CHRISTMAS

"I've been working on my match.com profile."

Says my sad sack uncle, in his Cream t shirt.

I'm blogging undercover, which is out in the middle of the living room of my Aunt's house on Christmas day. Watching the Celtics game with my cousin's husband. He's a really nice guy wearing white socks and drinking Sam Adams, quietly and occasionally asking me to check the weather for the supposed storm tomorrow.

My two grandmothers are wearing red sweaters and talking loudly to each other. I worry about them.

My mom and my cousin are talking about my mom's ex husband, who is an old drunken spinster at this point. They've been divorced for a very long time and she rarely speaks of him, if at all. But she's freaking out about imagining a life with him. We spotted him about a month ago at my cousin's wedding. My mom is strained, stressed at the thought of a life with the ruddy, lonely man she barely recognized. My cousin keeps chiming in, "But it wouldn't have been like that. It's not the same." It's very absurd to see my mom worked up about a man she hadn't seen in 30 years.

My sister is talking about her lovable illegal immigrant Irish drug selling boyfriend to my mom's hippie friend, Debbie. Debbie is being calm and understanding while my sis laments the late night phone calls from dealers and the fact that he doesn't pay his parking tickets and ripped the boot off his car. She's afraid he'll be deported. She's probably right.

Dad and Debbie's husband Warren and my uncle are lamenting my father's lawsuit. His nonprofit adult education business was fucked over by the city's school system and the lawsuit has been in affect for over 10 years. They've just begun trials and it's looking grim for dad.

As for me, my period hit me this morning like a freight train of blood. I was really happy and relieved because I always think I'm pregnant. I took a load of cum right after I took my nuva ring out a few days ago and I was sure that would stew itself into twins or triplets or some horrible shit. But no, blood arrived, thank god. And now I'm bleeding through my tampon and underwear and trying to plug myself up with toilet paper. Forcing drippy lasagna into my face is unappealing right now.

I'm gulping klonopin every few hours to keep my queasy stomach/vein-bulging pulse/tight muscles/rapid heartbeat under control. I'm anxious thinking about the guy I'm dating, or not dating, which basically heads all of my anxiety at the moment. I'm kicking myself for even thinking about it and letting it get to me.

I'm sucking macaroons out of my teeth.

Baby monitors are crackling and then suddenly the babies appear, and they smell like poopy. The cousins I grew up with closely are much older than me. They're in their 30s now, married, babied. There are 3 toddlers stumbling around. They're cute. They're very tiny. Gap jeans are cuffed on Aiden and he can barely walk. I know he wants to be naked.

It was quite a sight to see three babies aged 2 and 1 years old receive over 10 gifts each last night on Christmas eve. All they could understand was picking up objects, tearing them, and then throwing them down. What was really strange was seeing my cousins, my friends, coo and goo while flipping pages of a coloring book and say " Look Emma! Book! Coloring book! For Emma! Wow!" Being a parent to young babies is bizarre.

5 pies appear on the table and barely anyone touches them. Are pies irrelevant ? My uterus is swishing full of blood and cramps are pricking me and I can't move. I have to go to work tomorrow. Heart pings in pain. Look for another pill to take. Keep gulping the red wine until my skin tingles.

My parent's Jew friends are decked in cowboy boots and cactus jewelry. They sit idly and very politely. It must be nice to not have to sit among your own family sometimes.

We're just doing what we always do, family robotics. Hugs, appetizers, TV set, chatter, slyly text someone, and end up in a heated conversation about something highly un-Christmasy. Trying to enjoy the relative clash, which always seems harder than it really is. I want to plug myself up with more stiff cotton, grab a slice of my down comforter, take some downers and magically receive a call from the boy I adore. What a Christmas miracle that would be.

I come home, plug myself, steal a pill from my dad, and pull myself under the covers. Avoid my sweet faced sister as she asks me to spend time with her. I am somehow frozen and radiating at the same time, emotionally deadened but ready to snap at any moment.

I catch 3 minutes of online conversation with dream boy. I gain .5 points of satisfaction but mostly feel like shit about it. He doesn't really care about me.

I suck down a vodka drink and no one cares because I'm old enough to drink. I hope the pills take effect soon. I debate on another drink, for the warm tingle buzz, or a shot of Nyquil.

ALCOHOL PRO:

Warmth

Buzz

Gradual incoherency

NYQUIL PRO:

Sedation

Slight hallucination

One shot will do it

ALCOHOL CON:

Takes too long to drink properly

Can't get too drunk at home

Spins

NYQUIL CON:

Puts me to deep sleep fairly quickly

Can't multitask while sedated

I wish I still had the hydrocodone syrup. That shit was so good, so tasty, so heavy. It made me itchy, but I loved it. I miss it.

I guess I could do both. It's Christmas.

Plan B Is Not An Abortion Pill

bang list

(in no particular order)

by Boots Electric !!!

joseph gordon-levitt

james franco

caleb followil

robert pattinson

josh homme

daniel day lewis

alexander skarsgaard

[[[ more to come ]]]

"your glasses are sexy"

.... {insert male name here}.

I get this all the time. Never cute, often cool. But sexy. Sexxxxy. That's pretty damn specific. Not everyone is sexy. And my glasses, these big, round plastic things I wear over my face every single day, make me sexy. Hearing this so often really makes me laugh.

So I am trying to analyze how and why this came to be in a world where, growing up, the adage "boys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses" was totally true. I mean, come on. Glasses?

I have come up with a few benchmarks that explain the relative sex appeal my glasses give me (and countless other ladies, and dudes for that matter, as well).

1. Slutty Smart Girl Fetish

Nerd porn. Fucking in the chem lab fantasies. Being spanked by your stern boss lady staring hot sex daggers through her spectacles. I get it. Some dudes really get off on that kind of thing. In my research, that is, noticing what happens to me in my daily life, most of these guys are nerds, scenesters, geek chic types. Kids that jam on guitar in their room for 6 hours a day writing songs about the glasses girl he just can't have. Or, as a perfect example, Taylor Swift in her music video. My dear friend Andrew was straight up about it with me one day at a party. Andrew is a caustic, highly intelligent and handsome young man looking for a match. He says to me, "Boots. Do you know that girl over there?" He points to a pale, sweet-looking blonde with killer thick tortoise shell frames on her rosy face. No, I did not know who she was. Why do you ask Andrew? Are you interested? He replies, "I just saw the glasses and and thought 'Yes, a cute girl nerd!' " Need further proof? I had a sexual rendez-vous with a punk rocker I knew in high school. He was highly attracted to me, and he made it very clear.

NOTE: I guess at this point I should talk about what I look like, because this whole post is about looks and being called sexy and the glasses, etc. So, ya know, I don't put pictures of myself up here because I really don't think it's necessary, it's not about what I look like but what I have to say and how I'm saying it.

So what do I look like, for the sake of this argument? I'm pretty. So I've been told. I've been called some adjectives that are very flattering, regarding my appearance. Needless to say, I am confident that I appeal to a reasonable percentage the opposite sex, and YES, my argument is contingent upon that opinion. So take from that what you will. I'm not saying putting cool glasses on a shovel-faced girl is going to make you want to fuck her. I'm saying that something about glasses just gives us a mysterious extra...je ne sais quoi.

ANYWAY, this punk rocker told me to never wear contacts, because the glasses were his favorite thing about me. He just "likes girls with glasses." I thought back to high school and all of this guy's girlfriends... were cute girls with cool glasses. Ah hah.

And you know what? Even those brotastic, sporty, preppy guys who would never associate themselves with a "nerdy girl" sometimes make exceptions for the right girl in the right pair of glasses.... it's something they've thought about. Trust me. I dated a lacrosse playing, beer guzzling party dude in college and I was his first "smart" girlfriend, and he loved, LOOOOVED, my glasses.

2. CONFIDENCE

This one seems simple, but it actually didn't register with me personally until someone pointed it out. "You have to be confident to wear glasses!" someone told me. I thought, well, I don't like touching my eye and these glasses take 1 second to put on and take off... I wear them because I'm lazy.

Such is not the case. I bet you'd be surprised how many glasses-free people wear contact lenses instead. Some, not all, contacts wearers just don't like the way they look with glasses, but I'm apt to believe that as far as young ladies and gents go, they don't want to look like a nerd. They might be worried that wearing glasses will make them look like a douchebag.

But the confidence to wear the glasses, the confidence to rock some trendy frames, to commit to a look, to wear it every day and still go about your life, that makes sense too. My newest pair are kind of extra large, dark brown tortoise shell outside, white inside. People constantly compliment me for them and say things like "I could never wear those. But YOU pull them off." I hear this A LOT. I say, of course you could wear them. You could just put them on and then you'd be wearing them. No one is going to say "WHY IS THAT GIRL WEARING THOSE COOL GLASSES???" And if they do, they're not going to stop you and shout it in your face. That's what I think, anyway. But that's because I have this "confidence" thing.

And that, my friends, is appealing. Sexy, even.

3. Style/Irony

Pretty self-explanatory, right? In the ironic sense, that glasses give a caricature-like look of style and intelligence. That's why so many scenester assholes have been wearing big, dramatic plastic frames with fake lenses in them as of late. If I wear glasses, it's not because I'm trying to pull off a "look," it's because I'd kill people in my car if I wasn't wearing them. In some circles, a cute girl in a pair of attention-grabbing eyewear (see: dark thick frames, never EVER wire-rimmed or otherwise) will set of boner alerts. Based on pure, shallow iconography alone. It's a fashion statement, like Yves St. Laurent's classic frames or Miranda Priestly in film fiction. Or, it's just a fleeting attempt to copy that same accessorized intelligence.

So, what have I learned? It's saying something to wear glasses in this day of Lasik and Acuview Dailys. And something about that has sex appeal. It's dominance, it's authoritative, it's geeky, it's trendy. It's hot.

Apple Training: The Night Before

I was very recently hired at the local Apple Store. A position that is not easily acquired, it turns out.

Tomorrow, EARLY, I embark on a voyage to Boston where I will being Day One of my Core Training, as they call it.

I've already been sworn to secrecy about delicate and private matters of Apple Inc. I will probably be able to write very little of what I learn tomorrow and over the next two days in Boston. Seriously, though! I could be fired or sued if I divulge details. So I'll have to be vague.

I'm not really scared. I sort of thrive on going into things blindly. I'm not scared of doing things alone or following directions or meeting new people. I just feel anxious, because it's going to be quite a production: waking up early, driving to the mall, parking, walking to the train station, meeting up with the other new hires, getting on the train, the ride, then the curious two block walk in God knows what direction to the training premises . In the very basic directions sent to us by the manager, all they tell us is when we enter the building ,we're to look for a "huge waterfall."

It is just daunting, that's all.

We're going to be there for 9 hours. Well we have 1 hour off for lunch, so 8 hours of Apple training. What on EARTH could they do with us for 8 hours? And three days? I seriously can't even imagine it.

I just have a vision of a huge, high ceiling hall filled with people and Steve Jobs' huge face on a screen saying WELCOME.

Indoctrination begins tomorrow.

UPDATE: So now I know. Three long days! Fun though, if not a little daunting (ftw). And no deets. Sorry. Who cares? No one not even you.

auto

This is the kind of car I drive. It's a 2002 Hyundai Accent GS, bright ass red, two doors, hatchback.

JEALOUS?

It's kind of a chick car, it's cute, it's very compact. It's Boots sized, for sure.

I have an unusually significant attachment to my car, but -- then again -- a lot of people do, no?

I didn't get my driver's license until I was 20 years old, as a soon to be junior in college. I had been terrified of operating a motor vehicle for much of my youth. I had nightmares as a child about being abandoned behind the wheel of a moving car. Yes, the thought of driving was horrifying.

I'm not exactly sure why, but I know that I HATE dangerous thrill-seeking type activities. No roller coasters, no horror movies, none of that panicky shit. I have enough panic in my dumb life as is.

Driving was, however, a necessary part of life. Something I entrusted others to do, but not me. I didn't trust myself. Too scary.

I had a borderline traumatizing situation when I was about 15 years old that involved my dad allowing my untrained ass to back my mother's 2000 Nissan Maxima, standard, out of the garage. I had no idea what to do with a clutch and an accelerator and I sent the car speeding in reverse a little ways down a hill into woods and slamming the back end into a tree trunk. It was a bit mangled, but no one was hurt. We did have to tow the car out of the mess I had made.

It was definitely a marked moment in my life that I experienced real danger, real lack of control and high intensity panic. I had been very, very weary to get behind the wheel of any car from that time on.

I finally pulled my shit together and got my driver's license in the summer before my junior year of college, after two years of having my ass carted around by friends to parties, never the sober one, feeling really pathetic that I wasn't independent, that I still politely begged for rides, that people were starting to resent my handicap.

It's coming up on two years behind the wheel, and I am obsessed with driving my car. The feeling is blissful to be in control of a speeding machine and in control of where I'm going and when I'm getting there. But you all know that.

However, I did get into my first real accident. It FUCKING SUCKED. It was totally my fault, too. I was talking on the phone with my dad about important stuff (seriously) and I was going way too fast on Rt. 4 south, approaching a stoplight. Long and short I crammed the front end of my car into the back end of another. The lady was fine (but a bitch) and my car was mashed up badly. The cop made me cry (of course). I drove a rental for two weeks (dope). Now my car is mine again. I felt so bad that I had hurt her. My dad's repair guy pulled massive strings to prevent my darling Accent from being totaled.

+++

My favorite thing to do in my car is sing. It's weird. I'll start by listening to music on my iPod, then I'll come across a song I really like to sing, and before I know it, that damn song is getting the way of my vocals. I get antsy and I want to hear what I sound like. So I'll turn off the stereo and listen the sound of my own voice.

I'm not the best singer. I'm pretty good, though. I can definitely carry a tune, but my chops are shaky, not very strong or controlled. I love singing. And in my car I find myself belting out songs like a fucking diva. It's really, really great. Being able to have that alone time, moving fast, flying down roads, in control. And I'm not scared anymore, not at all. Another irrational fear dominated.

Uncomfortable Hiatus

I haven't written here in months. It's not good, you know.

So much has changed recently and while my blog has stayed on my mind, I have been neglecting it. On purpose. Sad.

Why the neglect?

I don't know..... well, I do know. I love to write and I love writing here, but for some strange reason, I tend to shun the things I aspire to do. I think (alert: heaviness approaching) I do this because I am afraid to challenge myself unless I'm forced to. Hell even when I'm forced to do something, I put it off and never really try my best. 

Which is why Boots Electric !!! has suffered. This was a school project and I was forced to update frequently, which really gave me the push to write in here. And I LOVE writing in here, so it was all good in that neighborhood. 

But I've graduated college. And no one is making me do anything anymore. And I found a job, but it's a job. When I have downtime, I watch TV and waste time on Facebook. It's pathetic. I don't like it and I am not proud of it.

What's MORE pathetic? I have about 6 blog post ideas, stored away on my cell phone and email account, that I haven't touched or tried to create. Avoidance. Why??? Why can't I just write? 

Me and my creativity have broken up. Maybe I pushed her away. In fact, I know I did. It was too much work and I was scared to make that commitment. 

But as an "artist" and I use that term almost falsely, I need to let off steam, explore, create. And I cannot be too worried about the "quality" of that work, especially since you can't even judge work that doesn't EXIST. 

College may have fucked me up in this general area. My mother's best friend gave me a stamp when I was 16 years old that read, "Create as though there are no critics."

What a dream! It's so true,  but also impossibly hard. I'm so critical that it's lead to the demise of my creative ambition.

Well, until right now, I suppose. 

Let me try to start with this safe, friendly blog. 

Wish me luck, y'all. 

"Born Free" M.I.A. Screams WAKE THE FUCK UP

This post is about artist M.I.A.'s new music video for her song "Born Free."

I cannot embed the file in this post via Youtbe because it has been banned on the site in the United States.

And that is exactly why I am writing.

However, there is a much better site than Youtube called Vimeo, and they are showing the video. Check it out now. Really, you need to watch it or else don't read the rest of this post.

The basics: M.I.A. is a worldwide superstar of experimental/world/hip hop/popular music. She is not for everyone, but I am a big fan of hers. Her music is vastly unique. She uses it to (mainly) explore ideas about politics and what happens in third world countries. She herself is a genuine artist, a rare talent, an actual creator with something important to say. She is a true original and she has spawned many imitators. I actually saw her perform two years ago and it was quite a sight to see.

So the big controversy is that her new video for her song "Born Free" is too violent. Well, ok.

The actual issue is that her video depicts a USA version of what kind of torture and brutality minorities face all over the world -- and yes, that sort of thing does not happen in the USA. M.I.A. replaced prisoners of war or Jews or Africans with gingers, and people were horrified. They were mostly horrified when a beautiful 12 year old boy who looked straight out of a Hidden Valley ad got his head blown off.

However, that kid actor has something to say about it:

"I think she was trying to show violence to end violence," Hamrick told the site Thursday. "The video is definitely not for kids — I haven't even seen the full video myself — but for all the adults and people in different countries who are doing that in real life ... doing the genocides to whatever: Italians, Africans, wherever it's from, it's still genocide. So it's showing violence to end violence."

The kid makes his point, and likely her point, very well. She is using her position as a pop culture figure (and one that appeals to a so-called progressive generation) to show us, not tell us, what is going on. A Sri Lanka refugee herself, she is no stranger to the violence and injustices of war and minority abuse.

The BIGGER issue some people seem to be taking with the video is that she chose to depict the minorities with white, red haired boys. I'll get back to that point after this video, a discussion and debate about "Born Free."

Coincidentally, I wrote a massive argumentative essay about

"gingerism" being the last acceptable form of prejudice. I wrote

about the agreed upon definition of prejudice and of racism, and

I compared it to the way people with red hair are commonly treated.

Granted, we don't see much ginger hatred in the US. It is much,

much, more prevalent in the UK, where most of the redheaded

population is located.

I conducted copious research for my argument and found numerous

accounts of violence, discrimination, and torment against gingers

in the UK, so much so that it is a clearly stated problem in their

society. People have created support groups, written editorials,

and one photographer even published a book of photos, capturing

portraits of red haired people and writing their testimonials of

how they have been treated as freaks, or been harassed, or

generally made to feel ugly because of their hair.

As you can see, I could go on about how I think gingerism is the

last acceptable form of prejudice, but I won't. But because of my

information and familiarity with the topic, I found the argument,

that M.I.A.'s choice to use gingers as the targeted minorities

dulls the message, weak. In the UK, these people are targeted.

It seems silly, but it happens to be true. So what does that say

about other minorities that are targeted? Not as silly, right?

So, M.I.A. is being criticized for putting out music and media

that has a message, a purpose, and a HUGELY important one at that:

she is showing a demographic of listless, naive kids who don't

read the paper or watch the news a video about cultural violence

and she is not keeping it tame. God fucking help us that Lady Gaga

shows us her crotch and dances around a prison. M.I.A. just wants

us to wake the fuck up and see what happens beyond our borders.

And for Youtube banning it in the US? That's just adorable. Keep

us complacent and try to shield us from the ugly violence. No,

please, post hundreds of videos of people chugging hot sauce

and jumping off their roofs and squeezing their zits, but don't

let us see any political commentary that portrays the United

States negatively.

"Be Fierce and Crazy"

That is exactly what Brianna Moon, the lovely lady pictured, told me and 8 other models as we stood, crammed into a tiny stairwell in the dark, waiting to take the runway. It was dark, we were smelly, we were uncomfortably clad in itchy lace and tight corseted tops and stiff, spray painted heels.

We were licking the poking the frosting on the cupcakes we each held: tasty props to illustrated the collection's title "Let Them Eat Cake."

Brianna is the mastermind and wizard behind the collection, and while I may be biased, I think her work was superb. She's a senior at our university in the Textile Merchandising and Design department. Her collection was presented at the annual Fashion Merchandising Society fashion show, of which I have attended every year. She created 10 beautifully ornate, dramatic, fun and charming looks, which really stood out against the sea of ill-fitting tube tops and halter dresses that other design students were showcasing.

So how did end up modeling a super short, pouffy black party dress, with a feather in my teased up hair and cradling a pink cupcake?

I don't really know. I am NO model, that's for sure. I am short, wide and curvy. I could be a proper model if I was stretched out vertically, about a foot in length. I am also rather... ahem... endowed in the chest, in a way that makes my body proportions perplexing. Needless to say, I'm not a one-size-fits-all kind of girl.

Brianna was just an acquaintance; I am friends with a good friend of hers', and we knew each other socially. Miss Moon is very sweet and devastatingly adorable to look at. JEALOUS.

Anyway, she, our mutual friend and I were out at a bar about a month ago, slipping into the depths of sloppiness when she grabbed me with her tiny hand and shouted over loud music "YOU SHOULD MODEL FOR ME." So I laughed and put my hands on my hips and did a little catwalk and said "HOW WAS THAT?" She laughed and then said "NO FOR MY FASHION SHOW." And I was like, hahah okay sure.

And then before I know it I'm in message threads on Facebook about fittings and rehearsals and shoe sizes. In my head I was like "eeeek I am actually going to be a model in a fashion show. Cool? Yeah cool! Really? Oh shit."

Finally, after some fittings, I was set to model that little strapless dress that barely (and I mean barely) covered my ass and, due to my chest size, made me look like a squat, round wad of lace. She was convinced it looked great, and while I was extremely doubtful, I couldn't really bring myself to care too much. It was for her, after all, and she was being graded during our performance so all I had to do was wear it, walk and not fuck it up.

Awkwardness set in once all the models were brought together for final fitting and rehearsals. I only knew two of the other 9 girls semi-well, both girlfriends of male friends I had, and I wasn't close with them. Those two girls are as nice as can be.

The other girls were in two cliques. The first is URI's coffeehouse gang of Brianna's friends. These girls were all sophomores and best best best friends; they were obsessed with each other. They compulsively complimented each other, giggled and hugged, jabbered about their coffeehouse drama and drew much attention to themselves. Not exactly pleasant.

The other clique was made up of three super tall, super skinny and super cool Providence hipster girls. They were all enviably pretty and unique looking, and so waif thin. They were dry, quiet and stayed away from the rest of us.

I was pretty damn uncomfortable around these chicks in the beginning, mostly because I was out of the loop but also because I felt so un-model-like next to them. I've never thought I was "thin," I was normal sized, and with the curves, a bit disproportionate considering my very short height. But, who cares. It was a student show and I had no illusions of being a real model.

By the end, we all became friends, which was unexpected and really nice. Some, more than others. Some of them are annoying but tolerable, some turned out to be much cooler than I had pegged them to be. It was supremely odd to be thrown into a batch of foreign girls, as we curled our hair and bitched about our waistlines. I have tons of girlfriends, and we are all so perfectly suited for each other: we're not too preoccupied with looks, we are dorky, we are aggressive, we make jokes constantly and we like to be rational, intelligent and pleasant. We trust each other and we care about each other. It was frazzling to see such juxtaposition, but I'm just complaining. It really went well.

Plus, we were all doing it for Brianna, who remained humble and grateful the entire time, who deserved every single compliment she garnered. We did two shows, and both were very fun for me. Even though I thought I looked like a gothic and chubby Jonbenet Ramsey, I didn't have a care in the world as I walked the ramp.

In the end, we had fun, and I did make some new friends. One of the girls tripped and fell on the last show, and it was hilarious. We all added each other on Facebook. Brianna won the audience favorite award. But I won the award for "Best Usage of Authentic Interaction With Intimidating Females in Order to Stop Being So Judgmental."

The Artist Is Present and I Don't Know How To Feel

I had the fortunate opportunity to witness a legendary performance artist at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City over my spring break. Marina Abramović is iconic for her visceral and brutal collection of physical performance art, in which she is usually the subject. When I saw her latest installation, "The Artist Is Present," I was going in mostly blind. A friend tipped me off with news that there would be lots of naked people in the gallery spaces and that if I wanted to, I could participate by walking (squeezing, actually) between two naked bodies. I knew nothing else, none of the meaning, just the taboo shock value. Anyway, my friends and I entered the enormous gallery of her work, which was separated into numerous rooms. We did walk through the naked people (and yes, my leg rubbed against some woman's vagina and it was weird) and we took in all of the nudity, the violence, the ultra-awe inducing vulnerability of the models and the artist herself, who, despite the name of the exhibit, was apparently NOT present.
The show was a retrospective of her decades of performance art, highlighting her inspirations and personal history, her former endeavors (re-created by live models or presented on video), among other media.

While nearly everything we saw was outrageous and noteworthy, the sight most burned into my brain was an very large spread of various tools, items, weapons, foods, condoms, and more. It was an homage to her performance "Rhythm 0" from 1974. Here is an explanation far better than any I could conjure:

Abramović had placed upon a table 72 objects that people were allowed to use (a sign informed them) in any way that they chose. Some of these were objects that could give pleasure, while others could be wielded to inflict pain, or to harm her. Among them were scissors, a knife, a whip, and, most notoriously, a gun and a single bullet. For six hours the artist allowed the audience members to manipulate her body and actions.

Initially, members of the audience reacted with caution and modesty, but as time passed (and the artist remained impassive) several people began to act quite aggressively. As Abramović described it later:

“The experience I learned was that…if you leave decision to the public, you can be killed.” ... “I felt really violated: they cut my clothes, stuck rose thorns in my stomach, one person aimed the gun at my head, and another took it away. It created an aggressive atmosphere. After exactly 6 hours, as planned, I stood up and started walking toward the public. Everyone ran away, escaping an actual confrontation.”


This started to blow my mind a little. I am weary of performance art, the way one must think is such far-removed terms, the narcissism. Yet I began to understand and eventually admire her ability to commit, to become and suffer happily in order to explore her concepts of pain, performance and awareness. Art, maybe or maybe not, but her boundless aggression and fearlessness to understand, test, poke, prod and ravage the human psyche must be recognized.

I remember seeing one of her models in the gallery, sitting nude on a bicycle seat, arms spread, suspended 12 feet above the ground and fastened to the bright white wall. Diffused lights were blasting upon her. She looked horrified, her blue eyes wide and her mouth a grimace. I felt sick with worry for her. The plaque read "Alone" as the title of the piece. The description read something to the effect of... "this piece isn't about loneliness, but about alone-ness." I believed Marina, but I couldn't help but feel terrified for the model, wondering deeply if she shared this belief, if this is why she chose to be a part of such an ultra-exposed way, or if she was having her doubts. Was she too afraid to back out? Was she testing herself against someone else's standards? Was she an artist too?

Another jarring leap from the artist's "present" and our reality was another nude model scenario, in which a girl takes off her white lab coat, reveals herself to be naked, picks up a full-sized human skeleton, and then lays down upon a bare platform and moves the skeleton directly over her bare body. The skeleton's body positions is superimposed on top of the models. This was quite breathtaking itself. However, the model was crying, weeping this whole time. She sniffled silently and tears streamed down her face as she carried the bones and laid them upon her. It was disturbing, wondering why she was reacting this way, as the obvious reason hung around us all, the gawking masses, clothed, and judging.

Finally, as we made our way out of the museum at the end of the day, we found a gigantic crowd forming a circle in a large open space. Cameras were set up all around the circle.

It turned out that Marina Abramovic was there, sitting in a floor length, long-sleeved dress, hair braided down to her chest, in a chair in front of a very long table. She was allowing people, any spectator, to take the seat opposite her. They weren't allowed to speak, just stare into each others' faces. Marina would stare at you for as long as you could stare back at her.

The results of this live performance can be seen here . The intensity was palpable.

I'd really like to understand her work more thoroughly, but at least I can say that my opinion of Abramovic's brutal performances has changed. I don't think ego drives her work; I actually think the lack of ego is what allows her to take such risks with poise and confidence.

Depressing Poems from my Youth

I used to write tons of poems when I was in high school. It was nice to not be judged or graded on them, because I only wrote them so I wouldn't explode, kill myself or kill someone else. That's why many of the poems are downers.

However, I am proud of them. I'm a better writer now, technically, but I don't have that boiling urge to write like I used to.

My style of poetry was usually open, but I really liked to employ alliteration and sometimes rhyme, just to have the pleasant sounding rhythm. I really liked using line breaks and stanzas to highlight certain words or juxtapositions. I hunted for perfect words, browsing thesauruses and dictionaries for definitions for the words I was yearning to type.

Here are a few of those poems from the depths of my teenage years:

Cold Thoughts Over Breakfast

It seems That recently Dreams Can materialize with ease If one pries eyes wide And grieves holes in old lives To what do I owe This esteemed grace of His That brings bounty and bliss To those worthy Or missed? And while I lounged solitary Pensive, I wandered I sifted through thought and Sketched skeletons Drank medicines Stood frozen and fixated On the tips of my lips I recall touching each mirror I had the privilege to meet; “Oh, how she flaunts her frosted frailty” I’ve tested the surfaces For spots of weakness (For faults furrow meek) That proved I could hold What I’ve seen What I’ve schemed My own grace esteemed But to me, it’s a strange thing It’s not quite sad It’s the sound of walls sighing Why was I dozing When He delivered these dreams?

For this poem, I remember that I was feeling really down about not being able to achieve any success or happiness, unlike what I believed everyone else was accomplishing. It felt like every other asshole was succeeding in love and friendship and I was stuck, alone and unnoticed. These ideas weighed on me heavily.

This poem identifies my belief in God, which reoccurs in my other pieces. I chalk up the most universal questions and decisions to my maker, and I believe God is a poet like me. God the the being with the burden of making things live and die and succeed and fail. So in this poem I ask him, why was I overlooked? Why aren't my dreams realized? Am I not strong enough?

The Beauty of Buoyancy

To lie in a pool of green, still water

To watch beads of bile roll across her palms

To drink the juices of a cancerous sea

All is quiet, as all is smothered.

Who would recognize

Or understand

The beauty of a body’s buoyancy?

There are diamonds in the murk

Calling to the gray in her skin

The snakes in her hair try to will their way free

The brown lace on her back

Dissolves at the waters’ teeth.

To float facedown in a pool of green water

To look upon her guiltily

As she is carried along rows of brittle trees

Collecting their secrets and sailing with peace.

This morbid little ditty is probably one of my favorites from then. Yes, it's about a dead body floating in a pond. But I think I captured (what I imagined were) the stunning visuals of such a sight. This marks one of my best points of visually vivid writing, which has come to serve me well in my creative writing. I also quite like the title. As a depressive girl, writing this poem allowed me to celebrate my "unconventional" ideas of beauty and peace without leaving me begging for my own death.

The Edge of It All

Nothing led me to the edge of it all

And I stepped forward on bated soles

“Do you see now,” he breathed into the wind-

“Do you see now what you could have been?”

Abandon all faith, for we believe in nothing

Ours is a time of acting without tact.

I am not of their denomination

Their generation, their reputation

They rest with ease in seats

of decay

Diseased and soured with saccharin smiles

Yet if I were to expire

in the arms of indifference,

Would they recognize the flight as a cry for help?

Or could they see my blitzkrieg leap as

an act of living poetry?

My ‘‘actual reality’’

Is to be with Nothing himself

So if I drink ale of a darker brew

And bathe in the waters of a darker blue

And realize that I don’t need any of you

Would you look down upon me too?

When the heavens open and the fires descend

Believe in what you see

My courtesy

Arms spread, skidding on weary feet-

I, unlike you

Will

Bend

at the edge of it all.

This one became my most popular poem on the art/networking site called deviantART.com. I had a little gallery of works going, and when I posted this one, on January 27, 2005, it got a a bit of attention from other users. To date it has been my most viewed and commented upon poem. Again, it's strange looking back at this writing, because it was five years ago and that's a long time when you're young. I was sixteen years old and I thought I knew every-fucking-thing. I didn't, but I did know that I was very much alone in my thoughts and convictions at that time and place. I suppose there were others like me, but I felt like an alien in high school, surrounded by straight-up fools, being forced to works towards an undesirable end and challenging myself with art and writing. Ever the abstract thinker, I know this poem is a bit nonsensical, but it was liberating to declare that "I am unlike you, and I will not need your validation."

Quite the trip down memory lane! I'll finish off with a poem I actually wrote in college. It is hard to find inspiration once your life starts getting good, and it did get good in college. However, you can always rely on asshole boyfriends to bring out the worst in you. This poem was written specifically for and inspired by my last boyfriend (shudder).

Binge and Purge

Binge and purge

My feelings for you:

Jealousy

Makes me sick from every tip

Insecurity

Tethers me to the chair

Curious fears rewind and play

Over and over and over

And holes burn into my stomach

With the hint of your betrayal

And yet

You've given me nothing to lose

Addiction

I need to feel special

Your reluctant gift to me

Always breaking your promises

And I

Just smile like a pretty pet

And try to mesmerize you

With confidence

And charms

That I do not possess

I am as ugly as corpse

When I am

With you

The Festival of Hemp

I woke up late in the day today, sleeping off a night of drinking and dancing. I heard music from down the road, bubbling into the windows of my just-off-campus apartment.

Today was HempFest on the Quad, a sometimes annual event at URI organized by Students for Sensible Drug Policy.

I've been to past festivals, which were weak excuses for "festivities." You'd have a few food vendors, a few tents and tables filled with corduroy bong bags and hookahs. A band would be playing, but mostly the local smokers and freakies would just wander, lay in the grass, and then eventually move about their day.

This morning, my roommate told me she wanted to check it out, because she had never been before. I joined her, and with greater interest after I heard from other housemates that the crowd was big and the live music was good.

DIGRESSION: I used to smoke a lot of pot, true. I was very fond of MJ, and it climaxed a year or so ago. Lately, I've dropped back into the realm of "light-weight" occasional smoker. It's been like this because I now take mood-altering medications that make me feel damn strange when I smoke weed. Regardless, I was in the mood to toke before we left. My roomie hardly ever puffs so she's the lightest of the lightweight. She often finds herself fully incapacitated after just one whiff. MAGICALLY, she whips out a little nugget of green, which she found in her couch after a party a few weeks ago. She had forgotten about it. So what did we do? We ripped it: I filled my lungs with the tasty smoke and my roomie puffed more hits than she had in years.

THAT BEING SAID, she and I took off down the street in the warm sun towards the quad. This is when things got a little strange.

Yes, we were stoned, but as we walk down the sidewalk we couldn't help but notice how the other pedestrians were sort of odd. You know people who don't move out of the way when they're talking up the whole width of the sidewalk, and they see you approaching? Lots of those people. That's also when we began to notice a lot of funky, well dressed boys that definitely do not attend URI, because we would have already located them. En route, we encountered a group of people, including a baby, who were huddling in the middle of the walking path. The baby of the bunch hopped into the street, in front of an oncoming car. My roomie and I were like "WTF?"

The long and short of it is we moseyed on down to the quad where there was quite a large gathering. Tents with authentic hippie paraphernalia, lots of people chilin', and a large stage with decent and loud live music. We awkwardly found a spot on the grass, near the edge of the crowd, to sit and people watch.

First, we realize that we don't recognize any of the tons of people in the quad. That's saying something, considering my roommate and I know a lot of people around here, and people we would think would come to this event.

There were lots of hippies in tie dye, bandana wearers, hackey sackers, dreadlocked folks and long beard-wearers. Also quite a few good looking scenesters types. Many of them looked high-school aged. At the same time, there were many old hippie types with babies: babies in strollers, strapped to their chests in carriers, or walking them on their tiny feet. Lots of dogs, too. We saw a giant husky and smaller doberman(?) get into a fight, scary.

As we looked around, saw two girls in flowy skirts and tank tops dance barefoot in a circle, we started cracking up. We both felt like we were inside a giant, free loving cliche.

Then, the band shifted from background fuzz to full blast. They are called The Abominables, a punk/ska/rock and roll ish band that sounded tight. Albeit a bit boring. UNTIL, of course, they started SPEAKING. Screaming, actually. They were like stand up comedians on coke (so, Robin Williams in the 80s or so), jabbering on and on, cracking jokes, shouting "FUCKING FUCK" and warbling about sparking doobies and fucking up the government.

This, radiating across the campus from a giant sound system, as toddlers shuffled around the "make your own bong" station and straight-laced men in suits darted across the quad, holding their attache cases and aluminum water bottles. This, broadcasted live without censorship on a zero-tolerance campus. Bizarre, to say the least. I was in stitches, clasping my mouth shut as I watched and listened to the band rant and rampage.

As my roomie and I sat, she; with her perfectly blow-dried hair and vintage horn-rimmed sunglasses, I; with my pink lipstick and a venti quadruple shot iced espresso from Starbucks, stoned onto our butts in the dewy grass, we started getting a little existential.

With the young girls floating around with pot leaves painted on their cheeks and the cluster of dudes smacking around a hackey sack, to the 1 in 3 women wearing a tie dye ankled length skirt, to the obligatory police officer in uniform hassling them all, we began to debate what kind of bullshit we were witnessing.

DIGRESSION: I am a real cynic, but I can't help it. My dad was a real "hippie," but he wouldn't call himself that. He was a "freak." In the late 60s, he liked to wear his hair long and argue about Vietnam and drop the acid that his chemist roommate made fresh at RPI in upstate New York. He didn't wear fucking tie dye. Tie dye was a uniform of the peaceful, fun-loving, tuning in and dropping out types. My dad and his friends were stuck in cold-as-shit Troy, New York in the snow belt. He and his friends were a small alliance of rock and roll loving idealists, who grew and concocted their own stash of drugs, hiding them in the walls of their apartment for fear of incarceration. My dad didn't strum guitars and run around nude, he studied science and spread the message of nonconformity and intellectual freedom to the duped frat boys of their ultra-conservative town.

My point? Tie dye is a poser symbol of a time and place none of my generation can understand. Wearing it is just a uniform that displays followership and not individuality. It is a society-induced cliche. So is the kicking around of a small, bead-filled ball. So is the frisbee tossing. So is the Bob Marley strumming on the acoustic guitar. So is the obligatory love for all things hemp. So is the excuse for girls to not wear bras and put wax in their hair and load up on silver bangle bracelets and roll around in the grass. It's not meant to be protest, it's meant to be SEXY.

The conversation started bumming me out. We both agreed that this incarnation of the hippie lifestyle is definitely far removed from the original version. And how could it not be? Back then, the oppression from the government smothered the ideals of exploration and questioning, of love and peace. Today, most hippie kids have Blackberries and drive Volkswagens.

Then, a lighter thought came out: you can't expect things to stay the same as time moves forward. Sure, the 60s are over and we can never return to that time. But the lifestyle choice can still be genuine, even though it has morphed dramatically. If you like tie dye, then you should wear it. If you find hackey sack fun and challenging, you should be free to play. Jam out to Tom Petty and sway back and forth. We cannot sit here and judge others on authenticity, and not because it's unfair, but because that battle was already lost. What we can do it create our own pleasant present. I cringe to think of subscribing to such a played out lifestyle, but who am I to criticize someone's happiness? (Especially since I'm still searching for mine). I'm a bitch!

Then it was 4:20 pm and everyone started screaming and clapping, and the lead singer of the band was acting crazy and the people near the front of a stage sparked a few blunts together. In the middle of the quad.

The next band started to play, this time a URI based band. They play really smooth, melodic, chill music. Their fans range from reggae heads to jam band freaks to the in-betweens. Not to me though. My roomie and I scoffed as we noticed the band's bassist, a foolish looking white dude wearing baggy orange pants. This chill hippie guy came to our house party last week and got so drunk, he aggressively forced himself on me and whacked my roommate as she tried to stop him. We eventually dragged him out of our house with the help of some friends, but not before he insulted my appearance and called my roommate a "trifling bitch."

Then, all of my cynicism came rushing back, and we decided to leave, so I could write this post and listen to disco music.

So, in conclusion: Hippies aren't real, everyone drinks and smokes too much, the only real pacifists you meet are commonly referred to as "fags," wear a bra, listen to better music and if I see your dumb, stinky ass wearing a tie dye t shirt I'm gonna beat the fuck out of you.