a sense of place

My senior year of college I took an art course titled Topics. By the name itself you wouldn't think much of it but it was a coveted course and many enthusiastic art majors yearned to take it in their final year of overpriced highfalutin private liberal arts education. The draw of this course is that it is a precursor to your final senior art project in which your art is displayed in the pristine galleries of St Olaf College's famous Dittmann Art Center – a state of the art art facility with one of the best and fanciest ventilation systems you'll find in the nation. Topics is basically a semester long course to either test-drive an idea you have for your final senior show or to do something completely wacky and maybe piss off some people in the process. Or maybe I was the only one that wanted to piss some people off but I felt like it was my right, okay?


A Canoe in the Gallery, normal normal


An added mystery about Topics is just that; the topic. And the professor holds all the power to decide what the year's Topic will be (every year is a new topic.) John Saurer was one of my favorite professors up until that point because he liked my drawings and prints. (I mean, who could blame him? I'm like the most amazing artist ever in the world, amen.) He had a goofy demeanor and manner of speech. One thing he said all the time which I often repeat...to myself...is “Isn't that nice?” and he'd say it as he was carefully pointing at someone's interesting drawing. His curly mop and intense eyes only added to the effect. He is the quintessential “Art Teacher.” However I could say that about every single one of my art professors. There was the dreamy art professor that every girl (and boy) looked at all googily-eyed while he explained power tool safety in sculpture class, there was the turtleneck-sandals-with-black-socks-wearing professor that loved everything ever in the world especially if it vibrated with bright colors, and there was an art history professor that spoke with a such a slow droning robotic like voice that it put you right back to sleep during your 8AM class (I mean, come on! And the lights were always dimmed for the powerpoint presentation. This was before I knew how to drink coffee...)


The one and only Professor John Saurer



Prof J. Saurer, St. Colin Weaver, and Dreamy Prof Irve Dell


And back to the point. I had high hopes for the topic. We all did. We were all anxious to know the topic and create mind-blowing art that so perfectly expressed the topic through our own eyes that we'd simultaneously start a brand new groundbreaking art movement in the process. Because isn't that what every art major wants?

And then Professor John Saurer stands in front of the chalk board and slowly writes:

A....


Sense...



...of.....




…....Place.

Okay, I'm sorry but, what the feck? I was not impressed. My friend Loocis and I were not impressed (but we were kinda the misfits of the already misfit ridden art major scene.) I guess I never really took a lot of time to think about “a sense of place” or “my sense of place” in the world, in life, in the universe.

I do, however, have an extreme passion and love for the best place ever: the great city of Minneapolis. I have a strong sense of Minneapolis Patriotism. Does that count for “a sense of place”? For a while I made a point of saying I was from Minneapolis “proper” because there are many imposters out there claiming to be from “The Twin Cities.” But the problem here is that when some smear says they are from “The Twin Cities” they usually mean they are from some crumby eyesore of a suburb like Hopkins or even worse, Minnetonka. If you would, please, take a moment to think about what the word “twin” means you'd remember that it is something containing or consisting of two matching or corresponding parts. TWO. Not two plus 20 inferior, sidewalk-less parts. So let's just stick to “The Twin Cities” representing the two cities only, Minneapolis and St Paul.
And I'm done with my rant.
Maybe.


A sense of place can be good...


I was feeling awfully snarky my senior year of college and my response to the topic, A Sense of Place, was that I transcend place. I'm so just fancy, aren't I? I don't have a single place. I don't need a single place. I don't get attached. I just ride on. And I depicted my transcendence with detailed drawings of bicycle parts and my trademark doodles intertwined together. Aaaaand a ridiculous bike sculpture that was thrown away, probably by the groundskeeper when he tired of mowing around the awkward “art” piece in the lawn. John Sauer thought the drawings were “nice” but had a hard time grasping my interpretation of A Sense of Place.

Pah! Typical! Adults never understand. My artist's statement was a direct jab at him and a pretty vulgar one at that.
I mentioned my hyena pseudo-penis, if that says anything...


Ridiculous bike sculpture buried in the snow.

the bicycle drawings.


I've grownup a leeettle bit since that attempt at rebellion.And I've been away from home for almost 2 years now. What being away from home for this long has taught me is that I DO have a place. I have a great sense of place and it's home.
Minneapolis.
My parent's house.
In the perfect South Minneapolis neighborhood right on the Minnehaha Parkway.
Home is beckoning me. Home is haunting me in my dreams. When I have idle moments during the day (let's be honest, the whole day is a big idle moment) I imagine my neighborhood. Very particular parts of my neighborhood that for some reason stick out more than others. The hill along the creek that nestles all the geese and ducks. The parkway in my front yard. The bridge that my friend Annie and I climbed on like a jungle gym all summer long when we were still wearing matching pink overalls. I imagine taking my dog Beau for walks all the time. I imagine swimming at the little beach on Lake Nokomis, trying to re-re-teach myself to swim. Walking by the Mississippi River where the Minnehaha Creek spews out into it, the water disconcertingly foamy. Running down the path toward Lake Hiawatha; no feral dogs to worry about.

the creek and ducks.



Mr. Beau takes a walk!

You guys, I'm really excited to go home. I never realized how important home was to me until I left it completely.


The Minnehaha Falls.




Minnehaha and Hiawatha, I presume.

p. diddy

Public Service Announcement:

I am a card carrying fan of the squattie pottie. Are you familiar with this primarily Eastern world essential piece of water closet equipment? I am pretty sure the last time we met, [put link to blog post here] I was discussing a problem of mine that I had in the bathroom so maybe I already explained the squattie pottie beyond the reaches of whatever you ever really needed to know?

I disagree. I don't think you know enough about the squattie pottie. Until you try the squattie pottie yourself and then install your own squattie pottie in your personal water closet in your American abode do you really know enough about the squattie pottie. Ya hear? And let me emphasize the importance of a butt sprayer. BUTT SPRAYER. You need it in your life. You will not realize how disgusting the idea of toilet paper, alone in sticky bathroom situations, truly is until you ditch the T.P. for 2 years and indulge in a handheld shower for your bunghole.

The butt sprayer is something that can be a tricky tool or perhaps, in some instances, a weapon to your very own derrière. You must test the intensity of a butt sprayer before you put it into action. If you don't test it out, you could end up giving yourself a personal enema and you don't want that, now do you?

But I'm not really here to warn you about these potential squattie pottie scenarios. I'm not really good at advice. I am good at making mistakes that I hope no one ever replicates in human history. And if history repeats itself, I have proof here on this blog that I did indeed warn the public, at least the "Laurax doodles in Khmer" blog reading public. Liability expunged?

Very much in the same way my previous blog post began, I was enjoying a few brewskis with my friends in the comfort of my home. (And now the people are wondering "Does Laura just drink beer in Cambodia?" It's debatable. But in my defense, this was the beginning of Khmer New Year which is an endless celebration for some.) I also had my good friend Stacy there as a wing woman/buffer/BAMF/etc. So we are being over fed an array of beer drinking foods, something Khmer people like to call "clime" (these are my best phonetics.) In America I think good "clime" would be potato chips, cheetos...uuhhhhh....pizza? It's been a while. What do Americans eat while drinking beer nowadays? I have no idea. "Clime" in Cambodia usually includes an array of meats and sauces to dip the meats in. And the ultimate Khmer snack: Pongtia Goan (some people think it should be spelled like this: pong tia koon ពងទាកូន <- Khmer all the way, baby.) You can click on that link to find the all knowing wikipedia page about it. I was turned on to pongtia goan, or partially developed duck embryo (uh, yeah I know...) somewhere around November 2013. I was a late bloomer but have not looked back since then. The main draw for me are the garnishes that accompany the egg - a chili garlic sauce, a pepper-salt-MSG-lime sauce, and little green leaves. "Eat, don't look" is my strategy. Also, "don't knock it till you try it."


Partially developed duck embryo. Try it, you'll like it!


And the night is full of cheers, laughter, and eating until it's time to break the seal. We reteach our friends what "break the seal" means and that that is what I am about to embark on. I walk around a couple of construction trucks to one of my family's 9 toilets. The squattie pottie awaits me, but has an unidentifiable object floating in it which I try to flush down with buckets of water. It doesn't go down so I decide to pee anyway. I complete my mission and try to flush the unidentifiable object down again. A couple of buckets poured down but the unidentifiable object is standing its ground. I stop and finally take a hard look at the unidentifiable object (did I mention it's dark in the stall? for some reason there's only a light outside of the toilet and not actually in the toilet.) The unidentifiable object is breathing? I get down and analyze the object and it is, indeed, a baby chick. A baby chicken is submerged in the squattie pottie toilet water. Gasping for air after I water boarded it a couple of times. OH. MY. GOD.

And what is the most logical thing to do? Reach into the squattie pottie water and scoop up the baby chick. I carry my now identifiable little winged friend and present him to my friends. In a somewhat squealing voice I say "Look at what I just peed on!" I think I said this in both English and attempted to explain what I did in Khmer. Once everyone completely understood the situation (in which I reacted to with great exaggerating hysterics) everyone laughed at me. My host mom told me to put the chick down and covered it with a food cover so the dogs wouldn't try to eat it after its already near death experience.

I went back to the water cisterns and quietly giggled to myself at the ridiculousness of what I just did. I felt like I had done something that changed my life for eternity. I could never turn back or fully recover from this incident. My life changed forever the moment I peed on a baby chick.

The excitement dulled down and we continued our small celebration. But my thoughts still strayed back to my baby chick. And that was when I decided to name it P. Diddy.

The lesson I learned in all of this was that squattie potties, as perfect as they are for doing your business, have dangers that are not always visible to the naked eye. And in conclusion, please PLEASE install a squattie pottie but please PLEASE, make sure you baby chick proof it immediately after installation.


Grown up P.Diddy.