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.