(no subject)
Jun. 7th, 2008 11:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phthalombrageYesterday was Risk with Hayley, Trevor, Ian, Michael Rule, Katherine, and her boy Leland. The first four + me were at Hayley's place until like 4 AM. Risk is a ridiculous game. Maybe we spent too long in the beginning trying to climb out the windows...
I didn't know Risk sets now have tiny molded figurines. Melody's and Myers' sets had little geometric pieces rather like these:
.
I find the new design a tad too distracting. I had enough trouble being interested in Risk with the old pieces!
Luckily enough, Hayley also had a variety of stimulating coloring books, where I colored in Necrophiliac Lover from Literature and his zombie lady friend, psychadelic space western camels and handlers, some fish, and some geometric flower patterns. I also taped together a paper dodecahedron michael cut out. Everyone but me drank assorted alcohols (trevor was sad the balsamic vinegar was actually dressing and thus wouldn't do a shot thereof), so we had long and random conversations throughout.
Anyway, good fun.
Today I had dance, was hot and somewhat sluggish. Went with Chris to the Three Rivers Arts Festival because he wanted to see the poetry reading and there was an Attack Theatre thing for which I had received email. Poetry reading was full of old people, some that had drunk probably too much of the wine they had. Some of the poets had awkward shit (the erect nipples on a five-year-old girl poem some old lady wrote), some were pretty good (on steel millworkers' children, growing up in braddock, there was one about a fool moon (3/4 moon over the monongahela, girl pretended it was full, the seine and another man)), some were just sad old ladies (the sea does not bring her the bright things she needs, she does not live by the beach, so she removes the drapes and blinds from southern-facing windows of her pittsburgh house). The delivery ranged from over-emotive to captivating to something flat and monotone that resembled the readers in church, which made me kind of wince internally, especially when the poem also mentioned god. A lot of them liked gardening/plant analogies because old people do that. For me poetry is not something I think of as an oral thing; it's something more introspective. I like to hear which words the poets emphasize and things just to see what they think is important, but for the most part, I think I do a pretty good job doing dramatic readings of poems in my head and kind of like the up-at-arms-ness of interesting diction. Poems don't seem to mesh with oral storytelling to me, unless they are nursery rhymes or hand-clapping games or prayers or other infantile things. Was pretty weird. I still like poetry readings.
After much milling about and some expensive smoothies, we finally stumbled upon the mobile unit that housed the dance performance. I was surprised to see Devin amongst the cast. Funny, when he drove me home and I mentioned taking a class with Attack, he said something like, "Oh, I like them." He would. I think the lady who taught the class was in the performance as well. Anyway, it was bizarre. Highlights included men supporting women running along the wall of a nearby shop, small children of the audience collecting and dropping rubber balls between two panes of plexiglas, and mysterious sashes on the men pulled from the suitcases that were the first props in the piece best described as "homosexual tension cords." It was kind of good, mostly weird.
Caught a bus back to squill. Ate Uncle Sam's, followed by slices of the peach pie chris and I baked thursday. Then I washed dishes (drying is the bitch job), vaccuumed his apartment (even the corners and under the futon and coffee table) and helped empty it of trash. What is a girl who likes vaccuuming doing in an all-hardwood floor apartment? I like these floors, don't get me wrong, despite their tell-tale midnight creakings, but I shall be quite happy to move into Sherbrook and be able to vaccuum funky carpets and wash dishes in the sink and cook on a gas stove and be right old school. Hopefully things go without a hitch.
Then I made chris an autographed original ass-collage. He is a fan. They got another victoria's secret catalogue in the mail, and dave or carolyn or whoever normally takes them wasn't around to collect it. (My guess is dave, actually.) The same catalogue had arrived in my apartment's mailbox yesterday. VS is very boob-centric, I learned. He produced two older catalogues, and only then could I find sufficient material for my art. The collage only took up one sheet of notebook paper and about an inch wide of a second sheet taped thereto. We had to trek across the street to geagle to get scotch tape and popsicles. He wanted me to sign it; I wanted him to hang it on his bedroom wall. One of those happened. Now there is a large cutout of boobs in the small trash can in their living room. I hope it, and/or the magazines with models cut out of them, are found by somebody unaware of this project.
I didn't know Risk sets now have tiny molded figurines. Melody's and Myers' sets had little geometric pieces rather like these:
. I find the new design a tad too distracting. I had enough trouble being interested in Risk with the old pieces!
Luckily enough, Hayley also had a variety of stimulating coloring books, where I colored in Necrophiliac Lover from Literature and his zombie lady friend, psychadelic space western camels and handlers, some fish, and some geometric flower patterns. I also taped together a paper dodecahedron michael cut out. Everyone but me drank assorted alcohols (trevor was sad the balsamic vinegar was actually dressing and thus wouldn't do a shot thereof), so we had long and random conversations throughout.
Anyway, good fun.
Today I had dance, was hot and somewhat sluggish. Went with Chris to the Three Rivers Arts Festival because he wanted to see the poetry reading and there was an Attack Theatre thing for which I had received email. Poetry reading was full of old people, some that had drunk probably too much of the wine they had. Some of the poets had awkward shit (the erect nipples on a five-year-old girl poem some old lady wrote), some were pretty good (on steel millworkers' children, growing up in braddock, there was one about a fool moon (3/4 moon over the monongahela, girl pretended it was full, the seine and another man)), some were just sad old ladies (the sea does not bring her the bright things she needs, she does not live by the beach, so she removes the drapes and blinds from southern-facing windows of her pittsburgh house). The delivery ranged from over-emotive to captivating to something flat and monotone that resembled the readers in church, which made me kind of wince internally, especially when the poem also mentioned god. A lot of them liked gardening/plant analogies because old people do that. For me poetry is not something I think of as an oral thing; it's something more introspective. I like to hear which words the poets emphasize and things just to see what they think is important, but for the most part, I think I do a pretty good job doing dramatic readings of poems in my head and kind of like the up-at-arms-ness of interesting diction. Poems don't seem to mesh with oral storytelling to me, unless they are nursery rhymes or hand-clapping games or prayers or other infantile things. Was pretty weird. I still like poetry readings.
After much milling about and some expensive smoothies, we finally stumbled upon the mobile unit that housed the dance performance. I was surprised to see Devin amongst the cast. Funny, when he drove me home and I mentioned taking a class with Attack, he said something like, "Oh, I like them." He would. I think the lady who taught the class was in the performance as well. Anyway, it was bizarre. Highlights included men supporting women running along the wall of a nearby shop, small children of the audience collecting and dropping rubber balls between two panes of plexiglas, and mysterious sashes on the men pulled from the suitcases that were the first props in the piece best described as "homosexual tension cords." It was kind of good, mostly weird.
Caught a bus back to squill. Ate Uncle Sam's, followed by slices of the peach pie chris and I baked thursday. Then I washed dishes (drying is the bitch job), vaccuumed his apartment (even the corners and under the futon and coffee table) and helped empty it of trash. What is a girl who likes vaccuuming doing in an all-hardwood floor apartment? I like these floors, don't get me wrong, despite their tell-tale midnight creakings, but I shall be quite happy to move into Sherbrook and be able to vaccuum funky carpets and wash dishes in the sink and cook on a gas stove and be right old school. Hopefully things go without a hitch.
Then I made chris an autographed original ass-collage. He is a fan. They got another victoria's secret catalogue in the mail, and dave or carolyn or whoever normally takes them wasn't around to collect it. (My guess is dave, actually.) The same catalogue had arrived in my apartment's mailbox yesterday. VS is very boob-centric, I learned. He produced two older catalogues, and only then could I find sufficient material for my art. The collage only took up one sheet of notebook paper and about an inch wide of a second sheet taped thereto. We had to trek across the street to geagle to get scotch tape and popsicles. He wanted me to sign it; I wanted him to hang it on his bedroom wall. One of those happened. Now there is a large cutout of boobs in the small trash can in their living room. I hope it, and/or the magazines with models cut out of them, are found by somebody unaware of this project.
