I suppose I should make a new January 300 words but I'm too lazy and this year has already kicked my you know what. Whew! What a year! If this first week heralds what the rest of the year has in store, I'm in trouble. New Year's day we stopped by the building we wanted to buy to see if it was still available and found out no, the owners had another buyer out of the blue and had already signed a binder. Sh**. We had just talked ourselves into it and now found out we lost it. My husband and I were crushed. I was so depressed because I really needed to have something to look forward to besides drowning in the suburban hell that we are momentarily stuck in. And in my gut I was sure that it was going to be my house. Then, wed night my son fell face first into a curb and smashed his front teeth in. We spent wed night in the er and thurs morning at the dentist. It was horrifying. But I guess he will be okay. I keep telling myself it is only baby teeth. His adult teeth will be fine but oh! my beautiful boy looks like hell. Yesterday I cried everytime I looked at him. Today the swelling has gone down quite a bit so he looks better.
Oh yeah, then the people who own that building called and said "we'd rather sell the place to you so we are backing out of the previous deal." What the...? Ok, we have a binder signed and now we are buying the place. My heart was already in my chest from the dental incident and now it is in my throat because we just agreed to buy an urban shack. Holy comoli. It is quite possibly the sorriest little building in all of ny. But for some queer reason I love it. It reminds me of the little house in that book "The Little House" by that woman who wrote "Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel" except that I don't remember her name. This little squatty dump in the middle of the city with two rounded windows for eyes and a little door for the mouth. I can just picture it with flower boxes in the windows. We have to buy that house. It's my house.
What a week.

2007 is getting off to a good start. At least in terms of writing and submitting things. (We'll see what happens with the personal life)

Wednesday, the editor for an anthology that I agreed to write a piece for called. (How's that for grammar? Wonder if he would have asked me had he seen how well-written my rambling journal entries are) He had asked me a year and a half ago, with the idea that the book would happen sooner rather than later. It hasn't. Life (and other big book projects--on his end, not mine) has gotten in the way. But now he has a co-editor and a deadline, so I can get cracking on that half-to-three-quarters done article I started way back when Diane Arbus had that inspiring retrospective photo exhibit at the Met. That means I really do have to dig out the pieces of that article along with all the scraps of paper and notes that I've been accumulating and get cracking on it.

Got a contract for a short piece today. It turns out that the magazine I submitted my piece to actually pays! Not a lot, 2 cents a word, but that was an unexpected little bonus. So I signed it and xeroxed it and will throw it in the mail when I wander out to buy stamps.

Finished re-doing a piece for another magazine. The piece was originally in PUNK Planet, but I took the main (most exciting) section out, revised it, added a new slant to it, then realized that it needed to be 2000 words or less and I was bordering on 4000. So I cut and cut and cut. I got it down to a bit below 2000 this afternoon and sent it in. I didn't even need to deliberate how to negotiate the fact that one of the professors who worked on the project I'm describing also wrote about the project, BUT used a psuedonym not only for the women involved but also for the place. I was trying to figure out how to deal with that since I don't like the idea of unintentionally outing someone, especially if that person feels the need to disguise either their actions or the fact that they're drawing on those actions to write articles and give presentations, but I also didn't want to have to remove all of MY identifying details as well.

And I sent a few photos to the new e-zine listed here since they're looking for art for their first issue. Not a paying market, not even a print market, but it seems that print markets are getting fewer and further between and besides, why not?

Time to go to the post office and buy stamps. And get coffee on the way back. I don't feel like I need it as much as I did earlier this morning, but the chilly little ache down my back reminds me that yes, I am a caffeine addict and the consequences will be pretty damn severe if I don't get a cup soon.

"I'd like to do a song about great social and political import...it goes like this" -Janis Joplin

No matter how down I might feel, why is it that I can find a political film that will perk me up and remind me that my life ain't so bad AND that there are certain important and responsible filmmakers out there who care about le cinema politika. That's about all I fucking care about these days.
Down in the dumps? Check out Wadja's "A Generation". Need to pep up? Try Gavras' "Z". Oh hell yeh. That'll keep your head screwed on right, remind ye what is important. Oh and blow your mind all in the same go.
Oh hell I am one fucking loser.
"In this world, you know everyone is fighting with each other."
My child and husband are far far away, having a blast without me. And I should be a non-stop party. Except I forgot the part about how everyone else is not neccessarily up for the party machine you know I am...er. Whatever.
Ok, yeh I'm getting kind of lonely. And there ARE things I'd like to go and do. But I am also so lethargic. Confused. Bored. Sad. and cold. I'm so cold.
I think I might spend yet another night in, alone. But maybe I won't, maybe I'll go to a movie. I'd love some company though. Hmmm.
Yes, I want some space. Yes, I need a break. But why the hell can't it be in NYC where I can't get bored? It's impossible for me to sit still and be bored in New York.
Here, I have to warm the car and drive somewhere. And it's cold.
Shit. I should read or something.
I want to be social though.
BAH.

That's all I'm giving myself this afternoon. Wait for my food to heat up, drink my now-cold coffee, check my e-mail and the Internet a bit, then go back to printing.

I deliberately left my binders of negatives in the darkroom. I had thought about bringing them with, of spending the time waiting for food perusing through them, figuring out what to print next. I want at least one good print for my "Sacred Spaces, Urban Places" series now that I've actually pitched that as a possible theme. I blew up one image and it just didn't work. The altar is too far away; if I crop it so that the altar is closer, I lose the effect of it definitely being urban. I lose the long alley-like walkway and the buildings towering above the doorway.

I started another one before I decided that I could no longer ignore the growlings in my stomach. I *think* I have the right amount of contrast, BUT the person within the bakery is in shadows. I'm not sure if that works or if this will require some dodging efforts to make him more visible.

After that one, if I have time, I want to do a large print of a temple against skyscrapers. I think the problem with starting this series I'm trying to think too small and really, I should be envisioning big and then working my way down to the details.

And then I have 9 rolls of film to develop as well. That's good because I'm not enthusiastic at all about any of my recent fishing village shots. and that was one of the other themes I had proposed.

Today is the kids' last day of school for the year. They are excited and ready for a break. I am ready for a break as well, some mornings just getting them off to school feels like a full-time job. and making sure I am home when they get home from school as well. Most days as soon as they are all gone I get on the computer and start working on various projects and the time flies by, but there are days when I just go grocery shopping or go visit a friend or to the library or whatever and I have to hurry home. It will be nice for 2 weeks to sleep in, for one thing.

One of the projects I am working on is my second book of poetry about motherhood. Lately one of the side effects of this is that I have been thinking in poems, especially concerning my children, and it has crept into how I speak to them, my tone of voice and cadence and everything. they have noticed and have been responding in kind, it's too funny. This morning my older son said to me, just like this:

Mom
won't you sign
this note?
See this line
my teacher wrote
it says that she will not
permit
us to eat junk food
or to sit
on our tables in the classroom

trula mama zine * zine for kids

Every human is an artist. The dream of your life is to make beautiful art~don Miguel Ruiz

The problem with being a full-time writer is that I am working all the time. I totaled up my writing hours last week and it was 61 hours!! no wonder I was so wiped by Saturday. This week is not much better, it's only Tuesday and I'm already at 29 hours. if I worked at a regular job I would only have 11 hours left in my work week! I'll blaze out another writing day tomorrow, then after the that the kids are on a school break till after the new year. I'll work out a new schedule then, and enjoy the break.

trula mama zine * zine for kids

Every human is an artist. The dream of your life is to make beautiful art~don Miguel Ruiz

welcome to 2:30 in the morning. where my brain won't settle down and sleep. i've got "master's of horror" on the TV, it's a zombie themed, post-apocalyptic episode. but i don't know who directed this one. this season i haven't had the time to keep track. it's really good though...for a horror series. i mean, if you go for those sorts of things, cause i do.
my sister is home for the holidays and tonight we sat down and she proof read my 20 page essay. she is getting her degree in english and writing. she already has a job, starting january, in house at a magazine! so she's a tough tough cookie to please. she is a natural born editor, whereas i am a natural born word spazz. so verbose.
and missing all the right connective words. as, that, whereas, then...
it took us over 4 hours, and i fought for nearly every word and sentence, but WOW! i feel really good about this essay now.
and it was so helpful to see how an editor works. i mean i learned so much both mechanical and for flow. learning to read my own work with an editors eye.
and it was painful do work to defend each sentence and argument, but excellent. i think, i hope, the essay is nice an concise...though i feel at 20 pages you have to really juggle what you want to focus on. cause you could easily make it shorter and tighter, focusing on small points making strong arguments. and beyond 20 i feel like it's hard to say enough but not to spread yourself too thin, or dilute your thesis.
on the other hand, i find i often bite off more than i can chew and say too much without being concise. so right around that 15 page marker i feel like i should write 30 or so, like one of those nice little BFI books, or i should pick a few ideas and work them.
anyhow, after all the words she made me cut they are all floating in my head. and of course i'll never be satisfied with my essays. i keep thinking of all the stuff i didn't get a chance to say.
for instance, today my lastest book order arrived with "imagined communities" by benedict anderson included. and now i want to fuse some anderson in there somewhere, but i have to stay restrained and leave it be. it is what it is.
anyhow, i've written and written and written for days and now i can't fucking sleep.
oh yeh, and i have a cold now too.

year by year.

I don't really have any such list and so when I write to a gallery that's expressed interest in showing my work, I can't think off the top of my head of what kinds of works I do.

Today, while googling the photographer Martha Cooper, whom I had the delight of meeting on Friday and whose newest book I briefly perused between registering art sales, collecting money and getting shuffled around as the curators pinned up new works, I found an announcement for the book "Hidden New York." My co-worker had given me a card for the book release party last month, remembering that a lot of my work seems to fall into that category. I stuck it by my computer and it got lost in the shuffle of craziness that is arts administration.

But yeah, one of the things I *should* mention when talking about my work is that I'm photographing HIDDEN and OTHERWISE UNSEEN places in New York, not just NYC streets. That sounds much more exciting than "everyday things" on the streets of NYC.

My list should include that. My last list, that I sent to a gallery in Mexico that expressed interest in showing my work, was this:

las calles urbanos y las communidades de las pescadoras en Hong Kong, New Orleans antes y despues el hurrican,
la vida cotidiana en San Cristobal de las Casas y en Nueva York,
los paisajes y la gente de China

Far from superexciting. If I were to re-do it (in English), it would read:

*Disappearing Hong Kong (vanishing fishing communities)
*Sacred Places, Urban Places (Hong Kong)
*Second Line, New Orleans (2006)
*Life Along the Li River, Guilin, China
*San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico
*Hidden Places, NYC
*History of a Space (Places in Flux, NYC)
*Coney Island

I should make myself a little book of 4x6 or 5x7 images to bring around with me, to show people who ask what kind of work I do. I don't have a website, I have virtually no promotional material. I just opened an e-mail about an art exhibition taking place at a gallery in HOng Kong and think, "I should scribble down the address of that gallery and go visit when I get to HK." But I have nothing tangible to show them; I suppose I could give a CD, but that relies on the other person having the time and inclination to look at my work right away and not simply shuffle it in with other unsolicited submissions.

Last week, an painter from Japan came by the centre to submit his work to the artists' archive. I should look at what he actually gave me. One of the things was a CD. Another was some sort of paper hand-out with a color reproduction of one of his works. I should look at how people market themselves and start thinking of putting together something for myself.

I don't like the idea of marketing myself, but what's the point of creating works that will simply sit, neglected, in boxes that no one seems to have room for?

since Friday afternoon I have written over 32 pages of essay.
that would be, 2 long essays.
why am i trying for another 300 words?
but what is 300 words?
...
I just stepped outside, and felt for the first time today, the cold air and breathe it in.
funny how one can forget to do simple things like, go outside. i take so much for granted.
my therapist told me i need to take time to savor the sunshine on my face, to warm my soul, no notice the sublime in the everyday.
that makes all the difference for me.
and as i went outside, wearing slippers and housecoat, it wasn't a rushed and closed up 'preparednedd' i felt. i went into it calm, allowing the cold to feel me.
and to notice and map its chill, to see or decipher that moment of recognition of the cold body.
go out gaurded and it snaps at you.
ease out and feel it.
be in the cold. really.
and to listen to the silence of the dark city soundscape.
away a murmur or siren filling in gaps of silence.
and the stars, i always look for the stars.
i don't take for granted that they will just be there. and anyways, sometimes it's cloudy. so how would you know unless you looked?
the TV is telling me it's christmas time.
i did manage to get my shopping done, so that feels good AND i effectively avoided the mobs...and no, i didn't shop online.
but it's all coming together.
and in anycase the new rocky is out, so there's always that.
and two thumbs up!
no really, i'm watching 'ebert and roper' with guest ayisha tyler.
so yeh, it's about how many hits you can take and keep moving forward. (or equivalent affecting quote...)

Well, I can add to the list of things that I've done before I die- I've gone to a Mormon church in Salt Lake City. Who'd a thunk? It was actually funny. Me and the little guy went to visit father in law and family in Utah and somehow got conned into going to a holiday concert at the local LDS church. It was a Mormon/Catholic interfaith thing and so the first half of the concert was the Mormon portion and the second half of it was Catholic. Needless to say, the four year old came out of the church proclaiming (loudly) that the Catholics were much better than the Mormons. *sigh*
I don't know what came over me- I don't know why I thought visiting the inlaws without the husband was a good idea. I thought that I could handle the family stuff much better alone than with my husband who has all the baggage about it. But no, it turns out that I was all by myself-unarmed- with no one to help defend me. Don't get me wrong- these are very nice people we are talking about. But still- a week alone at the inlaws could get anyone down. Let's just say I am so happy to be home. I feel like I just woke up from some freaky dream. Perhaps I did.

It's Friday the 15th.

I made many to-do lists in my head for this day, but never bothered committing any of them to paper.

This morning, I actually woke up *with* my alarm (well, I hit snooze once, but that's better than hitting snooze four or five times and then realizing that you're running late because you couldn't be arsed to get out of bed properly). Got out of bed. Remembered both the library book that I had forgotten to bring with me yesterday and the two packages of zines I've been meaning to send. And dd's library books, which are due tomorrow.

I'm feeling hopeful about purging unneeded and unwanted stuff from the house. I picked up a forgotten beer bottle under the bed and put it in the sink. The sink that had been piling with dishes for days and that I finally managed to clean out last night.

The houseguest from Barcelona cleared all my clutter off every conceivable surface last week. I'm sure she thought she was doing me a favor, but now I don't know where anything is. My papers are all in one big heap on top of the filing cabinet. My scotch tape--all three rolls--are nowhere to be found. Nor are other things, like the little envelopes full of photos that I had set aside to give to people.

Yesterday, I thought, "I should gather all the materials I've gathered for that article for the past year and put them in my purple portable office." I haven't worked in that article in six months, and then the last thing I remember doing was making a list of questions to ask one of the self-defense instructors I had contacted. I haven't yet; that's a two-location task. Some of the materials are here in the office; others are at home, probably now in that big pile of papers that seem a bit daunting. But it would be good impetus not only to start making that pile dwindle into manageable segments rather than get forgotten, but also to kickstart me into working on that article again.

And then there's the mail, that I've been carting around in my bag for a while. I need to answer those letters, send out zines, etc.

I've got a pile of books that I've been wanting to take over to Books Through Bars for a while, but have put off because the program moved to a new space and hadn't been fully set up yet. But now it is (for the most part) and so I can get rid of that pile of books sitting in my house. There are a bunch of zines too that I wanted to donate to the zine library, although I'm starting to want to hold onto some, at least for the time being.

I think that now, free of houseguests and live-in lovers and, for the crass commercial Christmas week, of small feet as well, I should take advantage of the time and try to organize my living and working spaces better. Maybe it wouldn't be so damn hard to work then.

I suppose I should starthere. Under the telephone are a bunch of scraps of paper and discarded photos with my notes on them. I should see what they say and figure out whether I need them and, if so, where to put them. One of them is a scrap of paper half-covered in the grit that floats in from who-knows-where and covers things left longer than a month on the desk. I think it's part of an article about the history of prison newspapers, although I have no idea how to get it. I suppose this would be a good question to ask my radical librarian friends.

File folders would come in handy just about now.

Sometimes paper is the only thing that will listen to you.

Today he would have been 74, of course that would only be if he had not died when he was 67. Today I'm thankful for his imput into my life, for the short time he spent knowing his granddaughter and for all the fun we had together, but I'm also sad that I can't celebrate his life with him today.

I think he would be proud of all his children and his grandchildren and all that we have done since he left us. Perhaps he is keeping up with what we're doing and watching over us, somedays I swear he is somewhere near by.

Yet somewhere in the middle of the chaos that is Christmas I think we forget all those who will not be feeling happy or merry because of death, illness, money problems and addictions. Many feel better by giving a little something to charity, but what does this really do, it doesn't help the problem. It's just a band aid for a few hours. The government should be funding more resources for addicts, helping more people that live below the poverty line and the retail chains should stop trying to cash in by selling happiness to shoppers, when really they know they'll be paying off the credit card or going without something for some time before they really own what they gave away. It's all crazy and out of hand, yet so many get swept along for the ride...me included.