went to see basquiat and all I got was.....squat
no, not really.
for my visual thinking (art) class, I had to go see the exhibit at MOCA (museum of contemporary art) displaying the works of basquiat. if you're not familiar with basquiat, you've probably seen one of his works before and just not known who it was. his work is interesting.... it looks primal, simplistic and raw, but if you look at it long enough it actually becomes pretty visionary.
anyhoo, I had some assignments I had to do from the exhibit. it was your standard write a response kind of stuff... but one of the questions was to pick one of the pieces and write a short,one-page short story about it. you were to pretend that basquiat had read your story first, then painted the portrait as a result of the story.
I wrote my short story going off of basquiat's "untitled" piece from 1982. all I did was sit down at my computer and write a stream of consciouness, but it was really fun. if you'd like to read my bizarro short story,
basquiat's "untitled":
Dana called again today… three different times. She was calling before I was even awake. She called again when I was on lunch break-or, at least she would have, if I hadn’t blown off work today. She called yet again while I was lying in bed watching the sun go down and listening to the six o’clock news in the other room. All of her messages are the same… “We need to talk-what’s the matter with you?-You better not be doing what I think you’re doing. I’m going to call until you pick up. I love you. Please make good choices.”
That’s all I need. More people on my ass. The landlord came up earlier and banged on my door for what must have been twenty minutes. That lady is such a bitch. Maybe I’ll just have to sit up here doing nothing, making no sound, not going out, not taking any visitors, not showing the slightest sign of existence, and maybe she’ll leave me alone after awhile of it. Maybe.
I have no clean laundry. Part of that is because I don’t want to run into Roberta and get screamed at for not paying my rent, but I also just don’t really care if I have clean clothes or not. I’ve started to make a game of it, pulling clothes off the floor and putting them on and trying to remember when I last wore them and what I was doing while I wore them. It’s a game I have yet to win. My shirt smells like pine, or cedar. I think it’s from last week, when I sat in the windowsill and listened to the wind. The breeze was so strong that it turned a woman’s umbrella inside out.
I need a haircut.
It would seem that the neighbors upstairs are having another argument. She probably caught him with someone else’s scent. People are like dogs-or maybe these just particular people are-but everyone is always looking to pick up a scent, reaching towards a common goal of taking something away from someone else. She even barks like a dog when she yells at him.
Shit, the phone again. Shit. I should just unplug the damned thing.
Hi, I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message with your name and number after the beep. Beep.
Dial tone? She’s hanging up this time. How angry she must be.
I can deal with that.
Charlie sent a letter today. I can read and receive my mail because it gets dropped in a slot through the door. He said that he’s doing a little better each day but that he still hates rehab with a passion. Addiction will do that to you, though. He said that the meals in the cafeteria were crappy and that all the nurses are ugly. Charlie’s upset with womankind in general, probably because it’s been too long since he’s been touched by a woman. I know he’s not over Alicia yet. I don’t know how he could be. When your girlfriend calls off your wedding because of your meth addiction and leaves you for another woman, it’s going to fuck with you for awhile. I think part of the reason Charlie checked into rehab in the first place is because he thought it would clear her out of his system along with the drugs. Poor bastard.
Not like my situation with Dana is much better. I have no desire to see her, but if she were to vanish from my life, I think I would die. I think I just like the thought of someone caring for me. Caring for me enough to where she calls me a few times each day and talks to my machine just to talk to me at all. I don’t know why I do this. I know it’s the wrong way. But I think I love her so much that I can’t see her, or everything will fall apart.
Mr. Maisely didn’t even call to yell at me for ditching work. Maybe he’s used to it. He either hates me or empathizes with me, one of the two. Oh well, those packages will deliver themselves eventually.
I’m running out of groceries. I don’t know why I have so many cans of corn in the cupboard. I’ve had one or two cans of it everyday for the last three days, and I still have eleven cans left to use. I don’t even remember buying that shit.
It smells like rain outside. It hasn’t rained yet, but it smells like it will. Growing up next to the river must have done a number on my senses. I can still read Mother Nature even in the slums of this urban labyrinth. That’s a miniscule amount of comfort to live off of, but it’s comfort nonetheless.
now, I have to go storyboard... if you know anything about the song "master of the house" from the les mes musical, let me know. I have to storyboard the entire song out, which is made that much harder by the fact that I haven't seen the play. :/
but first...lunch time!
for my visual thinking (art) class, I had to go see the exhibit at MOCA (museum of contemporary art) displaying the works of basquiat. if you're not familiar with basquiat, you've probably seen one of his works before and just not known who it was. his work is interesting.... it looks primal, simplistic and raw, but if you look at it long enough it actually becomes pretty visionary.
anyhoo, I had some assignments I had to do from the exhibit. it was your standard write a response kind of stuff... but one of the questions was to pick one of the pieces and write a short,one-page short story about it. you were to pretend that basquiat had read your story first, then painted the portrait as a result of the story.
I wrote my short story going off of basquiat's "untitled" piece from 1982. all I did was sit down at my computer and write a stream of consciouness, but it was really fun. if you'd like to read my bizarro short story,
basquiat's "untitled":
Dana called again today… three different times. She was calling before I was even awake. She called again when I was on lunch break-or, at least she would have, if I hadn’t blown off work today. She called yet again while I was lying in bed watching the sun go down and listening to the six o’clock news in the other room. All of her messages are the same… “We need to talk-what’s the matter with you?-You better not be doing what I think you’re doing. I’m going to call until you pick up. I love you. Please make good choices.”
That’s all I need. More people on my ass. The landlord came up earlier and banged on my door for what must have been twenty minutes. That lady is such a bitch. Maybe I’ll just have to sit up here doing nothing, making no sound, not going out, not taking any visitors, not showing the slightest sign of existence, and maybe she’ll leave me alone after awhile of it. Maybe.
I have no clean laundry. Part of that is because I don’t want to run into Roberta and get screamed at for not paying my rent, but I also just don’t really care if I have clean clothes or not. I’ve started to make a game of it, pulling clothes off the floor and putting them on and trying to remember when I last wore them and what I was doing while I wore them. It’s a game I have yet to win. My shirt smells like pine, or cedar. I think it’s from last week, when I sat in the windowsill and listened to the wind. The breeze was so strong that it turned a woman’s umbrella inside out.
I need a haircut.
It would seem that the neighbors upstairs are having another argument. She probably caught him with someone else’s scent. People are like dogs-or maybe these just particular people are-but everyone is always looking to pick up a scent, reaching towards a common goal of taking something away from someone else. She even barks like a dog when she yells at him.
Shit, the phone again. Shit. I should just unplug the damned thing.
Hi, I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message with your name and number after the beep. Beep.
Dial tone? She’s hanging up this time. How angry she must be.
I can deal with that.
Charlie sent a letter today. I can read and receive my mail because it gets dropped in a slot through the door. He said that he’s doing a little better each day but that he still hates rehab with a passion. Addiction will do that to you, though. He said that the meals in the cafeteria were crappy and that all the nurses are ugly. Charlie’s upset with womankind in general, probably because it’s been too long since he’s been touched by a woman. I know he’s not over Alicia yet. I don’t know how he could be. When your girlfriend calls off your wedding because of your meth addiction and leaves you for another woman, it’s going to fuck with you for awhile. I think part of the reason Charlie checked into rehab in the first place is because he thought it would clear her out of his system along with the drugs. Poor bastard.
Not like my situation with Dana is much better. I have no desire to see her, but if she were to vanish from my life, I think I would die. I think I just like the thought of someone caring for me. Caring for me enough to where she calls me a few times each day and talks to my machine just to talk to me at all. I don’t know why I do this. I know it’s the wrong way. But I think I love her so much that I can’t see her, or everything will fall apart.
Mr. Maisely didn’t even call to yell at me for ditching work. Maybe he’s used to it. He either hates me or empathizes with me, one of the two. Oh well, those packages will deliver themselves eventually.
I’m running out of groceries. I don’t know why I have so many cans of corn in the cupboard. I’ve had one or two cans of it everyday for the last three days, and I still have eleven cans left to use. I don’t even remember buying that shit.
It smells like rain outside. It hasn’t rained yet, but it smells like it will. Growing up next to the river must have done a number on my senses. I can still read Mother Nature even in the slums of this urban labyrinth. That’s a miniscule amount of comfort to live off of, but it’s comfort nonetheless.
now, I have to go storyboard... if you know anything about the song "master of the house" from the les mes musical, let me know. I have to storyboard the entire song out, which is made that much harder by the fact that I haven't seen the play. :/
but first...lunch time!