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 fire 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!