Saturday, June 30, 2018

Saturday, June 23, 2018


I've been spending a lot of time doing drywall work lately. The only skills I have in this area, I learned from volunteer work with St. Bernard Project and Habitat for Humanity. It's a man's world, especially at the hardware store--snide comments, the assumption that the little lady doesn't know what she's doing, elaborate explanations of simple concepts--with the exception of Dunn Lumber, where a very nice woman helped me buy a bucket of joint compound and discussed mesh versus paper tape, without any implication that my vagina might hold me back.
That said, once I have all my supplies and tools ready to go (including this gem), I truly enjoy the work. Measuring, cutting, fitting, sanding, drilling, taping, mudding and eventually priming and painting.
You get sweaty and dirty.
Maybe a blister or two.
You can see your progress.
You curse your mistakes and then figure out how to fix them.
You give yourself one-on-one motivational speeches.
You finish, legs and back aching, take a step back, and see how far you've come.

Saturday, June 16, 2018

my inheritance

Thanks in part to my shrink I have been thinking about what my parents passed along to me.
In addition to the keen intellect and sparkling personality.
Last night I dreamt that I was packing for a trip and doing the whole dream-anxiety thing of running around a house with a dozen rooms, trying to find things, getting frustrated, and then my parents handed me a huge slithery stack of junk mail, scraps, old pictures, letters--a slippery mess that I couldn't fit into my bag and that I had no use for.
The old subconscious is working overtime while I zzzzzz.

Monday, June 11, 2018

the joy before the Krach

New video alert!
I have a few things to say about "Blood Beneath the Skin," a biography by Andrew Wilson, about the wildly talented Alexander McQueen.
With a few comments about how fashion gave me life.

Saturday, June 9, 2018

with all the devastating reports

We have lost luminaries these past few days.
Kate Spade.
Anthony Bourdain.
After the shock, the (predictable) post-mortems begin to roll in.
The statistics about middle-aged white folk and suicide.
The posting and re-posting of hotline numbers to call.
The admonishments. 
I find none of it convincing and most of it ghoulish and/or pointless.
Again and again I go back to William Styron's powerful 1989 essay in Vanity Fair about his own nearly-fatal descent into despair.
Rest in Peace, KS and AB.

bsp videos don't sleep on 'em