i AM loved!

I should share this . . . even if only for myself. I am so lucky, so very lucky . . . thanks Mama, I simply could not Love you more . . .

Begin Mother Dialogue:

"Wow . . . again you thrill me and make me feel so proud to be your Mom. Fascinating...but the ALMOST BUS IMPACT...now that was scary. Be ever so careful of listening to your Ipod while venturing into the wilds of SF. Glad to hear what you said about your former flame. Each day is a new departure into something wonderful which awaits you....all in the attitude and taking supreme joy in just being alive. Love again...Mom"

I just checked my email and found this. I'm so excited that my silly words are truly reaching people I LOVE! And Ma, no need to worry, the Honda is not equipped to facilitate an iPod, so do not fret my pet.

Thank you for the comment sweet Pammy, also know that you can post them on the blog - or I suppose I can simply revive them here. Regardless, tonight, not necessarily more than usual, your words mean so much. I cannot wait to wrap my arms around you! This lovely woman, my Mom, she's visiting, along with my most perfect image and litmus-test-of-a-man Dad, in about a week! Miss you both! And to my readers (aka best pals), you should really meet these two . . . quality, hilarious and the most amazing 60 + (own it!) folks you've yet to meet (guaranteed). xoxoxox

Que Linda? Pero, Hay Mas . . .

Language has always fascinated me. It's myriad incarnations and definitions and translations and uses, it's misuses . . . it's strange way of attempting to capture the indescribable. While I'm most familiar with English, I know bits and pieces, small fragments of a few of the romance languages and their respective roots of origin. Nevertheless, I am intrigued by each and every aural utterance and sentence I hear, my curiosity further compounded by regional accents, pronunciation and utility. Corners of conversations, profound statements and bumper stickers alike get my linguistic fires burning.

I stumbled across a book today in a sleepy book vender's shop in a quaint, small Northern California town. It's title drew me in, "Six Names of Beauty." Simple, concise and the perfect tip-of-the-iceberg hook that spoke to all that lies beneath the surface of one word that dictates so much of contemporary culture. Since day one, I imagine beauty has held influential court in ancient societies, nevertheless, considering that beauty supposedly lies in the eye of the beholder, the specific word beauty has not, and does not represent what we think it embodies in contemporary society. I like that fact. I appreciate that beauty is defined in ways that many of us never imagine it would or even could be. Certain qualities in our every day lives are overlooked as being considerably beautiful. I look forward to further excavating beauty as terminology, as fact, as static and as ultimately definable. While I think I know my own personal definition of what beauty consists of, I hope to embrace those characteristics - physical, visual and mental - and then realize that beauty dwells in every angle of life.

I think beauty resides in the photographs capturing a piece of painted sidewalk cement, the smell of a brand new, never been cracked open book, it's in the taste of a pungent tear laced with black mascara, the unsettled feeling of lust induced butterflies mixed with nausea, the heavy, sleepily weary voice I speak with when I first rise, it occurs in showcasing the ability to be humble and carve out a niche for forgiveness - albeit an often bitter to swallow thick pride, it's found in sore muscles begging for deep pressure therapy and all the moments in between moments of knowing, and having no idea whatsoever . . . I find all of the above to encompass inherent, unexpected and forgotten "beauty." Take a gander at how various cultures, and by extension languages, have come to denote the idea of "beauty."

1) Beauty, English - the object of longing.
2) Yapha, Hebrew - glow, bloom.
3) Sundara, Sanskrit - holiness.
4) To Kalon, Greek - idea, ideal.
5) Wabi-Sabi, Japanese - humility, imperfection.
6)Hozho, Navajo - health, harmony.

So then friends, where, how, why and in what do you find beauty, or allow it to be defined, in your world. Maybe even the most imperfect, odd and sorrow ridden days and moments are those brimming with the most authentic beauty? Perhaps many a vividly visceral, remarkably raw and sadly sensory recorded seconds are indeed filled with just that, just pure beauty.

For further exploration, look at the front flap notes in this.

Yes, I think Bridgette Bardot possesses beauty, yet in an incarnation I never before considered.

It's True . . .

If you know me, you have most likely heard me utter (more than a baker's dozen times), "if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, I'd be happy to have spent today with you" . . . or some telling incarnation of that sentence. And I mean it folks. Well, today, after taking a much needed sick day, I took my sad, Rudolph nosed self to run a few minor errands in this most brilliant of weather. After starting my day at my favorite coffee shop, I headed out of my sanctuary-like neighborhood to get things done.

Crowning the top of Geary Street I almost got hit by a bus. No joke. It was such a shock. I am eternally grateful for the loud horn from the driver that further ushered me to safe ground on Franklin Street (or is it Gough, I'm often confused directionally speaking with those two). No, it wasn't my fault, but the unpredictable error of traffic lights and overzealous drivers. Regardless, today I had a moment that was almost truth, almost my life's personal fate. I try to remind myself daily that this life is temporary, therefore be expressive, be alive and real, and sad and open and vulnerable and strong and hopeful and despondent and just feel; feel it all. (like one of my favorite songs by Feist, find and listen, you'll thank me.) Honestly speaking, there's no way that I could live tomorrow without taking risks in life; granted much more grounded risks, risks that I have ownership over, non-traffic related risks.

The message here, however, I suppose is to act as a small reminder to you all - those people I love so dearly and hold so close, too close sometimes - to really think that this day, this very moment could be our last. And that's why we can be shameful no more about loving people intensely and saying each phrase that rests on the tip of our tongues, the so-close-we-can-taste-them kind . . . and shout them.

Tonight I saw a person, a man I once thought to be the end all, be all of my tiny little romantic world. I thought one day he might hold me in high esteem, the way his eyes and smiles and embrace once hinted and did. But alas, not so. And speaking today, that fact is more than okay. And in the spirit of being in the moment and present, I left him no room to dangle the proverbial carrot, to keep me hanging on like that perfect 80s cover . . . instead I was honest and forward (maybe too forward) . . . But my dialogue is the direct result of my day, a drive on the verge that left me simultaneously unapologetic and full of love for those who are willing recipients. He knows I care, but due to the way he decides to treat our new found friendship (?), I wonder where his mind would have been drifting had I really gotten hit by that big old bus? No pity party here, just inquiry. I never want to think of the what- ifs with my friends and loved ones. That alone, my pretties, is precisely why I hug you too tight, call and write you too often and miss you every moment of my day. True story.

If you got hit by a bus tomorrow, what would you have loved to have been doing tonight? Who would you be with, and how would you be remembered? Know that you would be loved, at least by me.
xoxoxoxoxox

PS: Subaru spelled backwards is "U r a Bus," so watch out for them too.

Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto

I'm jealous of Jupiter and it's four most notables, nevertheless, tomorrow's lunar calendar boasts an earthly full moon forecast. People easily forget about this strange celestial residing powerhouse and how it truly does effect us all. Beyond shifting the tides of vast oceans and dictating many a female mood, this giant crater studded sphere has lovely illuminating powers that light small faces of street walkers and couples contemplating courtship. Tonight, beneath a radiant moon just one eve shy of full glory, I myself felt the royal beams sweeping across my face and sneaky little mental stirs swirling in my question filled head. To the man in the moon: what say you?

A girl with zero disposable income who pretends to have excess cash, I treated someone to dinner. A favor being returned and reimbursed. The recipient of back to back dinners, one paid for and one hand crafted, I thought it appropriate to share some fine and familiar Italian cuisine with someone who seems to subdue hunger pains, but not my vocal chords. With him, I often forget about the tangible world where cutlery and traffic abound. Our conversations resemble curious strides down simple stray alleys. Sometimes, they delve deep like coal miners unearthing the land, one dig or explosion at a time. Directionless and uncharted respectively. I so thoroughly enjoy this new company. I hope take action and do the things and visit the destinations we so enthusiastically suggest to each other, to see the films we each sing praises of, and to imbibe a few more glasses of handcrafted hops and wine from old vines.

Currently $50 more poor, this evening was far better spent eating a delectable dinner, watching super 8 film footage from the 1960s over a cup of scalding, steaming tea and then walking beneath a luminous moon just one night shy of starlit satiation, than mimic many a manic Monday at home.

Don't forget to look at the moon on Tuesday and heck, make a wish . . . likable indeed.


The beautiful artwork found above is by my fiend Kristina Lewis whose art will soon take up a whole post on this blog, beautiful. For the time being, find more of her work at www.kristinalewis.com.

Focused Risks

My muse (perhaps plural?) has gone to sleep. She's exhausted from my demanding, not so subtle hints at explorations of the cerebral, subconscious mind. Without her I feel less than, I feel exposed and ill equipped to share anything of value, of substance, of entertainment. Nevertheless, I write. Doug Sahm and the Sir Douglas Quintet echoes in my ear, just one computer based tab dividing us, singing a sentimental "I'm glad for your sake" (please find it and listen). This background music, however, is so much more. It's one song on a play list of 39 so far that I will soon whittle down to a more replicating friendly 25, on a medley I'm making for my ex. The music is not intended to substitute my own voice, using far superior artists to express my deepest thoughts in poetry that eludes me, but rather to soothe his heart in a time of hopefully fleeting depression.

Maybe four, hmm five Saturdays past, my doorbell rang at midnight, just after my two high heel clad feet reached comfortable ground via sherpa slippers. Who could it be now? (yes, think Men @ Work), I don't typically invite guests over past my pumpkin's prime, hence was reluctant to answer an anxious, double pressed bell. I reduced the noise to a drunken passers by attempt at a silly game of ding dong ditch. Nevertheless, curiosity struck this feline and made her stick her head beyond bars that guard, only to witness a hooded figure, a truly unforgettable silhouette, slowly disappear west-bound down the street. Silenced by the foreigner I saw, who currently resides by a lake much greater than Merced, I waited, tongue tied and frozen. He turned one breath shy of my apartment retreat, and sauntered towards me, head shrouded and shoe gazing. A purely cinematic moment, I wished he wouldn't speak, but tell me, via retinal scanning in words unspoken, why he came to see me . . . and, cue music. Unfortunately, dialogue happened. Nothing novel, no dirty relationship excavations unearthed, but hardship, regret and missing, revealed. I share this because one year ago I would have crumbled, been defeated and enlisted myself in a session or four of electro-shock therapy. But this time, his eyes didn't sear, they were kind and open and sad. And for the first time, I was not. Looking at him with a discerning and compassionate gaze, I let him go, for good, as I thought he'd done to me so many months prior. I care about him sincerely, I wish for him the best, most fulfilling days, because he granted me the same - painting my days with unknown musical beauty, vivid personal histories, insightful films, adventure and delightfully deliberate love. His visit was medicine, a slap in the face, and a spike to my heart's flat line. Coupled with my horoscope, I am more able to make sense of why people come into our lives, and leave, at such undercover yet influential times.

"Spread your wings and fly little hummingbird! Try new things and remain open to different ways of expressing yourself (cough, blog). At the same time you're hurling yourself out there, try to keep a cap on how scattered you allow your vision or behavior to be. Focused risks work best."

Get your double team psychic dream on with Michelle Tea and Jessica Lanyadoo in The San Francisco Bay Guardian every Wednesday or write to theses celestial women at lovedoubleteam@hotmail.com

artwork courtesy of yours truly

Madam, I'm Adam

In my abbreviated life thus far I have had the gift of knowing a few quality individuals by the name of Adam. First, there's the mythological/religious icon who I often wonder about . . . what were your intentions, is your favorite fruit really an apple, and why would your ribs be so important to lil old me all these years later? Then there's the Adam who courted me through tangled, thorned rose stems and behind cash register counter tops. He was a keeper, for a brief era, and while I love him still, he currently holds a painful title in my vocabulary, heart breaker. Nevertheless, I will always be grateful for his consistently, untimely honesty and sweet bald head.

But then there's another Adam. One who has supported me from the get go. The only person to ever read my senior thesis without having been paid (faculty) or obliged (family) to do so. Adam knew me as an overzealous, yet insecure academic who didn't believe in her skill nor herself. While you read this text, whether ultimately bored, inspired or annoyed by my phrasing, without Adam, I never would have been able to reach you. It is his generous sponsorship that allows me to ramble and pontificate about those things, ideas and people I hold dearest. So curse him, or like me, praise him and give great thanks. Right now, at this very moment, I don't trust myself to adequately and explicitly describe to you the most inspiring and true man that Adam is. Hence, before I dedicate a post entirely to him, complete with flashback photos and prime human examples of sublime selflessness, I'll simply say to him, "welcome home" and "thank you for the Japanese detergent!"

Tomorrow is Friday. I will be having dive bar drinks with some special friends after a long week of work, but will ultimately be looking forward to my evening at the local laundromat where I get to test this new stain eliminating serum, courtesy of my favorite Adam yet. Tune in for more fun facts about this most wonderful man who keeps me on track, reminding me that I matter, taking every effort to support my efforts in life as well as the frivolities that often interfere with it . . .

Thank you is the most grand understatement I have ever uttered. Let's make a pact, all of us, to think of a new, reinterpreted, more sufficient way of telling someone how we are grateful, indebted and in awe of them . . . starting now. Big Sigh.

PS: did you notice the titular palindrome? Nice.

Power to the Cat

We arrived a bit late. Did her opening band already perform, or would she playing with the Dirty Delta Blues? I still don't quite know and don't really care. Chan Marshall, also known as Cat Power, put on a show that I won't soon be forgetting. Her hypnotic, romantically pining pipes spoke to me more than I imagined they could have. A huge fan of all her albums, I knew that her voice recalled the greats, but didn't fully understand how influential they actually were, to me and to her. Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett, Nina Simone (oh, yeah), Smokey Robinson and Joni Mitchell each found pure resurrection through the vocal chords of this timid, back lit, beautifully dazed Power.

An artist in her own right with many albums resting notably south of her low riding belt, Ms. Marshall decided this evening to instead remind her audience of the forefathers and mothers who paved the way for her poignant, hard hitting and raw lyrics to command any stage. Her own signature verses manifested themselves atop one another in layers reminiscent of the packed red earth that tells of histories residing decades, even eons before it's own gritty birth. The guitar driven blues rhythms that acted as a sidecar, even navigator at times, behind and around her, made it crystal clear - albeit through the purple smoke she so purposefully exhaled into surrounding ambient air - that she is a woman, both fragile and unbreakable, who willingly pays homage to her roots and to those artists at risk for being left occasionally nameless. The evening's soundtrack was no less than perfect. Beyond the dazzling company, Juless (ahem, Jewels), tonight's soundtrack would have only been complete with a better, legibly lit view of Cat's high cheekbones and weathered western shirt.

Many an admirer may never have suspected this lady figure to encompass the heart and soul, the rhythm and blues of prior legends, nevertheless, she has indeed mastered her melancholy and performed the blues the way they were meant to be played . . . such riffs and breaks were meant to be felt, reverberating in chest cavities, thumping tapping toes and shaking hands that cup perfectly shaken drinks.

Speechless is a term that rarely describes me . . . but alas, I am at a loss. Big, lovely and sweetest of sighs. The concert's encore presentation proved to be not a showdown of percussion based climax nor spotlighted signature moves. Instead, Cat Power found herself dimly lit beneath a cornea friendly red lantern glow signing the blues. And that she did so very well. She sang one of my all time, stop the clock, favorite lyrical majesties - Blue by Joni Mitchell. Draped over the only occupied instrument, the piano, exchanging lingering and longingly suggestive glances and postures towards her organ's artist, she sent me, along with the rest of the swaying, entranced crowd into familiarly distant territory with a most unique rendition of the . . . Blues.

Landen on Mars

One of my very best friends visited me today and he doesn't even know it yet. Perusing through a very well known artsy, awesome, counter culture-ish magazine, (you'd be familiar, think "place in proximity") I saw his work . . . His piece was the backdrop for an ad encouraging young folks to attend the college where he recently earned his MFA. Holy Mother! Way to go Adam. Just remember Mr. Mars, that we are a decade shy (plus or minus - well, plus) of reaching 40, and that's when, if all else fails, we will be betrothed. So sheesh, take her easy! Adam and I have that silly heterosexual pact that only paranoid products of a Puritan society agree to . . . if we aren't married by the time we're forty, then it's our time to shine. Adam and I would be great together. Sexual tension since we were in the sixth grade, we at least have the friendship part down, and really, when you grow old with someone, isn't that the best part? Here's to you my man from Mars! Congratulations, and remember that I saw that piece and the tattoo you used as inspiration before many a soul, which meas only one thing. Can I get an extra drink ticket at your next opening?

This snapshot hails from our local Laguna Tattoo Parlor. Adam is on the right and has waaaay more hair these days. That other stallion is Jeff, check out his new ink . . . they were about 7 years younger in this photo, but thanks to botox, they haven't aged a day!

Sera Feliz

Rough translation, "you will be happy."
Somewhere in that Spanish phrase lives a version of my name. Tonight, on this 13th eve of my ninth month in a futuristic sounding 2007, I am quite content. Headed to Saint of the Cross tomorrow, I think . . . a place also known as Santa Cruz, to be with my birthday bound K. Things seem to be looking up and apparently quite religious?

Heart You

My heart aches for you. Yes, you. It's less an ache and more like a sweet palpitation reminiscent of a low, lingering bass line that carries the title track song. Please don't make the mistake of thinking these words exist for anyone else, they are for you . . . completely, truly and unabashedly for you.

For Pamela . . . on your birthday . . . 9.12

September 12th.
All of my life I've wished I looked like you, thinking someday my skin would mimic your perfectly sun-kissed olive complexion, hoping that my head could boast the darkest of Sicilian locks and that my demeanour might resemble your ever effervescent spirit. But sometimes genes aren't enough. Remember when you'd scold me for not cleaning my room and then the phone would ring and you'd answer in a most sing song, enlightened voice, "hello?" I used to hate that and I used to think it fake, but throughout the years I've realized it's you, wholly you, never wanting to impose upon others the strife you may be experiencing right then and there, and provide them with your undivided presence. You never want to burden innocent parties - compassion, that's what I take from you too. Like the house, when I was a newborn, and you'd lovingly smother me in a masked melancholy, wishing I could save you while you protected me? A guardian, I love that about you.

I love the way you giggle, especially when it follows one of my silly, opinionated soliloquies on life. I crave hearing your familiar voice at the other end of my faulty receiver. I love how you taught me that a simple smile can ease not only my day but that of a stranger's. Hence, to this day I take every opportunity to offer a simple glimmer of teeth to any unassuming passers by, with the hope that it effects their mood and maybe even their day, shifting weighty perceptions from majors to minors. It's you who taught me to appreciate the minutia of each monumental and often somber day.

Every time I sit in a car, be it behind the wheel or as a passenger, it's "seat belt city!" I hear ringing in my ears. Each night before bed, I brush my teeth, wash my face and apply a thin coat of Retin-A, knowing never to let it creep too close towards the corners of my eyes and to be diligent about not letting it's skin clearing properties singe the soft corners of my broad nose. And any time I gaze at my reflection with notably sad eyes, I remember that you are the number one fan of these almond shaped blue units that cry too often and see things in such awkward angles.

Thank you Mom, for everything you've given me. Like life (!), like the slightly skewed vision of my surroundings, like the pear shaped figure I'm learning to embrace with each pair of pants that don't quite fit. Thank you for supporting me in the studies and degree I earned, all the while knowing that I may never use them to garner a paycheck. Still manging to trust that the life experiences, the literature and art would enrich my life on a level unparalleled to academia. You've always know when to give a little and a lot of love, and it means the world.

I apologize for the length of this post to anyone reading (maybe four souls), but to tell you of my Mom and her strengths and character and beauty would require me writing a novel. And while I'm working on it, Always and Sometimes Never (good title eh?!), it's simply too complex for one small blurb on my very petite blog. Nevertheless, I'll tell you that she alone is the best coach to have in your corner. She has never, ever lost nor questioned her faith in me, a whimsical, stubborn and unbelievably challenging daughter. It's hard to come from someone you hold in such high esteem. Too often I compare myself to this fine specimen of a woman and then lose steam, wondering if I'll ever be the mother she was to me, if a great man will ever hold me in his eyes as my Dad did her, a truly captivating, hold-the-phone beauty. I wonder if I'll make her proud and wonder if I'll ever be able to thank her for being the best role model a girl could find? I certainly hope Mom, that like you, I can continue to branch out and reinterpret the roads I will inevitably travel.

Happy Birthday Mom! (Yours is mine in a way? so thanks lots!) I love you endlessly and guarantee that if I pass sixty and look like you, it will be tattooed in tally marks across my forehead. Here's to you Pamela. A+ work!

Love you eternally.

Fabricate, Emulate . . . Recreate, Mediate . . .

So there's this girl. I wish, for selfish reasons, she really did have a clone. That way, when she's off gallivanting around Paris and the UK, I could still have her close by. I should have been born of her blood, but no need, we get to be sisters who found each other later on in life. And everyone loves a reunion - examples might include The Eagles When Hell Freezes Over tour and lost pets with distraught owners. My sweet H and I met in college, and got to experience as well as shun the vast landscape of a small Santa Cruz campus known for seasonal nude rain dances, magic tree trunks and livable quarters known as the bat caves. Unlike our fellow quad-centric students, however, we could often be found watching Eddie Murphy's Delirious and re-runs of 90210 while drinking wine in room 311 on the library-like all women's floor of building A (all women's floor, yes, as a prudish youth I never wanted to share a bathroom with boys, and come to think of it, I still say "no thank you"). Then we got to move into a house with one of their stinkiest prodigies, yo Dyl! HEM and I had a relationship that blossomed instantaneously. Flash forward a decade, and this little miss still makes me weep with laughter and pine for those nostalgic days of Tuesday night living room entertainment. Be it zombie movies, filming our very own music videos or having impromptu dance parties, 127 Laguna Street has walls that should be writing biographies.

Right now I wish I could send you on your merry way to a youtube link that showcases a most excellent sample of our late night creative output, so you could witness and enjoy firsthand the beauty that is Mediate, our most impressive videographic experiment to date. The lyrics to this INXS song are just so epic, and the rhyming, well, we're no rappers. So we took it upon ourselves to cheat, for the sake of the audience of course, and aimed not to butcher the illusion of lip singing. Cue cards a necessity, we found that lipstick glides on a mirror's surface like sweet cream butter and comes off like magic with a spritz of your favorite all purpose cleaner. Hence, we wrote each dense verse on the slick surface mounted just above the rusted, inert fire place, that provided us with lyrical information and more importantly, reflected how awesome our jet black Ray Ban's looked when dismounting the bridge of our noses simultaneously. Pure genius! And, yes you're correct, you did have to be there.

For my funeral, whenever it may take place, I beg of you H: please include that short, perfect video of our youth. And while I'm at it, don't forget that brilliant song by Starship, not a dry eye in the house! Je Taime Ms. M!

Cute Or Cut?

When you have a good hair day, just go with it. Accept the compliments and remember not to fret the fact that you may never get the same, perfect angles shredded just so, to frame your little, perhaps odd face again . . . instead remember that hair is already dead. So whatever locks may be admired in the moment, have actually already had their day in the sun. That's why they're faded and look light like summer night lights. But again, they are simply sad follicles that crave to be renewed, trimmed, pruned and ultimately get cut short, boy short. But before you do go the deleting distance, stick some clips and ribbons and pencils and feathers in your microscopically made mane and dare to wear deceased hair. And when someone notices your Rapunzel lengths and ornate ornaments, always remember to say thank you, keeping any silly disclaimers to yourself. For tomorrow, after a night of thinking "what if" and then making a grandiose chop, at least you'll know folks liked it and weren't faking with an obligatory, "no, it looks good, like you're five again . . . and it's probably so easy to manage." Or my favorite, "it'll grow back."

Hair's to you!

If you do chop, save at least nine inches and donate them to Locks for Love. Win - Win.

Pant Party

These days it takes true effort to find the perfect pair of trousers. I simply cannot wrap my brain around the art, fabrication and execution of successfully making a pair of pants, let alone a pair that fits. If I knew the secret, my closet would be brimming with personalized pants instead of ill-fitting, contemporary attempts. How odd that we are taught to believe that one size, selected from a vast array of numbers, is supposed to fit specific lower human halves? While many of us fluctuate, figuratively speaking, why and how can we embody a set size when we're long, we're short, we're thick and slight and abbreviated in myriad equations? That is precisely why I miss polyester. Big sigh. Sure, it doesn't breathe and yes, it skims and then sits taught on dimpled skin, nevertheless, it is this synthetic miracle that complements my form best. And oddly enough, my favorite fit usually hails from the male sector of the fashion industry's vision of design, length, width and pocket availability. Sure, squeezing feminine curves into man pants may seem silly, often times waistlines prove troublesome, but man alive, pinstriped slacks and vintage permanent press pantalones are what this lady calls staples.

Recently however, I was enlightened beyond non believer status. I found them, my favorite trunk tamers - wide leg, high waisted, dress you up and dress you down pants. One pair even boasted the original tag and signage. And if the pants weren't perfection, I'll admit I would've purchased them based on marketing and an anonymous model's inviting pose alone. Sucker. The pants arrived after a long haul, a journey of routine rejection ultimately searching just for me, from a dusted 1979. Who knew that this fashion enthusiast would be born just one year shy of such stellar pant pasts? Lucky for me, the constant garment house excavator, I have been reunited with poplin. Sometimes I wish I'd been a product of the 1970s rather than the eighties. I enjoy adorning my head and self with myriad reappropriations of organic matter; wispy feathers, the occasional brilliantly hued and scented flower and pieces of wood (mostly meeting my scalp in the form of a chopstick or pencil). I was never one too fascinated by the art of bedazzling, but I admit, I did indeed enjoy a hot of the wheel, snappy spin art sweatsuit - honestly, wearable masterpieces! Why then, such a dilemma of eras? No problem, really, I just wish I lived in a time that better suited me, literally. I wonder if they still produce these pants I now covet. I'm guessing they don't. Because if they did, and if they continued their fine trend of product photography, I'd know it. The images are just too good. So perhaps I'll just continue fighting the good fight of searching and scouring and hunting for more of these genius two legged creations.

Peace and pants and ps: sorry for the backwards image - camera trauma - yet another reason I may have thrived better pre-technology . . .

Deconstructing Blue

There was no Blue ribbon ceremony, nothing too out of the Blue and no, it didn't feel suffocating like being caught between the Devil and the deep Blue sea; but this past luxuriously extended weekend was chalk full of Blue . . . in shades, in demeanour and skies and sounds. But don't let Blue fool you, she's quite the chameleon. If and when sadness strikes you next, perhaps use the following terms rather than misconstrue the complete authentic identity of miss Blue.

Definitions and options include: dejected, depressed, despondent, disconsolate, dismal, dispirited, down-hearted, downcast, fed-up, gloomy, glum, low, melancholy, moody, unhappy and woebegone. (woebegone is my personal favorite. People will seek a thesaurus just to figure out what was meant after inquiring about your day when you reply simply with hand on heart and heavily sigh "woebegone").

Miss Blue, limitless in interpretation, can be vulgar too . . . she's often bawdy, dirty, indecent, lewd, naughty, obscene, off-color (hmm?), risque,' salty, shady, smutty, suggestive and wicked. Oooooh Blue!

And since our lady Blue is a chameleon, one who, by definition changes colors according to environmental necessity, she may be azure, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, navy, royal, sapphire, teal, turquoise, or ultramarine.

We've covered color and hue, discussed mood, but what about notes? Those flat notes that punctuate minds over sheet music at the third and seventh degrees of said scale? How about considering those big Blue chords that rest in place of an expected major musical interval? Some folks say that listening to The Blues inherently leads to ingesting the sadness and woe of the song. Nevertheless, is The Blues a genre that can really be categorized like her Blue kin? Is The Blues solely the audible product of melancholy, despondent and downtrodden spirits? Or is it instead royal and dirty and suggestive, all the while radiant like the clear blue water she colors?

This weekend had no days characterized by dim, grounded shoe-gazing but was instead colored by cloudless Blue skies reflecting off skyscrapers and skin, by an almost transparently hidden Blue moon and yes, The Blues . . . each regal variation of my own eye's namesake, shining independent of each other's defining terms. I love the Blues, in all her incarnations.

Flight of Fancy

Definition: (noun) an imaginable but unworkable idea.
















Today I would like to fly. Not by assuming the anatomy of a bird, feathered and free in various vegetation refuges, instead by boarding a large aircraft with tiny double pained windows that invisibly shield passengers from the truth and suction of gravity, while still providing vast views from above.

Last night someone told me that, according to some theorists (?), the world is thought to end as we know it on the sixth of June in the year 2012. I don't believe that. Part of my rational disbelief is rooted in narcissism. My 32nd birthday would have been the very next day. And 32 sounds nice. Nevertheless, if we all thought that finale to be true, perhaps unshakable science proved it via reverse carbon dating, what then would you do, where would you go and who would you share your remaining five years with? Today, at this very moment, what would you plan? Or would the whole point be to abandon agendas and just enjoy the ambient tic-tock clock in our collective backgrounds?

I would be more adventurous: take the risk; venture . . . starting now.

artwork is by yours truly