It's been a while, but the truth is I need the practice writing. What good is communication if just a series of twitty tweets, floating in and out the ears at a rapid pace, making every word and every part of reading a more forgettable process than it already is? Is it just that we despise reading so much that we've become hell-bent to make it as useless as possible? I treat my discarded napkins with more respect than I do my own thoughts these days.
1. LA ART SCENE
With the return of Four Larks I began perking up my ears out of the quicksand for a moment. While the "how" was all quite wonderful, the "what" struck me more. I've never felt so excited to get defeated facing my own demons yet again. How many times do I have to face them before I, you know, conquer one or two of them? Or at least face-sit on them for a few moments? I don't know, the opera didn't tell me. The players just told me it was worth trying, even though my stats are not so great. If I were an X-Man, I'd be Jubilee, if you know what I'm saying. Yeah. The one with the gum.
I did note, whilst wallowing in my own sense of failure, that baby goats are very cute, and that they fall over and over and can't walk and that is why they are cute. Perhaps someone will find me cute.
I had a profoundly good time at the Juxtapoz anniversary show. Jeff Ramirez was there and his painting of his girlfriend was touching in the same way a really good, like, REALLY good 90s hip hop album with great lyrics might make you cry if your roommate wasn't around for you to be embarrassed by your lack of affectation. It was so funky-fresh and fun to look at yet lovingly made by a really truly deeply talented person who clearly loves his subjects. I am continually impressed by this dude, and impressed by how I feel when I see his work. I'm able to shut down that barking bitch inside and just enjoy the talent.
Other than that I am not impressed by other art including my own. Sharpening my teeth against my own teeth has made the whole set, top and bottom alike, rather dull.
2. MY LIFE
My life is again in flux, which is when I either thrive or dive.
I was hoping this round would be a "thriver," but my brain is getting out the scuba equipment and I am opening my eyes and hey, how did I get on a boat in the middle of the ocean and why is someone pushing me off the ledge? I do not have a choice in the matter but I hear there are really weird and scary creatures at the bottom, so I may as well regulate my oxygen and hope for the best. My saving grace on this dive is not my fearlessness, which honestly gets me into more trouble than it is worth, but my curiosity. I do not want to die because a giant squid is snacking on me, but it's a more interesting way to go than high cholesterol. You're still following my metaphors, right?
It is no longer acceptable in society/ the internet (a now conflated thing) to admit you're not feeling fabulous each and every second. I wonder if anyone else mourns that we cannot express the full range of human emotion anymore without others cringing on our behalf. I'm guessing you're cringing right about now.
3. TRASH
Here is the following trash I like.
1. Naeem Khan, an Indian fashion designer.
2. Alaskan Bush People, a fascinating group of intelligent hillbillies in pursuit of real and total freedom.
3. Games that rely on mathematics.
4. Sprinting on a treadmill until I can barely breath, resting, and doing it again.
5. Pasta.
6. Mixing stuff with Tahini and seeing if it tastes good.
7. HBO show creators talking about their episodes.
8. Reading about John Smith (it never gets old).
9. Figuring out if taking Sudafed when I don't need it is a good idea because it makes me a bit more focused.
10. Reading negative reviews of television shows I haven't seen.
11. Looking at my shoes and thinking of places that would be fun to walk around with those shoes on at. I'm pretty sure there is nothing grammatically correct about that last sentence.
4. QUESTIONS
1. Is there a "Vitamin Fun?" If not, why did I eat multicolored sprinkles for dinner?
2. What is Durum Wheat? What makes wheat go Durum? Is it lust for power or fame or a desire to visit Italy?
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Where am I, Pam Cash?
Life changes have left me away from my precious outings. I am getting married, folks, which means some of my explorations are thwarted by being put on hold with a caterer.
Some interestingness:
*Inspired Women of Los Angeles is having an art show I hope to trample into soon.
*Jodorowsky. Need I say more?
*Food project: Kosherwalk 2014. Details to follow. Delicious, delicious details.
I'm sorry I'm a bit preoccupied with flowers and taffeta, but don't worry. All the cakes and bells won't tear me away from the creative underbelly of Los Angeles.
Some interestingness:
*Inspired Women of Los Angeles is having an art show I hope to trample into soon.
*Jodorowsky. Need I say more?
*Food project: Kosherwalk 2014. Details to follow. Delicious, delicious details.
I'm sorry I'm a bit preoccupied with flowers and taffeta, but don't worry. All the cakes and bells won't tear me away from the creative underbelly of Los Angeles.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
I went to a (probably) illegal opera in a secret location that made me change my mind about boulders
"Are you the type of person who has both Tom Waits and Steve Reich on your playlist?" I cleverly thought to myself, pre-emptively mind-blogging during the first half of the show. You can't blame me. Following my LA Sonar to a random block in the warehouse/ manufacturing/ sadness-stripper district of Downtown LA to a completely transformed warehouse turned arthouse was too novel to allow for immediate suspension of disbelief.
Like being in a dream, we watched the actors shift in and out of a sandbox, but not a messy sandbox. It may have been a "junkyard opera," but it wasn't haphazard. The music, too, was accessibly complex. Some songs were fun and even broadway-esque, others more like a John Adams/ Sondheim collaboration. Some were even funny. I laughed at Cerberus that was a stickler for rules. I sat and watched precise blocking and choreography with live accompaniment in this strange environment. It struck me as odd that these total outsiders were doing what we all thought we'd do once we got to LA: they were taking advantage of the Wild West maze of decrepit buildings and staging illegalish art events. "How did you pull this off?" the locals asked the woman at the door. "We rented it on craigslist."
It wasn't until Orpheus got to Hell that I really snapped out of patting myself on the back for my assured future cleverness and started really wondering if he was going to snatch his blonde bride out of there. We all love the ancient Greek Hell because we know that Hades, like all Greek gods, can be pleaded with or tricked. A lovable villain, he charmingly appears here as a sort of Nietzche's-bureaucratic-brother. For a musical that is whimsical and pretty and dreamy, there were moments of bite and wisdom. Orpheus is urged to look at death from another perspective. From one angle, there's the terror of the finite, tilt your head and the same thing appears to be peaceful endlessness. I was touched by Persephone in a genuine way, who had clearly reached a level of understanding about death that Orpheus was too naive and Hades was too jaded to grasp. Just a novelty this opera was not, although I'm sure most of the buzz will be on the novel aspects.
Even the cliches in my mind about Sisyphus shifted. Maybe it's not so bad that he does this task over and over again, that mankind itself is doomed to repeat its struggles. Isn't there some kind of beauty in the cycle? In the struggle itself? I mean, what else is he going to do with that rock?
There you have it, folks. The underground art scene is high brow these days. But then again, a decade ago, I was writing papers about LA's own Bukowski being elevated to the mainstream canon. Low to high, high to low, Opera to Warehouse, direct to you. If you ask me, these guys are doing LA right.
Like being in a dream, we watched the actors shift in and out of a sandbox, but not a messy sandbox. It may have been a "junkyard opera," but it wasn't haphazard. The music, too, was accessibly complex. Some songs were fun and even broadway-esque, others more like a John Adams/ Sondheim collaboration. Some were even funny. I laughed at Cerberus that was a stickler for rules. I sat and watched precise blocking and choreography with live accompaniment in this strange environment. It struck me as odd that these total outsiders were doing what we all thought we'd do once we got to LA: they were taking advantage of the Wild West maze of decrepit buildings and staging illegalish art events. "How did you pull this off?" the locals asked the woman at the door. "We rented it on craigslist."
It wasn't until Orpheus got to Hell that I really snapped out of patting myself on the back for my assured future cleverness and started really wondering if he was going to snatch his blonde bride out of there. We all love the ancient Greek Hell because we know that Hades, like all Greek gods, can be pleaded with or tricked. A lovable villain, he charmingly appears here as a sort of Nietzche's-bureaucratic-brother. For a musical that is whimsical and pretty and dreamy, there were moments of bite and wisdom. Orpheus is urged to look at death from another perspective. From one angle, there's the terror of the finite, tilt your head and the same thing appears to be peaceful endlessness. I was touched by Persephone in a genuine way, who had clearly reached a level of understanding about death that Orpheus was too naive and Hades was too jaded to grasp. Just a novelty this opera was not, although I'm sure most of the buzz will be on the novel aspects.
Even the cliches in my mind about Sisyphus shifted. Maybe it's not so bad that he does this task over and over again, that mankind itself is doomed to repeat its struggles. Isn't there some kind of beauty in the cycle? In the struggle itself? I mean, what else is he going to do with that rock?
There you have it, folks. The underground art scene is high brow these days. But then again, a decade ago, I was writing papers about LA's own Bukowski being elevated to the mainstream canon. Low to high, high to low, Opera to Warehouse, direct to you. If you ask me, these guys are doing LA right.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Things To Do
* climb the stairs in the Cecil Hotel
* count the number of manifestations of Pilates that exist in LA
* walk from here to downtown, shoot photos of strange miniature mannequins
* scream every time a dream dies
* do "inner soul" caricatures at Venice Beach boardwalk
* offer Pet Paw Readings/ Pet Tarot and see if anyone bites
* count the number of manifestations of Pilates that exist in LA
* walk from here to downtown, shoot photos of strange miniature mannequins
* scream every time a dream dies
* do "inner soul" caricatures at Venice Beach boardwalk
* offer Pet Paw Readings/ Pet Tarot and see if anyone bites
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
clothespins on the face
I don't know about you, but Wednesday Night is the night I usually cry and scream into a bucket.
I feel defeated-- money defeated. That feeling like I'm sucking more out of the world than I'm putting into it because I can't afford the most basic parts of my existence, despite the fact that I appear to be tall and wearing shoes.
There's only one thing to do: go see Armenian Comedian this Friday. I need to remember that weirdos are still here and they're still not homeless.
At The Mint at this holiest of Shabbats. Be there with your lavosh.
http://kroq.cbslocal.com/tag/sam-the-armenian-comedian/
I feel defeated-- money defeated. That feeling like I'm sucking more out of the world than I'm putting into it because I can't afford the most basic parts of my existence, despite the fact that I appear to be tall and wearing shoes.
There's only one thing to do: go see Armenian Comedian this Friday. I need to remember that weirdos are still here and they're still not homeless.
At The Mint at this holiest of Shabbats. Be there with your lavosh.
http://kroq.cbslocal.com/tag/sam-the-armenian-comedian/
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Who Is Dorian Wood?
It's an egotistical venture to proclaim someone else a genius; inherent is the implication that I, Pam, have the knowledge necessary to weed out the genius from the everyday. However, despite my crippling self doubt, I am confident in my ability to call out the geniuses, and so I begin with Dorian.
The first time I met him, I was talking about bees. He'd mentioned that he admired them and that if we were all bees we'd "never leave each other" and would be compelled to work toward the greater good of the community. It wasn't his insight per se but his ability to put his thumb on the zeitgeist; for weeks I'd been wiping my cheek about my own isolation and he'd been able to understand what I was going through simply based on my choice of conversational insect.
Saturday March 22 I had the pleasure to see him at Human Resources, an art gallery in Chinatown, with a gorgeous chamber orchestra. Dorian Wood is hard to categorize because he doesn't chase categorization. Rather than figuring out an easy way to brand/ market himself, he chases quality and that otherworldly transcendence that real art can provide.
What every performance does have in common, however, is a "religious" experience. Like a preacher leading his congregation, Dorian's music can send chills down the spine as he contemplates the guts, blood, mess and gore that necessarily come with atonement, apocalypse, faith, love, and everything else we want to ascend to.
Keep an eye out for future performances. Seeing Dorian Wood is a prerequisite for Angelinos on the lookout for emerging experimental artists.
http://www.dorianwood.com/
The first time I met him, I was talking about bees. He'd mentioned that he admired them and that if we were all bees we'd "never leave each other" and would be compelled to work toward the greater good of the community. It wasn't his insight per se but his ability to put his thumb on the zeitgeist; for weeks I'd been wiping my cheek about my own isolation and he'd been able to understand what I was going through simply based on my choice of conversational insect.
Saturday March 22 I had the pleasure to see him at Human Resources, an art gallery in Chinatown, with a gorgeous chamber orchestra. Dorian Wood is hard to categorize because he doesn't chase categorization. Rather than figuring out an easy way to brand/ market himself, he chases quality and that otherworldly transcendence that real art can provide.
What every performance does have in common, however, is a "religious" experience. Like a preacher leading his congregation, Dorian's music can send chills down the spine as he contemplates the guts, blood, mess and gore that necessarily come with atonement, apocalypse, faith, love, and everything else we want to ascend to.
Keep an eye out for future performances. Seeing Dorian Wood is a prerequisite for Angelinos on the lookout for emerging experimental artists.
http://www.dorianwood.com/
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