Molly Goatwax

round pegs in square holes

Mother was transferred to the hospice yesterday evening and I had to sign all kinds of papers and get grilled by a social worker taking notes on my affect. This took much more time than I had anticipated and being annoyed and antsy probably didn't help my case as I explained how my parents want their cremains poured all into the same hole with their first spouses. "They think that they will all get along famously" I told her and also detailed some other of mother's ideosyncracies as her little pink nose wrinkled and she took page after page of notes. I find it irksome and tedious that the subjective opinions of these individuals hold such sway where medical and legal concerns collide. At least they can't take her away from me. One of my sisters nearly had to hire a lawyer after her toddler son's arm was broken and she was repeatedly interrogated by social workers who eagerly documented any irregularities in the family structure. I feared they were going to put the nine year old in a foster home after her premature birth, my remark on the death of her twin; "Good thing I made a copy" was logged into our case study along with the observation that I had refused psychiatric drugs and was not attending the hospital's group therapy...and it's not as if you can simply say you don't feel like talking to them, they write that down too, as a negative affect...they oughtn't leave these things out where the guinea pigs can read them.

The Moose

Years ago, I don't know how many, we used to amuse ourselves in the security department at the art school with a program on the office Mac called the Talking Moose. With voice simulation in its infancy, the Moose had trouble with dipthongs and contractions as well as regional patois, and a supervisor could type in an all points bulletin and transmit over the radio robo-man's mangled directive amid much giggling. My personal favorite was its utterance of  "I can't do nothing, I'm in a coma". I hadn't thought about the Talking Moose for a long time until this morning, when I walked by the automated pay station at the parking garage. The pay station was advising all who passed by to get their tickets stamped before they got into the car, with the exact same misplaced inflections as the old Mac! Before I wondered what else from the 80's I might get nostalgic about, I wondered why they didn't update the machine's software...then I started thinking about the A Team, Punky Brewster, the Waitresses and leg warmers.

Bye, house

Today I woke up in an empty room, my last morning in this house. Bye, bye, house. I really liked you when we moved in, but I don't think I'll miss you too much.

Smile

This afternoon I took my crates o' stuff-packets of papers, pre-cut squares in various states of completion, glue, rags, cat food cans and glitters over to the museum. I met Maggie, who I recognized by her feet! I was assigned to a large classroom with long work tables that had built-in rolls of high grade butcher paper with which to cover the surfaces. There was also a high shallow sink with many faucets and cabinets full of extra supplies- we needed more scissors and glue than I had with me-in short, a really great space for groups of people to have a quilting bee or a taffy pulling, or even make valentines. I wasn't quite sure how to proceed, this really was my first workshop since I was a program director with the Girl Scouts* a long time ago. Mostly I just covered half the table with the squares and dug in. Soon I was joined by lots of people, mostly children, who asked me how to do it and joined right up. Nothing is funner than glitter and glue. (Except Sculpy, junk and epoxy...) We made a bit of a mess....it would be nice to have a whole afternoon and a bit more equipment and I may have that opportunity when all the static clears from my life. Maggie showed me some sheets of stencils and now I have an idea for them. But now, I have chores.

*My funnest and least paying job ever. I directed the children in throwing pans of paint at a wrapped building in the study of abstract expressionism.

Snarling, then food redemption followed by heavy labor

On Wednesday, the branch secretary wished me a Happy Thanksgiving, and I said "Yeah Happy Arfin' Genocide Day to you too.."That was met by a high pitched giggle as I noticed she didn't follow up by asking where I would spend the day after. Thursday we woke up without a clear plan but after some packing dined on pink linen at a respectable place close by favored by the senior set with the daughters and a boyfriend. I don't care for turkey so I ordered the marinated pork loin Holiday meal...like the turkey plate, it rested on a bed of sauerkraut. We liked the fresh green beans almondine with the bacony sheen. Then we came home and packed some more. After a while Hubby and I took the tot down to Molly's where the regulars, the disolute, the people recovering from their families and those who have none pushed the tables together and shared pot luck. Gumbo, shiesh-ka-bob, ravioli, rutabaga! Hubby ate some rutabagas! Stix was there as well as some other people who had just seen the lights on. My curmugeonly attitude was warmed by the sense of these disperate souls coming together and passing dishes between them. This morning we packed some more. The city, unannounced, placed a large dumpster at the bottom of the hill for neighborhood clean-up. We eased six or seven carloads into it. With the top down, the convertible held almost as much as a pick-up truck. Then we got tubs. And then we packed some more. And now I'm sore. I have to go empty my chest of drawers into another tub. No, I have to go to bed.

Outed!

This photo was sent to me by Maggie Muth, of the American Visionary Arts Museum. She has graciously consented to be identified as a fellow die-hard soxer (yes, we know it's November.). By coincidence or happy accident, we are both wearing those German cork souled sandals in red today. Watch out Maggie! Your feet might wind up on Keith's Sandals and Socks site...and from there, who knows what fame they may achieve!

Electric Blue

Last night I was preparing a crate for my demo at the museum Saturday by chopping up papers with my guillotine paper cutter* and putting the squares in zipper bags. Because I want to show the progress from raw materials to finished product, I should show each stage of the process. I had some davey board bases for small collages, but they needed a coat of paint for color and the seal. I have packed up the gesso but found a small tub of zinc white in my crate. My other acrylic paints and water colors have been boxed, too. I went upstairs to the studio and ascertained that all my other water based media are also in storage. I was in a dither. Although I could go with stark white borders, by the time the collages were done, they'd need a repaint. By this time I was looking for stains and inks, sepia or black would do, but I had disappeared them as well. So I started tearing through what junk remains and aha! Behind the old leather cased microscope and next to the disecting tools were some tiny boxes. German inks! I shook them and one was still liquid! I ran downstairs with it and droppered a whole lot into the mixing tin. Cobalt blue tusch, old enough to be real...and real enough to turn the zinc white vivid. I was transfixed by the glow and made happy by painting untill bedtime. Now I've got a sheet of bright blue squares ready.

*Although mine's an antique, this link illustrates that the tool in question is not a miniature beheader, Snay.

On top of everything else

Saturday afternoon we basked in the glow of our hard work and a few carbonated beverages as we admired a graffiti-fee Molly's. Yesterday I went by to drop off a bag of holiday lights and noticed the sidewalk out front marked up with chalk. Shrugging, it was only chalk, after all-I went inside and answered the ringing phone. The bachelor who had helped with the paint job asked me to check the men's room. He heard me screaming and crying before I came back to the receiver lying on the counter. Our clean white walls had been covered with ugly epithets, tags and taunts in permanent paint markers. A few lines were specifically directed towards me. He offered to come over with his paint again, but I was just too tired and too busy to stick around and fix it. While Molly's may not be the fanciest place in town, indeed, it has been more accurately described as a dive-I don't want my bathrooms befouled with sophomoric territorial markings and puerile posturing. Graffitos take heed; VANDALISM IS NOT ART. I should know. I have a degree in it. Do you?

hampden

would you buy a sign from this store?

Voice from the rubble

It was my pleasure this morning to sweep up the floor of the bar, scrub the slider in the pizza oven, hang a painting in place of a promotional mirror, dust, clean and otherwise put the public house in trim. I was joined later by one of the bachelors from Fawcett street who mopped, helped with graffitti removal and brought 'round a fellow who painted the mens' room. The day barkeep brought out a new neon from the closet that got installed in one of the front windows and surfaces that needed bleach were treated thusly. The cacti were watered but not nourished with beer this week. Other things smudged with fingerprints got polished and by the late afternoon I was wiped, myself. Oh, there was a nice framed picture of the chalkboard captured when the graffito wrote "I must not vandalize my local pub" left behind. I know someone is missing it as a prize.