BOOK REPORT: fried green tomatoes at the whistle stop cafe,

or: i feel really gay reading this book.
i pretty much devoured this book in like 3 days. not sure what it is about a tragic love story between two women that is obvious but never called out for what it is eventho there is no denying it, but count me in. that and i really liked the movie, wanted to see how the printed word compared. i won't spoil it one way or another for those of you who have not seen one or read the other, but i will say that the movie is better on a whole. tho the book does go into the lives of the slavey folk in more detail and that is satisfying to read about. but the movie, despite major changes to the plot, did it justice.
which is the same opinion held by my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Larsen. Of course, when 12 year old me heard her say this (to my mom i think who was standing there next to me), i assumed she liked the movie better because it played down the gay mary s m/mary l p relationship. which it does. and played up the not gay kathy bates/jessica tandy relationship. at least, that was the reason i remember her giving.
regardless i was a little disappointed. perhaps a little heart broken. i had had a little crush on her. not in a 'song by that 80's hair band whose name i never bothered to remember' kinda way, but more of a 'you and i are cut of the same cloth at least that's what i'm banking on' kinda way. similar to the crush i had on Sr. Christine. 'cept i wasn't in awe/scared of Mrs. Larsen.
if ever in my adolescent life there existed a clearly gay, strong role model for me, it was her. only at the time, i did not recognize her lesbianism as such. it was hiding just barely behind the cover of the convent, excused by her title of PE teacher, silently flouting about behind her loud colorful hammer pants. i see it now tho, in friends, acquiantences, in myself. in our mannerisms, our speech patterns, that certain look, attitude. eh, i wonder what ever happened to her. . .
but yeah, the book is alright. pretty easy. makes me want to eat bbq and cornbread. there are recipes in the back of the book but the bacon fat and buttermilk theme is a bit much for me with the sensitive constitution/aversion to bacon.

(ok, so this is like 2.5 weeks old. never got around to posting it. i am in berlin right now, more on that later.)

BABYSEAL is a SAINT. and cries. tears of blood for you.

two days ago i wake up to a phone call from my roommate who woke up to a phone call from random stranger saying she found BABYSEAL's collar in the middle of John street. not the worst news ever, but certainly not definitively good. i got off the phone with not even gone 24hours roommate and head outside. i found the collar and only the collar by the bus stop where random stranger said she put it. there were no SEAL bodies lying in the street that i could see, so i headed back home.
and who should be waiting for me at the door but Peter Peter Jennings (SEALBABY's brother), Darma (sp? there's probs an 'h' in there, my neighbor's hiss inducing black and white cat) and non other than BABYSEAL! alive! and well, mostly well. she looked like she always does (uh, handsome, sturdy) except for the giant bloody tear drop coming out of her right eye. mother mary, check out the photo, it looks fake, but trust me, BABYSEAL's blood tears are real. (for the record i feel a little bad about getting all paparazzi on the SEAL in her time of trauma, but i had to get documentation.) it was like one of those statues that people flock to holy pilgrimage style. i was close to calling the pope but instead called her human back to report the news of BABYSEAL being cannonized as saint sometime in the wee hours of the morning. since when did being made holy require a trip to the vet?
the seal doctor was nice and SEAL was well behaved. she (dr.) surmised that she (her holiness) got in some kind of scuffle that ended up with her (meow) getting a small laceration on her (again with the meow) eyelid, before running like hell and losing two nails to the asphalt in the process. ouch. i looked at her (furry beast) and thought, damn, you are gonna be sore tomorrow. then came the purr stopping rectal thermometer followed by some glow in the dark eye drops to check for retinal/corneal damage. there was none. but later on the way home, the stuff started gooping out of her eye and it looked like she was a cyborg crying robot juice. unfortunately, no photographic evidence exists of that. . .
so now we are home safe. SEALPUP is doing her best to keep the rug from flying up and away, waiting for half her whiskers and spots of fur on her hind legs to grow back. i am happy to have her home and now am extremely reticent to put her out. i think maybe this calls for a BABYSEAL slumber party: we stay up late watching WINGED MIGRATION, eating smoked salmon, napping on the table. im sorry, boss man, but i cannot come into work today i am busy. tomorrow, too. and the next day, for good measure.


for the record, administering antibiotics by jamming them down the held open jaws of a held down SEALPUP sounds like the worst idea ever, dear roommate whose seal i am watching over. you can take your life into your own hands, i, on the other hand, choose life. (thank you marisa for the crush it up in wet food idea. i owe you my life. or at the very least, a pint of blood.)

we both like mice

i have been a touch busy as of late. so here for you now is the written portion of a performance i did at the Pink Door recently with modern dance sensation Jody Kuehner. it truly is better live.

we both like mice
written by ilvs strauss, performed by MouseBones.

i dont remember how i got here exactly, but i can tell you what is happening now.
it's pitch dark out and i dont really know what day it is. the moon is a tacky bedside table lamp circa 1979, floating large in the sky not 5 feet from me, lighting my immediate surroundings.
between me and the ground is an inky body of water.
between me and the water is creaky tan row boat.
between me and the boat is a grade schooled desk
between me and the desk, the curling pages of my open notebook.
i am head down, hunched over, sitting at this desk in the boat in the sea, furiously taking notes. my professor's voice drones on about the life and times of a certain historical figure, circa 1979. i am several pages into my notation, when i realize i have no idea who it is my professor is talking about. my body creaking like wood under pressure, unrolls upright, hand raising above head in the accepted question asking formation. only to then stop suddenly, frozen in place in a visceral response to the startling nature of the orator's appearance: my teacher is an owl.

a gentle motor enters the orchestra pit, subtle like an undertow, starts up a conversation with the tiny waves below. their mild chatter floating up like steam off hot coffee. not 4 feet in front of me, 2 large surveillance camera lenses for eyes stare at me from a bouquet of feathers, stemming out of a vase shaped warm (bird) body, perched delicately on the lip of the tiny boat. my hand hangs, still, in the air, a needle waiting for someone to (please) flip the record. the professor, unaffected by my gestural attempt at interruption, continues his discourse.
'wait,' i manage, 'who?' he continues his discourse.
'wait, who?' he continues his discourse.
'wait, who?' he continues his discourse.
we carry on like this, our closed circuit exchange, for an undisclosed amount of time.

the sound, it sneaks on in like a tsunami, the sonic shadow, creeping on in like a curtain being drawn, lifting us out of the deep groove we are traveling. our broken record dialog drowning in the wake of the sound of the motor. he looks at me pointedly, then for the first time in our time, takes his eyes off me, shifts his focus, peers down into the water. i follow his gaze, the furled pages of my notebook waving lazily out of the corner of my eye.
on the water is a tan creaky boat,
on the boat is a grade schooled desk,
on the desk is a curled paged notebook,
and sitting by the notebook on the desk in the boat on the water, the author, hand held high in a posture of prosperity, the singular answer to a question not yet asked: the student is a cat.

i stare at my catself in the water that could be sky that could be one night or another, day as dark as night. suddenly, sweetly, it occurs to me, the motor is me, i am purring. my hand lowers to my chest and it feels like rain, or birds taking flight i'm not sure which. then, the clack whir sound of a shutter opening and closing. i look up, up towards the noise, up towards my professor the owl, (pause) the owl is gone.
between me and the water is a continuation of what is,
between me and the boat is a continuation of what is,
between me and the desk is a continuation of what is.
between me and my notebook is a continuation of what is.

Orgy of Tolerance or Great, Now My Clothes Smell Like Smoke.

i just posted my review on the On the Boards blog posing it as a response to Ben Zamora's review. for your convenience, i will repeat myself here:

the company was upset that i kissed her. she was beautiful - glossy magazine beautiful, fragile, fey. her blue eyes matched her large blue beaded necklace that somehow went with her maroon mumu that complemented her blond hair. she was a psychic dressed like a caricature of a physic. 

upon my return to the theater, i found her friends, her company, sitting in the second row, an air of malice about them. not ones to confront, i discovered they took their anger out on me in a more tangible, property damaging, just-wait-till-she-gets-back manner. upon the stage, my oversized canoe looking suitcase was littered with trash, soggy and soiled with Coca Cola. my property, my things, pristine and cherished, left unattended, had been intentionally ruined. and that is when i uncharacteristically lost my shit.

 

i pulled a rifle on the would be ring leader, some brunette wearing her contempt on her face like a fancy lotion. i yanked her out of her seat, pushed her to the ground and with the gun held to her head, let every ounce of rage i didnt know i had rain upon her now trembling body in an unfettered downpour. this went on for an uninterrupted amount of time, during which the still observer part of me became consciously aware of this woman's raw fear, her helplessness, the utter futility/stupidity of what the moving active part of me was doing. i stopped abruptly. 'i'm sorry,' i told her, lifting the gun away from her teary face, 'this isn't helping.' the theater was silent save for the echos of her sobs. 

had i not taken the time to write this dream down soon after waking, my memory of it, my impression of it, much like that of the performance, would have been forgotten, buried under the footsteps of my waking life.

peacelove,

ilvs 

*********

now, the only other point of contention i have is: 

dear hot belgian dancer, 

instead of imposing yourself all over a fancy old bicycle, you should have done so all over a fancy automobile. we are a car culture. americans hate bicycles. we run them over. if you're gonna throw a glossy, euro chic, cultural critique at us about our own selves, you should at least get the details down.

muchas gracias,

ilvs

the oh so real sting of virtual loss: part II

i stare at my little black laptop, standing here, deciding. the cats are sleeping, traffic is moving along john st, the sun is coming thru the windows. i feel a breeze. i am weighing my options, my heart is heavy.

basically the only way to fix it is to return it to the factory settings. he broke the news to me with little fanfare. reset the computer. i think about the implications. in doing so i would lose all documents. everything would be wiped clean. there is no way to retrieve the files? no secret code or anything? no sorry, ma'am. this is breaking my heart a little, i tell him. not so much to elicit sympathy, but just to verbalize that a crater just landed in my chest and im feeling a little woozy from it. i was about to hang up, tell him thanks anyways, when he slips me this one last piece of hope. you should try this website, there are a lot of informed folks on there, you might be able to find something. i felt like, in that tv movie, where the girl gets pregnant by some unfortunate circumstance and wants an abortion but cant get one cuz it's illegal and it seems there is no hope until the doctor, taking pity and risking his own license, sneaks her a slip of paper with a name of a doctor 'who can help,' and she leaves quickly with tears in her eyes, hands clutching the tiny parchment that could very well be her salvation. ok, except that is way more dramatic than my situation. not to mention im not going to get pregnant and abortions are legal. regardless. i wrote the website down and followed the links. fingers crossed.

i bought this little black laptop like a month ago so i wouldn't have to lug my super expensive apple around town. it rules. i use it for my writing. for my ideas. my scripts. my slide shows. i was typing away on it at work the other day when i had the idea that maybe i should change it so it requires me to log on first. like a golden latch on a diary. i unclicked the log me on automatically box and chose a clever password. then i restarted the puppy. it asked me, ilvs, for my password. i enter it in. INVALID PASSWORD. uh, excuse me? i try again. and again. and again. . . something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

apparently i am not the first to lock themselves out of their own computer. following posted email threads, there are others like me, frustrated, at wits end, driven to use ALL CAPS FOLLOWED BY !!!!!!!!!!! yes, i feel you. i follow a few links and it gets me to some how to hack your own computer page of directions. ah! there is hope. after much reading and rereading, i tentatively begin my reclamation process. i get past step one. success. i get to step two and hit a major hurdle. alas, my love for penguins does not transfer into linux code savviness. i give up for fear of fucking up my computer permanently.

so then i move to option 2: ask for human help. i email the nerdiest (read: he builds his own computers) friend i know. he also does not speak the linux, but is willing to help. next monday evening. today is friday (ok, saturday, but i wrote most of this friday) . i am biding my time.

last chance to back out. y. e... . s. i hit return for a second time and instantly burst into a short sob. the sting of loss. irretrievable loss. my shit is gone and there is no going back. my brief grief is quickly replaced by a the shallow high twenty minutes after my email s.o.s., im standing in my living room/office/foyay/really it's all one room cuz i live in a studio. i decide to hell with it and rip the bandaid off myself. i highlight RESTORE FACTORY SETTINGS, i hold my breath, i hit return. it prompts me to type in yes. one last chance to go back. i hesitate. y. e. . . fuck it, s. i instantly burst into a short sob. the sting of irretrievable loss. my work is done, my writing gone. there is no going back. my brief grief is quickly replaced by the shallow high of well, you did it. fully knowing that the full reprocutions of your actions will be felt more fully in the not so distant future. . .

moral of the story: when life gives you lemons, document the hell out of it. make backups. print out your final drafts. at the very least, share your ideas so that they exist in the safety of someone else's thoughts.

BOOK REPORT - Immunity. (the first 43 pages, at least)

i read moby dick. earlier this year. it took me approximately 3 months to do so. but i did it. it is done. and it was worth it. i won't go into the details cuz, well, you are probably familiar with the gist of it. but what i will tell you is that it has inspired me (that and the most recent library book sale) to catch up on my classics/must read reading. like the somewhat arbitrary top 100 novels of all time.  instead of being intimidated, i thought, you know what, im gonna do it, read all 100 novels, be 'caught up,' be that person who knows all those obscure literary references, pretend i majored in american lit. 

but then reason kicked in. 100 books is a lot. and some sound really boring (no offense tolstoy!). and how come marquez is like the only hispanic/latino on the list? and he only shows up on like 5 of the 7 thousand versions of the top 100 list. so i made some modifications on the list. i still wanna read the books. but i also want to read not so caucasian authors. and those other people, what do you call them? women? yeah. so my new goal reads that from this day forth i shall read: books on the 'top 100' list, books by persons of color, books by women, and the occasional science (fiction) book. oh, and the occasional inspirational spirituality book.

and not one of those criteria is reason for me putting down my latest book after only 43 pages. introducing Immunity, by Lori Andrews. i picked it up cuz it was on the list of reads for the Women's Bioethics Book Club. why am i not going to finish this book? several reasons: for one, i have already touched on the topic of mysterious deadly diseases with my new friend Richard Preston (see BOOK REPORT - The Hot Zone). for two, the writing does not capture me. probably because im too distracted by reason three: there is a love story a-brewing between the main character (army research lady) and some DEA agent (passionate mandude with curly hair) and it is irritating.  now, i dont mind the occasional love story. just as long as it doesnt come with a side of 'hard on'. (um, author's words). call me crazy, or bored of ubiquitous hetero narrative, or just plain gay, but i ain't got time for this bad romance novel/terribly infectious virus charade. i got other books to read. next up: Margaret Atwood. right after i finish How to Change Your Life in 5 Steps.

i like your dead bird better.

i was just at the BFA art show for Cornish grads. free wine, free snacks, free art. i recommend (tho the wine and snack bit was just for tonight's opening).
one artist's work in particular (kelsey fein)(sp?) (photos/woodcuts of dead birds) reminded me of a story:
my roommate's friend was visiting our portland abode from some exotic far away locale. minnesota or something. she was in town for some conference about what i can't remember. she had long dark hair and something about her made me think, witch? i saw very little of her, due mostly to my work schedule. she left a few days later without saying goodbye. she left behind a brown bag of personal affects.
curiosity, fueled by being home alone, led me to search the bag of it's mysterious contents. (ok, that and i knew that she had called my roommate to say she left behind some boots. i'm not really a snoop.) one pair of black high heeled boots, accounted for. one bag of chex mix, score. one plastic ziplock sammich bag with something black in it, hmmm some thing told me i should not bring the bag regrettably close to my face for further inspection. so what did i do? i brought the bag regrettably close to my face for further inspection. it looked like human hair. wet. and clumpy. and black. and crawling with maggots! i flung the bag back in the bag and left it for my roommate to deal with. . .
a week or so later, i come to find out that the bag of human hair was in fact the delicate remains of a dead bird. she was an artist and collected bird wings.
kelsey fein, i like your dead birds better.