Excersize for Grizz: Gloucester

notes to myself from MFA

Eldzier Cortor - Room No. 5 (1948)
http://www.placadaphoto.com/Art/Boston-MFA/i-F3GdnZf/0/L/MFA-7910-L.jpg

Hale Woodruff - Big Wind in Georgia (1933)
http://www.artfixdaily.com/images/newsfeed/Nov11_Big_Wind_in_Georgia600x455.jpg?1321035228

Allan Rohan Crite https://www.google.com/search?q=Eldzier+cortor&hl=en&prmd=imvnso&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=22rrTqvRNYm8rAfEoKz_CA&ved=0CDwQsAQ&biw=1024&bih=585&sei=3mrrTqmDD8qJrAeiq4X7CA#hl=en&tbm=isch&sa=1&q=Allan+rohan+crite&oq=Allan+rohan+crite&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&gs_sm=e&gs_upl=166563l166563l0l166984l1l1l0l0l0l0l0l0ll0l0&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.,cf.osb&fp=d923295813bc8d33&biw=1024&bih=585

puerto rico room

Mollino

My dood--Carlo Mollino, all time favorite nude portfolio.

http://www.postmedia.net/06/mollino.htm

homance

no poem

things are looking grim folks
i barely tell any jokes
birds are tweetin (really)
sun is shinin on and on
but i'm jus cryin
and it's been so long
i have to drink so much water
otherwise i'd be dead
pretty ironic considering
the things runnin through my head
like
fulla lead
seein red
no bread
broken legs
turnin into a .jpg and gettin deleted
etc

sterrs

minis

creamies

junkscape

hole in me heart

unt.

there exists in you
an unparalleled
ease of composure
my torn nerves
find comfort
only in your
lottery smile
the yard is piled
high with tulips
and daffodils
and we will
bury the house
with roses

roommates

Quickie

The doctor half watched me put my arm back into my shirt and then put on my coat.

“It shouldn’t hurt that much.” She said with her trace New Zealand accent. I thought about what she said. As soon as the injection began I felt what felt like my blood bruising. Down, down, down to my fingertips so when I put my shirt back on it was stiff to move, and stiffer still when I reached for my coat.

“It does.” I said, a little sadly.

“It should feel like someone punched you.” She handed me my forms and several stickers of barcodes and my name.

“Yes.” I took the papers. I looked at her. I looked beyond her.

“Are you alright?” She asked, looking towards defeated eyes.

“I’ve just begun to feel a bit funny.”

“Lie down here. Here, lie down.” She motioned towards the examination table covered with a strip of tissue paper. I took two steps towards the bed and sat and lied backwards. For a moment or two I really felt funny. My left arm ached and I was space travelin’ to the land of death by vaccination (surely I would die). Then I felt fine. The doctor insisted on water and I began to feel embarrassed. She returned with 80 milliliters of water in a medicine cup and I drank it quickly.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m out of practice. It’s in my head.” I wondered if she thought I was an intravenous drug user; I told her I was in for the Hep A vaccine because last year I had toxic hepatitis. I did not worry too much about this potential misconception. I sat up slowly, as instructed.

“We can’t have you passing out.”

“No, I won’t. I’m fine. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Ok.”

“Thank you...Thank you”

I shuffled out the door and to the elevator where I pressed ML (Main Lobby) until it lighted red-orange. I considered the past. I had never had a reaction to a shot like that. Although I don't like shots or any other sterilely invasive things of this nature I usually looked away and took it fine. Only one thing I could figure differed this time. I answered her questions, watched her prep the needle, pulled my left arm out of my shirt, received the injection and a Band-Aid and when all was said and done it was too quick. I wasn’t ready to go. So my arm hurt up, my stomach wheezed a little, and I laid down until I had been in the room long enough not to feel chewed up and spit out. I did not want to be alone and my body knew this long before I did. Acute-toxic-vulnerability. After two minutes and 80 milliliters of water it cleared up--the universe reinstalled my independence.

I spun out the revolving doors of Mass General Hospital into subzero Boston. Cars were angling around corners and honking. Everyone shuffled around from every direction all huddled into scarves and collarbones. I assumed position—stuffed my mittened hands in my pockets and brought my shoulders up to my ears and began wishing I had paid the meter instead of being a pussy and parking in the garage. I paid $7 to the woman behind what I hoped was bulletproof glass.

amore

do not flush female parts down here

...& back