Archive for July, 2005Some of you know that I am a software tester. A precarious job when dealing with developers who take pride in their work. I find bugs, and some of them take it personally. I don’t ever mean it that way, and have to be diplomatic in the way that I talk to them about their code. I also try to bring a sense of humor to the department as evidenced by my office:
Tags:  Notice the head. The sheep is not my doing, but it’s funny, so I left it there. A hog-tied sheep hanging above my desk, what could be better? Remembering that we write ASP .Net application called CHAIN, I wrote the following ode to our senior developer…. Ode to Jim Kinsey
I and several other people thought it was funny. And I’m sure God has a sense of humor, He’s a Good Guy, right? I wrote that for my departments eyes only, quite a while ago. Which is why I was a little surprised when it appeared in the company bi-weekly newsletter, but whatever, I didn’t think anything about it. I knew it might ruffle some feathers, but I didn’t think it would be a huge deal. It’s also important to note that the deciding forces who published the little mash-up poem/bible verse edited out the numbering, so that it looked even less like a bible verse. Apparently it was a huge deal. I got a headsup email from a co-worker about it. This particular person is responsible for the newsletter’s publication.
I do not save my SENT messages, so I cannot include the complete thread. Apparently, though, this got carried away, and several other people were reprimanded, along with a formal complaint being filed with HR. Here’s the rest of the partial thread I have…
OK, so I realize that the poem is probably not work appropriate, just as religious email FWDs in the office or hanging religious posters in one’s office is not work appropriate unless one works in a church office, for example. However, as I stated before, several people for whom it was intended found it amusing. And really, I find the whole situation amusing, because these religious nuts take themselves far far far too seriously. It’s a good thing they missed my earlier poetic efforts. I’m sure they really would have The sunlight seeping into the window and onto the floor of my basement apartment was beginning to fade. Since Morgan left, I didn’t have much furniture. She had knocked on my door today for the first time in four years. I let her in.
Tags: Tristan was with her. It was the first time I had ever seen the little towhead, and my throat closed up. He never looked at me, but immediately ran over to Tully and stomped on her tail. She let out a screech and he laughed as she scurried to hide under the bed with the dust mice. I could tell that Morgan had sewn Tristan’s overalls herself. The zipper was all askew and one pantleg was shorter than the other. I didn’t say anything but instead tried talking with her. “How have you been?” I asked. “Oh, you know,” she said. “Yeah,” I said. I wanted to shake the little brat who was stalking my cat, while at the same time I wanted to take him outside and show him how to climb the huge willow tree in the yard. I wanted to ask him if he knew who I was. I reached out my hand to touch Morgan’s, but she pulled away without thinking, without making a production out of it. She stood and walked the four steps to the sink from where we sat on the bed. She looked out the windows, removed a tumbler from the cupboard and poured a surprisingly large amount of bourbon from a bottle she produced out of her purse. “Morgan?” I started. Tristan had chased Tully out from under the bed and was now shrieking with delight as he clipped closepins to her. She was managing to shake most of them loose and wriggle away from Tristan’s grasp. I ignored my boy tormenting my cat for the moment. Morgan had lit a cigarette and stood at the sink smoking it. She set it on the bread board and walked over to pick up the remote. She turned on the TV and began flipping through the stations. “Morgan, I…” I didn’t know how to talk to her anymore. I knew she wasn’t coming back, that she wouldn’t apologize and that she didn’t want to talk about any of it. She knew about my ‘ole man, knew that when he passed he had taken carte of my sisters and me. I knew that if I didn’t give her what she came for, she would be knocking on their doors too, and I didn’t want that. “Jude…” she said but didn’t finish. I wanted her to tell me that she loved me again. I wanted to brush back her fading red hair and to feel her now wrinkling face in my hands. I wanted to feel the heaviness of her body next to me when I woke in the morning. She had finished her cigarette and was standing there in my kitchen lighting another. She had the TV on pretty loud, and Tully was pretty wired because of it. Not to mention Tristan’s sadistic laughter and tortures. I caught her watching me watching Tristan and she looked away, tapping her cigarette into an empty coffeecan I had on the counter. I stood and walked to her, but knew better than to try taking her hand again. She couldn’t look at me. Darkness had overtaken the room. I flipped on the overhead light, the fluorescent brighter than it should be, garish after the soft glow of a hot August sunset.. Morgan flinched, blinking again, stubbing out her cigarette, hanging onto the counter. Opening the Mason jar I had retrieved from its spot behind the coffeepot, I watched Morgan’s face for any sign of love or remorse or tenderness or remembering. I saw none. She fidgeted with her skirt as I pulled the money from the jar, and as she tugged at her skirt, she shifted her weight and grabbed hold of the cupboard so as not to fall over. “Oh, fuck,” she said. The bourbon fell into the sink. The crash of the breaking glass made Tristan jump. Now he was crying. The TV was on too loud. Tully had escaped into the closet and Tristan didn’t see through his tears. The smell of bourbon and cigarettes filled the kitchen and my nose all of a sudden. This woman whom I used to know, stood in my kitchen, our son crying in the glow of the TV, crying so loudly it’s a wonder his lungs didn’t give out. Morgan couldn’t look at me. I pushed her away from the counter. She fell down. I let her sit there on the floor, skirt pulled up, legs all askew. I grabbed Tristan. She didn’t even have a carseat in the ramshackle Rambler she was driving. I cursed under my breath and ducked to avoid Tristan’s claws as I buckled him into the backseat. He cried even louder, and I could hear him from the kitchen as I stood, shaking, over Morgan’s cowering body.  Have a new story ready to roll but Internet’s spotty @ home. Meantime, here are some things that have been keeping me entertained of late… And, just to let you know what you’re in for, some hate mail from The Best Page in the Universe
He had this to say about blogs. For the most part, he’s right on, He’s also an art critic, which is what the hate mail above references.
From the fine folks over @ Haiku Circus Hope to get that story up before the week’s out. Tags:So I haven’t written much of late because I’ve been out in my garage matting art. That is, when I’m not outside enjoying the summer. And now it’s serious. I’ve had to craft a “proposal”, whatever that is, in order to submit to galleries. They will in turn review the proposal and decide if they want to feature me. Some of it is merely a bullshit formality, some of it is more along the lines that (shhh_) these galleries take themselves too seriously. But I have to play along if I want to be included, I guess. I think it’s all a bunch of pretentious bullshit. My original artist statement is kind of an “eff you” to that idea:
But I don’t think that would fly. Plus, most folks who don’t know me would think I was being a pretentious asshole anyway, not understanding the inherent sarcasm of the haiku. Anyway, here’s the proposal. I possess a body of work consisting of over five hundred pieces spanning a variety of media including photography, both film and digital, painting in a variety of medium, collage, homemade paper, and a combination of all of these. All of the pieces have not been documented. Taken together, they explore a variety of themes including depression, the joy of living, relationships and political ideas. An artist statement is, as is the body of work, a living, breathing thing. Writing about art, for me, even though I am a writer as well as an artist, is next to impossible, for art must be an experience, must make the viewer feel something, must touch the individual. Generally, my art exposes truth around me as I see it. I explore decay and rebirth, considering the subjects I choose to explore, as well as the mediums I use. The medium of collage exemplifies this, but even the photographs I take tend towards urban decay and the beauty inherent in that. A solid artist statement makes more sense for me after a show has been solidified, even if the show hasn’t yet been hung. Creatively, I am constantly electrified by the opportunities for creation that surround me. I like to create at night, and tend towards short bursts of creativity lasting several days, and then collecting materials again in order to create anew. My biggest weakness as an artist is my interest in so many different mediums that I am unable to develop one fully. Areas of interest include…
Taking that as an outline for my goals as an artist…. Short term goals:
Long term goals:
Past Exhibitions
•2003 - Art Missoula, Missoula, MT |
