If you thought this was my life, you'd be 40 percent right.

That was a right good amount for all you, stranger/friend/mom, needed to know. I'll make a don't-analyze-this-too-hard metaphor, but this blog has been like a nice boyfriend for the past almost 2 years. And its seen a lot of action. And I've told it many things and its been good. But then I went on a trip and came back and things have changed. I've changed and its not the blog, but me and its just not gonna work out. I've posted smatterings lately here and there, but I'm really pullin from the bin and there's no jive or flow. Stream or thread. And well, to be honest it is the blogbfriend, maybe a little. And that's way I've been distancing myself. I don't like the way it looks anymore and I want something more sophisticated. And I used to enjoy reading old posts every now and then for memory-recaps and now I just can't really muster the interest and if I do I feel awkward. Oh, i just want get it all out now. I've been seeing someblogelse. Like everynight, and its amazing, because it responds to me and stuff and its just a good match.

So, I will continue to post about life-things that will change in next couple months because there will be some show&tell-worthy transitions such as making my good-riddances to China, teaching in Korea for the summer, and the anticipated transition back to America, and journeys in America. I mean that will be a story! But I imagine a fizzle-slow down and I might even start another blogtionship, or a recapitulation of SHOESONAWIRE, but it will be of hopefully wildy creative proportions and more me-filled than ever. Me-filled in a way that's my true voice and my true eyes (I'm trying to find those). And I don't care if anyone sees it, I just want to make it. I have so many ideas for so many projects that I want to persue. And I don't care about jobs, there just money-generators. I'll do what I have to get money.

As for right now the other 60 percent is photographing daily, running for my life, learning new languages, writing what comes to me in palpitations no one should see. And my violin playing, if a forecaster of mood, has been equally diligent and i've taken a keeness to an eerie and hysterical form of vibrato, which might sound-for-itself just what it is that I am feeling. But being 40 percent on this page is not what I want. I want to push for 70 percent personally expressive, maybe I'll go 90s someday. These are the things I care about.

Cuddles for the Weak, Forlorn, and Blank

, originally uploaded by gofeetgo.

Shot from the heart with snuggle technologies.

LOVELIGHT

, originally uploaded by gofeetgo.

"Transforming us as we Transfixed"

I was recently at the Beijing Airport twice in a row this week picking up a new teacher and I thought about the opera "Nixon in China" by composer John Adams, which I didn't know much about, but had read something a while back and then forgot about. Well, the idea stuck with me when I got home I found these totally you-tubular clips. And as it turned out it made its world premiere at the Houston Grand Opera in 1987, just around the same time my mom left, which makes it personally interesting to me on a few levels.

Added to this, last night, some of the teachers and I were talking about historical "turning points" as shapers of history. I wondered whether they are true instances of change or whether the history makers give them their eventual significance. Certainly, this opera might argue, that some "turning points" are manufactured, as was the situation with Nixon's visit with the opening China in 1972.

Nixon sings this as he steps off the plane at the Peking Airport while shaking a line of hands (I'm just dictating here):

" News, news, news, news....has a, has a...kind of mystery... When I shook hands with Zhou Enlai....The whole world was listening as WE made history...And though we spoke quietly the eyes and ears of history caught every gesture and every word....And so transforming us as we transfixed, as we transfixed....As WE made history...As WE made history."

Its incredible music too.

Nixon In China (Opera): Act I Scene 1: Arrival at Airport and News



Nixon In China (Opera): Act I Scene 3: Having a Banquet (with Baijiu!)


Nixon In China (Opera): Act II Scene 2: Ballet of "The Red Detachment of Women"

How do you transfigure?

, originally uploaded by gofeetgo.

In the past week, I think I've been feeling like my mother when my mother was my age. I'm 25 and I was born when my mother was 25. The sense emerges when I walk and at moments I catch my hands in certain positions and think that their only indication that they are mine is the tell-tale scrappiness of my nails.



Maybe I've been extremely compelled to take a variety of self-portraits for this reason, but I only realized why until today.



I like this one because there is no cleverness. And I don't think it looks like me, at least not the me I usually I see. There in proving to me that my recent transfiguration is real, at flesh and bone level, its real.

Buried Somethings

, originally uploaded by gofeetgo.

Last night I had an intense dream in which I was rubbing my belly and the flesh was viscous and rubbery and I could pull it like taffy high above my body. When I released the skin it slowly settled back into regular form. I patted my stomach and felt around to my lower back, around my kidneys. Pressed into my skin and felt two pool ball sized masses. And in my dream I believed that I had discovered the source of my illness, which ever illness I believed I had in the dream. I felt relieved and tremendously excited at the discovery. When I woke up I patted around my back, but they were not there. I felt disappointed and my non-dream inner narrative told me that I haven't found it yet, but its there.

Then I came to the computer and typed this. Its about no one in particular, that is to say I do not recognize myself in there. I truly wonder why I wrote it. I think its a moral.

When she was younger and childishly hopeful she believed that if she collected enough of them she would have a gallery in her room big enough to impress someone special. And at this age making a spetacular impression with someone special was confusingly conflated with the love that she observed elsewhere, with elsepeople . And some how, after years, and with the mundaniety of acquiring them day in day out, grew a depreciation of them as what the originally were. And she no longer spoke of them lovingly and their attainment came with no stories told with passion like they once were. And eventually someone special came along and she led them in and showed them and spoke anticlimactically and matter-of-factly of their existence in the corner of her room. And thusly they looked upon them as an oddity and an obsession; and they permitted the thought, though their relationship was new, that her collection was actually a sadness. And being not so much "unimpressed" as so much as they were unsettled she failed to see this person as the special person that they actually were. And she never thought of it, but a long thin unraveling thread lay loose along a dank tunnel. And if perhaps she followed the trail of the limp string she might eventually recover what was tethered to the end. But she hesitated at the opening. Hesitated and assessed with her hand the bowl of air in her stomach. It was always there. And in an anxious moment she always assessed in this way. She wondered if she was fearful of anything. This thought pivoted her toward the corner of the room where they were. And she noticed the end of string and realized she had had it all these years. And it was buried.