I realized last night that I was doing precisely what I am telling my young student not to do: Jumping straight into things without planning.
I don’t know why I thought I could just ~*figure it out along the way*~, I never can.
My professor told me frequently, “work smarter not harder” and planning is a crucial element to getting the working smarter thing to well, work. And of course during the process there is (at least for me) some level of improvisation to prevent things from becoming too rigid, but the entire process AS IMPROV just doesn’t work.
I think I was/am frustrated that my shiny new camera got broken and hasn’t been replaced yet and I usually shoot my own reference. I don’t want to have to Frankenstein reference together because it’s usually not what I want and well I kinda suck at it tbh. Usually it creates more problems than it solves for me.
But since it’s all I have at my disposal at present it’s what I have to work with and I’ll just have to make it the best I can.
So new work will come as soon as I get my shit together, which will be as soon as possible.
For those of you who keep up with my art blog…. I jumped the gun a bit concerning the speed of new works coming out because I am an idiot.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Like when women hate men it’s frustrating at worst, maybe it hurts someone’s feelings, but when men hate women they are shamed, abused, patronized, demeaned, objectified, raped, and murdered, ya feel me, so even if I WAS a raging misandrist like worst case scenario I’d be a bummer at parties, meanwhile a girl somewhere literally can’t leave her house because it’s dark outside.
look if you unironically say ‘money can’t buy happiness’ then either you’ve never faced a real financial struggle or you’ve achieved enlightenment, because goddamn does financial security feel an awful lot like happiness when it’s something you’re not used to
Goth Problem of the Day: Seeing another goth person and going up to them to strike up a conversation and they turn out to be one of those “Gother Than Thou” types.
Goth Problem of the Forever is more like it.
Goth Problem that I am trying, in my own small way, to STAMP OUT. The Elder Goth Cabal (which does not exist) feels that being elitist and “Gother Than Thou” at other members of our dark subculture is ridiculous, and not in a fun way.