…Turn those lemons into a short story complete with a raucous reading by old friends! I wrote this piece for a competition (that I lost), but went on to place it with FIVE:2:ONE and their esteemed audio-centric site. How funny to watch a truly terrible professional experience emerge as belly-chuckles art. Lemons! Lemons, everywhere I say!
Today, the Guggenheim exhibit “Art and China after 1989: Theater of the World” closes here in New York City.
I did not go expecting to see any works of great beauty. To be sure, there were none. But so, too, did I not expect to see a view of China’s artists straining so mightily—and exclusively—under the weight of the CCP regime. That is the singular narrative. Portrait after portrait, list after list, needle after needle, video after video: oppression. I wondered: could there not be even just one alternate voice, one perspective from a slightly different angle that had turned its head not to the sun but, instead, toward the sky?
Lately I’ve been thinking about misunderstandings. Like, when you’re talking to a friend in your kitchen and she’s looking for something and you say “on the shelf,” and she hears “honest help.” Now she’s confused and you’re confused because she’s confused. Stuff like that. It’s especially common in song lyrics. I love Creedence Clearwater Revival and their song Bad Moon Rising is a true gem. But how many people spent years– years!– hearing “there’s a bathroom on the right” instead of “there’s a bad moon on the rise”?
I’ve been feeling in-between lately. I’m not young but I’m not old. I’m not rich but I’m not poor. I’m not the smartest but I’m not the stupidest. I’m not super healthy but nor am I laid out. I don’t have a ton of friends but I’m not a total loner. I am trying.
It is possible to write your heart and your mind, both, to the point where they meet each other. There, they will shake hands and say “hello”. They will make small talk and exchange pleasantries. They will ask about wives and children. They will laugh. And you will shake your head at their fine demeanor and grand talk. Because you will know them for what they are, for they are yours. More here.
When life gives you cooling weather, I say, smash a duck inside the wicked confines of a duck press. These and other thoughts on the change of the seasons, the need for inhumane yet nourishing sustenance, and much, much more in my recent essay on the glorious la presse a canard.
This past weekend I dragged my ass out of bed (it had been a bestie’s birthday the night before), put on whatever was on the floor (not what I wore to bestie’s birthday), and walked down to Hillary Clinton’s campaign office on 103 and Broadway. About thirty people were already there, milling around outside. They held coffee cups and the little green ticket the office had handed out—a ticket down to Pennsylvania for a day of knocking on doors and canvassing for Hillary in Bustleton, a struggling blue collar neighborhood in the swing-state of Pennsylvania.