Finders, Keepers

A collection of lost and/or forgotten objects that I’ve found and appropriated as my own. If you are the original owner of an item pictured here, ask very nicely and maybe I’ll give it back.

A green kickball: I found this in the bushes in the Lower Quads my sophomore year, marked with initials MES. I hung a single poster in the HUB depicting the word “FOUND”, my contact information, and a green circle with the letters MES inside. After a week or two had passed and nobody claimed the ball, I added the letters SY to obscure the original ownership.

 

A ceramic lamp: This lamp was left in attic of the Russian House when I moved in there my sophomore year. I used it for that entire year, and put it back in the attic before I left to study abroad in Moscow. Upon returning to Dickinson for the spring of my junior year, the lamp was still in the Russian House attic, so I took it to the Feminist Collective where I live now. One day I was feeling turbulent, so I wrote “turbulence” all over it in Sharpie. My lei see from the year of the Rabbit (2011) is clothespinned to the lampshade.

 

A knit GAP hat: Left at the Feminist Collective house earlier this semester after a party. I have a feeling it belongs to my roommate’s girlfriend who was visiting campus that weekend. I have been wearing it for the past few weeks, but will give it to him to return to her when he goes to see her over Thanksgiving break.

 

An “Our Dickinson” mason jar mug: At the Caf spring feast of 2012, these mugs were take-away prizes placed on the tables in the Caf. I rightfully obtained one, but later lost it and was very bummed out! The next weekend I went to a party in a really disgustingly dirty suite, where they had dozens upon dozens of dirty dishes lying around. This mug was among them, and I figured no one would notice if I just took it. It has since become my favorite mug, and I can often be spotted carrying it around.

 

A pair of animal print Victoria’s Secret panties: These must’ve been left behind in one of the HUB laundry machines, cause they ended up in my clean laundry. Luckily, they are cute and my size.

 

A small bottle of Juicy Couture perfume: Left behind by a customer at Tres Amigos, the Mexican restaurant that I worked at in Austin.

 

A Poketo pocket umbrella: This had been lying around the Feminist Collective house for a while. When my  umbrella broke earlier this semester, I started using it.

 

An elastic grip headband: Found on the floor of the Kline Center during my junior year.

 

A deck of hot pink Bicycle playing cards: I can’t remember where I found these, but I’ve had them since my freshman year.

 

A twisted silver rose ring: Left at Landis House, where I work on campus, for weeks. My manager told me I could just take it.

 

A pair of black matte Rayban sunglasses: Left behind by a customer at Scarpetta, the Italian restaurant I worked at this summer in New York City.

 

A tube of Aveda Nourish-Mint lipgloss: Left behind by a customer at Scarpetta, the Italian restaurant I worked at this summer in New York City.

 

A maroon cashmere Uniglo sweater, men’s size medium: I inexplicably found this in my bed in my Atwater dormroom freshman year. Perhaps my roommate had a guest over? It is slightly moth-eaten in some places.

A dirty ditty

 

Though I feel kinda weird posting this to a class blog, here is my attempt at a Bökian prurient debauch that is not so “fratty” sounding.

“Hi,” Isis sighs. It is midnight; Philip’s visit is illicit. Philip, flirting, tilts his chin, inviting Isis’s kiss. Livid with thirst, Isis bids Philip impish lips. Philip strips Isis’s nightshirt, wrinkling silk, his digits digging in Isis’s skin. Fiddling with Philip’s zip, Isis is imbibing his thick spit which drips. Isis is pinching Philip’s nips. Fighting ticklish misgivings, Philip is disinclining Isis’s clinch. Philip grips Isis’s thighs, kissing Isis’s midriff till his thirsting lips find Isis’s pink prism. First Isis is stiff, timid. Isis’s will wilts. Is it his skill which did it? Philip licks Isis’s clit whilst Isis twists with grinding hips. Indistinct lightning is tingling Isis within. Isis is finishing, writhing in thrill. Isis’s spirits lift, thinking “This is right.” Isis wrings Philip’s rising dick with firm wrists. Philip is jiggling Isis’s tidbits. His firming prick slips in Isis’s crib. Philip finds bliss within, lifting Isis’s hips. Isis whips Philip, wild with whim. Philip is whining, twitching. Philip spills his jizz. In dim lighting it isn’t vivid; Isis is missing his sprinkling.

A review of SPX

Some things that struck me about SPX:

  • The on-site drawing. Table-sitters, when not chatting up passersby, could often be found doodling characters from their work on scraps of paper, perhaps in an effort to pass the time, perhaps to produce little freebies to give away (I walked away with a robot, a turtle in a party hat, a fat cat, and a drunk-looking bird-thing that resembles the Akond of Swat). I appreciated that kind of artistic presence as it was a very visible reminder that art is work and a commodity, but was simultaneously incredibly personal. In addition to the artists at tables, convention-goers were also doing a lot of doodling. In my seating row at Chris Ware’s talk, there were three people sketching him as he spoke.
  • Illustrated catalogues. I saw several volumes from different artists in catalogue format. One was a collection of urban legend monsters like the Chupacabra, Big Foot, the Abominable Snowman, etc. Another was a collection of absurd ways that people have died in our highly complicated modern world. I found the pairing of text and image here to be an interesting departure from the way that they are paired in traditional comics and in children’s books. How is an artist’s relationship to each individual illustration different when the image is not part of a narrative, rather is given meaning by its place in a totality? I like the idea of the fantastical or absurd being documented in a medium that is traditionally used for reference. Similarly, I saw some alphabet collections.
  • Making the morbid cute, and the cute morbid. A collection by one artist who depicted different totalitarian dictators, serial killers, and nightmare figures as wide-eyed babies crying over fallen ice cream or scribbling on the wall in crayon. This I found strangely heartwarming. I also saw an illustration of a friendly-looking puppy with the caption, “One time at the park, before they could take it away from me, I ate half the leg off the corpse of a baby.” The artist was watching me as I read this, waiting for my expression when I got to the punch line, and had a good laugh. My response to this kind of muddling of cute and morbid was at once emotional and humorous.
  • Kitty cats. I must’ve talked to at least four artists whose work featured a cat protagonist, and often the feline hero was the artist’s own household pet and was depicted as doing unremarkable (though humorous) cat things like intrepidly exploring the backyard or eating its own vomit. This reminds me of the current internet fascination with all things cat: Henri the French cat with a bad case of ennui, Simon’s Cat, Lolcatz, Review of My Cat, etc. What is it about cats and “low-brow” mediums? I am very interested to see what a couple decades of retrospection will reveal about this generation and our determination to narrate the inner-workings of the cat brain.
  • Zombie apocalypse. The prevalence of this theme seems to speak to some generational anxiety about masses and conformity…? A privileging of the lone, enlightened survivor…? I did see one sympathetic portrayal of zombies, but I had trouble wrapping my mind around that concept and got into a friendly argument with the artist. I can imagine sympathetic portrayals of mummies, but zombies seem like a stretch…