dreamattack | a dialogue in pictures

overheard on CNN — “What we need are more sound decisions, not sound bites.”

which is itself, a sound bite … oh Irony, why doest thou torment me so!!!

I’ve been only superficially present, in body and in mind. My hours are consumed with school, sleep, dreams about those I love and miss, and only peripherally- work.

I’m full of funny stories about the silly teenaged girls in my figure drawing class. They thought they were out-of-sorts about the pierced, shaved, tattoo-ed punk girl who started out posing for us on the first day of class, now relegated to only our Tuesday class. Yes, they thought they were out of sorts, until our instructor introduced the male drawing model, who will be posing for our class every Thursday.

Having been an artist’s model 12 years ago, back when I was a five-ten, one-twenty-five pound high-breasted 20-year-old, I have a special understanding of the relationship between class and model. Our female model is impeccably professional in every way. Our male model is not.

It is admirable that he is so comfortable with his body, but not so admirable that he openly flirts with the young ladies in class - who are made quite uncomfortable by his winks and smiles. Where the female model changes into her robe in the restroom, our male model whips off his clothes up by the front of the class. One minute you have a clothed person in your peripheral vision, the next minute and it’s all dangling beans, as he awkwardly steps out of his tighty-whities. And they sure do dangle low, let me tell you. *shudder*

He also has this bizarre way of adjusting his goods. As a female, I don’t know all the rules of adjusting oneself, but surely there’s a more professional way than to one-hand your entire wad of junk and flip it over your leg as you sit down.

I’ve seen a lot of penises in my day (and a fair number of hoo-hoo-dillies, too), but this guy makes me never want to lay eye (or any other part of me) on another droopy, sad, one-eyed trouser snake again.

Also! An important rule for anyone considering modeling nude for an art class. For fuck’s sake, when we’re having a break please cover your bits before you start padding around the class checking out our drawings. Yes, I drew your penis smaller than it is, but that’s no reason why I should have to worry about picking up something in my hand other than my pencil, or even a thick slab of pastel!

holy gluesticks, batman — J. wasn’t kidding.

At work, sitting at the information desk in front of a vast sea of freshly poured adhesive. The fumes have infiltrated every molecule of air, every atom in my brain. The smell was quite strong at first, but my nose has grown accustomed and discontinued sending smell information to my brain. People approaching the desk are surrounded by a diffuse purple glow. It’s taking a conscious effort to keep my balloon head attached to my earthbound body.

I’m certainly going to need coffee when my time is up in half an hour. What fun!

In the breeze

feel like a slip of a dress, ripped seams,
hem sagging, waving a song, some dream-time
dance in the weaving hands of the wind.

before you cut me loose, unpin me from
this uncurled noose, buoy me up and forth
against your woman’s hip and sing to me
sing to me, the old songs that slip from
my memory. my memory - is a ghost of a bird
my head full of bees, my mouth full of cotton.
my fingers slip, my tongue loses its grip
and still I wait, still I wait
and still I wander, burned and naked

in the desert, emptied of desire.

– s. plant