whatever you're looking for

Dark Room Diaries

an empty lot

Running Woman 12: The Resolution

I've decided to sign up for a 10K run (6.25 miles). Why do I torture myself, you ask? (Actually, I don't think anyone reads this f*cking thing, so maybe the question is directed to the friends in my head - Madonna, Oprah, Tori, Angelina, Amel, Cheri, Parker, Wendy, Snooki, etc... ) Because I'm convinced I like putting myself in painfully annoying & equally exhilarating situations that never result to anything but an incredibly exhausted heart.

I ran 2.6 miles in 29 degree frosty weather through a path right out of a Tim Burton sketch. Bare boned trees looked alive and ready to pluck me out of obscurity... or into it...

a thundering collision

of kandinsky

Liquid Television: Tim Burton

I saw this at the MOMA and couldn't help but feel a dark, spooky, horrorific, kindred connection.

Dark Room Diaries

The Walk

I was nervous when Papito M volunteered to take me for a walk. I had grandiose ideas about capturing a place I really only knew through song, 8mm films, countless childhood stories, and the yellowing black n white photos hidden in family albums. No one else had been interested. Still, we were oceans apart in years and frankly, I didn't know if my diminishing Spanish vocabulary would carry Papito M and me through an entire day. In the end, I got on board. On the bus that is. It drove up a steep hill, making turns at probably the same speed as the buses on the highway, and dropped us off in the hood. We walked. Maybe it was hours or days. He was 76, so time was important and irrelevant. Words were light as a feather. Although, he tends to be quiet anyway, I couldn't help but believe I was understood. He was patient. Brave. Silent. A gentleman. He was everything I needed to reconnect, then bought me lunch!

When we got back from our walk, Mamita A was pissed we ate. This meant she was worried, but was too proud to care. When Uncle A asked about the sites, I couldn't find words to describe them.... I remember the Virgin statue at a dangerous traffic circle. There was a stairway "to heaven." Lightbulbs dangling from trees. Homes where future lovers lived. Old men playing cards. Fútbol dust. It was brilliant. Papito M was brilliant. And mostly I described him...

an angel.

Dark Room Diaries

My profesór told me last night that I need to take a chance. There's a vast gray area, but black and white is not yet defined. A bit foggy. New cameras mean long learning curves, but... "Let the image unfold," he said. "You are holding back because of all the intricate details." "Let (them) go."

I'm wondering if he was referring to my latest prints.

Warhol Wonders

“Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?”

Happy Halloween, superstars.

DayTrippers

The Derelict and I must be kindred spirits. I called him frantically asking a rhetorical that he was none too happy to answer anyway. "Why am I such a tard?!" I lost my keys tonight, so it begged the rebel yell and this is so very typical. I lose everything, including love, and keep threatening to get more organized. My heart rate exceeded its maximum potential and my cheeks burst into plum tomatoes. How else to find brick-heavy keys? Of course, my professor, who of course I have a secret, darkroom crush on, entered the picture. He was there for the chivalry. Then, after all the slightly composed dramatics, I found my keys at Public Safety and his day was done. I digress, the Derelict answered with a, "Well I've given this a lot of thought..." and obliged. His explanation went something like this -

I've been trying to figure out who was worse. I used to think I was a little better off and you were just a bumbling tard floating through life clueless, but now I think maybe you're winning and I'm just a bigger one. The problem is we're daydreamers - living as if we had all the time in the world to be creative. We don't want life to progress because we haven't achieved our goals. Change is hard on us.

The Derelict said a lot more that was pretty hilariously poignant, as he fumbled around to find his wallet.

Running Woman 11

My sister made me run today. It will be the first at 38 years young. What a difference the fall air makes. It tasted like my freezer. I crawled and clocked in at 2.5 miles. It should have been faster and longer, but I'm older now.

Liquid Television

Tonight I met up with a monster.

The kind that paces under

your bed or plays in the

deepest, darkest, corner

of your mind. Longing loveliness

from a bouquet of roses

and in the end

a windy walk home.

I was flirting with danger

all along. A long, humiliating night

listening to the music

that was never gone.

I am who I am.

Even on my

birthday, I can

sing. So, tiny little Monster,

I give you -

my stars.

Seen & Heard

* Baby #7 crawling on wet grass straight toward a big puddle as super Z mom and her college B gal pal watched in awe.

* "I'd rather deal with a player than a p*ssy." - Queen(s) M w/wine glass in hand, legs crossed, & tude in full effect.

Dark Room Diaries

I printed until my eyes burned and my back gave out. The result was dark and moody and maybe "obvious." Note to self, the O word hurts more than "unoriginal." Reminder to my other self, everything isn't original and nothing is ever obvious.

Dark Room Diaries

I have begun my Photo 2 class - a room full of young, starry eyed art majors each with something immensely important to say/show. Me... I dunno. I lost 3 cameras recently. My heart gets a little crushed every time I think about this - losing 3 eyes, 3 perspectives, 3 time machines. I have nothing terribly important to express except that loss sucks and mourning sucks more.

3 weeks later and my new, very old, very used, usually trusty Hasselblad has arrived. A scary strapless beast with a silver lens. What if it can't be tamed? What if I suck? A good friend of mine says that ONE is the secret to success. I hope he is right.

Our first day Photo 2 assignment was to submit an art proposal. Mine will be to explore lost objects. I would elaborate as I did in the essay I presented my professor last week, but it was immensely convoluted & slightly hopeful. It was something to say.

Liquid Television

Thank you, CC, for reminding me of my bunnytastic angst over Jaaaake!
John Hughs RIP

Seen & Heard

* Two cute, cynically hopeful, anti-chicklit, but pro-Amy-n-Meryl, New York gals sharing sweet pad thai and The Office dreams.

* "I think Black sleeps with dolls" - Cupcake

Liquid Television

Seen & Heard

* Sand, sun, river, and rain in Long Island City as the master, Jellybean, played a house track with a "Summer" chant.

* "I just woke up one day and realized I was a stranger in a strange land." - The Derelict

The Secret to Surviving NYC

analyze
adapt
overcome

...in the midst of Beauty

Becoming Bacon

Sometime in June, I lost my voice. I've been sore a dozen times, but this was different. I felt drowned in charcoal. Most of the week I tried not to speak. But the worst of it was not being able to sing. The steam from my morning showers drifted in to the very chord and nothing. No song. It's dramatic to say, but I didn't exist. When I saw this painting - the figure - it reminded me of June. Bacon is my June.

Running Woman 10

i took my first spill ever. in my defense, the neighborhood is a bloody obstacle course. as if a g*d damn forest was trying to reclaim its name by force. it was also hotter than hell, my legs were heavy, and i was simply not ready to just do it. the tingling on my knee began when i rolled over. then it was burning. then my face was. i got up, finally, shrugged off the cellphones and eyewear, and kept on running. it was good to get up like that.

Rossetti Rising

It seems Dantes keep coming in and out of my lives every few hundred years. Happy Memorial Day, D, whenever you are.

the story of stuff

Running Woman 9

Am I running from autonomy or towards it?
..................................................................Almost made the mile mark.

Butoh in the Box

I went to see this man, Imre, perform last night. The most beautifully bizarre, demented dance form I've ever witnessed.

Luton

I met an 80 plus year old gentleman in Luton, who moved here from Ireland by way of a passenger train. He jumped off nearly breaking his toes with not a pence in his pocket. It would be a better life, he thought. A future for his Irish gypsy bride, too. She was a jealous one. Always watching like a hawk to see if there were any flirty false moves. "I can't help it," he told me she'd say. He, on the other hand, stood proudly at 6'2" when men at the pub so obviously admired her beauty. This Irish gentle giant had boxed his way through a rebellious youth until they met. Indentations and scars. A crooked nose. Though fighting was quite lucrative in gypsy world, his wife wouldn't have it. Can you blame her? She was tough and devoted. And all her insecurities spilled out over tea and then beer. Time passed in Luton - the stories repeating each time with a brighter twinkle in the old man's eye. When the sun started to set, we both realized it was a miracle to remember the sky blue.

lower EAST side

Below is part of an art exhibit my buddy, Bill, curated on Valentine's Day. The peeping tom snapshots of the photos are mine, but the text is all his. View and read at will.

A Relationship Left for Dead on the Lower East Side
Cuchifritos Gallery / Project Space

A few years back my old friend, Patrick Cunningham, handed me a photo album he'd found lying on the curb somewhere on the Lower East Side. He knew that I had a soft spot for "found photography" and figured I'd appreciate the anonymous trove.

I went home that day and spent a considerable amount of time pouring over the album. From what I can tell, it is the chronicle of a gay couple's relationship through a good number of years in the 90's. The pictures are intimate, personal, and, as one might expect, range from silly to sober. Haircuts evolve, fashions change, weight is gained and lost. A collection of tiny moments memorialized but nothing special, really, aside from the fact that this carefully constructed record of a relationship was left on a curb in the Lower East Side.

Revisiting the album after some time, I noticed something unique about it: The two men never appear in the same picture. They never sit next to nor hold one another. They never ask friends, relatives, or strangers to take a snapshot of them together. Each man simply poses for the other, the camera lens uniting them. These pictures tell a story of isolated admiration/adoration made manifest only through the architect of the album itself.

I often wonder if the couple is still together. I hope to meet them one day and, as difficult as it would be for me to part with it, return the album to one or both of them.

--Bill Previdi,
Independent Curator, NYC

Here's hoping what we find in this life is worth keeping a while. I'm off to make some images of my own. Overseas. Heading EAST.

the big O

  ran out of crocks,
  so i settled for a giant coffee cup
  to host a hearty, homemade
  Onion soup. not quite
  as good as what i had in Paris,
  but pretty damn tasty for
  my very first time.

Seen & Heard

* My father's feet gliding across the wooden floor to a tango-waltz as I hold on tight.
* "It's awesome going through stuff with you. Thank you, thank you for loving me." - Jewels

Sleepless in the Hills

I had lots to drink tonight. Lots could mean an entire bottle or just 1 wine glass. In this case, it was 3. I spilled some... and do remember not filling them up to the rim... Perhaps it's more appropriate to say that tonight was one goblet the size of my fist that got me drunk. Forgive my rambling on. I've been startled out of a deep slumber. Socks still on (oooh, I hate that). My friend drank along with me. My dear friend, who was kind enough to listen to a story about a fear of mine the size of my fist. In fear-speak, that's just too f*cking big. We shared ideas about having fear. Understanding what is. I dare say, even accepting its existence in our respective worlds. In my drunken haze, I told about an incident with the patriarch in my family and opened a wound. But, I also told him how this experience lead to the healing of another. Our conversation then jumped into the aging process, confidence versus not caring, who affects us, what doesn't matter, where art falls into the love equation... ah yes, and then we decided that "love is not something you find, it's something you build." In this instance, just now, I realized what startled me.

We ended our night with Indian food and a rather goofy conversation about years from now when we are too old to drink up and hopefully still building.

Sleepy now... zzz

Deliver Us...

"The only time Christ ever got angry was when he went to church."
- Father Tom Doyle

Dark Room Diaries

Tires © 2008
Part of the "land series" still in working progress.

Lyre

Wondering why I have trouble hearing his call. Shshshsh...

The Three Amigos

1. Wasabi asked me to meet her for some good old fashion girl talk. Considering our recession-proof wallets, we decided on soup-only meals at Legal Seafood and some contraband wine. Yes, the L.S. New England Clam Chowder is totally worth the trouble. First we needed to hit the mall to "window shop," so the wine came in travel cups. We got buzzed at Jcrew, Victoria's Secret, then LEGAL Seafood. Last stop was Barnes & Noble. Wasabi brought a chess set and tried to teach me how to be an "intellectual"'cause reading just doesn't cut it. Does anyone actually read at B&N? Anyhoo, we polished the bottle (in our plastic travel cups) and our little aristocratic board game got quite lively. I don't know if it was the wine or the fact that she's refreshingly unapologetic about the unimportance of intellect, just the mock appearance of such, but we tied. She might have let me tie.

2. Ritz and I went to see "He's Just Not Into You." I'm sure this joke has been used to bits in various movie reviews, but here goes... I was just not into this movie (laugh track). The characters were so flat, I kept hoping Jason would pop in with hockey mask and machete (trailer for Friday the 13th was sicker than actual movie) in tow to beat some life into them. Jason's not pro-life, I don't think. Ritz, on the other hand, is! Her belly is beautiful. I got dinner & the movie, so she got dessert. Reese's Pieces and Kit Kats. Now that I'm into. We managed to giggle our way through the sweet night.

3. On a sunny Sunday, the one forecasters were drooling over, Derelict and I walked around Williamsburg. Both of us are from the Die-Yuppy-Scum Era, so we reverted back to throwing F bombs in every hipster's direction. The bright sky was tainted with our angst! Poor American Apparel clad, afro or dreaded sporting, flip flopped vegans never had a chance. In their defense, they have cleaned up the hood. In their offense, they've destroyed anything remotely original about the Burg and managed to lure the same greedy developers that infiltrated downtown in the 90s. Note the missing view of the pier from 6th & Berry. Derelict and I are often quite jaded, and when it's bad, apathetic (yikes), but put us together on a street corner and fireworks! All in the name of fun, of course. Too old to be too serious. We listened and jumped around to all sorts of rowdy music with ginormous headphones (not mine, I swear). D did his best Peter Murphy impression and I pretended not to be embarrassed. The moments mattered more than sunny piers.

Meet Munch

Never mind The Scream. This opulent painting I saw once in Brussels - or was it London - in the early 90s, when I was young and bemused and it was all I knew about love.

Dark Room Diaries

Untitled © 2008
Part of the "land series" in progress and also untitled.

Seen & Heard

* A dusty and uncorked 1999 bottle of Chateau Latif and, to my surprise, in excellent drinking condition.
* "A curious mind to the point of self-destruction. That makes the great artist." - Uncle P & Tipsy

When I Consider How My Light Is Spent

So the story goes like this. MM wants to send me a link to a Milton poem because the first line is exactly how he feels. I ask if it's long on account of my ADD, which I don't actually have, but remember his poems being bloody books long. He sends, I read...

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,...

I gasp and get up recalling an elegy by Milton somewhere in my library. My memory stinks. Shortly after, I inform MM that I've given up because the light is out, so I can't f*cking see. MM screams via instant messenger, "Eureka!"... (ok, let me indulge). He concludes that
I AM THE POEM!

Fin

The story doesn't suck as much if you were a part of my cyber convo. Mostly what it does do is remind me of what I miss.

Running Woman 8

It was a perfect day to run from love texts, a professor's Mavis invitation, calls from Mr Marketing. The crunching of the leaves louder than A Summer Wind martini or the Go Baby Go blasting in my ear. I ran from two lonely, English women, whose world of books and a boy could no longer contain them. I ran from the crepes party, compliments of a real Frenchman, the shoe designer, who runs to Italy to find herself running back, and the artist whose wife simply wasn't there. All the runners were, so I ran, too, faster than the scandalous Sunday green. When does it fall?

I Killed Cyrus

And in my leather gloved hand I carry 3 bottles to clink and taunt my enemies with. I'm such a badass bopper.

Dark Room Diaries

Pitch black. I turn the wheels hoping the film's hooked and moving along. A G*d damn miracle I'm doing it without a hitch. My mind is on industry. Mass production. Machine versus nature. The theme I'm considering for further exploration. It's not a new concept and has probably been recycled a million times over. So f*cking what?! That IS industry. It all started when I found a dead tractor on the field yesterday. There were weeds and berries and shrubbery growing all around it. Swallowing the engine. I thought about the land that once was. What is. If I had been standing 5 feet away those berries would have been grapes and hell, I'd kick the dust, too. Makes no difference. Nature always wins. My Canon will be ready.

Garbage is Good

You're such a delicate boy
In a hysterical realm
Of an emotional landslide
In physical terms

Go baby go

Dark Room Diaries

I'm taking a photography class to satisfy my creative urges. Music & dance are lulling a bit and The Pink Room is closed for renovations. I used to be an art major once you know. But my Venus must have been in retrograde because I became incredibly indecisive about burnt amber, shading techniques, what angle to sketch on the angle of a cube, etc... I simply lacked conviction. It's also full circle for me. In high school, photography was serving the same purpose. I desperately needed a new medium and there it was in black-n-white. The science of it all was a relief. Surprisingly enough, it still is today. I live in the dark room. Strange things happen there in "Mars," as I like to call it. Time is folded in half and I come out with gray hair, a meager 4 prints, and into the night. Developing is a whole other planet. Or just outer space. Blindness. I'm a terrible blind person, fumbling with things that can hurt. Scissors & can openers. Anyway, I'm loving darkness. It's not pretty. It stinks actually. Lots of toxic chemicals. Very Dr. Frankenstein. He had creative urges, too. Hopefully, with a little luck and trays full of conviction, I will create a print that's luminous and alive.

Coming Soon...

to a catwalk near you in October, 2008.

Vavavoom shoes brought to you by Ritzzzzzzzzzz

Let-A-Rip

I met this man, Rip, at a dinner party. He asked me out. My voice moved up 5 octaves as I gave about 5 responses with no real answer to his question. Real smooth.

Police artist sketch by Cupcake

“Wine is bottled poetry.”

-Robert Louis Stevenson

Seen & Heard

* A man on his bike in his final race to hide.
* "Sometimes the answer is in a chainsaw." - The Derelict

Lost in Space

For future reference: All the love in the world
can't save someone who is lost in space.

I Surrender

Cycle 7

I attempted to do one of the 5BBC Perimeter Series without any training. Bad idea. I didn't make the 45 miles & probably won't do another perimeter until I've acquired some road mileage. In spite of this "speed bump," I learned that I possess a great will to make something of my tiny frame - and the 14" steel one I ride. My body pushed harder than it could through a place I've never seen in the daylight. Three things about Staten Island: (1) The people don't really care for cyclists (2) The island does have some beautiful views (3) Many of the street names end with the word "Kills." We lunched at the Conference House grounds. It turns out Great Britain & its subjects tried to make peace after signing the Declaration of Independence at this very house. As you know, that conference never quite worked out. Neither did the weather. It started raining. With clouds looking like they meant business (possible T-storms), our sweeper getting a flat, & then wrestling with his tangled chain, the leader decided we should train it home. Good thing. I was spent. We got on at Totenville, the last stop on SIR. It took about 40 minutes to get to the ferry. G and I decided to chance the now heavier rain (T-storms never actually came). We rode back over the Brooklyn Bridge soaking wet. No matter, it was worth it. Staten Island ain't the only borough with beautiful views.

Sunday total: 36 miles

Dreamboat

A Butterfly Takes Manhattan

A Man : In the Key of G

It's not
What you thought
When you first began it
You got
What you want
Now you can hardly stand it though,
By now you know
It's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
'Til you wise up

You're sure
There's a cure
And you have finally found it
You think
One drink
Will shrink you 'til you're underground
And living down
But it's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
'Til you wise up

Prepare a list of what you need
Before you sign away the deed
'Cause it's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
'Til you wise up
No, it's not going to stop
'Til you wise up
No, it's not going to stop
So just...give up

A. Mann

Terrifically sad with my shifting of memories and my missing G.

Pale Face

I took off from work to see my man, Gustav, and teared up some. There are only two other artists to make my eyes all watery, Pablo & Vincent. Sadly, there were not enough of Gustav's paintings, but still enough to gain inspiration from. Incredible pencil, sometimes charcoal, sketches of gorgeous, mysterious women. Portraits, too, of ghosts in the dim light. Oh, those women haunted me through the murky subway ride home. Harlots swimming in the lightweight, neutral, translucence of the beige backdrop. It made them more erotic if that's even possible. The one painted lady in all her golden glory, Adele Bloch-Bauer I, can be seen anytime. I think NYC is her home. But what was most stunning was another oil. Her name, Pale Face. I dare say she could make Mona Lisa blush with her wily smile.

The Pink Room

I just got back from the first art session with my super-cool-Queens-Boulevard-of-death-artist-pal, "Dee." Dee, also an accomplished photographer, has surreptitiously become one of my idols. How can I deny a woman who rendevouzed with Sonic Youth? This latest experiment I'm calling, The Pink Room. The color may change depending on my mood. Kinda like a mood ring. A mood blog! For tonight, it's pink in her honor.

So I did 2 still life sketches, while Dee finished a commissioned piece. One was in graphite with a dash of pink, orange, green.... The other, though unfinished, is more involved. Graphite, strong colored pencils, & ink. My fingers are now possibly a permanent shade of gray. I like to rub... I did remember not to wipe my hands on my "girlie girl" (as Dee would call it) blouse. 'Cause I so would have done that 10 years ago.

Cycle 6

I did it! For the very first time in my life, I went riding on a trail - hootin' and hollerin' like a cowboy. I must have swallowed a hundred bugs. What sheer delight. I even made it to The Brickyard, which is the playground for black diamond riders and a graveyard for bricks from a factory long gone. But that was three quarters of the way through. By then, roots and sand became serious sore spots (literally). The air got so thick you could cut it with a jack knife. I had trouble swallowing. A little heatstroke. Naseous. My body felt wild. Sidebar: I'm forming a punk band and calling it The Heatstrokes. It will feature Zach Wylde (yes, I met him once) smoking his guitar and me rapping like Chuck D. Anyway, the ride rocked my world. If I squinted, I was deep in the woods. I rode on the narrowest path and, in squint mode, thought we were in a swamp. Like maybe a crocodile was eyeing me for lunch. Next time it was a forest. A mountain. Then we'd hit pavement. Me and the dude, who sounds like New York circa '79. I had trouble getting back what with the temperature rising after noon. It was a rather late start to get on a trail around the world.

Public Enemy is Poetry

I got so much trouble on my mind
REFUSE TO LOSE

Running Woman 7

Got caught in the rain, so I only made 1.5 miles. I had to wait in the Gardens under a bridge on Burn. I looked up to see the clouds in black n white. Perfect photography weather. Of course, I'm cameraless and no longer plateless. Why does mother nature have to mess with my flow? I sprinted, mostly skipped, from tree to tree all the way home.

new ritual

my new favorite flower is the moth orchid. i bought one. i was in home depot, again, with the best of intentions. i passed by the screwdrivers, socket wrenches, & power tools that could "do the job" going straight for the green. i'm restless, so i bought one. a most striking purple. i tried to find the color on the internet and discovered orchid is a shade. didn't know. so i have this delicate little thing in an aqua marine mixed with sky blue bowl on a pretend antique wrought iron plant stand sitting at the foot of my bed. nice way to wake up. new ritual: buy something flowery when things just "don't work."

Plateless

My front license plate is missing. Not just missing, it's gone. Stolen. It happened in Brooklyn. Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Kids from nowhere, everywhere. Cops, too. No one can see. A hood is still a hood. And my bumper is totaly f*cked. The rest of the car, intact. I filed a report. It took longer than necessary. Precincts are slow. Clerks, slower. The female officer handling my case, she was cool. She had blue-gray eyes. They were the size of marbles. Caramel skin. A diamond ring. She took down two perps. Perps is short for perpetrators. Hit one with a club. The other, smashed his head against the pavement. Cuffed'em. She was tough. Alone. Blue-gray eyes like marbles. Her rotator cuff is f*cked though. F*cked Like my bumper. That's why she sits behind a desk. Sean Bell is not so innocent. People don't know. She said so. Rap sheets and a gun. But 30 shots is f*cked up, too. Everything is. My back plate is still there. That's all I know. Not for long. I'll be handing it in. A waiting room. For my number. Plateless. Alone.

telefono publico

On the edge in Medellin, Colombia. It was the only phone for miles.

Running Woman 6

my marachino-cherry-tomatoes sprouted some kind of sun-kissed wonderful leaving it's bright yellow imprint on puzzling petals. more reason to love the tulip in red.

Running Woman 5

Some of my "cherry tomatoes" turned into actual marachinos. Others have opened wide and even lost a few petals as if whatever was coming out of its finespun, blood-red cocoon was a Last Rite. Beautiful still.

In Memoriam

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.

--Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1849

I held my grandmother's hand wondering where she was - "Dear Mamita." After a while, my grandfather asked if I could pick up the priest. I was afraid, so I asked if he could come with me. Papito, my grandfather, is a giant. He waited patiently for translated explanations that beared no meaning. He then sat in the car, while in all my humility, I walked with Father Michael into the place that had always managed to comfort me - church. Father Michael unlocked the secret oils and bread, blessed them both, and brought it all with us. The Jamaican accent made him sound like he was the only one who could speak the language of angels. We prayed together in the room, hoping Mamita could hear us, and loved together just the same. I drove the priest back in tears for having lied about my faith. I know God understands that I needed to believe in this for a moment. My Dear Mamita, I hope she has found her way.

Running Woman 4

I officially began training for the first of many, I'm afraid, 5K runs this season. I ran hating every step and wondering how best to get revenge for my darling sister's most tenacious efforts have left me... breathless (ha). During this 2 mile trip around the hood I decided that red tulips have replaced the white as my favorite flower. I can't say why except that I spotted 7 of them like cherry tomatoes swaying in the breeze. I almost took a bite! I also spotted about 4 freshly planted trees. I like to think that I am 1/156th responsible for why they’ve been popping up all over the place. I did harass the Forestry Department (yes, I was as obsessed over it as congestion pricing and no, I don’t support the latter) for 3 consecutive months in '06 to quit chopping trees if they weren't going to be replaced. I managed to persuade them with charm and threats. Forgot which worked. Oh, there was a confused, older gentleman, who I’m guessing was homeless, surrounded by cops & overpriced prewar buildings. I was stuck waiting for the light to change, thereby witnessing him being taken away in an ambulance. A bit of a downer, but at least it wasn't the squad car whisking him away.

I’m back and, strangely, not tired. Time to get some (even stranger) reading done. Ever read “Let Us Now Praise Famous Men?” It’s more like an experimental documentary of James Agee’s observations of 3 tenant farmer families during the Great Depression. Very stream-of-consciousness or journal-esque (I made that up). There are chapters that have no periods whatsoever. Talk about running on. Maybe I’m just old fashioned… and lazy… and like to eat… cherry tomatoes.

earthstruck

happy earth day

Mi Familia

I have a family party tonight. I'm going without my would-be date, but I'd much rather stay with him. If someone said ten years ago that one day these events would become dreadful, I might have laughed. It has been ten years of crushes, flamenco, fighting, jamming, writing, wine tasting, flying, a whole lot of eating, aching, and love, love, love... How do I explain all that without looking like I've accomplished nothing? 200 over-acheiving, opinionated, hilarious, passionate, crazy Colombianos, or possibly more, to smile for. I know one day, maybe sooner than ten years from now, with any luck, tomorrow, I'll stumble upon this entry and think tenderly of the younger woman I was.

The Astronaut

But one more thing -
if anybody's listening, that is.
Nothing scientific. It's purely personal.
Seen from out here,
everything seems different.
Time bends.
Space is... boundless.
It squashes a man's ego.
I feel lonely.

George Taylor - "Planet of the Apes," 1968 sci-fi classic

Here Comes The Rain Again

Rain today felt heavy on my freshly massage oiled face making it difficult to jump over puddles. The Boulevard looked oddly abandoned, maybe even broken, so I ran as best I could towards home. My home with plants drying, a barron fridge, chipped paint, missing doorknobs, a coffee stained couch, etc... By the time I got there, I was drenched with all the good work mixed in this water and nothing like skin was smooth anymore.

For Maya

A lovely young lady, who is as sweet as a red velvet cupcake with freshly whipped cream cheese frosting and as sexy as the lightest touch from a feather, a petal, or rye grass on your palm.


Path to the Peconic River in Riverhead, NY - 10/07

SnowBlinded

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

So life was bleak the other night. I lost one of my dearest friends to what I can only surmise as pride's crippling hand. Why else do people keep quiet? Then the moon inched it's way back into the dark sky. I howled (inside) with happiness for the miracle even though I knew it would be temporary - a passing joy. The shiraz I had with MM, another dear friend, wore off, MM left for Queens Blvd, and, in my apartment, the growing moon was no longer in full view. P was gone again.

Today, it snows. Light everywhere. It's like my god is saying, "ok, see if you can beat this, little girl." I could have easily driven to work. I've seen worse storms way up north. But, on the way to dust off my car & beg for a shovel I couldn't stop giggling. The 6th grader in me wants snow angels and igloos. And today, she wins.

I'm off to play. Photographs to come...

P

I just ran into an old friend. He was the smartest, funniest, most intellectual (without being pretentious) best friend I've ever had. A professor, a teacher, a student, an artist. I wanted to BE him. He never told me why he stopped taking my calls or answering my emails, so when I saw him tonight, a year later, I sank into the bottom of a 2005 Chateau Latif. The bottle 6 of us "old friends" opened to celebrate a reunion of sorts. No one else had any knowledge of our affair. Not a love affair, but this deeper connection. And like those "affairs," it had been starting to show its age. The pressure from years of secret meetings only to discuss paintings, immigrant parents, the best light for taking photographs, & of course, love that (for me) remained elusive. I saw him moments ago and did something unlike me. I crossed the miles between us and asked why. Stupid move, I know. The answer, I also knew. We were hurting each other. I chose to forgive. He chose to forget. We, it turns out, were, are very different.

To The Salt & Pepper Shakers

My graying i.m. buddy, MM, says that lately his words reveal the salt in his pepper when it comes to the ladies. My response, "Bring that mattress strapped to your back over here!"

Happy V. Day, killer, & to all the salt & pepper shakers I adore.

In the Dust

I read "Flags in the Dust" in 3 days. I'm not a speedreader, but I have been known to misinterpret a syllabus, so that I'm spending a full weekend cursing my professor for being a cold hearted bastard (or bitch). Turns out I read too much. Anyway, there were moments of unadulterated adoration for Faulkner's elegance and an ardent frustration awakening those deeprooted pyromaniacal tendencies of mine over style. He's a lunatic with all this time business. And lately, it's a sore spot - I've got time, but not really. Also, Faulkner manages, sometimes, to capture an entire mood within an endless page with such patience & precision I wonder if his hands ever touched dirt. My mind is racing tonight because time means memory. Another sore spot since discovering how forgetful one can be... or better yet, how I've managed to make heros out of past loves and heaven out of past lives. According to the book, everybody does.

Seen & Heard

* My little sister crying when I passed the metal detector. I didn't realize it until I called in tears. Low & behold, so was she. Waving and a cell never felt so far away.

* "You make me so happy." I thought I was dreaming. Dusk settled into it's greyish blue and I was half unconconscious. Maybe I was all the way there. Either way is good.

The Hills

really are alive amidst plump statues and loose canons. They're burning eyes, but you'd convince yourself it was the sun. I walked for 5 hours watching Papito; a barefoot boy with salt pepper hair. At times my eyes played tricks on me. Dried blood on tiled sidewalks. A pool - streams - upward. Running like el Rio Cauca from a satellite, across the musical bridge, and past the beating hearts of Medellin. Buses are alive, too. I was on one when reality struck. They bust their way through El Salvador, La Milagrosa, Buenos Aires while poets barely make it on those flimsy bikes. Streams becoming streamers of light. If you're not careful you may just be part of the tapestry. Y como es de hermoso vivir.

Soon

... I will be home again rubbing coffee beans. Staring at real life Boteros. Rediscovering the art of the leap. Orchids in orchards of light. Spring is eternal. And it makes me nervous - being this hyphenated American.

Whale Dream

I dreamt I saw a whale from a vessel. Well, only it's tail. Everything was in slow motion. We had both chased the sun in freezing winds and it was time to head South. The tail kept disappearing into the troughs of these enormous waves, which I seem to dream about often. At some point I touched its rubbery skin and firmly believe that sensation has somehow crossed over into a world where everything is fleeting.

Ghosts of Columbus Circle

   Sometime this month, I sat
   on the benches of Columbus
   Circle for a good 40 minutes
   and am now wishing I had
   looked through the lens
   more.

Rebirth of Cool

My girlfriend is friends with a pianist, who plays in a jazz quartet. We went to see them at Dizzy's Coca Cola Club. A thing to do on chilly nights. The mc introduced a special guest and in waltzes the legendary Pat Martino. It was magical. The players against the city lights. Keys, bass, sax, drums, and guitar. Notes caressing, then knocking each other off the charts. I don't think Mr. Martino opened his eyes once during his solos, as mine, probably the audience's, too, remained transfixed.

A few days later I went to a cafe in Astoria. A cool little jazz trio was playing in the late afternoon. It was perfect cableknit sweater weather. I drank tea and waited for the wind to pick up.

Greetings from Joey Ramone

Reasons why this year's Halloween costume was Gabba, Gabba, NOT:
a. The wrong wig.
b. Exactly 19 inches too short.
c. Booty.

What you don't see:
Converse low tops, faded CBs t-shirt, studded punk belt, silver chain hanging from pocket, tapered jeans strategically ripped at the knee & washed 100x so as to give the illusion that I'm a dirty sod, a Shure mic, Queens!

Running Woman 3

I did two 5K races on consecutive Saturdays. One for foundations that Battalion Chief D. Cross, who perished on 9/11, supported & another for endangered ridley sea turtles . Running was excruciating - a sad affair considering 5K is only 3.1 miles. It seems breathing has become cumbersome during most physical activities. I quit after 2 hours of biking, struggle extending notes when I sing, or in flamenco, can't quite do the long pieces of zapatiando without panting. Anyhow, I went from 35:05 to 33. Things are looking up. As much as I despise running, I'm going to continue. I've got to get my lungs, especially the heart, in shape again. There was a time, after joining a women's soccer team, when I could run around for hours. Kicking balls. Not getting hurt. Ah the good old days.

Milton Works

I made it!

Milton Work

Milton wrote an elegy, Lycidas, after his most ardent period, six years in the making in pursuit of immortality. What he grappled with, well I have an idea. I've decided, in honor of a man still living, when someone asks why I am alone, I will simply reply, "because I am working."

Speaking of work. I'm getting ready for what was supposed to be drinks with friends in celebration of the fall and my birthday. The latter being a mere ploy to get my friends in one place - so I could hold on. After sending the email, I realized I wasn't that person anymore. Someone who celebrates. It made me sad for a second, though I do appreciate this more quiet me. It's not that I can't be happy, but I'm not sure about what I "really, really, really want." And if you'll allow me to be a girl for a moment, getting ready sucks. It's arduous. Do I become Cheetah Rivera tonight? Flash my maryjanes? Break out the red lipstick?

Running Woman 2

Nope. I still don't like it. I'm gonna shoot for a morning run very soon. If I can stop hitting snooze.

Homonyms & Such

I saw the movie Babel over the weekend, which was so gripping it woke me out of my after-midnight slumber. Brad Pitt doesn't know how not to be beautiful. He's even better aged. Like wine, I suppose. Before that was Lost in Translation and before that I was feeling (and maybe still do) like I can't find the right words. So I guess everything is linked & packaged neatly into this tiny little box called blog. Anyway, I thought about Babel as I watched Bebel perform the other night. She's a Brazilian New Yorker who apparently whispers in a very heavy mix of accents. I couldn't understand her or anyone else. There was babble in the Hall that reverberated. Growing louder as the songs got creamier. This music was meant to entrance and I stood lost in reality. Part of that reality, too, was knowing I was in Columbia's neighborhood. Last week, I finally went on an official date with him. I'm smitten, but have a hard time accepting that. In fact, it's starting to hurt, so I decided to let go. My timing is always terrible. He's too difficult to figure out. It's morning. Instead, I'd like to focus on Colombia. I'm going back soon. I wonder if they, the people I used to refer to as "my people," will accept me or will I be mourning.

what do poets do

with degrees?

just wondering, since i spent the day with one who every time i glanced over was deep in thought. and when he wasn't thinking, because i asked what was on his mind, too, searched for what to think next.

Char's Echo

If you fear rejection, then you can’t find acceptance either…

Freudiant Thoughts

I've been thinking a lot about Freud and his theories on melancholia versus mourning. In particular, this idea that when one experiences loss, you must detach from the love-object and find a substitute. There are other processes that happen first, but ultimately, the idea is to avoid a serious spiraling into the melancholia, which I suppose is very difficult to climb out of, but remains elusive even to Freud. I was wondering if I, and others, too, have in fact been successful at finding substitutes or if we have simply learned to live with this new strain of sad. Functioning, some of us, in society like sleepwalkers and everything is part of breathing.

Just Call Me Cheetah Rivera

I bought a cheetah print, 3/4 sleeve, A-line, v-neck, jersey dress, dollface... to go with my maryjanes, of course.

Here's To The New

Today, was my first jazz rehearsal with the pianist, S. I was apprehensive because S is a real musician. When not tickling the ivory, he teaches music. In any case, he seemed enthused about working with a new voice. That made me doubly so. Nightmares, like this morning's, about the dissolusion of the JB Jazz Project, have been ongoing. I sometimes think my creative endeavors coming to an end hurt me more than heartache & crushes combined. Maybe there's no difference.

Yesterday, my friend, L, drove a speedboat on her own for the first time. It was mine, too, as a passenger. We "sped" up to 25 miles an hour (hey, she was nervous) around the Jones Beach inlet. Considering my fear of gigantic waves and even bigger sharks, I was thrilled to be there. The best was falling asleep, then waking up to Captain L and boatman G arguing over how on earth we got lost. Apparently, all bridges look alike to us rookies. Being lost on the water is so unique. It takes great patience and skill to find your way. I gladly helped read the map and counted green & red bouys back to Freeport. More fun than it sounds, I swear.

Afterwards, we met friends for M's birthday. Us girls drank and hooked up (not literally) with two Canadian brothers. I allowed myself to enjoy the compliments of the younger one, who I wouldn't be interested in if it weren't for his hottie-ness and my blood alcohol level. Talk about shameless flirting. It was almost as freeing as my earlier excursion.

Lastly, the day before yesterday, was Rob Zombie's Halloween. Once again, I made a big production of what was supposed to be only a handful of people going to the movies. Can you blame me? It's Michael Myers, one of the greatest villains of all time! Truth be told, I didn't think John Carpenter's classic needed a retelling, but I suppose it's nice to be bold enough to offer something new in perspective.

Labor of LOVE

I'm a famous grape picker, you see.

Niagara

Yesterday, I went to my uncle's friend's brownstone for the Latif Annual Wine Harvest Party in the Upper East Side. The entire place is laced with a very tall grape vine, so we, the crew, plucked the Niagara on the roof and from the windows on each floor. 500 pounds worth! The bags of grapes got carried down by a basket & some rope. We weighed, washed, crushed, pressed, strained, added sugar, & an agent from a small glass bottle with droppers, etc... It's all very mad-scientist's-experiment, except the lab is actually a charming little, secret garden adorned with wrought iron & aged wood. Then the giant glass jars of grape juice were stored for future bottling and corking. Labels feature an ink drawing of the brownstone, but each one is painted in watercolor by whomever at some other gathering. In return the friend, who is Einstein's doppleganger, fed us breakfast, lunch, a delectable Middle Eastern dinner & wine from years past. This party has been going on for over 20 years, you see. It's quite a treat and really hard work. I felt useful. Like my hands were doing what they were always meant to. This is my 2nd time, so I suppose "Einstein" is now my friend, too.

self portrait

Running Woman

Day 2 of a mile run. 5K seems like an eternity. I still despise running (unless I'm chasing after a ball), but gotta help save those sea turtles.

the buzzzzz

Sometimes I’m so drunk with this intensity - electric or electricity - through my veins. It comes like a strong wind peppered with rain and is only partly erotic because there are often other factors equally moving in different ways. Rhythm, poetry, trees, downhill biking, the stars. My point is that regardless of what kind it is, I’m so lost in that whirlwind of buzzzz that I can, um sometimes, make really bad decisions. It dawned on me tonight as I ride another one out and take giant leaps. Now I can get there, to that place, fairly quickly, with great ease, and here I am, so you do the math.

These were taken in Long Island City on July 4th, 2007. Kinda looks like the vibe I describe... so poorly. This is much better. More precise :)

Something Fishy

I use this giant coffee cup for my fishies whenever it's time to change the water. Since Miles is all I have, I poured him with all his baggage of bacteria into the cup. Octavio always felt secure. He was a fairly mellow beta. Miles is a different breed though. Young & hearty. A real warrior. I scrubbed the rocks and the walls of the bowl. Then I filled it with newly conditioned water. I left the kitchen for a few minutes, I swear. When I came back, Miles was lying on the floor gasping. He jumped! I'm telling you I haven't trembled this much since my stint in Austria. I scooped him up with a spoon and dumped everything into the bowl. Now, of course, he's in shock, but alive.

In other fish news - Not having cable is fine, but when I happen to catch a commercial on real television of a must-see program, it sucks. And, no one videotapes anymore for my viewing pleasure at home, so my sister agreed to DVR (that means digitally record for all you non-techies) 2 on Discovery. "Ocean of Fear" about how some of the U.S.S. Indianopolis crew survived shark infested waters and "Perfect Predators" about sharks' 400 million years of evolution. It's shark week folks. Psyched.

I think I have a phoebia of the ocean. More like being stranded in it. Left behind. I almost drowned once when I was a kid, but I'm not sure that's the reason.

Miles isn't moving much yet :(

Downside

And then sometimes beauty is right next to your feet or somewhere just below the waist.

Today was hard, so bare with me.

Looking Up

I discovered that I like to stroll, preferrably on tree lined streets, while listening to jazz and gazing at anything up above, so that I can't possibly know where I'm going. Here are examples of what you don't always see.



Does that make me a daydreamer? I sincerely hope not. I like to keep that sort of thing under wraps.

All In The Shoes

I bought professional flamenco shoes for last night's show. I can't believe it took me this long. It's not that they made all the difference, preventing any mishaps on stage, but those darn black, stitched, leather Menkes shoes from Spain held everything together. My entire life, so that I could make mistakes without falling hard or giving up.

Char & Rice were there. I was elated. Then there were flowers that Char gave me for, you know, my "brilliant performance," blueberry beer at Canterbury, and a full moon. All I remember. It's early.

Michael and Me

I invited Michael and her beautiful mommy to my company picnic. Mommy needed a break, so I pretty much took over for most of the outing. We sat on a boat and sailed around the Peconic River. Considering what's around the bend, a great big bay, the trip was tiny like my 3 year old guest. He sat on my lap and I pointed at the different birds. All I really knew were swans, Canadian geese, and the osprey, but even then I couldn't tell the latter from a hawk. I glimpsed at the kind of mami (espanol) I would be. I know I'd be intense in the way they should be. Anything for the little ones - a duck and her duckies in single file. Oh, and we saw them, too. Being close to Michael, or anyone (shorter) who calls me "Aunt B," is strange. That includes Ricky and Lucy, my sisters doggies :) I feel loved and a desire to protect, but I don't necessarily feel the need to bear. I'm not sure what that's about... or maybe I do.

We watched all kinds of fish swimming with sharks in the Atlantis aquarium. I wondered where their mommies were. Maybe they were all just adults and wondering.

Telenovela

I'm trapped in a g*d damn spanish soap opera! I mean I've got at least 3 good books in me & yes, one of them features Fabio on the cover. Maybe I was a f*cking prairie dog in my past life.

Ok, I'm done venting.

Friday the 13th Fun

I bought 3 new plants. Is there a name for my addiction? I spent almost 50 bucks. The sad part is that no matter how much attention I give, many of them wilt. They must be male. Anyway, my latest flower pot is covered in the most beautiful, blue chinese characters. It's for the new pilea, which supposedly doesn't need direct sunlight. I got plenty of low light spots here, so we'll see about that. After dropping my new friends off, I headed to the 42nd Street Pier. I actually danced on a boat (!) to this amazing tropical, tribal, garage house music while sailing around the island. Little Louie Vega, a hero of the Nuyoricans, was the MC and spun a delightful set. It had been so long since I went out dancing that I people watched mostly. I tried taking a picture of Lady Liberty, but it was difficult as the sun had already disappeared into the river. By 11ish, we headed back and the buildings did their creeping up toward the sky. Randomly lit windows formed patterns that seemed to flash like something you'd find at the brains of a computer... like maybe where the memory is. I never thought the Hudson could turn into silk, but it did. I got home at 2am. Early for some of my crazy friends. I was glad to be home, though, and pretty much disappeared under cotton sheets.

I just finished repotting my plants (today) and took care of the older ones. Miles is fed, too. Now I wait for Char, so we can be so lucky.

Dancing with a Darcy

You've bewitched me body and soul, Mr Darcy. Oh, Char knows just how deeply. We decided last night that hearing violins when we dance with a Darcy is not too much to ask. It's simply part of being completely, perfectly, and incandescently happy.

The American Dream

The American Dream - suburbia - is a farce, enslavement, creating an environment of repetition. Like a caged lion at the San Diego Zoo whose latest and last learned behavior is to pace instead of prowl. There is more to life than manicured lawns.

Bits and pieces of a conversation I had with P that I didn't want to forget. There was more to it, so no disrespect to anyone with any dream.

Meet Miles...

Davis -

another temperamental male in my life. Miles refuses to eat. Perhaps he's protesting his new home. Notice his face in the shade? Well, it took me forever to take the picture because he wouldn't swim to the sunnier side, the dirty rat... I mean fish.

I love him :)

Sound

It's not much of a photograph, but after last week's debacle where the words from someone I cared for felt like and were meant to be daggers, this weekend I searched for silence. What I found was sound.


The Long Island Sound on June 24, 2007

Drama Mama

I don't know why life has been dramatic these last few weeks, but maybe... I just like drama! Da da daaaahhh


Ok, seriously, I don't. Chipmunks (or prairie dogs?) on the other hand...

Cycle 5

Technically, I've been out since the last "Cycle" post, but can't remember how many times. I'm keeping the numerical order online. If it's a memorable bike ride, I'll write about it. Today, I rode with the Lithuanian for about 2 hours. We broke rules and hit the Forest Park horse trails. We even encountered a few horses along the way. One brown, two spotted, a couple of grays, black, etc... I wish I knew their names. The super fine gravel that makes it easy on hooves was not so good for tires. I kept sinking and sliding. It was quite a workout. I'm not ready for a mountain, but am starting to feel better about the uphill.

-->-@

Octavio's dying and it rains outside.

Junebug

I used to be an artist. Not a very good one. None the less everything I needed to say was on canvas, a sketchpad, or on print. Walking away from all that was easy, too easy, I think because the process got easy. There was no struggle anymore. And maybe that was also my laziness... falling in love, moving, falling in love again, moving, music... whatever it was that took over. Then it was fear. Forgetting how to hold a brush for instance. So I'm making a concerted effort. A brilliant photographer friend of mine is giving me a crash course. Photography 101. We are just walking and shooting. Not sure where yet. I'm pushing for Willyburg to start. If I crash, there's always Thai & beer.



I took this pic on my trip to Montauk 3 months ago. Camp Hero. Not bad for a shotty camera.

Last One

A list, my last one for spring cleaning, of what I should have given up ages ago:

soleares
the blue note
klimt
afterlife
magnolia

Most of you know I take comfort in ambiguity. In other words, the list doesn't mean anything to anyone, but me... unless you read minds, which I believe some of you do, so shshsh.

I'm excited about the prospect of turning ghosts into buried treasure and wonder how I'll ever sleep. Ah, to dream in blank canvases with fresh tubes of paint!

My Kisses....

are so hot, I can make a guy bleed from his nose.

Mustapha dared me to write that, so I apologize to my loyal readers, who expect really mature, errr emotional... somewhat funny.... totally confusing... silly... random blog entries. Oh waaaait a second....

Paisanas

I just found out that my mom never made it to high school. Neither did Mamita A. In those days it was common for Paisa girls to drop out. They'd go find work as seamstresses, cooks, or picked beans in the fields. You can imagine why. At 13, Mamita A said they were lucky to have learned how to read and write. I suppose I knew this, but wasn't prepared to handle the admission. I can't.

A silver lining. Mamita A used to write secret love notes on fruits like mangos to Papito M when they were 13ish. I do believe my mom met my dad around the same age and there were notes.

Mamita

Mamita (Colombian slang for grandma) Adela is in town. She's staying at my uncle's apt 10 blocks away, so of course I went over there to eat. After a fan-f*cking-tastic dinner, my uncle and I asked how she became such a fine cook. Long story short, my great grandfather wasn't around much to care for them financially. A local baker took pity on my great grandmother, Sofia (who I had the distinct honor of meeting again at 14). He commissioned her for some bread, "parba," and patties, "empanadas." Earning quite a reputation that increased orders, Mamita Adela had no choice but to get up at 2am everyday to help prepare food. By Jr high, she mastered all the Zapata secret recipes. Luckily, the nuns loved her, so she was able to get away with cat naps during class. My Mamita is a self-proclaimed spitfire (hot pink hello), even then. I imagine she took over Mamita Sofia's kitchen in no time. Same way she does now-a-days, where ever she goes... We just nod & lick our plates clean.

I

was told last night that I don't commit. That my writing is good and I'm one of their favorites (major shocker), but that I'm holding back. Why am I hiding? So there you have it folks. I can't commit even when undressed.

For P.W.

My friend is addicted to sex. It always "finds her," so she happily accepts this fate. I listen in admiration, and a dash of envy, to tales of wild escapades with one man, usually, for a short period. There are moments I swear she springs from a cloud. Speaking so freely I can't tell what color her eyes really are. Maybe that's the part I admire. The freeness, in spite of the plan. Long hours of excavation. Sometime when dusk and dawn are the same. Hell-women go blind down there. Nobody keeping watch. My friend knows this, that clever girl. Breathing good, unadulterated sex while she has off. And in the right light, her eyes are green.

isn't she lovely

happy earth day

Making Changes

An important poem I wrote for workshop was swallowed up by a very public computer. All its content gone. How did I manage to go from soaking wet, filled to the brim, belly aching, whole-lot-o-love full to zero items in less than 24 hours?

I'm making changes. TBC...

Instant Coffee Fix

I just got back from my walk to the market. It was umbrella carnage out there, but I was desperate for instant coffee. The wind was so strong I thought I'd end up dangling from a traffic light, at which point I'd have to test my Mary Poppins skills and attempt to land safely at the deli across the street. All for a cup. Thankfully, soaking wet jeans was the worst of the weather. This month I'm trying Bustelo Supreme, a company I remember fondly in my youth. Did I ever mention I started drinking coffee at age 3? Yes, that explains my height. Bustelo is 100% freeze dried Colombiana. It has to be tasty. Colombian imports always are, ouch!

April Song

I'm appreciating the simple pleasures with such heightened awareness I'm afraid I'll tip over. Even what is missing gets a song. Snowflakes landing on an eyelash or my tongue. Rocking a swing with arms stretched, so that my feet touch the sky. Most recently it was for magnolia. It meant tipping over backwards for the last time (I promise), but the patrons, if not my flower, heard me.

Happy Birthday William

Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;

If you guessed Lorenzo in The Merchant of Venice, you win a quill or a big, poofy, white shirt. I went to the Shakespeare Birthday Marathon at Hunter last night with two of the wittiest people ever. We laughed, we yawned, we growled. Our stomachs did anyway. Highlights included scenes from "As You Like It," "The Merchant...," "Much Ado...," with a wonderful assortment of actors, the hilarious "Complete Works (Abridged) - The Comedies," Tom Wopat singing a selection from "Kiss Me Kate" (I impressed everyone & showed my age big time by pointing out he was one of the Dukes...er of Hazzard), an opera singer, who might have been the best actor there, doing a piece from Verdi's "Falstaff," etc... We debated on when to leave because none of us wanted to. Ultimately, we did in the 3rd set. I don't care if it's William alive and well in his birthday suit, 3 hours is 3 hours too long without food in your belly. We ate pizza while plotting our next venture. Who knows what it will be. Probably something involving blueberries and beer, preferrably from Blue Point.

Cherry Pickin'

My idols today are sweet little ladies, who kick ass!

Happy Easter... from me, Cherry, & Cheri.

Stargazing

There are very few men, less than a handful, I would have wanted to take to the sod farms (which seem to get smaller every year). Just to see. One of them contacted me the other night. Sent me a poem. I'm not sure why because we were ages ago. It was sweet to have this mutual fondness for our brief togetherness. Stargazing. We held hands writing each other, I think, and then parted ways at dawn as old flames do.

Land of Talk

I've said too much. Always do. Is that a girl thing? I hope not. Otherwise, I'm really making us look bad. Maybe the talking will turn into one of those things a man cradles a woman for while she washes dishes. The stroking of my cheek or chuckling after I'm done telling, after I'm gone. Funny, I remember at times being silent when craving that kind of response most. Irony for the girls from the land of talk, I guess.

Thank g*d for live music. I was in there tonight, so I got to just listen. I'm good at listening.

Cycle 4

On Sunday I rode with a Puerto Rican vegan, whose dreads, among other things, would make Bob Marley proud. We drove to Central Park in a nifty jeep and did about 7 miles fairly quickly since it looked like it would downpour any second. I went down my first traily hill without falling. It/I was super cool. Later that day, I lost my balance admiring a f*cking brownstone in the midst of posh 10+ story buildings. Super lame. My left knee hit the hexagonal concrete and now I have a war wound with a cheesy back story to it. Damn you, yuppy scum!

Montauk

Antique shops, the Old Stove Pub, a pond surrounded by trees with old-lady elbows for branches, more vineyards, tiny cemetaries, horsies, those sacred dunes, a cliff, and the lighthouse... my head is swimming with impressions. Sadly, I only have these photos from an obsolete 3.3 megapixel camera. I'm hoping the others will be more of the "something-like" what I saw on March 24th.

My Favorite...

thing to do on Fridays, open up a bottle of wine and listen to jazz. Tonight on the bill is a 2005 Long Island Sauvignon Blanc by Macari and Billie Holiday Live at the Jazz Philharmonic. "No one but me and my memories..." - they sing. Feels so right.

Cycle 3

I rode with a pagan Lithuanian speedfreak, who looks a little like Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula (top hat scenes). A movie I just saw for the first time last weekend. It was windy (again), but I had on enough layers for snow. I also wore brand new, overpriced, cycling shorts (underneath pants of course... I'm no metrosexual!) with the extra padding. They were worth every penny. My big butt doesn't hurt.

Progress Report

Montauk - Not only did I make it, I took 3 different cameras! I'm so cool. So much about my trip meant nothing & everything all at once. 3 cameras were not enough.
Yoga - Shoveling snow w/dad all day forced me right out of procrastination mode & into yoga stretches. Not sure which was harder.
Jazz lounge - Postponed until I learn &/or I'm "On the Sunny Side of the Street." Slooowly inching across.
Cell Phone - Sleep time set. All caught up, too.
Friends - Got 3 down here for grub/wine/dessert/movie, so far.
Books - They keep popping up like dandelions & am I ever slow. Starting with D. Young instead of D. Koller. Is it cheating if it's due to an assignment?
Amaryllis - Withered. Snipped. Read there might be a bud left before dormancy. Keep an eye out.
Big Pot - Saw tulips at the market. Very tempting, but haven't decided between them & this weird plant with cool spider web patterns I saw at HD (Home Depot).
Pets - Just because pets (i.e. turtles) are slow doesn't make them easy to take care of. Stick w/bettas for now. Research starfish and seahorses (yes, that's my girlie side). Just got a lead on crawfish.
Salsa - Si.
Ride - First Sunday was tough. Blaming the tires and the wind :)
Hang art - This is lame. I don't have a hammer anymore. Plus, need another set of eyes for measuring. They (eyes) will probably want to check out what I'm hanging up? Ayayay. Plan b: Hang "Cyclops," then switch.
Max - I was THIS close!
Poem - Posted on March 21 and already I'm a little lighter.
Photos - Scroll down please.

Lingonsylt

I went buck wild at Ikea and bought Swedish lingonberry preserves. Now I just have this urge to stick my finger in the jar.

spring promise

I didn't exactly make one, but I did mention, on a list, something about sharing. It's officially spring, so what better time. Things have gotten heavy lately. My back hurts. And well, I workshopped this one last night. The sharing here will only be temporary. What season isn't.

What happens....

when you start doubting the one friend who insists - in the way you adore, but would never admit - that "you are beautiful"
?

A little of this maybe...

I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are out of joint;
my heart is like wax;
it is melted within my breast;
my mouth is dried up like a potsherd,
and my tongue sticks to my jaws;
you lay me in the dust of death.

-Psalms 22:14-15.

Sunny, but Windy...

and I'm out of shape.

Bike Log: Low tire pressure. Stomach growling. Neither is good for riding. Most gas stations charge for air. Not like the good old days. Next time carry change. A Russian (cyclist) pumped air in my tires. A Frenchman (neighbor) bought me lunch. Who says we all can't get along?

Voila!

"Lost" Time

I'm taking a break from lots of things. In this case, I've been writing Tipsy for a whole year. It's time. But, before I go, here is a list. A friend of mine posted one & it looked like fun. Things to do before I return:

- Make it to Montauk with a real camera.
- Restart yoga in the morning.
- Go to the "singer's open mic" at a Manhattan jazz lounge.
- Set my cell phone alarm clock for bedtime.
- Have each of my friends - the ones I owe - over for dinner, dessert, wine, a movie, or all of the above.
- Read books from "the pile," but start with Koller, then borrowed, then HP, then the rest.
- Check the amaryllis.
- Plant something in the big pot. Maybe tulips.
- Research pet turtles and other pet fish.
- Salsa!
- Get insurance for the '65 Chevy.
- Ride my bike on the first sunny Sunday.
- Hang up some more art pieces, especially the nude - she's beautiful, but take her down when I hear the buzzard.
- No more dating until the semester is over... unless I can't resist.
- Meet Max Roll (Charlotte knows why).
- Use my refund to buy a floor screen, a vacuum, & a plane ticket.
- Practice the castanets.
- Decide if I'm dancing this summer, going to school, or actually using the plane ticket.
- Post a workshopped poem & photos of my Montauk trip or of anything else listed. I will do this while on break.

Feel free to add anything to the list that I may have forgotten. Perhaps it will inspire me.

Off to watch "Lost." Perfecto!

Dear Soloman

Tonight, when we discussed Ecclesiastes and I heard myself say that the style in which it was written suits the randomness of life, or something to that affect, it hit me. What I think is random in mine is often caused by the patterns I fall into. And so with that in my mind, I'm thinking - of course, I should have hung up on R___. It was the right thing to do. Yes, it was immature. Hell (ha!), I'll never do it again 'cause it's just disrespectful and not me. But damn it, I'm going to "enjoy and be merry" with that one for a while. As for everything else, maybe I'd better shake things up a bit. Lay low. Toil. Drive to Montauk and finally use a real camera.

Two Buds and a Sculpture

Recently I discovered that my amaryllis sprouted two buds. I kept the bulb in the fridge for too long, so this is truly a miracle. I'm also usually all thumbs, none of which are green, when it comes to planting. Now I dream of colors. What will be. Enjoying the possibilities that don't feel very infinite, but are still at the very least two.

Another plant, singled out for the dried up leaves & soil, sits on my window sill, which is over the radiater. For a while it flourished on my coffee table. Leaves like giant spoons. I mixed the soil, watered it, gave it some sun, and one by one leaves froze and withered. I kept trying though. Knowing they would. Usually, oh and this is usual, I march off to Home Depot and buy a new plant, not wanting to recognize my failure. So why this one, whose name I forgot, is kept at all is a mystery.

I am looking at amyryllis in the midst of the little island jungle I created for winter and my solitary plant sculpture, once a bunch of giant spoons. Which is more beautiful? There's just no telling.

After Hours

I’ve been losing countless hours of sleep for as long as I can remember. As far back as age 6, staying over mamita's wondering when my parents would come for me. Vacationing in Medellin at 14 and realizing I wasn’t from there anymore. Losing it at 18 by drawing and painting all night, so I wouldn’t forget. At 20, finding a friend for life in my sister... when the nights were too long. In my mid twenties, it was tossing and turning over the in-love not being enough. Sometime during that time, discovering music and dance could be. Turning 30, in familiar territory, remembering what great risks can do. Then taking one anyway and staying awake until he was gone again. Buying something big at age 32, so my sleepless nights were filled with compressing the remembered into suitcases and cardboard boxes. Now here I am at 35. Awake and counting.

A Waltz in Astoria

Tonight I went to the Waltz-Astoria, a place I highly recommend. I expected to go alone and sing with a piano player I never met before. He is the organizer of their jazz night and well, I was taking my first jazz risk. It wasn't wonderful because there was no control. I was being swept back and forth by the keys and it was difficult to find my rhythm. I sang "Willow Weep for Me" and "Like Someone in Love." It was all very apropos considering... I took even more risks by taking a drag off of a cigarette, pretending it was heroine in a Harlem dive maybe, and drinking 2 glasses of wine like an old pro. A friend of mine came along. Unexpected. I was kind of giddy, which was really an attempt to mask my nerves from being with someone or just being. After confusing the word "misogynistic" for "massaging his d*ck" (I swear I thought that's what my friend said in conversation), I realized it was time to go home.

I'm home.

Review: Proof

     In 2002, Snap Dragon and I went to see the play, "Proof." By then, it had already won a Tony, Drama Desk Awards, and even a Pulitzer. Jennifer Jason Leigh played the lead as a budding mathematician, Catherine, who is derailed by her father's mental breakdown and subsequent death. The father had been a reknowned, mathematical genius and she inherits that gift along with his instability. There is no better person to capture such a complex role than Ms. Leigh. She was born to play them. The roles that walk that fine line, where you have to fight for sanity (I love this theme. See Pi). She also possesses a kind of beauty you must make time for. As for the storyline, it was compelling. Snappy and I were excited to see math romanticized. After all, we both work with numbers and that is in fact how we became good friends - in our 11th grade math class. Ah, dear Mrs White, our teacher, could make perfect circles on the blackboard without using those chalk compass thingys. She was so proud of this particular talent. Number crunching is not what Snappy and I envisioned doing in our 30s, but it pays the bills. We also know all too well that it isn't very "elegant," as Catherine describes... at least not in business.
     In 2005, the film version of "Proof" was released with some heavyweight Hollywood actors and Anthony Hopkins. After 2 years, Snappy and I were excited to see it together again just because we like circles or coming to a full one anyway. What we discovered was that it just didn't add up. Mr. Hopkins was very good and dignified. But, the rest was bland melodrama. When the credits rolled I did my usual, "Ok, lets talk, what did you think, what parts worked, and more importantly, what didn't you like?" Snappy's immediate response, "um, I didn't like the parts with the crazy blonde in it." So after goofing on some scenes that made madness seem more like a bad case of drunkeness, I realized something about us. Math is attractive because it's dependable. There is the problem and a solution. A right answer. Usually. After everything that has happened in our lives, between Mrs. White, "Proof" on Broadway, and our little movie session, Snappy and I always crave this dependability. It's why we get along. And while we both loathe your basic math problems (like splitting the bill & leaving a decent tip because we both share a brain cell when we hang out) and we maintain our small senses of adventure (believe it or not), we like what it promises. We know and we can prove it!

-Snappy was a contributor to this entry. We gave the play 3 1/2 out 4 playbills and the movie 2, by the way :)

Octavio

My aquatic roommate is displeased. He burrows against the rocks lately. Away from the books. No longer playful when I wake up early for work or come home late from everywhere. Then again, he's terribly temperamental. I ought to know better. Sometimes I forget to check. Dust what little I have up there. Make things tidy. Inspect. I’ve been wanting to buy a plastic sailboat or plant to place in the bowl for privacy, but I can never find one real enough. Octavio deserves it - authenticy, especially when so close to Emily. He's just too fussy. Enjoys space. Playmates would be nice. Sadly, he's a loner in the way I can’t understand. The entire library is enough. Once we moved out because it was necessary. I sent him off with an uncle. He turned lily white and ate less than usual. When it was safe again, I set up his quarters. A rose-poppy glow reappeared as he chased his tale. Not today. Peeved is his mood. I can tell. He faces my picture instead of my direction and still nothing. Too proud to need me. It’s time I start paying more attention to what’s on my shelf. Visit some old friends. Do a little reading. See about Octavio.

Less is More or Less

Tuesday night I took my first and probably last, for a while, flamenco class with the advanced students. They usually get asked to perform with Sol Y Sombra (dance co), yet success feels like it's measured by what is acquired outside of the studio. Rings, weddings, husbands, babies, degrees, status, dresses (from Spain), vacations (in Spain), homes, SUVs, etc... These things always separating me from them. Mostly it's experience. The one that matters. I've only been dancing with Maria Loreta since 1995. I took a break to try my hand at love, music, & Austrian life. I moved back soon after with no strength left for dancing. Finally, in 2000 I started private lessons and quickly moved into intermediate-advanced. I haven't stopped, but these advancees have more history, more cash, & more stuff. Maria believes I've got what it takes. She wants me on Tuesdays. There are just other, more pressing, matters for me to tend to on those nights. When she started us on the Colombianas (slight coincidence), I realized a weakness more than ever. The girls were unaffected by their own reflection. I, on the other hand, felt self-conscious. It wasn't aesthetics. It was simply knowing, who I am and what I don't possess. Though my definition of success is more abstract, I wondered if everyone else looking back saw less.

Never Go Back?

A friend of mine told me recently that you can never go back. I thought about all the possibilities or the missing ones since you are, in a way, limiting yourself. Basically, I’m trying to understand what never going back or not really means. What the connotations are. Backwards bound seems always to fall in the negative and here I’ve done it 100 times. I told my friend that change, growth, and maturity makes revisiting what’s back there a completely different experience. But still, I had a hard time pleading my case. Maybe I was unsure it could be a good experience. I know I’ve changed, grown, matured, actively. Of course, when those changes are physical, I’m actively trying to halt the process, thank you very much strand-of-gray-hair. Anyway, I want to change (for the better presumably). Others do, too. So not everyone gets stuck and the journey can be positively grand. I guess my friend's point, because the comment was really about something specific, was to move forward and recognize that if the past doesn’t work, you can’t go back and even if it did work, you can’t go back... unless... What I say now is I go back because it IS there sometimes. I see it there waiting to be plucked and prodded. Waiting to be written about and painted. Waiting to be serenaded. To be loved. And sometimes it just fades like Hiroshima.

My Weekend

After being ravaged by a bloody cold that forced me to sleep my Friday away, I decided to head east for the weekend. My mom was having a dinner party, which could only mean one thing - good food. She made the best Colombian beans ever with tajadas (green banana), beef, avocado salad, and tortas de maiz (corn cakes)! I remember first tasting tortas de maiz when I was five. My mom used to make them all the time back then and now only does so on special occassions. I was in heaven. After all the guests left, I decided to stay over. It felt nice being home, so close to heaven and all. I intended to go out for a drink or a movie or do whatever it is young-ish people do, but fell asleep (again) with my clothes on. When I woke up, everything else was on, too. The tv, the computer, the lights, the sun. I performed last night's ritual (brushed teeth) and knocked on mom & dad's door like I was five. They were already up chatting in bed, so I crawled in. My dad made the best Colombian instant coffee ever. One cup, which we all shared. I was in heaven.

Later that day, like an hour later, my sister came over with Ricky & Lucy (doggies). We salsa danced for 2 hours. You can imagine where we all were, how it felt, laughing, dancing together. Heavenly.

Sitting in a Jacuzzi...

filled with bubbling hot water that oozes and overflows, transforming into steam, rising, like a mad scientist's giant glass beaker, on a crisp night, under thousands upon thousands of stars peppering the sky, overlooking downtown San Diego, from the edge on the hill of a small mountain, alone and exposed, felt like I was on another planet... from another planet. It made me miss being young.

Pi

I finally finished my final paper on the film Pi incorporating Plato, Sedgwick, and Freud. It was a stretch at times, but not really. Maybe it was just my organizational skills, which are rather lazy lately. Anyway, as always, I found new parts to pick apart. The sun behind the trees especially. I never noticed that in the last scene, the leaves are very much gray instead of black. And that nature prevails in so many other ways - the ants! And that some things are too bright for us to see and better left there in our darkness. And sometimes I think finding meaning in Pi is         i n f i n i t e.

The Forgotten

I saw Hiroshima Mon Amour. It was an "artsy" French black and white 1959 film about the idea of forgetting... or at least that's what I understood. The director fuses the storytelling narrative and techniques used in documentaries against the backdrop of the reconstruction of Hiroshima - well after the bombing. History and love are sort of made to parallel each other. It was strange, a Japanese man and a French woman making love, but trying to forget. Recognizing they will forget. Meaning their meeting is more than just a secret affair. Each has caught a glimpse of the other's history and believes they have seen. Neither allows the other to really see. Their reflections taking on new meaning. I'm not sure why I'm even writing about this. Towards the end, the French woman, an actress, becomes this symbol of what has been forgotten... maybe along with what happened to Hiroshima. The Japanese man, an architect, names her Nevers (in France) after the rural place where she was born, but hadn't returned to. The film made me think of December and how most people reflect during this time. Some people unknowingly are choosing what to forget. What should be forgotten. So they breathe new life into it. Or never see it again.

Red Hook

I went to Red Hook.       Change is what kept me. I've always been afraid of it. Something so arbitrary, yet essential. Inevitable really. It is more like reluctance than fear. Waiting by a window for it. That anticipation. The smell of winter. The budding bloom of color in Spring. I look at my dying plants, because there is never quite enough light, and the thought of ending it, possibly changing the landscape makes me uneasy. Maybe it’s the letting go more than the change.        I went to Red Hook.         Thoughts of change. A city of change. Constant. Moving around like yellow cabs or sleepwalking city dwellers. Stop and go. Stop. Go. Thank G*d I’m here and not there. That’s too much change, too fast. I let go all the time. Honest, I do. Getting used to that was never easy. Not with all the dried flowers in my room. And even that kind of change is palatable. The easing into. Slow moving change. Candle wax and sandy scrolls and ever-changing patterns in the sky.        I went to Red Hook.        I hated not knowing. So I went. Maybe they’ve changed? And what if I haven’t? I’m still here while they rotate right along with everything else. Or what if I’ve changed? And my change is just plain different. So different that going no longer matters and you end up with nothing but letting go.        I made it to Red Hook.        I realized it didn’t matter. I have changed, but was willing to rub up against theirs. Fearless. Letting go, but also taking in. Just my thoughts that kept me. Too much thinking. Something worse than change. I got there and was hooked. Like the red of a flower still standing up straight. I got there and was hooked.

A Twang To My Chord

I saw Tom Stoppard tonight and listening to him was more
like a perfectly tuned F sharp than a "twang,"
but the remark itself was one of many
wonderfully witty ones.

A Past

Recognizing the past is always a struggle for me. Perhaps because in the present, the past seems to come from a better, more productive place where there is no alone. As if then, I knew less, but cared more. I was watching myself as a child in a home movie my dad insisted upon. In those days, the 70s, my "artistically inclined" uncle studied film. And so there is endless footage of expression and movement from our family and his friends. Not really a home movie. This particular film, myself as a child, was really about my parents on a motorcycle. They were in a gang. Hippies with a sense of responsibility and desire to succeed in the land of opportunity. Success, of course, meaning a home and an education. But my parents were young and still learning. They rode motorcycles and listened to Zeppelin. My uncle intended to capture their lifestyle. The film itself was silent. Sound erroded with time. In this scene, the one I saw, mom and dad kissed me goodbye. I watched from the alleyway as they got on the bike, strapped on helmets, and rode off into the sunset. For that moment, my uncle kept the camera on me. I stood there with an aunt, a year older, and a childhood friend. We waived, but I wasn't smiling. I stopped. They, the two delighted little girls, continued to waive and as the camera focused in, I blocked their arms - I looked down -
For that second, past becoming present.

Darth

Vadar says happy halloween



and enjoy the dark side people.

Boy Discovery

Wow. The boy called. He learned something, I think. I hope. I'm dumbfounded. Great. Now I have to tell him it's over. I mean, um, I'm not interested, but yeah, it was really great meeting...yadda, yadda, yadda.

Boy Disaster

I called the boy. I kept my word. It was pouring out, so I couldn't concentrate because my hands were on the wheel. The boy kept asking questions. He's not really my type, but the attention felt nice. The first thing I said was, "I just wanted to call because I said I would and it was great meeting you and - " Boy talks too much. Turns out he plays bass. I tried again with, "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that it was nice meeting you and well, I think it's - " Coincidence, we both go to school at night. I began again, "So I think it's best that - " Nope, didn't get it out then either, but I did spell my name out for him. Lets just say my call was a disaster of sorts. Oh yeah, he wants to go on a date. With any luck he learned nothing from my attempt to keep my word and will just completely bail. Ha!

Boy Dilemma

On Friday night, I stopped by a bar in Long Island where my friend's band was playing. I wasn't feeling particularly great about being in public just because I was tired and thought it was noticeable. Who wants to socialize with some tired girl? Once I found my friends in the audience, I woke up a bit. In fact, I actually had a Bass and a Lemon Drop, wo! We watched the Mets get slaughtered on tv, chatted, listened as singer/songwriter, Glenn Geiger and crew, rocked the melodies. Anyway, it was almost time for me to leave when some dudes walked in the bar and came straight toward our group. One of them immediately started asking me questions. What's your name? Do you live around here? Would you like a drink? It was all very smooth and I just smiled demurely. There might of been a little eyelash batting action, but it certainly wasn't a typical reaction from me when approached. Then he asked for my number. I avoided the question. Once I realized that was just silly I said, "I'm much older than you." He's 23, by the way. "No you're not" and "Age is just a state of mind" were his responses. So I said, "Listen, I'm 35." Not even a flinch. He countered that with a, " my last girlfriend was 37." Now, the boy lives out east, works as an electrician, talked like a player, most likely is a player, but the fact that he was unphased, um and easy on the eyes, was refreshing. He asked for my number again. I said, "How about you give me yours?" After some more attempts, he finally caved. He wrote down his number on a napkin and made me promise to call. I did and even said I was too old not to keep my word. Yikes, dumb move. Now it's Sunday. I'm still tired. I have the wrinkled napkin resting on my coffee table. What to do, what to do. Mind you, I have no interest in dating a 23 year old, but I promised one phone call and can't stand when boys flake on girls. It's just so immature. So I ask you, my blogger friends, do I call or just let it lie?

Review: A Trip To Canterbury

Snap Dragon and I, Blue Violet, met in Huntington Village yesterday evening to celebrate our fabulous 25th (plus 10) birthdays. To do so, we decided to journey into Olde England. We were on a quest for her fine cuisine and knew just the place. We walked into The Original Canterbury Ales shivering. Being seated in the coldest corner next to the wooden saloon doors didn't help. It did, however, add to the ambience. We could almost hear the galloping horses, and the carriages, and the jousting, etc...

Now it's important when looking over a menu of this caliber to plan ahead. Snap Dragon and I were well aware of their secret weapon - dessert to die by a sword for. I meant to order light, but Snappy has a big firey belly and I am not one to be outdone. She ordered the Buffalo Canterburger with Canterbury Chili, fries, and a glass of pinot noir, the alcoholic. I love getting tipsy myself and beer seemed appropriate. Unfortunately, I was sniffling. A reprieve was best. I also figured that in the comfort of my own bed, I could "wine taste" without worrying about driving, the alcoholic, too. Anyhoo, I ordered the Young Squireburger with cheddar, nothing better, and the killer fries.

As we perused Canterbury's delights, we admired the Common Market section with such classic dishes as Fish & Chips (I've had this. Yes, it's fresh, greasy, & delicious), Scottish meat pies, Ploughman's Lunch, and Scottish Bridies, which is basically a meat turnover. The Beefeaters Section, for the "snappier" types (who order wine at pubs), included English Brown Stew, Shephard's Pie, Steak & Kidney Pie, Prime Rib, etc.... The House Sandwiches section, usually considered food for pansies, tips it's feathery hat to Mr. Chaucer himself with names like The Prioress and The Pardoner. I've had the Lady Diana (sauteed onions, mushrooms, garlic, on a kaiser roll - heaven) Lastly, but not leastly, were the Canterburgers. We like our meat cheap... or cheapER, anyway, than the Beefeaters. And they don't mess around with hearty meals like the Archbishop's Squireburger, Archbishop's Canterburger, and of course what we ordered, which was jolly good. The meat was meaty and cooked exactly how we wanted. The vegetables and fruit (tomato, hello) were fresh. Oh and the fries were fried in potato slices, as they should be. Sidenote: if you want to go the extra mile, try their sweet potato fries. Yummmm.

After all that eating, we did our best to make room for the ultimate birthday gift. It was totally sinful. We ordered Marianne's Toffee Fudge Brownie and Marianne's Raspberry Fudge Brownie. These desserts are so rich and smooth, you feel like a Queen...or King... or Queenie. Marianne is a real person and makes these treats from scratch. "A worthy woman," as Chaucer would write.

The place is a pub and damn it I'll have the beer next time. The service was excellent and everyone is friendly. In fact, two older gentlemen saw me trembling and one offered his coat. He insisted I wear it around my shoulders. How chivalrous. Some of the windows are stained glass and the rest of Canterbury is all wood. Worth the slightly higher price on the menu.

The Original Canterbury Ales gets 4 out of 4 pints from Snap Dragon and Blue Violet.

At The Movies

I was dreaming about the movies today. The role they play in our lives. How we are drawn in. Why certain stories resonate. And I wanted to be that someone on screen. Finding resolution the way most characters do. To project that feeling you get from a good one - the wishes of never fading to black.

My Friend, the Chip Eating Monster

F Zero

Speaking of weather, yesterday an F zero tornado hit East Massapequa, Long Island. It was predicted, at first, that there was a possibility of one forming in Manhattan, Bergen County, and the Bronx. Then television showed us a funnel cloud on the Doppler Radar or some other fancy machine. It was nearing Queens. You can imagine my delight! The day did go dark and at some point it was thundering rain. Maybe even hail! But then the sun shined as if it had been there all along. So my little storm headed east and spun it's mighty wind and I just waited for more rain and more wind.

Someday...

Fair Weather

I think fair weather friends are much like erratic storms and wonder if I have been like this to anyone. I bet it’s difficult to see clearly since that one lazy eye is covered in a world of agendas. I know I’ve got mine. Still, what's troublesome is that there are too many wrecking what we build and I can’t hold onto something securely with my shoulders up against the walls, so there is nowhere to rest my head.

X

Last night Los Angeles ruled NYC.
One of my favorite punk bands played
their aging little hearts out
and put the city youngin's to shame.
Last night I wanted to be a rockstar...

in the form of Billy Zoom, Exene Cervenka, John Doe, or DJ Bonebreak

Rock n roll!

Eagle Eye

I saw a bald eagle perched on a tree from a reservoir. We were close to Woodstock, but I couldn't tell you exactly what town. She was 2 feet in length and had a 5 foot wingspan is all I really know. Her expression seemed pensive and maybe they just look this way. Facing the water. Head held high. Alive, yet focused. Looking beyond the horizon. Perhaps wondering about a lost love or her nest and lack there of.

Off the Mark

I got a phone call today from my friend, "Mark." It happens every so often and I do welcome the chat. I've known him since I was 8, I think. A long time. We flirted, rode our bikes, played shark, swam in the river, went on camping trips, watched "The Dukes of Hazzard" together every Friday. It was interesting to grow into adulthood & discover that nothing had changed. We were still goofing around like a couple of prepubescent kids. So I never understood why, when we kissed, because that did happen once or twice, he never took it to the next level. I say he because I was willing to try. We enjoyed each other, so I know it might have been wonderful. I wondered why until I got tired and bored and moved on. Yesterday, when "Mark" called, he wanted to revisit this "issue." Why? I'll never know.

Six Degrees

This weekend I saw six very important men in my life. Three of them I love unconditionally, always. Two I loved at one point or another. But because of the way things go for us “sensitive folk” and because people must change, or maybe - more so - I changed, it was bittersweet. The last I fell in love with years ago and for whatever reason, this one resonated. Seeing him as a complete stranger was rather strange. I didn’t expect to feel relieved by my remembering that feeling. I was.

Sol Y Sombra

I lucked out last night. Of course this is a conclusion I'm making after the fact. I did my first performance of the year with the Sol Y Sombra Dance Company in Huntington Village. What made this experience special was being billed (my name) on the program this time. I suppose dancing in 4 numbers instead of the usual 2 had a little something to do with it. I'm not quite sure what to say. My nerves were relentless. We had to be there at 4pm for sound check. That's 4 hours of pacing, applying makeup, pacing, prepping, putting on my poker face, and pacing some more. It was painful. The rain never came, which would have meant cancelling the show. I guess, in some way, Mother Nature knew what I needed. She brought in the sun right when shade would soon follow. I felt ill. Then of course I actually fell. It was during rehearsal for sevillanas - an old traditional flamenco dance from Sevilla that is typically done with a partner & castanets. All the musicians asked me if I was OK. Try "yes, but my ego just jumped over a cliff." Anyway, the worst had passed & it could only get.. sunnier. By curtain time, I had forgotten all about fear & sunnier arrived. Aside from the occassional misteps & flowers flying out of my hair, I made it through unscathed. My family showered me with compliments afterwards. They took it a step further by saying some of their friends, whom I've never met, thought I was the best one. Ego boost? Check! Even if they were biased, it's what I needed. The best part was the salsa piece we did with a little flamenco peppered throughout. I had a chance to showcase everything I ever learned from the salsa queen herself, my mom, since I was like 3 years old.

The whole day I had made up my mind to give up dancing. The stress wasn't worth it. Truth is I really wasn't "the best one," far from it. But I felt alive. And I just can't say no to alive.

Review: Fiona & Damien

Last night I went to go see two very different performances. First, Damien Rice. A straightforward, honest, bare-your-soul type of show. There was a lot of electricity, so he rocked out, sang a lullaby, then rocked out again. An amazing guest vocalist, Lisa, who gave Fiona a run for her money in the sultry & deep tones department, a cellist, a kick ass drummer, and the bassist stood on stage. No backdrop, no cool effects, no sharp threads. I was smitten. Then came my dear Fiona. She's so lost. I kept waiting for paramedics to take her away in a straight-jacket. Then I thought a group of priests would storm in from the Vatican to perform a very special exorcism. She was breathtaking at times. There were moments of pure brilliance. But something happened once she crossed that very strange line. It got awkward. The edge of insanity is usually occupied by geniuses like Bjork or Iggy Pop, but a Ms. Apple? Hmmm... All in all I had a great time. I still love her, found a new love in Damien, and became inspired. That's a damn fine time if I do say so myself.

A Pocket Watch -

Since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted one. I thought enclosing a watch into a little round metal compartment meant controlling time. The idea that time could be kept hidden appealed to me. That it was tangible and vulnerable. That maybe it could be stopped! There was also all this history, or so I imagined. Like maybe a pocket watch belonged to someone very special, someone from centuries ago. I figured the mechanical ones (of course) would never tick endlessly and haunt me when I was typing, rubbing my chin, riding a bike, painting my nails, or any other ordinary activity that might become a reminder of time running out. It would simply sit in my pocket until I was ready. Time waiting on me for a change. Clearly, I didn’t know what pocket watches really were… that they were even more magical.

My father’s side of the family is planning this huge surprise party for my grandfather. He will be 80. Someone in our pretend 10-person committee (only 5 of us are doing all the work) suggested the gift be a wrist watch. I pulled the “head of the committee,” my uncle Nacho, to one side and made my case for the pocket watch. Majority has ruled for it. Finally, I’ll get to see an heirloom in the making for someone who’s been around a long, long time. Ah, yes, someone very special.

Noche Flamenco

Flamenco embodies everything that I am. If you really want to know me, watch a gypsy glide and with one swift move take your breath away. Ok, so maybe I don't have that kind of presence since I am a bit clumsy and bubbly, but I'm tellin' ya I can migrate (figuratively speaking) like there's no tomorrow.

On a more serene note, I sat in Central Park on this very still night and watched "Noche Flamenco" by a small company of musicians and dancers from Spain. I'm completely rejunivated. Tomorrow when I stand with the other girls in class, I'm going to dance with some... class.

IndepenDANCE

My weekend was filled with so much dancing I thought my feet would grow some... feet & walk away refusing to carry the rest of me, so I'd simply collapse. It was either a death wish or some insane obsession to move freely. I danced Thursday evening at my cousin's salsa lesson. I persuaded him to meet friends at a lounge where I danced some more in my pumps and business suit. I danced on Saturday for flamenco class and again at a garden party under the Brooklyn stars. I danced on Monday for salsa and flamenco rehearsal. Later that night I went out again for some goth/new wave/punk/alternative dancing. I can't stop dancing even if today my feet have left the building.

Summertime

Today, the first day of summer, we had a memorial for the president of my company. He died. Some people in the industry spoke. Others played musical pieces they had written just for the occassion. A month has passed since the wake, so it was different than grieving. We were in a dark place - all of us - knowing the sun was beating down hard and heavy like a drum. But - all of us - wanting to risk going outside. Listed on the program was an executive and the widow. She stood there in silence as he began to play the first notes of jazz. Her voice was shaken. At times I thought she wouldn't make it all the way through...

One of these mornings
You're going to rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky

Livin' ain't so easy sometimes.

Sex Without Love

Sex Without Love
Sharon Olds (1942- )

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stay silent for all of June. I’m in love and I want to shout it out from the mountain tops! How would I get up there you ask? With my new love, the Lava Dome. It’s only the coolest, chromoly (steel), purple (almost violet blue), Kona mountain bike ever. It was so much fun test riding it around Sayville. One of the boys at the shop even took me on a mini trail just so I could really feel the weight and choose the best frame size. There was no question that I needed the 14, which is pretty damn small. In fact, if you put some training wheels, a bell, and tassels on the handle bars, I’d look like a 7 year old. No worries though. I plan on making it to the top of a mountain with or without the frills and the training.

I ordered my Lava Dome yesterday and will pick it up next week!

Silent in June

I promised myself that in June I'd revamp my "space" with colors, a picture of happier times, and a song for a project I'm working on. I did it. I met the first part of my goal and so far I've gotten a nice response. I'm not sure if people are just being kind, but it doesn't really matter right now. I'm happy I was able to overcome whatever was keeping me silent.

On a Date

I'm on a date with a man, who I can't for the life of me understand. We are polar opposites, but I agreed to meet him again. Connections are important and I am still hopeful. The problem is I might as well be alone. Here we are. I'm typing this while he reads and I wait... for him to go home.

May Leaves

I feel the tension fading steadily.
And the sadness sets in like a curled
Leaf resting on my cheek. I twirl
It from the stem and pray for trees.
Make them dance for me –
Let it rain leaves.

My Poseidon Adventure

Since the trailer for “Poseidon” (2006) was unleashed, I’ve been having this recurring dream. A giant wave that looks like a sculpture under the moon strikes. I drown in darkness. Oh, and there are sharks surrounding me, too. Then I wake up mistaking my sweat for saltwater, so for a second I’m thinking, “That was no boating accident!” First of all, what the f*ck am I doing doggie paddling in the middle of the ocean? No lifejacket. No flippers. No oxygen tank. No fins. No capsized ship. No icebergs. No floating trunks that I can hop on. Anyway, I haven't had the "wave/shark dream" since I was little. Thanks Richard Dreyfuss (again).

Case of the Missing Tree

I am on a mission. I must recover the trees. They’ve gone missing in my neighborhood. It’s my number one pet peeve…. Yes, I’ve got a long list of them (honestly, I wouldn’t be a New Yorker if it wasn’t long). Trees are being chopped down as if we all lived in some forest. I’ve been given many possible reasons from the NYC Department of Parks and Recreation, Forestry Division. They tell me it could be disease, beetle nesting, obstruction, improper growth, etc… Something tells me they don’t really know. Instead of these cats extracting the root, they chop them at the limb. Most inhumane. I stand in front of a stump on my block sometimes to inspect what’s left. A solid mass of patterns, rings, and memories. The root claws into a patch of dirt and concrete as if it had felt the pain of her execution. Cold bloody murderers! Yet, those very same claws were lifelines once. What’s worse is that the tree has not been replaced, which was supposed to happen in March/April – tree planting season, thereby allowing it to regenerate and all other living things. The Department asked me to call back in August after they've conducted an investigation or as they call it, “a survey.” Hopefully, a new tree will be planted soon. I asked if they could check out 8 other stumps I found around the way, but was told that I can only report one. One tree on the block of a neighborhood in a careless city full of missing trees. There’s something wrong with this system, but I'll find a way around it. I’ll never stop until I make things right, kid. That’s my mission

(light up cigarette, pull fedora down, lift collar up, cross my street, and fade to black).

9 Years

the president of my company died today. he had been battling lukemia for 9 years and came to work like the rest of us. only a select few knew about the illness. i suspect he preferred living a normal life over pity. the vp called everyone into the cafeteria at 4:30pm and made an announcement. it was weird watching the most intimidating man, more so than was the deceased, break. the controller broke and so did the director of human resources. next were the marketing and accounting managers. the web designer and purchasing agent followed. i didn't know our president. in fact, i'm not sure anyone did. he only spoke to a select few. my brief encounters with him were in the hallway and i didn't really exist there. i've been working at this place for 9 years, so it's fair to say he had other, more important, things on his mind.

when i left my company, i walked into rain. just the right amount of rain with the kind of gray skies that bear a hint of the future.

A Day Off

I didn't go to work. Instead, I went to school on a day that the sun, though not visible, tormented. My goal was to start my research paper. There was no shade around so I parked my car under a blinding, flourescent, yellowish-white patch of nothing else. I finished "Passing," by Nella Larsen, then drove off in search of a tree. Once I found it I felt quenched. I sat for a while to watch young students passing by. I wasn't quite ready to make that transformation.

Later, I walked into the cafeteria and blended in. It must have been the Pumas, bookbag, and water bottle. Either way, I knew I was one of the oldest. A 20-something year old passed me in a Misfits t-shirt with a smirk on his face. It reminded me of those days when I thought I knew everything. He went back to his corner where the other gothic/punk rockers wore black. They were probably tormented, too.

Right now I'm in a computer lab. The blinds are closed to keep all the machines from overheating. I wonder when this heat wave will pass, so I can go home.

Weekend Rain

I was angry Friday night. I cried until it actually rained outside. It hasn’t stopped. First drizzle, then plain rain. Afterwards a downpour. Now it’s giant droplets that keep banging sporadically against my air conditioner. Loud as guns. The cars drive by in waves washing away dirty streets. Maybe I can stick my feet out of the window and wait for the coming tide. That could be a relief until Monday's weather.

My Neighbor

My neighbor came over to say hello. Me being the industrious gal that I am I asked him to help me lift up my mattress in order to place a freshly washed bedskirt on the boxspring. It's such a waste of time anyway because I have hardwood floors and the dustballs form in a matter of seconds after I sweep. They manage to cling on to the cotton, so I have to wash the darn thing all over again. But if I don't have a bedskirt, you'll be able to see the boogie-dust monster underneath and he likes his privacy. Now this neighbor of mine tends to drop by unannounced, which is probably not proper etiquette for a gentleman trying to impress a lady. Maybe I'm no lady... I just assume all men try to impress (anything in a [bed]skirt) as best they can, so of course he complied with my request. We are both standing against the wall of the bedroom/living room that is a complete mess thanks to my bright idea of Spring cleaning on NY's first gorgeous weekend. I straighten out the sheet. Then he grabs my arm and kisses me on the cheek. Really he was shooting for my lips...twice! You can imagine the shock. I took a wild guess and asked in between giggles, "I thought you were seeing someone?" Much to my surprise he responded, "I am." What the ^&*%(!? He apologized about 7 times before he left my apartment. Did I give him some kind of signal that says, hey I'd like someone with a girlfriend (of 4 years!) to f*** me tonight?" Jeeez. Maybe he's no gentleman...

D-n-B

If we are all but
dreams
and bones,
then why must
an awakening
break them
both?

Drifting

Lately I find myself drifting from dream state to altered states to reality to reality television to driving long distances to daydreaming to fighting sleep to crunching numbers to falling in love to falling out of love to finding past loves to avoiding the future to sunsets to moon gazing to outer space to my-very-own-space to blogging or just reading what writers won’t say to struggling with words to drifting like a piece of broken wood that was once a sailboat on a windless sea.

V

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
The gunpowder treason and plot.
I know of no reason why the gunpowder
treason should ever be forgot." - V

I need to learn how to throw knives.

We’ve Got the Jazzzzzzzz

I think I've got the jazz. Though, I always appreciated its smooth, complex sound; the way it coats a soul with ease and pizzazz and all the blues of spirits so profound, it was far and away. Oh but I'm slowly coming around. I feel connected in this newness as if I had been crooning all along. The players from the past speak to me. So much so, that recently, I was compelled to answer back. I did something wild. I formed a jazz quartet and – we’ve all got it now. The group wants to explore and expand on this art form. They want to be decent and honor the greats. Me? I just want to understand, not only the sound, but what is behind or underneath. The blueprints - to keep getting it for a while.

"We've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz" - A Tribe Called Quest (1995 album A Low End Theory)

A Model Confession

While I'm engrossed in the silly catfights and self-important tirades of a Misssszz Tyra wanna-be-Oprah Banks on a certain model "reality" show, a lot of awkward insecurities settle in between commercials. Why couldn't I have luscious lips or dreamy blue eyes? Why couldn't I have naturally tanned, flawless skin or striking cheekbones? Why couldn't I have long, lean legs or flowing, fluid locks? Why can't I get paid to travel, pose, wear fabulous clothes that cost more than my car, drink, chain smoke, date rockers & actors, totally drop my last name, quit eating, get caught snorting coke & still have a career?! Maybe it sounds glamorous, but beautiful? I wonder why those silly thoughts ever enter any woman's mind. There has to be more to "the struggle" than aesthetics. Not that it's impossible for model-wannabees to worry about deeper issues. I also don't want to imply that I don't care about looking my best every damn day. But, these girls are so lost in ego, airtime, fame. They think little of anything else... or so it seems and this attitude extends outside of the fashion industry. There is a Look-at-ME generation brewing. After an episode, I usually come to the same conclusion. I got other sh*t to worry about on "the inside." Now that's a tricky business because there's a lot of work to be done there. It's a different kind of "beautiful" I'm aiming for, I suppose. One that will hopefully matter long after that show is cancelled.

The B&M Theory

My old friend "Mark" and I came up with this theory today...

Men are focused when they're young because all they want is to have sex. The mission is clear. Get laid - Next, please. Now what they do to achieve this goal is how they play the game. And oh what a dirty game it is. When they get older, the mission gets a little fuzzy. Why? Because they realize they're getting too old. It's time to think about settling down, but they don't want to lose their freedom. So the game is peppered with some genuine confusion and more sex. A battle brews within. To commit or not to commit. "Argh, I need a beer...and more sex."

For women it's ass backwards. When they're young they are soooo confused. "I want to have fun. No I don't, I want a boyfriend. I want to get married. No I don't, I just want to sleep with you and have my independence, but love me and only me. I'm cool. I'm afraid. I'm in love after a week." They tell men they can handle anything, but ultimately, sex = love. End of story. There's no separating the two. Now when women get older, they know what's up. They know what they want. There is no time for games. So they start playing the game. Lie, manipulate, even watch sports on Sunday just to get that damn ring. And yes, sex still = love.

This is stuff you already know and doesn't necessarily apply to everyone. "Mark" and I just had fun talking about men versus women and vice versa (that wasn't too confusing). It was also fun thinking we were cool because we called it "a theory." Lastly, it's purely based on our own observations and experiences.

We hooked up once. See if you can guess what that means and how it turned out...

Don't Hate the Player

Attention all males in your thirties. I need to know. Why are you still playing games? This question I pose is not an angry one or inspired by such. Although, just between you, me, and the lamppost, I have been known to express frustration by spontaneously overflowing with powerful emotion (thank you Mr. Wordsworth) after a heartbreak. Seriously, can anyone tell me what the deal is about dating? The old enough guys are so anxious and confused. Ay-ya-yay. I’ve been talking to someone, who I think is interested. It’s sad that I have to use the word “think” even though he practically molested me 2 weeks ago. This incredibly passionate kiss I received threw me for a loop. It was delicious, but probably not meant to have deeper meaning. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's unsure about getting involved. Last night I got the “I’m checking in” phone call. He nonchalantly mentioned some past relationships (as a warning to me of what not to do), let me know that he was “taking it easy” (from now on), name-dropped some girl-friends (or girlfriends, who the hell knows), asked me what I was doing this weekend (he wants to see me), etc... The game was cute for about a minute. Mostly it was tiresome. What is so scary about getting to know one good woman?! Maybe I'll just concentrate on the kiss. There, done.

Dancing Fools

What is it about the rhythms and melodies of a good house track or flamenco piece that enlightens and moves? I'm alive when I'm dancing. It's as fullfilling as reaching the peak of a mountain in Colorado or Austria or Nepal. Ok maybe not, but certainly there's a sense of liberation. Exhiliration. Butterflies. Take my parents for instance. They are pretty devoted to each other. Since they began ballroom dancing, however, something changed. It happens every time there hands touch. I can see it... they soar. Though their dance is to a different rhythm with a very different melody, I'm sure they feel much like I do when I just can't stop. It's love, baby, love.

Me and...

I don't want to wait to do this
living. I just walk around. I
want to be swept off my feet,
you know? I want my children
to have magical powers. I am
prepared for amazing things
to happen. I can handle it.

- Richard, "Me and You and Everyone We Know" 2005 film

Friends Like These

Suprisingly, Valentine's Day was quite lovely. My dad text messaged me while I was at work for the first time ever! He wished me a happy one and told me he loved me. Being the sap that I am, I teared up some. Then Ritz, who serves double duty as sister & best friend, sent me an e-card with a most beautiful note. After hearing all the "aaahhhs" and "ooohhhs" from the braggers at work receiving flowers, I felt content with my gifts. When I left work I was unsure of how the evening would play out. The color of the sky was almost flourescent over a sea of cars on the highway. On the verge of darkness. Then the phone rang. My darling uncle invited himself over to help me shovel snow. He brought flowers and took me out to a new Hibachi restaurant. I think it was an an attempt to change my sullen mood. Why so sad? Well, the day before I had canceled on a few romantic interludes with a gentleman. I guess you can say we were or are or were dating. The problem is I have known for some time that he isn't "the one" (sorry...for lack of a better term). It's weird how these realizations about people happen at lightening speed in your 30's. I'm fine with my decision... just beaten up by this whole dating thing or maybe it's the snow... my back hurts from shoveling 3 days in a row. Gotta love those city plows. Anyway, my uncle and I ate like kings and laughed like queens. It was the best. During that time I received calls from my mom, my cool cousin "John," & another best friend, "Elizabeth." Ok, I have a lot of best friends, so sue me.

Tonight, I am sipping a really sweet 2000 merlot from Strong Island in preparation for my little jazz project. It's delicious and as that warm sensation caresses me, I wonder if I can make it through another irrelevant holiday. Of course I can with friends like these.

A Woman Scorned

Women often find themselves in a precariuos position when they fall in love. They are lead by their hearts, which have been entrusted to someone else, so they spend a whole lot of time making sure it's well preserved, still beating, alive. This can lead to some pretty whacky behavior. When that someone else begins to slip away, there's a sense of urgency. A code black. The heart stops and then how does one breathe? I know a woman very dear to me, "Maria," who is scorned. My advice to her was to forget the ex-love and move on. She has, but they continue to be "friends." Then I discovered that he sends text messages asking for forgiveness. "Maria" won't budge. How could she? He runs errands or does special favors in hopes of winning back affection. She won't budge. How could she? He calls her when he's had too much to drink to profess his undying devotion. Still, she won't. The problem is Maria reads the messages, accepts the favors, & takes the calls. I believe the love has ended. After so many years of waiting & working, "Maria" simply gave up and became hardened by the experience. He's under a more optimistic impression. So in truth, the moving on part is a work in progress. It is not easy to walk away. To let go when the someone else carried your heart, your prized possession, and gave it back to you all broken. My judgment was harsh, I think, and I am a little more understanding of her struggle. I suppose I had forgotten what that was like... mending what is broken. Lately, I date men without giving mine up. How could I?

An Old Wound

I never thought about blogging before nor did I understand its purpose. Then, of course, the unexpected happened. An old wound opened up a new door. And like some cruel ghost that only rattles chains when you sleep, this man that I might have loved, "the old wound," sent me his link. So here I am with virtually nothing to say except that I've read his words.

Lately, I check to see if there are any new entries. There are. I won't read anymore. I move quickly into someone else's and do it vehemently because I know he doesn't really exist. Only when I sleep.