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.