The symbolism of Packing/Human Narration of Robert Frank

I find the process of packing incredibly symbolic. You sort through your material possessions and deem what you think you will 'need'.

I need peanut butter, a toothbrush, soap, a business suit, a cellphone and a pen and paper. Thus my packing has been dwindled down to a small carry on. However, as I was packing, I found that myself grabbing things I didn't need. Living in a thriving materialistic (thriving being that we still consume in a recession) it seems I would grab things I would not need. I am curious to wonder what others will bring, how much this reflects, if at all, who they are as a person.

The process of packing itself is interesting, lists, check-off, things we need in a modern society. I believe as modernity increases, so does the idea of complexity. Packing: A Symbolism and Process of Identity! Who are you really beyond the suitcase?! Ok. I'm sorry that was terribly cheesy.

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HUMAN NARRATION. The world is full of interesting, unique and beautiful people. Each of them to me is kind of like a book. They have the external that you see, the visual, it either grabs you, interests you, attracts you or throws you off. There is a lot to say about appearance. They all have an internal, with an incredible amount of layers. I want to see as many layers of people as possible. With this, however, I must be able to show others my layers and become comfortable.

Strangers are fascinating to me, as sometimes, most of the time, they will tell you the strangest things about their lives. I love this about people. I love, love, love, love this.

I have this wonderful art project I am in the process of working on. I am going to encounter a plethora of people while in NYC and Portland & in the airports. I have a camera. I can take nice composition photos. I want to write these things down about the people I encounter, and then take their picture... or take their picture and write it down.

I will have 4 days to meander around Brooklyn and Manhattan solo, so I figure why not? Places are really interesting but its the people that make it fascinating. It's the people that give it life. The East Coasters are cold but if all else fails, I can go to the village...

Robert Frank did something along these lines in the 50's called "The Americans." He literally went around the U.S and took photos of people in their lives.

Jack Kerouac wrote,

"Robert Frank, Swiss, unobtrusive, nice, with that little camera that he raises and snaps, with one hand he sucked a sad poem right out of America onto film, taking rank among the tragic poets of the world"

Some photos by Frank:

You do your work as a photographer and everything becomes past. Words are more like thoughts; the photographer`s picture is always surrounded by a kind of romantic glamor - no matter what you do, and how you twist it." Robert Frank

Check it!

NPR released a listen for She & Him's New album

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=124615798

My friend made me a mix, (hipster mix) and his tastes usually end up somewhere in the techno-electronica turn that a lot of "Indie" (I use this term, lightly!) has taken as of late...

but it had this gem in it.

So simple, catchy, I love it.

The Phenomenal Handclap Band - 15 to 20 from Lovemonk Records on Vimeo.

Coming in the near future: Drive from Seattle, two hours listening to Popular Country Music: An Analysis of Narration

Yes, I am that big of a nerd...

Tat.

In lou of joining the bandwagon, here is some more ironic, intangible immaterial.

I recently, well, not so recently, was inked. I got my first tattoo. A needle and ink on skin, the soft, painful piercing of my ribs by an oversized man who laughed so deeply his entire body jiggled.

I go. The drive is nerve racking. The rain beats so hard on the windshield of my car it sounds like a drum line, lulling my music and adding a repetitive comfort to the grey blanketed city that is my temporary home. I park, touch my rib where I want the ink, realizing that it will never be the same, realizing that permanence is a serious idea when everything, I mean, everything is always perpetually in motion and changing. I realize that I’m being overdramatic. I step out of my car. I’m still in my business clothes, tight suit pants and a buttoned up blouse. I have no piercings, no signs of being of being one of ‘those’ who wants a tattoo. I look like a cog, a person that is nothing more than a part of the societal machine, the whole. I scoff for judging myself. I walk in.

The place is clean, well kept. I see what I want, I see how I want it, I set up an appointment, go home to eat with plans to arrive later that day.

Unlike many narratives, there is no symbolism in the time spent in between; the driving home, the eating, the drinking of Gatorade, the petting of my dog or the drive back. It’s all the same. It’s all redundant, it’s all predictable.

Fastfoward.

I lay in the chair, shirt off but still in my bra, while the tattoo artist tells me of his life story. When in awkward situations, I always ask people about their lives. It’s amazing what a stranger will tell you.

“I have been tattooing since I was fifteen. I grew up poor. I was a poor Mexican in America with a father who left us, two younger brothers and a mom who loved us, but was never home.”

There is a painful sensation stabling my ribs. I want to cry, to squeeze someone’s hand so hard it cuts off blow flow and turns white. I remind myself that pain is temporary and there is no one there to squeeze. Something permanent. Solitude.

“I mean, it started out as something I knew I just wanted to do. So I really just always knew.”

I nod.

He continues, “And then I started buying and owning tattoo shops. When I got poor, I sold them. It’s been 18 years since then.”

I ask him what he thinks about being the person to put something permanent on people’s changing bodies. He simply responds that the tattoo can always be changed. “I’ve had to alter some hideous tattoos, people who were dumb enough to put their fucking girlfriend’s name on their arm.” He points to an illustration of a heart with a ribbon running through it on the wall. “I’ve had to change that,” he points to the heart illustration, “A goddamn heart into a bird. People are just so fucking stupid sometimes.”

This wasn’t the answer I was looking for. I don't know what I was looking for, but it's a paradox that something permanent can be changed and an inverted half truth, defined by relying on the opposite for meaning. That fucks my mind as my ribs are being rubbed with a needle. It wasn't what I was looking for.

The pain is lessened, I’m sweating profusely, my palms are clammy and white from my fists being clutched together tightly. I keep staring at the blank yellow ceiling.

Finally, the piercing pain subsides and is replaced with a dull, but constant throbbing. He bandages me up, tells me to remove it in an hour and gives me the D.L. on after care. I get in my car and leave. My rib hurts but the tattoo looks great.

I drive to my friend’s house for beer and Tylenol. I wait an hour, take off the bandage and look at my tattoo.

I wanted a swallow (symbolizing freedom) with the image of C’est la Vie, (Such is Life) underneath. This can be a simple reminder, everyday. It states that life is what it is and you can’t really do much about it, so enjoy it while you can. I always need to be reminded of such things.

I look closer. Something doesn’t look quite right. I realize “C’est la Vie” is spelt “C’este la Vie” There’s an extra E. I immediately google the phrase and realize, that the permanent ink on my body has become exactly what it was written to mean. There was no “e” at the end of C’est! I panic, call the tattoo parlor and set up an appt. to repair it, fix it, cover it up. Now, the E, is now covered by soft clouds surround “C’est la vie” with a swallow flying forward located above. I am just thankful he didn't turn it into a heart. 'People are so fucking stupid sometimes."

But, for a week, I had “C’este la Vie” written on my body, a phrase put into action, becoming a symbol for the very meaning it was intended to express.

You and I have no control over anything. We eat, we sleep, we work, we write, we think, we love, we laugh, but at the end of the day, we are all at the greater mercy of life’s vices and permanence, well, permanence is only an idea.

New. York.

I had a conversation with my boyfriend yesterday about how I veil my blog in secrecy... either you know me because I gave you my blog, but if I didn't you don't really know much about me. How much do I really want to share? I constantly ask myself this question when I write. And, I never have an answer.

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Also two things that get me pumped when I'm down in preparation for NYC.

a)

b)Frank O'Hara. I've been reading a ton of Frank. A TON. He's really gifted, illuminating the everyday and his words flow very ironically into one another.

Frank O'Hara

SONG

I'm going to New York!

(what a lark! what a song!)

where the tough Rocky's eaves

hit the sea. Where th'Acro-

polis is functional, the trains

that run and shout! the books

that have trousers and sleeves!

I'm going to New York!

(quel voyage! jamais plus!)

far from Ypsilanti and Flint!

where Goodman rules the Empire

and the sunlight's eschato-

logy upon the wizard's bridges

and the galleries of print!

I'm going to New York!

(to my friends! mes semblables!)

I suppose I'll walk back West.

But for now I'm gone forever!

the city's hung with flashlights!

the Ferry's unbuttoning its vest!

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Plug, my very talented friend who is also a gifted writer, has finally (!!!) started a blog:

http://thesilkfist.blogspot.com/

health

Julia Child was once quoted that Red meat and Gin is what caused her longevity. She was also quoted in an interview saying, "“In department stores, so much kitchen equipment is bought indiscriminately by people who just come in for men's underwear.”

And she manhandles chicken's something fierce.

Oscars!

Tag: Initials, Soccer Coaches, Sexism, Patriarchy.


Moving pictures have been around for almost 100 years. How come it took this long for a woman to win an Oscar for best director? I am not devaluing her Oscar nod, the gold statue's salute and prestige. However, it should be noted that it is despicable that no one is asking why it took so long for a woman to achieve this status.

And, no the answer is not that men are simply better at directing movies.

However, I do appreciate Kathryn Bigelow because she shares my initials. And, my old soccer coach, a strange Argentinian Man was named Oscar. At the age of 14 he told me about how he used to play soccer barefoot and once saw a man's shin snap in half as his leg folded backwards, all explained and veiled by syrup consistency, thick Spanish accent. Does this make sense?

No?

That's alright. Just go with the flow.

Also enraging, the frustration about why I blog. And, furthermore, is my blog worth reading? And, how egocentric is a blog? Facebook, Myspace, since you are in sole control of who you are and how you are presented. It's a bold move socially, considering it's a social shift in paradigm centered around the image and presentation of the self, yourself. I guess what I'm saying is, on the internet, you can look like, talk like and be anything you like, even if it isn't who you are.
Identity is fluid.

Try that on for size?

Doesn't fit.

That's alright. Just go with the flow.