I'm IT

Ariel tagged me.

here is the fourth (and final sentence) of my 23rd blog entry.

It was a perfect day... 70 degrees, sunny, gently breeze... the trees continue to shock me with their crazy greeness.
dated Friday, April 30th, 2004.

As ever, Camille is always inspired by the hymn of the natural world around her. She writes in the spring of 04, a year that passes over her lips with a near pneumatic intake... Ooooh four. Oh, 4. Who was kissing those lips in 04? No one was kissing those lips... and no one is kissing those lips right now, sadly.

Thoughts on the Changing Season Inspired by Blag
She describes a typical California day. It could almost describe today, except change the temp to 60. Now we are celebrating death instead of the "crazy greeness of the trees" and its fall instead of summer. Some trees are bare, others are steadfastly green (love those sempervirens). We only get half an autumn here and lots of persimmons. Speaking of fruit, she ate the first pineapple guava today from her neighbor's bush. It was so sweet and tender, it almost seemed a sin not to share it. Like biting into perfume incarnate. She sought more fruit, but was only able to locate the one. She hopes there are more hiding.

Now you are it

The M*ster
Mike of Earthsea
The Contessa
The H-Person
The Wobbly

::

Want to Know how to tag?

1. Go into your archives.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Post the fifth sentence in your blog (or the closest to it).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same thing.

Thank you

My "Cambodia: the Photographic Journey" show went very well.

Mostly because of the spontaneous help of the following people.

The Contessa



She not only transported the "trees" but she read aloud to me while I made them. Transforming a rather onerous task into an experience of aural beauty. She also stayed late to help me put things away, and bought me a beer and tunisian donut at the crepe place. Yum yum.

Mr Eleven



Came to support, stayed to help me pack up. Also enlightened the Contessa and I on the Male Perspective of "The Rules" over our repast at CP. (Doesn't that happen usually? -- in regards to women not calling)

Mi Famiglia



They might have been more concerned about it coming off well than I was. Momma brought the best cambodian dish I have eaten outside of cambodia (her version of Loc Lam was quite tasty). In fact, I think it was the promise of food that lured most of the visitors to the show. The Pater helped me arrange the spread. They all supported me. It was quite packed. And the food was gobbled up instantly... I had to actually stop a young man from dumping the entire container of beef into his cup... the nerve!

Liz Cantu

Without Liz's prodding, I would have never volunteered for this.

My Spiritual Leader, Dan, not only delivered a great message during the service, but helped us tear down and regaled us with funny stories about cartoonists.

G* The Tech Man. Mysterious, yet very capable. Figured out how to adjust the aspect ratio of the presentation so the TVs wouldn't eat the left side of the pictures.

Thank you, thank you all.

Its been a nice, long, productive Sat.

This morning I was laying in bed, trying to figure out what to do and all the things i could think of were either really boring or of dubious value.

So I went to the beach. Via the River Trail

View from the River Trail

I am on a wild natural high. Sitting in printers ink, a bag of art supplies on the table, the wobbly at my side, a tummy full of overpriced tacos. Ahhh let me just enjoy this. Must draw.

A paean to the Wobbly



I have been feeling a bit guilty and ungrateful lately. Especially about the things I share about the Wob. I want to balance the picture. I'll often share the goofy stories, but rarely do I make a big deal about the cool and nice things he does all the time.

For Example.

I called him last night with a question about the nice G3 he gave me last spring. Not only was he attentive and thoughtful on the phone, but he's going to loan me a piece of hardware so that I can finish a project. He's going way beyond the call of duty.

I am so blessed. Thanks.

The Silver Bullet Salon



Had a wonderful time commuting with Eleven today. I love hanging out with people smarter than me. Her presence is more stimulating than coffee.

In addition to trashing Calvin (as is her wont), we talked about how our faith has developed from needing to know and follow all the rules to simply trying to pursue Christ and allowing morality and other lifestyle decisions to follow from that. She found that the correctness of an action was a poor motivator in itself. Which brought up the whole question of what exactly the right thing was, and is there a way to categorize and rate the whole potential of human behavior? And how could one possibly try to memorize and follow all of the rules? We ponderated all through the mountains and into the valley. I was thinking I'd like to elaborate more, but I have other things I'd like to do with this evening. Maybe I'll pick this thread up later.

A den of Lust



The model last night was luminous. She had the spare, effortless movements of a sumi-e master-- almost as if she was sculpting herself. I drew this without my glasses. The light was so radiant on her skin, that I just wanted to concentrate on the play of form and shadow. She was also making a funny face, which I couldn't see sans glasses.

All Work and no Titty



The model refused to disrobe until our maintenance guy left the room. She was supposed to start at seven. I was a bit mystified, seven came and went, and still he was puttering around, adjusting lights and shuffling papers and she stood on her platform, stubbornly clutching her robe. Then she told him to go. He got quite upset. The situation was very awkward, I felt like I should have done something, but wasn't sure at all what that was. I didn't want to believe he was dirty voyeuer. He finally left and the model dropped her robe. I brought it up with Wobbly, and he was surprised that I hadn't noticed the little stalling ploys. I just thought he was slow. I felt so clueless. Now the maintenance guys are now banned from the sessions. They just get to do all the work.

As per Ariel's request, I have put my further comments here on his entry about prayer here. Here's the Back story

When I first saw rick's question-- "God didn't answer your prayer was because you didn't fully trust Him?" He makes God sound like he's waving around some Faith-o-Meter and if the reading is low... bammo! Nothing for you. The first thing that came to my mind is the end of the David and Bathsheba incident. In Samuel 2 12:16, 17. David therefore besought God for the child; and David fasted, and went in, and lay all night upon the earth. And the elders of his house arose, and went to him, to raise him up from the earth: but he would not, neither did he eat bread with them. And it came to pass on the seventh day, that the child died. David seems to be doing everying right and yet his prayer is not answered. If you look at the whole story, there are bigger issues than David's faith.

Looking at the Lord's Prayer... the first thing that Jesus does is acknowledge the Lord's sovereignty. Our Father, who art in heaven, hollowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Clearly, the Lord does what he wants. When I say those words, I am aligning my will with God's. Not the other way around. Granted, there are things that I want to see happen, for whatever good or bad personal reason. In the past, I have been grateful that God chose to ignore my pleas. Like when I wanted cute Robert M to propose to me in the seventh grade. I am happy praying for what I want and then leaving it to God to do the best thing. I am confident that the Lord knows the situation better than I and has a infinitely more interesting plan than I could ever concieve.

I agree with R. Sherman-- "I believe in the power of prayer and I believe that God hears us... the idea of a lack of faith being the reason for a "No" from God, fails to acknowledge his sovereignity in the world and in our lives as Christians. I say "Thy will be done" is the best prayer there is."

Monk Call

Scribe 2, originally uploaded by camille94019.

My phone rang at 3 AM, friday morning. It happened to be by my bed, so I picked it up. For the life of me, I thought it was my alarm clock.

The voice on the other end was completely foreign. I recognized my name, which was repeated over and over, almost like a chant. I told the voice it was 3 AM here... he seemed rather shocked. Sitting at the Pagoda on a balmy afternoon, the flowers blooming, the air hot and sultry... its probably impossible to imagine that it could be any different on the other side of the world.

It was Sakol. The monk pictured above. He's coming to America soon and he wanted something, but between my comatose state and his issues with english, I never figured it out. I am imagining that he is leaving the monkhood. That saddens me. He'll grow out his hair. He'll wear jeans. Maybe he'll even go to wild Hollywood parties. He won't be as cute, but he'll have a more choices in America and clean water. I wish him well.

24 Hours in Hollywood

tmobile party, originally uploaded by camille94019.

A real photographer took this of the Wob and myself on tuesday night. Wob told the photographer he wanted to "drip sex" then he changed his mind and said that "goofy" would be the operative word. I had been in a crummy mood that evening. We arrived at the Roosevelt around 6 PM on tuesday. We checked into our hip room (with the view of Grauman's Chinese Theater) and I started to change thinking that Wob knew where we were going. To make a long story short... he didn't... and it wasn't until we had interrogated every doorman and security guard in a 2 block radius, given up and sat down at an Italian restaurant to salve our disappointment in mounds of pasta that his brother called with the necessary deets (all the way from his pad in pacific heights--yay technology!). I was very grateful. We ditched the restaurant, grabbed a taxi and took it 5 blocks to the place only to find out it didn't start for another half-an-hour. We ducked into a local middle eastern fast food joint to while away the time over baba ganoush and baklavah. We had thought we were going to be fashionably late.

When we arrived at the place (a club was rented for the evening), it was a total zoo. A mob of highschoolers (I mentioned this phenomenon to one of the TM marketing dudes later, and he said "botox") and frat boys crushed around the entrance. We doublechecked the instructions. Surely this wasn't the place. We waited in line for what seemed forever.. we watched hummers coming into the parking lot and disgorge their human cargo. I tried not to be completely disappointed. Finally after a friendly bouncer let us past the velvet rope (for reals!) and a clerk checked the guest list, we were allowed in. The bouncer asked me if I was going to write a song about waiting in line for the party... I smiled and said yes. Quel Psychic! He nodded and said, "I can recognize you song-writing types a mile away." At that moment, I realized the help would prolly be the coolest people at the party.

The next gauntlet... the Red Carpet, lined with a dozen scary looking photags with big canon lenses. We weren't celebrities (oddly, the woman directing traffic didn't know-- I nearly lied, but the thought of being found out was too scary) so we ducked into the dark, normal people's entrance.

I wrote that blog entry from tuesday before I started having any fun. They had a free bar, but all I was in the mood for was water. A tattoo artist was plying his trade in a temporary parlor while the drummer and dj I mentioned earlier did their thing. Enthroned in the opposite corner, a dropped cadillac-- with every chrome pimp detail basked in the glow of spot lights. Flashing on the screens... a series of pictures of tatt'ed inner city latino men and their hydraulic cars, rough, black and white shots of the Sidekick, gritty images of shopping blonde women, barbie dolls and graffiti. I watched the entire cycle repeat a couple of times. I actually got to meet the Seattle TMobile team who put the party on. They wanted a "hollywood" party. Sitting there in this whole weird scene and to realize that it was the brain child of a committee of Seattleilian cell-phone workers was the acme of surrealness. The really funny thing was... that there were a ton of authentic-looking tatt'ed pimp-types (of all colors, yo!) who seemed to be having a great time. Of course, I couldn't check their street credentials, for all I know, they were hired, or they have day jobs.

Chemical Joy Goes a Long Way in Attitude Adjustment

This is pathetic, but after my first (and only alcoholic beverage serving for the night) little glass of champagne things improved noticeably. I was able to look benignly at the droves of little starlets with perfect perky boobs and skin-tight dresses without having irritating flashbacks to the moronistas I went to highschool with. I ceased being intimidated by the scary street-types. I started dancing with wobbly's fellow co-workers and the Seattelian organizers. The mojo was high. I hung out in the smoking pit with the Floridinian rockers (met all the members of "Intention" the next up and coming big thing-- incidentally, they got to come cuz the moved all the big furniture) and the Irish card trick wack-os.

Do you Love Wobbly's Hat!

Speaking of white suburbanites trying to acquire street-cool. Tho' I shouldn't speak for the Wob, he actually lives in a ghetto. We bought it tuesday morning at Spiegels on Mission street... literally wading through piles of zoot and pimp suits, til we found the perfect short-hat-for-tall-man hat. A "diamond top" our epically unhelpful salesman said. It was, by far, the best hat in the entire crowd. I was wearing a green velvet dress my uncle bought me at the bargain barn for 50 cents and the goggles I lifted from Wobbly's bookcase. I was shooting for a more junior-league-meets-underground-comic-book-hero look. I got quite a few compliments from other Bay Areaites. They all thought we looked so "LA."

Semiotic Crises
After spending six hours in a completely fake/real stage I am realizing I have no idea what "street" or "pimp" or "white" or "suburbanite" or "LA" means. Where are you, Umberto?

A skinny man, naked torso covered with tats is banging energetically on a drum set while the dj plays the muisc so loud that my ears have completely checked out because my entire body has become a resonating device. Yes, you guessed it, I played hookey from work for two days so I could accompany wobbly to the tmobile party. Word has it that val kilmer and blink 182 are going to be here, but all I see is a lot of tattoed hipsters and girls who look like they are on their way to the prom, circa '92.

The Marketing Dude says tm is trying to be so hip that lots of celebrities come thus bringing the press. He claimed that the tm marketing people have "connections."

Hello Joseph Heller!

fest-camo, originally uploaded by camille94019.

I went on a second date with Fly Boy last Fri night. He arrived at the house on time, with a wad of cash to cover the two tickets and wearing a freshly pressed t-shirt.

The Cake concert was fabulous. They were as cool as I had anticipated. I fell in love with John McCrea's guitar-- a cheap child's guitar, with a pick-up attached with gaffer's tape. I love it when an artist transcends his equipment.

Afterwards Fly Boy took me to Saturn for a beer and a salad.

We talked.

I had a glimpse into a side of life I wished didn't exist.

We were noticing how weird the colors looked when we were standing under a traffic light.

He mentioned being in the desert so long that his eyes hurt when he saw the color green.

I asked him what he was doing in the desert. It was well after midnight.

He spoke of Saudi Arabia. He told me about flying bombing missions over Iraq.

you look into the radioscope and there are all these little dots. some of them are friendly and others are enemy and some you don't know. those dots you inquire about... sometimes you see the dots firing at each other. you aim for the dots... the enemy dots...

I remember reading a short story about trench warfare when I was in the seventh grade and Mrs Dei Rossi was asking us what the point of the story was. No one knew. We all stared at her, somewhat confused. I searched my mind for the right answer. She looked from face to face, with growing impatience.

"War is hell!" She yelled. We jumped. We had never heard her swear before.

I flew 320 days in one year. When I wasn't flying, I was in training or in a briefing. They worked us like dogs... I told the supervisor that if he didn't send me back to Germany, I'd climb to the top of the water tower and start shooting. He laughed and said to "get in line." I got a transfer shortly after that.

I don't think Fly Boy was planning on sharing with me... we were both tired and it was late. I half expected him to be all bad-ass about it. He is a Texan, after all.

I guess not all texans are gung-ho about war.

I was processing all weekend. Fly Boy is a christian. He goes to church. He is just a few years older than I am. His teeth are good. He is very respectful. He e-mails very well (good grammar, correct capitalization, fully developed thoughts... quite the best christian male eligible e-mailer I have found on the 'net). He is starting to grow on me.

But when talking with him starts to make me think I am in a scene from Catch-22 I start to get scared.

Epic Minutia and the God of the Commute

postcard view of the 280/85 overpass, originally uploaded by camille94019.

I had ample time to introspect on the way to work this morning.

At 7:56 I pulled the Silver Bullet onto the Mighty Seventeen and joined my metal-shrouded commuting compatriots for the epic journey over the hill.

At 8:20 I was resting at the beautiful Lexington Reservoir, enjoying the view and thinking, "hey, I wonder if my class starts at 9:15 or 9:45" resting in my I-am-so-responsible smugness, after six years of this, I can relax, because its all under control. I glanced at my planner and

HORRORS-- class is scheduled to start at 8:30.

My little, self satisfied world crumbled. I pulled off the freeway and went to DT L.G. to find a payphone (an old friend, I've cancelled classes from you before). I explained to Mrs Parrish (they all go by their formal titles at this particular school) that I was having "travelling issues" no, wait, "I woke up too late" and there was "traffic congestion." But the car is fine.

My next class isn't 'til noon. Ah, a whole, lazy, morning to kill, no, er, use productively.

Suddenly, all pressure was gone. I tooled through the picturesque town (ah, look at the healthy white people, in their little jogging shorts, getting their coffee, getting into their Lexi, with their matching dogs, and passing the Athletic Club, the LG History Club, the Rowing Club, the Rustic Store... time seemed momentarily suspended as I watched the LGans go about their idyllic morning rituals) on the way to the freeway.

While stuck in another snag in another town, I watched the mating dance of a california vulture and a small, private airplane, while listening to KFOG play a sexy song that opened with the words "laying down with an angel." The two were wheeling, banking and soaring in a perfect double helix over the road. I was straining my head over the dashboard of my car, hoping that the flow of cars didn't do anything sudden, as my attention was wholy absorbed by the drama in the sky.

Sometimes it seems like my experince is crafted by an artsy third party. A perfect song on the radio, with a perfectly timed traffic jam, and a magical airshow, involving a wild animal and a human pilot. I wonder what God is trying to say to me. If He is saying anything at all. I think He is, and it can only be summed up in the poetry of that perfect moment.

So, Naba, if you are reading this, now I am ready to think about chapter 18 of Luke. We spoke about how God comes to our world, and how we approach him with the wild joy/humility of a child, a blind beggar, a widow and a tax collector.

Those icons of supplication, arranged in my imagination like four tarot cards on the table. The child, full of irreverent, wide-eyed wonder, a complex mixture of trust, neediness and elan. The blind beggar, who cries to Jesus, and Jesus replies with the waitress-question of "what can I do for you?" The persistent widow, who with her constant requests, eventually gets what she asks for. Finally, my personal favorite, the tax collector, standing in the synegogue, beating his breast, weeping for mercy, for his mistakes, for his disasters. And for all of them, in their wild trust, and naked neediness, standing on the ground (not a holy mountain), in their own stained clothes and messy hair, see God.

Smells Like

The den smells like stale maple syrup. I don't know if its me, or if I am having weird olfactory hallucinations.

Clue #1 The crusty bowl of oatmeal sitting on the desk.

Clue #2 Empty McCann's Irish Oatmeal Packets (maple flavour) laying in the garbage can.

Mystery solved...

The Silver Bullet Salon

I carpooled with the Amazing 11 yesterday and now my brain is buzzing with ideas. We occasionally talk about culture on our way to the Valley. Yesterday was no different. Her father posits that culture is man's fallen attempt to fill in the spiritual/philosophical/moral vacuum created when mankind rejected God and that human culture is tainted and therefore is neither worth preserving nor important. He has been a missionary for at least a couple of decades, travels widely, and is well-known and respected in Christian circles the world over. Since I haven't spoken to him directly, I haven't gotten the chance to hear this from him personally, nor have I been able to learn all of the ramifications of this philosophy. She says he believes people in developing nations should have the choice to leave their traditional way of life if they want to, instead of staying where they are at (because of poverty, of badly distributed resources or because of some ethnologist's wish to maintain vanishing cultures).

Thank God I Went to a Godless Art School

Our conversation then turned to the idea of Christian culture when I brought up the story of my friend J who studied art at a small christian college in Georgia. I had invited her to one of my figure drawing sessions and she declined. I was shocked! How could one who claims to be an art school grad, who enjoys painting and drawing, not want to gather with other artists to draw the figure? I asked her if she had done it in college at all. She replied that she had done it twice. That her college didn't offer it because they believed it was immoral. She had a radical prof who thought figure drawing was critical, so she hired one of the students to model in her home, and invited her students to come draw secretly (or at least off-campus). The young model was too shy to disrobe completely, so she only took off her shirt. By forcing it underground, the college administration turned it into something that was uncomfortable and creepy-- the very thing they were trying to avoid.

Why do christians have to create their own culture? asked 11.

In creating christian culture, seperate from the mainstream, do we commit some weird backwards idolatry (assuming all human culture is tainted)?

Any thoughts?

Plug-o-Rama

Under the Overpass, originally uploaded by camille94019.

I am going to be showing some choice pictures from my summer excursion in the Coffee House, after Vintage Faith on October 30th.

So Mark Your Calendars, kiddies. I am even going to talk!

Come and get your Camille-fix, because I don't have any other shows planned in the near future. Write me if you have any questions.

Truth Telling

I had an intense conversation today with one of my muttonham bosses. She said that my summer performance has been inconsistant-- sometimes brilliant, but often not. Curiously enough, that is what her predessessor said about me.

And to make matters more ackward and difficult, we are friends and we occasionally see one another socially. She expressed her fear that I would get mad and not like her anymore. It was obviuous she had been dreading this conversation for quite a while. (I don't want to cause anyone dread!)

Au contraire, I told her. I tried to make it clear that I appreciated her candor and would certainly keep her on the party list. (hellooo girlfriend! priorities!)

We ended up sharing some hard-core girltalk and hugging. :)

She blessed me by being honest. I am grateful. I find myself falling into the trap of doing things half-assedly just out of obligation and convenience. I feel so much release (ha ha, in more ways than one).

So after five summers of alternately loving and hating the summer program and sticking with it for financial reasons (try finding a high-paying job in the summer, why doncha? Who really wants to spend the two free minutes in spring trying to line up summer employment!?) I am seriously thinking about keeping one class (the manga-drawing one) and cancelling the rest. Then I wouldn't have to be a lousy teacher and everybody will be happy.

(sniff sniff-- I think the wind is changing)

I Slack

Darlinks, my attempt at blogging last night was truncated by the sight and sound of the M*ster wailing about making a late night trip to the Red. I agreed to take her (she was in no wise capable of driving) (I am wondering why my judgement was so impaired), but as I was dragging my uncooperative corpus into the bathroom to prepare for the outing, she saw herself in the mirror and started keening about how bad she looked and that she couldn't possibly go out.

note bene: She looked quite fetching in her little red sweater.

After all of that dwama, I was tired and didn't feel like firing up the Mac again.

---

In other Social News (relavent to Poulet and the Contessa, my apologies to everyone else)

I saw Currer in the flesh yesterday. "Isn't he studying law in Ann Arbor with the venerable Robert Bork," you may ask? Well, yes he is, but he took a little trip to the west coast to help his grandma-up-north. Its been three years since I have seen him and he looks like a real grown man now. I met him when he was 19, ackward, zitty and hopelessly trying to get the attention of my sister. Ah memories.

I picked him up at Saint Ignatius (in the City) and we tooled over to Louie's and had fried food while we watched the fog roll in and out over the ruins of the Cliff House. It was good to see him after three years of phone calls, e-mails and letters. He's the one who writes the letters with the beautiful calligraphy and sparkling prose and has been leaving the Rober Burnes poetry on my answering machine.

-----

The Curious Incident of the Cashews

b-vision2, originally uploaded by camille94019.

Sat Night, Safeway in Portland, buying beer for the afterparty.

I was standing in the checkout line with my water and the Wob was right behind me.

I found Shannon a few minutes later. I had wanted to pick up a few necessities for the ride home while we were at the grocery store.

We were ready to go the after-party. I looked behind me, and no wob. Shannon was anxious to go the party. I glanced around the store. It was one of those mega-safeways, that is the size of a football field. looking for him would have been hopeless. We asked the cashier to page him for us.

"wobbly, your party is waiting for you at aisle 6"

We waited for another five minutes. Nothing. I felt like a disloyal friend, but we left. BTW, we had walked there... so it wasn't like his futon wasn't a mere 3 blocks away. After a few blocks, I used Shannon's phone to call him. No answer. We were mystefied and Shannon told me about a really creepy movie where this dude's girlfriend disappears and he spends the rest of the movie looking for her. It was a dark, wet night. I thought of wobbly wandering around in the strange and hostile neighborhoods of Portland... a lost and lonely waif.

Finally Shannon's phone rang.

pause
We didn't drive (to me) he's looking for the car.
pause

me: Where is he?
S: the parking lot

pause

yeah.... take a right, cross the street, the street numbers will get lower...

me: Didn't he hear us page him?
S: do you really want to know?

Eventually we saw his silhouette approach. After our somewhat strained reunion.

me: Didn't you hear us page you?
W: Oh, yes. But I was in the middle choosing the salted or unsalted cashews.
me: so you ignored the page.
W: (as if it was no big deal) of course.

nb: I had a bag of cashews in the car the whole time.

Post Scriptum... where is that tin of cashews now? you might ask. They were last sighted sitting, where the wob left them before we left for home, on Shannon's kitchen table. I hope he likes cashews.

PDX memories and Unfocused Angst.

happygoat, originally uploaded by camille94019.

Ah, Portland was great. Thanks for asking.

We passed out lots of comics and met a lot of cool artists. I ate catfish. I drank multiple cups of coffee ground, pressed and poured by none other than The Shannon Wheeler, of Too Much Coffee Man fame. I want to go into more detail later, right now I have things to do! I met so many famous people, I am on the verge of becoming a shameless Name Dropper. (the horrors!)

Suddenly I am busy! Its nuts! I don't know what to do with myself. Dreams hatched while I had time suddenly don't seem so compelling. I wanted more work (cuz, I dunno about you, but owing money to credit card companies makes me sweat) and now that I have it, I resent it for taking over my life. I think I have enough work for now. Thanks to everyone who gave me empathy and condolences.