NEWS UPDATES FROM HEADQUARTERS
Friday, March 16, 2001
I said the wrong thing to the woman at British customs (“I am a professional artist”) and we had to wait an eternity beside two men from Togo. The Togo men spoke no english and wore colorful hats and mirrored sunglasses. They were completely cool and each time she asked: Do you have any friends or family in London? Do you have any money? Why are you here? they just stared and reflected her face back with an enormous nose. Somehow this worked and they got a 24 hour visa. Half an hour later we were also released, and just as I stepped onto the down escalator I saw one of the Togo passports on the ground. I recognized it immediately. I should have grabbed it but it was too late. I found the men below, ripping apart their bags in a desperate search, finally very worried. I pulled one of them back to the escalator. I pointed wildly, but there was no up escalator. I yelled to each person coming down: pick it up please! But we were a suspect pair, surely part of a larger sting operation revolving around them: the european traveler. And they were so proud to be smarter than that. They would NOT pick up the “passport” and thereby save england from germ warfare. Suddenly the man from Togo bolted up the down escalator. At first, horribly, he was not fast enough. He ran in place, cartoon-style. Then gradually his slowness became fast enough, and he made his way to the top.
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After all these years they decided that I have to go back to high school. All the same kids are still there, the cool kids are still cool, but they’re microscopic. I am clumsy and gigantic: I am out of touch.
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I travel around the world and the oranges I left in the fridge are still there 7 weeks later. The weekly papers are still ironic and post-ironic and very anxious. I feel like I’m wearing earplugs, I’ve lost a sense, it is that of belonging. I walk downtown with my same old legs. I see a man who is missing an arm at the ATM. In the next block there is a man missing a leg. This is all common. Many get hit. I am waiting to cross the street and next to me there is a homeless woman mooning the traffic, she is screaming, Look at my ass.
I want to fuck the whole world underneath the AIDS quilt, hugs across America, saving the dolphins and swimming with them too.
My car is where I left it in January but the tires are flat. I live next door to a gas station/mechanic so it is allright. It’s called Jay’s and Jay is there every day. He’s talking to a man with one glass eye, and the man says talk to her, she’s much cuter than me. I tell Jay I went to europe to perform and he says he’s really proud of me. He says that if he ever made a movie he wouldn’t wait to be discovered, he would show it right there: and he points to the side of my apartment building. He says he would make a 25 minute movie every week and show it on the wall every Saturday. I comment that it sure is a busy intersection, and he says that it’s the center of the universe. The projector could sit right here next to the gas pumps. And how could my landlord complain, it’s only light. The sun doesn’t pay either.
There’s so many things to do and at the top of the list it says do nothing. Never unpack and never call anyone back. It is so much easier to feel strange than to grind again. But even if I do nothing, it will begin anyways. I will become interested, I will want to join arms, I will get lonely, I will have desire, I will light the candle in my window and then light five more to draw attention to the one. And some sunny day I will decide that that the green sweater I bought at the charity shop london is not the only thing that suits me. Until then I wear the sweater. I lie on the couch. I stare at the enormous amount of cockroach shit in the kitchen, but I do not clean it up. I wait to grow the new thing that will carry me forward.
3/16/2001 05:52:11 PM
Sunday, February 04, 2001
Between you and your Dutch bed there is the reverse pull of magnets, the 7-hour push that will not let you touch the sheets. You must hover above, waiting until it is bedtime in Portland Oregon. Then, at 9am, in the cultural capital of Europe, the bed inhales. You are sucked down in a single heavy motion and the pregnancy of the blankets begins. In the first 50 minutes you have formed a tiny spine, but no eyes, no limbic system, no name.
Then something calls Miranda, and skinless I am sent into the world by someone horrible named Miranda, some ambitious dentist who insists on cleaning my teeth, though I wasn’t given a chance to grow teeth; applying make-up to the places where my face should be. It remains attached to the pillow and as I move around Rotterdam I stretch the face into an ever-thinner ribbon. It is woven between the Schouwburg, Pathe, De Doelen and in order to sleep I must wind up my face; I must lay down and trace the ribbon all over the city square. And when it is piled in my arms again I wrap it around a tennis-ball, to make it round at least, something like the other faces I see.
I ask the knotted ball to tell me again about Ghandi and the starvation artists. Tell me how all the amazing things in history have been done by The Tired. Give me nobility, or else I am just a child who never gets tired of Legos. What else can I build from this kit of 100 colored pieces? Surely I have thought every combination of thoughts. Oh but no. Once all the real things have been built — the space station and the hut – grotesque new arenas of Awake are revealed. Hours spent only fearing. A wretched fear like a howl, sobbing at the sloppy shoes of America: Take me back, oh take me back. No you will not go back. You will eat cheese and stay. You are on the sleep-over that never ends and you may call your parents, but when they answer you will be mute: Please come get me now. Please drive to Rotterdam in the old yellow Maverick and please buckle me in with my pee-soaked Snoopy sleeping back that says Security is having friends spend the night. But too much Mission Impossible has prevented me from understanding this and I believe that Charlie Brown is a security guard and he is having friends sleep over. Perhaps he needs them to help guard the Ambassador until after the coup. It is hard to tell from the pictures, though Lucy is clearly mad about having been passed over when Jim chose the Impossible Mission Team. I was chosen though, and I will survive. There is a dot of blood red inside me, slept or not, and it is love. It cares not whether I am awake or asleep, or mentally impaired. It will come forth no matter the vessel. It will bloom before the other still beating loves. It will spell the secret name of every man, woman and child in Rotterdam. I give you myself, I give you my tiredness, my only arms, my only face, the one that I am, it is for you.
Miranda July
2/4/2001 03:44:09 PM
Sunday, January 21, 2001
My Friends, (a salutation and also the title of a great book by Emmanuel Bove)
The age-old problem of being one woman instead of four women, or all women. If I was 2 or more women then surely my plans for Joanie 4 Jackie would be outside of my diary by now. But instead I am one woman about to go to on a six week European tour. So please excuse my little lapses, it is for love of many things. And I invite you to come see us (Zac Love and me) perform The Swan Tool in Rotterdam, Vienna, and London. I tried to soothe my parents by telling them what my boyfriend told me:that Europe is not the moon, and that if they could even visit me — in theory. But my dad said that he liked to think of Europe as the moon, that it felt more special that way.
And now I lower the glass bubble over my head.
And now I step into the rocket.
The David Bowie song called “Major Tom” is playing.
3-2-1: women’s dresses pressed against their legs from the explosion.
Away,
Miranda July
She looks up and sees us. She waves and we wave. None of us has hair under our arms. We wave until we are close enough to say hi and then we say hi. Now we are close enough to hug, but we don’t. She says come in and inside is dark with no children. It is terrible to have to ask for anything ever. We wish were something that needs nothing, like paint. But even paint needs repainting. We are sitting on a couch and she is standing behind us, she rubs her hand through my hair and I can feel her fingernails. I say to myself that long nails equals wealth. The idea of wealth always calms me down. I pretend I smell perfume. What if we all used expensive shampoo.What if we were kidding all the time and cared about nothing. My head relaxes and I do the exercise where you imagine you are turning into honey.
1/21/2001 10:01:20 PM
Tuesday, December 05, 2000
We have brand-new swan faces, feathery white faces and fantastic beady eyes. That is how often we practice The Swan Tool. It is video, helium, Zac and me. It is is the effort of my year 2000 and it’s nearly done. In January we will spread wing and fall towards Holland, premiere The Swan Tool, and then off to London. In London we will edit a new video at the Lux Centre, something we laced together in our sleep called: Getting Stronger Every Day. (A new video comissioned by Lux for The Pandemonium Festival). If you are a Londoner then now is the time to outstreach your hand to your American cousin. She’s not as hip as you, but she wants to bring Joanie 4 Jackie directly into your large mind. Please email me and invite me to your university or high school in February. If all goes well I will fly home with armfuls of videos made by London ladies and the PAL/NTSC video war will be over. In the meantime, doors are slung over crates, desks are born and Joanie 4 Jackie emerges as an Organization. Oh yes, we have a copy machine! We have areas! I am learning how to delegate tasks and Aimee and Sarah are patient as I sort through my bucket of hats and gestures. Sarah suggests a Palm Pilot but I just want some new socks from Target. They have never met, but Aimee and Sarah together have made 2001:A Chainletter, and it will be released this month. Just between us, I think this may be the best Chainletter tape ever, and you know I never say things like that because I love everyone equally, but check it out man. We suggest a “2001” and “Some Kind of Loving”, wrapped in paper printed with your own lipstick-kiss repeated pattern. This is especially perfect for little sisters (like myself. Some little sisters, like my mom, are 53.)
Give a me the girl until she is seventeen and I’ll give you a woman,
Miranda July
12/5/2000 04:41:49 PM
Monday, October 30, 2000
Every 17 days I have to tip me over and let it all run into my head. I’m made out of sand and glass and sand is glass. So I am made out of one thing born at two temperatures. I measure time with my body and every 17 days I stay in bed all day long. I’m a living, breathing hourglass; I read The Oregonian and stare into space and call my mother. She sends her love. I tell her about Astria and Some Kind of Loving and The Swan Tool and she says you’re so good with metaphors honey.
It was a mad scramble to produce Some Kind of Loving in time for our tour. At the last moment Allied Vaughn refused to make the compilation because of naked bodies. They decided it wasn’t art and the sensitivity of their workers must be protected. The new duplicator was abusive to his wife and his wife was broken shards of insanity and somewhere in the background I heard children and thought oh no. But I stared at the 5 on the clock and thought: dear lord I am fucking unstoppable, you can’t fool me with hell on earth, I believe in the diorama I build with my own two hands.
And lo! It is lovely tape! We threw fifty into a bag and left for tour; streamers flying from our straw hats and the ocean curling behind us. Zac and I met up with Astria in Austin and then the three of swooped around the northwest, showing movies and performing. Astria wore her hair in a pony tail or sometimes down on her shoulders. Zac pretended he was shaving. I tried to fluff up my hair with my fingers, but staring out the window pulled everything down. At the Canadian border I did the talking: We are rehearsing a play in Vancouver for no money, we come with many gifts to give out for free! The officer asks why Canadians can’t be in the play instead of us; she pretends to examine The Swan Tool script and looks from the script to my driver’s license and back again. What she knows for sure is that I am a professional liar. But I will never amount to anything, so she let’s us go. We are ecstatic and plan to emigrate as soon as possible.
On the seventh of November we will leave go to California for the second half of the Some Kind of Loving Tour. We understand if you choose not to live in California, the traffic, the midriffs, the riffs. But please do your neighborhood a favor by projecting Some Kind of Loving on the side of your house. It is time for the whole block to come together and acknowledge that sex is invented in the amateur laboratories of every person’s bedroom. The tape is curated by Astria Suparak and features work by Peggy Ahwesh, Jennifer Reeder, Stephanie Barber, Jane Gang, and Karen Yasinsky. And even The New York Press says Astria screenings are, “…spun with a superlative curatorial taste that combined a savvy political consciousness and sexy indie-rock-style showmanship without ever losing crucial nerd cred.” The official release date for the tape is next month, but you can buy it here starting right now.
My plan for the rest of the evening involves grocery shopping, lying on the floor, sorting the laundry into lights and darks, taking a walk, and reading about Robert Gober.
vote swap,
Miranda July
10/30/2000 05:38:58 PM
Wednesday, September 27, 2000
When everything destroyed, every secret fear has turned real, and the person you are has been damned by the people you love the most. When you realize that the happiness you thought would one day come, has already come and you missed it forever. When your mind is just a frenzied loop of exhaustion and you can not call your friends because you don’t know why but you can’t. When your feeling of pain and guilt is so tremendous that your body is making bruises from the inside.
When this is happening.
When this is the moment and it will not end.
When THERE IS NO WAY OUT.
Then.Then. Then.
You have nothing and so you put CD on the player and you turn it up and it is people singing from another time and place and you are in your room and you are dancing harder and harder and harder because this all there is. This body and this song. arms, legs, jeans, shirt, hair shaking to drums, guitar, microphone into the air, real like snow. I can’t fix anything, but if i dance hard enough I can remember that life can start again anywhere. You’ve lost everything? Fuck man I’m sorry to hear that. On wednesday afternoon while the people are at work, the girl dance to rock and roll and no shit saved but someday she’ll be ok.
Some Kind of Loving video tape coming your way! Will design video box tonite! Swan Tool performance lumbers forward! Just gotta ask grumpy man for speakers for practice space! And convince woman to composite video like she said she would! Losta great things in future! No empty promises here! Writing grants left and right! Heart hooked up to mechanical loom, building warm blankets for winter! m impressed by the perseverance and genius of others!incredible writers and singers! men sawing the concrete outside my window all day long! if you can I can too.
needing diaper applied by gentle hands, Miranda July
9/27/2000 04:56:10 PM
Monday, September 25, 2000
oh
9/25/2000 10:06:43 PM
January 30, 2000
WELCOME TO THE BIG MISS MOVIOLA WEBSITE:
Are you at your job? At school? At your family computer maybe. And you are looking for yourself on the Internet, for anything that reminds you of you. It’s like checking your email: has the web come up with any more evidence for life on earth yet? Has anyone written me? Do I exist today or am I just all memories and dreams for the future. YOU ARE REALLY HERE AND I CAN PROVE IT.
Big Miss Moviola is the girl’s place for evidence of everything she’s seen, and proof of more. You should look around this new website because it’s all for you. I am one girl in Portland Oregon who has compiled all of these documents, girl’s movies, so that I can wake up in the morning and feel like Earth is this place that has to do with me and you. The real you, the woman that is stranger and cooler and smarter and sexier and sadder and more caring than any woman on TV, and you are even a little better than you pretend to be because no one’s ever demanding your best. I mean com’on, you think anyone’s going to notice if you don’t live up to your own high standards?
BIG MISS MOVIOLA WILL NOTICE. HER JOB IS TO NOTICE WHAT IS MISSING. SHE ONLY SEES THE GHOSTS OF ALL THE GIRL’S MOVIES THAT WERE NEVER MADE BECAUSE NO ONE DEMANDED THEM. This is the place where you and I demand to see the missing movies. Life on Earth is funner when you’re not waiting around to win the lottery or fall in love or die, because you’re too busy telling the story that only you can tell.
A tremendous and heartfelt thank you goes to Mitsu and Sue for making this site for us.
Welcome to the Big Miss Moviola Website. See you soon,
Miranda July
1/30/2000 7:30pm