In an effort to study my own personal habits and basically out of morbid curiosity as to exactly how many events I forget or loose with time during a year. I have made a commitment for my birthday this year to write as many "daily journals as possible." With the intent of examining my life patterns a bit more closely this year.
Will it end up being fact, fiction or just plain shit? We shall soon find out, Im hoping for a loose braid of fact, fiction and mystery which seems to make up most of life thus far.
My birthday August 20th 2016, on the eve of my 35th birthday this year, I found myself busying myself in my studio space just past the post office in Manchester. A small town by the sea, surrounded by cows and the dairy farmers who ranch them. My studio is a giant space of a building, 130 years old and once a dairy creamery. I have renovated it, to meet my specific needs including a 9ft x 6ft wheat paste art piece bolted to the wall. Complete with custom mass making capable sewing machines, hammock in the office lounge and as much weed and rolling papers as we can smoke.
On this day I am trying to finish stamping my clothing companies logo onto 9 brown paper bags, that need to be shipped out to models I used at an event earlier in the month. Swag bags as they are called go a long way in acquiring free working talent for shows and I am no stranger to these bags and all their little nuances. A friendly face appears in the doorway, and I know immediately all of my working potential for the day has disappeared and the party gods will not have me working on my birthday this year.
We roll and smoke all the weed we can fit into an extra large paper immediately. Then proceed to get awkward high together and talk about nonsense. I can only get a reaction from him when I tell him I am planning on shredding the lengths of fire hose he has brought me into strips and making a "mesh dress" for my next show. His face holds a momentary light of interest...slipping quickly back into complete stoned bliss the next. We mutually decide I am done "trying to do any of this silly shit today" and make our exit from my studio.
I find my boyfriend, somewhere running from one job to another in town. We decide on something to eat and head to the store, a bottle of Melagro tequila makes it way into the basket. The birthday has begun. Once back at the house, our friend has parked in the driveway and is sitting inside the car. Why people do this I will never understand, just go inside already. We proceed to BBQ and take shots of tequila. I begin to feel the familiar itch of birthday creeping up my spine, induced by tequila. I have a fleeting thought of the m word. Moderation. I then realize moderation and I like so many birthdays before will not be seeing each other tonight and proceed to take giant shots from the bottle washed down with lime and salt.
After yelling inside at each other for an hour all hopped up on booze and weed we decide to get the decks warmed up and play some records. I enthusiastically run upstairs with my bottle in hand and immediately eat shit to the floor when the rug slips on the wood flooring and literally disappears underneath me. Even a sober person would have to take a knee with this type bobbie trap laying around. I take the cue from the universe and stay down on the rug and begin sifting through records. My friend is a vynl freak and he thinks we cant tell, but I can tell. The quick once over of the vynl, the sideways glances at the labels the twisting of the knobs and fervent tongue swathing of the lips. All the signs of a dopamine fiend full throttle.
I have imposed my "one carpet two legs" rule on myself and refuse to do anything further from a standing position. I proceed to finish the bottle of Tequila, Dj on my knees and pick records for everyone and yell at them. I think at one point I just straight put the headphones on and gave up nodding my head into the abyss of sounds only I could hear.
Will it end up being fact, fiction or just plain shit? We shall soon find out, Im hoping for a loose braid of fact, fiction and mystery which seems to make up most of life thus far.
My birthday August 20th 2016, on the eve of my 35th birthday this year, I found myself busying myself in my studio space just past the post office in Manchester. A small town by the sea, surrounded by cows and the dairy farmers who ranch them. My studio is a giant space of a building, 130 years old and once a dairy creamery. I have renovated it, to meet my specific needs including a 9ft x 6ft wheat paste art piece bolted to the wall. Complete with custom mass making capable sewing machines, hammock in the office lounge and as much weed and rolling papers as we can smoke.
On this day I am trying to finish stamping my clothing companies logo onto 9 brown paper bags, that need to be shipped out to models I used at an event earlier in the month. Swag bags as they are called go a long way in acquiring free working talent for shows and I am no stranger to these bags and all their little nuances. A friendly face appears in the doorway, and I know immediately all of my working potential for the day has disappeared and the party gods will not have me working on my birthday this year.
We roll and smoke all the weed we can fit into an extra large paper immediately. Then proceed to get awkward high together and talk about nonsense. I can only get a reaction from him when I tell him I am planning on shredding the lengths of fire hose he has brought me into strips and making a "mesh dress" for my next show. His face holds a momentary light of interest...slipping quickly back into complete stoned bliss the next. We mutually decide I am done "trying to do any of this silly shit today" and make our exit from my studio.
I find my boyfriend, somewhere running from one job to another in town. We decide on something to eat and head to the store, a bottle of Melagro tequila makes it way into the basket. The birthday has begun. Once back at the house, our friend has parked in the driveway and is sitting inside the car. Why people do this I will never understand, just go inside already. We proceed to BBQ and take shots of tequila. I begin to feel the familiar itch of birthday creeping up my spine, induced by tequila. I have a fleeting thought of the m word. Moderation. I then realize moderation and I like so many birthdays before will not be seeing each other tonight and proceed to take giant shots from the bottle washed down with lime and salt.
After yelling inside at each other for an hour all hopped up on booze and weed we decide to get the decks warmed up and play some records. I enthusiastically run upstairs with my bottle in hand and immediately eat shit to the floor when the rug slips on the wood flooring and literally disappears underneath me. Even a sober person would have to take a knee with this type bobbie trap laying around. I take the cue from the universe and stay down on the rug and begin sifting through records. My friend is a vynl freak and he thinks we cant tell, but I can tell. The quick once over of the vynl, the sideways glances at the labels the twisting of the knobs and fervent tongue swathing of the lips. All the signs of a dopamine fiend full throttle.
I have imposed my "one carpet two legs" rule on myself and refuse to do anything further from a standing position. I proceed to finish the bottle of Tequila, Dj on my knees and pick records for everyone and yell at them. I think at one point I just straight put the headphones on and gave up nodding my head into the abyss of sounds only I could hear.
No comments:
Post a Comment