Photobucket

Once again I’m looking at the blank box on the screen with little or nothing to say. And at each of those difficult moments, I turn away and look at something else on my browser. Tabbed browsers are my nemesis!

Think I’ll go wash my cutlery and then try again.

Photobucket

Walking the streets of lower Manhattan today, and I passed two powerfully fragrant magnolia trees (this tree isn’t them). Spring is coming, haltingly, forward. The trees on my home block are not yet showing any signs of budding.

Photobucket

On the way to work today, the thought struck me that it’s hard to talk about not making art without it sounding like an alarm. I (and I think most of us) are used to thinking about the process of working as one of dramatic highs and lows, where every stumble is something to be dreaded and avoided.

I haven’t made much formal work lately. Yet I do not feel “blocked” per se. The camera is still always with me, pictures get taken, posts get made here, and the occasional drawing happens. Still, none of this seems to be adding up to much. Is it the notion of “adding up” itself that causes the problem? Or is it the temptation to make all of these posts little moments of problem posed, problem solved?

In all of my written journals, my default voice is one of complaint. And complaint is always safer than expressions of pleasure, because what do you say to Pollyanna? Friends are having a hard time, and I don’t want to go around plopping rainbows on them. I’m reading Reborn a selection of Susan Sontag’s notebooks, and at 16 years old she is intellectually intimidating and insufferable in the absolute nature of her ecstasies. I certainly don’t want these notes to end up in that pile.

So: I’m not working, much. It’s not a big deal, but there it is.

Photobucket

How can it be almost four pm already? It’s the time of the year when everything just comes on the heels of everything else. The people I work with are short tempered and stressed. I’m trying to cultivate my calm.

I’ve also taken on a few days of additional teaching as a favor to a friend these past couple of weeks and it’s been instructive to compare the cultures of various schools.

When teaching, I always wish that I could listen more and speak less. I feel like I do alright in that regard in my regular classes, but sometimes the temptation to clarify and restate is too great when I’m in new situations. I end up feeling abashed for all my mouthiness. The classroom is an interesting situation, given that what I’m trying to teach is critical thinking as much as it is creative practice. For me, those two things have always gone hand in hand. But the trick with teaching them is that you can’t dictate them, you have to create the condition where people find their way to them. Hence the struggle to say the right thing.

Nine times out of ten, if I’m not saying something, it’s because I’m trying to figure out what to say. The situation is worsened in a medium like email, where emotions can run high and escalate at a moment’s notice. Emails seem to carry with them the injunction to be answered point for point and tone for tone, for good or for ill. I see people ratcheting up each others’ stress levels and look for a way to moderate that. But then again some people do not wish to be moderated.

Listening and breathing continue to be excellent sugestions, as much as I am tempted to ignore them.

Photobucket

Here, on Bleeker Street, on the former site of a lovely antique shop, Marc Jacobs is paying some wretched NYU drama student to hop around in his window in a frightening rat costume. I tried to get some pictures of passers-by averting their eyes from the humiliation, but everyone was either moving too fast or crossing the street to avoid the shameful spectacle.

Jacobs has staked his claim on any number of village locations in efforts to maintain the sales of his Banana Republic-esque designs, which, as the vernacular would have it, suck. Now we can add fursuit exploitation and child trauma to the list of his many crimes.

Photobucket

Just a litle while ago I arrived, tardy and out of breath, for my long delayed meeting with Ryan, A.K.A. bobo_dreams, one of my favorite LJ people. It seems crazy that it’s taken this long for us to meet face to face, but as we talked through the last couple of years, it seems like the delay was right. I’ll say this, all the charm and complexity, all the thought that you see in Ryan’s photography and drawing, is right there when you talk to him.

We brunched, as the queer often do, and the location was one of my favorites: Elephant and Castle. The talk ranged over past history, comics, the redemptive power of romance, and what’s wrong with Texas. He explained to me who the heck Emma Frost is. We both vowed that this is not the last conversation. Now we’re in a race to see who posts about it first.

Check out his blog as well as his work over on Act.ive.ate.

Photobucket

Drippy outside, but this time it feels like spring. Yesterday I read Alan Bennett’s The Uncommon Reader, which is a lovely fantasy about how people become writers. There are some good jokes Had a full vegetarian day and am in the middle of another.

Not a lot of organizing happened yesterday after all. The desk still has a bunch of issues. I have made some headway on email, however.

And now I’m excited about summer plans. And they’ve started running that crazy-ass Optimum triple play reggaeton commercial again, which I love.

Photobucket

This is my desk. At work. Where I am.

It needs attention. Attention in the form of pile reduction. I’ve come to the point where fauxganizing (for explanation see here) no longer does the trick. Things need to actually either be acted upon or put away.

I’ll prepare my burnt offerings for the productivity gods. I guess this falls under the strength to change those things I can.

Here’s an unrelated but time wastery-type question: Do any of you with experience with WordPress know how to track how many people are subscribing to your RSS feed? The dashboard tracks page views, but I’m assuming that those are independent of subscribers.

Photobucket

Maybe it’s just me, and years of living on the sexual margins have made me all to ready to see hints and innuendo every where I look, but even from my warped perspective, I have to ask what exact message is this woman trying to send with her canvas tote with the shackles and noose on the side?

She was coolly reading the New Yorker from when she got on at Seventh Avenue til when she got off at 34th Street, in an outfit that had no other hints of kinkiness. Is the image an invitation to bondage or an expression of freedom from it? Some random importation of violent motifs onto the side of canvas totes as part of a fashion statement? I’ll never know.

Photobucket

A day of reviving old projects and looking at some art. Spent this evening with Sarah Schulman at the reading of Caryl Churchill’s latest play, a compressed provocation on the topic of Israel. The format: ten minutes of play, one hour of moderated discussion, ten minutes of the play reread. From the audience, Mandy Patankin told us how he would “attack” the material. The moderator stuck his oar in a bit too much much I thought. Sarah was unimpressed. After wards, over sushi we traded stories of our religious experience and (lack of) belief. The unagi was excellent. Sarah told me the place is cult run.