Tuesday, August 28, 2007

 

Campers: please keep the gossip coming


Monday, August 27, 2007

 

Capt'n's Log


Subject: Summer Camp

Object: Fun, Friendship, Art

On layover at Cincinatti airport en route to gree c's upstate HQ. Gandi is scheduled to pick me up at Albany, if she can put down the fishing pole and get in the car. Withholding all judgements. Dying to see the friends.

Below: a glimpse of what's to come




video

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

 

Is it too late?


Saturday, August 18, 2007

 






















It's the crack of dawn and The Capt'n must now hit the highway, or "freeway" as they call them here, for San Diego, where she must then work and surf all weekend, as per usual.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

 

Gong Show trading cards










Some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you. Don't judge me.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

 

Announcing EVERY DAY SHE MAKES A NEW BLUE DOG


an exciting new serial by Miranda F. Mellis, which will bump up your quest for meaning and beauty a notch or two, and as a result or side effect of this, at the very least, highly improve your quality of life. You cannot afford to miss an entry, dearreaderfriend.
The following is a partial excerpt from EVERY DAY SHE MAKES A NEW BLUE DOG:

She made a new blue dog. This dog involuntarily remembered elements of her past life without remembering or recalling somatically or otherwise her identity as such. So: it wasn’t her self she remembered, rather it was certain objects she had used over and over again, objects covered in her fingerprints that floated before her eyes, phantasmagoric static interfering with her dog-flow: shoes, a broom, kites, cameras, radios, telephones, beer. In that life of objects she had been a human filmmaker. She had once strapped her camera to a seagull to film her own shadow at high noon. Then she exposed the film in the room in which her mother lay in state. The film was blurry when she projected it, but she felt she could clearly make out her mother, her face shining forth in the exposed footage of the shadow. The (closed) casket was purple and the undertaker was playing the Ukulele. None of this was clear, and yet it needed no explanation. All this is going through the new blue dog’s mind as she lifts her gray eyes to see her maker. She had been a filmmaker–-an artist. Now, in her present life as a new blue dog on a’,i, she is not the artist, rather she is the creation of this woman, this tall woman with black hair who is trying to coax her into playing with a stick. She doesn’t want to play with a stick; she wants to think about her condition. She walks away and, circling a few times first, she curls up in an unprepossessing ball to wonder at having died and come back as a dog–-which clearly was considered some kind of art form in this other world. She thought she could love this incarnation. She would be fed, she wouldn’t have to work, and she was free to spend all of her time thinking and even…playing. How to play? That would be something she would have to learn, as a dog: how to play, jump around and all that.

Friday, August 03, 2007

 

The Self is Overrated

and yet it must do a whole megalomaniac post about itself.

What follows are the results of our very first try at surf photography. When I say "our," I mean my friend, Rob Fatal's first try, since he did all of the actual work, plus it was his idea. The other thing you should know is that this is not an easy thing to do. Rob bought himself some special flippers and was out there trying to be in position but not in the way, treading water with flippers only while holding the camera and getting smacked in the face by the waves. Just saying.






Figure 1 (a)-->
The self unfurling it's larger than life phallic symbol, The Green Rocket.
















Figure 1 (b):-->
Kristie and the self heading out into the uninspiring, dumpy beach break of Santa Monica.


















Waiting for nothing.
















Since losing our Team Philosopher, Sea Monkey, to New York, things have been qualitatively barren. Here we see the self making a choady attempt at waxing poetic for the youth of today.
Kristie's thought bubble: "What a blowhard."

















Stop talking and charge it, choad!
















Sometimes the self has to choose between pulling back and not getting dumped by a pitching closeout, or to risk a slim chance at happiness. Note the excellent positioning of our cameraman.

















"Unencumbered by technique."













The self looks left and prepares to turn into the open face of the soon-to-be closing out wave.

















Openly resenting the whitewater, the self wonders why it didn't drag the people down to San Onofre instead.

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