The Perfume of Chagrin

As I roll ambivalently into another weekend, I am thinking about "Dancer in the Dark." Knowing that someone else, albeit a fictional character, sees musical-theatre choreography to the sounds of the world makes me feel a little less crazy. True, the movie ends tragically, but only Bjork and her amazing voice could have been Selma and inspired me so.

My photo project feels like a nagging crick in my neck, annoyingly there and exorcizable, but one must know the appropriate incantations. (Note: As an educated and fairly intelligent person, I reserve the right to make up words when necessary.) Blah blah, portraits. Everyone does that. What is it about my eye, my subjects, that make the images different, or at least worthy of consideration? My craft is not so great due to my extreme impatience, composition--meh, so-so, lighting.... etc. I intend to re-read some texts on anthropology because I remember being interested while in school. Now that the nasty cotton-swaddling of school-trauma brain-death has been unwrapped, I feel like I may get more out of the readings.

Ach, sometimes I feel so zygotic all mooshed up into a little pod, slowly going through cleavage. Stupid little birdie, get out of the shell for christsakes! I will talk to more people even if they make me uncomfortable. I will carry my camera with me. I will eat less dairy and drink less beer. (A tear wends its way from the corner of my eye and down my cheek.)

Approximately 14 years ago, I was in Paris during Fête Nationale. My sister and I woke to the building shaking and the ground rumbling. We ran to the balcony and caught tanks oozing through the streets. The city was indeed gay and colorful and smelly and beautiful. I cannot smell freesias and diesel exhaust without thinking of that week.

Bored.

Question: when the hell will people get over seeing erect nipples through cloth? I do not deny that they are titillating, but seriously, get the fuck over it. Thank you.