The Love of a Person in Iron-Rich Surroundings

Today’s True History centers on the small, iron-rich town of Crawlton, LA. Nobody quite knows where the name came from, but some say it’s a Cajun term meaning “iron-rich, but otherwise without redeeming qualities.” Others just shake their heads and say, “you’re spelling it all wrong.” Who knows what the real answer is, and if it really matters? The gas station attendant can’t or won’t say.

The star-crossed lovers Jane Mersa and Alfrango Pepes could tell us a thing or two about love, if we cared to listen. Their love might tell of a high RBC count, and an allergy to scented soy candles. Or perhaps about the fickle hand of Aphrodite, trickster God of Northumbria.

Jane and Alfrango were born mere blocks from one another, in the Crawlton hospital, which was housed in two adjacent buildings. They grew up together, attended the same schools, and even lived in the same apartment building. But they never spoke, until one day at lunch when the Fates intervened. They were lunching at a local pasta manufacturing facility, each eating opposite ends of the same strand of spaghetti. As they chewed, by necessity they moved closer to one another. They moved so close that Alfrango had to get up and walk over to Jane’s table. Sadly, Alfrango was tripped and fell to the floor. He was knocked out.

To make a long story short, Al woke up in the hospital with no memory, many bandages, as well as a black eye. Jane came to visit, and to apologize for tripping him. They fell in love on the spot. And though Al could no longer speak English, and Jane was something of an adrenaline addict, they somehow made it work.

Some people say they moved to New York. Others say they live in that house over there. If we could talk to them, I wonder what they’d tell us? Would they call the cops, or just keep throwing things at us? We may never know. And might it be better if we don’t? Still, sometimes, in the Louisiana rain, the iron-rich ground tries to tell a story. A story about spaghetti, aphasia, and the enduring power of lunch.

Do not speak her name.

To hear people tell it, it all started with a woman named Rose Lasellvie. She lived in a bright yellow house on the edge of town, kept a neat and tidy garden, and cursed people for a living. People would go to her in secret, some say, and ask that their rivals be stricken with embarrassing body odors, chronically cold extremities, or crippling hair issues. Nobody ever admitted to doing this, but there was heavy suspicion and acute speculation.

Rose kept to herself, they say, and kept odd hours volunteering at the local library. People rarely saw her except in town, which piqued curiosity and suspicion.

After a particularly bad winter, during which many people developed cabbage-like odors, the townsfolk began to suspect that Rose was behind it. (Rose was not her given name, but the townsfolk feared speaking her name, as it was of Finnish origin and very difficult to pronounce.)

One cold, October night, the people of Iollinship witnessed an event like no other. Wearing only a gingham dress and a light summer hat, a group of cats drugged the Postmaster and forced him to bake fresh wheat bread “to attract pigeons, meow.” Though Rose was not anywhere near the event, her absence was clear, as was her habit of purchasing large amounts of fish.

Though we may never know what actually happened that night, the town of Iollinship remains, to this day, a bastion of controversy. Nobody will speak of it, and the Postmaster was found unharmed in his bed the next morning, and so no proof exists. But the people know that something happened, and isn’t that enough?

Philippe Petit, 1974.

An action of beauty and wit, explaining it is absurd. But humans desire explanations.

I did a series of B&W photographs in my junior year in art school. They were done with a bellows medium-format camera (basically macro photography with a very short depth of field). Only one small part was in focus, and the rest was a lovely, warping fuzz. I photographed everyday objects, concentrating on shape and light, rendering the objects unrecognizable. During the critique, many classmates were frustrated and wanted to know what the objects were. I refused to say, because if I did that, they would never be able to see them the right way again, without context. That was the whole point of the photos, anyway.

There’s beauty and freedom in suspending your reason. Silliness and random enthusiasm are baffling to many, but are gratifying ends in themselves. Here’s to no why.

“If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know.” – Louis Armstrong

“One must not wish first to understand and then to feel. Art does not tolerate Reason.” – Albert Camus

On a recent outing to a local shop, I was lucky enough to see the reclusive and hard-to-spot microsaur, specifically a demibrontosaur. The demibronto lives wherever it fits. You may see it in a child’s sneaker, a fish tank, or hiding in the grass near a bus stop.

The demibrontosaur inhabits nooks and display cases.

And now I’m back in an office job. How did this happen? I grew frustrated with the art department’s philosophy, the emphasis on solipsism and narrative. My projects were often deemed “too subtle,” which was both frustrating and very funny. The concepts were not subtle, but the presentation required viewer participation. Subtle? Sure. But fun. Memory, time, light, etcetera. And the absurdity of art.

Things happened, I got divorced, left Denver, and returned to Seattle. Finished my degree here, in French (hard to transfer for the final year of study on a BFA).

And: job.

2002, Untitled Screenprint (the Dream of Flight)

Humans are very easy to trap.

Need: housing, health care, food, clothing, basics.

Your time and labor can be exchanged for money.

This can cause fatigue of the body and mind, which makes alternatives seem infeasible.

It’s a simple thing, and subtle. At some point, you realize you’ve been working in an office job for far too long. Images of metamorphoses and bank tellers, Brazil, and Being John Malkovich.

The dream of flight. Der Traum vom Fliegen. Try again.

A rough mix from the upcoming Mountain Kids Fantasy CD. Listen, and enjoy. Here is a picture for you to look at:

Painted by an audience member during the show.

Gromule: "Mobile Back Shoes"

I’m talking, of course, about Stallinger, OR, a place where nobody stood alone, but everyone sat together.

It all began with a desire to see the world from the perspective of a child. Inventor Raoul Gromule remembered the joy and curiosity he felt as a young man. He remembered being fascinated by the simplest of things: a grasshopper, a butterfly, a stone from a river, worn smooth by years of water. Working in an office, and feeling the daily crush of responsibility and uncertainty, he spent his lunch breaks conjuring new ideas and inventions to break the monotony and bring joy into his and others’ lives.

One day, after standing too long in line at the bank, his frustration drove him to go and sit on a rock that had been warmed by the sun. That would always be his eureka moment, he would later tell his wife, and anyone else who would listen. That was the moment he realized that sitting down was the key.

By sitting down, he reasoned, not only were his feet more comfortable, but his perspective was lower. This literally changed the way he looked at the world.

His early experiments were rough, and he designed what he called Decliners, or Mobile Back Shoes (pictured above). The only drawbacks with this design were the need for someone to push the other person, not to mention the amount of dirty laundry it produced. Being of a kind and generous nature, he wanted all to be able to enjoy sitting equally, so any device that required a standing assistant was not to his liking.

"Being taller, that's the way."

Like every great mind, he had his share of critics. The kid down the block, Bernie Oldschul, insisted that he was wrong, and that being higher up was the key to happiness. Bernie, pictured at left, climbed trees, stood on the tops of cars, and wore his mother’s high heels in secret, all in an effort to be taller, which seemed to make him happy, bless his little heart.

Perhaps they were both right. Perhaps a combination of sitting and standing, shortening and heightening, maybe that’s the real truth, a truth we may never know.

Raoul retired early, at 44 years old, after inventing a new kind of toilet seat.  Bernie hit his growth spurt at 16 and moved to New York, where he pursued a career on the stage as a female impersonator. Both men, so different, and yet so alike, contributed in their unique ways to the thread that makes up the fabric of this great nation of ours. Who knows, maybe one day we’ll all have the option to sit or stand as we please? One thing is certain. While we may sit down some of the time, we sometimes fly in our dreams. And in airplanes.

Bergton: a town named for a Berg somewhere, Anyplace, USA. Or, the perfect location for a quiet invasion on US soil. An invasion by…babies. Regular readers will note that we at Why Is a Mouse When It Spins have focused several times on what is known as the “tiny menace.” They are cute, sure, but that is what makes them the very best spies, the most deadly of enemies, and the most horrifying of threats to our way of life.

If we look back, the creeping, crawling invasion is easy to track. The post-war baby boom was the perfect cover under which to launch this infiltration on our great nation. Recent studies have shown that over 45.2% of all US babies born in 1947 were, in fact, spies. The photo at left shows one such baby, put under house arrest for subversive activities.

Sadly, nothing can be done about those spy babies born in earlier, more innocent times. But today, researchers and defense contractors alike strongly advise new parents to watch their children closely for any of the following: signs of communist sympathizing, including willingness to share toys; odd use of language (so-called baby talk may actually be coded reports); or “playing” with satellite technology to contact the Motherland.

It is up to us, the post 9/11 generation, to watch the babies as closely as possible. Watch them. Just look at them. LOOK at them. Only together, standing strong,  can we guard against the toddling menace that waits to, first, learn to speak, then, to walk, then one day, to take over our very world.

In the mean time, I would like to share with you a newish song of which I am rather proud. Listen, and turn it up, for Pete’s sake.

Strike Two Stones

And here is a photo for your enjoyment:

Giants built this field

To hear people tell it, it’s a small world. But one day in April, the world got a little smaller, when something large came to play.

At left is the only extant photo of the incident. The only thing that is certain is that, at least for a moment, there was a very large baby. One might call it a Bigaby, or a Giainfant. Whatever you call it, it’s huge. The small trees in the background attest to this.

How big, you ask? Very. Very, very big.