The Spanish Word For Aunt, Epilogue

Some stupid life threatening illness made good on its threat last Tuesday. My head has been spinning since I found out. We hadn't seen each other since I found out about The Comedian four months ago (which wrecked me at the time, though with distance and perspective, I can't see things happening any other way), but the memories of a sweet, funny, endearing, and happy-despite-hardship young woman came flooding back immediately. I miss her now, more than I did when we broke up. She made a name (literally) for herself and built a career out of being a sexy badass clown (I know, one of these things is not like the other- she made it work), but I never knew that side of her, that other person she called Hollie. I just knew Tia, from Kansas City. 

Addicts

Robert Palmer was sort of right about being addicted to love. If he was actually addicted to it, that's one thing- people can be addicted to all sorts of things, and that's not in question, so he was completely right. What I'm very ineloquently getting at, is that love should be a functional addiction. If you're with someone, and can go cold turkey for a week, guess what? You're not actually with someone. My Favorite Nancy once told me that I needed a woman who pines for me. I understood what she meant at the time, but now I feel what she meant. There has to be a certain level of addiction, the urge to get a fix at regular intervals. If you can't be together, you need to hear each other's voices. If you can't talk, then a text, or an IM, or a chat, or even a poke on Facebook (well... maybe not a poke). 

The Spanish Word For Aunt, pt. III

Wow. Mind blown. Crap. I don't know... speechless. I've been going on like this for the two hours. If 007 has a license to kill, I have a license to stupid. Better yet, I have a violation on record for an MUI (Messaging Under the Influence). The last few days, I've been wondering what happened- living in the ignorance of sobriety, thinking that sometimes crazy things just happen, and people change their minds out of the blue. Then on a fluke, I go through my history, and see something that brought back a hazy memory, something I thought that even in a stupor, I wasn't dumb enough to send.


But, I did.


Now what? I apologized (duh) but the damage is done. I screwed up. There's nothing else to say. Even if there was, it would make me seem like a stalker, so I'm keeping my damn mouth shut.

The Spanish Word For Aunt, part II

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The Spanish word for "Aunt"

"This is an unusual song, dedicated to an unusual person, who makes me feel... unusual." (Pump Up the Volume)

I have a secret. It isn't a secret that I can't tell, but a secret that I can't write. In the age of over-sharing, we've become accustomed to facebooking, tweeting, or blogging our lives for friends and/or strangers alike. "If it isn't on Facebook, it didn't happen." If that's the case, then I'm in a situation that isn't happening. Apparently, the anonymity factor is more or less vital to my mental well being, i.e., if the internet knew, I would become a target of envy for some, and derision for others. It sounds more like I'm in borderline witness protection status, than having become rather close to someone with a sizable (and potentially unstable) cult following. There are ironies on top of complications within Russian dolls, but none of it really matters, and there are really only two out of seven billion people that need to know.

Save it- put it in the bank.

No, I haven't posted in millennia, and that's just how it is. I was under the impression that I'd been creatively bankrupt for a while, because things didn't flow the way they used to. The reality of the situation is, "if you don't use it, you lose it." Being preoccupied with other things gave me less time to do what I enjoy, or so I thought. Whoever came up with the Nike campaign of, "JUST DO IT," was a sage, and righteous individual, because things are easier to do when you do them, and harder to do when you don't. I have all the time in the world. We all do. WE are the ones who choose how to spend our time, and what we spend it on. It's all a matter of priority. If spending time with a lover is a priority, one finds time, one finds space (yes, I guess there is still a tiny kernel of bitterness). If creating art is a priority, choose a tool and get to work. If getting a six-pack is a priority, start crunching (or go to the LQ, depending on your definition of six-pack). If making money is a priority, find a job. Any job. Two. Three. In any case, I'm writing now, and maybe it will continue.

...Like now. You don't know it, but I just wrote pages and pages, then deleted it all because I didn't actually know what the hell I was typing about. This blog has a history of streamofconsciousitis and randomia, but that was some drunken acid flashback fuckery...

Back in a bit.

Exit Through the Whoopie Cushion

I recently saw the Banksy film, "Exit Through The Gift Shop." A thought-provoking film, which left me wondering if it were a documentary, satire, or a clever prank. Given that Banksy is involved, I have to think the answer is "D," all of the above. The anti-hero of the film, a weird little Frenchman called Thierry Guerra, is also a subject of speculation. Did he really think that following artists around for 10 years gave him license to become an artist himself? Did he actually create any of the art in his monumentally vainglorious debut show? Does Thierry Guerra (aka Mr Brainwash, or MBW) even exist?

I've done a bit of intersnooping, and have come to the conclusion that, while Thierry Guerra is a real person, and really did film ten years of street artists, "Mr Brainwash" is a prank conceived by Banksy. In this article from 2008, there is a rather long comment from a guy named Juan Rodriguez, who was on site during the installation of MBW's big LA debut. He mentions rarely seeing MBW creating any art, and that very few crew members spent more than one day there during the entire install. However, there was one person there every day, who painted, screen-printed, and tagged constantly. His name was Roman Lefeburte. In Banksy's Wikipedia entry, there is speculation that his real name is Robert, Robden, Robin Gunningham or Robin Banks. Robert/Robden/Robin or Roman? Coincidence? I think not.