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calamity224
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Name: chelsea jane
Birthday: 2/24/1985
Gender: Female
Interests: i like to draw and design; i play trumpet, and i took lessons on piano til i was ten, on tambarine, maracaras, and cascarone-eggs filled with beans and rice until i was three; i like to read, and i write. secretly i'm a poet. even more secretly, i want to be a librarian, but that's not an original dream, just a utopian back-up plan. i mostly fear kiefer sutherland and bike-theft.
Expertise: being mean mostly and sometimes being confused and being shamelessly optimistic
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Art
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  chel c jane
Member Since:
8/17/2003
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| i woke up this morning, and los angeles seemed a lot a lot bigger and i miss living with people who care about me and i wonder just what a person does to make themself feel better in this situation.
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| yesterday i went to my last poetry workshop ever. those kids are all graduating. just like all the design kids. i'm honestly a little heart broken. all these people i probably won't see again for the rest of my life. loyola/la isn't as sticky as utexas/austin is. people go home in the summer... they leave forever after graduation.
so my last poetry workshop ever.
then i'm going to india.
then i'll be an old woman.
and then i'll be dead.
whatta ya think about that???
raaaaa.
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| okay so i went to a lecture by douglas kellner today titled media, fear, and ethics: reflections on post 9/11 us broadcast media. (these, as it turns out, were actually reflections on post 9/11 us broadcast media and the bush adminstration) he's actually a very soft-spoken man, which wasn't really all that surprising. it was okay. he didn't really say anything i hadn't heard before, so it just wasn't that exciting.
but i'm rambling. my professor (who assumes student-political-awareness is constantly at the level of too stoned to care) introduced the speaker, made a few references to michael moore to garner attention, and then said that kellner must be much more enlightened and sharpened on all subjects since he finally made out of texas (specifically the university of texas comm school), home to all things backwards.
my interest in this course (media ethics, which should be really interesting) is suffering due mostly to the fact that this man is so frustrating i can harldy make myself read let alone go to class. how can proffessors use their teaching positions to launch completely editorial, quasi-humorous and entirely subjective political statements? instead of encouraging students to discover alt media outlets and discuss political and social issues in class, he writes everyone off as "well, you don't watch/read/think anyways: the polls say so" and use it as an excuse to plaster his political position on students' foreheads rather than encouraging some sort of intellectual argument. we already have michael moore. we already hate him. nobody needs humour-guised, shallow, political opinion in a classroom.
anyways, i probably just came off as an idiot, so to reinforce the thought:
no more morningwood! the show's all sold out.
ticketmaster might possible be the most evil corporation to arise out of the the twentieth century. seriously, they shouldn't be allowed to buy up all the tickets.there's something about physically waiting in line that really ought to earn you a ticket. not this auctionized-instantaneous disastisfactory fullfillment you get via ticketmaster.
so here's the deal: i really wanna see morningwood, my morning jacket, the shins (again), and rilo kiley. but since things are getting in the way (ticketmaster, the continent of europe, the fact that i'm strapped for cash) i'm want to go here instead. clap your hands and say yeah, ladytron, mmj, she wants revenge, and the nine black alps.. hello? i'd be so happy. it's like my downermix come to life.
and furthermore...
picking out dogs from the pound must be an incrediby tricky business. but.. i think if i had the option, i wouldn't be able to help myself from taking the first one that gave me the "adopt me look".... even it were growling at me and had it's own mess on the bottom of its coat. poor puppies...
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| i miss the fat and gorgeous in the rain from home. this cali rain is cold and stinging and reminds me of sad christmases. you have to dress in layers and you can't stay outside too long, and everything inside looks somewhat bleak.
when we were little, rainy days meant staying inside coloring and seeing how many licks it actually did take to get to the center of a tootsie roll. (i convinced myself that i had counted it to exactly 3,019, but hey i think i was seven and couldn't count past whatever you can't count past when you're seven.) or on big storm days but not soo-big big storm days you could go outside and dance in the gutters. when it flooded at h.b.'s we found a snake floating in the driveway with all the earthworms.
today i've been sitting in my dark dorm room writing my poetry assigments and organizing a design project. i got my self into awkward online conversations where i asked kristen to sit for a nude portrait and where i asked mat what shrinkage was. these rainy days aren't what they used to be. but what i said up there was really only 1/10 of the real picture. so i guess those rainy days weren't even what they were.
i have to write a duende poem that is simultaneously a nonsensical poem. duende makes me think of janey and h.b and pam, shannon and katie and jamie, and dennis, and i have trouble tying them to any sort of nonsense, even if it comes from the gut. | | |
| Flooded Parlor Catechism
Grandfather says do not touch, but the child reaches out again anyway, a hand gone renegade for the banister light. Already in motion, can’t stop now, too far gone from her frilly white sleeve. The ceremony’s been cancelled, but the First Communion dress shines pretty tree rings of coarse, false satin. Water beads up and grins off the black patent leather shoes on her five-year old feet, feet from which seeps the cold flat Mexican tile right up to the first step of the vestibule. Two steps down, the stately parlor set’s gone skinny dipping. Mother defrocks the armchair. Father heaves sofa covers like ceremonial robes gone to laundry. Sister watches wide-eyed from the vestibule. Wrought-iron imagery twines out the stations of this family life; snaking up the banister to see the spindly, nude legs of the sofa without its cushions looking so regular; hissing an iron dome around the holy electric light on top of the banister.
Grandfather says do not touch, but the quiet ”sssss” from the dead bulb works magic on her hand, a snake charmer’s notes shedding its staffs, learning to slither without limbs. The iron breathes hard at the child’s hand. It teaches her how to fly. Who made you? asks the iron. The girl answers. Father drops the sofa cushions. Mother splashes in the parlor. The iron gives the child back its breath.
Everyone’s on the vestibule now. Grandfather scolds do not touch.
Sister says Ben Franklin flew a kite. | | |
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