Sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it.

"He sits in the sun rearranging the past, and tries to keep warm. He knows words, says them, but has forgotten their meaning. They hang all about, sparkling, just out of reach, the crystals on a chandelier he can't light. His memory rings like a wind chime, sounding clear and bright, then dwindles to random jingles and clinks."

-- Another from Lou Beach's 420 Characters

While AV Club reviewer Rowan Kaiser appreciated what Beach did within the character limit, s/he thought it wound up being somewhat gimmicky and fell short of being satisfying -- maybe it would have been better if it were geared more towards jokes. On my end, I liked how clever and funny he could be, but I also really fancied the in medias res ones, which tended to have more heft to them. 

420 Characters provides a nice accompaniment to the following: waiting in post office lines, taking a hot bath, eating bi bim bop. Con: speed readers are done before their tea has cooled.

Lou Beach, You're Killing Me.

While I'm on a Hunger Games jag, I suspected it would be exceedingly rude to bring my borrowed copy of Mockingjay into the steaming bathtub with me last night. So I mussed up 420 Characters instead, which is also a shameful choice, since the packaging and production is so very nice. The paper itself has a lovely, smooth finish and the red bookcloth of the hardcover (imprinted with spare gold lettering) is just the kind of the thing that urges you to  carry it around, even though there's no need. But, at the tail end of the last show/market I have scheduled for the season, I was feeling wiped out and scattered. Would I really absorb more details from the (first volume of) biography of Henri Matisse, abandoned a few months ago? Hell, no. Super short tales it is.

With respect to the collective brevity of the volume, it could easily be read in an afternoon. But I don't want to be done. I haven't wanted to share so much of a book since I was all about My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me. Lou Beach's diminutive narratives are tantalizing and weird; darkly humored and sporadically peopled with hard-edged gangster types and hostile women. Phrasing gems made me laugh and exclaim. Take this:

Her ferocity left him indisposed to fight back and finally even to listen. She squinted, eyed him like a pot of boiling water watches a raw egg. She filled the salt shaker. "What's

the matter, Jerome?"

That's it! You can build it from there. But he has given you the heart of it, the volatile dynamics that will likely span the life of that unfortunate relationship. It'll all end in tears/rage/violence. Things, if not people, will be (/already are) broken. I love that the question superficially speaks to care and potential understanding, but is clearly a hostile challenge.

Elsewhere, a longer one (nine lines, whew!) begins: "The road clutches at the side of the mountain as if it's afraid of falling." A landscape instantly conveyed as dizzying and  precarious. Love it! These began as Facebook status updates. I wonder how many friends he gained, throughout the development of this project? I'm surprised to see he only had 161 subscribers. 

An NPR interview with him underscores my growing suspicion that practically all art I'm drawn to springs from collecting and layering. The piece informs listeners that his "inspiration for the stories comes from people walking down the street, hearing bits of conversation or seeing something on TV" before quoting him directly: "Because I'm a collage artist in my visual work, this is sort of the same way — the process of taking bits and pieces and putting them together until a narrative forms..."

But here's the one that caused me to burst out! Repeatedly! As if a rat-sized spider had just shot down to the bathwater:

I HAD NEVER used a chain saw. When I plunged it into the neck of the tree, it stuck and I pulled hard, fell backwards. The saw sliced off part of my scalp, deli style, on the way

down, then sputtered, scuttled away like a mad crab. I passed out, woke later to a low     growl. Lucky was lapping at the pool of blood next to my head. I was glad to see him, his

yellow eyes.

Aiiiiiigggghh! First, what a great setup! The first sentence has you grimace and shake your head. And then! the descriptive "deli style" and "scuttled away like a mad crab"!! Perhaps because I worked at a deli during college summers, it was especially effective for me: ohhhhh, those smooth, spinning blades peeling through *everything* like butter... And then the finish with the new threat from a loved pet...Kudos!

{This also reminded me of one of my favorite stories from Laurie Anderson's "The Ugly One With the Jewels" -- "The Geographic North Pole." Do check it out. And if you've never listened to the whole CD, you're in for a treat. Trippy, intellectual tales from an impossibly cool life.}

 

You can read more here and listen to Ian "cocksucker" McShane lend his rich voice to "Ikea" and others here.

Hello, I'm Snow White/Hello, I'm Ariel

Well, Hello Stranger.

Wow, a week since my last post. Really? I have folders of photos to base other posts on, but work has been busy-busy and I have lacked wherewithal by the time night rolls around. And that night is rolling around earlier and earlier, innit? Well, no matter: roughly a week until the shortest day of the year. Then we begin the slow climb out. Right? One of these years I'll buy little ice cleats to wear for runs and then I'll be a little less skittish of the icy spots/resentful of those who do not clear their paths.

Today had some lovely bright spots to it: first, I got to meet a customer who bought several prints for his two year old's room, after seeing the framed versions hanging in the hospital. Yay! Those were his first art purchases, to boot and he was pretty excited. The girl characters in some of my designs reminded him of his daughter. "Before I had kids, I didn't love them, but once we had her, she's just amazing. And her personality is like mine, but she looks just like my wife. She's a risk taker, more of a tomboy, loves animals." I *love* to think of a little girl, growing up with my woodblocks around her, feeling they are hers! What a fun idea. And she'd probably have completely different ideas about them than I do: different rules, names, back-story, etc. Or maybe they'd merely be background to her and she would barely notice them on a conscious level, but later in life, having been within the fabric of her younger years, they'd surface, unexpectedly. 

I also had the opportunity to spend time with a good friend of mine. For the first hour, a babysitter entertained the little girls downstairs, while we got to catch up, sip wine and nibble on olives and havarti. Songs and vehement protests periodically drifted up, at which point, we'd pause and raise an eyebrow; nothing escalated. Eventually, the sitter ventured off into the night and the little ones hung about the stairwell. They know me, but there's usually a gap between visits, rendering me something of a disruption.

The younger of the two looks at me somewhat wonderingly. "I didn't know you were HERE."

"Well, I came when you were downstairs. Here I am!" She blinks at me. They both have luxurious, curly hair and wide eyes; they are dressed in matching red velour play suits with gingerbread houses on their tops. The younger one blinks her eyes at me again.

"I am 3 or 4." At first I don't understand her, so she has to repeat herself a couple times. Her elder sister grows impatient and horns in: "I'm FIVE. I can pick her up!" Oh, really? I say. "But I'm not supposed to," she adds.

"You can pick me up," says the younger one. And so I do. She watches the side of my face as I talk to her mother; one little hand reaches around to feel my fingers and navigate my silver rings. I love when little kids do this. Many years ago, in a different life, when I worked in the children's section of Borders Books in downtown Ann Arbor, I would periodically do children's story hour with the wonderfully warm and irreverent Helen Smith. Helen knew how to make all the kids feel liked/loved (well, and really the whole staff for that matter); and could also turn around and deliver some wonderfully wicked cracks. So anyway, she always let me read aloud the picture books I was super excited about. On a few occasions I temporarily inhabited one of those traveling full body character costumes.*

These things are shipped from store to store in a crate type thing, with nary a cleaning between locations. The heads are heavy and have stiff wire underpinnings. Most are too tall for me (try finding someone to play Clifford the Big Red Dog~~). The moment you zip up and hoist up the head, you start sweating bullets. You exude dampness, which calls forth the miasma collectively created by all previous occupants. You feel like you can't get enough air -- but the air you DO get, you don't really want. Think gym socks and remainders of a hoagie, abandoned in the bottom of a gym bag. Your vision is impaired. Your fabric arms are too long, so your "hands" flop about below your proper hands. Someone helps you onto the elevator and you wonder what kind of crowd there will be and what the overriding tone is.

*Ok, so I did an image search and I could only find totally creepy ones. I swear I wasn't creepy. There is also an unfortunately named costume rental place in Philadelphia, called Rent-A-Body. Um, no.

When the little seating arena is full, it's akin to a toddler rock star experience: some pogo with excitement, others shout the character's name -- joyfully/gleefully/emphatically. Some stand immediately in front of you to share the most exciting thing of the moment: new shoes/little brother/they know you/ their age is, their name is. The older attendees were more problematic. The more brazen among them would stand nearby or stride over and without pretense, try to yank off your gloved paw. You'd counter, in your clumsy fashion, though not like you could say anything. If you were lucky, your handler hadn't wandered off and they'd intervene. I never had one successfully reveal me.

My favorites however, were the shy ones. If you waved, they couldn't quite bring themselves to wave back. They were excited, but not sure how to proceed. They held their excitement quietly. Once Helen had settled them down and story hour began, a little one would sit nearby. Sometimes they would start a few inches away, but they would slowly whittle the distance down. A small hand would snake over to pet your furry arm, or a torso would slowly lean until a tousled head was resting on you. Listening to a story, sucking one's thumb, petting the story book character next to them.

Back at the house, the clothing was thankfully less furry and cumbersome. Adult conversation alternated with show-and-tell episodes. I was introduced to Disney princesses and my little Ponies, a Barbie house that was way more substantial than my sister's Malibu beach house or the teetering townhouses of yore. Threeorfour grew dismayed with my lagging Lego attentions. "Looooook. Watch me, this is going to be AWESOME." She combines a pony-tailed figure with solid bricks and wheels. We appreciate the wheel action.

The time for leave-taking arrives. While my friend gathers things elsewhere, I pop into their coat closet. Threeorfour eyes me suspiciously: "What are you DOING?"

"I'm getting my jacket. I'm not leaving this minute. I'm leaving, but you're leaving, too."

"You're leaving with US in OUR CAR."

"No. But I'll see you soon. You're going to decorate a gingerbread house with me." She furrows her brow. She is clearly weighing the situation. Gummi bears redeem the moment. She remembers eating candy at my house. "I eat gummi bears at parties!" This is lovely, this is joyful. I think to check for gummi bears. Shoes are retrieved and freedom of choice is granted.

"I'm wearing POOL SHOES!" Threeorfour happily kicks up her feet. "What?" Mom says, "No~~"

Older sister and I stand a few steps back, observing. Five has appropriate footwear. She leans over to me, to gleefully confide, "She's doing everything WRONG." Her eyes shine. It's good to be five and to know what's what.

Catalog Madness, Part Two: Less Ranty, More Talky.

Feeling pressed for time and no notion what to buy for those truly important people in your life? Have you sworn off Amazon because of their nasty little $5 anti-local campaign ? Luckily the catalogs keep rolling into my mailbox and I feel generous enough to share with you. Because I am *that* generous and you are *that* special. Nothing to top Butler Santa or furring your entire living room, but perhaps you have discovered your own pockets of gold in the meantime. Here a few items to fill in the holes:

1.) Is your spare roll of toilet paper normally hiding beneath a crocheted doll skirt, with the doll standing in the hole? Have you begun to feel this is a bit passe?

Look no further than "Paper Pots."

According to Uncommon Goods, these transform your tp or tissues into "a sculptural statement." More spares=more art! Let's hear it for the easily accessible.

2.) Like sands through the hourglass go the days of our lives... Uncommon Goods wasn't lying here: never seen these before. Honestly, they are a bit mystifying to me. Possibly it's just the logistics -- the hourglass seems like it would make holding it a bit difficult. And then when exactly can you turn them? The text says each sand shift takes 10 minutes. Perhaps it could be the host way of ordering you to slow down? "Whew, already done with the shiraz? OK: flip your glass. Consider yourself in drinking time out. No pouting." To the clumsier among us, it's a cruel taunt about potential accidents: broken glass, staining wine AND colored sand. Grrrrreat. Also available as awkward martini glasses; $75 for set of 4.

I confess to a fondness for the phrase "bottle sweater"

3.) And speaking of wine...While you like your
wine chilled, how do you think your wine feels
about that? You've never stopped to consider it, have you? Typical.

Show your wine a little cozy love this holiday season. Why should scary holiday knits be limited to (scarily festive) people? Maybe next year there will also be reindeer knits and tree knits with sewn on jingle bell ornaments. See also: cork hat.   

Bottle sweater, bottle sweater, bottle sweater, bottle sweater. Bottle Sweater. UK version less fun: Bottle Jumper.


4.) Do any of your friends suffer from a plague of flies? Less dire than Amityville Horror or Damien (were there flies? there must have been flies), but enough for fly swatting to become REALLY tiresome? Utility and humor dovetail like pb and chocolate in the talking fly swatter.

With gems like "flight cancelled!" and "hasta la vista!," this swatter "will have your whole household buzzing with laughter!," or so says Crown House of Gifts. Move over, Damn You Auto-Correct!

5.) More things that shouldn't talk: Football beer mug. If I were in the same room as this, this stein's presence alone would indicate the day (or week? month.) had taken a horribly bad turn.

"Dishwasher safe, the mug cleans easily once the voice box is unclipped." Yeah, I wonder how many mugs will be deliberately dishwashed, voice and all. If it were in a John Hughes film, you'd hear the chipper Go-team! voice slowly bested from within "The Fans Are Going Wild!....Touchdooooownnnn~~"

Better options that I have listened to and not thrown across the room: Homer Simpson beer bottle opener, saying....what? Something stoopid yet somewhat endearing. Policeman cookie jar who says, "STOP RIGHT THERE!" when you lift his top half for said cookies. Come to think of it, that may have helped me with those evil maple sandwich cookies. That, or I would have developed a really nice rapport with cop jar.

Well, hopefully these suggestions help. In a pinch, there's always the hand-drawn personalized coupon book option. Be sure to include expiration dates.

Snacks, Both Caloric and Invigorating. Nourishment.

In the name of all that is holy, someone remove these cookies* from my house. I made them before an event -- and then ate so many I had to make more. Vanity urged me on: Come on, this was the best this time around you can't NOT serve it.  And then the event was smallish, or people were magically restrained. And there they waited, in their unassuming beigeness, within their little tin. I thought to freeze them...but no. I decided to check on them and pried off the lid. Mapley butter fumes wafted up, like they do from evil cartoon food, luring kids into witches' homes. Well. Maybe just one. Or two. Or four. Which is really eight, what with the sandwiching.

And me with the remote working, shackled to the computer, listening to the fridge sounding off like it's going to be laboriously ill all over the kitchen floor. Despite the unappetizing noises from my belabored fridge, I think of the interesting tidbits within...Meanwhile it's venturing into the damp-cold neck of the season, where I have even more excuses to not go for an outdoor run. Helllloooo, Dark and Flabby Winter. And so, we meet again... The dishpan grey not dissipated by sparkly tree lights (though they help). 

*These are originally from The All American Cookie Book, by Nancy Baggett, which rocks. Other recipes solid, but luckily less addictive.

I worked at home all day yesterday. Peered out through the living room window periodically, though nothing was coming, or staying.  Any street activity? Nope, nuthin' much. Even the squirrels were keeping a low profile. Had a few extra cups of tea later in the day, to separate the hours. Even forgot about the mail, though I usually look for it -- and as you know, I mainly get crap catalogs.

What would salvage the day? Snacks. Yes, after all that: snacks. In this case, of the less caloric and more stimulating sort.  

Oh wondrous stimulation, distract us from the Winter's tiresome yawning maw!

A few hours past mailman time, the rusty mailbox popped into my head. And here! A present from the day (or more specifically, from dear CG): three Richard Buckner CDs and the newest Adele. Plus a nourishing card. The card stands on it own -- and you know I'm fond of symbolism. I asked another good friend why listening to Richard Buckner doesn't depress me --  even when I am depressed -- and even though his songs frequently tell of love lost, lives ruined, desire paired with alienation -- and his reply went something like this,

"I think it's because no matter where you are, I don't think it's possible to plumb the depths of where *he* is~~ That, and he's so frickin' talented." He originally introduced me to his music, through The Hills (Spoon River Anthology, set to music-- cool, hunh!).

His music is like a day where the rain is steadily coming down. Maybe at first you were disappointed by the weather, but you open a few windows beneath overhangs and the slight, slight chill is pleasant. And your home feels cozier for it. It's a quiet day, with undertones of longing, which you observe as much as you feel. The witness of the passing day has its own importance. Maybe you'd have someone else near, but only someone you knew really well, who could enjoy the quietness. What the heck am I even talking about? Why didn't you stop me? I think I was listening to the above YouTube link too much. I haven't listened to all *THREE* CDs yet (the bounty! the bounty!) And now I have put Bloomed back on. The opening song Blue & Wonder makes me think of Summer, in a dry heat. And that mandoline! Clearly I need to just listen more. Which I will...


By evening I got to feeling a bit penned up and ventured to the neighborhood bookstore (a few remain, knock on wood) to get outside of myself. More snacks! First, a bit of bizarre: 420: Stories, by Lou Beach.

Here's one:

"Zuma Pedley hailed from Lubbock, came to L.A. in '02 with his guitar, some songs, and an ugly dog. He didn't think to change the world, wasn't built that way, but thought music might lessen the burden of those with hearts. He was looking for an army of smiles, but settled for a girl with corn hair and a bungalow in the hills, grew tomatoes. The dog is still ugly."

C'est fini! They're all oddities, packaged in a slim, pretty red hardcover. With collaged illustrations-- apparently Beach is primarily an illustrator, with CD covers and appearances in Wired, the New Yorker, etc. I figure this will be good to dip into during my low concentration times, for remaining days at Rust Belt Market. 

I discovered that Lane Smith's new picture book is gorgeous, magical. The illustration combines quaint delicately lined pen and ink figures, with lush (photoshopped? painted?both?) topiaries telling the past life of the boy's Grandfather. Check out a book trailer for Grandpa Green here.

On that note, the whole picture and children's book promotion on Youtube had pretty much escaped my notice until Ginger posted the minimalist and quite fun teaser for Jon Klassen's "I Want My Hat Back." It's like a whole new land to explore! In a search for another Klassen book, I happened across "White is for Witching," by Helen Oyeyemi. I challenge you not to be creeped out.  Even MORE paired down, and quite effectively done. "Where is Miranda? Miri is gone, just gone..."

Also bought: The Essential Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks. One of my first favorites:

My Worst Habit

My worst habit is I get so tired of winter

I become a torture to those I'm with.

If you are not here, nothing grows.

I lack clarity. My words

tangle and knot up.

How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.

How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.

When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools,

dig a way out through the bottom

to the ocean. There is a secret medicine

given only to those who hurt so hard

they can't hope.

The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.

Look as long as you can at the friend you love,

no matter whether that friend is moving away from you

or coming back toward you. 

Well, I can't really think of a better way to end than that. A super early morning tomorrow, so I best go to bed. Good night, All.

 

Business in Your Backyard: Pot & Box

As you may or may not recall, due to lolling about my house last Saturday afternoon, I almost missed the safe scurrying time afforded by the hordes watching the U of M vs. Ohio State game. Almost! It wound up being perfect -- downtown was deserted, I sailed through intersections and even took a few snaps of one of the frequently graffitied bridges on the way home.

But to where did I wish to scurry in the first place? Primarily to Pot & Box, on the tip from a friend who *always* knows about intriguing people and things. And also to the neighboring Metal, though it was unconfirmed they would be open. As it was, I arrived at the Charming Pot & Box a few minutes before the stated close time, though proprietor Lisa Waud was chill, "Oh, I'm here, working, and a couple is due to come in a bit..." Lisa is warm and down-to-earth; and we established that we have both volunteered at nonprofit fave 826 Michigan*, which means extra points right there. Uh, which is not to say any point assigning is occurring. Gold star? Gold star.

* Hey! new this year, check out their online store catalog

Lisa's floral love goes deep. The home site announces: "Rooted by her education in horticulture, her fingernails have been dirty for over 15 years through service & retail experience." Her original concept was focused on container gardens and boxes, to the exclusion of providing floral arrangements. "I actually thought I would contact all the restaurants in the area and keep their boxes filled, and you know, I could barter for food, how great would that be?...But then friends kept approaching me to do flowers for weddings and things like that..."

Without abandoning the idea of the former, she folded cutting gardens and floral arranging into the mix. The flowers she doesn't grow herself are sourced with an eye to organic/natural and local (lots of visits to farmers' markets). The container garden services include original design, planting and regular upkeep, based on clients' wishes, which strikes me as cool since it potentially encompasses businesses, homeowners and black-thumbed individuals operating on less of a budget.

The business itself was visually stimulating enough that I was happy Metal would require a separate trip -- my camera battery steadily lessened, though it thankfully held out for the visit itself. I puttered about and Lisa returned to an in-process floral arrangement. Ko, her beautiful chocolate lab, was content to lounge on her puffy dog bed in the work area, after displaying her favorite bone.

 

In the right when you enter is a selection of work by local artists

Festive holiday bottle "lamps." 

Nifty illustrator Nicole Ray/Sloe Gin Fizz, among others

Sharp pillows by Salt Lab

Mysterious Organic Forms. Possibly gecko eggs.

To the left of the entrance is an airy space dedicated to event rentals. Both the space itself, as well as the shelves of mason jars, iridescent glassware. And equines under glass.

The work area is homey, purposeful and also reflective of a fondness for collecting.

Birdcages originally bought for a wedding

O, Happy Succulents!

Still want more photos? Click here.

Rust Belt Redux

First things first: new occurrences from the past week--

• "You know who you SHOULD be writing about? You need to go HERE, BE there, take photos and write about THEM." Followed by an email containing promising artist folk (~~psst, already took snaps at Pot and Box!).
• Funny exchange, followed by an aside to me: "You're not allowed to put that in your blog...No, you can, I'm kidding. It seems like something you would put in." 

Teehee. Not sure whether it's more a reflection of growth or the fact that I can't shut up about things that excite me, but kinda funny...And also: man, I don't want people to become self-conscious when interacting with me. Hmm.

Rust Belt Market on Sunday. Three cheers for the "shopping season": people loosened their purse strings; more prints were brought.Sometimes I do well, just from note cards. Which certainly makes me happy: you know sometimes people frame them -- and I am all about having visual stimulation on my fridge. But it's the actual print sales that hearten me. The whole message, as I created it, however viewers receive it/recreate it. And many people bought prints Sunday, both for gifts and ("Well, but don't you think that would be really nice in OUR house, b/c I was thinking it would be nice in OUR house, too?") themselves.

First Sale of the Day

A tall older guy (mid-fifties? maybe a little younger?) slowly cruised the table. His black leather jacket had side lacing; his shoulder length grey hair was tucked behind his ears. Pale, gentle blue eyes. He flicked through the small cards. I hesitated, but began my low-key are-you-familiar-with-woodblocks snippets. He was. I noted the cards were collages from different block prints.

"Yeah," he said, "collages are popular now. My friend makes collages, but she's sick."

Oh, I replied, like flu or more serious?

"More serious. I need to get something to pep her up...She'll be alright, though." He adds the last part, as if he has just decided it and as if he has some power over the outcome. I nod at him: Good!...good.

He holds up one of the bird cards. "The birds are always popular," I say.

"Her middle name is Athena. Athena's also the goddess of birds."

"Not the Goddess of the hunt?" I wonder, but he says, no she's different. She's maternal, protector of the city. She's the daughter of Zeus and she was battling Poseidon to be deity of the city; and Poseidon, to show his might, struck through limestone. But she grew an olive tree, so it was a stalemate and the city had to vote on who would have ascendancy; and she won by ONE vote and thereafter, women were barred from voting. Which, after consulting Wikipedia, our patron saint of communal knowledge/ignorance, I see the olive tree, but no limestone and no birds*. But still, Athena managed to be a goddess of war AND arts, crafts, justice and CIVILIZATION, so who knows what else was in there?

He gestures with the card that he will take it. "It's my birthday tomorrow, so I'll see her then. Thanks for the card." He's tender, without being a sad sack. I wish him a good birthday and thank him for telling me about Athena. An auspicious beginning to the day, though hopefully, this unseen person is not bested physically or otherwise.

{*While I was clearly being somewhat lazy in researching, a couple friends helped to clarify matters: So, Poseidon yes, struck a rock with his trident; from which sprang a stream and the first horse. As noted, Athena created an olive tree. The citizens voted totally along gender lines. With respect to avian matters, Athena was frequently described as "owl-eyed," had an owl perched on her shoulder and often carried a shield with an owl image. Strictly speaking, not the goddess of birds, but, you know: pretty owly.}

Coming In
The day has a surreal quality to it, following a mystifying night of no sleep. My assigned table space was immediately to the left of an entrance, which was great for traffic; but away from some of my favored buddies, which made for some boredom, allayed by new cool vendors and interested passers-by.

I drove in through a rain storm, which lent to a little white knuckling, accompanied by repeated listenings of "Simple X" by Andrew Bird:

Hold your fire.
Take your place around an open fire.

Before your neurons declare a crisis
Before your trace Seratonin rises
Before you're reading your coffee grounds
And before a pundit can make a sound
And before you're reading your list of vices
Perform the simplest exercises...

A couple exits before mine, there was an accident on the other side. A semi-trailer had barreled into the divide and HAD BLOWN A HOLE IN THE 5' HIGH CONCRETE DIVIDE. The divide must be at least 4' thick. The cab was twisted and perched on top of the divide, next to the gaping hole. The mangled trailer yawned out behind it, still attached, eventually touching the asphalt. Who drove this? What happened? What condition were they in? There was no explosion, but how could you emerge even somewhat unscathed? My hands flew from the steering wheel to either side of my face. And within a few beats, it was on to another song, more miles to cover, etc. etc. Isn't this the second most difficult aspect of tragedy? That while someone's life is astoundingly changed, the rest of the stream flows onward, almost without pause?

So, that set the stage for me, even before arrival or set-up. Which is to say, the set-up etc. was fine, a relief, not beset by tragedy. I forgot my tablecloths, which was highly annoying (they were primped and ready for their closeups, on my dining room table), but my next-door neighbor rescued me from showing my utterly fugly (but loved! so loved!) project table for the paint-besplattered thing it is, with a nice old rosebud bed sheet.

Hanging/Chatting/Entertaining Ourselves
I am situated across from cool furniture maker Chad Dickinson, who asks me if I'm Buddhist -- a question frequently posed to him. No, but I used to do a lot of yoga? I think that sounds a lot more lame than it IS. It dovetails, people! It has begun to filter into some of my designs (hopefully), even though I have abandoned it for right now. He is simultaneously intense and mellow, which seems difficult to balance. He likes my Demon print, which more people like than I would have anticipated; but no one wants to actually own-- which I *did* anticipate. I understand, hardship is uncomfortable. Chad says something along the lines of: "It's beautiful, so people don't realize it's brutal." Which I really, really appreciate, because people don't usually bother to notice, or are disinclined. Which is totally their choice, too-- but it makes it that much more remarkable when someone acknowledges the interplay. Thank you, Chad.

Later on, Chad plays a music set, which is a nice surprise -- his voice is pleasing, having honeyed notes, without being cloying; he finishes with a great cover of Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees." Love it!

Prior to that, Michigander Carmel Liburdi sang and accompanied herself on guitar and piano. She held her own while covering Adele's "Rolling in the Deep" -- no mean feat. Definitely takes some chutzpah to attempt a tune by such a strong singer as Adele. And then, even if you don't make a mess of it, you could still suffer from the Salieri effect. A few months ago, a solid folksinger was covering Ani Difranco and while her renditions were fine, listening to her only made me think, "Man, I really should dig up those Ani tapes..." Her voice was fine, the delivery was a passable echo; the guitar playing wasn't nimble or aggressive enough. So, flip side: Sunday was a good cover day.  It should also be noted that both performed original songs, as well.

Across the way, the chef/baker is having none of it. Regardless of what it is. I missed my chance to snap a photo of him glowering. "I made 68 pies in two days for Thanksgiving. People need to quit bitching." To be clear, he's not complaining about having baked that many pies (which he later amends to 72), but right now, he can not be bothered with your problems. Your deal is YOUR deal. To me: "NO, I didn't make your baklava pie. I'm crabby. I'm serious: I'm not even flirting."

Cute, innit? From 323 East.

A couple tables over, Kill Taupe and I compare notes about offensive words. Specifically, descriptions people use when perusing our wares.

"...Whimsy! UGH." His face registers contempt. "I HATE that~~"

"Really? I don't know, I call my prints whimsical all the time, I don't like cute--"

"---NO, cute's fine, whimsy? UGH."


"I may have to swoop in, call your stuff whimsical and run away."

"I bet I could lob this pop bottle at the back of your head!" And then he giggles, which is fittingly cute.

I have a couple more Saturdays at the Rust Belt: Dec. 10th and Dec. 17th. The vendors of Rust Belt hereby beseech you to come on down...