In case you think we're lying...

Here is a lovely and wonderful article Ruthie Kott from the Red Eye in Chicago wrote about our show:

http://neighborhoods.redeyechicago.com/bucktown-wicker-park/art-scene/2011/07/12/uncensored-art-takes-over-happy-dog-gallery/

Also, here is a study I read that pissed me off (as per my dialogue in above article):


http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1339273/Half-dont-want-ex-addicts-door-Junkie-stigma-ruining-lives-says-report.html

See?

Abra Does Something Stunningly Unusual

Although I almost never post original writing on the internet (it's generally off-limits to publishers if pre-"published"), this is the writing I composed for This Things I Believe.  But still...

I am tired and hate all of you.

 

Sec. 12101. Findings

The Congress finds that:

Physical or mental disabilities in no way diminish a person’s right to fully participate in all aspects of society, yet many people with physical or mental disabilities have been precluded from doing so because of discrimination.  Discrimination includes outright intentional exclusion, exclusionary qualification standards and criteria, and relegation to lesser services, programs and activities

***

3:00p.m.

I fell asleep at 12:00p.m. and I wake  up at 3:00p.m.  This equates to approximately 2 REM cycles, altered due to flipping on stomach; also, reaching down to drink seltzer.  Physicians recommend 7-8 hours of sleep per night but I am resetting my circadian rhythm.  My “sleep hygiene” is poor.”

4:00p.m.

I smoke in bed.  This is a fire hazard, but I’m pretty careful with it.  Cigarettes are regulated before I go to sleep.  Never has there been an occasion when I woke to no cigarettes.  I have to get out of bed, now.  Oh God, I think.

5:00p.m.

I has a job at a warehouse.  I got fired (for obvious reasons).  I make coffee at the hour when I used to get off work.  At the warehouse, I liked to stand in front of door, hoping someone would open them and hit me.  I asked co-workers to cough on me. 

6:00p.m.

I take a pill that dissolves under my tongue.  Then, I smoke another cigarette.  Then, I drink some coffee.  This should wake me up and                                             

(another trick you can use if you need to stay awake and you don’t want to do any blow is to soak your face and hair in ice cold water and rub it on our arms and keep putting handfuls over your face and hair and get your clothes wet and then you go sit in front of a fan)

then, I take another pill.

7:00p.m.

I am in the shower because I want to feel productive and I only feel productive if I convince myself I’m going somewhere.  There is a sliver of soap left.  There is also a full, unwrapped.  It’s important to conserve resources, but fuck it, I use the new soap.  I live a reckless, carefree lifestyle.

[something terrible happened, in between taking the pills i decided it was a good idea to look at these stupid letter my shitface ex-boyfriend sent me, because i thought they’d look good scanned and projected on the wall, and i got dust on my face and sometimes the pills make me itch and now i’m scratching my face for no reason but my friends are gonna come over and they’ll assume…of course…]

8:00p.m.

I buy more cigarettes.  Sometimes, I wonder if a fancy person, a fur-coated woman, would see me buying cigarettes with cash, then putting granola bars and juice on my link card and think something was really wrong with the welfare system and I’d be like, lady, you have no idea.

                                                                        9:00p.m.

I have wanted a black dress for a while now.  Since my lifestyle is impulsive and spontaneous, I decide I will buy a black dress.  The fabric will be of the draping, silk chiffon variety that flatters a slim figure.  I lost a lot of weight

(you can lose weight for reasons other than substance abuse, like maybe you’re trying to eat more fiber and less dairy or maybe you are taking more vitamins and the overhaul of thiamin is flushing the hell out of your system or maybe you just don’t feel like eating, all the time, ever)

which is a little known side effect of sleep deprivation. 

10:00p.m.

I got a dress of the clinging, fabric variety. 

[something terrible happened, i bumped into a rack when i was buying a dress, I’m serious, I didn’t make this up, it sounds like an excuse, poked myself in the bicep, and the doctor’s gonna think it’s a needle mark]

Now, I’m trying it on with assorted accessories.

 

11:00p.m.

I need a job.  Of course, I require certain accommodations:

                                   

- I cannot work before 3:00p.m.

                                                            (until I fix my circadian rhythm)

- I cannot work in an environment with scheduled lunch periods.

                                    - I cannot work with the door unlocked. 

                                    - I cannot work with other people.

                                                            (yes, Marc, you were right)

                                    - Wheelchair access.

Finding a job is hard and I hate it.  I will not work in an office environment, because I sweat too heavy.  A warehouse is out of the question, due to unwavering PTSD and my feet hurt.  My resume is chock full of lies.

12:00a.m.

I never found a job.  But I considered career options for a while.  Medical transcriptionist (too many terms, bad memory), professional taste tester (vegetarian, not hungry), and then filled out a bunch of questionnaires for paid research studies. 

I feel that I’ve let everyone down.                 ☐        ☐        ☐    ☐   

My relationships have been stormy.                ☐        ☐        ☐    ☐

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be happy.       ☐        ☐        ☐    ☐   

I’m considering suicide.                                  ☐        ☐        ☐    ☐   

My favorite poet is Raymond Kertezc.          ☐        ☐        ☐    ☐   

I will be contacted by email or phone if I am eligible.  Since I never ate today, I drink juice.

1:00a.m.

I am so tired.

2:00a.m.

I call a bunch of people.

I call some people in LA because I want to tell them how much I hate everyone in Chicago.

I call people in Chicago, to talk about how much I hate other people in Chicago. 

I call the people I was gonna say I hated and maybe make small talk. 

Pick up your fucking phone.  It’s not that late.  I hate all of you.

3:00a.m.

I hate when I say that I’m tired and the next response is, “get some sleep.”  And when I ask, “do I look bad,” and the answer is, “you look tired.”

[something terrible is happening, i haven’t slept more than five hours in three days, my eyes are read, my words are slurred and i cough a lot, and i sometimes walk into things when this happens, and i have to hide out in my room, because i live with other people]

I hate when people complain about being tired.  Because I want to live up to my irresponsible, irrational attitude, I take the trash out.

4:00a.m.

I buy another pack of cigarettes.

5:00a.m.

I don’t know what I feel like doing.  I arrange my closet and decide to bleach some stuff.  There are some coffee stains on my white t-shirts and what if I just go ahead and splatter bleach on some dark stuff, or make interesting patterns by dipping a q-tip in bleach and using it to paint shit on my jeans?  It’s like

(contrary to popular opinion, suddenly having a lot of energy is not necessarily indicative of “uppers” and wanting to sleep 18 hours straight is not a “downers” thing, sometimes you feel that way and why aren’t you normal because everyone else does it and it should mean nothing, but because it’s you, it doesn’t work like that)

having a new wardrobe!  That no one will see!

6:00a.m.

I remember all I had was juice, today.  I need a sleeping pill.  After my sleeping pill, I can have bread, mustard and cheese but that’s all because I want my fabrics to cling and drape in the future.  So, sleeping pill, sandwich, sleep.

7:00a.m.

I am so, so fucking tired.

8:00a.m.

Still, no sleep.

***

Sec. 12102. Definition of disability

The term "disability" means, with respect to an individual:

(A) a physical or mental impairment that substantially limits one or more major life activities of such individual;

(B) a record of such an impairment; or

(C) being regarded as having such an impairment

no-wave pianika

From the ages of 4 to 17, I was a classically trained pianist.  My parents made me do it because all the other Chinese kids were.  Practicing piano was a daily form of torture that resulted in tears and screaming fights with my mom.  Recitals were all about making my parents look good, and if I messed up even a little, I was sure to hear about it afterwards.  So when you come see me play the pianika at the Happy Dog Gallery next Saturday, please know that I have not practiced at all, and am well aware that I'm making an ass out of myself.  You've been warned.

-Randi Black.

Oh, yeah, my novel, Miss World, rules.  

A commercial break.

To all the smug, self-righteous people (okay, mostly white boys) in the Fall 2007 Journals, Letters & Marginalia class who told me not to use the word RAPE in the piece I workshopped:

RAPE.

And by the way, RAPE.

What makes you so afraid of that word that you're willing to gang up on a 210-pound, frumpy girl and make her cry in of everyone?  Then you tell her that her writing's too simple and informal, that it's not intelligent or ironic enough for your tastes? That you'll piggyback off of each others' comments to help drive the point home?  And please, please, the elephant in the room is apparent.  There's no need to use that word, really.  Just don't, for Chrissake, use the word RAPE.

You so-called liberal, middle-class white boys who buy fair trade products and voted for Obama, but get your Banana Republic boxers in a twist because of one little word in my story?  Your stupid asses make me wanna do jumping jacks while chanting RAPE over and over. 

Why were you boys so scared of that word?  You're good guys, really. Nice guys. Sensitive. Intelligent.  Literary.  Is it because you don't wanna acknowledge that you're capable of such a heinous thing, and would rather brush it under the rug?  Or is it because you didn't want to see the fat, ugly girl as evidence before your eyes?

This was my first true experience with censorship in a writing class at a fancy, big-name institution that prides itself on being open-minded.

And by the way, RAPE.  With whipped creams and chocolate sprinkles and strawberries. 

P.S. RAPE.

Jesus Christ, that felt so fucking good.

Information for "This Things I Believe," or, The Press Release that was Ignored, Orphaned and Left to Sell Matchboxes on the Cold Chicago Streets

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

“POSSIBLY THE MOST DISGUSTING ‘VENUE’ IN THE MIDWEST” TO HOST ACTUALLY COOL PERFORMANCE, THIS THINGS I BELIEVE

(Chicago)  On Saturday, July 9, precisely between 8:00 and 8:30p.m., Division|Collective will present This Things I Believe, a 30-person performance/art/cake-eating event at Happy Dog Gallery (1542 N. Milwaukee, 2nd Fl.).  For exactly 30 minutes, 30 participants will simultaneously present work in any genre, addressing censorship in any form.  Doors will open at 7:30p.m., visitors given maps to explore the space, and performance organizers silently pray the electricity doesn’t blow.  Following the free, public performance, visitors will enjoy treats such as apples and tap water, and talk quietly amongst themselves.

Artists agreeing to perform/present: Abra Adduci, Aly Adduci (the Sisters Grim), Lorenzo Baeza, Isaiah Barron, Randi Black, Laura Clark, David Diarrhea, Paul Elliott, Snorre Sjønøst Henriksen, Andi Jane, Will Kenny, Patrick Krawczykowski, Karissa Lang, Amanda Lopez-Bentanzo, Luke the Tokyo (of Magic Milk), Tara Lynch, Heather Lynn, Meg Mccarville, Travis Mitchell, Simeon Nikolov, Nichole O’Neal, Lisa O’Neal (more sisters!), Anndell Quintero, Oli Rodriguez, Yamil Rodriguez (no relation), Daniel Romeu, Patrick Sanchez, Jordan Scrivner, Jennifer Thompson, William Amaya Torres, Heather Marie Vernon, Sarah Weiss.  In the event of flakiness or broken friendships, artists may alternate.  

Individual performances and art pieces will be arranged throughout the gallery, utilizing bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen and outdoor patio, with presentations ranging from literary ventures to wall-painting.  Expect the revelations of deep secrets and consumption of an entire Quinceañera cake.  No work will be censored.  Further information may be found at the project’s blog, This is Not the Internet.

---

Division|Collective is a group of emerging writers and artists that host monthly salons.

Happy Dog Gallery is a live-work space in Wicker Park, run by a bunch of mopey artsy hipsters.

---

CONTACT:

Anndell Quintero

400 N. Lasalle St.

Chicago, Il 60654

(786) 999-5191

Anndell@DivisionCollective.com

 

A really, really great blog (posted by "anonymous")

As an anonymous member of the public, I am happy to take this opportunity to post on "This is Not the Internet."  What an exciting chance to express my thought in an open manner!  And with the gmail user account (thisisnottheinternet@gmail.com), password (endcensorship) and answer to security question ("what should we end?" "Censorship"), open to the public, I can't see any reason why everyone shouldn't write on here!

In my first post, I'd like to direct readers to a certain blog, http://dontfeellikewriting.blogspot.com/.  I hear the writer had a lot of trouble with the School of the Art Institute monitoring her posts.  And, look!  She writes about it on the blog!  Lately, she writes mostly about Norwegians.

I also learned about a thrilling performance next Saturday, July 9 that I am sure to attend.  Here is the flier I stumbled upon:

Pussyshopped!

Photoshopping labia to comply with "obscenity"//softcore porn laws in Australia. Censorship & the vulva.

Anndell