Procrastination Assasination!

I need to be reading! I have read a bit today. I read a bit last night. Then I stayed up until 2am writing a short story because it had me in its knifey grips and I couldn't sleep until I wrote 2/3's of it. I've had the writing urge for a while now, and blogging just wasn't cutting it, academic writing wasn't cutting it. I knew it was the creative writing urge; it has a distinctive itch to it. It licks and nudges at my temples and my fingertips until I give in. It's that fuckin' whore muse.

To put it simply and briefly, the short story is about a fuckin' angry guy who REALLY doesn't want to be laid over at the airport. Let your imagination wander and you probably still won't guess what this sociopath does.

It all started with the perfect song. Back when I was a real artist who painted and sketched and did monotypes and shit, I had to have a song when I worked. The perfect song. The song might be the perfect song for hours, even days at a time. If I was in the studio with a class full of pseudo-intellectual Baptist University shmucks or all alone on a Sunday afternoon, the perfect song was the key ingredient, not to inspiration, but to the delivery of inspiration to canvas. I was going through a massive Dave Matthews phase, so "#41" could do me for a good week before I got sick of it. Sarah McLachlan, David Grey, and Jann Arden were my steady standbys.


There was one particular guy in my drawing class that I actually admired. He wasn't terribly pretentious and his work was kickass. I rarely talked to anyone in that class because they were all very standoffish. I went into that class with warrior mentality because the teacher was notoriously difficult, so I suppose I was standoffish as well. Anyway, one day in the midst of a feverish round of coffee wash (a technique for staining a drawing) he looked over at my board for a few minutes. I smiled. He looked some more. I knew he wanted to speak, so I took my headphones. off.

"Good work," he said.

"Thanks. I like this more than I thought."

"Whatcha listening to?" he asked.

"Dave Matthews."

"What's your favorite album?"

"Crash."

He smiled. He walked away. I went back to work. From then on he spoke when he saw me immersed in the muse, often asking if I was listening to my favorite album or was it something different that day? The conversations were never long. They were never about more than music, but they were always about more than music. I think there's an admiration among artists, especially visual artists, for how others find that place where it feels like your hand can never keep up with your mind. You can never catch everything you're feeling on the canvas...never capture just how you see things. You have to harness the passing wave the best you can. When you can see the wave in the work, you know you've succeeded. It's just a shadow, but a little piece of the moment is caught forever.

The other day I actually caught myself thinking..."Can you still do it? Can you still paint? Is it still in you?" I'm happy with writing (obviously), I'm happy with study, but I find I go back to my past often and I work the visual into my studies of literature. Once it's in you, I guess it never really leaves.

Now I find myself trying to catch the wave with my words. Always reaching for something.

I just drank a cup of coffee. On purpose. I don't even recognize myself anymore.

On TV: home improvement shows
Listening: "#41" from Live at Luther College, Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds
Planning: To watch Donnie Darko or Walk the Line pre-Junto con Elise

In my head...

...and...

The stars will cry
The blackest tears tonight
And this is the moment that I live for
I can smell the ocean air
And here I am
Pouring my heart onto these rooftops
Just a ghost to the world
That's exactly
Exactly what I need

From up here the city lights burn
Like a thousand miles of fire
And I'm here to sing this anthem
Of our dying day
"Anthem of Our Dying Day", Story of the Year

...and....



...and...

...and...

...and...


On TV: Will and Grace (which I only watch for Harry Connick, Jr.)
Music: See above.
Reading: The Cambridge Companion to Modernism
In my head: Dreamy doables.

Something substantial...?

I haven't really posted anything substantial lately. My drinking stories, my conference fun, my recipes, and funny pics, but there hasn't really been much about me. There's quite a bit swirling in my head, but articulating it is difficult and some of it isn't fit for blogdom.

Little things making me happy lately are plentiful. I went out and bought Walk the Line today and watched it tonight while I should've been reading for a book review that's due next week. I'd rather watch Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon and listen to Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash anyday. I'm still completely in love with the movie, and listening to Johnny Cash still makes me cry. Favorite Johnny songs: "It Ain't Me Babe"....close second: Girl from the North Country...live with Bob Dylan.

Go away from my window
Leave at your own chosen speed
I'm not the one you want babe
I'm not the one you need.

You say you're looking for someone
Who's never week but always strong
To protect you and defend you
Whether you are right or wrong.

Someone to open each and every door
But it ain't me babe
No no no it ain't me babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for babe.

The fourth Harry Potter movie comes out on DVD next week, so y'all know I'll be all over that. Other little things: an Indian food outing this weekend, Donnie Darko pre-Junto on Friday, my freakin' crazy friends.

I haven't mentioned it officially here, but I'm starting a webzine entitled Estella's Revenge. You can see the temporary template at http://www.estellasrevenge.com

We'll have a real page rolling soon, and I hope to get the first round of content up in a few weeks. I have a crazy-ass talented bunch of people who are planning to write. SO excited.

But I'm goin to bed now. I'm forcing myself. I'm going to bed with Gavin Degraw and I hope he'll lull me into dreamland. The chances are slim to none, but at least I'll enjoy the awake-time.

I haven't been sleeping much, and it's my own fault. I 'm exhausted every night but I always have something I'd rather do than sleep. Watch a movie, read a book, listen to a CD, blog, give myself a pedicure, deep-condition my hair, achieve world peace, adopt an Indonesian orphan.

On TV: That naked chef guy.
Music: Walk the Line soundtrack
Reading: a book on American Modernism
In my head: Flatline.

Meatballgasm

I tried them this morning. Just MAKE THEM! I will this weekend.

Eil's Kick-Ass Kalamata Meatballs
(based on recipes from The Velvet Hookah and allrecipes.com)

Ingredients
1 lb. ground lamb or beef
about 1 dozen kalamata olives, pitted and chopped
1/2 cup feta cheese, crumbled
2 eggs
2 tablespoons dried parsley OR 1/2 cup fresh chopped parsley
Spices to taste: salt, pepper, garlic powder (or minced fresh garlic), oregano, thyme, etc.

Preheat your oven's broiler. In a large bowl, mix the ground meat, olives, feta, parsley, spices and eggs together and squish it all up with your hands until it's nice and mushy and the egg is uniformely distributed. Give it a few good sniffs to make sure you've got the spices right. I ended up adding a lot more garlic powder, but spice flavor is a very personal thing, in my opinion, so use your nose and see what smells right.

Shape mixture into meatballs; you should have around twenty if you make the meatballs about an inch in diameter. Pop those babies under the broiler until they start to brown (appx. 7 minutes), then roll them over and brown the other side. When they're nice and browned, pull them out and crack one open to make sure there's no pink left inside. Aaaaand you're done!

Eil made these with red pepper and garlic couscous and sautéed veggies (yellow squash, red and green bell peppers, onion, tomato), and she says (and I agree), "Oh mah GOD, it's one hell of a meal. Food porn if I've ever seen it, baby!"