Cliché’ that you love me.

I couldn’t sleep wondering if you were going to come into my room. Now, I couldn’t sleep knowing that you weren’t.

It was 6:17 am. Truth is, I couldn’t sleep before I had the opportunity to wonder about you. I hadn’t slept all night. Anxiety. World-induced anxiety. Love of the Earth we’re bending over a barrel, love of my connection to it, love of you and your issues (equal to mine), love of my lifestyle, love, love, love which is alchemized by my backward brain- and magically turned into ANXIETY. I was naked on a bean-bag in my living room, having migrated there from my bed, which was, apparently, soaked with scary, metaphysical, intangible, voodoo juice. Juice that caused very heinous and terrible dreams. That or I was just afraid to be alone. I mean…like…in all of life.
Afraid to be alone?

I prefer to believe someone slipped PCP into my tea.

Hours before, as soon as I’d retired to my bedroom, my heart began to pound and race and kick me in the ribs while I attempted to sleep. It shot skeet and played Bacci ball with my guts. When I did sleep, I woke up every twenty minutes, sweating, disoriented, and fucking terrified of whatever had just happened during the most recent twisted and fucked chunk of slumberous hallucination. These dreams seemed real. More real than being awake. By nature, they themselves did not have terrifying content, but produced terrifying sensations in my body…or lack thereof. Sometimes I wasn’t in it and woke up that way- only to be sucked back into the flesh by pulsing dread and panic.

I texted you a few minutes before I knew your alarm was set to go off. I’m not so big a douche that I would try to wake you up before that. Across the hall, every weekday at 5:30 in the morning, you lurch out of bed, smash your FM radio, pull on your Carharts, and go to work. Tonight, it was oddly painful to be awake while I knew this was going on. All of the night I’d thought that if I could just be next to your long, sleeping body as it rested at solar temperatures, if I could just be crushed by your violent, indifferent, limb-thrashing in the middle of the night, if you could just rest your elbow on my face while you slept, if I could JUST hear the muted sounds of ear-plug-impeded snoring…I would be able to sleep and to not be scared. Scared of every bump and creak in my fucking bigmouthed apartment. I could feel safe and not think about anxious things. But I didn’t want to be a bother or a typical broad…so I could not test my theory.

Finally awake, you texted me back expressing concern that I hadn’t slept. I waited and paced and ate a billion pieces of Ezekiel toast (in an attempt to put myself in a bread coma), jumping even higher at every could-be-you noise. I stared, burnt toast in hand, into the black hallway at the other side of my black living room. The deck door was open. Would you walk through it? Would you sneak in to say goodbye and squeeze the hamstery, nervous life out of me? Would you think I’m being stupid and dramatic? Should I put on pants? I heard the front door of your apartment open and shut, followed by the sound of booted feet jogging down the stairs.

I couldn’t sleep wondering if you were going to come into my room. Now, I couldn’t sleep knowing that you weren’t.



The past few weeks have been interesting. I went to California, Miami, and was, for the most part, quite social. I’ll be writing about those things soon…I may even have something interesting to say. At the very least there’s a picture of me with a spear through my face. Stand by for that.

The outside of me has been partying and indulging and gardening and living the fucking Good Life. Because that’s what I do, I live the Good Life. When people talk about “The Good Life”, they’re talking about one that looks and feels like mine. And I love it, it’s not wasted on me, by any stretch of the imagination. However, when I decided to start living this particular version of Good Life, I had a set of beliefs about myself that I held on to like grim death. I don’t really want to get into it but I will say that it involved an element of immodesty and another of wealth…and one of, uh, nonattachment.



-These were my balls. Once, they hung from my truck. Recently, someone stole them off my tow hitch. Cosmic Symbolism?

I’m OBVIOUSLY not trying to sound deep and intellectual here- so bear with me; essentially, all I think about is dimensional and collective-conscious shifts, The Mayans, Jesus, my Higher-Self…and sour candies. Sour candies have become representative of my thoughts about love relationships. Mostly because, well, I have an uncontrollable taste for them-I’m a sour candy connoisseur…a certain person has noticed this and taken the appropriate action. By that I mean he keeps a bag of them in the cabinet next to his cat treats. When I am there, I get to eat them. Chelsy treats. So. It’s Pavlovian. Sour Candy equals boy. I’m doing phenomenal things for the women’s movement here, aren’t I?

Anyway, It seems silly in comparison right? PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWER! Itty, bitty sour candies. I’ll give a dollar to anyone who gets that reference. I’ll give you another dollar if you tell me in private so that I may be spared from embarrassment. What I’m saying is that there is a fucking huge battle going on in my universe. It’s a battle between the little things, which I’ve always loved-including some new little things which I never believed I wanted (like love and a life-partner, and someone to help me grow my tomatoes, blah, blah)-and the eternal ebb and flow of life energy. A battle of The possibilities of a future “Apocalypse” Vs. the possibilities of a future baby daddy. My spiritual evolution and hand in the shift of human existence, the coming changes to our earth and galaxy, a undeniable pull towards my purpose as one of God’s warriors… Vs. dinner and a movie!

Mad Max Vs. SnuggleRabbit!



-Rabbits!

Additionally, there is a sub-battle. On the sidelines, my wildly independent, Anais Nin/MacGyver-on-various opiates-and-whole-foods Good Life is in a bitch fight with my Nancy Drew/June Cleaver-breakfast cooking -“what do you think about this, honey?” Good Life. I know, you’d think to put your money on Anais, but truth be told, Nancy and June carry brass knuckles and mace, respectively. They also Ball-punch.





I’ve started taking more “artisting” and experimental photos lately…none of which you see here. Next time. I’m taking 2 Polaroid cameras to Peru along with some slide film. I’ve cut my teeth by just taking pictures of…well…fucking everything, so now I will start getting cozy…deliberate…weird. Hopefully everyone will be uncomfortable.

There are ass loads of things going on right now. For instance…I left for Peru 5 days ago. I’m went to the Amazon to have my brain melted. But it’s OK because a Shaman is doing it. Yep. Because of this, I’m not going to blog the rest of everything, I’m just going to post these photos with brief descriptions of what the hell is going on in them. Can’t you see how deep and intellectual I am?





The following pictures are from Freakeasy. A fucking amazing monthly party full of burners and nerds and people that like to hug and be hugged by non-lecherous strangers. Most of these pictures were taken with the point-and-wave-your-disposable-camera-around-in-the-air method.







Yes, that is a see-saw.



Aw.



And they serve hot snacks for everyone.





More Aw.



If you haven’t been. You ought to go. But only if you’re awesome…and can do the hugging thing.

The next set is…um…from a 40’s party we went to at Danny’s. That fedora was not originally a part of my outfit, OK? I fucking swear. It belongs to the pin-stripey fellow. Seriously. I wouldn’t do that.











…Aaaand I’m drunk.

Pictures of my gardening efforts. I talk about this shit like it’s my kid or dog or some other thing that no one else cares about but me. Get used to it.



This is a photo of the dirt I picked out of my nails that day. For real.



A very shitty picture of the beginnings of the deck garden. They get better.



The back of my truck at any given moment.

Here is some random shit that sums up many aver
age days in my life:







That is not my Cubs blanket.



It’s a popular bag.







I’m vomiting.



More vomiting.



Carharts.

the story of my year begins

This is, apparently, the way the story of my year begins.

"All electronic devices need to be turned off, Ma'am". The flight attendrix had paused at my seat to look at me with eyes that said gently: "I know you heard the announcement, you horrible time-wasting douche".

"Oh, it's film, it's OK" I said smiling, and, to illustrate my camera's benign nature, I decided to wave the little point-and-shoot Olympus around in the air in front of me like it was a glowstick and I was at a rave exclusively for sufferer's of Parkinson's disease.

There was a long moment of silence as the lovely, blond, pucker-lipped stewardess stared at me blankly.

"what?" said she.

"film!" I answered, thrusting my StylusEpic at her, "you know, film. This has batteries...well, I mean, ugh, it's not electronic so..." More camera jiggling. I noted that her mouth looked very akin to a dog's asshole.






She waited there, watching me. She processed what I was trying to tell her for about 7 seconds, holding her hands in front of her in resemblance of a posing Easter bunny. Her hips turned towards the pilot cabin, as she was ready to walk away.

"Please turn of and stow all electronic devices, OK, ma'am?" She said finally, nodded in agreement with herself, then squeezed the last dagger from her eye and walked away, silently cursing me for saying a bunch of crazy shit to her. I cradled my camera in my lap dejectedly. I couldn't really turn it "off" aside from closing the slidey door..."click". Sad face.

The woman sharing my row with me was about an billion years old. Probably the sweetest woman that ever lived, also. As we waited to take off, I stared, creepily, at her ancient, bony fingers which were...beautiful. Beautiful and knarled and bent into a million angles and shapes pointing every which way...ways hands aren't supposed to point. Not even when they're pointing. Spiderwebs of veins and wrinkled gloved her skin. At the tips of her weird, pointy door handle fingers were layers of perfectly administered sparkly pink nail polish. She clutched a book, which fit into her knobby joints like a lego piece, and stared out the window into the sun.

I was fucking dying to take a picture of her. I imagined very obviously leaning in-unnecessarily close-asking her to hold still, and photographing her without explanation or consent. Then grinning like a psychopath. I imagined it not ending well. I looked around for the evil blond flight lady.

Instead of doing it, though, I kept staring. Wondering how something that was, for all intents and purposes, "ugly" could be so effing phenomenal to look at. I didn't want her hands for my own, but they were incredible and I knew...I would, eventually have them regardless of all my ridiculous moisturizing regimens. Blast.

For the most part, the Western world thinks of beauty as something you fuck. I mean, people see something attractive, they want to fuck it, and that's beauty- I realize I'm not saying anything profound right now, just so you know-Even if it's a house or a city or shoes... or your friend's dad...or for some people it's high-school students or stuffed animals or a giant pile of snow-white cocaine. Beauty measured by how much you want to have penetrative intercourse (spiritually, metaphorically, or physically) tends to be the way the world operates. There's always an exception, of course, I'm being general, obviously, but...yeah. If it gives you a boner, it's beautiful. If it doesn't, then it's probably a trailer home or Philadelphia or a pair of Crocs...or a Republican politician. Get what I'm sayin? You know? Ugly stuff doesn't make you want to look at it?

Anyway...

This old lady was almost a potato. A shriveled little Q-tip with pink nail polish on her rotten-apple-doll hands and she was beautiful. I did not want to fuck her. So...? Why was I getting all misty over the way she was holding her fucking Jodi Picoult book? What is so BEAUTIFUL about this? Why can't I take a picture of that? What would I say? I'm going to tell her that her hands are beautiful? That I'd like to share them with the world via the internet? Yep. Yep. All of that would be soooo normal and non-scary for this visor-wearing elderly person.


Exploding Pinata Head. I get exploding pinata head on airplanes almost every time. I get off on it though, it's like mainlining epiphany. instead of waiting for the sky to open up (like writers always say it does) and shitting inspiration on to me while I have my feet firmly planted on the ground- I get in a plane and bash myself into god-and everything he wants to tell me- with a Boeing 737. I'm impatient, what can I say. I also like the drink tickets Southwest gives me. During the flight I have nowhere to run, nothing to distract myself from all the answers I already have but won't listen to, and so they blitzkrieg my brains after take-off. I figure it all out in the sky. When I land I remember....very little. Somehow though it's purgative.

When I de-planed I stopped and freshened myself up in the head. Made sure I looked professional but also "beautiful". I walked out of the baggage claim area and into the familiar black Audi. The driver nodded at me from next to his cell-phone, smiled, and kept on with his conversation. For the entire 45 minute drive. I smiled and smiled...and smiled...I waited with very obvious patience. I schmoozed without even freaking saying anything. I tended to my cleavage and lip gloss. I suddenly felt incredibly empathic towards the live accessories of people like Paris Hilton. You know, those little fucking dogs. All cute and bejeweled and part of the superstar "look", riding around in cars and armpits, just being a dog-in-a-bag. Not being expected to actually behave like a real dog at all. I recalled that on the plane I'd told myself that I'd better get my book published immediately.

So my whole point is that I'm starting a new project. It's called Chelsy365 and pretty much I'll be acting like a real dog, uncensored, in full view of the public. Yeah. Well, sometimes I'll still be a dog-in-a-bag- it's a part of who I am. I'm to take pictures of everything all the time, even the ugly, un-fuckable parts, using various (some vintage) film cameras, for an entire year. No digital. Over the course of the year (probably every week) I'll be posting them online-flickr, facebook, and the coming website- along with blogs. Probably scattered, vague, emo blogs like these, so I apologize in advance.

Hey! There was a time when a lot of people read my livejournal! I swear! So suck it!

I just put up the first day of shooting- when my good friend Mike Raso (The guy who's brainchild this is) came to Chicago to show me all my new toys and get everything started. We went to the Bean and ate popcorn before picking up Tia and trying to get Tetanus under some train tracks.

Just so you can rest easy- the people having sex under the Metra are using condoms. There is physical evidence of this.

I've been shooting all over the place since then...much to everyone's discomfort. Sometimes I'm even nude. You know I can't resist taking pictures of myself. I mean, seriously, you know. You've all seen it. Some of you for, like, years. I won't be able to post the crazier, naked-type shit on facebook so keep an eye on flickr. Well, I'll be all in your face about it anyway.


It's late I'm going to bed now. Once I clear all these freaking spring cleaning boxes off it. Shizzzz.