[ Tuesday, August 24, 2004 ]
"Now, when I get back here, I expect to find all of you marching through the streets with great bunches of wildflowers in your arms." - Kenneth Patchen
Friday: Driving aimlessly through a city, water deep on the roads. Feeling as though I need to be wearing a poodle skirt & a sweater, or at least red lipstick & a kerchief over my hair. Staring out a window, eleven floors up, watching crowds gather then disperse on the sidewalk below. Discussing blue neon crosses, the synchronicity of living, Louisiana. Humming..."Jumbalaya, a crawfish pie and-a filet gumbo..." Feeling so full - complete - hidden - exposed - beautiful connected. In love with a man - a monsoon - my life--how it's all lead to this.
Saturday: Willie Nelson on stage. Singing "Always on my Mind". Dave behind me. Static around me. Bob Dylan. "All Along the Watchtower". The urge to jump straight up & down when he makes the chorus rock. That excitement inside my bones, wanting to shoot out through my body, my legs, my arms, my feet. I can't contain the energy. Music is almost everything.
Sunday: Arts & projects. Two hours spent inside a shop discussing books. Jack Kerouac. A notebook inside a shirt pocket. Writing no more or less than one tiny page. Comparing that poem to a jazz riff. The Fuck Up. The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Charlie. His anonymous someone. Graffiti art. Brian Froud. Leafing through pages together. Surrounded by others & still, alone in a shop, sharing art, words, the Lester Bangs coincidence, postcards.
Monday: John Lee Hooker. Big Joe Williams. Memphis Slim prowling through a house. Suddenly we are in the delta. Across the road, alligators crawl through the bottom, which has magically turned into marsh & swamp. Grilled shrimp, portobello mushrooms. Nirvana--loud & raw, wrapped around us like a blanket or a cloud of dust. Seinfeld. Laughter. Comfort. The constant is always comfort.
This weekend was just an experience. Being tucked away in the city with Dave felt absolutely right. I felt so much a part of this world. And at the same time, when we were surrounded by people...I still felt hidden. The people, sounds, smells, sights were our background.
There were moments that I wanted to trap forever. Some of them because they were just ours & some that were just absolute irreplaceable moments.
A snapshot: We're behind a group of four older people sitting on a blanket. In 30 minutes Willie Nelson will appear on stage. Beads on the short haired lady. The other--gorgeous silver hair tucked into a french braid. I'm overwhelmed by this image. Instantly I think...how beautiful this is. They've come to a Willie Nelson concert, no doubt recalling how they were back in the day. I think...this moment will bring back memories for them. Dave says "There's gonna be some pot fired up on that blanket tonight." I don't see this when I look at them. Willie Nelson appears on stage. Everyone stands. We are beside the group. I smell dope. I look around. Beside me, the old man offers a hit. I turn him down but smile. The short haired lady is on the blanket with her shirt off & bra exposed. She's changing into the Willie Nelson t-shirt she just purchased. They bring out the clips. Pass back & forth. Continue passing back & forth, staying still the few seconds it takes to inhale deeply, exhale & sigh. Then they're dancing again. Which turns into more of a sway by the end of the night.
I watch a young girl & boy dance. Both with dreadlocks. The boy blonde. The girl with pink tips. They don't look suited to each other. He's drunk & she looks needy--the way she clings to him. I think she's adapted this look. It's not something that was in her. I feel sadness when I look at them. I'm not sure if it's coming from her or if it's the distance in his eyes. The way he doesn't seem to notice her, but dances with her. It's a beautiful image - the sight of them dancing together, old-fashioned, with her arm draped around his neck, the other holding his hand. But I think he just wants to dance. And she's there. Her eyes tell me...she knows this. She wonders who he dances with when she isn't there. She wonders how long she'll be there.
Another snapshot: Heading down mainstreet, I spot a woman perched on the sidewalk. From a block away I can tell that this woman was at some point a man. I look at her face as we drive by. I recognize her face. I've looked for this face before, when I've been in Lexington, drunk in the back of a cab, prowling through the streets. We circle the block. Pull in. I do recognize this face. She cannot see me. She sees Dave. Gives him the 'come hither' look. I bend down. She recognizes me. I say 'Hi. How are you. I thought I recognized you but wasn't sure.' There are I love yous exchanged. She's in a slinky black dress, with newly purchased parts almost exposed. On the bench in front of her another Lady sits. Behind them, a woman. The woman says "Are you registered to vote?" "Yeah, we are.", Dave responds. The Lady on the bench, stocky & perhaps Latina says "You better be registered to vote, you'll make her mad." She makes mad two syllables. We chuckle. Exchange I love yous again. That moment was priceless. And that image would be such a perfect part of a voter registration campaign. The podium in the background, nestled perfectly between the Lady on the bench, done up in black eyeshadow & fake lashes, and the Lady perched on the sidewalk, in her glitter & lacy black dress with a thigh-thigh slit.
We both feel like we've just witnessed a perfect pop culture moment. Except that it exists only in our heads, in our memory bank.
Sunday we bought postcards, mattes & frames. Sunday night we came home & began assembling our little projects. My postcard with the Patchen quote, scrawled & painted in white didn't fit the matte. The edge of the words extended past the border of the white matte. It wasn't perfect. I like it better that way. The words can't be contained inside that perfect 4x6 square. I think about what that means. How that applies to art or words or anything that we create. How the good stuff can't really be captured. How it will always extend past the edges when we try to contain it or fit it into a perfect little box. That's what art is. That's what we are. This beautiful - gritty - ugly - sorrowful - graceful - dignified image splashed momentarily on canvas or skin, but always fighting against the feeling of being held down, trapped, or framed perfectly with no room for movement. We are movement. We are constantly spilling over our own edges, defining new ones.
Resentment comes when you're around others who don't allow you to expand.
Comfort is the result when you're around someone who allows you to do so.
"Now, when I get back here, I expect to find all of you marching through the streets with great bunches of wildflowers in your arms."
That's my new anthem. God bless you, Kenneth Patchen.
Much love.
~ Rebecca 8:19 PM [+]
