Saturday, February 25, 2006

The confetti makes the trucks fly higher.


It changed a little part of me. All sarcasm aside, I never would have imagined it would be quite so lovely to see 9000 lbs hurling through the air. The night started with a video montage of monster trucks in slow motion edited to Teenaged beautiful my darling, simply glorious, hand me my champagne.

It's a little bit like a rodeo. I mean, it’s a circuit. These drivers are all competing against each other, yet, they travel together for months on end. There is also the romance of pro wrestling involved. Seriously bear with me for a minute. Clearly, they stage as much as they can. The Grave Digger always wins the race. Always. He is the best. The proverbial outlaw of the circuit. The bad guy who we love to hate. He reminds us that Americana has a rugged dark side; he is the cowboy who we've forgotten. Grave Digger wins the races because he personifies the out dated American man to a T. His son has joined the circuit, drives a truck that is set to look like a Tasmanian devil. He is called Taz. Grave Digger is a family man, rebel without a cause who spreads his seed for the entertainment of the world. He is not a showman, so to speak. Rather understated for the monster truck world. He lost the freestyle competition to his son, he jumps but it is an ethical jump. A jump meant to get the job done, leaving the awe out of the picture.

I am assuming that most of the people that go to monster truck rallies haven't really had a lot of training in photography. There were flashes galore. Kind charming just watching people flash in the metrodome, like that tiny little strobe is going to affect the only indoor lighting brighter than the sun. But just about everybody with a camera was using their flash. During the freestyle portion of the evening, my breath was stolen from me over and over and over again. Every time a truck would make a jump over old buicks, and rusty school buses, the metrodome would rain with flashes. It was like at that moment, someone through confetti in the air and it would slowly fall until the next time there was a totally mind-blowing death defying gravity-fucking jump to save all of us from ourselves.

So what I want to know, and I’m sure we have all thought about it. Where do the school busses come from? How do they get so many?

Is the school bus I used to ride on being flown over as I write by a gasoline deity? Is the place where I carved my name into the seat still there? A part of me is still on that bus, my good sir, Grave Digger.

Friday, February 24, 2006

the lost occurrences of random vulnerability

There is something to be said about a healthy dose of vulnerability. I don't have much left anymore. It keeps dwindling dwindling dwindling. At one point it was overwhelming to me, now I absolutely crave that feeling again. Fuck this confidence. I wish it could be shed, but now that it has been cultivated it only grows like insidious weeds. Try to take me down, just try. It can't be done my friend, not any more.

There was a beautiful time when I was in a transition, vulnerable soul, growing an exoskeleton. A brief period yes. But it was so profoundly lovely in that glass house. Where the sun refracted in the eye like a blade to the heart.

One time, I brought my boyfriend to my mother's house for a photo shoot. I wont go into gross detail but it involved a gas mask and two bottles of ketchup. We finished shooting and he went up stairs to play my mother's keyboard while I cleaned up my mess. I got one, mind you one, paper towel and went to work cleaning the ketchup off the floor. It had been a lovely day, free of most stress and burden. But for some ungodly reason when I sat down to clean the ketchup up and I realized that that one goddamned paper towel wasn't going to cut it, I immediately went into hysterics. I just sat totally hypnotized by the red vinegar nightmare sobbing and wailing alone in the basement. I screamed and balled bloody murder and at some point my boyfriend heard me, and thinking that I poked my eye out or something of that terrible nature, he flew downstairs to rescue me. When he arrived, I froze, snapped out of the hysteria, and he started laughing. And I started laughing between the sobs. It was just so fucking ridiculous. Who knows why I was so moved by that, just at the time that ketchup seemed so unconquerable.

And again...

Last summer there was many a day that was unbearably hot in my tiny crusty apartment. My boyfriend at the time (different from the above boyfriend) had air conditioning, so I had been spending most of my time over there. When we first started dating I was a hard shell to crack. I baited him with my secrets, and refused to let him in, so to speak. We had decided that day that we were going to spend the evening apart, seeing that we had seen each other just about everyday for three weeks. I had biked to work that morning on my 40lb cruiser, when it was not quite so hot outside. However by the time I was done with school that day, it was 97 degrees out and I had to bike the beast home. I had already over drafted twice that week buying photo paper, so I had not eaten lunch (only coffee all day) to boot. Needless to say when I finally got home to the oven, I was sick, sweating like a hog, nauseated, and completely hopeless. My roommate was working till late that night, and in my solitude I lost it. I just started screaming and balling like someone had stolen my baby or something. Finally I cracked and called my boyfriend and just babbled on and on. He was worried so he hurried over ASAP to find me puffy-eyed, breathing spastically, eating an orange popsicle, sitting in front of a puney fan listening to the virgin suicides sound track with my hair sticking up all over the place. The expression on his face was priceless. Half horror, half amusement, and a pinch of adoration. We went to his house and I immediately passed out on his bed in the basement still breathing like I was going into asthmatic convulsions...

Hindsight tells me, that the world was much more lovely when I was prone to feel like this. When these were the things worth crying over.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Rest easy fair stranger, the world will soon fall into place.

It is really amazing how strangers use small talk to exhibit themselves. All of these verbal cues, each telling us valuable things in such short poetic sentences. Effortless, completely effortless my dear.

I was getting coffee the other day and the woman in line ahead of me was just rambling on and on to the barista. The barista looked uncomfortable, but he also had this very sincere sort of apologetic expression on his face. I realized that they didn't know each other even remotely. My attention was caught and I was sucked into the bottomless vortex of eves dropping, when I heard her order a muffin. She was debating what kind to get. She knew she was hungry; it had been a while since she had last eaten. Being that it was quite early in the morning, I take it that she was telling him, and me subsequently (being in obvious ear shot) that she is either much too busy or much to broke to eat all that often. If she had said that in the afternoon, I would have guess that she just woke up late and hadn’t eaten yet TODAY. But since it was so early, the way she emphasized it, it was clear that she didn't eat last night either. Then she went on about what kind to get. There was only two varieties avaliable: bran, and lemon-poppy seed. She finally chose bran. Her vocal reasoning was, that she didn't want to fail her drug test today. She was smiling so pleasantly from ear to ear when she said this, pride was oozing out her rather large pores. Now, it really wasn't difficult to gather that something was changing in her life, and by the way she smiled, it was something she has been waiting for. Most often when we take a drug test, it is because one is on the verge of accomplishing something new. Something that is important enough that it is necessary to make sure that they won't fuck it up by showing up hella high everyday. I suppose it could have been a moderately random drug test from her 15-year and counting desk job, but her smile and tone suggested differently. She was so fucking happy about that drug test; she needed to tell someone, even if it was the local barista.

I could have listened all day, cycling in my mind what her life was like. Unfortunately she was close to being late for something (and she called it SOMETHING), so the conversation ended. I ordered my drink, kind of speechless and sat and stared at the wall. So now I know all of these things about this stranger that I don't think I will ever see again, and if I do I doubt I will recognize her. I have lost a little sleep, to be honest. I am so worried that things didn't work out for her. She was so close to having it all right….

Sunday, February 05, 2006

How to make a Kendra dance.

Eric, just give me my fucking camera back.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

The virgin under my floor.

I am staying in Plymouth with my father while he recuperates from his surgery (he had a full knee replacement). His house is lovely, on Medicine Lake. However the commute is quite a bit longer than I am accustomed to.

Yesterday night, I was making my nightly commute into the cities, to get coffee, when I saw a miraculous thing. There was heavy snowfall, making driving barely visible. The snowflakes were enormous, and the volume of precipitation vast. It was the kind of snowfall that distributes light pollution into a milky haze over an ominous starless night. In the distance, about a mile ahead of me, there was a glow that far exceeded the nightly haze. It was glowing bright white, as opposed to the orange glow of incandescent streetlights. While approaching it, I was becoming overwhelmed with the idea that something momentous was happening there.

As I passed the point of origin, I realized that it was in fact, a high school football field, with all of its stadium lights on. Initially, I was very disappointed at seeing this. I was hoping for something more mythic. Something dealing with virgins, out of body beating hearts, cannibalism, and things of that nature. I at that moment abandoned my plan to exit at the glow, and I sped readily past it. No investigation, nothing.

Until just moments ago, this was my understanding of this circumstantial situation. Only in the last few minutes of staring into space, did I realize how great my lack of content for this was. Now I am frantically trying to think of why an empty football field would have all the lights on. As I drove by, I saw no one, not a soul or even the trace of recent occupation, or even the hit of intent of future occupation. A totally empty football field. I have surmised that those lights take a certain amount of effort to turn on, and were using enormous amounts of energy. Here I am, sitting in Caffetto, hiding in the corner, thinking that there must have been something to investigate after all.

Tonight, when I drove past, the lights were off as usual. I missed my virgin, my predecessors. I missed my spot light. My chance to see my breath light from every corner of outdoor space in divine crystalline light is passed. I hope the virgin was beautiful and trembling in fear during her last moments on the suburban football field.

With any luck, she will be buried under my floorboards.