Thursday, May 26, 2005
Suburban Rednecks
To preface my story today, I'd first like to paint the picture. We live in a very typical, middle class suburban neighborhood, you know the deal: American Flags poking off practically every house, lawns neatly mowed and saturated with pesticides, and little electric candles in each window. Our house is obviously the hippy dippy liberal weirdo house. Pets always used to be escaping, loud middle eastern music blasting out the window in the evening, bonfires in the back, occasionally the scent of pot from the backyard, and probably a fair amount of glimpses of one person or another wandering about the house in their underwear when no one else is was home and they thought that our neighbors couldn't see. This afternoon in particular, I came home to find my dad sitting on a lawn chair in our backyard, sipping pabst blue ribbon out of the can, and burning trash. Our backyard is not that large, there was a ton of smoke, (he finally decided to burn the dead christmas tree that has been toppled over in the middle of the backyard to be used for "kindling" since January.) and my dad had a smattering of empty beer cans tossed about the chair because he had decided it wasn't worth the energy to take 10 steps inside to the recycling bin. My father has such a conflicted combination or hoosier farm boy and old liberal intellectual man. I say this because you'd expect him to be reading something like "Hunting Magazine" but instead he had a copy of some book called "Eco Economy". Gotta love it. Our new next door neighbor must think we're total rednecks. Maybe I'll bake him a pie and introduce him to the neighborhood.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Family History
I've been scanning old family photos for my dad. He's been bringing out rickety ornate albums filled with tin types and binder after binder of plastic sheeted old photos in various stages of preservations and decay. It's easy to accidentally assume with some photos that they were intended that way, yellowed and cracked, as if that was the desired aesthetic of the time. It's hard to remember that these people were better known in color. It is so easy to forget the existence of things that are not recorded. We must remember that their presentation is just that, a staged rendition of a family or person, how they wanted or were supposed to be seen. It's easy to get drawn into this act of preservation. Knowing that whatever I choose to leave or take away will then been considered as fact, and forever remembered in that way, in my aesthetic and through my control. It's also interesting to notice, how certain facial characteristics are preserved. In the case of my father, his father and even his father, it is a pair of stubborn ears that serve as an unmistakable identifier, but diminish slightly with each generation. From my great grandmother's eyes, we get the large upper lids, and Jesse, my younger sister got her delicate mouth, compact and pleasing, with a downward tilt and upward smile. I can't say what I have been given from these phantom people in piles of photographs, but I can see it, or maybe just feel it. Perhaps it's a figment in my mind, but there is a certain similarity in the eyes and facial structure that gives me a pleasing sense of belonging. In a way, recording these photos is following the path of my existence backward, it goes on and on, with no limit, through this chain of people who by some strange stroke of luck or destiny, I owe my existence.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Art HistoryMonday, February 14, 2005
I am sitting here in front of a room of bored seventeen year olds. I, fortunately, have already gone to highschool, which affords me the luxury to check me e-mail while I listen to some miscelanious brit narrate passionately about the angst and passion of Delacroix over a series slow pans over low quality projections of his paintings and the din of fuzzy blairing classical music. I also can leave and go to taco bell for lunch, which is always a treat. Despite Amy the cafeteria lady's kind offers of a free lunch, I feel an inate repulsion (as I did in highschool) to wilted iceburg lettuce and day old peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was nice of her to offer though. Maybe I'll take her up on a free coffee, but probably not, since I find the cafeteria to be a substantially intimidating place. The narrator just muttered in his gutteral accent "What is the sea? Why is it sublime? It is because of its vast expanse...the merest half glimpst of the waves, the rest, lost on the horizon..." And then he goes on to use cliched frases such as "...Infinate desire for what we can never attain," "What torments me is my loneliness", "the vigour and passion of youth", "the look of a mothers eyes", "Braces of despair", "all is error", "without extreme baring, there is no beauty", "Dare to surpass oneself!". Deep, very deep.
Carriage Driving
Saturday and Sunday I found myself once again sitting behind Theo's fat ass plodding through Philadlephia at 2 miles per hour to give guided tours of America's Most Historic Mile. Last summer I was a carriage driver, fortunately I escaped around August, but was roped in again by promises of mucho dinero on Valentines weekend. It's amazing how little things in that world have changed. To think that I couldn't sleep the night before for fear that I would have forgotten the dates of the Revolutionary War or the year Ben Franklin established the first fire insurance company. What I found is that driving a carriage is like riding a bike, only not, becuase it involves, carrots, a live 2000lb animal, history, french braiding, and street smarts. I'm just glad I'm not out there today, it's raining. Anyway, more on this later.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
First "blog"ever, I am now officially a internet dweed. (you probably are too)
Dear everyone, I felt compelled to share my day today because it made me laugh. Today I found myself slightly hungover, sleep deprived, and substitute teaching 2nd grade music class. It was wild, let me tell you. All I was given to entertain them was a 15 minute video on Duke Ellington, and then to top it off, my only other option was a 40 minute dance video. Teachers seem to forget that the sub has NO IDEA WHAT SHE IS DOING. It's kind of weird having and 7 year old waving her hand in your face and telling you the best way to get the rest of the class under control. At this particular school, the method is making a peace sign and putting the index finger of your other hand over your mouth. Whatever, it doesn't work. Anything for $60. It's amazing watching a room full of 7 and 8 year olds try to sit still for fifteen minutes. One class got a little out of hand. They started out just wiggling a bit in their seats to the beat of the music, which I thought was cute, so I let it slide, next it was the air trombone, and then, before I new it, they were falling backwards off their seats (on purpose) and making farting noises with their armpits. Later in the day during another, more manageable class, I got a little knock on the door, and all of the children who had misbehaved were hand delivering notes of apologies WITH illustrations. Here are what some of them had to say: "I am sorry that I was folling off the benchis and makeing people laf. I am sorry I made fun of the sexofone." -Clay "Daer, cyla, I am sorry about what I did. I am sorry that I was falling off the bench. I think that you are a grate teacher."-Jake "Dara Kila, My name is Sam. I did a bad job. I Stonk. I lugh't a lot. I am Sory. Love Sam" "Sorry Kyla for my bad Behavyour. music is "ayeom"(illegible word). From Tommy" You get the idea, now I have a handfull of little treasures. So that was my day. Thanks for reading.
-Kyla.
Posts
