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.

Just Call Me Cheetah Rivera

I bought a cheetah print, 3/4 sleeve, A-line, v-neck, jersey dress, dollface... to go with my maryjanes, of course.

Here's To The New

Today, was my first jazz rehearsal with the pianist, S. I was apprehensive because S is a real musician. When not tickling the ivory, he teaches music. In any case, he seemed enthused about working with a new voice. That made me doubly so. Nightmares, like this morning's, about the dissolusion of the JB Jazz Project, have been ongoing. I sometimes think my creative endeavors coming to an end hurt me more than heartache & crushes combined. Maybe there's no difference.

Yesterday, my friend, L, drove a speedboat on her own for the first time. It was mine, too, as a passenger. We "sped" up to 25 miles an hour (hey, she was nervous) around the Jones Beach inlet. Considering my fear of gigantic waves and even bigger sharks, I was thrilled to be there. The best was falling asleep, then waking up to Captain L and boatman G arguing over how on earth we got lost. Apparently, all bridges look alike to us rookies. Being lost on the water is so unique. It takes great patience and skill to find your way. I gladly helped read the map and counted green & red bouys back to Freeport. More fun than it sounds, I swear.

Afterwards, we met friends for M's birthday. Us girls drank and hooked up (not literally) with two Canadian brothers. I allowed myself to enjoy the compliments of the younger one, who I wouldn't be interested in if it weren't for his hottie-ness and my blood alcohol level. Talk about shameless flirting. It was almost as freeing as my earlier excursion.

Lastly, the day before yesterday, was Rob Zombie's Halloween. Once again, I made a big production of what was supposed to be only a handful of people going to the movies. Can you blame me? It's Michael Myers, one of the greatest villains of all time! Truth be told, I didn't think John Carpenter's classic needed a retelling, but I suppose it's nice to be bold enough to offer something new in perspective.

Labor of LOVE

I'm a famous grape picker, you see.

Niagara

Yesterday, I went to my uncle's friend's brownstone for the Latif Annual Wine Harvest Party in the Upper East Side. The entire place is laced with a very tall grape vine, so we, the crew, plucked the Niagara on the roof and from the windows on each floor. 500 pounds worth! The bags of grapes got carried down by a basket & some rope. We weighed, washed, crushed, pressed, strained, added sugar, & an agent from a small glass bottle with droppers, etc... It's all very mad-scientist's-experiment, except the lab is actually a charming little, secret garden adorned with wrought iron & aged wood. Then the giant glass jars of grape juice were stored for future bottling and corking. Labels feature an ink drawing of the brownstone, but each one is painted in watercolor by whomever at some other gathering. In return the friend, who is Einstein's doppleganger, fed us breakfast, lunch, a delectable Middle Eastern dinner & wine from years past. This party has been going on for over 20 years, you see. It's quite a treat and really hard work. I felt useful. Like my hands were doing what they were always meant to. This is my 2nd time, so I suppose "Einstein" is now my friend, too.

self portrait

Running Woman

Day 2 of a mile run. 5K seems like an eternity. I still despise running (unless I'm chasing after a ball), but gotta help save those sea turtles.

the buzzzzz

Sometimes I’m so drunk with this intensity - electric or electricity - through my veins. It comes like a strong wind peppered with rain and is only partly erotic because there are often other factors equally moving in different ways. Rhythm, poetry, trees, downhill biking, the stars. My point is that regardless of what kind it is, I’m so lost in that whirlwind of buzzzz that I can, um sometimes, make really bad decisions. It dawned on me tonight as I ride another one out and take giant leaps. Now I can get there, to that place, fairly quickly, with great ease, and here I am, so you do the math.

These were taken in Long Island City on July 4th, 2007. Kinda looks like the vibe I describe... so poorly. This is much better. More precise :)

Something Fishy

I use this giant coffee cup for my fishies whenever it's time to change the water. Since Miles is all I have, I poured him with all his baggage of bacteria into the cup. Octavio always felt secure. He was a fairly mellow beta. Miles is a different breed though. Young & hearty. A real warrior. I scrubbed the rocks and the walls of the bowl. Then I filled it with newly conditioned water. I left the kitchen for a few minutes, I swear. When I came back, Miles was lying on the floor gasping. He jumped! I'm telling you I haven't trembled this much since my stint in Austria. I scooped him up with a spoon and dumped everything into the bowl. Now, of course, he's in shock, but alive.

In other fish news - Not having cable is fine, but when I happen to catch a commercial on real television of a must-see program, it sucks. And, no one videotapes anymore for my viewing pleasure at home, so my sister agreed to DVR (that means digitally record for all you non-techies) 2 on Discovery. "Ocean of Fear" about how some of the U.S.S. Indianopolis crew survived shark infested waters and "Perfect Predators" about sharks' 400 million years of evolution. It's shark week folks. Psyched.

I think I have a phoebia of the ocean. More like being stranded in it. Left behind. I almost drowned once when I was a kid, but I'm not sure that's the reason.

Miles isn't moving much yet :(

Downside

And then sometimes beauty is right next to your feet or somewhere just below the waist.

Today was hard, so bare with me.