i turn my camera on

one of the most basic modes of self-identification as a photographer is the requisite self-portrait with the the camera placed over one eye, the lens representing an extension of one's seeing being. i have stopped picturing myself thus. it's probably the reason why i don't take pictures anymore. i always imagine myself in large field looking sprightly and androgynous, with the strap of my holga or minolta 35mm cutting across my chest as testimony to some ephemeral vagrant existence. or i imagine myself hunched behind the bellows of a large format camera, my head covered with a dark cloth that bridges the gap between my body and the camera, performing my submission to a technology whose history outlives my own. two years ago i would have replied that i imagine myself sitting in front of the tripod in my best cindy sherman auto-reflexive pose. this is how i think we should think of cameras, and of our terms of vision--vision as something deeply embedded in our subjective physical and temporal experience. this may relate to the fact that, over the past four years, i've also learned very well to make my way in dark--i.e. sans vision in the name of analog photography.

on the flip side of the issue, i taught a new friend how to use his mamiya yesterday, and it made me really miss the process of taking pictures. i still fantasize about taking pictures of airports, train stations, and mosh pits. i had an attack of 'ohmygodihavesomuchaheadofmeinthislife' today. one day at a time...

from the memoir

Wes. Oh Wes. Drove a fucking El Camino that handled curves with grace and verve. I watched in amusement as my second-in-command tried to get in his pants the entire year. It was understandable. He had perfect golden curls falling down to his shoulder and a devil-may-care attitude coupled with the stoicism of the Hemingway volumes he pored over while playing hooky behind the dumpsters. At night, he sat on top of his roof playing his didgeridoo. One time, he picked up and left school for a week to do heroin in Mexico. The other time, he drove out West searching for peyote--only God knows how far he went before the delirium of the drive took over and he gave up on the mythical drug. Imagine my surprise when he asked me one day to tutor him in Government. We had nothing in common except a love of old books and, for now, his goddamn graduation requirement. I think he didn't even need me there, he just wanted some company. He would tell me about nights spent sneaking wine into movie theaters, picking fights, and smooth-talking girls under the open canopy of a warm Texas night while I sat quietly and nodded, every now and then directing his pencil to the correct multiple choice answer. All of a sudden, he turned to face me with a look of absolute curiosity and bewilderment, asking, "What do you do on Friday nights?". I couldn't answer. I was a recluse. I played loud music and staged my own photo shoots. I could only dream of breaking out of my house and into the world he described. I could voice none of this to him. He shrugged, closed his book and bought me a delicious tuna sandwich before driving me home. When graduation neared, I gave him my yearbook in hopes that he would write something incredibly profound and life-changing. The only thing he wrote was, "We graduated, and that's cool, right?". The last I heard, he had shaved his head, and joined the Marines. He is set to marry an American girl he met while stationed in Japan.

conversations are like a game of connect the dots

some people put down their pencil at the very beginning. others disregard the diagrammatic scheme, opting to instead 'think outside of the box' and draw squiggly lines from point A to point Q. 99% are inevitably confused by the task embodied in the dizzying array of points set forth before them. when you find the one person who connects the dots, part of you feels that momentary pinch of joy at having been able to share the entire picture. but the rest of you knows that the mystery, the struggle, and therefore the little joy of the dots has now evaporated, and maybe it's the parts of the paper left blank that now matter the most.

future posts: delayed reaction comebacks are like _________________.

this is my current favorite

upside down

i rode a mechanical bull for the first time yesterday. i fell after a minute, stockinged feet flailing backwards in the air and cursing wildly, but i think being thrown from the bull was the most exhilarating part of the experience. i would place that activity within the category of mosh pits, roller coasters, sex, and other physically extreme activities that violently unground your body for a lethal breathless moment before returning you to life as you know it. in thinking about my own body and the types of situations i seek out, i truly believe that people are divided according to whether or not they understand their body through physical pain. case in point: i once dated a guy who hated roller coasters. accordingly, he wasn't that spectacular in bed.

also, i was recognized this weekend for the naked photos of myself that i used to print three years ago. i've finally entered the curse of the autobiographer--forever haunted by the unknown number of people who have seen me topless wearing a mohawk hat.

thoughts

maybe my work process is more interesting than the final product. implications for artmaking and artviewing: ________

from the show

because you wanted me, to be above all things,
untamable,
collaborative installation by emily louise parsons and carol zou
feb. 2-6, 2009
ithaca, new york

please hit us up if you want to talk cheesecloth and pablo neruda.

graphic designers do it with postits

this is how i diagram my thesis about punk rock geographies. this is how it goes.

boys

obsessions

the slight 'h' karen o places before the a's when pronouncing her words. as in the words 'w-hait' and 'm-haps'. as if she were willfully exhaling them from her throat. my friend once said that it must be amazing to just experience being karen o. i concurred, and we both sat back in the car awed by the profundity of the statement while 'maps' played on the radio.

walk on water

the day was beautiful. the local lake was frozen over. hence.

proposal

that someone make a documentary regarding my behavior around kittens and/or babies. highlights will include: widened eyes of fear, screaming, forcefully asserting that 'my feet are not a toy!', and lots and lots of distressed vocal ululation.

i've been fixating on this phrase lately

thinking a lot about where the limits of bodily intimacy occur.

helen keller

last night i dreamed that my furniture was rearranged.

realizations and deseos

i'm never going to figure it all out, am i?
&
sometimes i would fit nicely into the life of a recluse. the kind that wears white dresses and rocks out to j.s. bach.

celebrity men whom i have loved (parts 1-4)

1) tom cruise


2) leonardo dicaprio


3) mark hoppus


4) kurdt kobane

wham bam thank you ma'am

fluxus manifesto

lately i've been in a mood where i don't want to look at art or talk about it. i keep on thinking about small gestures and typewritten instructions as the only 'art' pieces i can tolerate. all i want is for things to be simpler, in art and in life. i'm still struggling with the question of what it means to be a real artist when you grow up.

to be played at maximum volume

instructions for experiencing where did you sleep last night, nirvana, within the enclosure of a moving car:
1. pull up to a stoplight. start the song.
2. start singing the lyrics, mezzoforte.
3. increase the intensity of your voice at the last stanza. by the last line, you should be screaming. you are unaware of tone. your entire body strains. you are singing from your chest cavity. you fall forward.

instructions for experiencing maps, yeah yeah yeahs, within the enclosure of a moving car:
1. merge from the on-ramp to the middle lane of a highway, late evening. start the song.
2. at the sound of the opening trill, think about leaving home.
3. press your foot against the accelerator. think more about leaving home. notice the sky slowly shifting into night. the lights beside the highway flicker on, fly past you.
4. cry.