More! Art!

First verse to a new song…work in progress

katebarbaria — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 17:15:04 +0000

There was an old man sucking on his shriveled lips
Wonder if he remembers how he used to shake his hips
Like Elvis with his pelvis kissing girls in darkened rooms
And driving all over town driving down down down to the railroad tracks
Hoping somewhere inside that he’d never make it back
Oh to be young and screaming in the dark
Looking for somewhere reasonable to leave your mark
I hope I never get old I hope I never get old

Odes to a couch surfing month

katebarbaria — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 17:11:52 +0000

If I am ever grown up enough to have a couch, I will be sure it is a sofa bed. I will be sure this sofa bed has no lumps. I will be sure this sofa bed is on a level surface. I will be sure this sofa bed fits two people. I will be sure this sofa bed’s mattress is thick enough that one, when horizontal, cannot feel the springs supporting it. I will be sure this sofa bed has a screech-free set up. I will be sure, above all, that this sofa bed is indeed a sofa bed, and not a sofa that looks like it ought to be a sofa bed but is not.
If I am ever grown up enough to have a kitchen I will be sure it has a coffee maker.
If I am ever grown up enough to have a shower, I will be sure that it has the ability to produce hot water over an extended period of time. Also, I now understand the importance of clean towels. I never knew what all the fuss was about before.
If I am ever grown up enough to live in a house, you can come stay with me. But I may have forgotten all the things I promised above. You can sleep on the loveseat, curled up cozy and tight like a cat. You can wash in my sink like a baby. And you can drink the beer in my fridge.
This is my solemn oath, should I ever grow up.

The gallery gallery gallery

katebarbaria — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 21:50:49 +0000

The gallery, gallery, gallery. Oh, no, the gallery’s not for me. Can you imagine?

I love the gallery—it makes me swoon, it bowls me over. I walk into the white-wash box and have this compulsion, this compulsion, you have to understand. I wanna lie on my back in the middle of the room, the beautifully burnished poured-cement floor, and have the paintings pour cups of chocolate milk secrets and lines into my mouth.

Did you know that chocolate milk is considered a “recovery drink”? Just like Gator-ade. And it is so delicious.

So, the gallery, no, it’s so square, you’re no matter what you do or how aware you are, just a crab in a shoebox. Skitter, skitter, skitter. So, no gallery, although I’d love to go and be fed, fill my belly with sins.

katebarbaria — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 21:18:21 +0000

I’ve always known that I was boring, which is why I smoke and criticize and in general follow the least-kind path through daily interactions. If you’ve got to make-believe, why not play the villain?

katebarbaria — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 04:17:31 +0000

My God! Help me to escape! I’m beginning to realize that the last year of my life I must have spent not hung over but stupendously drunk. It is a relief, almost. I want to drink more and to care less and to sleep deeply. I want to talk with enthusiasm and to love wholly. Entirely, life is too cold and boring and unfair for the expectation to be sober human interaction. My back hurts like hell and my head hurts worse. Where, oh where, are the drinks and the drugs?

Good God! All of these kids, they trundle along, topped off and wrapped up in scarves and thickly-soled booties. I’m worried; I’m wrapped up tighter and brighter than them.

katebarbaria — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 04:19:01 +0000

“I scarcely believe in my own existence, most days,” she replied. “I mean, what could be sillier than a soul trapped in a marginally locomotive sack of meat?

Bravery, or selflessness, I guess.”

Summer, 2009 con’t

katebarbaria — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 20:42:34 +0000

Summer, 2009 con’t

katebarbaria — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 08:15:34 +0000

Summer, 2009 con’t

katebarbaria — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 16:18:19 +0000

Summer, 2009

katebarbaria — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 20:47:32 +0000