When the Moms and I went to New York we stayed in a hotel with a hallway painted gold, plaster busts of naked women coming out of the walls. She was resting on one of our suitcases in the lobby, out of breath from walking there when she said:
"oh molly. i'm sorry you got my genes. I can't stand doing the same thing every day either."
and then she told me my father never finished college. something about too many drugs; a funny story about acid and waking up underneath an airplane on a runway on a trip to california.
huh. wish someone had thought to mention that one before.
Stretching myself in a million directions right now: at least four geographic locations, six possible future residences, five academic disciplines, most of which i've lost practice in. Two majors i'll have to choose between eventually, three or four frames for art-making, five mediums to juggle, at least one sense of self for every paper journal i've completed (so that's something like fifteen now?) Still unconsciously answering to every age but twenty and reeling from the realization that school ends soon.
I'm writing a monstrous paper about women who internalize male misoginist practices towards themselves and others, taught by our mass media to see those practices as the currency of power. I'm basing a lot of it on Pedagogy of the Opressed, which I've been waiting to use since high school. (see: sex & the city, grrl power, the "loophole woman", cardio-strip classes, christie heifner, CEO of playboy, the charlie's angels remakes, christina's aguieleria's dirrty video, judith regan.) whoops, there goes my spot, fully blown up.
I'm making movies about memory, cutting sound bytes, writing histories of things I once loved and now know too much about, measuring butterfly wings, scrambling desperately to understand this whole experimental film thing, fighting the digital world and new media while spending alltogether too much time on my computer, learning intermittently to build a bike in anticipation of summer, forcing myself to dig and complete reflective essays, including a mind-boggling explanation of why I was suspended my sophmore year of high school for eight long weeks. Shooting my portfolio, applying for internships, applying for service jobs, applying for something to apply myself to.
driving a lot and pounding my fist on the wheel.
summer looks like somerville, and biking again, and finally finishing that novel, you know, the one I've been working on for like two years now? (oh, how I wish there were a less pretentious way to say that) If there's one thing I want to produce by fall, it's that motherfucking first draft. All I want right now is a porch to sit on and some time to digest.
It's also looking like Oregon and Philly and maybe Seattle. Printmaking and getting to see my Allston kids again, kicking it on rooftops, proceeding to round two.