Mourning the Red Line

We had an awkward relationship of push and pull.

There was a point in time where I hated it so much, I preferred to walk 5 miles home. There was puke, a wiry more-man-looking transvestite, many drunks and a guy I swore was about to hijack the bus. There were loud teenagers, people playing their cell phone rings over and over again to simulate a song, teenagers playing dice on the floor, broken air conditioners, broken-down engines, handwritten signs, surly drivers and the overwhelming number of surprisingly nice ones.

And then there were the guys: the guy who stared directly at me for miles, the guy who brought a loud radio on board (and the driver who never told him to turn it off), the guy who borrowed someone's cell phone to tell someone he promised he was going to buy a whole PILE of pills if they'd just give him one tonight, and the many, many guys who have asked me what I'm reading, if I'm a student and what my tattoos mean.

10 years ago it was the bus I had to take. 4 years ago it was the bus I refused to take (after the previously-mentioned almost-hijacking). 3 years ago it was the bus I realized was the only real option to take to do almost everything I needed to do.

Over the past 4 years it has been detoured through every aspect of the major construction of the light rail line. The Red Line rumbled over rough streets sometimes sending every rider airborne. It navigated down narrow lanes that Honda Civics had trouble inching through. Bus riders waited at bus stops in the middle of the summertime that sometimes consisted of nothing more than a pile of dirt.

It seemed that the Red Line was the everyman's bus. You could take it to or from jail or to the airport. I've seen pilots, students, ex-cons, prostitutes, nurses, lawyers, homeless, drunk, sober, fat, skinny, parents with screaming kids and parents whose kids always said please and thank you. I would look at the single moms wrangling their 2 or more children and see me, my sister and my mom riding the bus in Reading, PA. I like to assume that I was the well-behaved kid who never said a word. Sometimes the best came out in people when then told the driver to wait for someone running for the bus or the worst when a healthy 20-yr old wouldn't get up for a limping elderly person or pregnant woman.

But now...poof! The Red Line is gone—never to be ridden again. The light rail has replaced it's heart and 2 other bus lines have picked up its head and it's tail. As much as I dreaded the potential smell and experience that might occur on every ride, I'm looking back on it like I just graduated from some university. After a quiet morning ride on the antiseptic and bright light rail, I craved the darker moodiness of the Red Line rumbling down Washington Street towards 16th. The bright interior lights of the Metro make it almost impossible to watch the desert sunrise and without a detour to the airport, there's no point where everyone looks up as we take the bridge over the freight rail yard or Salt River.

All of the ickiness about the Red Line ended up being what ultimately has endeared itself to me. Something like an unappealing body part that you eventually get used to and then realize that it kind of defines you. Referring to myself as having "bus hands" just doesn't seem to be the same without the Red Line. It seems I invented that term because of the Red Line and the number of times I've seen people cough and sneeze into their hands and then grab the exact same pole I need to touch.

Germy, icky, run-down, loud, close, smelly, warm, cold, obnoxious, generous, kind, rude, annoying, frustrating and genuine.

Bye bye Red Line.

hope for america

There's always a lot of banter on the city bus—it's mainly the reason i wear my iPod before, during and after my bus ride (that, and the drunk/letchy/lonely guys who try to strike up a conversation about the book they could care less about that you're reading). Normally, my reaction is to try to tune it out or hope for the banter to become numerous enough that it all blurs out like a wordy wave of the ocean.

Today was different. I don't know, call it my renewed sense of hope in humanity, my excitement that what i may have thought was impossible occurred (impossible being that which i feel would make our lives better), a feeling of togetherness with my community as an entire café broke out in applause and cheers when Obama won Ohio—but something was just a little different. Maybe it's like one of those moments where you've never met anyone from Idaho or Wyoming before and then you meet someone who is from there and then suddenly it seems everyone you bump into has a connection to there. Or maybe it's what non-cynical people see every day of their lives—people who have seen the impossible happen and no matter how long ago it was, still hold out that positive hope for the future.

Today, the guy muttering to himself/at large was muttering about how even if John McCain had given Barack Obama 100pts, he STILL would have won the presidency. What? Was he watching the polls? Did he vote? He CARES?? Then, 2 young men struck up a conversation about how they can't believe it happened and happened the WAY it did. 2 young men, talking politics, expressing disbelief and hope...it made me turn down my iPod and try to listen in more to what they had to say. But then I was actually bothered that they weren't speaking loud enough for me to hear them. For a bus where people sometimes have conversations OVER your head from the back of the bus to the front, this, too, was a rare occurrence. 

I'm wondering what the ride home will be like when everyone is more awake and the reality of the situation has settled in.

mourning trees

A crazy storm last night here in Phoenix—the first time I can say i was honestly scared about a window breaking or a tree falling on the roof. We got lucky. I woke up to find this right outside our window. Winds at almost 80MPH, hail, almost 2 inches of rain. I wondered what it must be like to be caught in the desert in the middle of something like that. It seems frightening here but mostly because of all the stuff we've grown and constructed around us.

Throughout our neighborhood, powerlines were down and giant eucalyptus and fir trees broke or uprooted themselves. Without saying too much, the following are pictures within walking distance of our apartment, including an entire street blocked off.

dad dreams

I had an interesting dream last night. And as much as i'm aware that countless people tell others their dreams in an effort to either get them to answer questions or to make themselves sound more interesting, i thought this one was especially relevant given all these issues i've been dealing with about my personal disaster. I also feel like i have to get this stuff out—in the process of purging. The next piece i have in mind will have me recounting as many stories and memories as i can think of to pull them to the surface and loosen their power on me.

So, i'm in my parent's house, standing in their kitchen. I think my mother is behind me but my dad is sitting at the table in the crowded dining room. I'm yelling at him and saying something like that he's a little man or that i don't care what he thinks or that he's insignificant. Then i realize, by saying it, that it reaches the point as it would when i was a kid where i pushed him to the point of violence. There would be this moment when his rage would come out and he could no longer control it. Sometimes i knew when i was about to do it and sometimes it would come by surprise but i got to learn that small moment when the air shifted and i needed to run.

At the moment in my dream where i said what i said and the air snapped and he burst slightly from his seat, i watched him pick up a hanger that was sitting on the table. Then i turned my back and crossed my arms and he beat me on my back right side with it. I said or thought something like "you can't hurt me anymore" or "it doesn't hurt" and it didn't. I didn't feel any pain even though i could see, from above, the welts on my back. He never really left his seat at the table—i guess a testament to his usual aloofness. Then i walked away and went upstairs.

My mom was upstairs in a room with me—distraught but also inactive. She seemed upset that this was all occurring, like she would be when i was younger and he would hit or slam me but it seemed her fear of him over-rode any instinct to help me. I told her "he can't hurt me anymore. it doesn't matter. it doesn't hurt anymore. it used to and i needed you and you didn't do anything. but it doesn't hurt now." And she stood there, dressed in red (which she never wears), looking exceptionally young, and with a bewildered look on her face.

The whole time in the dream i wasn't upset or angry or disappointed. It was like i was standing above it all and couldn't be affected by it anymore. I know i'm still far from that but it's inspiring to see that my mind is working at it and that there can be another side to all of this. The recovery from the disaster. It upsets me now to read this and think of it as me and something that i think about and still deal with. It's something that defines me. It upsets me like watching a sad story about someone who has to break a tie with something she had hope for but instead was stuck with the mucky reality.

strange home

It is strange to be home. I'm not sure how much time it will take to adjust or if i ever will. It's something different than geographical difference.

The ride back was about as emotionally and mentally strenuous as the month-long experience in Wisconsin. Confused thoughts, feelings of displacement, wondering what's next, wondering what's right for me, wondering what i want. I doubt it's something that will ever become terribly clear.

On the way back, i left my mark in a few places—once in Colorado and twice in Utah.

ending

It's already Wednesday, and as i get glowered at by yet another tour group, I'm summing up my work.

Now all of a sudden it feels like i haven't been here at all. It feels like i just arrived yesterday. Time away from and together with people is nominal. There's just never enough time for anything.

It seems impossible to think that i could conceive of and complete a piece or anything in this span of time. But somehow i did. A big messy blob—we'll see how it goes after i look at it a month or so later.

Below is the opening portion of the video i've worked on. It could probably stand alone but since i think this project will be a part of a larger project to do, i'm not worrying too much about specific orders. There is another version with a lead-in to the rest of the video.

The disaster can keep going on since it always continues and exists in everyone. I think for me it's become a way to get at what i always want from people which is behavior, discussion, thought without pretense and defenses. People being people without worrying about how they're supposed to be. Which is really just me trying to figure out how to be myself despite what i feel people want me to be or my nervousness around my own expectations on how to behave around others. If they choose to participate, they have to reveal something, which is always the big risk. It's about my insecurity. And i think i feel the least insecure when i'm talking to others and they're not pretending with me. But it's all very complicated. What is authentic after all? All speaking and writing is a combination of communication and concealment.



video is copyright 2008 by Jen Urso

damages

In the continuing realization of my neglect and poor health care as a child, i got to experience a day of barely any eating except what soft food i could mash into my mouth due to my TMJ acting up again. It started innocently in the morning while trying to eat a granola bar. The apple i had also brought back with me to my room sat mockingly on the corner of my bed all day. What a tease.

I thought this image described the experience rather well except that my hairstyle and sweater choice isn't quite as fetching.

This has been going on since the age of 14 after i fell on a railroad track (don't ask) but i didn't put 2 and 2 together until i was almost 30. As a teenager, my jaw would regularly lock open or closed—an extreme version of what i experience now (i'm better at sensing the warning signs). It is the most frustrating thing to not be able to talk or feed yourself. What's odd, is that i didn't even think, until yesterday, that this should have been something my parents should have taken me to the doctor for. It is really strange to find more evidence that actually generates physical pain of my parents lack of concern and attention as well as overall laziness. If your child couldn't chew because her jaw was locked shut, would you just provide her a straw and some tomato soup? I'm also finding it interesting that as i unearth certain emotional pains from the past, physical pains are making more sense. They begin to go hand in hand. The other would be the repaired fracture in my lower back that (the doctor says) occurred a very long time ago, most likely in childhood. It's painful every day.

tourist onlookers in the studio

To give you an idea of what it's like to be a human museum exhibit, Tiana was kind enough to share a few of the shots she's taken with her computer's camera that faces the group of tourists that enter the drafting studio (where we work). There are at least 10 groups a day, 8:30-4:30. Sometimes there never seems to be a break from them. I have to navigate around them through different staircases and doorways to get a glass of water or go to the bathroom. Note how they shamelessly stare at us working and how they wish they could take a photograph. Photos courtesy of the talented Tiana Peterson.

end of days & your favorite female superhero

The days are closing in...has it really been 3 since my last post? I'm afraid of time getting away from me.

After reviewing my the video footage with Tiana that i had somewhat pieced together, we thought it'd be best for me to draw out my concept of how the video would flow. I think it worked because after several hours or a day or who knows at this point, i had some ideas about how to pull it together. Somewhere in there was another sleepless night where a dying bug clicked all night long trying to get out of a spider web outside my window. It clicked (or maybe snapped is a better description) well into the morning. The spider was persistent. Imagine someone snapping their fingers above your head at irregular intervals and you get the idea. Nature can be really noisy—especially when you don't have traffic, helicopters and young men driving with loud bass systems to distract you. That morning, the usual loud chirping bird woke me up around 7am.

Speaking of spiders—i counted yesterday and there are 17 in my room. I've noticed a marked decrease in the amount of annoying little flying things like gnats and mosquitos so i'm here to announce that for everyone's protection, the best bug deterrent are spiders (Spiderwoman!!). The other one (for the outdoors or for the interior of Frank Lloyd Wright's living room) are bats (Batgirl!!). Something about eating 1200 mosquitos a minute. I'm not sure if i'm more disturbed by the image conjured of a bat snatching up 1200 mosquitos or that there are 1200 mosquitos in existence in the air at any given time. Is it one of those riddles that the bats are capable of that?

I'm planning a presentation of sorts here at Taliesin of my work to date on Tuesday, July 29. Not sure if the video will be done by then, since i've made it a hundred times more time-consuming by adding another animation element, but i'm really excited about it and think it will work great. It will be a long, busy 5 days until then. I'm glad to have a real reason to not participate in every event that occurs around here.

another project...

Started a dangerously simple project today (how might i be able to make it over-complicated and time-consuming—hmmmm). Many of the buildings here are in serious disrepair and there seem to be constant efforts to rebuild and renovate. But it almost seems to no avail. It seems a daunting task. I'm always amazed at how far a structure can go and then still not completely fall apart. But there's an urge to fix it, to make it "right". Here, the proceeds from the sale of all the gadgets, trinkets and whirli-dos go to helping to revitalize the buildings. I figured it only appropriate to try to help 2-fold—by buying the product (the 2 cheapest in the bookstore) and using those products to try and repair the buildings.

surreal sweaty stinky

I spoke too soon about the sleep thing. After no luck around 3 or 3:30am this morning, i finally gave up and turned on the light to read. Still woke up around 7am—Oh well.

Last night was one of the recurring Taliesin formals. I sum it up with the words in the title for this post. Cocktails were in an un-ventilated, un-fanned, un-air conditioned room where we all collectively sweated and held our glasses to our faces. I also made an attempt to walk out on the famous FLW cantelever walkway but was told it wasn't such a good idea. And someone had just mentioned to me a few days previous how it was structurally sound. I'm beginning to walk gingerly everywhere. Then there was dinner in an equally sweaty but at least well-fanned dining room. It was really strange having the students and apprentices serve us. I haven't figured out what the purpose of this event is but i found out that it actually happens at least once a month. It's truly like a wedding reception.

Maybe tomorrow i will have more inspiring and interesting things to post but i'm not sure my brain is functioning too well right now.

drawn

I think i've settled back down to where i can get some sleep again. Seems to have a lot to do with actual work level. I wonder, what will i do when i get back to Phoenix and can't spend 14 hours a day working on artwork? It's strange how once i create time to do it that it seems extremely purposeful but when i'm balancing it with a life where i actually have to make money, i can convince myself that it's peripheral or frivolous. It's a good thing i came here when i did. if only i could start charging $200 or $300 an hour for my graphic design work, i'd be set. :)

Above are sections from one of the large drawings i've been working on. I had originally started, thinking i would do something scroll-like but the long, horizontal shape was hard to work with. Now i'm working on a 36"x36" square which feels much more natural.

floating

Floated some more disaster stories today on the Wisconsin River. Luckily, there weren't any storms imminent (it seems whenever i innocently walk outside with my camera, they begin to brew) but the water was almost eerily placid. The raft actually ended up floating upstream. I have Tiana to thank for the great photos posted here. Always so good to know a talented photographer!

I had been filming water in different states, from placid to turbulent, and wasn't really sure what i was going to do with it. I thought maybe i could sandwich it into the imagery filmed of the rafts floating. Now i know i'll definitely incorporate it and will work on the idea through my drawings tonight. The large drawing i'm working on seems to be a documentation of the disaster work in progress...full of trials and errors.

Tiana and i had also discussed collaborating on a simple site-specific project on Taliesin and had considered how so many areas are in disrepair. After a trip to the gift shop (see Tiana equipped with the FLW handpuppet to the left), it was clear that the merchandise attached to the FLW fetishistic phenomena is a big source of helping finance repairs and maintenance of the sites. We thought of using the products themselves to simulate "band-aids" around the site—like taking a stack of Taliesin pencils (the cheapest item in the shop) to prop up a sagging overhang or using postcards to patch a broken window. Even in this project, i can see my sensibility for damaged areas, items, people. A tree fell in a recent storm and it made me pretty sad. Such a huge thing. It makes me want to fix it but i know it's futile. Is that the same sensibility working in this place?

Also, tending to the damage, neglected, ignored through small, persistent, caring actions. Not sure what that's about yet but i'm working on it. The floating of the disaster stories and the experience of reading them has given me a better sense for how everyone you meet is dealing with or has dealt with many forms of disaster and are the people they are because of it. It's this amazing persistent ability to overcome, adapt and transform that gives me a huge sense of understanding and sympathy for people.

so long gone

It's been several days but i'm realizing that maybe that's because it's been cool, sunny and beautiful since my last post. The day after the last storms, it was incredibly windy and i managed to make some recordings of it. I've just spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to get it to upload, and it won't work. Maybe i'll figure out a way to do it later.

I've been working pretty intensely on the disaster project...mostly filming and drawing. Also been drinking copious amounts of coffee which i think is actually making me more drowsy. Going to go over video footage today but i still have more to do. I'm still not sure about the sound.

A new visiting artist, Tiana Peterson arrived Sunday evening and will be staying here for 2 weeks (maybe longer?). She's doing some interesting things using the commodification of Frank Lloyd Wright as a reflection on American consumerism. I think her lecture will be interesting, at least to see the reactions from people in the audience. Not that everyone here worships FLW, but you never know.

The image below...
is a "portrait" of a knot mass with it's corresponding disaster story. Today i floated a few down the Wisconsin River and will be floating more as i get them in the stream flowing from the Taliesin pond and a creek that runs next to the highway and flows to the river. I have to admit, today when i filmed one of the paper rafts floating away down the river, i sincerely had a sense of relief—as if that story was being released or alleviated. I stood there and stared at the rippling river for a while, where the raft was and had since turned the corner. I couldn't find it with the camera anymore. The ink on the story had blurred and most likely, the knots would sink pretty soon.

they call her stormy

Another huge storm moved through last night with over an inch of rain...where does it all go? The night before we had almost 3 inches. The streams always seem to look the same.

I am questioning, questioning. Also trying to do without question but it is difficult. I'm considering the issue of value or non-value that i place in my work. By leaving a piece of myself behind in an abandoned area (like the vacant lots), i'm creating only the remotest possibility that i will be found. And then if i'm found, will i be seen as having value? Or will i be ignored, discarded or damaged? Why do i put myself out to be weathered and abandoned? It's like i'm playing a trick on people to force them to figure everything out, only what's the investment for them? Why should they bother? Do i expect that by uncovering something special within something mundane that this will be seen as a metaphor for myself? I seem to have a question about my specialness.

This all seems terribly self-indulgent and narcissistic even though rationally i know that i'm far from that (or so i've been told). I need to figure out a way to prove that something of value can be discovered in an area that seems valueless. I need to switch the roles of special vs. non-special; value vs. valueless; unique vs. mundane. After reading this NY Times article about the Mogaoku caves at Dunhuang in China, i thought of creating little mud piles that contained the knotted threads. For their smaller sculptures, they would actually use mud, mixed with grass or straw, as a strong, long-lasting material. Now these caves are in trouble because of the huge amount of tourists visiting it. It has so much value and it was created with devotional intent but then was buried underground for centuries.

I would put the mud piles in obvious places before a rain storm (they're so reliable here) or at a creek's edge, then document the mud washing away to leave the knot masses. Then, they too would either wash away, be revealed, or be discovered. I'm not sure about it all but i'm trying to not question myself as much. Depending on the weather today, i may try it out.

I'm still working on the knot masses that will float down the river/creek. I've tried several iterations and their flotation is kind of an issue. I was reminded by an Argentinian student here how the Vikings (her husband is Swedish) would wrap their dead in cotton, set them on a plank of wood, and send them into the water. Once the bodies were far away, they would shoot a fiery arrow and set the body ablaze. There are also the prayer papers that are set on the water...something about sending things downstream to be remembered and to hold hope.

And one last note regarding art and value—from another article in the NY Times about an exhibit with sand as the central theme:

One of the most remarkable works of all is by a self-taught folk artist from Iowa named Andrew Clemens (1857-94). Using variously colored sands found near his home Clemens created pictures and patterns inside glass bottles, one grain at a time. The example in this exhibition depicts an eagle waving an American flag over an intricately patterned, richly colored band of diamond shapes and interlocking organic forms.

The museum label notes that Clemens, who lost his hearing to encephalitis as a child, once worked for a dime museum creating sand bottles while people watched. When he completed one, a barker would ceremonially smash it to prove there was no trickery involved. It’s a curiously sad story, like an episode in a Dickensian novel.

shaft diversion

and now for a slight diversion...

Last night i had a dream about Shaft. In the dream i was actually watching the movie, Shaft, and mentioned how i'd seen it before. Then i started watching it but realized that when i'd seen it before, i had never really paid attention to it and therefore didn't really know what it was about. Without getting into too much graphic detail, it turns out that Shaft is gay, or at least bisexual, and he seems to be very conflicted about this. He knows it's his true nature and is really a very sensitive guy but isn't sure how to reveal it. The entire movie (in my dream) takes place inside an apartment that is almost entirely white—white furniture, walls, linens...i think even Shaft, himself, is wearing white. Quite innocent. I feel for Shaft, but i don't know what to tell him that will help his situation (yes, at this point, i'm in the movie). He seems very somber and quiet. I woke up with some funky soul music in my head that was playing in the dream but can't remember what it is now (NOT the Shaft theme).

better bug go away

And an update on the bug repellent? THIS is the best one. no DEET (which i guess is toxic bad stuff contained in most OFF) and it doesn't totally stink. Natural repellent that actually feels cool when the wind blows.

filming-ing

Today, i'm going to start filming for the video project i have planned where i'm floating the knot masses down a creek. i've already filmed little bits and pieces, like the whirlpools of the water given the heavy undercurrent, and numerous trial runs, but hopefully this time i won't get caught in another storm like above. Yesterday, as i walked the 10 or 15 minutes down to the area i wanted to film at and do a few tests with the knot masses and whether they'd sink, i checked out the sky on my way and saw a lot of cumulus clouds building, but along the perimeter. Nothing too dark or ominous. It was mid-afternoon and maybe my Phoenix mentality of storms only striking in the evening was dominating my logic. I was focusing on filming the water, throwing things in, pulling them back out, tying thread here and there, tying branches to the knots, etc etc, when a cold gust of wind hit me (it HAD been in the mid-80s and really still and humid). I look up and there is a sky about as dark as the one you see above hovering over me. I think i actually can hear me on the video saying "oh shit". Then proceeds me running like a freak down the side of Wisconsin highway 23, my camera bag jostling around at my side. I had already gone for a run that same way earlier in the morning and wasn't really up for another one. By the time i finally reached Taliesin and had a whole tour group staring at me, the storm apparently just skirted us and no rain fell. I felt after all of that, it should have rained but oh well, that's the temperament of weather.

Today looks much better—sunny and clear, and i even have an assistant. I've dropped the books for the time being and i'm just heavy into the making. There just never seems to be enough time. It's amazing how that becomes relative given how much time you have. I wish it was always this way.

Flooding

I thought now would be a good time to share some of what I've found on the flooding that occurred here in Spring Green. For one, i was told about 2 videos: one that showed the Taliesin driveway where there's a large pond flooded out all the way to County Rd C and the other was a video of cows floating down the river under an overpass (don't worry, they manage to find ground to stand on).





It sounds like Taliesin was surrounded by a moat of water...not even from the river but just from runoff and the creeks overflowing. I keep trying to imagine it as i look at the area around me and see the patches of damaged crops but it's just so hard to see. I think it's the same as when you know a person as an adult and hear about some traumatic incident that occurred when they were younger and have a hard time picturing them dealing with that situation. Here stands a somewhat together human being. Trying to imagine them amidst chaos and how they might be is difficult because you believe in the self that's put before you. Here stands the placid green pastures of Wisconsin with a mildly flowing stream next to them.

Another silly, strange video i found was one of the irrigation systems still running while an entire field of crops are flooded out. This is also in Spring Green.



What i was surprised by is how calm the water looks. When i was looking for an area to do filming for my piece, I wanted to find moving water that made noise. Now it seems as though it happens almost quietly—like someone creeping up on you. How something so seemingly calm can be so damaging is unsettling.

Birdier

There seems to be a rumor that a somewhat endangered species of the red-headed woodpecker is nesting in the giant oak tree outside my window. I may have seen it this morning but i can't be sure since i forgot the thoughtful binoculars my partner's mother gave to me! This is what they supposedly look like (the bird, not the binoculars).

But these guys crack me up. As i go running down a trail next to some corn fields, they follow me—flying over my head—until i'm out of what i guess is their territory. I know they're probably really common around here, but they're different looking than a pigeon or sparrow so seem interesting to me.

Calvino

Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had; the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.

—Invisible Cities, Italo Calvino

Timelines

There are an unbelievable amount of websites with timelines of disasters. To name a few:

http://www.mapreport.com/subtopics/d.html
http://www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0001440.html
http://www.intute.ac.uk/sciences/hazards/timeline.html

It's interesting to see what some people consider to be more monumental disasters than others. One, for instance, always seems to have to mention a disaster in the UK, even though its consequences pale in comparison to the disasters occurring in other areas of the world at that time.

After seeing these sites, i've thought that i'll take the stories i collect of personal disasters and place them on a timeline alongside disasters that occurred in history.

I'm still having trouble figuring out how to access the river where it's not completely placid. Maybe that's asking too much since that might be a bit of a risk. I remember the river in Richmond, VA was insanely accessible from many really dangerous angles. Here, everything is coated with thick foliage and poison ivy. But i want to get a good sound recording of moving water and also want to test out whether my string masses with sink when i toss them into the water. So i'm waiting, waiting. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Sunday. I hate when waiting 24 hours can drag out to seem endless.

One major thing i've come to realize about this piece i have in mind is that it seems to be an attempt to heal something—it could be me or others. Or it could be healing myself by attempting to heal others. It could be the sense that we're always in a state of being damaged and healed all at the same time.

And another thing...these Taliesin tour groups sure can get a little irritating. There's nothing like being stared at like a museum exhibit. I feel bad for the students who have to put up with it year-round, here and in Scottsdale.

bugs

Bug repellant update:

My new favorite type of insect repellant is Cutter Skinsations Aloe and Vitamin E. It prevents me from smelling like a walking medicine cabinet and supposedly moisturizes skin. We'll see. The mosquitos are still finding the small 1/4" squares of skin that i've forgotten to cover or spray, including behind my ears, my thumb and knee exposed from my ripped jeans.

Ok, since i wrote this i think this stuff may keep away the mosquitos but attract the flies and bees—what's the deal with that?

Defenses

The bugs here are incredible. My new perfume scent is Off unscented (yeah right) insect repellant. I put it on every morning and then again in the late afternoon. But i'm going to collaborate with Saskia Jorda (the artist in residence coordinator here) to design a mobile mosquito netting outfit of sorts. My preliminary sketches are shown on the left.

Some new interesting findings is that the man-made lake at Wisconsin Dells that flooded during the early June floods this year not only created a new tributary to the Wisconsin River that Taliesin sits adjacent to but was once actually a glacial lake before an ice dam broke and forged the rest of the Wisconsin River that now flows to the Mississippi. It's an interesting development to me to think of how far back disasters go and also the mirroring of current events—draining a lake and overwhelming the Wisconsin River. I still need to do more research to understand how the area here was affected by the floods but i'm definitely planning on taking a trip to the Wisconsin Dells.

I also went for a run this morning to try to get some recordings and photos of the river close up. Unfortunately, the river is pretty quiet where i took the photo you see but tomorrow i'll try out some other paths along the river's edge to see what i can discover. A plan is brewing for a piece using the knotted string masses i've been working on for over a year, video of them flowing down the river, stories of people's personal disasters (as well as my own) and a video/animation that combines all of these.

Disastering

my room in the Tan-y-deri house at Taliesin, Wisconsin. i'm in the process of adapting it to be my own (including the kleenex around the edge of the windowsill to keep out the mosquitos)

Out of all the things, the most interesting one i've come across (besides the state of Nebraska) is a pamphlet found in the Taliesin kitchen: "Project Recovery: Suggestions for coping with the emotional aftermath of a disaster".

The paragraph on the cover states:

Disasters often strike with little or no warning. In an instant, your home and community can be damaged or destroyed and forever changed. Even if your home or business does not suffer directly, you can still feel a disaster's impact.

On my way here, I kept hoping i could catch a glimpse of the disaster remains from the catastrophic flooding in Iowa and Wisconsin. The most i noticed were some crackled muddy areas that once were crops and a damaged barn or shed in Nebraska that i imagined (not necessarily accurately) was hit by a tornado. When i looked across the fields of Iowa and Nebraska, i imagined the weather, not serene and sunny as it was, but cloudy and ominous—the clouds a purple-green. I tried to transport myself to that feeling of no-escape, because there is no shelter, there's only continuous open space.

I felt disappointed in Iowa that most of the floodwaters in my purview had receded and traveled down the Mississippi, even though i heard on the radio of a town that was still coping, weeks later, with being underwater. Imagine the bugs. Imagine the smell—that rank, fermenting stench that i'd smell growing up in southeastern PA after a week straight of rain. I never paid attention then to whether the creeks and rivers in our area were overflowing.

But i'm captivated by disaster and compelled to want to see it—maybe like most people who try to catch the latest news until another disaster takes its place. Think of all the events this year: earthquake in China, Typhoon in Myanmar (?), tornadoes in the midwest, torrential rains and flooding in Iowa, Wisconsin, Illinois, Missouri. Then there are all of the man-made disasters like the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the criminal election in Zimbabwe, the riots in Tibet and China and the hunting down of police officers in Juarez, Mexico. There are the disasters on the local scale that I assume the rest of the country knows about or should know about—the crashing of 2 news helicopters, the racial profiling by the county sheriff, serial shooters and serial rapists and the imminent downfall and collapse of the historic Icehouse as it becomes overwhelmed with debt and in need of repair.

The parallel i keep coming back to is that of personal disaster. My fascination and concern over disasters locally and across the world relates directly to my concern and feelings of lack of control over my own disaster—past and present. The initial events were years ago but i'm still dealing with the aftermath. There is no pamphlet for being 33 and dealing with the residual effects of emotional and physical abuse, neglect, and being made to feel a nuisance and worthless.

I know the work i'll do here will end up being about this. I was morbidly enthusiastic when i heard of the torrential rains affecting the exact location that i would be traveling to. I tracked the flooding levels on the National Weather Service website and New York Times, wondering if things could possibly get worse.

There's something about locating myself amongst a disaster to give my own some credence. To be able to witness a force that destroys or attempts to destroy that which seems so valuable, permanent and precious. But it never manages to completely obliterate it. There are pieces left, even if just in the memory, that is what causes everyone the most pain. As it says in the pamphlet as a resulting behavior or thought of a disaster: "Frequently replaying the events and circumstance of the disaster in your mind."

It's this proximity to almost death—to almost destruction, but continuance—knowing that at some point, it will end, leaving you no remnants of stress or pain because you, with it, will be gone.

leaving

By this time tomorrow i'll be on the road towards Wisconsin. No more bus rides for over a month.

I've procrastinated the planning and the packing for as long as possible and now i'm left, as usual, at the last minute to frantically coordinate everything in my life into a few bags. My stomach is twisted. My mind feels scattered and half broken. And I'm going to visit my grandfather in the hospital in about an hour.

Change happens all the time but i know sometimes it's good to force it upon yourself. This has been a long-term effort that has, until now, been a concept. In retrospect, I'm sure it will seem minor. But for now, the movement from interior to exterior seems like a wide, dark gap. A drive. A simple drive across mostly flat land through New Mexico, Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, Wisconsin—seemingly uneventful but potentially emotionally rugged. Flatness and expansiveness has the tendency to contrast with other areas of upheaval. My thoughts, like a silhouette against the landscape.

It should be interesting.

hot fat

When i left work the other day, it was 113º  and 3% humidity outside.

I have to walk across a McDonalds parking lot, whose oil effluent (smell and material) is hosed down every morning and evening. I always have to navigate the frantic drivers heading towards the drive-up and their hamburger blinders (must get burger, must get burger) but on this particular day, not only was the line for the drive-up wrapped around the building but was forming in other directions, too. Cars angled themselves from the east and south street entrance. A car coming from the west inched forward. They were all converging, converging.

The loud hum of car air conditioner fans temporarily drowned out the sounds of street traffic and my eyes sizzled and choked on a mixture of dryness, dust, car fumes, and ambient cooking oil smell. The parking lot was full. I didn't want to be too conspicuous by staring into the vehicles of the waiting mass—assuming their universal fear of the world outside of a set of doors—but i wanted to try to catch some similarities that would all drive them to this place all at once at 5:25pm.

What was it about the searing dry heat and the comparable and even more unpleasant, searing and stuffy car that lured them to unknown quantities of oil, saturated fat, large servings and non-ice cream ice cream? With gas at over $4 a gallon and the possibility that they could be stuck in the drive thru chute for almost 10 minutes, what could be so enticing as to bring them there? In a city full of eating options including large overly-cooled grocery stores with ready-made dishes, WHY would you choose to remain in your vehicle and watch the gauge on your fuel tank dip lower and lower?

Sometimes i'm like an alien living in this strange land—a place where sweating off your entire backside is preferable to lifting your body up and walking 10 yards to a door. I assume some of them stared at me in wonderment and pity, thinking who in their right mind would choose to walk anywhere.

Are we not humans? Do we not have legs, muscular systems, lungs, blood, brains, etc—all coordinating with each other to make it possible for us to move? Have our bodies become so detached from our minds that a small, contradicting, self-defeating alien shouts out that we should do counter to what we're designed to do? It's a sad view. It's a view from a bizarre dream. It's a scene out of a movie i haven't seen that's about something that we like to think hasn't happened yet.

Nonconformity

I have always had issues with doing things the way everyone else does. It probably started even earlier, but i can remember as far back to the age of 5 or 6. We were riding the bus from Sinking Spring to (probably) Reading or the Berkshire Mall or maybe the VF Outlets to buy some velcroed sneakers or Lee brand jeans for my dad (our jeans were either handed-down or bought on employee discount at Sears). We must have sat towards the back because i remember having a clear view of the backs of everyone's heads. People sat dutifully in place, facing forward, quiet. Me, my sister and mom were probably pretty quiet too considering my mother's tendency towards that and our tendency to not want to piss off my mom by acting up.

I watched the backs of everyone's head as the bus bounded over potholes and around curvy roads. The bus went left—the people went left. The bus turned right—the people leaned right. The bus went over an especially deep pothole—the people's head jostled in uniform movement. It really bothered me. I can't remember if i had a sense of any order in the universe at that age despite my scary ponderings of what existed beyond the stars. Laying awake at night on my top bunk (my sister rolled around too much and would fall out of bed so had to be on the bottom bunk) i would try to imagine what was beyond the stars and then what was beyond that and beyond that and beyond that. Then i was feeling dizzy and crying and completely unable to fall to sleep. The vastness of the universe was too much for me.

Witnessing people's head dutifully falling into a uniform bus-moving pattern was too much for me as well. If the bus leaned left, i leaned right. If it went over a bump and people's head fell into a rhythm of movement, i would try my best to do the opposite of each of their movements, either by sitting perfectly still or yanking my neck and back counter to any natural force of nature. In the process, i'm sure i must have bonked heads with my sister or rammed into my mom's cool, freckley shoulder once or twice. They assisted in the process by not questioning my behavior or trying to correct me in my proper bus movements.

I still think about it now nearly every time i ride the bus. I still feel a little bit of annoyance that it really does make more sense to just allow myself to move the way the bus wants me to move me. I still want to pull an ever-expanding set of detachable puppet strings to keep everyone from moving the same way. "Break free!" i want to say, or wanted to say. "Loosen the shackles of this thing we call movement dynamics or physics or perpetual motion!". "Determine your own movements! Don't let anyone tell YOU how to move!".

It seemed to make more sense then. "Fools." i thought then. I assumed i had defined my individuality and personal power by fighting that which seemed inevitable. 

Sizzling bacon

Riding the bus this time of year in Phoenix becomes 2 things: Survival Mode and Funky Season.

Survival Mode

I realized pretty quickly after moving to Phoenix 12 years ago that taking the bus here was different than any other place. In the "hot season" (as I'll call it which can start as early as April and last as long as mid-October) it starts to become a matter of personal survival. The strongest, the most resourceful, the most clever do the best and are rewarded by a fully arctic-mode bus air conditioning system. The weakest are quickly dwindled away either by fainting or become so overheated and sun-crazy that they become the person walking down the street gesturing and talking loudly to themselves with a full, leathery tan. I guess you could call either of those a form of heat exhaustion or sun stroke. Neither seem fun to me.

To prevent this, what I've come up with is a bag weighted-down more and more by what become essential travel items. The basics are what they suggest to you on the friendly clip art and stock photography PSAs provided on the bus. Happy smiling people stare down at you wearing hats, white clothing and an umbrella while another couple chug on water bottles. So that starts the bare minimum for me. The full array could consist of:

1. water
2. hat
3. umbrella
4. long sleeve shirt (to cover from sun or to stay warm on the bus)
5. blue ice packs (to keep food, lunch or water cold—it will actually get hot)
6. snacks (sometimes the bus breaks down while running the a/c on full blast in 110 degree weather)
7. book (for waiting and reading on the bus)
8. iPod (so pissed-off people who are waiting un-preparedly don't talk your ear off about how late the bus is—what am I supposed to do about it?)
9. phone (to call for help if you're having a stroke? or when that pissed-off person gets annoyed that you're not as annoyed as them which sounds ludicrous but has actually happened to me "well you're awful patient!")

Funky Season

When the temperature is consistently over 110, despite the "dry heat", the body still is sweating profusely and there's really nothing that can be done about it. It's funky time. Time to start recognizing that all those odors you used to think emanated from things like garbage cans or strange greasy alleys come from human beings. And actually, it's just the guy standing up in front of you while you sit and try VERY HARD to breathe through your mouth, stare as far downward as possible and look intensely interested in the book you're not-reading. Even you could be the funky person—you're only human and you're not different than the other people there. It's not as though people forgot to shower, it's just that it doesn't matter anymore. I think Phoenix was even voted the sweatiest city by some deodorant company (do they sell more to us?). And while we'll never compare to a New Orleans day of 98 degrees and 90% humidity, there's something equally unsettling and apocalyptic about starting your day off at 7am and 95 degrees with a high of at least 110. It is an oven, fair and square. Stand in front of any oven long enough and you will squint your eyes and start to sweat.

Maybe i should add eye drops to that list? Oh yeah, and a dust mask for when monsoon season hits and dust storms hit oh-so-conveniently right around quitting time.

My bag is getting heavy.

Why is it so DESERT-Y here?

First off—I live in Phoenix. Phoenix is located within the Sonoran desert.

When you ride the bus a lot, it's unavoidable that you listen in on others conversations. It could be a good, bad or completely benign thing. A lot of the time, the conversations are in Spanish which can either help you learn it by exposure or leave you completely in the dark—only picking up on key words.

And then there are the ones where you don't hear anything at all because you're either zoned out, focused on your book, or listening to an iPod. With these, a few key phrases zoom in or shout out and, when taken completely out of context, provide me with humorous speculation on what in the world the conversation could be about.

Why is it so DESERT-Y here?

The person in question stood out when she got on at Sky Harbor Airport and stood in the center of the aisle, hands on nothing, and fell over about 4 or 5 people as the bus took off around an extreme curve. She seemed to spread herself out in all the empty spaces available between a rolling suitcase, un-pillowcased throw pillow (like, it was just the raw, white fiber), an ancient-looking hand-held video game and a book that looked like it was a textbook on how to become a good christian. She was smiling a lot and trying to engage people.

This was obviously her first bus ride—at least in this city.

I say this because there are numerous people who get on the bus here who have obviously recently relocated and want everyone to know where they came from and (often) why Phoenix is so weird and how much they dislike it. What surprises me is that usually, things don't seem too weird or unlikable until one of these persons gets on the bus and tries to talk to you about why they hate where you live.

I don't know if this is what she ended up talking to someone about or not. It seemed as though she was just trying to get directions. but then out came this statement, brighter than the midday sun reflecting off downtown's mirrored buildings.

Why is it so DESERT-Y here?