Call f or a term

Over the years I have resented labels, as I find them confining, limiting, inaccurate, etc... I also have a huge belief that those that adopt a theme, be it punk, mod, hippy, what-have-you, often are adopting a set of values and styles without much consideration. Even being an artist or a musician comes with a prepackaged sort of identity.

I could belong to the white-trash group. I let my kids run around naked with dirty faces while I work on my motorcycle drinking a beer in my gravel driveway. I am called an environmentalist, with a hippy implication, for riding my bike and arguing against consumer waste and laziness. I am snubbed at art and music parties for a lack of focus and connections.

It's almost like religion, you have to swallow the whole wad, and leave it at faith, the differences in opinion are considered subtle quirks. I find it all a bit insincere and nauseating.

Nonetheless, I am at odds to try and describe a category to which I "belong." A genre of folks that feel similarly both about religion and lifestyle. Take what gets you off, leave the rest, change it from day to day if it fits, and get beyond the limits. Everywhere one goes there are those few that may associate themselves with this hibernating rebellion against labels. Yet we are at a loss to describe the feeling without a lengthy discussion. Which is fine really. I like lengthy discussions. They usually involve heated arguments, or some other drama.

Atheists at times have described their life outlook similarly. So have humanists (a term I find vague and washed out). But it is not a belief in nothing we celebrate. We have very strong beliefs and all of them differ, sometimes on major issues or in just solutions to those issues. It's not that we preach of a altruistic mandate. We all know some people suck ass.

I'm not done on this subject. I'd like to expand on the set of values and beliefs that are somewhat held in common for this genre.... A short list would be the practice of constant creation, in art music, something, tempered with a firm degenerate slacking. A feeling of importance for the outdoors and the environment, tempered with a love of urban, and the run down. there's more, but no time.

So I just want to know if anyone else is interested in this. And to put a call out to sum it up it a word. What do we call ourselves?

i'm hanging out it the backyard on the decrepit laptop that has to be plugged in at all times. the grass is high in places and there's red trike, an orange traffic cone, a kiddie pool, some solar ovens, a couch, a motorcycle, and other random items strewn about. all these things give me comfort. it's a lived in feel. a protest against over management, too much organization. it's a sort of personal chaos. a freedom, if you will.

jj is digging in a citronella latern and has a grill lighter in one hand. i think he's trying to set his finger on fire. that's my little pyro. maybe spreading the wax all over him will help drive away the mosquitos.

gotta get the bike running. it's a must.

in the time it took me to start up the computer, jj managed to feed the potato chips that river had abandonded to skinner. the cat was not so interested in honey dijon kettle chips, so i guess he tried to feed them to his trike. potato chips all over the floor i mopped last night. and if that wasn't enough, while i cleaned them up he gave the victorian chair a milk facial.

it's been a bit crazy trying to balance architecture school with parenting. but i'm not too far behind in my drawings, though my other classes may be suffering a bit. just 4 3/4 more years to go. ugh. my drawings have improved quite a bit, though i find i need to cheat a bit now and then and use a straight edge. drawing straight lines by hand is difficult to achieve when under the influence of 176 ounces of coffee. but it's even harder to do while sleeping. so there you have it. and they want us to work in ink next. should be challenging.

shit, if i don't get into the second year it may not be the end of the world. just two more years in something like GIS or CAD would certainly be shorter and leave more time for my own crazy projects. but i still want to pursue architecture.

and i damn well have got to move away from tucson eventually. this heat is killing me. life is just not pleasant when it's over 100 degrees for 5 months of the year. i prefer the sodden rains of the north.

but i think i've ranted about that plenty in the past 9 years i've been here. 9 years! jesus. i have obviously been out of my head for a long, long time.

on the up note, i've actually made friends with a couple of people in my studio classes, and i'm thinking of starting up a wiffle beer league. did i say wiffle beer? i meant wiffle ball, but same difference. i think i'll start organizing this scheme very soon. the weather is decent enough in the evenings for such entertainment. it'll be a welcome break to all involoved i think.

Mosquito Toast

Sitting here staring at the overgrown grass ornamented with a fading second hand 70s couch and home to ol' Akira, it all reminds me so much of the Friendly Street Zoo I left nine years ago. Has it really been that long? So much has happened since then, I guess.

Now I have a kid that's in grade school. The new baby is walking and talking. Time is dripping like a leaky faucet, seemingly insignificant, until one day the water bill arrives and it all comes rushing back.

Slow Form of Torture

Every now and then I get to feeling like quitting smoking will be a wonderful experience. I'll breathe better, feel healthier, last longer, etc. Sometimes this illusion lasts more than a day or two. Usually it's easier to refrain from smoking after a particularly masochistic bender of a night. I usually swear off everything after six hours at a bar and three more hours at a party. Shit, I'm ready to go join the hari krishnas or some shit. And oh my God, did I really say that to her? I'm never going outside this room again. In fact, I'll probably make less of an ass of myself if I just stay under these covers for the rest of my life. Stupid stupid stupid. And I'm never, ever smoking or drinking again. But inevitably I see the folly in this logic. Sometimes it takes four hours, sometimes it takes three days ( I secretly think it may be directly proportionate to the time elapsing in which my body expels its lasts toxins.) But after a certain amount of wholesomeness, my mind starts to function again and the first thing it screams out is WHY? Why are you doing this to me? You love me don't you? If you loved me you'd get off your ass right now and go buy a fucking pack of cigarettes. Huh? No? Well at least you could see if someone around will bum you one. Shit. Well then check the ash trays. Surely there must be a lovely hiding under the scum of last night. Ahhh yessss. That hurts in all the old familiar ways. Good girl.

Well I've had five slow days of it now. Sometimes I feel like I should be counting the hours. 115. or minutes: 6900 Hell, that's 414,000 seconds. I'm doing fucking grand. Wouldn't want to bust a record like that.

like butter

It's after noon, time to crack open a beer and get to work measuring, sawing, sanding, screwing. Heh. The building is going slowly. Sometimes days go by without me in the yard covering myself with sweat, sawdust, and blood. But not today. Nearly finished with my upholstered bottom bunk bed crib conversion I let slide a screw that I'm driving, and Wham the phillips bit goes right through my thumbnail as if it had no more substance than butter left out on the counter. The blood comes quickly and starts squirting out of the hole I've drilled into my finger. The nail is cracked like a shattered window and little spiderwebs ooze red. Wonderful.
"Shit, fuck," I look around for sympathy, or at least someone to be impressed by this new way I've come up with to injure myself. Bones lays his ears back guiltily and thumps his tail twice into the thick dusty ground. Sheepish that one. "It's a lot of blood," I say loudly as though that will get me some more recognition. Giving up I go into the house to at least show River the battle wound. Oh well, at least it's an excuse to drink another beer.

12 step program for those that drool

JJ took his first step today. It's very amusing watching him learn to stand on his own, especially since once he gets vertical he throws up his arms like I would at the top of Mt. Everest... as if I had any inclination to climb there, which I don't. He stands for a minute or so before going down again and if I'm within arms reach merely throws himself at me with squeals of glee. It's fucking adorable.

Buckster had her baby yesterday, on cracker Zac's birthday. A baby boy. Too bad they're in France.