...I have a blue house with a blue window....
We interrupt the miseries of the moment for an expedition into poetry.
I can't tell if it's any good. Honestly, I feel that way about everything right now, as if I'm incapable of judging things with any degree of objectivity, since my filter has wrapped around me so many times that I'm swathed in... whatever it is. Rusty barbed wire, mesh made of rotted meat and maggots, synthetic peach-flavored fishing line, candyfloss blue fiberglass, I don't know anymore.
Beltway Driving
In front of my face
lines float upon a page
in front of my eyes
mist crawls across my brain
and with a buzzing blue
a blue trot
a blue gallop
a blue horse
is loose on the beltway
hurry, shouts a jogger
as he blazes past me, dressed for the
running of the horses
drive all the blue ones off at the next exit ramp,
explains another runner
a blue flash
a blue canter
a blue horse
among many horse-colored horses
and many sprinting humans
it is Barcelona and Chincoteague
amid the runners
on the beltway
with the horses that are blue
and not blue
driven steadily
blue ones grouped together towards the right
now, calls a driver rushing fleet-footed from behind
I stay with the
horse-colored horses
as the blue ones peel out, away,
up a curving blue exit ramp
against a blue sky
inside a blue thunder
into a blue neighborhood
I wonder what the residents will think
ahead of me
a blue horse
to the left of me
a blue horse
beyond my sightline
a blue horse
alongside many blue horses
we'll get them at the next exit
the prize is a garland
of blue roses
so we drive
until words float upon a page.
8 September 2017
Eiffel 65; I'm Blue
Showing posts with label images. Show all posts
Showing posts with label images. Show all posts
10 September, 2017
10 June, 2009
KISSing Paul*
...I can give it all to you baby/ Can you give it all to me?...
No, not this kind of kissing.
It was mentioned to me recently that my foundation might be a tad thick and a little light in color, which is 100% true, and 100% deliberate. Clown makeup is not for the faint-of-heart.
I was with my family at a Bill Bateman's restaurant not too long ago, becoming more and more certain during the duration of our visit that this was a restaurant that couldn't make up its mind what it wanted to be. The menu said 'wings!' The decor said 'diner!' and 'sports!' and 'rock-n-roll!' which together failed entirely to form any sort of cohesive identity. (This is not entirely off-topic; I'm getting there). One of the decorative rock posters (which included the globally classic Queen, and the classically local Good Charlotte), the one that fascinated me, was of course positioned behind me, so I had to get up to look at it.
It was the KISS poster often referenced as "Faces", in which Gene Simmons holds the band name/logo in his hands. Now, I know a good bit about makeup, and have pals who teach workshops on the subject. I want to look at the makeup. I figure I won't see much what with retouching and whatall, but here I am, and why not, right?
So I'm inspecting this poster in great detail, and you can't see it on the web, and I'm sure those of you who owned one of the original first run prints of the poster have long since thrown them out/lost them in the move/sold them on eBay, so you have no immediate way of verifying this but as I looked at that iconic portrait, I began to see that Paul Stanley had nice, clean makeup, a well-done job, whereas the other boys looked liked they'd started sweating before they finished applying. I've seen KISS imitators do a more technically perfect job on the makeup than the blurry-edged finishes represented elsewhere on that poster. I've often thought that perhaps Alice Cooper had the right of it: making it smeared and runny on purpose to begin with, so when it turned out that way mid-concert, it looked like deliberate design. I can't speak to Insane Clown Posse (despite carrying one in my car wherever I go) and their makeup, but in the photos I found, they seem to be completely unpowdered.
Understand, I'm sort of a perfectionist about this. The whole family is. We have to be. You never know when someone's about to snap a prize-winning shot, so our makeup, even in the sweltering outdoor conditions, has to be perfect.
Marceau himself covered a multitude of sins and wrinkles with his white makeup, and it was difficult to tell that he was incredibly old until you were close to him. In fact, the makeup makes it nearly impossible to tell how old (and in some cases, what gender)anyone is. The photographer comments that "...all 4 of the mimes were young girls...no older than 15. they smiled all the time." I appreciate this. I truly, truly do. My son, however, not so much.
So, hooray for makeup, that makes boys into girls and vice versa, and turns cougars into jailbait. Hooray for KISS, who did it well.
I couldn't tell you whether Paul's clean finish was due to the simple design, better technical execution (each member of KISS did his own makeup), less inherent sweatiness or finer-pored skin, but Paul Stanley, I salute you and your mad whiteface skillz.
And I know (ask me how) that if I DID kiss you, that no, I wouldn't get white makeup all over my face.
Unless I had it there already.
(I Was Made For Loving You; KISS)
*This post dedicated to Abi, who rocks.)
No, not this kind of kissing.
It was mentioned to me recently that my foundation might be a tad thick and a little light in color, which is 100% true, and 100% deliberate. Clown makeup is not for the faint-of-heart.
I was with my family at a Bill Bateman's restaurant not too long ago, becoming more and more certain during the duration of our visit that this was a restaurant that couldn't make up its mind what it wanted to be. The menu said 'wings!' The decor said 'diner!' and 'sports!' and 'rock-n-roll!' which together failed entirely to form any sort of cohesive identity. (This is not entirely off-topic; I'm getting there). One of the decorative rock posters (which included the globally classic Queen, and the classically local Good Charlotte), the one that fascinated me, was of course positioned behind me, so I had to get up to look at it.
It was the KISS poster often referenced as "Faces", in which Gene Simmons holds the band name/logo in his hands. Now, I know a good bit about makeup, and have pals who teach workshops on the subject. I want to look at the makeup. I figure I won't see much what with retouching and whatall, but here I am, and why not, right?
So I'm inspecting this poster in great detail, and you can't see it on the web, and I'm sure those of you who owned one of the original first run prints of the poster have long since thrown them out/lost them in the move/sold them on eBay, so you have no immediate way of verifying this but as I looked at that iconic portrait, I began to see that Paul Stanley had nice, clean makeup, a well-done job, whereas the other boys looked liked they'd started sweating before they finished applying. I've seen KISS imitators do a more technically perfect job on the makeup than the blurry-edged finishes represented elsewhere on that poster. I've often thought that perhaps Alice Cooper had the right of it: making it smeared and runny on purpose to begin with, so when it turned out that way mid-concert, it looked like deliberate design. I can't speak to Insane Clown Posse (despite carrying one in my car wherever I go) and their makeup, but in the photos I found, they seem to be completely unpowdered.
Understand, I'm sort of a perfectionist about this. The whole family is. We have to be. You never know when someone's about to snap a prize-winning shot, so our makeup, even in the sweltering outdoor conditions, has to be perfect.
Marceau himself covered a multitude of sins and wrinkles with his white makeup, and it was difficult to tell that he was incredibly old until you were close to him. In fact, the makeup makes it nearly impossible to tell how old (and in some cases, what gender)anyone is. The photographer comments that "...all 4 of the mimes were young girls...no older than 15. they smiled all the time." I appreciate this. I truly, truly do. My son, however, not so much.
So, hooray for makeup, that makes boys into girls and vice versa, and turns cougars into jailbait. Hooray for KISS, who did it well.
I couldn't tell you whether Paul's clean finish was due to the simple design, better technical execution (each member of KISS did his own makeup), less inherent sweatiness or finer-pored skin, but Paul Stanley, I salute you and your mad whiteface skillz.
And I know (ask me how) that if I DID kiss you, that no, I wouldn't get white makeup all over my face.
Unless I had it there already.
(I Was Made For Loving You; KISS)
*This post dedicated to Abi, who rocks.)
29 April, 2009
Porn? well....
...sneaky looks/ gazing down on you/ are no substitute/ for a rendezvous....
"He'll find your porn," warns YoungEv, "if you have some. He always does."
His face is mildly concerned and a little startled as I consider- rather than snap "of course not!"- whether I have any porn on my fritzed computer.
"Um, mime porn? Pictures of Out of the Box, lots of them...ahhh..." My brow furrows as I think about it. No. I haven't even bookmarked any porn sites. I try to remember the name of the porn-y blog I used to read, and can't.
"Uh, sure, but like, if you've got, you know, uh, naked, uh, naked pictures? Of...anybody?" Clearly, he's uncomfortable imagining that Hawk and I have naked pictures of ourselves on my G4. "Because whenever a cute girl walks in with a repair- I've seen them do this- they search until they find naked pictures of her on her computer. They always find some."
Yeah, but CompuDan hasn't seen Primarily Decorative. If he did, I'm guessing he wouldn't search.
"No," I tell him. "The closest I've got is me in that set I knit for the Valentine's Day contest, you remember?" He blushes a little. He remembers. "And that's right on my desktop, probably. So CompuDan won't have to look very hard, but it's simulated naked only."
And on the topic of naked, I'm thinking it ought to be Naked Season pretty soon, yeah? But no. March drags on through April, broken up by three or four days of July, and now it's right back to March again. Blah.
Hurry UP, heat. I wanna take off my clothes.
(Strip; Adam Ant)
"He'll find your porn," warns YoungEv, "if you have some. He always does."
His face is mildly concerned and a little startled as I consider- rather than snap "of course not!"- whether I have any porn on my fritzed computer.
"Um, mime porn? Pictures of Out of the Box, lots of them...ahhh..." My brow furrows as I think about it. No. I haven't even bookmarked any porn sites. I try to remember the name of the porn-y blog I used to read, and can't.
"Uh, sure, but like, if you've got, you know, uh, naked, uh, naked pictures? Of...anybody?" Clearly, he's uncomfortable imagining that Hawk and I have naked pictures of ourselves on my G4. "Because whenever a cute girl walks in with a repair- I've seen them do this- they search until they find naked pictures of her on her computer. They always find some."
Yeah, but CompuDan hasn't seen Primarily Decorative. If he did, I'm guessing he wouldn't search.
"No," I tell him. "The closest I've got is me in that set I knit for the Valentine's Day contest, you remember?" He blushes a little. He remembers. "And that's right on my desktop, probably. So CompuDan won't have to look very hard, but it's simulated naked only."
And on the topic of naked, I'm thinking it ought to be Naked Season pretty soon, yeah? But no. March drags on through April, broken up by three or four days of July, and now it's right back to March again. Blah.
Hurry UP, heat. I wanna take off my clothes.
(Strip; Adam Ant)
17 October, 2008
Hero, Villain
...Where have all the good men gone/ and where are all the gods?/ where's the street-wise Hercules/ to fight the rising odds?....
The air is clear and cool. Mist hangs over the parking lot. It looks like a good day.
The grounds, still spongy from last weekend's downpour, give us a bit of trouble. In our morning procession, I step with my left and sink- deep, deep- then step with my right, expecting to pull free.
I do not pull free.
I tug on the swath of organza that connects me to my daughter, then pull on the elastics and fling the fabric away from myself.
If I go down, I'm going alone.
I manage to pull the right stilt free, and beckon (with no little urgency) to a patron who has been paying attention while I use the right stilt to balance and feel for a solid spot. The man comes to my side, plants his feet firmly and extends a strong arm for me to use to lever myself out of the mire.
I yank my left stilt with a hip-jolting pull, and bow to my hero. His friends applaud him, and he bows back. A kind, observant woman picks up the trailing organza and hands it to me as I hurry to catch my compatriots. They've gotten maybe ten yards. I reassemble, and the front two have no idea of my brief panic.
I later discover nine inches of mud on the bottom of my stilt.
The day goes smoothly. We are merry and bright, which is the extent of our job description. A translucent redhead at the top of the joust-bowl looks at me expectantly. She has a small baby in her arms. The top of the list is slippery with unanchored dust, and none too flat, but she hasn't thought of that. I hold out my hands, and she passes him up. Her companions do not object. They seem to not even have a camera.
We are stilted up a long time. When more than 20 thousand guests arrive, we like to make ALL of them happy. Plus it takes awhile to wade through them. We're nearing home base, and a family of costumed patrons grins at us. She holds a small boy in green satin leiderhosen. We grin back. "You want him?" she asks. Well, no. Okay, yes. What, you folk don't have a camera, either? Are you kidding me? Can someone answer me this, why would you hand your kid to a stiltwalker if you didn't want a picture of the event? Sigh.
We lurk over to the tall rail at O'Shucks pub and hang out with some folk who become our friends forever, and buy us beers and oyster shooters. We walk a straight line, then run away to shed our long legs. Mimic and I head out for a bite to eat, happy to be there, happy to be anywhere.
And then the photographer shows up.
Now, we love photographers. We will pose all day for a busload of photogs with lenses worth more than both our cars together. We like little kids with paper box cameras. Camcorders do not offend us, though it's increasingly hard to tell which cameras are 'cording. Okay, your cellphone camera: we have little respect for this, especially if you don't know how it works. Sorry, lady... not posing and re-posing while you learn to use it. But still. People with cameras make us look beautiful. We love them.
Now, this fellow (I use 'fellow' with a deep and rare awareness of insufficient vocabulary) pretended he was not photographing us.
Usually, I am happy to pretend to not be posing while a photog in search of a candid pretends to not be shooting. Understand this: over the years, I've learned that EVERY motion, EVERY expression, must be deliberate and chosen for the moment.
This, this fellow followed us around. I heard repeated clicking of his shutter button. When we turned to smile at him, he turned away and pretended he hadn't been shooting. He followed us for a full five minutes, shooting and trying to pretend he hadn't been.
He never lifted his camera to his face. It remained hung around his neck, lens at belly level. He was shooting our asses.
If it had been one shot, and the guy had grinned and waved after being caught at it, I wouldn't've minded being shot in the ass.
This is creepy, and makes me angry. I find Columbina nearby chatting with some fancy patrons, and complain to her, (refreshing to have a conversation with someone who does NOT sigh "Oh, dear, I'm bad at charades- I have no idea what you're trying to say"), and she informs me that Mr. Creepy Fellow has been spotted following teen-ish girls, doing the same thing, and yes, it was creepy. (I make the 'creepy' face, and she knows). I wish I had it in me to laugh and feel flattered. She promises to keep her eye out for him, and I have more than half a mind to find security, but by this time I've lost him in the crowd.
Suddenly, I have no appetite. Mimic chooses an ice cream, and we return to camp. As we clean up and put away the stilts, I tell her again the story of the morning hero. I know she's heard it. She knows I know.
She knows why I tell it again.
Two days left, and the '08 season is over.
(Holding Out For A Hero; Bonnie Tyler)
The air is clear and cool. Mist hangs over the parking lot. It looks like a good day.
The grounds, still spongy from last weekend's downpour, give us a bit of trouble. In our morning procession, I step with my left and sink- deep, deep- then step with my right, expecting to pull free.
I do not pull free.
I tug on the swath of organza that connects me to my daughter, then pull on the elastics and fling the fabric away from myself.
If I go down, I'm going alone.
I manage to pull the right stilt free, and beckon (with no little urgency) to a patron who has been paying attention while I use the right stilt to balance and feel for a solid spot. The man comes to my side, plants his feet firmly and extends a strong arm for me to use to lever myself out of the mire.
I yank my left stilt with a hip-jolting pull, and bow to my hero. His friends applaud him, and he bows back. A kind, observant woman picks up the trailing organza and hands it to me as I hurry to catch my compatriots. They've gotten maybe ten yards. I reassemble, and the front two have no idea of my brief panic.
I later discover nine inches of mud on the bottom of my stilt.
The day goes smoothly. We are merry and bright, which is the extent of our job description. A translucent redhead at the top of the joust-bowl looks at me expectantly. She has a small baby in her arms. The top of the list is slippery with unanchored dust, and none too flat, but she hasn't thought of that. I hold out my hands, and she passes him up. Her companions do not object. They seem to not even have a camera.
We are stilted up a long time. When more than 20 thousand guests arrive, we like to make ALL of them happy. Plus it takes awhile to wade through them. We're nearing home base, and a family of costumed patrons grins at us. She holds a small boy in green satin leiderhosen. We grin back. "You want him?" she asks. Well, no. Okay, yes. What, you folk don't have a camera, either? Are you kidding me? Can someone answer me this, why would you hand your kid to a stiltwalker if you didn't want a picture of the event? Sigh.
We lurk over to the tall rail at O'Shucks pub and hang out with some folk who become our friends forever, and buy us beers and oyster shooters. We walk a straight line, then run away to shed our long legs. Mimic and I head out for a bite to eat, happy to be there, happy to be anywhere.
And then the photographer shows up.
Now, we love photographers. We will pose all day for a busload of photogs with lenses worth more than both our cars together. We like little kids with paper box cameras. Camcorders do not offend us, though it's increasingly hard to tell which cameras are 'cording. Okay, your cellphone camera: we have little respect for this, especially if you don't know how it works. Sorry, lady... not posing and re-posing while you learn to use it. But still. People with cameras make us look beautiful. We love them.
Now, this fellow (I use 'fellow' with a deep and rare awareness of insufficient vocabulary) pretended he was not photographing us.
Usually, I am happy to pretend to not be posing while a photog in search of a candid pretends to not be shooting. Understand this: over the years, I've learned that EVERY motion, EVERY expression, must be deliberate and chosen for the moment.
This, this fellow followed us around. I heard repeated clicking of his shutter button. When we turned to smile at him, he turned away and pretended he hadn't been shooting. He followed us for a full five minutes, shooting and trying to pretend he hadn't been.
He never lifted his camera to his face. It remained hung around his neck, lens at belly level. He was shooting our asses.
If it had been one shot, and the guy had grinned and waved after being caught at it, I wouldn't've minded being shot in the ass.
This is creepy, and makes me angry. I find Columbina nearby chatting with some fancy patrons, and complain to her, (refreshing to have a conversation with someone who does NOT sigh "Oh, dear, I'm bad at charades- I have no idea what you're trying to say"), and she informs me that Mr. Creepy Fellow has been spotted following teen-ish girls, doing the same thing, and yes, it was creepy. (I make the 'creepy' face, and she knows). I wish I had it in me to laugh and feel flattered. She promises to keep her eye out for him, and I have more than half a mind to find security, but by this time I've lost him in the crowd.
Suddenly, I have no appetite. Mimic chooses an ice cream, and we return to camp. As we clean up and put away the stilts, I tell her again the story of the morning hero. I know she's heard it. She knows I know.
She knows why I tell it again.
Two days left, and the '08 season is over.
(Holding Out For A Hero; Bonnie Tyler)
06 September, 2007
More Delicious
...See the sky in front of you/ and her face is like a sail/ speck of white so fair and pale...
More narcissism follows; I suggest quite strongly that you cease viewing this post immediately.
IMG_2045
Originally uploaded by wkk_1999
arm to the sky
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369
judging eyes
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369
hpim5095
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369
Mimes
Originally uploaded by wastrel
Again, major props to the photogs who visit Faire and shoot us, posting colorful carnage on Flickr. The Engineering Nightmare has been captured. Reactions welcome.
(She's A Rainbow; The Rolling Stones)
More narcissism follows; I suggest quite strongly that you cease viewing this post immediately.
IMG_2045
Originally uploaded by wkk_1999
Out of the Box on the grounds, heading to the Wine Garden. (Mmm, wine.)
arm to the sky
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369
Huge flowers, small children, and a patron.
judging eyes
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369
Details.
hpim5095
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369
Manoevering through the throng in the Engineering Nightmare.
Mimes
Originally uploaded by wastrel
Observe the hugeness.
Again, major props to the photogs who visit Faire and shoot us, posting colorful carnage on Flickr. The Engineering Nightmare has been captured. Reactions welcome.
(She's A Rainbow; The Rolling Stones)
30 August, 2007
Selfish Imagery
...looking so long at these pictures of you/ that I almost believe that they're real....
So these photo mini-posts.
(Also this photo, from 2004, titled 'Tall Mysterious Fairie', and this one, currently the favorite of all photos ever taken of me, unless it's the one by Nelson Steele, taken in 1997, of me blowing a bubble through the bubble and I can't FIND you, Nelson, I've Googled you every way I can think of, and can't find you for permission or a negative of that GORGEOUS shot which I may scan and download, come on, find me, sue me for copywrite infringement, do you hear me? Mimi is loooooking for yooooouu....)
Believe it or not, this is not just vanity, though I've plenty of that, I admit. (I've in fact been admired for it- "I love your vainity", a crunchy granola earthmother acquaintance of mine responded when I said I wore my hair up in the convertible to avoid a white streak on my neck. What? Wouldn't you?) No, I have a purpose, a quest, a mission.
The reason I've been scouring the 'net, haunting Flickr like a deranged talent agent, is because this weekend, Mimic and I debut a new look. A look that I thought would be fabulous, but which proved an engineering nightmare. Is it worth putting more effort into it, or am I throwing good labor after bad? Literally, the only way I can tell if a costume is working for me or not is to see a photograph of it. And I don't have one yet.
So, I'm looking. If any of you have photos that you're waiting to upload.....
.........HURRY UP!!!
(Pictures Of You; Cure)
So these photo mini-posts.
(Also this photo, from 2004, titled 'Tall Mysterious Fairie', and this one, currently the favorite of all photos ever taken of me, unless it's the one by Nelson Steele, taken in 1997, of me blowing a bubble through the bubble and I can't FIND you, Nelson, I've Googled you every way I can think of, and can't find you for permission or a negative of that GORGEOUS shot which I may scan and download, come on, find me, sue me for copywrite infringement, do you hear me? Mimi is loooooking for yooooouu....)
Believe it or not, this is not just vanity, though I've plenty of that, I admit. (I've in fact been admired for it- "I love your vainity", a crunchy granola earthmother acquaintance of mine responded when I said I wore my hair up in the convertible to avoid a white streak on my neck. What? Wouldn't you?) No, I have a purpose, a quest, a mission.
The reason I've been scouring the 'net, haunting Flickr like a deranged talent agent, is because this weekend, Mimic and I debut a new look. A look that I thought would be fabulous, but which proved an engineering nightmare. Is it worth putting more effort into it, or am I throwing good labor after bad? Literally, the only way I can tell if a costume is working for me or not is to see a photograph of it. And I don't have one yet.
So, I'm looking. If any of you have photos that you're waiting to upload.....
.........HURRY UP!!!
(Pictures Of You; Cure)
29 August, 2007
Flickr Delicious
DSC_0077
Originally uploaded by globalevan
Ta- dah!
Thank you, Young Evan.
White & Gold
Originally uploaded by autumncat
Autumncat is Awsomecat.
Mimes
Originally uploaded by sigsegv
"Where'd Gigi get all those roses?"
MDRF 2006 Opening Weekend Mime gets a baby
Originally uploaded by sestree
Why, thank you. "EXTREMELY capable".
rennfest_082507_rennfest24
Originally uploaded by Patty Boh
Not so creepy?
Mimes on stilts
Originally uploaded by immortalityofthought
Creepy? Hmmm.
11 August, 2007
Introducing.... Zizi!
"You don't play Tic-Tack-Toe with the king anymore," That Girl observed.
No. I don't. Probably I never will.
"Why not?"
It was my special thing with Bill. Mimi played the game with the king, but not any king, just THAT one.
This weekend, August 11th and 12th, is Opening Weekend at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Festival. Mimi will perform her Silent Stories show:
(For the record, I did NOT write that copy.)
Special bonus, around the Shire:
Max
and Zizi.
(Test shot from early makeup session.)
(Shot on the occasion of Zizi's debut.)
Our beloved Gigi
has gone travelling, and so Zizi has joined us. Everyone will love her. I demand it.
The entire troupe, Mimi & Max, Lili,
and now Zizi
will perform at the Maryland Renaissance Festival, which opens on the 25th of August. See you then!
(I will not be wearing a red carnation. I will, however, be wearing- you guessed it- Mimi Pink.)
* My thanks to all of the fabulous photographers who make us look so good.
No. I don't. Probably I never will.
"Why not?"
It was my special thing with Bill. Mimi played the game with the king, but not any king, just THAT one.
This weekend, August 11th and 12th, is Opening Weekend at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Festival. Mimi will perform her Silent Stories show:
Mimi the Mime - The child within understands exactly what Mimi is telling us as we wonder in amazement at the hysterical antics of this marvelous wordless storyteller! Avalon Hill Kid's Kyngdom at 12:30, 2:00 and 3:30.
(For the record, I did NOT write that copy.)
Special bonus, around the Shire:
Max
and Zizi.
(Test shot from early makeup session.)
(Shot on the occasion of Zizi's debut.)
Our beloved Gigi
has gone travelling, and so Zizi has joined us. Everyone will love her. I demand it.
The entire troupe, Mimi & Max, Lili,
and now Ziziwill perform at the Maryland Renaissance Festival, which opens on the 25th of August. See you then!
(I will not be wearing a red carnation. I will, however, be wearing- you guessed it- Mimi Pink.)
* My thanks to all of the fabulous photographers who make us look so good.