Sing Along

Sound bite: Do you recall a certain tune by Nick Gilder and Time Machine? I forget if I can post the band and/or song name . . . either way their hit anthem surely summarizes today. Insert music and lyrics here. (she sighs and then wipes wipes her forehead with a "phew" . . . because it's a genius piece of music and mercury is rising).

I used the temperature setting on my camera, it's a lot like hyper color fashion. Remember hyper color? I never understood the idea. Mood rings I get, "ooh look it's black, I'm so very vexed" or "hey, when I'm with you it turns green . . . " But clothing? I don't know about all homosapiens, but sweating, glowing if you will, seems to be a natural process. Nevertheless, in this American culture it has yet to be embraced and exonerated. Perspiring has gained poor status as a such amajor issue of hygiene, of popularity and sadly, nature, that products are marketed to all stinky folk promising they'll erase any offensive odors and rid said customer of potential ridicule and embarrassment. Women and men alike douse themselves in perfume, even scents for our homes and furniture are readily available for purchase. So, why then, did anyone ever think it appropriate to showcase on our corporal forms, like Vegas billboards, "hey, my shirt changed color under my arms and above my hip . . . from sweat!" Frightening, really.

My friend Dan thinks perfume is offensive and antiperspirants unnatural. He doesn't wear deodorant. Once I commented, with furrowed brow, on his odoriferous presence and he assured me that I would grow to like, even love his most primal odor. Anyone who dared argue with Dan was strategically put in their place via one remarkably understandable and poignant dilemma. Simply stated, "how is my smell any better or worse than an eighty plus year old woman who practically bathes in the most offensive of Eau du Toilet." Every time I hug sweet Dan, I remember being smothered by my Grandma (Mimi, I love you, RIP . . . ) and recall the odd combination of strong designer perfume coupled with a hint of clothes freed from a forgotten cedar closet bugged with mothballs for too long. It's then that I hold Dan just a little tighter.

Hope you're enjoying this warm summer day. And maybe it'll turn into a hot summer night for you too. Don't sweat the small stuff . . .

Sounds Like Mwah . . . (moi)

What a fantastic Sunday, eh? Fog tricked us into thinking we should watch movies and drink tea. I did indeed have a cup of green tea at the salon where a minor mishap took place. My eyebrows were in need of some grooming, and as Sundays are lazy, so was I. A sensitive individual, my poor skin only reaffirmed this and told me so, to my face . . . ahem, on my face.

Note the end of pencil point photo of said infracture's invasion. Wax apparently likes me so much, it took a piece of my face home with it . . . gross, sorry. But after being mauled by hot liquid, there was no excuse not to purchase a locally made, perfect piece of featured jewelry to heal and shroud my facial wound. Feather Witch seemingly customized a clip for the hair I will now use to cover my sad, slightly furrowed brow. The second photo showcases "On the Road Again," a sweet, delightful addition to my locks that may never leave. You too can adorn your intelligent cranium by scouring her gems at www.featherwitch.etsy.com. Fly away pretty little birdies.

PS: is it weird that there's a photo of me . . . so much for attempts at anonymity.

Small Farm, Big Dreams

My first photo folks! It's a snapshot of a painting that dwells in my apartment on a wall in my room. Sometimes I want to continue the phone lines in thin black marker all the way around my room. Like the fish tail, they're stunted. But I think all those lines would be too busy and interfere with my dream sequences, or mimic the feeling of being caught in a silky spider's web.
My Dad thinks she looks like Mick Jagger.
I think she looks like a lady, a pretty, crimson lipped lady.

Fish Face

The images are coming soon, promise.

But for now, I'll paint a picture and set the stage with some glossy prose and try to wow you with my oh so prolific vocabulary.

Begin: Last night dinner time got reunited with it's favorite mate - sushi! It's hard to think of anything that is as satiating and beautiful as the rainbow hued, gem toned and brilliantly displayed pigmented pieces as sushi. Note to self, when you read "anything," wrangle that idea into the realm of cuisine and taste buds, because I'm quite aware that there are indeed things more fascinating than raw fish. Examples might include: finding a new species in the deep sea that looks suspiciously like Japanese animation, understanding the not-so-secret courtship between the moon and the tides, and how babies are usually very ugly as newborns.

I digress. My most favorite sushi spot is a local one with one chef and one server. Little, intimate. It was my dining pal's first time so I thought he deserved to behold the heaven sent chef's combination platter. The presentation of this dish had likely under gone some preliminary art direction, because when it reached us it was a sight. Breath taken. My color palate craved nothing, no pop of color, no focal point. The fish segments were standing like malleable dominoes begging to be tipped, some stacked giraffe tall and others molded into to rose flowers. I wished I had my camera like the two at the end of the counter, who were flashing before feasting, but thank me for my lack of technological prowess, as you'd be visually and perhaps audibly salivating. And that's rarely quite attractive, especially if it looks like you're drooling. Bad news.

Beyond this most sublime of sushi which I will cease to describe and instead share my other favorite part of this sushi hut, the stuff on the wall. There's a piece of artwork on the wall of a fish. Yes, a fish. But this fish is quite unique because it has a triangle bit missing from it's tail. My instincts tell me the frame, not the artist, was the culprit for this chop. The fish, however, has been fixed. Some lovely soul with a mild case of OCD has graciously added the departed anatomical section. It's right there drawn onto the wall extending above the thin wooden frame that houses the rest of the still life. Symmetry, in life and art, is such a stronghold where many of us find solace. Or maybe it's completion? Either way, this fish, once imperfect, now whole yet thoroughly asymmetrical, lives on the wall in a revered yet sad state and then on my plate.

I eat my sushi in two bites not one, the pieces consistently lopsided.

Festival

"Cinema," you say? Well, then where are the lovely images, the elegant stills, the vividly candid photos hinting at a silver screen? And then I say, "they're processing." (both in nature and on film).

Like silent film, often my most poignant memories are pictures that exist sans dialogue. They are instead collective particles branded into my mind via sights, coupled with sounds, maybe married to body language, effected by temperature and executed or not judging on whether Mercury is in retrograde . . .

For me, this past weekend was a film, a few shorts, steeped in sensory overload. I say this with gratitude and only wish you could see this little personal movie that I live, that is all my own. It's so much more than the daily me. Complete with a fine motley crew of characters, histories resurrected, swirls of pleasant, perhaps pungent and occasionally offensive scents, many a salty tear and sweet, sweet dreams (to identify a select few), this little life I get to call my own, is precious . . . thanks to you. I know I can thank YOU, because you are one of maybe three people reading this text, silently demanding pictures, but willfully here to assist in witnessing the short days I inhabit, punctuated by melancholies, mishaps, melodies and pure loveliness via text and imagery.

Hope you enjoy each feature presentation.

welcome