Dare to Dumpster Dive

Opps. I did it again. I fell in a dumpster and came out with a bunch of badass shit. Here are just a few of the examples. My ugly red floral shirt that I transformed into a cute strapless dress, a new skirt and of course this rockstar jumper dress that I can barely move it, but makes me feel moviestar chic...
so there you have it kids, 3 of many amazing finds. Stay tuned to see more. When I say stay tuned I mean hang out with me some day and I'll probably be wearing one of the other items. It's alleycat fashion and it's FREE. Besides the whole washing and drying expense.

Another day another dumpster. (techinically found in a box of clothing outside a dumpster, but techinicality is not an issue here).

Perhaps some day I'll tell you all my semi-profession dumpster diving secrets, but not until I leave the beauty that is wasteful-captialist Chicago.

Reality Could Just be a Dream

The other night Ryan and I basically had the same dream around the same time. This has never happened to me and another person before. The dream was not a pleasant dream in fact some may consider it a nightmare. As I was sleeping I thought that I had woken up; right beside the bed was a white man with a brown beard, in a top hat, wearing a suit, holding a knife, getting ready to stab me. It’s been two days and I can’t get the vision out of my head.

As I woke up from the bad dream and turned toward Ryan so he could “protect me” he produced the stereotypical nightmare scream, the one that’s short and breathy that occurs as your brain is jumping back into reality. My first reaction was to laugh because he sounded like a little girl, but then I was like, shit, he was having a nightmare too. In the morning, he told me about it and curiously enough it was basically the same. The major differences were that he couldn’t make out the figure like I could and he didn’t see a particular weapon but knew the dark body was there to cause harm.

Dream interpretation: someone is trying to kill our creative outlets.

Solution: double tabeo kick them in the head to get them to back off.

Homeless Hamperings

I have to be completely honest here. I may be the only one of this opinion, but I am offended and slightly perturbed at homeless men and their sexism. I don not understand why they are being picky about who they’re getting their money from, but they seem to not care to get it from women. For example, every time I am walking with Ryan down any street in the city these are the three sentences we hear from homeless men:

1) Sir, can you spare some change.

2) Excuse me, sir, change?

2) Change, sir?

It makes no difference what side I am to Ryan or whether he is ahead of behind me. Homeless men assume that women have no extra money to throw away. I don’t know how to take this. In one way it makes me think that they’re just trying to be respectful, but in another way I assume they think of me lower than men and incapable of making my own money and deciding on my own free will what I want to do with it. I know these men have a strategy surrounding where they locate themselves and who they target, but does it hurt to ask everyone all they’re going to do is deny or hand something over.

I know it’s heartless and probably a bit egotistical for me to be offended by homeless men, but they’re the ones sitting around on every street I walk by reinforcing the patriarchy and the system that helped get them there in the first place.

Thoughts about Virginity Loss (Stage Virginity that is)

Last night I realized what has been missing since I moved to Chicago. A stage. All week I wasn’t sure if I could get back on there again. I heard somewhere that your body changes about every 7 years, and I though perhaps it had altered already and all my confidence and rock energy had disappeared. But, no. It was just bottled up ready to escape from my inner being and greet the world with entertaining vibes.

It was actually rather comfortable up there and we had a nice crowd of beautifully loud lively people to help cheer us through. The whole band did amazing and I am hoping they all got that shot of stage adrenaline to want to keep going (because I did). I think we may have all forgot what it was like; Ryan and I had been away for 2 years, Michael 7 and Timmy 11, but it really didn’t feel that way at all. We were right where we needed to be.

Thanks everyone for the support.

We’ll let you know as soon as we do when our next adventure will be.

For now feel free to buy our album off iTunes,

http://Kunaki.com/Sales.asp?PID=PX00ZY9SBP

Or find me live and I will hook you up with one.

Peace and Elbow Grease. Krystal

Pervertable Tongues and my Virginity

Tomorrow night the band I am in, Pervertable Tongues, will perform its first show.

We’re losing our virginity and we’re giving it away to anyone who comes to Reggies Music Joint to check us out.

I’m also losing my Chicago performance virginity. Since I moved from Kansas I haven’t been on stage for 2 years. It’s been weird. Like when I go to other people’s shows and I’m stuck getting stepped on by the crowd, I think, we’ll if I were up there, I wouldn’t be getting squashed down here and it makes me want it more.

I still don’t know what to wear. I don’t know the type of image I should be portraying. And I should probably either make it a priority or not care about it all.

Being a rock-star isn’t easy. And I am aware our music collaborates more than rock and I am far from being a star, but I have to have the confident rock-star mentality if I am going to make it anywhere in this capitalist city.

People keep asking me if I’m nervous. So many people have asked me if I am nervous that now I’m fucking nervous. I may even poop my pants because of this. And I know I should just go out there and have a good time, have fun with it, make my feminist post-modern rants and dance around on stage, but then I start over-analyzing. Which is why I’m sure most graduate students don’t perform much. I will have to stop thinking and just be with the music, the vibe, the energy of the room.

Which I hope is room-full and everyone is drunk. Not just so they like the music better, but so we make more money because when it comes to capitalism that’s what we need as musicians to keep playing. Money. And I want to keep playing. And playing. Until I have played in every state (which I can sing in alphabetic order if need be) and many countries. So I can not only see the world and meet amazing people, but so I can give something magical and thought-provoking back to the world and the amazing people that exist here. A beautiful artistic cycle.

Anyhoo. That’s what’s going down tomorrow.

Pervertable Tongues.

Live for the First Time.

Cherry Popping in Chicago.

Reggies Music Joint

2105 S. State Street

9 p.m.

Remember it’s FREE

Also with Lasco Stroud

and Les Juges

Take a listen at www.mypsace.com/pervertabletongues

Buy Album: http://Kunaki.com/Sales.asp?PID=PX00ZY9SBP

The Art of Productivity...

Every night before I go to sleep I tell myself that I am going to be productive the next day. I am actually going to use the hours that tick around the clock wisely and accomplish something grand. I make lists. Long lists. Lists that detail every thing I will do the next day and how long I will spend on said items. When I get up in the morning. Two hours after I told myself I was going to wake up. I look at the list and realize that there is no possible way I’m going to get all that shit done. So I pick and choose and usually end up doing about three things, eating breakfast, watching a Netflix movie and checking my email. If I’m not even going to get to the shower how am I going to get to the part where I am supposed to write for 2 hours on my book idea that’s slowly never getting finished? And what happens to all those hours that seem to disappear from the day without me even going through them—it’s like they never existed.

And I feel so guilty. Because I have all this time and because I have no “job” and because I sort of, well completely love not having a “job” and yet I feel all this pressure to find some stupid paying schedule that tortures my soul because everyone else has to do it and so should I. But why? I know what I don’t want to do and that is conform to capitalism. I don’t have a problem with hard work or even daily work, but I do have a problem with useless time consuming creativity sucking bullshit cubicles and CEO robot soul eating money grubbing power hungry lickshits.

People ask me what I want to do when I get done working on my Masters. As if I will and can only do one thing. I tell them I want to write. As if I can’t do it now. Although I can, but I rarely do because, perhaps, I am scared of success. Or failure. Or a mixture of those.

And every piece of advice I have read about successful writers consists of them mentioning that they treat it like a job, they make it a routine, and FORCE themselves to do it. I don’t want to capitalize my creativity.

Maybe I don’t possess as much sadomasochistic instincts as these people because I can not force myself into creativity or squeeze out words when they aren’t ready.

Oh, but there are techniques. The old, sit in front of the computer and write about nothing for 15 minutes trick, which gets me to write about nothing for 15 minutes and then think wow that really worked I wrote something today…and then I go watch t.v. or drink a glass of wine to celebrate.

Why all this guilt about lack of productivity. Is it innate? Is it socialized? Have I just had too much caffeine? I can’t afford chill pills, not having a job and all. So why all this anxiety? Can I blame the media—Oprah for having 5-year-old millionaires on her show or women who make billions selling muffins—it seems like a fair assumption. T.V. makes me feel inadequate. I can’t measure up to the successes of strangers. Do I need to? Can I be comfortable with the fact that I didn’t really accomplish anything of any value today, no novel got written, but I got the laundry done. No screenplay outlined, but I bought groceries. No new band songs, but I rocked out the old ones.

I guess it comes down to me writing lists.
I need to stop.

They make me feel depressed and unfulfilled if I don’t get to cross everything off by the end of the night. Then I lay in bed thinking about how the next day, I’m going to do better. I spend the whole night thinking about what I’m going to do the next day, I don’t sleep, then when I get out of bed I’m too tired to do all that I didn’t dream about.

And the cycle continues.
And the pages never turn.
And the lists keep piling up with the same goals.
And the night creeps back over.
And the pen slips out of ink.

Matter in the big K-A-N

What’s the matter with Kansas?

A book I didn’t read. But a question I can answer.

Kansas is the heart of the United States.

It provides nourishment. Wheat. Corn. Soy beans.

It possesses open spaces with the perfect opportunity to open one’s mind.

Yet. Americans treat their heart poorly.

Statistics that show heart disease as the leading cause of death. (Center of Disease Control and Prevention http://www.cdc.gov/heartDisease/statistics.htm)

Why do people treat Kansas like a state that is

worthless

unpumping

lifeless?

What a stab in the aorta.

How can anyone truly deny the beauty of a rolling countryside; bright green grass contrasting the big overly blue sky… single hay bails scattered about adding a glimmer of gold to the landscape. Cows, fur covered brown and black and white chomping on the earth, staring at humans funny when one walks by the other. Fences handmade and strong designed to protect who is inside more than who is out. Wildflowers and berries and whitetail deer and snapping turtles and copperheads and wandering stray cats that eat people’s scraps and gravel roads and lakes and ponds and fossils and humming birds and chirping birds and blue red and yellow birds. Broccoli trees and bright green leaves. Among other things.

And yet people claim there is nothing to see. Nothing to do in the entire sunflower state.

What’s the matter with Kansas?

The same thing that is wrong with most U.S. citizens. They don’t take care of themselves. Artery filled, over televised, brain washed, and bored.

Perhaps if people stepped out of their houses and took a look at what the world had to offer. Sat outside and absorbed some sun some blue blue sky or inhaled the stars late at night they’d see there is no matter with Kansas as much as there is matter in Kansas.

Vivid

Melodic

Serene

If it stops beating how could you go on?

What a bright Vulvalike Idea...

Just shining a little light on this vulvacentric fixture brightening up the Chicago streets, filling the city with a bit of womanly guidance.

The Art of the KAPOW!

Old School Batman just came on the TV. It makes me think how much more I would punch and kick people if magical onomatopoeia words popped into the air every time I did it.

“What? We’re out of ICE??””

BAM!!! right in Ryan’s ribcage.

“Excuse you, this isn’t England.”

KURPLUNK!!!

Right as I trip that asshole walking in my path.

WHACK!!!

SPLATT!!

As I kick Dominic’s down for over-charging me.

My uncle has a batmobile style car. If only he’d let me use it then I’d just need some latex and a few major villains to fight (when I’m not using my super power strength to cartoon chop my boyfriend and strangers on the street).

What happened to these awesome shows? Did we all just get burnt out on them?

They became super lame because the idea was overdone, but then they became classic when we realized what we were watching instead.

I say bring back the SLAMS!!! the ZAPS!!! and the BIFFS!!! It’s better than reality shows. I’d rather escape from “reality” for awhile if I’m watching t.v. anyway. And what better way then by pretending I’m a super hero.

I have the lame jokes and puns ready to spill out. Just give me a chance!

KAPOW!

Tiny Vulvas Taking Over

This Vulvacentric art wall is just a block or so from my apartment. Aren't all the vulva shaped tiles colorfully beautiful! Hurray for the small glitters in life.

Walking with the Angel of Death

I went on the strangest walk today. It was raining, not pouring down rain or sprinkling rain but regular rain rain so I brought an umbrella. Not my umbrella mind you, an umbrella I need to return to a friend but haven’t because I haven’t bought another one since mine died.

In any case I decided to go for a walk and return my Netflix movies all the way to the post office instead of just down the block. I thought it would be refreshing and help cure my hang-over since the dude leaf-blowing for three hours this morning didn’t really help (as if there are so many leaves in the middle of the summer, ass).

So, I’m walking in the regular rain, just a regular walk no one too irritating, no one from England etc. and I get to the post office and this woman is sitting in her car parked in front of those blue things that eat envelopes and she yells at me out her window. She asks if I mind letting one of those blue things eat her card she’s mailing and I oblige and put it in the blue thing’s mouth. She thanks me and I think I’m doing a good deed, helping someone out, but then my mind turns cynical and I think about how freaking lazy that woman was for not being able to get out of her own car and walk two steps, how she was probably sitting there waiting for the next innocent bystander to walk by so she wouldn’t have to. I sigh, and let it go and try to go back to my original thought about me doing a good deed, but it was nevertheless futile.

Then I start walking back towards my apartment and I hit a red hand in my face telling me not to cross the street so I wait. And as I wait this man strolls up beside me in a black cloak with the hood up. He has a big brown beard and big bushy brown hair (I imagine that’s what it looks like with the hood down anyway) and he’s wearing sandals and you can see that his toenails are too-many-cigarettes yellow and gnarled like the roots of a very old tree. The red hand turns into a white dude and allows us to cross. The hooded cloaked guy scurries along, walking way faster than me which is odd because generally I walk faster than everyone, but also odd because of the horror movie monster way he’s moving—as in it doesn’t look like he’s walking fast, but somehow he’s already a block ahead of me.

Right when I start thinking about him being the next Jesus another dark figure appears behind me, like the shadow of death. Then I start thinking how the black cloaked dude probably isn’t Jesus but is probably the Death Angel and the dark shadowed dude behind me is going to kill me and I’m going to die hung-over not wearing any underwear.

Then I understand why I don’t smoke weed. I am paranoid enough as it is.

The dark shadowed dude disappears along with the Angel of Death (obviously after someone else today and I just got in their path) and some old white dude yells at me across the street wanting directions. Which I then had to ridiculously yell back over the traffic. But I can put that down as two helpful deeds in one day, which means I don’t have to be helpful for at least another year (although I’m sure I will be just out of the goodness of my heart).

Yay to strange walks in the rain!

Jesus Died for Somebody's Sins...

I went to the beach today and the Lord sent me a message. As Patti Smith says, "Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine" he died so he could later be sun burnt onto my skin.

Anyone on ebay want to make a purchase???

The Art of Aloneness

In a book I am currently reading it mentions that “Long ago the word alone was treated as two words, all one. To be all one meant to be wholly one, to be in oneness either essentially or temporarily” (Women Who Run with the Wolves 293).

I think many people are fearful of being alone; the idea conjures up the negativity that is involved in aloneness, but being alone is not the same as being lonely. It is a positive place for solitude and for finding yourself again. Often times we become distracted, we forget who we are because we spend time outside ourselves either literally with other people or figuratively by turning on the t.v. or updating our facebook statuses etc.

The idea of being all one instead of "alone" makes me feel giddy inside; it makes me realize why I enjoy going for runs because in those moments I am getting back to myself, I am channeling my inner need for understanding and creativity. Being alone, especially in a city, has almost turned into a treat, but it needs to turn into a regularly scheduled event—it’s just as important as eating—in a way it’s feeding your soul. What can be more important then to be all one within yourself and the world?

I got you Catholics!

I knew it would be difficult, but I also knew it could be done. I found a vulvacentric image on a catholic church, in fact they were ALL over the church and all over other catholic churches around the city. Thus, though the Catholics are full of patriarchal phallocentric images they're not ALL about the cock. In a passive way they celebrate the beauty of the feminine as well. We just must look a little deeper to discover their appreciation.

A Run without an I-pod

I went to mail a few things today and decided to go on a walk, as I was walking I decided that I wanted to run. I don’t know why. I mean usually when I go for a run I plan it all out, but today it was sporadic and spontaneous and unfortunately I didn’t have my i-pod. “Gasp! You reply. How did you survive?” I managed, I tell you, but it wasn’t pretty.

Not for the fact that music gives me a beat and helps me keep rhythm, or for the fact that it makes me forget that I could be breathing freakishly loud or that my muscles are bitching at me for making them work. No, it wasn’t because of those things even though the i-pod does help with those issues. What the i-pod is best at and what I use it for is a blockade.

When I have my i-pod on I don’t have to listen to the hootananey, the catcalls, the constant judgment of my woman-ness. Unlike my friend Kelsi who enjoys the encouragement from strange creepy men; I am disturbed that they aren’t minding their own business. I run for many reasons and though I would like to say that I only do it to be healthy I can’t because it’s not true. I run to be healthy but I also run to gasp! look good. I look good when I feel good and I feel good after I run so the cycle works for me. The problem is, I’m not trying to look good when I’m running; I’m trying to run.

I was perfectly complimented the other day when walking down the street some asshole yelled “nice rack” out of his car window. I replied with a simple “thank you”. I don’t know why I was so calm and so un-offended, besides the fact that my rack did look nice then and perhaps I am aware that one day it may not. But when I am running, especially without an i-pod to keep my rhythm or prevent me from hearing myself breathe then it becomes problematic to have the dogs bark unsweet advances towards my ears.

Especially homeless old crackheads who have whole conversations with me without me saying a word, for example, “Hey sweetheart, what’s your name? My name’s Scotty. Howsabouts you gives me something and I’ll gives you something in return” or something like that I was trying to ignore him and pretend I didn’t hear or see him though that often times does not work and I have to restore to the glare—which I have to admit I am a professional glarer—known to scare the bejesus out of my own friends-- imagine what I do to strangers. So in any case, it brings me back to my original point, which is sporadic runnings should not occur unless an i-pod is near or you’re ready to tell some old farts to booger off.

Which makes me annoyed that men can’t keep their stupid ass opinions to themselves. I mean really. Do they think I’m going to stop running, take off all my clothes and do them right there? What the fuck. It ain’t ever gonna happen. And you can’t keep me down my hitting on me cause I’m just going to keep running and keep looking good whether you’re getting any or not. Because men, you’re lack of confidence in you own masculinity and your constant need to attempt to put women “in their place” is no longer going to work. Catcall all day. We’re still going to go out and play. And we’re still going to ignore you and glare at your insecurities. Word.

The Art of Chasing Waterfalls

I’ve went without internet for eight days and I survived. I know, many of you are thinking you couldn’t do it, but trust me you can and the break is totally worthwhile. My parents, Ryan and I traveled to the Pacific North West and road tripped around Oregon and the very northern portion of California; it was on this trip that I made a philosophical discovery about humanity. Perhaps an obvious one at that, but nothing that I had ever thought about that intently before.

From my analysis it seems that people framed by nature are more tuned into to their sensibility, spirituality and overall sympathy. When to the west is an endless sea with depth and discoveries yet to be made and to the east are massive momentous mountains that take miles and muscle to climb it’s hard to forget the value of life and the place humans stand in the world.

In cities almost everything is human-made which causes people to forget about all the wonder and mysticism that exists; people forget about the magic and beauty that has been created not by us but before us and forever after us. Perhaps it is why people around mountains and great sources of water are often times more conscious of their environment why they are healthier, veganier, greener than others—why the smile more and say good morning to strangers. In cities if you smile and say good morning the stranger will probably ask you for your change— we shouldn’t have to give away money just for being friendly, so people shrink away from each other in fear of connections or lack of connections.

The mountains and oceans and waterfalls help us to embrace the gentleness, the fierceness, the wildness of life. There is strength in the calm unmoving mass of the mountains. There is wonder and intrigue in the crashing waves against the jagged rocks of the sea. And there is humbleness standing underneath the great redwoods, knowing we can never get that tall, but we can forever embrace their tenacity, stubbornness and awesomeness and know that a part of nature will forever be in us.