Mommy, I've got some cheese for you

If there are so many memories I may begin with, this one includes an elusive love of mine. If I may speak of intangibilities, this sensation is one I could recollect the most. If there is one that is most indescribable, it is one that I can describe with every one of my brain cells scampering about at its full potential. With certainty, She knows this is about her. Certainly, my mother in the flesh. My fingers remind me of hers. I have her features, I have her gestures and I own her vocal chord in my throat. She has bestowed upon me things that I haven’t asked for and sometimes wish I never had. My fingers and fingernails upset me most because they are the exact replicas of her very own. It should be a crime of some sort to have such hands resemble others in such an impolite and inconsiderable manner.

Her structure is of nonsense to me. It is far too poetic. She begins to carry herself in a way that makes me feel as if I should never leave her, in a way that I won’t ever leave her. Not entirely at least. The problem is that she doesn’t have my fingers to remember me by; I have hers. I am my mother’s daughter. I hate the idea of having that one person that I need to depend on, or simply need. It’s funny because she told me herself never to depend on or be needy about anyone. “Not even if that person is your mother”, she said right under her breath. “You will always somehow end up getting hurt”. How can I not depend on her when I have her very fingers to remind me of her? It’s her genetics’ fault! The fault is on you mother genetic! Go back to where you came from. Hide your chromosomal selves in the darker places where no one will find you. Just so if you find yourself conceiving again mom, this won’t happen anymore and that will make it easier not to depend.

She is fleeting in ways more than one. She is a series of thought and emotion. Thought and emotion are the bases of what makes an individual. Those elements being intangible and immaterial already make her seem momentary. I do quite enjoy ephemerality to the core. Most of the artwork I make is about constructing short-lived, intangible sensations and transforming them to become wealthy in terms of life span and making the intangible tangible. When it comes to fixations like my mother, the idea of all that is short-lived expires from my life. I begin to loathe the thought. Of course, leave it to my mother to poop on my “All Things Ephemeral” party. My mother transitory? Never! Selfish I know, but what about me? I wish to transit to wherever before she ever does. Denial, denial, denial. A pretty word that starts to sound like it could be a pretty girl’s name if you say it enough times.

Dependence, dependence, dependence on your husband, on your brother, on your sister, on your father or your mother makes for a restless, fidgety life. The “on edge” quality to life makes for a sleepless one. Psychologically, I am restless I think, because I am as dependent on her as her hands are dependent on my wrists for attachment. Because of this, her life is of concern to me and hopefully will become something I may be able to control to keep in line, in sight, and wedged to the very pit of my life for as long as the both of us are still around.

Because strings sing in conversation

http://soundcloud.com/aya-atoui/strings-play-too-you-know

Here I am, a string... strung... in conversation.
you can listen to me sing in string.

humlings for my mother

This is just a short sound oriented piece for mom...

http://soundcloud.com/aya-atoui/ou-you-mommykins-intro

click on me? listen to me! critique me! if you please?

This might be an epic fail... but I'd like to know if it is...
Some constructive criticism would be wonderful.

I just had the sudden urge to make music that didn't just sound like sound or noise.
I've always had trouble with harmony and thought of trying to harmonize... it took me a while, but I think the harmony is there... i think... I just don't know if it's right... I've had a few people tell me they liked it but if there is more to say in terms of constructive criticism, I would be so happy to hear it.
Merci.


your current cottony companion (i done did an alliteration!),
Aya

oh! and here is a link to the piece in case you done didn't click on me above

http://soundcloud.com/aya-atoui/i-dont-know-what-to-call-you-yet-so-you-will-remain-to-be-untitled-for-now

peace in and from the middle east yo.

A Cottonball that Reminisces and Thinks Freud Is a Fraud

As a little girl, I used to love cotton. I used to play with it as it was a favorite toy. More specifically, I used to benefit from it by keeping it in my mouth. So very undisclosed the beneficial part seemed to be. But as I ate the cotton I seemed to have profited something out of it. I don’t remember it so vividly. I was around five when this habit had begun. It started with receiving gifts from my mother and father. They were gift boxes that were wrapped and held in puffy and swollen little toy animals. My first one was a bunny, naturally. It was indeed swollen seeing that its size was not normal. It could barely fit in the box. I didn’t care. There were many things in my life that held exaggeration very well. Held it so well in fact it almost seemed like my life loved it. It all seemed to fit with me. The bunny had one lanky ear and brown buttons for eyes. It also squealed everytime I held and squeezed it. For the longest time, I thought rabbits made high pitched squealing sounds. Not until later on did I find out that rabbits didn’t make much sound from an educational kids TV show. Cows went moo, cats went meow and pigs went oink but rabbits went nothing and nowhere, but they multiplied popping out of nowhere ever so quickly. Imagine a rabbit that squealed… Eeeep. That’s how my bunny sounded.

My bunny gift was very soft. I knew there was also more to it because bunnies weren’t meant to be that big. I was also a very bratty child. After having played with it for more than a year, I decided to rip it open. I wasn’t violent, I remember using scissors and slowly cutting a small line into it just to see. And then I ripped it open. My desecrated bunny was forcefully stuffed with beautiful white puffy cotton. As I think about it now, it was an unsettling but beautiful sight. My first reaction was to pull the cotton out and to play with it between my fingers. This stuff was what made my bunny excessively large. This stuff was so pretty. I’m not one to enjoy white, the absence of color, at all unless it is on cotton or on pale skin. I couldn’t imagine cotton being colored. The first thing I had done with the cotton was picking it up and squishing it in my palms. It was as if I was keeping a cloud captive in my hands. It felt wonderful because I knew I couldn’t really have a cloud in my hand no matter how much I wanted one. I also knew I’d be disappointed because cloud is nothing but a visible mass of water and I had enough water being forced down my throat by my mother. She only wanted what was best for me. She wanted a healthy hydrated child.

As I played with the cotton between my fingers, I thought to myself about how it would feel in my mouth and how it would taste. I immediately put it in my mouth. Ever since then, I started to love to chew on cotton. Now I am a twenty-one year old who’s very soul is wedged down the middle of a little white pufferball, cottonball. I am cotton incarnate. I am a cottonball that does nothing but sit and reminisce about everytime it has used and abused cotton when I was a person that belonged to a family. I wonder if this is payback. I think about all the other things I could have probably reincarnated to. I have put so many other things in my mouth as a child. Children do that. Was that a Freudian Slip? I’ll bet Sigmund Freud would have probably loved to dig his dirty fingers into what I just said. I won’t give him the benefit of the doubt. Children who put things in their mouths and are fixated on this don’t necessarily become smokers or compulsive eaters. It just doesn’t work that way. They become cottonballs. His psychosexual analysis lied to me. Liar.

I Am a Cottonball Conundrum

Once upon my reincarnation, I understood that I was a cottonball. I would have preferred to have been something a tad more majestic like the wind or a tree or a cloud or even pollen. But instead my soul went pummeling into the puffy absorbent form we all know and see as the cottonball. It didn’t bother me too much since I had passed away and my mother had purchased a bag of me at the market to use to remove the nail polish off her fingernails. If I knew my mother well enough, she would definitely be using me for her nails. For the sake of all things small, round, puffy, white and insignificant, I was a happy puffy. I was happy to be back with my family again after having been in an indeterminate state for as long as I could remember. I was placed on my mother’s dressing table in her room. I was cozy because I was amongst her belongings. I belonged to her again. I could see myself in the mirror of her dresser as I began to recollect how I had wanted so much to be a cottonball last Halloween. I couldn’t celebrate Halloween because I was sinking into a deep puddle of work. So many things to do, it almost felt like the work was intangible. I couldn’t touch it; I couldn’t finish it. But, I am a cottonball that enjoys exaggerations. I always was, a person, who enjoyed exaggerations.

By the time I was acquired and taken home, everyone had seemed to have dealt with my unhappy casualty. Afterthought: I am also a cottonball that thinks the word ‘casualty’ better defines the word ‘death’ because it begins with the word casual and casual things seem to be accepted more casually and without difficulty. Seeing that my mother had moved on, I couldn’t help but think to myself whether or not I should approach her, most importantly, whether or not I ‘could’ approach her. I tried to nudge myself against the other cottonballs in the plastic bag I now called home to get some sort of attention but I was inanimate. I was an inanimate thing that was also an emotional wreck but I was unable to move a single fiber in my cottony… anatomy? Structure? Arrangement? I’ll settle with arrangement.

I had come to realize that my plastic container-surrounding thing was my new home within my old home because I was lucky enough to be bought by my mother. How weird my new life is. Now I am stuck here, rubbing off against other cottonballs who, might I add, don’t seem to like me. In fact they kind of sound like the New Yorkers on television who constantly like to yell at each other about watching where the other person is going, only cottonballs keep nudging not going. I’ve always wanted to go to New York City but still be close to my mother. I guess this is a combination of the things I really wanted to do in my life before I died… only now, most of it is stuffed in a plastic bag. Being a cottonball for Halloween is now what I am for another lifetime. An impression I have of New York is now living in the bag as my mother ‘casually’ falls into a deep sleep in the bed right across me as the television is on.

what was that?

A gajillion years later, for my fifth post, I feel the need to write about this outlandish feeling i had. I walked out of my home this morning and felt the air surrounding me in an unsettling but beautiful manner. The wind crawled into my hair and played with it like it was the lightest toy it had ever encountered. It felt like the wind was swirling up a little home for itself in my hair... to have a wind-made hat... or a wind made home. I want one so much. The clouds felt ridiculously close to where I stood, shape-shifting slowly right in front of my eyes. All of it gave my heart the most gorgeous tickle ickle... ickle. I got into the car, the wind felt trapped in the car with me, so i opened the windows because windows are the wind's home. I started to drive with all windhomes down. My hair rapidly tickling my face as the clouds shifted their shapes closer and one of my arms hung out the windhome that was put down. My hands felt like they had fallen off the steering wheel although at least one of them was still on it, controlling it. The wind started to play with my hand outside the window, picking it up and dropping it, up and dropping. It also felt like water passing between my fingers. Patrick Watson's voice and piano tapping was totally guiding the wind through as he repeatedly told my ears that it was just another ordinary day. What in the world was going on? I couldn't feel anymore human at the time. I thought to myself that if I'd died in a car accident in that half hour, I'd be the happiest person dead. I felt like I hadn't done much in my life to think that it would be alright to just leave suddenly, self actualization didn't matter to me anymore, what i wanted to accomplish just fleeted away like unraveling string from my brain to my mind, right out my ear, outside the window of the car and tied and tangled itself onto a garbage can somewhere on the street. It was all about the gorgeous feeling in my bones, no in my bone marrow. I just hope that when that specific day comes, I disintegrate feeling like this again...

my camera it dies.

here's an extension to the thing im making... my camera, it fluttersby every once in a blue moon lately. Is this okay? I don't know. Can you forget how to take a picture? i did... but i did it anyway.
Well, i picked up my camera before i decided to animate this video
---> http://vimeo.com/14278216 <--- and I shot my way into a story of loose arms. It worked out fine. I think. What does this mean?!? I sing. double raiinnbooowww

extremities armtrimities

I don't understand why I'm saying this and why I have a blog to say it.
But my arms hurt. They don't necessarily hurt. They just feel like they're floating by the sides of my body. I think they hurt. I woke up like this, picture if you will. When my arms are pulled back it feels like I could be aerodynamic. dynamic. But I don't like flying. flying. Especially not in anything that is or concerns the word aero. I wouldn't know how to move in the air. So I don't like this poo of a feeling in my extremity armstremity. I seem to like my extremities though.
If there is a point that I should be making, this would be it... My arms feel loosely connected to my shoulders. Why is this a happy mistake? <--- that is a rhetorical one. My loosely connected arms have made a song and animated a video just for fun. just for fun.

Caution... you might want a return policy on the 3 minutes and twenty something seconds that you used up. I'm not one to provide this. wuhhoo.

extremities armtrimities from Aya Atoui on Vimeo.

click on me to listen

Here's a happy mistake that happened only yesternight. 

It was Pup up's birfday. We all went out to this place called spice island. lots of food and drinks.

The night was going and everybody was happy, when we had stumbled upon singing glasses and became even happier. Some people found it annoying, others wouldn't stop playing with them.

This is a track of a mistake that happened after the fun festivity. I recorded it and thought it would be nice to share. But this is totally a beginning to something new to do, for me at least. Audio for installation? anyone? installations with strings? collaboration? 

yes, i'm wishing 

here it is again, just incase you hadn't clicked on me above: http://www.box.net/shared/5fz4mg5xuv

happy happy happy boithday big guy

it takes three happies to make a birthday... a birthday! x

blog up and running, i think.

blog. fun! yeth. what? right...

so im totally taking care of a blog now! i never know what to say here, every time i try to write something in this little space, i completely bug out. bug. out. I poop fairies with excitement. poop. fairies. excitement. I am so my own parrot right now. parrot. okay no.

You're probably wondering why I have a photo of sleepers with a semicolon on it. or wait, is it a photo of sleepers? with a semicolon on it? Anyhow, I'm not sure yet because i never know what i'm doing. But these things happen. Happening Happy Mistakes! Love those. Don't we love those? we love those. 

It's what my blog is about you guys. Happy mistakes. My mistakes make me happy. I hope you get a little something out of them too.