3/14/13 Pre-Birth

Worked the front desk at SITE. Mom texted to wish me a happy day-before-my-birthday – promoted by her remembering the time right before I was born, and feeling my presence even though she didn’t know me yet.

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Marigolds

After the YACHT show my sibling and drove up our dirt road to find it obstructed by a pot of marigolds. “Dad loves marigolds!” we exclaimed and I heaved the mass of someone else’s labor into the backseat of my car.
The next day I drove down our road and saw that our neighbor had only one potted plant lining her gate and deduced where our gift had come from. Around midnight my brother and I put the pot back by her gate with an apology note.
My mom and I were buying some marigolds, a funnel and a six-pack at Albertson’s and the woman behind us was buying a Heath bar and a bouquet of flowers. “It must be flower day!” the cashier exclaimed, and the woman behind us said that Albertson’s was close to the cemetery. “My dad passed a year and a half ago, and I’m just waiting for it to get easier.” I felt lucky to be buying living flowers for a living dad.
A few hours later I saw a Facebook status my dad had posted warning against purchasing flowers at Albertson’s, so it looks like our father’s day gift will require some maintenance against white fly. I just figured he could leisurely guzzle Marble Taproom IPA through a funnel while admiring his fancy blue-glazed pot of marigolds.Later my mom and I realized we had forgotten the tomato juice, which makes a good cocktail with cheap beer, soy sauce, sugar, and chili paste. My brother and I went to fetch some and ran into my aunt at the store who asked: “is there anything I get for you at the store?”Cole Bee Wilson is better with our little cousins than Noah and I are, and asked the children about how he should play the stock market as they expounded their wisdom on Trader Joe’s version of Funions. “Are those organic?” Cole questioned.
Noah and I sat on the couch working on projects and talking with Grandpa Obie and Ian about music and the difference between men’s and women’s shirts. Cole and my grandpa were wearing girlfriend/wife shirts.By the time my dad was done listing the ingredients of the rib-rub he had made (chili, turmeric, cumin, soy sauce, honey etc.) my aunt was on the way to the emergency room with my little cousin Basie having an allergic reaction. Eileen, my step grandma (my Eileen) accompanied and those of us in the front yard continued to drink beer and play music.
My grandpa passed me a joint and after my mom explained to him that I didn’t want to smoke it. He expounded about how the medical stuff was very strong and his friend has recently passed out from one hit. My uncle played his hit who’s chorus was developed at age 5 or so: “Micky Mouse was a cowboy.” We delved deep into the rhetoric of the song.
My little cousin came back from the E room with his posse and was embarrassed to be seen without a shirt. I offered him the littlest one I have and insisted that he must get into the Mars Volta due to its namesake, as Adhit had insisted to me when the garment was given to me.
At the end of the evening everyone ate lemon meringue pie (except the town-vegan) and talked about music. My uncle patted my brother and I on the back, saying he had enjoyed hanging out with us and loved us. I drank more whiskey and felt sentimental.

Software

Grandpa Obie was learning Ableton Live and put it into an 3d non-linear setting. Automation lines in red and yellow extended over the mountains like telephone wire, but were not being held up by anything. Any point that was touched could be adjusted, and I realized they could not only be used to change volume levels, panning and effect levels in music, but also the direction and outcome of our destinies.

I walked through the dessert following one of the lines, altering it intuitively. It led me to an apartment building near some large body of water, strings of lights, and a train. I followed people in nice suits as their heels echoed up concrete stairs. Gold light emitted from the place. I passed an open living room with a vivid powder-aqua sofa. People with black hair sat on the couch and I admired the color combination. This was the kind of place I wanted to live.

Wave

 

Noah had a dream that a giant wave crashed over the desert. The dead trees with wasp nests and lizards were covered. An underwater coyote creature walked around, and tube-bridges connected the tops of buildings. One of the tubes broke and a woman within it died, Noah felt what she felt.

Pheemalramicpacaloomer

 

Skeleton Kitty
Pheemalramicpacaloomer
Faralitos on Canyon Road
My grandpa is officially named: Dennis Overman, but got the nickname “Obie Adobe” when he made 1,000 adobe bricks in a day. He’s an original hippie, artist, carpenter, construction worker, and musician. During my guitar recital in 5th grade, the whole music class was supposed to perform, but they had secretly arranged for me to have a solo, saying that they “forgot their instruments.” It was only when my grandpa joined me to sing harmony on Bob Dylan’s “You Ain’t Goin’ nowhere” that I realized what a sweet trick it was.
I went to The Hollar, a little restaurant in Madrid NM, to accompany Grandpa Obie on musical saw the other day. “Irene” by Caribou, complimented my drive up the winding mountain roads. 
Jazmyn bending fire with her will
“EIO” is what Earl, Ian, and Obie have been going by when they play The Hollar, but since my uncle is in Peru we were: “EEO” for a night. We played old-timey cowboy and folk songs, along with original material by my grandpa, 3 of my grandpa’s recently deceased friends, all by the name of Dennis, and Earl. During our break I drank an IPA from the Marble Taproom and noticed my skills improve threefold when I returned to the saw. After forgoing free fried okra due to wait-time, my family and I stood in the parking lot and made plans to bake our traditional “Pheemalramicpakaloomer” cookies.
Me
Pals on Canyon Road
“Pheemalramicpakaloomer” is the name Grandpa Obie gave to a particular cookie cutter shape. Amongst the 37 shapes that are crafted each holiday season many decoration trends become traditions: Killer rabbit, inverted foot shape turned PacMan ghost, writing “foot” on the bear and other such puns, and then by the end just writing “Turtle Farts” “Machine” “Dog” etc. on everything. This year “Dog” was the most popular word.
On December 23rd I won the facebook-status-like-competition of the day, cashing in at around 20 likes. The status was: “I want to make a fragrance for MEN that comes in a flask, it will be scented like whiskey. It will be whiskey.” On December 24th my dad handed me a flask of Jim Beam, saying: “Here’s some cologne.” 
 
On X-Ma$$ Eve we eat boiled coyote teeth (posole) and tamales, my dad and I always sing The Pogues song that begins: “It was Christmas Eve babe, in the drunk tank…”Assorted younglings are sucked into my house and I feed them whiskey from the plastic rainbow shot glasses I keep in my closet. Because we live close to the Faralito Walk, my dad and I break out our marching samba drums and turn the formerly peaceful-drunk-caroling-carousers into roudy-drunk-caroling-carousers. This year Noah joined us on bell and we were mentioned in The New Mexican. As the walk progresses I am swept from group of acquaintances to group of acquaintances like a jellyfish, and every year I collect a group of pals and end up with them at my house, drinking cider by candlelight.
My uncle made a ship from scrap wood when he was a kid, and it’s been sitting in the windowsill of my grandparent’s adobe-beehive since. Each solstice my grandpa turns the ship around, because the direction by which its shadow sails across the wall changes at solstice, and my grandpa wants to see it sailing forward. Grandpa Obie also told Noah that he had better not sit in the laundry basket because it’s the portal to a hell-dimension, after I had dubbed Noah the “Molasses Dog”.  Noah said : “I am the Molasses Dog and all I can do is lean against the heater.” Grandpa Obie said that he thinks Noah is the new Jack Keroac, but not to let that on to protect against big-headedness. 
Grandparent’s land

Afternoon Bedtime Chat

When it’s afternoon in Australia it’s bedtime back home. Sometimes I get to have bedtime chats with my mom via facebook:

M:James Koskinas is a good artist
G: Shit fire! He’s all over the world, and is going into a museum, but he’s outside repairing stucco in the wind. He liked my paintings, too. I’ll send you the photos.
M: Of him liking your paintings?
G: Yeah! He was all bent over in the wind, liking my paintings, and I got a snap shot with the camera I don’t have. I’m laughing at my own self now.
M: lulz
G: wha? You kids need to use your words.
M: Have you been painting any more paintings? Painting paintings lately?.
G: I’ve started another big one, but I’ve been too busy to work on it much lately.
M: Cool, what’s it of?
G: It’s a big silver one, and I’m doing a graphite wash over it. It’s a side view of Heather’s rusty cake pan. Also, Weird James told me how to make my own rust: Dissolve steel wool in vinegar. Hee-Haw! He paints with it, and I aim to do the same.
G: I’m going to send you the photos of all my paintings. The gingerbread pan is on it’s side, and Heather’s cake pan is upside down. I haven’t managed to manipulate those accordingly yet, but whatever. I’ll send it to you right now. I love you, and I’m glad we get to talk online. Take care of your teeth, and I’ll see you in the morning. Say, that reminds me: Did I tell you about the dream I had the other night where I gave birth to twins, one girl and one boy, and I was trying to figure out how to nurse both of them at the same time so neither of them would ever want for anything, and they were both bathed in blue light, and as I was holding them to my chest, they were speaking French to each other, which I couldn’t understand?
M: Whoa, that’s crazy. You’ll definitely be a famous artist in that case.
G: I think so. Nodia says the dream is about giving birth to my new life, and not understanding the language quite yet.
M: Also, since it’s French that’s bonus points in style.
G: I’m going to the gym in the morning, and I need a good nights sleep. Take good care, I love you sooooo much.
M: I love you too! Have sweet dreams, good luck learning French!
(The Paintings are all from my mom’s “Rusty Pan” collection)

Letter From Mom

Letter from mom:

Phew! Thanks for letting me know you’ve got food. Seriously, I’ve been wracked with some weird “beyond-my-control-child-is-far-away-and-I-can’t-feed-them” illness for days. I know you’re a big grown up with your own resources, on top of which you’ve got two lovers who would probably give you grocery money, or at least a good dinner, but I will probably never get over the innate need to feed you. It’s the animal in me, I guess.

I washed your car today, and took it out on a nice little run about town. Damn, that thing is fun to drive, and it’s so stylish and cute when it’s clean! I was pissed that Noah lost my ipod charger somewhere, and killed the battery on my ipod using it last week, because the radio was sucking in many different languages today. The shit they were playing on KSFR and KUNM, which is normally just some kind of jazz, ranging between crap and greatness, was, during my hour of listening enjoyment, a mix of out of control vomit. It was a fire hose of puke, and I don’t mean that in a good way. It wasn’t some bebop noise or silverware drawer music, which I like, it was white people trying to sing the blues with fake Mississippi accents, talking about their guitars being “women.” Fuck! They couldn’t even play their guitars, and their lyrics were as stupid as can be. It’s a good thing I hadn’t eaten lunch, or I would have lost it. And when they weren’t playing that shit, it was the BBC news, (Horrors from Around the World), or the local news where they read the front page of the New Mexican to us for ten minutes. Not only that, I made the mistake of thinking I could drive down Cerrillos Road and actually get to my destination, (Artisan). But, as we like to say around here, “you can’t get there from here.” That whole side of Cerrillos Rd. is a big pile of dirt, and there’s no left or right turn allowed.

It’s fun to rant about the amazingly small inconveniences of our little city. They don’t amount to a hill of beans, which of course, is what’s for dinner.

I love you,
Mama

I Forgot to Take my Camera to This Dream

My family were sitting on our old green couch, which was somewhat revived, we were all going to sleep. I left to sit with Kristen (BFF), watching the sunset reflect off the lake that the living room melted into. The pink was almost violent in its saturation, demanding that we stare in awe. Kristen pointed out that the lake looked like melted chocolate under the energetic sunset from our angle, and wondered what it looked like from above the clouds or outer space. I wondered what it would be like with a different type of perception completely unknown to me, or as nothing.

We began flying in a helicopter, during an earthquake. It seemed the shaking worked its way up through the atmosphere and created and odd sensation of gravity. As it turned out, an older man was telling us his story of a perilous flight, and we were transported to his memory.

Driving through San Francisco, the city streets became winding highways  edged by tall rock walls. Apartment complexes replaced the rocks and mirrored them in structure – tall buildings on either side, where each door was nearly square and could fit a small car. The doors were stacked with varying placement, and each was a different bright color. Looking into a few of the open doors I saw modern design like one sees in architecture magazines, I was taken by a stainless steel bunk bed and thought that this is how college dorms should be.

Kristen, Leah and I walked into a green door and were greeted with a party of unknown Swedish relatives. I walked into one the of least crowded areas and met a very pregnant woman with sandy blond hair in a pony tail, a green shirt, and an open face. We shook hands and then she pulled me into one of the biggest hugs possible, picking me up and carrying me around as I thought: “Wow, its nice to be loved by a mom.”