The Weight of Wishes

I put a wish on Yoko Ono's Wish Tree at the Hirshhorn yesterday, but I'm a little unsure about it.
You're supposed to walk up and, with a little pencil like the ones at miniature golf, write your wish on a designated piece of paper with a special little rope, then tie it to a tree (that strangely looks like what I imagine a Dogwood would if it were unripened fruit and not a tree).

Although I feel mixed about Yoko, as any I pick John over Paul Beatle fan, I liked the look of it, and the idea. And despite being out of paper tags, I indulged in her artistic expression and took the little pencil to the tree to find the empty back of an already -placed wish.

Others around me had led the way, but I some how felt guilty of tarnishing someone else's wish. As if somehow the weight of my wish on the back of theirs would prove to pull it down and offer it less of chance of coming true. Like the kid at the party who blows out more of the candles on the cake than the birthday girl in a daze of excitement, nostalgia and desire for another wish.

I found one I liked, now not recalling what moment from that stranger's stream of consciousness poured onto the little page, and cradled it in my hand gently, as if plucking an eyelash off their cheek upon which to wish if it landed in the right finger, and began to write on the blank back.

I wish for truth and love. I blushed and turned awkwardly.

As I walked away from the little tree with its little wishes on little paper, written with little pencils, I felt how very big those wishes are. My wishes. And there were two of them. Great. I added baggage to someone else's wish, and then to my own. My guilt crept slowly... as I pondered whether it would matter to if I put more than one, if my greed would deem one more fulfil able by the universe than the other. I know that is absurd, but the mind races when confronted with wishing.

Then I thought about it today. I'm already surrounded with love. Maybe I could use a little truth to guide me back to it. I may have laid heavy wishes upon heavy wishes...we shall see. Until then, I think I'll stick to light wishes on stars, if I can see any through the city haze.

I saw a Baldwin today but was too distracted to take it in.

So, I was walking down 17th and P and out of nowhere came a fucking Baldwin. I think it was Stephen, the really weird one that was in Bio-Dome with Pauly Shore but has now given up acting to be a psycho-Christian. He looked strange, I think, fake teeth - caps probably - but honestly, I didn't really pay attention because I was
a) talking to my mom on the phone
b) arriving at my destination of the bar and
c) worried that my red pants indeed give me a camel toe.

So, unless its the hot Baldwin, I ain't stopping.

Personification of Pants

It all started with a pair of pants.

Well, of course it didn't really, but for the purposes of this story, those particular pants stirred more than any other pair has in a while. The last pair of pants that pulled this much out of me got captured on film, then that 35mm evidence was ripped to shreds some months later in a bitter I-hate-you-and-don't-want-to-look-at-this-and-remember-those-pants
-or-much-else-about-you-for-that-matter moment.

Ahh love.

Anyway. So I wear these pants a lot. These little, grey, ankle dockers that are kind of cheesy, but so fucking cute. They make me feel like I live in some pretend fabulous world of preppy fashion that I don't belong to. I got them at J Crew for Christ's sake, but whatever.

It was a silly moment, really. I took them off to shower after getting home from the gym and haphazardly threw them on the bed. I didn't notice them lying there for a while later, but as I opened the door to my room I walked in to see them perfectly crooked in a jack-knife position on the edge of my bed (butt pockets up) as if they had been on their way to some event and I had caught them red-handed. I don't know why, but the sight of my pants in action made me smile. Teeth and all, to no one in particular. I left them there for a while as I carried on my nightly routine because I was so amused.

Later, when I folded and put them away, it made me sad. Some how I felt like I was putting away a part me. I know that makes no sense. Its just a pair of grey pants I wear to work sometimes, but seeing them sprawled out on the bed like that made me want to drop the weight of myself down on my Sam's Club mattress and curl up with that secret ally of my personality and find out more. Where were they going? Who were they set to meet?

I guess that's crazy, really. Wishing a pair of pants to life. Yet, here I am laying on my bed, wearing another pair of pants that I can't help but question. They are red. Like really red, too-funny-for-words red. Elizabeth Taylor's favorite color of lipstick red, and I am wearing them on my lower-half, drawing every ounce of attention to my bright, red ass. Fucking hilarious. I feel like a teenager. I'm not sure if its because I bought them for $20 at H&M upstairs in what I'm pretty sure is the Teen section, or if its because they are so tight I am slightly worried that I have a camel toe. Nobody likes that, no matter what age.

Here I lie, next to the ghost of my grey preppy pants- clouded with escape on their mind- in red, fuck me jeans, high heels and a bra.

Who am I? More importantly, who are these pants? Oh god, my pants are having an existential crisis. Its not just a matter of clothes giving us added personality, I think its more that clothes have their own life that we have to figure out how to coexist with. Hmm. No wonder people are so damn nervous all the time. They're always worried that other people can hear what their T-shirt is saying.

And here I thought personification was left to fiction...

Hell, art imitates life, right?