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.