"Oh the places you will go"

I love airports. I love planes. I love everything about this atmosphere. People are going somewhere and they are going everywhere because they just can. And no place is out of reach or unthinkable here. And you can fly. I don’t mean the literal action a plane takes, but what it is… being here means I will fly. And the magic takes over again of rising above the clouds and watching the earth below. This is fascinating to me. I never loved science overall, but I LOVED earth science, land formations, continental sciences. I flew to Africa from Europe and we flew over the Alps. And they towered and hosted clouds and met you above the clouds. They were wonderful. And then moments later, really, the unnamable blue of the Mediterranean was below me and it was a gorgeous pond of elusive waters. I fell asleep over it and prayed to be wakened to see the coast of Africa and when I woke next I was. We were over Tripoli. Overwhelming. It took 8 hours to head south across this land mass. But what amazed me most was the Sahara. I was flying over the Sahara and it was a tawny haze until I made out mild definition: sand dunes. And next, the space below was black with forest. Mold blowing to see all of this in a few hours. Watching the land below will never cease to captivate me. I would gorge myself on this. And it happens because I can fly. It’s enchanting.

I love seeing people’s shoes in airports. I look at these. You can tell which one’s are from Europe.

Seinfeld does a whole bit on what people are willing to spend in airports. I just spent $11.43 on a sandwhich, banana and a bottled water. I have quite a layover, but there’s no way I’d step beyond the boundaries of airport security because it’s such a pain to get back in. Frankfurt’s the worst with this. Their airport has what would be comparable to checkpoints… lot’s of points of entry. And just when you think you’ve cleared all the levels you find out you just haven’t. But their benches are comfortable to sleep on because there are no arms. I took one of Lufthansa’s blanket’s once and enjoyed a nap (until I was told my nap was done by a gentleman in airport wear). I still have the blanket.

I love watching the airport staff interact with each other like neighbors. They stop by to chat on the veranda’s of the eateries and admire each other as they’re walking the concourses. But they know each other because they work in the same vicinity. “You work on Concourse C. Me too. We’ll be seeing each other, then.” And they do. I’m sure there’s neighborhood gossip among the airport spokes. There’s probably a lot of inter-business dating.

People watching is always fun. That guy’s pants are really short. Does he know that? Yes, that man clearly was on vacation. He looks like a raccoon… or his tanning didn’t go very well. She must be tired of her children lagging behind but, oh, what cute luggage they have. Is that a man or a woman? I didn’t realize NASCAR made such apparel. But they have it in men’s and women’s clearly because that couple are wearing it all. That woman’s hair is quite large and she’s wearing a very faux leopard print jacket. Those two must be in their 70’s and they’re holding hands and I love that. Oh, that girl definitely missed her flight. That sucks. (that happened to me this morning. My schedule’s 5 hours off now. I’ll make it to my speaking engagement moments before I’m introduced)

I love the international climate of airports. I love being where polyglotinous conglomerates abound (those words together are probably a bit much. My apologies).

I don’t understand how women prefer to travel in 3” heels. That never seems like a good idea when walking long distances through the world’s large airports.

I love the bookstores. I will pay a lot of money for books in these just because, well, these particular shops are so inviting. And they really do have the most eclectic selection.

The people movers are fun. I have a friend that is looking forward to taking his children on these for entertainment, when they are old enough, when they have children.

I love the bathrooms. The stalls have floor to ceiling doors and this is very good. I have often found refuge in these. They are the most private place in an airport and though I really do love airports, I am still an introvert and need some space… not a lot… just not shared. The bathroom stalls do this for me. I’ve napped in them seated on my backpacks with my head against the door. No one is going to interrupt your solitude here. This is true.

Stories. Thousands of stories pass through these establishments daily. Stories of greatness, stories of victims, people going home to unexpected funerals and difficult families, people heading home to their spouses, people heading off to their affairs, people insecure, people unaware, people waiting to begin, people waiting to end. This is just a gallery and we are just performance art.

I walked off of the jetway and had my iPod on. Imogen Heap’s “Hide and Seek” was my soundtrack. Now it’s “Homeward Bound” – Appalachian folk song. I’ll end with Death Cab For Cutie’s “Soul Meets Body” streaming through my ears. The best line… “there are roads left in both of our shoes” and I’m off to follow mine.

...and what I did with it.

Some of the work done to the house over the course of the weekend before I moved in...

Props to Krista Gleason who, as far as I'm concerned, painted the whole house.

And for this great honor, I'd like to thank... Darci (who also painted a great deal), and her husband Paul who housed my belongings for 4 months and carried a great many things. Kate, Bekah, Aaron, Annie, Whitney, Patrick, Kate C. All of you are Tremendous. None of this would have been possible without your love and support! I'd also like to thank the academy (music begins to cut me off...)




























The whole house got painted that weekend.

The House

It's taken a bit to get these up. Here they are.














Living Room/Dining






























Kitchen/Three Season's room
























Second Floor




















Bathroom

Substitute Chronicles #22985: Carolyn and Brandon forever... or at least until Monday.

I subbed for a kindergarten class this week. Just mornings. When I taught kindergarten full time I would collect stories regularly and write them down on whatever I could find quickly because the moment would pass; paper plates, napkins, post-it notes, my hand. This week wasn't bearing much fruit in the "folklore" category and I was becoming a bit disappointed. Today was a good day, though.

I was sitting with Levi and Brandon working on a puzzle and Levi (quite a loquatious boy) begins talking to Brandon (not so much... more of a dullard. He stood for 10 min. before this chosen activity, in the middle of the room, trying to decide how he was going to spend his free time) Levi takes off talking and the conversation went a little like this...

Levi: (insert various "um" 's and "hey" 's, all the while neither boy is looking at each other but the puzzle) Hey Brandon while you were gone in Florida I started liking Carolyn and she and I hung out and so while you were gone I liked her is that ok? I wanted to ask if that's ok because you were gone in Florida and I liked her so I started liking her while you were gone and and now you're back from Florida so I have a deal that we can make can we make a deal because when you're gone I can like Carolyn and when you're back you can like Carolyn so that's my deal do you think it's a good deal do you want to make that deal?

Brandon: (pause) Sure

Good... glad to know the girl's that expendable to you, Brandon. This is where it all begins. Levi totally went in for Brandon's girl. This is not going to go so well for him in the future. Clearly Brandon doesn't feel that attached to her. Or... he's a push over, which may entirely be the case. Or... he may just know how to pick his battles and he's actually quite a clever boy because at the end of the day when the students were being asked what they were going to do over the weekend Carolyn said she'd be having a "tea party... with a REAL tea set". But when Brandon was asked what he'd be doing he said "having a tea party with Carolyn"... and that's where it is. Levi will be playing his X-box. Maybe Brandon just knew "fine... like her... but you're a dork because she's going to end up with me because I will play tea party with her while you're off running virtual cars off the road. Carolyn and I... what we have is something real." and a date.

The Table

I have this written on my work table...

The Table

on the four legs of my table,
i unwind my odes.
i put out bread, wine, and the roast (black ship of dreams)

or i spread scissors, cup, nails,
carnations, hammers,
my faithful table
a four legged titan,
bears up both my dreams
and my life

- pablo neruda

"oh! I forgot I owned that!"

2 1/2 hours... that's all it took to move; to load up my crap, eat a few bagels, and take off. Unload time, minimal. What a team.

I'd like to say it's because they love me so much, but it's more likely it was because it was 15 degrees.

Bless them anyway.

Now the unpacking. My things have been out of sight, so, out of mind, since November 1... It's like Christmas... but a nightmarish one because everything I boxed up to give away has just been regifted... back to myself. That kind of sucks.

Here's to the first time owning my own house (read: "here's to the first time I get to owe the bank more money for anything I've ever owned... ever... for the basic human, physical need of shelter")

I'll post pictures of this sweet little abode soon. Stay tuned.

Swift Move '06

For those joining the partay tomorrow, here you go - Directions and Details

Things that are red...

What a good, strong color.

Well, I actually began this post sometime mid-December and never finished it. But I just read Mandy Drury's post on her favorite things and then I remembered I had started a "my-favorite-RED-things" post... and never finished. So, it IS Valentine's Day and I wore red today because, well, I really love this color, so here's my in-honor-of-red post... and the things that I like that are so.

Begun 12.15.05
I have been mulling over the idea of painting my main room a form of red (Not like.. "RED" - but a hearty red... this isn't going anywhere, is it?) I met the house inspector this morning and we went in and I got to review the room I would like to paint red and I still think it's a good choice. But this red-liking isn't simply relegated only to the function of paint in my life... there are many other "red" loves

* Red Sweatpants... I have friends that say, "once you have started wearing these in public, it is clear you've given up." I'm not entirely sure. I bought these a week ago from Old Navy and I am finding I would like to wear these everywhere. I have even thought about them during the day. I am loving them.
* Poppies - I'm kind of tweaking this because more often than not, people see the orangish ones. I like the red. I am not taking drugs... but might fail a drug test if I'm with these beauties of the yard a bit too long.
* Red Glass- My dad collects kerosene lanterns. A small group of them have these brilliant red glass globes and they're sitting in a ground level window in the corner of my parent's basement. I have a few candle holders that are red. One's a star from Seattle a friend brought home. It hangs from my ceiling.
* Red Sweatshirt- worn separately from the red sweatpants because, 1. THAT'S when I'll have given up. 2. They're two different shades of red. But this garment was a quest. I had begun on a journey with the red sweatshirt a while ago. Fellow journey-ers, chime in here. Quick version... a red sweatshirt was left at a friend's house during a meeting. No one claimed it, so the owner of the house did. She washed the sweatshirt one day. The sweatshirt changed hands to the people sharing space in their home... well, people... a person of the people sharing space in their home. This person had the sweatshirt (that the owner of the house had been in petition for) When the people sharing space with the homeowner's moved, the sweatshirt moved with them. I was at their house one day and cold. I got to borrow the sweatshirt with the mandate that it must be returned and I guess I don't understand because the sweatshirt didn't really have an owner in the beginning... shouldn't it just pass into my care? Apparently that was not the reasoning of the overpowering lender. Anyway, I finally found a great one at Marshall's. I love this red sweatshirt.
* Tomatoes - you either love them or you hate them. I love them. I have always loved them. My dad is an expert at growing them. Nothing better than one from the garden. This is one of my favorite things about summer.
* Simply Red - I liked this band in the 80's. And they contributed "Don't forget about me" from The Breakfast Club. Thanks.
* Stop signs - well, because they help keep us safe. They're likable enough for that reason. We should offer props for all they give to society.
* Red Osier Dogwood branches - Last Thanksgiving my cousin and I made an impromptu garland out of the stuff. A little Martha Stewart-ish, but I've liked the stuff ever since. I think I have one of these trees in my new yard.
* Pomegranates - I love these. They're gorgeous pieces of fruit.

Now after all this on red... I'll probably paint the rooms yellow.

Post Script... I actually painted the room brown... -ish.

Cut and...

Paste magazine: Just in case you have not been made aware... this is a good idea.

Celebrations: The Pocket-in-a-pocket employed - a guest post.

Well, due to such a fine turn-out on the previous post, I thought it befitting to ask a one Kate Zuccarello to further her thoughts on the pocket-in-a-pocket piece, et al following that ensued. Please welcome to the platform... Kate. She'll be here all week.


“There’s a Pocket in my Pocket” or rather “A People’s History of the Pocket in a Pocket” By Kate Zuccarello

[a guest post for a swiftly tilting planet of people]

The Pocket in a Pocket has become quite the trend these days. Some might surmise that this was another of those fabulously American phenomenon from the same people who brought us the concept of “supersizing”, the Flowbee vacuum powered home barbershop, and “inspected by number 17” tags [these aforementioned ideas all falling into my own category of “what is the need for that?”] It has been rumored as well that the Pocket in a Pocket is the handiwork of Steve Jobs as just another place you can store your gumstick size Ipod Shuffle. This is also not the case. Might I suggest that said Pocket in a Pocket might have a longer tale to relate; a tale that spans the ages and speaks of history, mystery, and wonder? For all practical purposes, we will call this the tale of the Pocket in a Pocket, an evolving and practical societal trend.

The first Pocket in a Pocket dates back to the ages of Yesteryear and Yore, actually with its first recorded sighting in the time of Christ and the Caesar’s. Though there were no Levis to be spotted then, there were plenty of togas and tunics to have the occasional Pocket in a Pocket innovation. Yes, Julius Caesar, paranoid that he had no hair, started the lovely “wreath of greenery” headband trend to cover up his balding problem. But while he was at it, he had to invent a place to store the extra ivy leaves should his wreath grow sparse when a wind might pick up throughout the day. Thus, you need a hidden pocket, and we see the birth of the Pocket in a Pocket. Jesus picked up on this trend storing the occasional parable cliff notes, should he forget the clever tale he was relaying, and even that doubting Thomas [still a doubter in the early years] kept a few hidden fish and loaves in his [increasingly smelly I might add] Pocket in a Pocket, should the promised feast not deliver.

As we walk toward the middle ages, we are greeted by Martin Luther, who used his Pocket in a Pocket to store the occasional, nails, tacks, and post-it notes, because he never really knew when he would have a thesis that he might have to post on the doors of many. Napoleon felt that his Pocket in a Pocket made him look taller. All of Charles V’s wives kept a list of his other wives in their Pocket in a Pocket so holiday gatherings wouldn’t be awkward when you forgot the other wives names. Science and the Arts didn’t skirt the Pocket in a Pocket either. Before “David” lost his clothes, you can bet they contained the Pocket in a Pocket. And Jonas Salk – Penicillin wasn’t discovered in a Petri dish, but instead in the mold growing inside of Salk’s Pocket in a Pocket on his lab coat. The Wright Brothers kept the occasional wingnut and bolt stored in their Pockets in a Pcoket, and unfortunately Amelia Earheart’s fifth pocket was on her other set of flight pants, because in it she usually kept her compass.

Which brings us up to modern times. The Pocket in a Pocket has stored the name of the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa, the guitar pick of Elvis Presley, Nixon’s Watergate Hotel key, the missing bullets from the Kennedy assassination, Monica Lewinsky’s dry cleaning bill, the lipstick of Tammy Faye, and the Sweet n Low of Cher. It truly has a plethora of handy uses. Think on such things the next time you need to store your Celebrations candy. You are in a long line of users…

Celebrations?

I'd like to know what, exactly, it is that I am to be celebrating AND if the size of of these treats is an indicator... just how long am I supposed to celebrate?

I don't know if these are such a good idea for our society.

Johnny Cash makes me want to be a better person

There, I said it.

First off, public thanks to Derek for the book. Derek read my poorly written bit about the movie "Walk The Line" where I stated I wanted to read as much as I could on the guy. Derek said, "I can do something about that. I work at Borders. Christmas is coming." And he did, in fact, do something about that. He bough "Cash: autobiography", and now I love this dead man.

The book is just a really good, earthy read. Good storytelling. Good American music history. But overall, this guy was just a really good guy and I'm reading about his sense of family, and his love for his friends and his value of people and it's saying a lot to me about how to live a good life. And I don't mean it in a "well we just all live a good life and the world will be nice" sort of way, but I mean "good" like, just really saturated with the concept of good as "goodness" was meant to be back when things really were. Like, way back to the garden, before we tripped and fell.

I don't know. I'm not good at book reports, and if your read my post on the movie, clearly not good at movie reviews either, but I'm just really loving this book. I read the Bible for a lot of reasons because I think the Bible is a lot of things, but one of the things it is is an anthology of lives and biographies that are important to read - people's lives that have things to hear about and emulate, or chalk up, understatedly, as a bunch of really bad ideas of "things I should not try at home" for valuable reasons as well. But as that stands, then stories that carry on the faith thread through people's lives and legacy's should continue to be read for those reasons too. I think I put this book in that category.

It's just a really good story about a person's life and I've been moved to be something more which is ok. I didn't expect that when I picked it up. I didn't expect to want to read it again. I didn't expect to walk away thinking, "I hope I can be that... kind, loving, generous, open, hospitable, wise, able...", etc. I just didn't. But I do.

So, there's my attempt to "sell" the book to you. I would recommend that you read it. You can tell me what you think. See if your attempts are as riveting as mine.

Hung Up

I think I just lost a battle with a pile of hangers.

I moved out of my house the first of November and have been living somewhat nomadically since then (In pursuits of buying a house... not because I thought I'd like to wear on people's good graces for a while). I have been in one place for a month now and just decided to set up one of those temporary curtain rods that expands. I hung up my clothes. This instead of continually placing them back in the rubbermaids they were stored in, once again negating the nice dryer-fresh scent they had acquired from a nice wash and taking on that warm and cozy smell of... rubber. mmm. nice.

My hangers were at the Anderson's, who I'd like to give a congenial shout to for storing my crap longer than they had planned. I went to get them and there it began. Hangers, unlike no other thing on this earth, i think, can challenge one's mental stability. AND no other entity understands solidarity like our main character, the hanger. These devils stick together. Sometimes just in two's or three's. Most often in large packs. They do not like to go silently... or alone...

I managed to get my clothes hung up, but not without a fight. I had reached for one and just when I thought it was emerging without tether, I discovered a nasty web of metal maze that needed acute attention. They're very needy, these hangers. I tried reaching for some of my larger plastic ones and the necks broke under the burden and strain of tugging at them. They can hold my wet wool winter coat, but they cannot withstand a slight pull out of their lair... That's not bad design, that's intentional belligerence.

When I was hanging up my pants, I reached for strong metal ones that have clips on them. They're open ended at the length of the triangle. This posed a whole other issue adding a new dimension to the tangled. This variety could attach itself to any of the others and unite, not only because they had more open ended lines of metal but also because they could now inadvertantly become clipped to the other hangers.

Granted, these things are trying to be freed from a box, but it's the same business in the closet. They get caught in some intimate overlapping position which makes you wonder what's really going on in the closet. Or they clip on to one another getting clips caught because one hanger swung wrong as you pulled the garment off. Also, maybe a hanger began to fall and got caught grabbing on for dear life to another hanger (they're all very frightened of the undusted abyss that lies below... as we all are).

Of course, shaking them doesn't work. Oh sometimes you might get a weak one that wasn't prepared, but overall, they know what you're trying to do and most often, I think, this makes them angry and so they hold on tighter.

But they know you need them and they know your clothes would just stay on the floor, in the chair, on the dresser, or wherever else they fall, clean or dirty, if you didn't have them at your disposal. I know most of you do that with your clothes anyway but I don't think you do it with the excuse of "I'm just a clothes thrower..." No... I think you simply lost a battle with hangers once, too, and just aren't ready to admit that, perhaps, a nasty row with an inanimate object is something you lost. You'll feel better when you come to terms with this I think.

I'm a bit spent from that encounter. There's still a box of the hangers left over, taunting me, in the hall. They're still in a rather messy state. They know what they're doing and that annoys me. I had to walk away. I have to tell myself I'm not alone in this because, well, I don't believe I am. This is comforting. But does anyone have a better design in mind or does the ugliness just continue?

Oh The Places You Will Go

I just found out last night that a friend of mine is moving to the South Pole... I think he's going to live in the U.S. Biodome for eight months. So in honor of that Scott...

"Keep cool, but do not freeze." — From a mayonnaise jar, but also makes a good winterover life rule.

"You want a real 'Survivor' show ? Oh, we'll give you the real thing. But sometimes we do wish we could vote people off the island." — Grant about wintering over at McMurdo.





Also, about a month or so ago I found out my cousin and his wife and 2 kids moved to a 5-square mile island in the Dutch Antilles... you can't really find it by looking it up as much as locating it latitudinally and longitudinally... It's called Saba. There are no numbers in their address... just a general idea which part of the volcano they live on.

I'm just wondering to myself, "how do I know these people?".

Here's to iTunes...

I'm listening to Kate Bush right now. Kate Bush's CD (well... I had the tape) "Hounds Of Love" was one of my favorite recordings... ever. Also around the time this made its way into my life, Peter Gabriel's "Last Temptation of Christ" was in the deck. I had dubbed a friend's recording. High speed dub. I was listening to Erasure, Indigo Girls' "Closer to Fine", a bit of early R.E.M - any of the "Document", "Eponymous", "Green" or, especially "Out of Time" tapes. I had a beginning affinity for 19 year old Ani Difranco that I had seen at a small club downtown for $5 around that time in winter, some very early Sara Mclaughlan, Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians. Always the Beatles. And on the harder side for those days there was "Living Color"... the list goes on. It was the late eighties, I was between the ages of 12 and 14 and, by clear evaluation of my music choices, also a bit schizo.

At some point from the transition of "I will never own CD's. They're too expensive" to the "I never listen to tapes anymore" stages, I lost touch with these friends.

Then we moved to digital music and i have found that I cannot function a healthy life without iTunes nearby.

I had one of Kate Bush's song's in my head the other day and satiated that broken record by getting the CD... and then it began... I had to get all this music again. Because one song reminded me of another and so on. To iTunes I went and they were so helpful... those people that make my memories so accessable now. I am reliving these years... which could be good or bad, i suppose, but they had a great soundtrack.

So, I'm wondering, what was your soundtrack around these Jr. high years? I'm interested.

How did I get here?

Being a grown-up is just surreal sometimes. I just bought a house.

I just read my post from 10/17... turns out, I'm liar.

In addition, I just wanted to see if I could write a post less than three paragraphs. Clearly brevity and I are not friends.

It takes a village

I really suck at this blogging thing.

Aside from that, today was a great Sabbath. My great friends, Gregg and Cyndi, had their baby dedicated today so I went to their church and enjoyed so much being a part of the intention of raising this kid we call Brennan Brave Hampton. I'm a big supporter of the idea that it takes a village to raise a child. And we felt like one, too, as we gathered on the left side of the church behind Gregg and Cyn - us people asked to "sponsor" and love and grow Brennan up to be a good boy and a better man. The church should've tipped a bit. We were a heavy village.

This past week I went home to NY to spend Thanksgiving with the fam. I joined up with an old and very good friend. We've known each other since we were 3 and our parents collectively raised us. We went to the hospital Wednesday night to visit her father-in-law in ICU. He passed the moment she arrived at his door. The family was called and we waited for them to arrive. The wife came with her two foster children, 4 and 6. Why could she think she would be good and qualified to raise them at her grand and respectable age of 80 something? Becuase she wouldn't be the only one offering direction and care... it would be the whole community.

As this family gathering was playing itself out, the wife and her daughter needed to step out. The two boys and their pepsi's were placed in one office-furniture chair next to me with the instructions, directed at me... "You yell at them if you need to", "Boys, you listen to this lady if she speaks to you." I'm an adult, somehow connected in some way - clearly I'm trustworthy and at that point in time, was a member of the village - therefore, I was to be heeded if I spoke.

The teacher in me whipped out a packet of colored pens and drawing paper from my magic satchel and we set off to create monsters and creatures not yet discovered. After Shaka had traced his sweet little hand and learned how to write his name he enjoyed expending his energy on large and fast strokes of the pens. The other was much more meticulous and clearly, and honestly, was quite creative with what he had.

People came in and out. A large community came and I noticed that when someone was not occupied with a family member, offering condolences or discussing, they were offering words of instruction to the children because, well, that's what you do. Children need not go too long without hearing the voice of some elder in their lives.

After the the evening was over, at least in the hospital, and many hugs were offered, "God bless you" was shared in abundance, and we moved like a tribe to the elevator, I said to my friend, "This is one of the things I love about the Black Community, they know what it means to be a family, even when they're not. They know how to take care of each other and they know how to be a "village", as it were." I remember thinking when one of the other adults spoke up to one of the boys about what they're were doing "We don't see much of this among us white folk" because white folk don't do this... and if they do, people get offended. We tend to be isolated and independent, to a fault. When another adult speaks to a child, offense is taken and often a "this is my territory" look is given. Ridiculous.

I liked today for so many reasons, but today was so good to see these friends of mine say, "we realize we can't do this alone. We need all of you behind not only us, but we need each one of you to be committed to our kid because we don't have everthing he needs... but hopefully one of us in this group does. And if we're lucky and blessed, you'll all be around at some stage of this precious kid's life and we give you permission to help shape him as you see fit." I just think that's cool. I think it's reflective of Jesus' kingdom, the one I hope to see happen here on earth.

So, Good Sabbath, good thoughts for my heart today.

Thanks Gregg and Cyndi and Brennan for letting me be a part of today.

Walk The Line

Today's going to be a good day for the Jenn Swift blog. I'm posting twice because I saw "Walk The Line" today - the movie about Johnny and June Carter Cash - and I was... well, I loved it.

I've been excited about this movie for a few months. I'm not a die-hard Cash fan. I know those guys. Troy Yeager is a die-hard Cash fan. I saw him at homecoming shortly after The Man In Black died and I asked how he was doing with all the sincerity I would ask if a parent had died for him because it really was epic. So me, not die-hard, but I really like the guy. That atleast put me in the the-movie- was-being-looked-forward-to-greatly. Finally got to see it today.

It was the kind of movie that had me feeling a lot of a lot at the end. I couldn't even tell you what the "a lot" was, but it was deeplpy visceral (is that a bit redundant?) and I felt a bit like liquid when it ended 2 1/2 hours later. I haven't seen a movie fully be worth it's ticket cost in a while. This one was... probably twice. I would probably see this again. I would even own the movie and that's just not something I do. I don't buy movies. I would buy this one.

It was so worth it on many technical levels... great acting, good music, good scene work, good script... but beyond that, I left feeling something when the credits were playing. I say all that as an amateur - but I want to read eveything I can about this man, and June Carter for that matter. I want to own all their music. I want to dive in. I may become die-hard... atleast as much so as you can be after a musician dies. But I'm interested. This week I might become immersed. We'll see. But I'll see the movie again and I would recommend it to anyone I can, such as yourself. If you haven't yet, go see it.

Jenn's a duster

I need a break. I should probably use a mask. I've been spray painting for the past hour. I am fascinated with spray paint and tagging. I really want to learn how to do this. A few years ago was when I started wanting to explore the hazy realm of graffiti. Two weeks after this new want I found myself in Russia next to some teenager and he was showing me how (not on public property... nice record that would've been - "American Pastor found desecrating public property in urban square with local band of taggers" - though, I'm sure, a great story that would be) He was working on a board. He let me spray a couple of lines and then gave me a cardboard box and some chalk. Not a very glamorous beginning. I apparently did not have the makings to start at "great".

I've messed around with the stuff a lot, feeling a little defensive everytime I show up at the walmart counter with 10 new cans. "Ma'am, can I see your ID?" "I promise, nice Walmart lady, I'm not huffin the stuff" - it looks a little suspicious. Clearly nothing good can come from that many cans of spray paint. None-the-less, spray I do.

In May a friend in Minneapolis asked if I would make some banners for a series their church was doing. I did two banners, 9 and 6 feet, gathered my arsenal of aeresols and went to it. Perhaps it was the fumes and the fact they were finished at 6am on a sleepless night, but I felt good about how they turned out. A week later I was in Australia at Juggler's Cafe feeling a bit more like, "why do I bother?"

Peter opened the garage door and we entered a long corridor that would be an alley between buildings if it weren't a passage made for them. The walls were completely covered and layered with images that were like nothing I'd ever seen. The smell of paint cans and brick wall (yes, that is a specific smell) was enchanting. After about 40 feet the corridor opened into a courtyard with walls maybe 15ft high and I was hit with sensory overload and it was great. Taggers had been invited over and over again to make these huge walls their playground. I felt like I was gorging myself on images and I would soon have to purge.

When I was in high school I found out about the Egyptian's philosophy of images and heard about something called horror vacui - fear of space - which is why there's no space left unfilled in their pyramid art. This experience left me feeling very much like what I imagined the Egyptians feeling. Every space was covered with something. I have a bit of affinity towards this philosophy myself which may have been why I had something of an emotional response to this all as I entered. It felt like a sanctuary.

I'm wheezing a little bit while I'm breathing right now. Lungs repair themselves, right? I grew up living in a house of smokers, left fairly unscathed, but I'm sure I'll die of lung cancer do to my artistic pursuits. Is that ironic?

Somebody just walked into the room and said, "it smells like spray paint in here". I'm a good football field away from where I'm working on the piece, but it's all over my hands, my jeans and the smell has seeped into my jacket simply by association. "It's me" I confessed, and slowly raised my hand.

I think my head's a bit heavier now, I'm probably coming down a bit from any impairing fume inhalation... time to get back to it.