West of Queens

Rhythm?  Any language flowing between piano, drum, and brass was lost in us.  In me.  A father pounded and tickled keys while his son beat and tapped skin.  I just couldn't bop.  The trumpet (my favorite!) taunted me with its one enormous eye and within a measure I'd fall in love again.  Each player was weathering a storm.  Creating their own.   I started to cry in my drunk realization that this was the way it was.  Love doesn't make sense.


At some point, flute and clarinet made cameos reminding us that the lulls are why we bother.

The saxophone lay there - a luminous corpse.  When it began to tell its version of a story, I believed it.  I could crawl into its coffin and be carried off to another gig forever.  Preferably a smoky bar with dusty chandeliers and red velvet curtains.  That old chrome mic has been waiting a long time.  If only there were room for two.

I think the father and son were competing for the final note.  A procession that mimicked my beating heart.  It was over.  Neither was quite ready.  Nor was I.  But like all good things, even when they don't make sense, they end.

My Darling Starlings

Murmuration from Islands & Rivers on Vimeo.

Murmuration from Islands & Rivers

A Darkroom Diary

I was told I have a way with women. I bring something out in them that is familiar. That subconsciously I seek and am drawn to those I see a little piece of myself in.  I suppose it's what we all do. The way dog lovers mysteriously resemble their dogs. It was an awkward bit of self-discovery, though, made only after the words sank into consciousness.

Fabiane's Cafe & Pastry Shop, June 2011

So this is who I might be lately - a poised, proud, focused, and accepting woman. Golden, the way women can be, but also disrupted and bruised. I smoke (occasionally and aim to quit), drink spirits (on the rocks if I need time), sing blue songs (about love), and wear my heart on my knees, so when I dance (freestyle to flamenco to the in between) with every atom of my being, there's a chance it could hurt.

Meet one of my beautiful muses...




The description mostly stems from my imagination. What the image evokes is always true.

Lightbox

 ...and since that bright night in September I've decided to feature someone else's perspective.  A photograph serving as a reminder that inspiration can come from those with something to say in stunning silence, too.

"Untitled-23" by Paul Anthony

                                          
Paul Anthony continues to explore light like no one I know personally.  He is as sensitive as a meter made of papyrus.