I felt the earth move under my feet

I have spent quite a bit of time lately thinking about the earth's core. I imagine the middle of it is sloshing around with molten rock. I can envision a heart of slurping and splashing lava as this planet hurtles through the solar system. There are tides down there, and maybe tsunamis, of glowing red boiling rock. I also have come to terms with the fact that "the big one" will happen. That the earth will roar its terrible roar and gnash its terrible teeth and show its terrible claws. That California is going to get fucked up, and I might be here. Tonight I was working at my new job (at Cafe Du Soleil, keeping with the planetary theme!). My job is to help happy people stay happy, through wine and pastries and hot chocolate and charming conversations. So, I was sipping an espresso cup full of bordeaux, eating raspberries, pretending to chat with Jean Luc, although I could not understand him through his french accent. At that moment, an incredibly handsome man walked through the door of the cafe, wearing a marvelous green scarf. I thought to myself "Wow. I have never had such a reaction to somebodies physical appearance before! I feel like I am going to fall over!" Then everyone started cheering, and I realized there had been an earthquake. Jubilance spread through the room, I told the handsome man that his green scarf had caused the earth to move, and I continued to drink bordeaux and eat raspberries. I felt so thrilled and alive, like some one had just given me a great compliment, or I had just seen a shooting star, or I had just thrown a successful dinner party. When a thunderstorm is approaching, the air is infused with negative ions, which have positive psychological effects. I wonder if there is a similar phenomena pertaining to techtonic shifts. I feel extraordinary.

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

I just laughed so hard with my sister. Milan Kundera would have been impressed. My stomach hurts.

Before, written from the after. Memories of a buffalo girl.

Tonight, I had a flash back. It was triggered by a familiar combination of sensations. The sensory (selective) deprivation chamber of my studio. Manic music blasting through my headphones. The slowly developing scene of my painting. The stagnant smell of solvent, paint, and cement floors mingling in my nose. The cramping of my right hand around my paint brush. The rigormortis of my left hand holding a baby food jar full of paint. The undulations of arty endorphins. The sense that time is passing, but I will not look at a clock. Enduro-art. Paint until I can paint no more.
Once upon a time, I was blessed. I would paint and paint, only pausing to smoke cigarettes and flip over the tape in my walkman. The split second before I collapsed, I would stop, wash out my brushes, and walk to my truck. I would drive down a long boulevard, the median of which was planted with trees. Upon reaching my destination, I would let myself in the backdoor. There was always a pot of green chile on the stove, waiting for me. Made with love and intention. The acrid, spicy smell, the warmth of the kitchen, the 1950's formica counter tops, the ristras of Juan's red chile nestled under the ceiling, next to some christmas lights and a dying house plant. The parade of things to go with the green chile, because sadly, man cannot live on chile alone. Yellow squash, with crooked necks. The bland indian bread from Isleta, down south, made by that lady, do you remember meeting her? Beans, soaked, simmered, so damn good, the food of gods. Of women named Persingula. Posole, sorry about the pork, or the venison, but what idiot would make vegetarian posole? A grilled cheese sandwish. A sliced tomato. I would eat. He would give me space. Space to talk about line and form, the transparency of dioxazine purple, the joyful opacity of cadmium, the trepidation to tred across the across the snowy feild of a blank canvas. Space to sit in silence. Space to talk about the Sunday Times. Space to carefully listen to one perfect jazz song, and hear a story about his uncle and his mythical vinyl collection. Space to contemplate the sublime perfection of a poor man's margarita: Squirt and tequila.... Hey, do you know that Squirt is made with turpentine? Hey, do you remember when you moved here? We ate pizza on the naked floor. Hey do you remember the lilacs in Mountainair? The beautiful boys at Jemez feast day? The wooden beams, with the marks of now rusted saws, the labor of now dead hands,the past, laid bear? The green cottonwood spine of the desert? The smell of Catholic insense, of your marijuana, of salty skin, of cedar smoke at dusk, of the sigh of freshness that preceeds a thunderstorm?

Do you see the similarity?

So, I finally quit working at Incanto. The worst job I have ever had. Some of the best food, but staffed by the most uptight, pretentious, cruel people I have ever met. If they turned their spite against each other, it would turn into as much of a blood bath as the kitchen. Blood pudding anybody? I am released from my misery, free to be authentic, happy, and friendly. None of those twerps will ever criticize me for saying "y'all" again. None of those assholes will ever make fun of my striped over-alls splattered with paint again. And, most of all, none of those jerks will ever call me stupid, ever again. THey call the food there "offal" (pronounced awful: brains, stomach, ears, feet, etc.). They should just call the staff awful. I am FREEEEEEE!!!!!!!

give me a bandaid and a shot of whiskey

I keep stubbing my toes on piles of discarded projects. I am continually grazing my elbows on the unexplored ideas that poke out from the corridors of my thoughts. I just hit my funny bone on a really wonderful idea, got smashed to bits by the speeding bus that carried my inspiration. I have a concussion from cramming things into my brain. I can't turn around without tripping over a deadline. I have two black eyes from the unrelenting beatings that stress keeps giving me. I have splinters of beauty under my skin, that will probably get infected if they don't get extracted soon. My ribs hurt from laughing at my own naivete.

crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis

Artistic crisis.Economic crisis. Philosophical crisis. Identity crisis. Crises of faith, vision, space, mindset, future, past. I am so ready to admit that I am in crisis. I have not been in my studio for almost two weeks. There are those laughable people that go to grad school: they are talented, focused, ambitious, successful. But then someone gives them a weighty suggestion, and the next thing you know, architects become printmakers, philosophers become carnies, theologans start death metal bands, illustrastors become performance artists that light themselves on fire and jump into public swimming pools filled with vinegar, just because it is art. I was not going to be one of these people. I came to San Francisco, to the Art Institute, not to change, but to refine. Alas,against all previous sense of stability and prophesizing about my future, here I am. I had one hour in my studio with one very insightful dude on the one day in which I felt a little bored and vulnerable. So now my Aries inner self has taken over. Fuck this complacent, studio driven, commercially viable art form. I am going to break laws, put my self in harms way, spend hours and money that I do not have, breath in toxic shit, run comletely on elbow grease and idealism, and make art that no one will ever see. Great!?!?! I should be really excited, eh? Oh, well. It will come to fruition, someday, someway. I will end up in jail (for breaking and entering) with lung cancer (from breathing in aesbestos) riddled with post traumatic stress syndrome (from getting mugged in some unsavory place), but I will know that I saw my artistic vision and followed it. Please, somebody, email me, call me, and talk some sense into me.
Other instances of crisis? *I have decided I am going deaf. I am already half way there. *I have a job which is offering me two brand new experiences: to be not very good at something, and to be hated by my peers. *The past, even shit like 7th grade shenanigans, has HUGE gravity that, rather than diffusing over time, only become more potent. It is like fermentation. I am quite suprised upon drinking from my past what has become wine and what has become vinegar. * I want to be an academic. I would like to publish books, be able to casually reference Marx, wear really odd clothes, be astoundingly articulate, keep odd hours, and be called "celebrated". PhD, here I come. Get ready for Dr. Nina. * I have no need for romance. That was just a byproduct of my boredom, which was masked by a sense of leisure, in which I was complacent. No time for dudes. I guess, hmmmmm, I have cut out one venue for crisis. * (not reason for crisis, bit it is interesting that all my friends conjure up the past, and memories, and previous definitions of me. Proof that crisis does not really change shit, that friendship runs DEEP)My friends consist of: my sister. my ex-boss, who is a republican. my best girl friend from junior high church stuff. my best guy friend whom I met in 1st grade and was reaquainted with last week after a decade of silence. a perforamce artist who tried to burn his beard off rather than shave. my yoga teacher/roomate/travelling buddy/surrogate sister. my sister's high school boyfriend. my mom. my soul mate girl friend....her dog is in doggy prison for biting some twerpy little brat at REI. almost no one from albuquerque.....there are a few gems, though, oasis' in that recent desert. *I am eating meat. Wierd stuff. Cow stomach. Tuna heart. Pork feet and liver and brains and ears and skin and eyeballs. Cod cheeks. Hotdogs.
OK, enough public exposing of my personal analysis. Maybe in a two years, things will be a little more stable. I am already accumulating a reading list, a to-do list, a dream list, for when this hyperdynamic experience is over.