I got magic hands.
I’ve been asked to hold a public workshop on self-care and mental health in October. I have no formal training beyond my own talent for teaching and experiences with caring for my own mental health. This should prove interesting. Granted, I’m sure the other facilitators will help me out but really it just comes down to me and if I can pull it off. How exciting!
I’m working as the aquatics director at an overnight camp this summer. I’m so excited! I’ve done my time as a lifeguard and a kayak instructor, and I have worked my way up the chain to admin staff. I love camp, and this is going to be such a great job. I leave in about two weeks, and I can’t wait!
I’m mildly obsessed with Marcel Duchamp. He was an artistic monster who destroyed representational art by turning it into a parody of itself, and he did it in such a way that felt entirely natural and unforced. Working from the understanding that art is the act of making useful things useless, he strove to drive that point home. I love conceptual art, where the piece is merely an illustrative example of an idea.
Of course, what pushes this further back is that, for Duchamp, something like Fountain was entirely worthless, and yet, were the original ever to be located, it would be placed on display at the Louvre and not pissed in, despite being a factory-produced urinal to which Duchamp affixed nothing beyond the name “R. Mutt.”
The whole point was to violate aesthetics; it was an act of artistic terrorism, which like all revolutions, was eventually appropriated and sold.
The problem with art these days is that there’s not a whole lot you can do that will get any sort of reaction at all. Artists are supposed to be weird. R. Mutt may have been lost, but it sure as hell won.
I think about beer alot. Not because I’m some kind of alcoholic, but because… I… I guess I don’t know why. I jump through all these hoops to crack grain, to add water and keep the temperature just so. To cultivate the hops just so. Boiling it just so. I have all these contraptions that I’ve built, temperature probes and heating blankets, all to keep this tank of sugar water at a certain temperature, so this microorganism, yeast, my little beasties, can eat the sugar and poop alcohol at such as rate to create delicious flavors. I check up on them, open the top and peak, look at the big frothy foam mess they make at the top of the beer. I scoop out a few of them, the chosen ones, to keep them alive, to start a new colony in a new sugar water some day.
I know the personalities of all these different little beasties. This type likes to be cold. This one warm. If you heat this other one this way, he makes this flavor. If you mash your grain this one way for this other little beastie, you give him this interesting food to eat, and he makes this other unique flavor.
I think about the fact that people have been doing this for tens of thousands of years, and my small place doing something distinctly human. I think about how brewing used to be the province of women and shamans, and that’s alright with me, because I’m a woman too, and maybe a shaman in my own way.