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.

Darkroom 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

Darkroom 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

bird

suffering inside the in-between
down where the shadows grow
something that's cold at war with me
it's good i'm getting up
no one knows
just how long
forever released
so just let go
close your eyes
and go with it
far from the crush of everything
leaving the world behind
spinning inside a crazy dream
of everything at night
no one knows
just how long
forever released
so just let go
and close your eyes
and go with it
no one knows
just how long
forever released
so just let go
close your eyes
and go with it
just go with it
just go with it
just go with it

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.