Posted in Almost Dorothy, Art + Design, Culture Clash

Art Institute of Chicago

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Ma says this is a woman collapsing into a woman collapsing into a background of elegant brushstrokes divined by some god or goddess possessed by a deep love for Jupiter. For real. This is what ma said between sips of gin.

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This is what ma looks like divined by Toulouse Lautrec.

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This is a lyrical representation of what ma and I would look like if we were the subject of art and not the creators of mayhem and mini murders. I’ve always been a fiery redhead in my head.

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Ma said these two look like fools beneath umbrellas beneath the unbearable beauty of the mid day sun.

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When ma saw the Chagall windows, she shut the fuck up. She bent down on one knee like she was a knight in shiny pink lipstick and prayed. She prayed for the advent of sun. She prayed for the blue and the blues. She lifted her head up as if she were a marionette pulled by an almost invisible string. Blue, she said, belongs to god and windows.

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Between us, ma and I understood the power of art and factless wonders like love and Alzheimer’s. We went down to the lover level because the lower level is a level we hope to never return. True love, ma said, is subterranean and foundational. It’s what stabilizes the whole wide world. It’s what normalizes the logic of sequined pants and the smile of a long loved friend.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

Chicago is chic ago

Ma and I are packing for Chicago. We
gonna go to the AWP conference, also known as the Association of Writing Pigs. Ma is gonna pack our pig cause she’s afraid there will be a bacon shortage in Chicago. It’s chic ago, ma says. What a stupid name for a city. Barack Obama is from Chicago and so are penguins and purple dinosaurs. Anyway, when we return, ma hopes she’ll be a real writer. The kind of writer that inspires people to rethink their daily lives and bake bread. The day that happens, I say, I’ll kiss a pig. Ma leans close. I pucker my lips and the bacon hasn’t even left building.

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Posted in Almost Dorothy

The Restroom

Restroom

Sorry I haven’t posted in a whale. Ma lost my computer so I couldn’t access the Internet from inside my head. Ma also bought a new car. Well, she stole the car but it is new. For real. She even got a full tank of gas with it. We’re in hiding near a lake staring (or starring) at a man who says he will destroy the world with his fist. We laugh at this man and his fist standing on the lip of a lake in the forest. Gump. The police are looking for the car. Looking for ma. Looking for stolen property and what is proper.  I won’t tell you where we are but we are in the real world, not MTV’s Real World, but the world in which we listen to birds. We are in Chicago and Santa Cruz, which is the birthplace of Santa Claus. I don’t know what to do with ma and her new 4-wheel drive. I don’t know where we are, but we’re having fun. She told her girlfriend, Amanda Bernstein (the B is silent) not to worry, not to panic, just relax and chill. Code for a freak out. I let ma drive until we arrive in another dimension because I don’t have a driver license or training wheels. I’m too young to drive. Ma forgot her ATM pin number. I ask her what’s her favorite 4-letter word and the code comes back to her like that. Ma and I are approaching a new manifold dimension of we, a dimension where ma and I can have milk and cookies in peace. Together. Without running from the police. My fingers are crossed in the shape of two legs crossed. We’re laughing like Thelma & Louise. Or Luis. My nose itches and I have to pee. Then rest for to(ma)rrow.