck, crumple like a sheet of paper with a heart attack, etc. But I'm unlikely to be felled by this particular ailment. So I'll start working on the next book, make jewelry out of found bottle caps, make Joseph Cornell boxes, sew a nomad dress or whatever else appeals to my imagination now that I know I have some time.

Coraline: highly recommended for some


I took the entire Jimmie/Cindy clan on Friday. Dark. Frightening. Autumn nearly climbed up Jimmie as the movie got darker and darker and sadder and sadder. Maya had read the book and so was prepared. I hadn't read it, and so was a blank slate -- but the book's on its way to me now, courtesy Amazon.

I really loved it. Don't know that it's appropriate for "normal" children under about the age of ten, though. Could inspire nightmares. Could inspire nightmares in unsuspecting adults, too. There was something heavy in there about mothering and mother/daughter relationships that was more than just a little upsetting. Not exactly a sick puppy, but not joyful in its darkness like Nightmare Before Christmas, for instance.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Laissez les bon temps rouler, y'all



http://www.nola.com/paradecam/index.ssf?video

Parce qu'aujourd'hui c'est Mardi Gras!

It's so hard to even ponder going back there after the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina. I haven't been back since the summer of the year before it hit. I just don't know if I can stand seeing the lingering profound changes.

...although my former love and I had planned to honeymoon there when we married next August. It's closer than Venice, he'd never been there, and he was a great fan of Louis Armstrong and other New Orleans jazz musicians.

I didn't even make a King Cake this year!

Monday, February 23, 2009

Oh, and I forgot to say about Kate Winslet...



I was overjoyed she got the Academy Award for Best Actress. I haven't seen The Reader yet. She was superb, as I wrote before, in Revolutionary Road. She pulled a Bette Davis, didn't she? More than one movie in a given year for which she deserved a nomination.

But I have to say how goddess-like she was, and how I approved of her speech and her dress and her hair and makeup. She's beginning to somehow remind me of Julie Andrews -- that kind of class and grace. Meryl Streep's another woman like Julie and now young Kate who I sometimes aspire to channel depending on the situation. When I'm not aspiring to remind everyone of Catherine Deneuve, that is.

Yes, Kate's a rising goddess and definitely on my Essential Women list these days. Maybe she's her generation's Meryl Streep?

It was great to see Sophia Loren and Shirley McLaine on last night's show also. (But Sophia scared me a little, I will admit. Too much plastic surgery or Botox? She seemed afraid to move!)

Beaucoup de photos





http://www.flickr.com/photos/diebuechsepics/

I spent some time this weekend FINALLY uploading all the photos from my roots journey in May and June to Bavaria/Switzerland avec ma mère if you want to see some images finally. Also Sicily and a couple from Paris. I know I must have a roll of London somewhere, since that's where I started out from...

That's me at my desk at work before Christmas wearing the dirndl I bought in Bavaria with my mother.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Often when a relationship ends


...I feel the urge to buy a bicycle.

And so I did today.

Just like this, but red. No gears, no hand brakes, just a simple old-fashioned coaster. I love it! It's a Sun Bicycle -- I never had one before.
http://www.sunbicycles.com/sun/index.html

I purchased it an Eastside bicycle shop, so it comes with support, unlike a Huffy or Schwinn from a big box store. And it's much better quality for only about $50 more than what I thought I'd pay at Academy or Target for a Chinese bike. And I got a basket installed so I can run errands on it. Or so I can train Buster to sit in it and go for a ride with me. Good times!

And if it's the Second Coming of the Great Depression, at least I've got alternative, non fossil fuel transportation now.

Hmm. Can I rock this summer look?



Just bought this skirt on ebay from a company in Thailand. We'll see how long it takes to get here. They have all kinds of fabulous Dutch wax African print skirts, dashikis, etc. I'm thinking there must be some way to rock the African skirts with vintage Nike or Adidas t-shirts, gladiator sandals or Converse One Stars, piles of bracelets or cowrie shell necklaces. And what if I used one of those purses made out of flattened tin juice cans and other recycled materials with it? What I think I'm trying for is a Missionary Look. You know, as if I'm a white woman in 21st Century Africa, who brought along a bag full of Goodwill clothes to share -- colorful athletic t-shirts or other kinds of shirts with American writing on them.

Hmm. Just an idea from Rachel's Summer 2009 collection.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Vicky Cristina Barcelona: I'm warning you, don't say it!



Yes, Scarlett Johansson's character Cristina, in Woody Allen's film Vicky Cristina Barcelona, behaves eerily as I have done sometimes. Even though Scarlett is worlds more beautiful than I ever was and nearly thirty years younger than I am, yes, I will admit it. And the movie is good, I think. I enjoyed it and recommend it to you. Just don't say Cristina reminds you of me to my face. Just think it silently, okay? You don't have to tell me.

A beautiful image by fashion photographer Peter Lindbergh



for you.

Ow! Ow! My head hurts! I can't even begin to describe how taxing work is these days, so I won't even try. Plus, it would be very boring if I did explain.

And we had a student death in the wee hours Saturday night. Rumors abound, but it does seem foul play must have been involved, and underage drinking. What a tragedy.

But I got thirty-five free downloads at emusicdotcom. I swear they don't pay me off. Go check it out, and you, too, can get free downloads like all the cool kids. I got a whole Tanghetto album, a Zero 7 album and assorted songs to fill in some gaps in my music collection with my freebies. They have more independent labels, obscure European stuff, etc., there than the iTunes store, it seems. And I did learn most of the bands I love fall under the electronic,trip-hop, down-tempo label. Good. I never had the terminology to explain the kind of contemporary music I enjoy until now.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Dear (British) Abby,

I met a man recently out of an unhappy long-term relationship and supposedly ready to move on. We live in different cities, but would spend hours on the phone. He was shy and nervous, which was endearing. We got on amazingly well...(snip) Now I’ve walked away, but I fear I’ve left an amazing connection behind. Was I holding on to something that wasn't there? It’s so easy to say that people have baggage, but surely it’s better to help and be understanding?

*****

Of course it’s good to help others and to be understanding about emotional baggage, but just because it’s good to be that way, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s good for you.

Look, for whatever reason, some people are emotional black holes. No matter how much love and kindness we hand out, it’s all absorbed into the vortex. Our actions come to seem both meaningless and pointless, because no amount of love and reassurance has any effect except to make them crave more — and more. That leaves us bewildered, anxious and, frankly, feeling as if we don’t much matter.

I think of people like that as emotional vampires. Unable to sustain themselves or fill the hole of need they carry inside, they leech the life out of others. I suspect you feel low because it is extraordinarily disappointing to encounter somebody who seems able to speak the language of love, but is unable, emotionally, to absorb its lessons. All the promises are simply dust. When he says he loves you, I’m sure he believes it to be the truth. It’s just that, emotionally, he can’t follow it through. We can understand something intellectually, but fail to feel it emotionally. It’s a head-to-heart disconnect.

He may want to love you (or, rather, the idea of you), but as soon as you respond, he shuts down, and when you get too close, he runs away. It seems likely that he’s badly wounded emotionally, but — and here’s a big but — just because he’s wounded, it doesn’t mean that you can heal him, or that you should try. You don’t say what happened in his previous relationship. It could be that he was bullied or neglected, and that has caused him to feel scared of being hurt again. Or it could be that he was acting out similar dysfunctional behaviour with his ex-partner, who, after a long battle to love and reassure him, came to feel as low as you do and gave up.

Who’s to know? Perhaps not even he does. It’s difficult to see our own destructive patterns until something sufficiently painful happens to make us pay attention. It takes years to establish behaviour and, no matter how dysfunctional or destructive, it at least has the merit of being familiar and, therefore, safe. Change is frightening because it’s a leap into the unknown, but I suspect your frustration lies in wanting to believe that, with sufficient love and kindness, he could and would change. People can change, but challenging established patterns of destructive behaviour takes enormous personal effort. Unless somebody is really willing to put in the work, it’s impossible to help them, no matter how much kindness, love and good emotional sense we send their way.

It’s like the oxygen masks in an aeroplane. You must put the mask to your own face before helping anybody else. Why? Because if you don’t have your own supply of oxygen, you’ll soon start grabbing at others and pulling them down in your desperation to get at their supply.

He’s not deceitful or unkind; he’s just an oxygen-grabber. You, on the other hand, are a giver and someone who believes in honesty, trust and kindness. Good. Those are excellent, healthy instincts that make for real happiness in a relationship. If I were you, I’d keep walking until you find them.

****

And someone else wrote elsewhere, If a vampire came up to you and asked you to let them drink your blood or else they'd die, would you feel guilty if you wouldn't allow them to drain you?

It was like that. At first I was, in a way, hypnotized, walking toward him in an extraordinarily beautiful and atmospheric dream. But by the end I began to distinctly feel as if I were suffering from acute blood loss and that my survival was in jeopardy.

And someone else, a psychiatrist I recently visited, in fact, reminded me that she who tries to save a drowning man is in great danger of being drowned herself, as the drowning man, in a panic, sometimes drags her down with him -- and not on purpose. It's simply a tragic accident.

This is really about all I can say about the end of my romance. In case you were at all curious. But I think that's all I want to share.