Monthly Archives: June 2005

Technical difficulties.

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I tried connecting the camera back up to the sleepy-time apparatus (you try coming up with a better term for it) but it wouldn’t connect to my computer. I’m so sorry. I know you wanted to see a third night of me sleeping, but you’re going to have to wait until tomorrow. I stayed up too late watching Comedy Central and doing laundry, so I was too brain dead to figure out what was wrong with the connection.

On the upside, my weekend was both awesome and good. Friday night was full of hanging out, which I love. I got to watch the second installment of “I Don’t Know You, Chuck Munion, but You’re On a Reality TV Show” and drink girly drinks.

THEN, on Saturday, I binged on fructose and commerce. Jason, Jake, and I went to Target, and while Jason searched for new jeans, Jake and I drank copious amounts of Dr. Pepper with chocolate syrup from the Coke break syrup machine next to the soda fountain.

High on sugar, we split up and I went to Joann’s. I was looking for a cord and drawstring bit so I can finish the epic iPod cozy. Joann’s was as barren as an ant farm left in the front window of a Buick during August.

I went over to Micro Center, where Jake and Jason had already purchased jaw-dropping amounts of computery goods (this was premeditated, it just added up fast). Giddy on their purchases, they were looking at a MIDI keyboard that, when used with Garage Band, allowed us to make fat beats. Whacked out on Dr. P, I suggested that we purchase it, knowing full well we’d be spending the rest of the evening playing with it.

I was right. I made myself a nice Peaches beat, and promptly abandoned it for a craft project. I guess some things just don’t change. I might as well have been a toddler.

Anyway, it was fun, and despite my “drop it like it’s hot” neglect of the new toy, I think there is a distinct possibility that I might have an album ready by Christmas.

Awesome people who give me subconcious lifts

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As I was thinking about the list list list of things I want to be when I grow up, I realized that for every item, I have a person who I acquaint with that particular skill. I didn’t necessarily know them when I made the list, but I like that I can correlate. (Although, as we all know from Psych 101, correlation does not mean causation.)

sonya

1. Midwifery. My friend Kim is a doctor, and she gets to deal with people’s bodies all the time. Supercool.

2. Trucker. My aunt Lora did this, and she’s about the best general role model a person could have.

3. Sign language. I met Amber after writing the list, but I think it’s one of the reason why I took to her like a prestidigitous kitten to a toy piano.

4. Teach for America. My AmeriCorps teammate Jenn is TFAing right now. Much like midwifery, you are in charge of people’s children, under various amounts of pressure. (Sometimes the kid, sometimes me.)

5. Children’s librarian. I would not be pursuing this career if it weren’t for my elementary school mentor, Ms. Bernard. JUST KIDDING! She was scary. My mom was a children’s librarian when I was a kid, and it was the best job ever. If I could be the children’s librarian for the Francis Banta Waggoner Community Library in DeWitt, Iowa, I would. The quilt she made for snuggly window-seat reading is still there.

6. Masseuse. My friend Alaethia is studying Oriental medicine right now, which is way more complex and advanced than just massage, but when we talk about it, I get all excited and squiggly.

7. Canoe Mississippi. Pebbles (Em) is the most hard core, crunchy, granola, sweet-fern-tea drinkin’, outdoorsy outside cat I know. Her passion for canoeing nears a fever pitch. She doesn’t want an engagement ring, she wants a canoe tied to her finger.

8. Master knitter. My grandma taught me how to knit, as well as crochet, sew, embroider, tat (who even knows what that is?!), and refer to snacks as much needed “medicine”. She’s nonchalant about makin’ stuff, but it’s always functional. That epitomizes what I want to be as a knitter.

9. Live in far Northeast. Again with the Pebbles. Her aunt learned masonry and built herself a 16-sided stone house in Maine. I want to live there, near Pebs, and go fishing a lot.

10. Master some other language. Alena seems to slip and fall into pools of language, and when she gets up, she’s fluent. She started college with Spanish, and somehow ended up with a Russian major. RUSSIAN!

So, those are people in my neighborhood who have affected me, either previous to the much esteemed list, or have been Celestine-Prophecy-like drawn to me, possibly because we have shit in common.

Creepy sleep sheet

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I found the thingie I needed to use my Mac to control the remote capture for the camera.

Capture_00006

Last night I set up for four minute intervals. I think I slept harder, which is obvious by the lack of movement. There are 173 photos, but I’ll have to add the rest to Flickr when I get home tonight. The best way to look at them would be to view the set as a slideshow, and set the speed to 1.5 or 2 seconds. It’s brief, but I think once I get all the photos up, it will look really cool … really cool to me.

Annie Lebowitz/Cindy Sherman

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I’ve been dreaming of a photography project based on a photographer I absolutely cannot find, even when I put in all the words I can think of in Google*.

The project is to suspend a camera above my bed, set up to capture images throughout the night, then view the images in quick succession, effectively creating a movie of how I move while I sleep. The camera captured an image every five minutes, and there are now 94 images.

Thanks to Jason and his PC (stupid camera doesn’t support Mac for included remote capture program) I was able to rig up everything and last night was the first night of shooting. The downside is that unless I figure out how to do this with my Mac, Jason will be in all of the pictures. Unless he sleeps on the papajeaun.

REM

I was going to upload a set to Flickr, but I seemed to have used all my bandwidth for the month.

I wasn’t sure how dark the shots would be (sans flash) so I left the lights on. There was some discussion that it would affect sleep, and therefore affect how we moved, but neither of us felt that we slept any worse for it. I think having a flash of light every five minutes would be awful, although it’s probably worth a try, maybe on a weekend night, because of how it will give the picture a Cindy Sherman frozen look, with darker shadows. As it is, there is a subtle change of light because there’s a window (upper right in the picture) that starts affecting the images. You can see it a little in this photograph. The flash would probably overpower that, but maybe trying low light (going more for shape than detail) the light would be a big part of it. I plan on experimenting with this for several more nights. There’s a definite pattern to movement that probably correlates to sleep cycles. I’m already insanely satisfied with the outcome.

*The photographer I’ve been inspired by brings models into her studio and has them fall asleep on a spread of black fabric. From a second level looking down, she photographs them as they sleep. She develops that film and projects the positive image onto textured surfaces like barn walls and photographs the wall. The total effect is a ephemeral sleepy old-timey image. I can hardly describe it. It makes you feel calm and warm, but because you’re looking at the person through a mask of rough texture, it’s not as voyeuristic. You look less at a guy curled up asleep, and more at the shape of a human at a moment when they are peaceful but unaware of their peace.

Stupid sexy interslice

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Children, sometimes the internet breaks. It’s always always Jason’s fault.

I wanted to blog this morning, as I have been in a goofy mood since last night, but the server that holds this magnificent blog, Jake’s haiku-only blog, and the Jeaun crapped out.

So now I’m not full of imagination, silliness, or airplanes; I have to pee like a raceproverbial because I drank too much tea; and I really ought to whip out the IJ.

On the upside, it’s file clean-out day, and I get to wear jeans, and have scored a sweet free copy of the Qur’an.

Shudder to think

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Last night I went to my usual pilates class, and my instructor was running late. When we settled in for class, she announced that she had some negative news, but she wanted to tell us before class so we could get on with our class and put some positivity into the world. (I approve of her choice!)

She was late to class because a woman who had been raped, throat slashed, and left for dead had come to her house for help. You can read the story here. Beyond what information the Trib story gives, I also know that the guy was wearing women’s undergarments under his clothes.

The whole story left our whole class stunned. This area is so far north of Chicago that there’s still a rural feel to it, and this is one of those really unfortunate things that leaves everyone feeling vulnerable. I guess the attacker was released from prison in November, and he’s a registered sex offender.

Anyway, I’m lucky enough to not hear many of these stories. The year before I went to St. Ambrose, a student was raped. For my freshman year, everyone was adamant about not walking across campus alone. By senior year, the caution had slacked. That was the last time I was aware that my otherwise-safe environment was not as it appeared. I can’t decide if I should turn my naturally low internal alarm up a notch in general, or just when the environment dictates. I don’t want to become paranoid and exhausted by my cautionary efforts, but I don’t want to live cavalierly when it’s apparent I should be more careful.

If you’re interested/scared shitless/wary/angry, there’s an online registry of sex offenders in Illionis.

Walkie Talkie update

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You may remember my plea for donations for my friend Angela’s Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. Well, the walk was this past weekend. (You may have noticed, since over 2,400 people migrated up the coast from downtown to Rogers Park and beyond.)

Angela reports that she has eight blisters (I swear, one of them looks like three on top of each other). She camped in Rogers Park during the thunderstorm, and is no worse for the wear. She said that amongst the walkers was a 75-year-old and a woman seven months pregnant. (That’s good baby karma, y’all.)

All together (including Jake and Kat and myself) Angela raised $2,300, and the walk raised $5.4 million dollars, of which $2 million has been donated to Midwest hospitals.

I haven’t actually talked to Angela yet today, but she didn’t look like she was hurting too much yesterday. She’s a champ. Three and a half woops for Angela! Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Whoooo!

I need to adopt a baby.

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I recently had a heart-to-heart with myself (not as difficult as you think) and realized/decided/discovered that I will some day adopt a baby.

I’ve planned out so much of the next few years of my life, and I think I just kept going with the planning.

Anyway, it’s not something I’m going to do for a while, but when I read that Penn of Penn & Teller named his baby Moxie CrimeFighter Penn, it jolted me into remembering my inner conversation … because I think that’s exactly the kind of name I’d want to give a kid.

And that’s why I know I shouldn’t get one yet.

I fell a little bit in love

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Did I ever tell you about the time I was at a YRUU con (Young Religious Unitarian Universalist conference) and the Saturday night activity was learning about wiccan traditions, and then we had a drum circle?

Yeah. I was in a successful drum circle. “Successful?” you wonder. I’ve decided that drum circles and eighth-hour jam sessions are either successful or unsuccessful. You either all hit the rhythm or you don’t. I’ve experienced both, but in this first percussion jam-out, it was successful.

There were several actual drums, and then we pulled all the pots and pans from the kitchen, along with various utensils, to use. I think I ended up with two heavy-duty coat hangers. They had a nice high tone. Austin Wells (Grinnell ’03) started out with a giant soup pot. In 4/4 time, we all joined in. The result was music. We sat, fascinated by the collective sound we made. Eventually there was a silent movement to get up and move around. We formed the obligatory cha-cha line of impromptu instruments.

Goddamn right, we looked like hippies. It was awesome. I’d never experienced spontaneous music, and being high schoolers, we weren’t jaded enough to not think it was the coolest thing ever. Even with my six-year-old-mind’s enthusiasm, I don’t know if I could start a drum circle with a straight face now. Isn’t that sad?

So we kind of Native-American-hopped around the room, coiling around until the head lead us downstairs. As we went, someone started singing. It was the first time I heard the lyrics, but I’ll never forget them.

We all come from the goddess
And to her we shall return
Like a drop of rain
Flowing to the ocean

It was one of those things I remember with a sense of awe. I thought of it this morning, in the context of remembering when the adults got really pissed off when they discovered a whole set of kitchenware, ruined.
I was reading my BoingBoing RSS feed today,
and read this account of an experience in a chocolate shop in Florence, Italy. As I read, I kept smiling bigger and bigger. The sensations Doctorow describes are amazing, and make me want to go home and pull out that truffle cookbook I got for a quarter, and make something really really decadent.

I mean, the look on his face in the picture says everything, and I fell a little bit in love with him just then.

Rock crystal deoderant

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Did I ever tell you about the time I was at a YRUU con (Young Religious Unitarian Universalist conference) and the Saturday night activity was learning about wiccan traditions, and then we had a drum circle?

Yeah. I was in a successful drum circle. “Successful?” you wonder. I’ve decided that drum circles and eighth-hour jam sessions are either successful or unsuccessful. You either all hit the rhythm or you don’t. I’ve experienced both, but in this first percussion jam-out, it was successful.

There were several actual drums, and then we pulled all the pots and pans from the kitchen, along with various utensils, to use. I think I ended up with two heavy-duty coat hangers. They had a nice high tone. Austin Wells (Grinnell ’03) started out with a giant soup pot. In 4/4 time, we all joined in. The result was music. We sat, fascinated by the collective sound we made. Eventually there was a silent movement to get up and move around. We formed the obligatory cha-cha line of impromptu instruments.

Goddamn right, we looked like hippies. It was awesome. I’d never experienced spontaneous music, and being high schoolers, we weren’t jaded enough to not think it was the coolest thing ever. Even with my six-year-old-mind’s enthusiasm, I don’t know if I could start a drum circle with a straight face now. Isn’t that sad?

So we kind of Native-American-hopped around the room, coiling around until the head lead us downstairs. As we went, someone started singing. It was the first time I heard the lyrics, but I’ll never forget them.

We all come from the goddess
And to her we shall return
Like a drop of rain
Flowing to the ocean

It was one of those things I remember with a sense of awe. I thought of it this morning, in the context of remembering when the adults got really pissed off when they discovered a whole set of kitchenware, ruined.