February 2009 Archives
I got sick, so I've spent a few days in bed watching Weeds. Mary Louise Parker plays Nancy Botwin, an upper-middle-class suburban mother who has decided to sell drugs. This decision could easily destroy her, so she spends her entire life trying to avert the various disasters that befall drug-dealers. I feel a lot like Nancy Botwin, except instead of selling drugs, I make art.
In the words of Justin Bond, "pragmatism is the new punk."
So much to do!
Love
Dan
In the words of Justin Bond, "pragmatism is the new punk."
So much to do!
Love
Dan
Excerpt from physical journal:
Staring from the window seat. On the Bolt Bus. February 13th.
Last night, Matt Katz' van with Max Steele & Justin Bond, full of diner food, cupcakes, champagne, vapors.
Skyline. "The Hissing of Summer Lawns." Glenn's Birthday party in a thrift store for plus-sized ladies.
JCC opening for Avishai's new show,
after two years of work.
He was so confident and charismatic in front of the crowd.
Remember first Six Points retreat, when he was so uncomfortable talking in front of people.
Matt's van takes us from glory to glory to glory.
Going now to help Grandma move into Ring House,
I hope I can live in a place like that when I'm 90.
I wonder how old she really feels.
I feel mostly 21,
will always be just arriving in New York.
Re-reading The Hours for the billionth time,
appropriately. Thinking about Lach going on and on at the anti-hoot
about how time doesn't exist. And I'm, obviously,
right there listening to him. On the bus. In the van.
Reading The Hours for the first time, on lunch breaks at my first job,
after I graduated high school, at Crown Books in Gaithersburg,
dating Steven when he still looked like a 15-year-old David Hyde Pierce.
Reading it again in college, for class,
in my mausoleum of a dorm room, on the 13th floor,
overlooking the Philadelphia skyline and the construction of the new Wharton building,
the Death Star,
and meeting Cunningham and hugging him awkwardly after making him cry,
and wishing he wasn't so hot,
wishing he wasn't so together,
so regal and elegant and powerful,
wishing he was a mess,
a mess like me so we could grab each other by the hair and say
"look at you, you're a mess, let's eat a sandwich."
riding to maryland, leaving behind a city where i am preparing to open a play,
seven years later. brother turning 30, mother turning 60, grandmother turning 90.
wishing i could step inside this love, like patrick swayze steps inside of whoopi goldberg in ghost,
walking up to demi moore, crying, and say
"look at you, you're a mess, let's eat a sandwich."
i'm gonna take a nap.
Staring from the window seat. On the Bolt Bus. February 13th.
Last night, Matt Katz' van with Max Steele & Justin Bond, full of diner food, cupcakes, champagne, vapors.
Skyline. "The Hissing of Summer Lawns." Glenn's Birthday party in a thrift store for plus-sized ladies.
JCC opening for Avishai's new show,
after two years of work.
He was so confident and charismatic in front of the crowd.
Remember first Six Points retreat, when he was so uncomfortable talking in front of people.
Matt's van takes us from glory to glory to glory.
Going now to help Grandma move into Ring House,
I hope I can live in a place like that when I'm 90.
I wonder how old she really feels.
I feel mostly 21,
will always be just arriving in New York.
Re-reading The Hours for the billionth time,
appropriately. Thinking about Lach going on and on at the anti-hoot
about how time doesn't exist. And I'm, obviously,
right there listening to him. On the bus. In the van.
Reading The Hours for the first time, on lunch breaks at my first job,
after I graduated high school, at Crown Books in Gaithersburg,
dating Steven when he still looked like a 15-year-old David Hyde Pierce.
Reading it again in college, for class,
in my mausoleum of a dorm room, on the 13th floor,
overlooking the Philadelphia skyline and the construction of the new Wharton building,
the Death Star,
and meeting Cunningham and hugging him awkwardly after making him cry,
and wishing he wasn't so hot,
wishing he wasn't so together,
so regal and elegant and powerful,
wishing he was a mess,
a mess like me so we could grab each other by the hair and say
"look at you, you're a mess, let's eat a sandwich."
riding to maryland, leaving behind a city where i am preparing to open a play,
seven years later. brother turning 30, mother turning 60, grandmother turning 90.
wishing i could step inside this love, like patrick swayze steps inside of whoopi goldberg in ghost,
walking up to demi moore, crying, and say
"look at you, you're a mess, let's eat a sandwich."
i'm gonna take a nap.
Before I start today's important tasks, I am rediscovering one of my favorite books, "A Lover's Discourse" by Roland Barthes:
'The world subjects every enterprise to an alternative; that of success or failure, of victory or defeat. I protest by another logic: I am simultaneously and contradictorily happy and wretched; "to succeed" or "to fail" have for me only contingent, provisional meanings (which doesn't keep my sufferings and my desires from being violent); what inspires me, secretly and stubbornly, is not a tactic; I accept and affirm, beyond truth and falsehood, beyond success and failure; I have withdrawn from all finality, I live according to chance... Flouted in my enterprise (as it happens), I emerge from it neither victor nor vanquished: I am tragic. (Someone tells me: this kind of love is not viable. But how can you evaluate viability? Why is the viable a Good Thing? Why is it better to last than to burn?)' - pg 22-23
'The world subjects every enterprise to an alternative; that of success or failure, of victory or defeat. I protest by another logic: I am simultaneously and contradictorily happy and wretched; "to succeed" or "to fail" have for me only contingent, provisional meanings (which doesn't keep my sufferings and my desires from being violent); what inspires me, secretly and stubbornly, is not a tactic; I accept and affirm, beyond truth and falsehood, beyond success and failure; I have withdrawn from all finality, I live according to chance... Flouted in my enterprise (as it happens), I emerge from it neither victor nor vanquished: I am tragic. (Someone tells me: this kind of love is not viable. But how can you evaluate viability? Why is the viable a Good Thing? Why is it better to last than to burn?)' - pg 22-23
Oh, right. That's why I needed to get my iPod fixed -- so I can listen to Neutral Milk Hotel while walking through Times Square at night, in the snow, bawling my eyes out in front of tourists.
Thinking about mildew on caulk. Beautiful, clean, pristine tiles. But then: brown lines, practically bubbling with the wrong kind of life. Thinking about scratching it off. With my finger nails. Getting it under my skin. Getting it off.
Thinking about my life and its distractions -- how the distractions become the life. Having to remind myself, daily, of what I'm actually doing, what I'm actually accomplishing, what I'm actually creating. Trying to look ahead. Thinking about neck braces. Wrist braces. Thinking about all kinds of braces and clamps and mnemonic devices. Signs: STOP, YIELD, THIS WAY, DETOUR, CHILDREN. Reminders.
Stopped by the office today. Sat on the couch. Max reminded me that love is a good thing. Oh, right.
Lately, I can see love itself, undulating in the air like a blob in a lava lamp. Come back here. Protrude this way. Grow, please.
Love (I mean it.)
Dan
Thinking about mildew on caulk. Beautiful, clean, pristine tiles. But then: brown lines, practically bubbling with the wrong kind of life. Thinking about scratching it off. With my finger nails. Getting it under my skin. Getting it off.
Thinking about my life and its distractions -- how the distractions become the life. Having to remind myself, daily, of what I'm actually doing, what I'm actually accomplishing, what I'm actually creating. Trying to look ahead. Thinking about neck braces. Wrist braces. Thinking about all kinds of braces and clamps and mnemonic devices. Signs: STOP, YIELD, THIS WAY, DETOUR, CHILDREN. Reminders.
Stopped by the office today. Sat on the couch. Max reminded me that love is a good thing. Oh, right.
Lately, I can see love itself, undulating in the air like a blob in a lava lamp. Come back here. Protrude this way. Grow, please.
Love (I mean it.)
Dan
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Dan Fishback is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non-profit arts service organization. Contributions in behalf of Dan Fishback may be made payable to Fractured Atlas and are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law.
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