Wednesday, December 7, 2011

jambo jambo means hello

Came home tonight after eight hours of writing a thesis about ancient Greece's warp-weighted looms to find that two packages had arrived: Zinka colored sunscreen and a pair of antique Zulu horse-hair bicep bracelets. Z, Z, Z. After staring at a computer screen all day talking about flax and pottery shards, Penelope and Arachne, blah-blah-blah, naturally the first thing a girl does is get her face-paint skills on and have a solo dance session. And photograph it by herself. 

I apparently have only two photograph-faces.

I wish that dressing this way were socially acceptable, or at least wouldn't be questioned or stared at. If I could wear facepaint and dress myself in foliage/found things/weird fur and hair/etc. daily I'd feel much more at ease. I'm a very shy person so normally in public I opt for less-obtrusive choices, even though paradoxically I feel less comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt than, say, in old musty-smelling African dance bracelets. I don't want to send the message that I want attention. I just want to do what I want to do and have it be accepted, not seen as radical or strange or a cry for validation.

I find myself wishing for the one thousandthmillionth time that Thomas were still alive. He's the one playmate I've had that would not only not think it was weird that I: A) bought these objects, B) put them on at two in the morning, and C) documented it, but would think it was fun and wonderful and would definitely participate. Seriously, fuck life. It's got really sharp angles. 

I hate the fact that I'm already older than he'll ever be, and that that fault line is just gonna become a terrible time-chasm that keeps getting bigger and bigger and taking me further away from him every day.

Take it easy, fellow dreamers. 

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