Friday night was the usual at The House. Weekends feel incomplete when I don't spend the bulk of my time there.
Saturday I drove up to North Jersey. I met my friend Vince at his studio, as he wanted to photograph me for a project he's working on. I could never be a model, awkwardly long neck aside; I feel uncomfortable knowing that someone is looking at me. I don't mind thinking that someone might be looking at me.
Vince is an artist friend of mine. He was telling me about the other artists using space in the studio: "she's a photographer, behind me is a woman who's a painter, two bays down is another painter ...." I smiled and said, "And what are you?" and he said "I haven't figured that out, really," He paints, and has recently been doing a lot of photography and video, and weird conceptual stuff. I really like his work, which is good, because I'm a terrible liar. In general, I like my poetry to rhyme and my visual art to be OF something; Vinnie's work is generally abstract, or . . . something. But I like it anyway. I always like the colors he uses, and the stuff he paints is actually interesting to look at. Eh, whaddaya want, I'm an engineer.
I walked away with two works, too -- I promised him that when I'm rich and famous, I'll actually start paying for them.
We hung out at his studio, then went to a diner and sat there for two hours. This is only the second time we've hung out outside of work (I worked with him four or so years ago), and I was worried we'd run out of things to talk about, but we hung out all afternoon. My dad called to see where I was. "Did she come to visit him, or us?" he reportedly asked my mom.
My parents and I had Chinese food for dinner. I requested it; I'm not sure why. I guess I don't want to have my mom's lasagna too often, or it'll lose its charm. We watched some tv, and then went to see the late show of Ameile. I understand now why Kelly likes it so much. I liked it a whole lot too; it was such a wonderul happy movie, it made me sad.
My mom and I watched a show on PBS about the history of African Americans in cinema. We caught it right near the beginning, at silent films, and my mom went up to bed around the '60's, and I fell asleep on the couch around the '70's.
In the middle of the night, my cat came up to be petted. My parents' cats are far kinder than my own.
The next day I ate the bagel my dad had gotten for me. We watched some of a video on the drilling of the Brooklyn water tunnel that my uncle (a retired civil engineer) lent him. I opened a box in my room in hopes of going through it and throwing stuff out; no dice. It was mostly things from my sophomore year of college -- the Best Year of My Life So Far. Unfinished love letters, ticket stubs, fliers for They Might Be Giant show. Oh, and the final project of my AutoCAD class, the living room of my apartment drawn in three dimensions. I spent a ridiculous amount of time on that shit, and was pleased to see I still have evidence of it. I threw away only two or three things. I am such a packrat.
My parents and I went to Ikea to look for a dining room table. Sunday afternoon is not the best time to hit Ikea, so we decided that we were just there to scope, and I'd get my table later. Even without buying anything, the place drained me.
We parted ways in the parking lot. It's always sad leaving them, especially my mom. I've thought recently that I was using my parents as an excuse not to move away, that really I'm just scared -- but I don't know. I think I'd be sad to be away from my family, to not be able to see them in two hours if I really really want to.
The long rainy drive was shaping up to be depressing, so out came the joint, and the digital voice recorder, and it turned into a productive ride. Full of They Might Be Giants, lots of 'em. I love TMBG, but man, when I'm stoned, I think they're the BEST FREAKING BAND IN THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE. I think that about everything when I'm stoned.