Today begs an entry of lighter heart than the last one, so I present you with a random list I discovered, made by myself nearly four years ago, when I was living and taking classes in Chicago.
From beginning to end, the list says:
1. Postcard piece: "stay in touch"
2. McDonald's drink holder
3. translucent leaves
4. combination of postcards
5. painting over them
6. making new art from old art; making it original
7. What the hell was the idea in the rubber?
8. Site of former: a beacon easily overlooked
9. stages of a relationship: artists & personal
Even if this did make sense once upon a time, it's still likely the most bizarre thing I've ever written. At first, it seems to be either ideas for an art project or a description of someone else's "found art" project. But then number 7 comes along.
I have no idea what the "idea in the rubber" is supposed to be. If it does have something to do with the rest of the list, it would suggest that found-art project has rubber in it, and the rubber made no sense to me. That or there's an idea literally hidden in the rubber and I couldn't extract it. Or maybe it's supposed to be like "the proof is in the pudding" (whatever that stupid phrase means, plus pudding is a bad place to hide stuff because people eat it). It could be a metaphor for... something. A metaphor for the idea being stuck in my bouncy head and I couldn't get it out to describe it? No clue.
The next line, you'd think, might provide a clue, but it seems to talk about the rubber's location more than anything else. And why wouldn't you overlook the almighty beacon that is rubber?
I know this has something to do with an art exhibit or something that we went to, but the thing that makes most sense to me is that at the exhibit, I had started my list and then an unusual rubber dripped on me from the ceiling, causing my brain to freak out. The rubber melded with my skin and became a separate brain, full of its own ideas and fusing with my nervous system to take it over.
I became a supervillain.
What I wrote down on that list continued to be ideas from my own brain (not from the external rubber skin-brain), and my brain couldn't connect to the rubber in any way and was completely out of the loop. Number 7, therefore, is my brain trying to figure out what the rubber was doing to me.
Meanwhile, the rubber skin-brain took me on a rampage of the city, destroying various art venues full of snooty pretension and splashing their precious wine on passersby. I became known as Rubbergirl, and such a ridiculous name was still able to strike fear in the hearts of vain artists everywhere. Real-life superheroes like Cory Doctorow tried to fend me off in fear that I'd take on the Internets next, but the rubber made me nearly invincible.
My real brain continued trying to work something out with number 8 on the list, which gave clues about where the rubber came from and what it wanted with me - why it was here. I remembered the rubber had dripped from a flying saucer-shaped skylight - it was infused with an alien presence! I was being bodysnatched! I had to hurry and disconnect it from my system before it took over everything!
But the problem was how connected it was to my nervous system - it was gaining more and more power, and I had little to no means of fighting it. In lucid moments when my brain still had control, I attemted to rip the thing from my arms, tear it from my legs, to no avail.
At this point the alien living in the rubber realized I'd become a threat and began its move to replace my human brain with the entirety of its rubber self. I continued to struggle, as you can see in number 9 - I tried to guess where the rubber infused with alien presence would strike next. But that last word - "personal" - is where my brain was finally overpowered, because clearly the alien wanted nothing to do with my personal connections.
It wanted my artistic connections, so it could sneak in undetected at art openings and galleries to spread its vile hatred throughout the city. Really, the alien could not have chosen a worse host, because I have practically zero artistic connections. But I wasn't going to tell it that. It could find out on its own, for all I cared. It probably tossed my real brain in a garbage dump somewhere to make room for its rubber self.
Number 10 on the list is blank because most aliens don't know English, and it didn't have my brain to draw on for that knowledge anymore.
That's what I think the list means, anyway. Makes the most sense.