It Might Be Cinema

2011-11-14T20:09:00.001-08:00

Mama

2011-09-10T16:20:00.000-07:00

My Dearest Mama,

On your birthday, while reminding of your stunningly youthful looks, I would like to tell you about (remind you of) what I've loved, learned and continue to understand about you, after having known you for 31 years. Let's see: Ice cream is a necessity, not a luxury, and can be incorporated into ANY healthy diet. Self preservation is not selfishness, period. Baths don't have to happen only on the weekends. Routines are helpful, and you can schedule spontaneity. Broccoli is a super food. Having time to put your feet up at night is the perfect way to say thanks you to your body. Reading is fun. Dusk is the best time of the day, I wish it lasted longer too. Always brush your teeth after coffee. Always wear your seat belt. Traveling with snacks is simply smart.Beautiful architecture should be appreciated, often. Having cheerleaders helps play the game (of life). Drink water, plenty of it. Use Retin-A, it's a face lift in a tube - you are proof positive. Write down questions for your doctor and insist you get answers and a copy of the super-bill. Let people love and admire you. Have manners - say thank you and bring a loaf of banana bread whenever possible (like I did to a recent Banana Republic shoot). Wear colors that don't die on you. Good is a dead word. Use the "show me technique" when telling a story. Share. Going out in groups is fun!!

Most of all my dear Mama, you have really raised a daughter who knows that she is loved, will always be loved - unconditionally and without exception by her family. YOU have imparted upon me such tremendous values and manners and gratitude that my friends and family notice. Thank you for the past 31 years. I so hope that you know the value of your 65ish years and what you mean to me, to Awa, to Dad, your sister, your friends and even perfect strangers. Here's to you sweet Pamela on your very special day! Keep it up, kid. Happy Birthday.

Love You,
toots

And so they say

2011-05-21T11:28:00.000-07:00

I once thought that writing would save my life. I think it still just might. With all the happenings that keep happening in my life, the only way to sort them out, is to ride, ahem write them out. Real life events, and then the possibility and probability of such events playing out in my life, are getting trapped in my head and proceeding to tape loop over and over and over and over again. It is becoming toxic, this internal revolution. They say stress is responsible for some crazy percentage of disease, like 80. I don't know who they are, but I believe them. The stresses, any anxieties that sit within or upon my skin are beginning to show their true colors and tarnish me from the inside out. But what's the remedy, how does it reverse? On it's own, doubtful. With the help of outsiders, not likely. It comes down to me, little timid, seldom strong me. I need to cultivate more strength and establish better boundaries. I need to say "no" more often to others and "yes" more often to moi. True. But it's frightening. Who wants to start a conversation and be the bad guy? I know a few who easily confuse my offerings as an invitation to take and take. I am a giver, yes, but do not wish to be sucked dry and never refilled. Nevertheless, it appears as though there is something about me that attracts -with a mysterious magnitude- people who exhaust me. One of those people is me, ps. So beginning sooner than later, I am taking a big old fashioned break. Buckling down, paring down, and hunkering down. I will try to heal, I have to heal. I will carve out the time to do the things I used to love to do, and still love to do, but have become rusty at doing. Like writing. Where is my usual voice, here? Rusted, in need of some literal form of WD40. And perhaps I will conjure up some analog days, free of web related minutia that locks people in and often becomes a stand in for real life experiences. It's a good thing that I enjoy my own company, because while they say stress kills, they also say "if you're not good company for yourself, you're no good company for others." I like being alone. As a Gemini, it's as if I never really am. So here's to a pre-Gemini birthdate that is quickly approaching . . . Here's to a fresh start a little later in the game, where I actually begin to act and feel like a grownup as opposed to a doormat and a pushover who often feels as though entitled, mannerless folks take advantage of. It may not be easy, but I simply don't have the time not to find out. No time to waste time. Don't they also say "there's no time like the present?" Or my favorite, "yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery and today is a gift, that's why it's called the present." Clever, real clever. And on a final note, of self affirmation and my attempt to listen to and trust a doctor's poignant prescription for once, "be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind." Dr. Seuss, he's the perfect combination of what I need in my life, advice and solutions from a doctor and motivational lyrical goodness from a writer. And here I go, living for today, while mending the past and fine tuning what still ticks and what may even work better with just a little bit of attention.

2011-03-05T12:06:00.001-08:00

I just picked up my Senior Thesis after I read a friend's blog this morning. The quote she posted reminded me of one of my favorites. And so I dug up my work. Brushing off some dusty residue, from having rested untouched, atop books crammed into a space too small, I opened the booklet to the page I needed and then shared. Ralph Ellison, the author of my favorite book ever - Invisible Man - is quite simply put, a genius. His large work inspired my petite work. His words became the architecture to the small building of words and images that became my thesis. The quote that raised my brow and continues to tape loop my brain is this: "The end is in the beginning and lies far ahead." I think it is perfect. It's kind of like how the universe never ends - we all know this, but don't really know this . . . right? It's simplicity only becomes more profoundly evident via it's complexity. Seriously.

So, after unearthing the quote that I wanted to ensure not to misquote, I began to peruse the body of work I assembled almost a decade ago. Did I really write this? Peppered with quotes and cited works throughout, the bulk of the text, however, is my own voice on paper. My narrative, my dialogue, my edited and a more legible version of my very own stream of consciousness. Wow, I sound like I know what I'm talking about, all the while maintaining a curious and investigatory tone. This morning I impressed myself. And trust you me, this is rare. I believe I was meant for the world of academia. A world chalk full of chalk. An environment that thrives on thought and theory and wonder and malleable answers to positively uncertain solutions. A place of hypothesis and opinion - educated, political and personal - which in my mind are rather inextricable. The political, as I learned long ago, is the personal. I suppose that's why life becomes a struggle for a gal like me, who so strives to be authentic, but who is also required to play a game and wear myriad hats on a regular basis. It's a sense of invisibility indeed, this struggle. Which brings me to another poignant idea from Ralph Ellison.

"Invisibility, let me explain, gives one a slightly different sense of time, you're never quite on the beat. Sometimes you're ahead and sometimes you're behind. Instead of the swift, imperceptible flowing of time, you are aware of its nodes, those pints where time stands still or from which it leaps ahead. And you slip into the breaks and look around."

Invisibility has pros and it has cons. For now, however, I will hold the pros as paramount concern and be inspired by this ghostly notion of the outsider, the observer. I will slip into the breaks, off beat, and look around.

Images: After 'Invisible Man' by Ralph Ellison, the Prologue 1999–2000
Transparency in lightbox 1740 x 2505 mm by Jeff Wall
(I got to see this work in real life at SFMOMA. The lightbox element could not have been more relevant nor visually sublime. The postcard on my fridge does Wall's work little justice).
Ralph Ellison

From Gary and Beyond: To New Beginnings, Or Not

2011-01-14T20:41:00.000-08:00

Gary: "Have you seen "Eat, Pray, Love" yet? If not, watch it . . . "

Me: "Read parts, still haven't seen it."

Gary: "Well . . . the movie is Gary* approved, if that says anything . . "

Note: the * is present due to real names being withheld, nevertheless, this was a real text from a real person to me. This is my life in dating.

Regrets and regards,
small fish, unfishable pond

Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros - Home (JVTP)

2010-11-21T22:12:00.000-08:00

I wish my life was like this very road trip. I love everything from the hot hot heat, the beat-up airstream, the old silky nightgowns worn as dresses, ripe red parasols, and most of all the sun setting - all of it makes me die a little, really, I do . . . This song has been heard SO much (true story), but guess what? I love it! It is an anthem, a reminder, a transformation and a lil dream, and I love it - unabashedly, love it. With that, please enjoy, and hopefully some day you will say, "wow, (sar) you really are living like that movie, like life actually might just be - cinema" . . . xx

Me: a few moons ago . . . Still true. Again: Argh

2010-11-20T22:58:00.000-08:00

The following words hail from my journal. They are newly found, post heartbreak, after hope left the room, and yet still they speak to me. I must follow my own lead from time to time . . . Maybe you'll like? Nevertheless, here's where I try to to harness hope, more like strangle it . . .

Learning French may help,
breathing will help too.
Not inventing dragons is really good, same as
not being too hopeful nor too pessimistic.
Getting a new haircut is fun also:
(recall Frenchie friend Jean Paul's proverb: "new haircut, new lover") - I hope so.
Corresponding genuinely with those you love - that's good - real good.
Be a lady, you're an alight version - try more.
And remember - you are the boss of you. He didn't even pay rent.

try try try try try try and maybe cut cut too?

xxoo

Duldroms: Volume 1

2010-11-10T10:07:00.000-08:00

* Gargling with salt water will kill the bacteria. The best way to treat a sore throat is to gargle with warm salt water 6-8 times a day.

* Of course, the best solution is to eliminate the cause instead of treating the symptoms. Eating half a leaf of fresh sage, combined with 1/8 teaspoon of turmeric, will greatly reduce the drainage and congestion. This works at least as well as the pharmaceutical medications (and without their side-effects).

* You should make your body alkaline to boost its uptake of oxygen. Drinking homemade lemonade with a pinch of baking soda periodically is a fast, safe, and effective way of doing this. Lemon juice is an acid, but it makes the body more alkaline because of the way it gets processed. The baking soda will add buffering bicarbonates to make the body resistive to becoming acidic again, which is the normal state during sickness. None of these things will provide immediate relief for the throat pain. That requires time.

Eat some lettuce; it helps the pain a lot.

This was from last week, it's old, like my gross hacking. but I love the photo too much not to post. And I love Canada, where lettuce lass is from.

xoxo hack cough sniffle ughhhhhhhhh

Saddest Day Yet

2010-08-12T22:15:00.000-07:00

Tonight will be the loneliest night ever. My main man, my Gris Gris, is not going to accompany me to bed. To use the word sad, is just, well, sad. Why can't I find a better word to adequately describe what it is I am feeling? Today i sat in a sterile office, with the love of my life, attempting to comfort him while the outside world carried on. Shame them, yes. We sat and snuggled, for a long while. His right arm got fixed to a little IV that was to later be used to administer a lethal feline injection. My heart broke and does still. Truth be told, I write because I don't want to make this bed, one without me, one with sheets that need laundering due to his late in life bladder, and also, because I don't like white sheets, I like the turquoise ones we used, for OUR bed. I do not know how I'll get through this. Period.

I have yet to "get rid of" his box, or clean up his many food options or sweep up the lingering and plentiful Gris Gris influenced dust bunnies. This weekend will be the kind of apartment cleaning that gets a bit too deep.

Where do I go today, the next day, Friday? I did not go to work, and slept on the couch, not my bed until almost 2 o'clock. It's as if my loneliness weren't evident in other areas of my life, the one constant companion who gave me truly unconditional love, has gone. I rescued Gris almost 7 years ago, and he rescued me right back each day. I hope he knows that true be the truth.

Dear Adam,

2010-07-28T20:16:00.000-07:00

I think of you far more than I ever correspond with you. A shame indeed. My heartfelt apologies. Every time I step upon that darn treadmill, it's your heart rate I wonder about, you hitting the target? Me too . . . 152 they say. I nail it! This is a simple note to remind you that heartbeats are vital. I so look forward to our next walk on West Cliff. In the meantime, be good to yourself and I will try to channel all of your inspirational words and do the same.

Dear Writing,

2010-07-13T18:09:00.000-07:00

Please come and pick me up and carry me away and save my life. This ship is sinking and I need to become a prolific pirate if I'm ever to reach the island.

S.O.S

YURTY THIRTY!

2010-06-04T13:23:00.000-07:00

As of this Monday, yours truly will finally be a grown up. Or so I hope. I told my Dad, however, the day that I turned thirteen that I was a "real woman." He chuckled and then agreed whole heartedly, and continues to remind me of my profound telling on that day . . . I wonder, though, when it will ever ring true. Sometimes when I get carded buying a bottle of wine, I pause and quiver thinking "holy hell, I'm like 17," before I realize that I'm of age, and far beyond. Often I still feel like that little girl in high school who marched to the beat of her own tambourine sometimes, but got swept away by the currents of the changing tides of popularity. Since high school, the ebbing and flowing has taken on a new wave, nevertheless, my twenties were churned up with Saturn returning and me feeling sucked down and out by the undertow. And so now, almost thirty, will these troubled waters float me to a more steady and calm shore? I don't know, but I feel the current now and it feels great. Warm like the waters of Sayulita that just caresses my skin and soothing like the hot mineral bath that welcomed and released me with not a pruned finger to speak of. These waters, the kind I imbibe, swim in and cry, have proven to change recently, a shifting tide indeed. I hope the cold waters of Big Sur help shock me into this new third decade of mine where I may finally be able to say with truth and pride that I am a real woman, a real version of me.

Big Sur Love!

hello again. or resuscitation.

2010-04-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

Today.
Passport: $220 . . . $100.00 for renewed passport / $60.00 to expedite / $60.00 (incorrect Birth certificate penalty fee) = $220.00 Priceless, since I'll be on the beach in Sayulita with Wendy come May 23rd. Although can I say this? The Birth Certificate had an embossed stamp from the hospital where my mother birthed lil old me. It also had a sweet baby footprint, mine. It's the same document my Dad said he almost didn't trust me to have, yes, it's that important - but apparently didn't count? Just saying, really? Oh well, I'm past that. And soon, I'll be passing through Mexican security headed towards my palapa and 30th birthday, so there.

Tonight.
Pilates, kicked my big old butt. Then I met Mikey and we headed to an art show. And me, wearing my yoga pants, almost apologized to the artist herself, but pretended they were just bell bottom leggings - which would also garner an apology?! That said, I purchased the top two prints you see above, so beautiful - so dirty sweet I say. (AND they are prints, but each was hand painted and embellished, to this I think I own two half originals, which may equal one original - although either way, it's not the paints' relief nor re-sale value that intrigues me, it's the imagery, period). I love the last image, her heart isn't quite on her sleeve, almost falling off . . . wow, moi.

Kime Buzzelli is my sister's favorite artist, and I know why. Her gritty feminine portraits expose the feminine flower child-esque girls who also double as sexy sirens and fans of rock n' roll. It's a dichotomy of the fairer gender that many don't understand. Some people think you gotta be one or the other (Madonna / Whore ring a bell?). But her women are so sublime. The text she occasionally includes, their words unspoken, really suits me, as a woman. A damsel I am, from time to time, and an outspoken, mascara smeared pot of confusion, well that's me too. I just adore her work. See them here: kime

And then this evening.
Well, it's devoted to you, and to writing. I still believe that writing will save my life. One thought and then one sentence and then one post at a time. It's therapy for me, and not like the kind I get on Mondays at 5:30. This one is free, and just me, and only here because of you.

Good night and adieu.
xo

saturday's eve?

2010-04-17T19:23:00.000-07:00

Am headed out to meet "new" dude. Hmmm, please -with your heart of hearts wish me luck and remind me via telepathy that I am a woman who should take up space (enough, not too much, nor too little) and let me be me. He likes it? great. No like, no biggs, yes? Yes.

Here I go, again, on my own. bye

With Grace

2010-03-10T17:18:00.001-08:00

Last night I watched The September Issue. Wow, so good, so enjoyable to watch, a true feast for the eyes. And while Anna Wintour was as cold as expected, what I was not prepared for was to fall in love with one Grace Coddington, Vogue's Creative Director. She is my hero, I want to live like she lives and see things through her elder eyes and be thoroughly, unabashedly enamored and lost within the vivid confines of the aesthetic world. Grace doesn't view fashion as throw away, or transparent, but rather as fantasy, as art - an escape perhaps. To describe her in simple words, doesn't really work. When you see the movie, I imagine you too will delightfully shudder beneath her spell of creativity, whimsy and sassy presence. She is a woman who knows what she likes, what she wants and whose high expectations are not ever apologized for. I want to possess so many of her qualities, in life and yes, you guessed it, in love. Will I make compromises? Surely. Will I cower, with wavering identity? No thanks, no more. Like Grace, I too "think I got left behind somewhere, because I'm still a romantic."

And then this morning, a package arrived from Adam. The newest chapter, presented in items and words, that will further populate the pages in my ever growing "Book of Adam." The timing this man has, with regards to my life events, is uncanny. How did he know that I needed words of encouragement specifically surrounding my desirability? How did he know that the generous donation he extended would be more appreciated than ever, since I lost my wallet and am still waiting, literally pinching pennies, until my replacement debit and credit cards arrive? Does he know that I have to use an expired passport as I.D . . . well, why wouldn't he? He knows this much for now:

"where on our planet have you been lately? I have my theories, but now is not the time for utilizing logic and applied science. Perhaps you have been busy interacting with a more metaphysical world lately - where dreams come true? I can kind of see that - maybe you have even been taken away for a spell?"

I think Adam might be optimistic here, thinking I am pleasantly drowning under the spell of the protagonist of my last post. Sadly, not so. Nevertheless, his tone, much like that of a horoscope, often allows me to interpret it so that his words fit, perfectly, even if my understanding strays from his intended sentences.

"Regardless," he continues, "know that I am thinking of you today. It's so much easier to be a pretty girl than a pretty boy, so take this money and go make yourself pretty. In some ways I think that it just might be really important to you to feel that way right about now . . ."

And yes, Adam, right about now, more than ever.

After having the excitement of new romance course through me in an entirely novel, non-judgemental, expectation-free way, I learned that I do have expectations and simple wishes and still like manners, a lot. And for once, I would so enjoy feeling desireable and not just because I can man the wheel for field trips and grocery store runs. To feel wanted, for me, is something I've never felt. I convinced myself that my ex liked me, not loved, but liked me well enough. It took him a year and a half, after our break up to give me a complement. He told me I smelled nice as we parted, and then finished with "but you always smell nice." Wish he'd mentioned that on a Tuesday in May, or in passing down the hallway. Just butterfly reciprocation, that's all I ask for with a new interest. Sigh.

While I can rest easy and assure myself that I did nothing wrong this time - I'm also telling myself that he just fell off the planet, same place Adam thought I had not been for a while. I know this because I'm here, he is not. And why? I wish I knew. Black holes, gravitational pulls, the Bermuda Triangle? Or perhaps that yep, he's just not that into moi. Hmm, what I do know, however, is that I like love. And to look at pretty things. I like palindromes and rice crackers too. I like coffee and company. I also know that this week I will wear lipstick everyday like a painted bird and fly North through my days without thinking of the painted (tattooed) man who continues to head South, and farther away from my own grace. I also know that I got left behind somewhere, because I'm still a romantic.

xo

wave of love

2010-02-27T19:08:00.000-08:00

So, I just want to write, that's all really. Writing is like therapy for me, it makes me feel like I matter, like I have my own niche in this big, little world. I have a lot to say, and sometimes, just a lot to think about. Today I woke up to sun in my neighborhood, yet as I walked up to get my weekend dose of caffeine and buddies, I was sun soaked and misted upon. The rain seems to elude my little neighborhood for as long as possible most days. Yet, due to sisterly weather conditions, in streets with numbers both higher and lower than my own, mist was what the temperate gods ordered. The clouds in the far Western, Southern and Eastern directions were ominous and deep lavender; full of rain and stormy seduction. I couldn't see North, due to the high rises and simple geography, nevertheless, I imagined that way was holding some future wetness as well.

I drove out to my friend Joanne's house on 47th Avenue, just blocks from the beach. Creeping closer towards the Pacific seashore I saw monstrous waves, yes, tsunami style breaks. Wow. Would we hear the warning sirens if need be? If the water wanted to break it's waves on Nevada's borders instead of upon this Gold Coast? Hmmm, no idea. Instead of worrying, my girlfriends and I had a lovely crafternoon. Making and creating streamers and table settings out of silver metallic and pink matte paper for our dear friend's impending nuptials, we sipped champagne and forgot about the tumultuous sea to our left. We talked of Hawaii's current state and then about headpieces and veils, or lack there of.

The sun broke through the windows, warming our working backs and hands, reflecting magnificently off of the shiny supplies; we were content. I read and then saved a fortune that reads: "happiness is contentment." According to said proverb, I was and am quite Happy today, right now.

After not having heard from the man I mentioned in my previous post, for just two days, I began to think and then fret. Nevertheless, as my dearest Mikey often reminds me, when it comes to relationships, both new and comfortably established - I just need to go about my business, living my lovely little life and viewing him, or any man crush, as an addition to, and not defining presence of my days. True story. I thought of M's words and wisdom, stowed my phone and put scissors to paper and enjoyed lady company. A few hours passed, caught up in streamers and glitter, it was only a question of the hour that brought me to my purse and then my phone. A blinking red light. Nice, regardless of who it's from, I am guaranteed to be excited, because it means someone thought of me. Business or pleasure, it glows for me and me only. And while I convinced myself it was not him and not to worry, it was indeed a message from my male interest sent two hours prior, wondering if a champagne Sunday breakfast was possible. Lovely. A Sunday soiree, however, isn't possible, because I will yet again be surrounded by wonderful women and all their estrogen based energy for my best friends' baby shower. I am headed to Santa Cruz for just a few brief hours to celebrate the addition to Jessica's family. She and Matt are expecting. And I cannot wait. They will be moving to New Zealand before the end of next month, where months from now, I will meet said baby. Wow, again.

I foresee a sunny trip to the quaint, nostalgic city that hugs Steamer's Lane. There, I am indeed content, and there I always find happiness thanks to those loves of my life who populate it's lush landscape. Two women, their husbands, a mentor, one baby already here and known, and another form the others on its way - sigh.

I hope your weekend is peppered with, if not soaked by a downpour, tsunami grade level of contentment, of pure happiness.

saturdate

2010-02-21T15:15:00.000-08:00

I met someone on Valentine's Day. Too soon to know much, except that he is rather dreamy and sweet. He likes hammocks as much as I do, has many tattoos and a somewhat self deprecating sense of humor. He likes a substantial breakfast and is currently in the market for a grown up coffee table. He grilled steak and asparagus for me at the Sunday BBQ where we met. It was a set-up of sorts, our meeting. I had no expectations, truly, for the first time maybe . . . ever? The day after we met, he did some research and got a hold of my phone number to make a date. We went out yesterday, after being in touch sporadically throughout the week. Originally, he'd thought a picnic would be nice, but the forecast was slated to rain on our parade. Instead, we found ourselves at a diner in the Mission, chatting and smiling over juevos rancheros. Then it was off to the Pirate Store for our very own private screening of the fish tank. Seated in the front row's two movie theatre seats, we watched the blow fish flirt with the hermit crab, and followed their lead.

Off to peruse the Valencia corridor and point out my residence, we landed at a little bar to partake in a lovely Saturday cocktail. A bloody Mary with sunshine and perfectly pickled green beans and his company, proved to be the recipe for a perfect late afternoon. I love an early date, and the fact that he scheduled it that way. No nighttime darkness to cloud any potential connection. A punctual fellow, he reminded me about the cable guy coming to his house sometime between 4 and 6 pm. We headed back to wait for said technician and play a game of scrabble. Champagne bubbles and scrabble on the floor in his living room. Just delightful. The first word he scored was appropriate, "soiree." I left after we reaped some of the benefits of cable, having watched a few Iron Chef competitions. So, Saturday from the hours of 1 - 7 pm, I remembered what it felt like to be listened to, admired and at ease in my very own skin. I do indeed hope that Ryan and I get to spend more time together, but if not, I'm so grateful to have been reminded to participate in life and punctuate the fleeting hours of my day with a little more light, leisure and laughter.

Heart (made of) Felt

2010-02-14T13:46:00.000-08:00

Here's to hearts on sleeves and chests and open hearts and bruised hearts and hearts in need of resuscitation. Here's to my heart, to your heart and to all hearts on this and every other day.

May your heart be open and loved and held near and dear.

The profound as the practical

2010-02-07T11:42:00.000-08:00

I so hope to get down to the nitty gritty of my days, each and every one that presents itself to me. And really look close enough to see the real rainbow illuminated beyond the chaos of telephone wires and ominous, heavily saturated rainclouds.

Thank you Pema
Pema Chodron - Five Slogans of Machig Labdron (my link didn't work, do see this specific clip on youtube)

Home for the Holidays

2010-01-17T13:43:00.000-08:00

Where do I get my sense of style? Sense of humor? My cheeks? See above. Here's to my family, the best around. Home was full of laughter, love, records playing and pure merriment. I miss them daily . . . xox

2009-12-22T20:12:00.000-08:00

Dear You,

You don't read this blog, thank the Heavens, but I will still say this: "Happy 41st Birthday." Sure it's not until the 27th, but really, enjoy.

RCL is someone who has been an inconsistant constant in my life for six years. I so adore him. He has seen me at my highest and has sadly had to endure my lowests. That said, I just love him. We had the perfect night the other eve. A dinner at my pal's restaraunt and then a most sublime concert, collectively serenaded by Robert Francis, my new favorite.

I really wanted to share him with you, because he's good, but maybe not quite good enough? He told me once that I possessed the "trump card." I questioned what that meant and he replied that it was my wit, charm and sense of humor, I had it all. Such a compliment, right? But alas, I still don't quite make the cut for this bloke. Attraction plays a big part in life and relationships and maybe that's where we, ahem, I fall short. Nevertheless, I so appreciate this man, about to be 41 years wise, for having dealt with and even enjoyed my silly company. If you know him, please don't tip him off to this post . . . if you don't, know that he is great. He helped me conquer heartache, even though he plows mine more than occasionally. He is a good soul. If only he would give himself a great gift this year . . . perhaps me? Or at least my companionship.

(weird post, eh)

Sorry, but this cyber template often doubles as my processing platform . . .

Reminders from Pema Chodron

2009-12-21T19:00:00.001-08:00

1. No more struggle
Whatever arises, train again and again in seeing it for what it is. The innermost essence of mind is without bias. Things arise and things dissolve forever and ever. Whatever happens, we can look at it with a nonjudgmental attitude. This is the primary method for working with painful situations.

2. Using poison as medicine
When suffering arises, we breathe it in for everybody. This poison is not just our personal misfortune. It's our kinship with all living things, the seed of compassion and openness. Instead of pushing it away or running from it, we breathe in and connect with it fully. We do this with the wish that all of us could be free of suffering.

3. Regarding whatever arises as awakened energy
This reverses our habitual pattern of trying to avoid conflict, trying to smooth things out, trying to prove that pain is a mistake that would not exist in our lives if only we did the right things. This view encourages us to look at the charnel ground of our lives as the working basis for attaining enlightenment.

Excerpted from Three Methods for Working with Uncertainty, Pema Chödrön, Shambhala Sun, March 1997

the speed of life

2009-12-19T19:57:00.000-08:00

Today, like many other days, I felt baffled and perhaps even sad. But sadness has no place in my life, at least I would like to think that. I have people who love and adore me, who respect me, who enrich my daily presence and who simply move me; every day, each day. So why the frown, right? Yeah, I'm trying to wrap my brain around that too. Today I saw Mikey, as I have the pleasure most Saturdays. The menu for this morning's fast breaking was turkey bacon, a Fuji apple the size of a small child's head, and two hard boiled eggs, salted. The cuppa coffee Mikey presented me could not have tasted any better, and temperately sublime. So far, so good, yes? Yes

A man I consider to be a love of my life, on many complicated levels, left 2 compact discs for me to pick up from Fayes. Dated and titled, I couldn't wait to get home and download the music. One disc, a hand crafted mix appropriately titled "mixed bag." The other, a disc of many, many albums. One I already have, others all new. I love new music, old too, but new to me . . . it does feel like Christmas.

And then shopping, in my neighborhood. I found the very earring I was searching for for one of my best girlfriends. Score. Then, Creativity Explored. Wow, this place makes me want to be an artist, in whatever incarnation that might mean. I bought some art, some beautiful wrapping paper and cards so spectacular, they deserve frames. Check marks to the list.

Then laundry, finally! And the sweet company of Molly. She always knows just what to say and when. Her effervescence, her wit, her candor and wisdom make me want to breathe deep breaths. And when I'm with her, I do. We scrolled through an old photo album I found for her at Urban Ore. About half of the pictures had handwriting on the back telling us, the audience, where and when each photo was snapped. The snowy hiking adventure, however, was a trip without a date. Maybe diligent chronological mastery came later for this photographer. Maybe he was scrap-booking when the last roll got developed. Maybe from that point on, all snapshots got a name, a title or at least a location. I can't wait to see and read the stories that Mol will create for these people. She is a story teller, a crafter of time lines and histories. She is an author in real time who gives voice to stories not yet told nor imagined.

Then home. A rather soiled apartment can't house clean laundry. So, scrubbing, wiping, dusting and vacuuming only seemed fair. New sheets, a made bed, I could fall asleep now. But I won't. Tonight I get to see Kim and Ron. Tonight, the sadness that continues to shroud my head like a faint veil, will undoubtedly be lifted. We are going to see an old friend from high school. Past and present, I love when worlds and time lines collide.

And then this sadness, before Kim is even here, has been dissipated yet again. Perhaps momentarily, like my other sweet distractions. Words from Adam. Adam had open heart surgery about a month ago. His humor and his heart are fully intact. It's Adam, who has successfully, for years now, pulled me out of ruts; be they boy based/heartache, career trials and tribulations and plain old self loathing. He is my mentor. That's the word I use to describe him to people, because he is more than my friend, more than a supporter. A mentor, by definition is: "a wise and trusted counselor or teacher." These words ring true, but barely scratch the surface. I am working on compiling a book of Adam. It will include all the letters he has sent me over the years, the decorative discs of theme songs and anthems he sends my way. It will boast newspaper clippings, a ticket stub, a receipt and other papered trails of his teachings, his inspirational text and his creativity. It is, in some ways a reference book and someways a bible. How else could I interpret "The Book of Adam?" I so look forward to completing it, and making sure there are many blank pages to fill, as I have one constant in my life; mail from Adam.

So tonight, I will bid you adieu and say thank you. Thank you to those who showed up for me in more ways than one. Thank you for allowing me to show up and be with you too. Sadness comes and goes, and now it is gone . . . faster than the speed of . . . light.

and thank you too

2009-11-27T19:54:00.000-08:00

This year Thanksgiving was so very meaningful. Adam, who you've heard me talk about, who I adore, had open heart surgery on Wednesday. It was yesterday, the day of Thanks, that I was truly able to appreciate so much love and living in my life. Adam is recovering and thanks to technology and his very own spirit, he is still here, still witty and still being sustained by his ever so big heart. Surrounded by true, porch light friends, (those folks I'll still know when I'm 81, sitting and sipping and story telling on my porch, preferably in a swinging bench, much like the one from Fayes, only levitating and back lit by a sunset), I was able to share what it is I'm thankful for. Before enjoying the beautiful bounty of food last night, each guest relayed something/someone they are grateful for. After Hans had us laughing and admiring his love of "rock music and the letter "a," it was time to also share more personal triumphs. Stu, the father of one of our hosts, recalled his thanks. He was grateful to be alive, after having heard from doctors that he wouldn't be around yesterday. He was supposed to be dead months prior to our celebration. But Stu was there, he was alive and well and cherished each breath. I was, and am, grateful for Adam's successful procedure and his never ending generosity. Mark was grateful for California, as am I. Mikey was thankful for Cinderella soup and not having to move furniture. Our gratitude ran the gamut, with each acknowledgement filled with love, laughter and longevity.

As of late, I have been reminded of just how very dear people are to me. Of how supremely lucky I am to have such exuberant and honest love in my life. Life, but a brief moment on this simply complex planet of ours, is so precious. I can only hope that the people in my life who I am blessed enough to love, love me back. And so far, those who do, really do, they show up and let me be me, and love me for it, as much as I love them. I reconnected with my ex-boyfriend recently. I realized that he is not the one for me, but that he and I still deserve love and respect, coming from each other. No matter the hardship, the heartbreak nor hereafter, I wish to be, and am, filled with love. Thank you to each person who willingly and willfully receives it. For it is real and true as are you.

2009-11-11T16:14:00.000-08:00

Guerrilla style graffiti that says it all. So simple, so true, the old "i love you."

Each time I walk down Dearborn Street, I am greeted by this reminder. I love it. I seek to take this street each chance I get. It's this one way street that also invites me into the secret garden where I so desperately want to get a plot of land. I would try to grow chard, tomatoes, some flowers and maybe even cucumbers so I could make my very own spa water. A little oasis this sweet street is. I love it, and love that it loves me right back.

2 things . . .

2009-11-05T20:03:00.000-08:00

Last night, my dear friend Danica and I spent some quality time (albeit brief). We shopped a charitable event. She purchased the non-profit goods, I promised too, and will! And then she knowingly suggested that I try on a few frocks. Danica is a lover. She loves animals, people, she loves fabric, and apparently my silly, curvy figure. So, upon her informed, style savvy request, I donned some beautiful garments. The one I fell for, that was seemingly made for my wayward frame, I couldn't afford. But also, couldn't afford not to love and then purchase. Upon delegating it to a layway, dream status, we were informed that all clothes in the sore were 30% off, just that night. I had to buy it, and I did. Good thing our holiday party is approaching, otherwise my ever present guilt would be ever encroaching! So here it is, my new found love. And thanks to one Adam Josef, this dress wasn't just a dream deferred, but a reality made clear on a Wednesday in November. Thanks Adam, for more than this dress.

And then, if there wasn't enough love to go around, I happened upon a great guitar player today. He payed me a bit of attention too . . . along with the rest of a small, tourist filled audience who kept asking "who is he?" He is Mat Kearney, and I think I heard one of his songs first as background cues on a sappy TV show, and then via my sweet sister. I got to hear him play 2 great songs and then leave, reaffirmed on love and life. I then made my way off to experience art at SF MOMA that managed to reinstate those same sentiments, via portraiture and paintings from the 1950s and more contemporary decades that couldn't speak to me in more relevant terms. Thank you today. Thank you for providing me with people I love to be surrounded by, for clothes I love to touch and wear, and for sublime art that inspires me. Sometimes I forget that life is good, because I'm seeing to it that I show others how to enjoy it . . . When, really, the only way to share is to know yourself and then grant others such vision. Yesterday and today, I got to see and feel and be the passion that I so love in life. It's good to be free, grand to be independent and phenomenal to be a sponge in this odd circumstance we call "life." Thank you, to whom it may concern . . .
Sweet sighs abounding, smk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCpqeMhK0cg

smile!

2009-10-20T00:19:00.000-07:00

crazy hair.
crazy family.
crazy love.

I guess it's in my genes (ahem, jeans)

xox smk

2009-10-05T11:27:00.001-07:00

and sometimes pictures don't tell the stories we wish they did. capturing moments between moments, I love that about photography. and love that we can assign different stories and realities to little, fleeting images. we can attach emotions that were never really there, and instead pretend. wish these images really spoke to a lovely prom themed party date night, but they're just reminders of an evening ripe with potential, that left a girl who arrived stag, still single after the final dance . . .

Love

2009-09-25T00:02:00.001-07:00

these are the heart banners from Heidi and Trevor's nuptials. And tonight I feel nothing less than love. My family will visit soon, and tonight I spent some much needed time with a sublime woman who I couldn't adore any more . . . Hope it lasts, if not I'll just refer to this post. PS: Danica, I thought of you today, and think of you often. When I think of love, you pop up, period.

xo

You're A Wolf « Dangerbird Records

2009-09-18T20:12:00.001-07:00

You're A Wolf « Dangerbird Records

Posted using ShareThis

Friday, I'm in Love . . .

2009-09-18T19:58:00.000-07:00

http://www.dangerbirdrecords.com/videos/watch/describe-the-item

With nothing more than a day and the weather and my very own lil head.

Tonight I'm on my way to see a man who calls himself Seawolf. Here's, well, "there's" I suppose, it's above . . . technical dilemmas, his video and song, that I'll be hearing soon at Bimbo's, a truly great SF venue. I'll let you know how the show goes. And guess what? I bought 2 tickets one month ago, and didn't know who I' take, but it didn't really matter. I just wanted to go, ans could have, but it's fun to watch a band, or a film or a public display of affection, with company. How else do we really know that we love what we see or hear, or that we're really moved by something. Often times, I think that calls for a witness. Can I get one?

xox

If I needed you . . . would you come to me?

2009-09-01T19:40:00.000-07:00

"The rivers like gypsies, down her black canyons fall."

"You will miss sunrise, if you close your eyes."

Today was a day full of Townes, in one little town, my home, San Francisco. It's a city I suppose, but more often than not I feel as though I live in a quaint little town, where I know you and you might know me. I bought a book today, The Ballad of the Late, Great Townes Van Zandt. I introduced myself via the photo section, cheating some may say, but alas, I am a visual gal and loved witnessing the evolution of this person, this man who has effected my life from his early grave.

On my bus ride home, I found myself almost glaring at the passenger seated to my right who talked, incessantly, on her phone; not about the weather, the life and times she lives in, but about nonsense. I sound brash here, right? Well, justifiably so I hope. I care not to hear the intimate details of a stranger's life - in this capacity. I wanted to hear John Kurth, author, and his accounts of knowing Townes, and instead had my mind mottled by someone who never learned manners. Just because you can talk on the phone, doesn't mean you should. Simple. Manners. There are two issues at hand, and before I go on, or hop upon a soapbox not so sturdy, I'll give this disclaimer: I love being connected to people, it's why I write. I am, however, not a fan of the technology that has come to impede solace and is characterized by frivolous and rather empty dialogue. Our voice is a gift, on so many levels, let's say something. If the girl seated beside me had taken a moment to absorb her surroundings by getting lost in a book, or simply watching, as I often do, she might have felt more fulfilled, more connected. Maybe she would know where she was and not risk missing her stop, her destination. Am I ranting, not my goal. Nevertheless, I only wish that the technology we have at our fingertips, worked to bridge gaps, rekindle friendships and share sentiments, rather than reduce us to ease, and vulger simplicity and by extension transform us into hosts who don't request RSVPs but rather demand guests, and audiences and pulpits. Just a thought? Since when did intimate conversations lose their intimacy? Sad day.

To Townes, I can attest that I think he is a man of many words, and I cannot remove myself from his presence today - the printed words that recount his presence and then the voice, his own, that visits me here in my home, as I write. Townes Van Zandt had problems with alcohol and suffered from depression. He was, in my gray eyes, a hopeless romantic; a term my therapist has used more than once to refernce 'parts' of me. I don't think TVZ would have embraced the technological advances that we know today. Matter of fact, I think it would drive him even further into his state of darkness, of deep down creativity. He would still play his guitar in a shed, in a room lit only by candles or new sun. And that is why I read. I read to remember that the ways, dysfunctional some might say, but the real ways nonetheless, of communicating do not come from raunchy quips or one lined isms posted on a friend's blog or shared among overflowing capacities of commuters. Those ways of connecting, come from music, from people and from life . . . a life that I hope doesn't get lost in the shuffle of technology or transient text.

A hypocrite you might say, as I write to you, (!), on my computer? Technology, I attest, isn't bad, it's the way we use it that is a conumndrum. Sharing the beauty of a day that you were blessed enough to witness, and then able to capture and later invite other to experience . . . that's technology at its best. And hopefully I've shared with you some beauty; although many know him as Townes Van Zandt. I know beauty today as this man, as the new baby whose name recalls his words, as friends and the sun; just sun, just everything.

I know beauty when I write. Be it paper and pen, hunt and peck heather typewriting or via my soft to the touch keypad . . . writing is beauty. Talking in your head essentially, and then sharing. Listening can be laced with beauty too. Maybe not on a bus, or maybe only on a bus. Either way, thank you for letting me write, and share. And hopefully connect to you 4 special people I ever think of when I write here. A lover's lullaby I send to you, via Townes.

And thank you also to someone who no longer experiences the beauty I so hope to dole out. To him, I extend gratitude for introducing me to Townes before I met Will Townes. But rest assured Will would have told me all about him, I just hope I can do that for him now . . .

Where There's a Will . . . maybe there's hay?

2009-08-25T19:18:00.000-07:00

According to some . . . "Horseshoes are considered a good luck charm in many cultures. The shape, fabrication, placement, and manner of sourcing are all important. A common tradition is that if a horseshoe is hung on a door with the two ends pointing up then good luck will occur. However, if the two ends point downwards then bad luck will occur." This is the debate we were having while trying to figure out just where to rest the trifecta of horseshoe masses upon the about to burst belly of my best friend. I am so relieved to read on and learn that "Traditions do differ on this point, though. In some cultures, the horseshoe is hung points down (so the luck pours onto you); in others, it is hung points up (so the luck doesn't fall out); still in others it doesn't matter so long as the horseshoe has been used (not new), was found (not purchased), and can be touched. In all traditions, luck is contained in the shoe and can pour out through the ends."

Will Townes was born on August 18th at 4 am, weighing in at 7 lbs and seven ounces. 7 happens to be a lucky number, and my favorite too. And if you subtract 1 from 8 (18 in reverse, the date of Will's birth), you get another 7. Three 7s! Welcome sweet Will, I cannot wait to watch you grow up. I also can't wait til you hear your first Townes Van Zandt song. Maybe then I will have learned how to play one, the one your parents walked down the aisle to, on guitar and will be able to sing it to you and then teach you? You inspire me Will. I think you made me an honorary Auntie too. Here's to you and to a little luck, or a lot, throughout your blessed life.

definitions

2009-08-04T10:59:00.000-07:00

equipoise \EE-kwuh-poiz; EK-wuh-\, noun:

1. A state of being equally balanced; equilibrium; -- as of moral, political, or social interests or forces.
2. Counterbalance.

desultory \DES-uhl-tor-ee\, adjective:

1. Jumping or passing from one thing or subject to another without order or rational connection; disconnected; aimless.
2. By the way; as a digression; not connected with the subject.
3. Coming disconnectedly or occurring haphazardly; random.
4. Disappointing in performance or progress.

photo taken at sweet T's new apartment, work is Molly

God only knows . . .

2009-06-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

. . . what I'd be without you . . .

sometimes we forget, and are then are pleasantly, often randomly, reminded of who we love and who loves us right back . . . know that you are loved now, because it's an unparalleled feeling, and it's true. Thanks Hide for the love and the toasts and for being the best dance partner a girl could ever have. Thanks for such a simple and yet monumental affirmation. mwah.

xox

Friday, a lovely weekend beginning . . .

2009-05-22T23:17:00.000-07:00

Hope you all enjoy as much as my Dad enjoyed his baguette!

To Cate, thank you, my lovely! And Matt and T . . . you make a really great baby, let's hope I can do the same some day. Especially since Uncle Will, aka Beef, is so damn good with little people! And that Pammy ain't too shabby either!

My folks came up to visit all of us . . . baby Cate and company. And PS: that lil babe is a miracle, if I could share I would, it's rather personal, but I will say this . . . she is indeed a miracle, yet not like most babies - while they all are in their own right, this lil trooper, and her Mama have survived some serious debacles while in utero, and they managed, both of them, to arrive back to us all just fine. To the powers that be, thanks much, I love them both, and cannot imagine a day without their luminous spirits. Wow, love. What love.

Meet Corey.

2009-05-14T22:24:00.000-07:00

While I've been known to elaborate and beat dead horses to a pulp, for now, I'll just introduce you to one mister Corey Capers. He may be, well, is, one of the most influential people I've ever met in my lil' life. Most people get asked this question at the end of their lives . . . "who were the people that had the most profound effect upon you?" Well, I may die tomorrow, hence, this question might be timely. Nevertheless, Corey is a person I would mention today, tomorrow, and even in Heaven, to help plead my case perhaps . . . Because, yep, he's been a bit of an angel to me. He would disagree with any angel parallels, nevertheless, to me, in my life, he has been one of the 5 greatest pillars of support a gal could pine for.

That said, I will let the mystery sit with you . . . and tell you of his sublmine qualities and nature later . . . because there's too much to tell now. A hint: his presence restores my hearts' abnormal beat. His company quells the rampant self doubt that plagues me, his smile automatically transforms my frown - moving it upside down. I love you Corey and can't wait to tell others why they will too . . . .

a view from home

2009-05-12T21:09:00.001-07:00

and home will soon be here . . . only they'll be more sunshine

Rock and then you too can Roll . . .

2009-05-01T21:06:00.000-07:00

Adam loves rock n' roll, ahem, Rock N' Roll. Tonight I received a package in the mail, the most exciting part of my day . . . snail mail that is not a bill, nor a reminder that a certain doctor doesn't accept my insurance so I have to pay up. No cable company promotion, nor 20% discount card to a store I rarely frequent, no, nothing like that. Instead I get a personalized letter, a compact disc with one phenomenal track and some cold hard cash . . . and this time around a check too, made out to yours truly for the specific amount (tax included) that only a salesgirl at Nordstrom could appreciate. Wow, right? I know.

To enlighten and inform you of how very taken care of I can be, not by myself, but by the generosity of others, here's an excerpt from Adam's note:

"Just define your current mission and then keep your eyes and ears on the target in the spotlight. Make sure you try and do it so that someone actually does it. When the odds are against attaining perfection just take a deep breath and give it your best shot. If you make a gaffe and think everybody is thinking what an idiot you are, relax: people are far too busy thinking about themselves to even notice. I know there is a mistake in that sinewy bass line (referencing the awesome track he sent me), I cannot hear it - and neither could he. That's true artistic and personal freedom. There's an influential artist somewhere within you."

Yeah, big sigh. His words always inspire and reflect and remind me that I have a gift, just like you do (wink and a high five). We are not empty saviors, but instead fully capable and soul saviors nonetheless. I have recently learned, and continue to learn everyday, that I cannot save others. Many don't want to be saved, and some, well one in particular, I think may never allow himself the pleasure. Regardless, investing in ourselves, via thick, luxurious mascara or precious therapy, is of paramount concern, right? Yes, I think so. I so hope that soon, I will allow myself to heal, and assume the position as the driver and the provider of the road map. The road map to my better life. I have much assistance, maybe we'll call them back seat drivers, but not the annoying kind, the helpful type, and am so grateful to them (Adam, Mara, Mikey, Molly, Danica, Meg, Corey, T and the fam). Nevertheless, I can't ever be good to nor for them if I am constantly asking and relying upon their strong, yet outside resources. So I'll read the book I've been loaned "You Can Heal Your Life," and I'll wake up each day and do something for myself, which is ultimately something for others, for them - which makes me happy. I love love and love loving people in my life. I just have to get better at one so that I may be the best at the other.

Thank you Adam, for the words, the perfectly laid down bass line, for future mascara, for provisions and therapy and maybe even a new pair of shoes - shoes that will assist me in my walk through this crazy and beautiful and awe inspiring journey most people simply call "life."

Here I go, off to see "the real me."

PS: to better understand my jargon, look up one bassist named John Entwhistle, and the song whose title I know not, but the chorus is "can you see the real me?"

The image above is Rock 'n' Roll sur les Quais de Pari. Paul Almasy (1906 – 2003), was a pioneer of photojournalism. A native of Hungary, Almasy trekked the globe for six decades, amassing 120,000 photos in an exceptionally detailed archive of 20th century history. Stressing content over form in order to educate viewers, Almasy’s photos still exemplify artistic excellence.

Note: Artistic excellence, or as I first read it: "elegance." Here's to us, the artists.

sunday, bloody saturday

2009-04-18T22:42:00.000-07:00

Today, other than my time on the bench. Other than my grand conversations with Lisa and my sweetest hour(s) stolen from and spent with Mol, other than those fine minutes, I was alone. All alone. And, guess what . . . it was fine, it was in fact divine. I sat on my roof in the perfect sun and got an imperfect tan - which happens when you're a white girl. Sure my Mom's Sicilian blood helped me not to burn too bad, but color, I got. A book, The Secret Life of Bees, spoke to me, as did the pigeons. I'm grateful for this day, a day when the only phone call back I got was from my parents. And a text from my best girlfriend who is deservedly sunning herself in Las Vegas with her oh, so awesome Mom. Otherwise, the ten notes I sent out, not spawned of boredom, but of finally having the time to do so, went unreturned. But you know what, I'm alright with that. I've been notorious for not responding immediately, hence this may be my communication karma. Nevertheless, today reminded me that dammit, I am most certainly good company. For myself and by myself. Hopefully my day tomorrow is just as splendid as today's. Although a call or text back would feel real good too.

xoxox

woman on wire

2009-04-11T22:21:00.000-07:00

I have a fan. How lucky am I? I know this. I am not in a rock band, nor am I a famous artist, hell, my name isn't even that cool - (although, like the Annie Hall's of the world, I do have a film whose name I share. Sadly, however, "my" film is no Annie Hall).

I received a package in the mail the other day. A CD and a note. Both containing reminders and beautiful words of wisdom. I will share with you what Adam has to say. His words often become mantras I try to live by. And these three rules, or suggestions of his, I am most definitely going to abide by.

GOAL: try and work on strengthening your level of openness and hone your sense of fearlessness as you drift away from him.

TRUTH: what is going on with him is not always about you; try and believe that message with all of your soul. bookmark it.

RESIST: the latent urge to try and heal him and everybody else. it needs to be about you and only you now. yes, you.

The note began with this insight about the music:

you just have to take some great country guitar licks that could have blasted right out of the fender telecaster of the late Buck Owens, mix it up with a darn fine soul singer whose first name somehow turned out to be Dobie, and it all seems to work just fine when it is all done. it is nearly as irrational as finding true love itself.

Thank You. The photo he included (see above) in a recent email struck me too. My ex had a tattoo, of barbed wire. It was around one of his ankles, like a shackle. Homemade at a young age, maybe 15, it is one of his biggest regrets. Odd though, I think he knew more about himself then, than he realizes. Barbed wire never really obstructs a view, it's main purpose is to keep people out (private property), and also to keep people locked in (prison). Pretty deep? Yeah I know, almost too well.

He, my ex, said he didn't liked girls with tattoos. I got mine on August 27, 2008. I love it. I see it not as a fence, nor a premeditated attempt at aversion, but as an affirmation, it's me, a very real part of me. And he already abandoned that months ago. PS: just don't tell my parents.

Don't even know what I'll find when I get to you . . .

2009-04-09T21:58:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the delay . . . "it's so many miles . . . since I met you. Don't even know what I say when I get to you, but suddenly now, I know where I belong. It's many hundred miles, and it won't be long. It won't be long."

And nor will I be - long, there, those hundreds of miles behind.

Today, well, not yesterday, but the day before, it was over. Really over, as in, game over. My lives have been (video game like) exhausted. No more will I rekindle, reignite, assume that life, that position. He has written me off, and I him.

Tonight I spent some time with a lovely and loved man, not the one who has hurt me for months on end. I love him, this one, not like that - well maybe (it has been 5 years), but he cares for me, not like that, I wish. Nevertheless, this guy has seen me at my highest of highs, my very bottoms of lows, and still shows up. Even my ex never tried that; really showing up. I love him this great, curiously complex neighbor,but now is not the time, and maybe it won't ever come. That is fine. For now, I will simply love and adore and revel in his most genuine of company, truly - big sighs of fresh air. With him there is no judgement, or if there is, it's tiny and dissipates, he forgives me, like time.

Alas, my heart is still aching, breaking a bit, although it's mostly broken and done and dust. But tonight thank you RCL for reminding me that my company is cherished and even worthy of footing the bill. I owe you, so much more than dinner.

Oh UpROARs

2009-02-25T18:49:00.000-08:00

Uproar ***
Valid during many months: A series of sudden and unexpected events will probably strain your nerves to the utmost, making this a difficult time. This is most likely to happen if you have spent the last few years trying to please everyone. Any turmoil in the outside world is merely an indication that you have been seething inside for quite some time. Although it would be understandable if you now felt like packing everything in, this is certainly not the best solution. You will find it hardest to tolerate hypocritical and sanctimonious behavior - whether your own or others'. It is therefore important to clear the air and to honestly consider which aspects of your life reflect your authentic inner nature.

This influence will help you to scrutinize your ideals and visions, and to take your leave from those which are no longer relevant to any important decisions you have to make. For example, you might find that a political party or like-minded group of people of which you were once a member has lost its appeal. A clear decision to take all your imperfections seriously, and not to make lazy compromises, can be both healing and liberating, helping to give birth to new things in your life.

Happy VD!!!! Get it? ha

2009-02-14T21:31:00.000-08:00

I received two of the best Valentine cards a girl could ever ask for . . . As a single fawn this year, I must say that I felt the love thanks to some folks. Who might they be . . . Adam J is resoonsible for the Lion Tamer image and thoughts. And then it's sweetest MM who gifted me the words and water color. The heart image comes from My Trick Pony, where last eve Mikey had an opening . . . more to come from last night soon . . . but for now, just this LOVE.

my ever constant valentines

2009-02-14T21:19:00.000-08:00

So Say the Stars

2009-01-31T11:52:00.000-08:00

Valid during many months: During this time the structures that you have built up in your life will more than ever be challenged by circumstances. Areas of your life that you think are reliable and dependable may cease to be, and you will be forced to make a lot of changes. It is likely that you will feel a strong sense of uneasiness, because you don't know quite what to expect next.

During this time you may discover that you actually don't know what you thought you knew. This influence reveals aspects of life that you haven't considered at all, usually by creating a sudden event that does not fit into the pattern of your life. This is happening now, largely through encounters with others in close relationships or with enemies.

But you are not being "hurt" pointlessly. This influence is letting you know that you don't have all the answers about reality and that there is still room to grow. Look at the situation that way and assimilate what you are shown. The more you resist and try to deny what happens now, the more difficult this time will be.

These words come from my daily horoscope, one that I often chose not to read until my day is done, because it's rather spot on . . .

And then, according to the astrological master, miss Jessica Lanyadoo from the SF Bay Guardian, Gemini is asked the following:

"Have you ever moved out of a crappy apartment into a better place? Even if you're improving your quality of life, it sucks to change. It takes all kinds of effort and it's emotionally draining to make such a big, meaningful shift. Don't let the bummer parts of the process deter you from upgrading your life."

Lots of work I'm discovering on this Saturday a.m. A day that 's supposed to be a day of rest and relaxation. Apparently I've got a new job.

She wants to live by the ocean . . .

2009-01-03T19:44:00.001-08:00

I took a long walk today, something that was on my list. I love checking to do's (especially this sort) off. There was a rainbow too, and it almost appeared to follow me the entire time. Coupled with brisk air and my very own soundtrack, today's walk was a simple lesson: I was good company for myself. Hopefully I'll be good company for someone else too.

Happy 2009 To You and Yours

2009-01-03T10:10:00.000-08:00

My only hope for the eve of '08 was to be surrounded by those I hold dear, and to clink a glass or two of champagne. My wishes were granted, and then some. Thank you, thanks you. 2009 is looking pre-tty fine.
xo

to be, or not to being

2008-11-21T23:28:00.000-08:00

sometimes, most of the time, where you are is exactly where you need to be . . . Thank you Mara.

NO . . . vember???

2008-11-01T21:30:00.000-07:00

Really? November already? Last year at Thanksgiving I was cooking for two. This year, it'll be for one, typical. Yep, big sigh. I'll be making a delicious vegan pumpkin pie for a friend's wedding anniversary and one for a boy I know will appreciate a pie with no strings, otherwise, I'm an old maid this time around. Oh well, you know they say: if you're no good company for yourself, you're no good company. And thus far, I've found that I'm pretty fun, and my cat agrees.

Thanksgiving planning seems premature, so instead I'll share some photos of Roy again, who I miss dearly and would like to grant and give more thanks to. These photos are from his celebration of life party. He's such a stud, check him out by the pool! My sis came to town for this and we even called in the blue angles, because, if anything else, he was one.

Simply Royal

2008-09-20T20:43:00.000-07:00

Today my Dad called. I missed it. Like most every other Saturday, I was at Fayes Video and Espresso, on the bench, post breakfast delivery. I didn't answer his call, because I know I can always return it. On the message he left, his tone was inquisitive, optimistic and loving as usual. The only unique aspect of this vocal note was evident at the end, where he was speaking to someone else, presumably my Mom, when he said "no." His voice serious. I thought nothing of it, as Pammy can ask about dirty dishes, scheduling dilemmas and request other mundane information while Pop is mid conversation. I called him back at 1:00 after missing his second attempt at getting a hold of me. We spoke. He asked me about the SF weather conditions, a run of the mill comparative conversation we often have, before he told me he had bad news. I already knew what it was, but it wasn't until he said "Roy died," that I started bawling profusely.

Roy Johnson was a movie buff, a lover of silver screen cinema, a philanthropist, an art enthusiast, a foodie, a divine partner, a scolar, and the best damn date I've ever had. Roy owned and operated Limelight Books on Market Street for roughly 30 years. The black and white 8x10 photo collection he had would make any movie maven weep. He appreciated the art of film so intensely that he could tell you any fact, from script verbage to personal actor profile fun facts. In my life, however, he was a gentleman who consistently proved and reminded me that chivalry is alive and well. Roy would often invite me to art openings where they serve gratis champagne and give you VIP tours of newly unveiled exhibitions. He escorted me to lavish dinners, a genius at wining and dining a lady, and always made sure I got home safely, like my Dad would. Nevertheless, this fine suitor of mine could never be my one and only, as he'd been with Harlen, (lucky s.o.b!) for over 40 years.

Roy and Harlen are two of my brood of gay uncles. Men I've had the honor and pleasure of growing up around. I learned early on in life that love comes to us in many forms, and wherever we find it, can get it, we should - because it's rare. This was the simple explanation my Mom gave me, after someone questioned me with a negative undetone, about the male/male couples in my life. I never had the chance to be embarassed, ashamed or uncomfortable with their love. A lesson, I think, that has gifted me with the deep compassion I have in my day to day life. For people who don't experience love in all it's incarnations, it seems simple to disregard it. That, thankfully, was never an option for me. I only pray that I will someday have a relationship like Roy and Harlen had; one full of laughter, of respect, travel, adventure and kindness. Without their example, I just might have thought settling was alright. Not blood related, they are nevertheless, my family.

The very first time I was introduced to San Francisco, and all its majesty, was from their home in Twin Peaks. Ever since, they have been my safe haven, their house, the place I find my folks when they visit, where I can sip the ever ready cup of coffee and ever full glass of wine. Their house was, and is my home. It's where I've shared my evolution as a San Francisco local, where I've grown up from a bratty 13 year old girl, to a hopefully successful woman in her late, late 20s. Their love was, and is what reminds me that I am loved and lovable . . . considering how they stuck by my side to watch and nurture my growth.

Roy had cancer, and Glaucoma. He had more ailments these last few years than I can name, because ultimately, he never uttered a word about them to anyone but Harlen. A trooper, and a kind warrior he was, up until the very end; last night. To tell you anything about Roy, is to tell you that he loved and lived life to the fullest, truly. He cherished people, and reminded them that they matter, that they are loved and that they complete his life daily. He put others before himself, all the while taking immaculate care of himself. His sunglasses reminded me of stardom, and with his hair always styled, he presented himself to others like he was meeting royalty. What manners.

One night we attended a benefit at City Hall. He called me hours earlier to ask what color dress I would be wearing that night. "Red," I told him. When we met, he wore a tuxedo and a bow tie to match my dress.

I love you Roy, I miss you already. Thank you for your words, your embraces, your unwavering support and your sass. I'll see you on the other shore or side, I don't yet know. I plan, however, to wear a canary yellow dress . . . but if you prefer a blue tie, that works too.

XO

Don't ever Fayes away

2008-09-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

Today is a big old block party on 18th street, here in San Francisco, in my neighborhood. This block is the place I first fell in love with, upon moving to the city 5 years ago in August. I knew it a bit prior to my move, via my best pal Heidi, who already set up shop on the block. After having worked at a few establishments, baby sitting local babes, and simply hanging out at my communal most laudable zones, I now know that here, I am very much at home. An extended network of dear friends are as close as family, and often as supportive too. I fell in love on this street, a girl behind the counter, who tended to flowers, all the while being sought after by a very unexpected stranger, who became familiar. I got my heart broken on this street too, exchanging records and various yours and mines at the nearby tea shop. I cannot imagine my life having lived anywhere but here, and I suppose I shouldn't because I am here now, and hopefully for days and days to come.

Fayes has been a constant, like the ink of tattoos, this place will never leave me. I spend every morning getting coffee from shining faces, who provide me with everything from caffeine to morning trivia, to my very own soundtrack for the day. And the weekends are my favorite. Time, hours, spent on the bench chatting, and catching up, sitting, sunning and just being with our little crew. There are dogs and friends, and passers by, who fall into the a.m. plot of my life and set the tone for weekend adventures to follow.

Fayes is one of the many businesses that will be celebrating an anniversary of sorts today. But in true Fayes fashion, their celebration will be specifically fun infused. A pie eating contest will take place at 2 pm. Be there. Eat pie, or at last watch someone else. I hope they taste good, for the brief moments they'll be enjoyed. Sweet Robin and I made them last night. It was way too hot to be inside, so we peeled apples at the best spot we could think of, serious prime real estate, the Fayes bench.

pretty bird

2008-08-16T22:37:00.000-07:00

today was lovely. I got to see many a friend and will tell more tomorrow. For now, however, I will share with you the beautiful little trinket that my dear friend Kate gifted me with. I am a fan of feathers. And why wouldn't, how couldn't one cherish them so? They represent taking flight, optimism, unlimited boundaries and the notion of soaring. For me, they are also romantic and reminiscent of older times, when pens were quilled and we actually listened to the little birdie that spoke in our ears. For another great image and mini dissertation on feathers, go here. And if you'd like to own one of these treasures, visit PreenYourself.etsy.com . . .

chirp.

Feeling Feisty

2008-07-20T13:32:00.000-07:00

Last evening I attended a concert at the Greek Theater in Berkeley with some dear friends. It was a perfect night. The sign at the entrance of the venue sadly stated that no bottles, no alcohol, no cameras nor picnic baskets were allowed on the premises. Somehow, I got all listed items passed security with a smile, and even a complement on my red riding hood-esque basket. Fun, and maybe a tiny installment of good Karma? The music of Lesly Feist is simply elegant and moving. She can rock, and sway and swing like not many other. I like her a lot. And I loved her white fringe dress, very Stevie Nicks, very Feisty.

Getting There: Stairs or Escalator. You Should Already Know.

2008-07-04T18:44:00.000-07:00

"If you can't explain it simply, you don't understand it enough." - Albert Einstein

GEMINI

May 21-June 21

It's not the time for action, Gemini. Instead, cultivate your intuition and sit pretty. You'll be rewarded by fortifying your self-confidence. When you feel good, have clear intentions, and are balanced, you'll reap the best from your efforts. Wait until that time arrives before you step out.

LIBRA

Sept. 23-Oct. 22

Watch out for acting like a martyr, or only trusting love from others if they're martyrs too. Now is the time to hold true to your ideals without throwing any babies away, no matter how dirty their bath water. Let compromise, hope, and patience be your guide.

I think his words are true, that Albert, matter of fact I know so. My horoscope professes similar advice and wisdom. Esentailly stating not to act until you know for sure, otherwise, you're acting out of a lack of understanding. I know this. I realize that in defining, or attempting to define my relationship with a troubled Libra man, I stumble, I make disclaimers to outsiders and myself, I analyze and set my mind into tape loops, all the while managing no clear and simple way to define us. This sad fact results from the ironically simple fact that there is no way to define us. We are in purgatory, and neither one of us can explain why, thoroughly. I think he thinks he knows. I think he doesn't know. And he's not too much the martyr, nevertheless, I think that compromise, hope and patience should indeed be his guide towards understanding. Once he understands, and once I make up my mind to, we can revel in the closure or the new beginning we both so heart-fully seek.

Don't argue, I suggest, or allow frustration to run rampant throughout your tender nervous system. Instead, learn, then know and then act. It will be so much simpler when we fight for what we believe in, so long as we know our cause intimately. Be well, and enjoy the enlightenment of understanding. I so look forward to it.

good day

2008-06-28T23:37:00.000-07:00

I started off my morning like I usually do on a Saturday. Make (or assemble) breakfast for my bff, Mikey. On the menu today: 2 hard boiled eggs, 2 veggie sausage patties and some crisp slices of an organic Fuji apple. yum? hope so. As often as I grocery shop, one would think I'd have more than fruit and flax crackers on hand?!

Then, after some home time with the cat, it was off to a most wonderful art opening. Yes, MM's, the one I spoke of. Amazing. It was a wonderland, an experience of fantastic nature. I cannot explain in words what Mikey does with and to and for the human condition. And how that genre is so connected to our own animal tendencies. Please do see for yourself. I had myself a great afternoon with friends and neighbors and stranger appreciators as well. Hope you get to enjoy soon.

Su-Su-Studio

2008-06-28T11:54:00.000-07:00

A BFF, MM, aka Mikey, is one of my favorite artists. And no, not just because I love the person and should by extension love the art. I love my sister, respect her artistic talents, but wish she's branch out style wise . . . MM's art, is however, breath taking. I am lucky enough to own a few pieces - have gotten my hands on rare posters and save each card that comes my way, each show flier, and many a scribble of his. Some days ago, I was invited to his studio to help with tiny odds and ends of stitching some stuffing. Me and Sharon and Ariel and Wendy got to hang out with Mikey and chat art and life set against a most exquisite San Francisco summertime sunset.

We gathered to assist in any way for the preparation of a show that happens today. Today, instead of just celebrating Pride with some Dykes on Bikes action, how about making your day's anthem Dykes, Bikes and Mike?!

I hope to see you there, and witness your face as it soaks up the whimsy and emotion and fine application of sentiment painted onto wood, coated in fur, in lines delineating ceilings above. From 3 - 5 this afternoonish evening, there's room for you at the Braunstein/Quay Gallery located at 430 Clementina Street, here in San Francisco.

Why come? Myriad reasons, but most of all "Because You Can't Make Them Stay."

Shady Lady

2008-06-24T22:19:00.000-07:00

Sunday was quite a day. And an eventful evening of revisiting the heartbreak and wonders of an all too recent ex. Nevertheless, I have a Sunday reminder that is far more than a simple memory: a lovely little flower. My friend Dan buys and loves and names many an orchid. I mentioned once that I'd love to care for such a rare and beautiful plant the way he and his loveliest wife, Robin do. Dan called me on Sunday. Soon thereafter I headed up the street to his familiar home. There, unannounced to me, he gifted me with thee most beautiful creature. Shady Lady is her given name, and I will not change it. She was a plant in need of some serious TLC, an so her previous owners donated her to the place where Dan purchased her. The price he paid, be it a small or grand sum, is a profit whose proceeds then go towards funding HIV education and research. Not only did I get a most beautiful specimen of a plant to take care of, but Dan, and by extension, I got to contribute to the well being of others, of those who suffer far greater feats than simple heartache. Thank you Dan, sincerely, I will do my very best to tend to this little, lovely Shady Lady. And thank you also, for contributing a memory to my recent Sunday that resides not in the realm of the romantic unknown, but in a world of rebirth and spirit and care. Much appreciated.

Happy Anniversary Mom & Dad!

2008-06-21T22:00:00.000-07:00

What a night?! And what a day too, eh? Today is the anniversary of my parents' wedding. They have been married for 39 years! I can tell you this, "forever is a long time." And like my Dad has also said, "choose your mate wisely." My folks are simply remarkable people. They have not just a love for each other, but after all these years, and most importantly, a friendship. I can only dream about growing old with someone, while maintaining the youthful zeal that they two possess. But for now, I take my days one at a time.

Like today, it was hot hot hot here in San Francisco, but there was an idle wind that made it all the more glorious and bearable. I spent my day drinking iced coffee and cleaning house (see cute kitchen inset). Each window was open to its very fullest capacity, a state in which they rarely have the opportunity to exist. My poor roommate, Gris Gris, however,had a rough time with the heat. While I'm a lady who sacrifices comfort for fun fashion on occasion, my little mister has to wear his fur coat each and everyday. He slept far more than his usual 13 hour daily feline requirement, stretched out on my bed in a his longest yoga inspired elongated position. Nevertheless, I think he'd admit that this day was no less than spectacular.

After briskly walking about my neighborhood with a girlfriend, taking in the sights and running some could be mundane errands, it was a pleasure just to be outside, to be alive and well in the sunlight. My evening was also chalk full of crafty chores, but it, like my afternoon, maintained a truly charming ambiance. I sat and reminisced and caught up with three of my most favorite ladies over some rose wine and olive oil soaked herb slab bread. Our stage had as its backdrop the most spectacularly familiar vistas of my neighborhood and the city in which it rests, snug and simple and stellar. A perfect saunter home, I saw tennis players taking advantage of the late setting sun, and passers by embracing each other in the heat, but more concerned with the production of their own . . .

My phone rang at 9:27 and I hoped it was who it ended up being. I am stuck right now, in a purgatory of sorts, where my heart vacillates between the need to forget and the want to acknowledge his presence. We chatted briefly and I felt good. But our relationship wasn't always so, and continues to struggle with boundaries and contact and effort and even time spent driving. We may be in each other's company tomorrow. I do have my own obligations and schedule, laundry with Mol and pilates. But maybe tucked into my Sunday, we will share some moments. Maybe tomorrow will be the day that I say "I need to get over you, but cannot do it in your presence. I need space. Space and time and thoughts away from you." Or maybe tomorrow could be the day that he apologizes for our fork in the road. I always prefer spoons to forks - their rounded silhouettes, their curved ability to balance on my contoured nose - but unlike a spoon, our union has splintered and become a fork. Oh fork I say! I don't know if we'll have dinner, where cutlery reality and metaphors abound, or if we'll sit and stare and realize that forks and spoons don't match. And a knife could inevitably surface to really cut our ties, our losses, our fears and our comfort levels. Alas, I cannot know, as it is right now, tonight, and not yet tomorrow. Wish me luck. Not the kind that would reunite a perfect table setting (utopia), but the kind of luck that lotto players feel when they win. "I tried, bought the ticket, but never expected this win, this victory, this payback, this acknowledgement resulting in such (albeit monetary) freedom." I would like that luck. The hope to win, without any expectations to do so. Just fingers crossed behind my back. But you know what? I think I should reevaluate my vision of luck, I should think that I am the winning ticket. If not for this game player, for someone else. But perhaps for now, just for me.

Pause and Effect

2008-06-17T21:21:00.000-07:00

Today was full of work. Why must it be 5 whole days though? Sigh. I took advantage of the long lasting sunshine and spent a bit of time reserved outside of work walls for myself and took in some much needed nurturing nature. The community garden up the street always seems to soothe. A few folks were found tending to their roots and various vegetation. I was there to admire, and simultaneously tend to my own mental garden. It needs care, more water and some time to grow. I hope to get a plot of my very own soon.

she's crafty!

2008-06-15T22:30:00.000-07:00

My girlfriends came over last night to get crafty. What a treasure it is to have such wonderful people in my life - who I cherish, and they feel the same . . . sheer bliss, I tell you. We crafted, well, I tried. Mol worked on some simply stunning jewelry and D finished some of her newest little guys, seaming together fabric that is quite frankly, drool-worthy. We ate some summertime fare and reminisced and laughed and enjoyed each other - completely. It's nights like last that make me sane, make me appreciate my life's breath and remind me that it's friends and folks who love us back that count. The relationships that are one sided and don't return our sentiments may be great lessons and good challenges, but who needs to prove themselves? In healthy relationships, we simply shouldn't have to. Life is too short not to love fully and unabashedly and be loved the same way right back. I encourage each of you to find those loves in your life and love them back every moment you can, reminding them and yourself of just how great you make each other feel. Stick with them, celebrate them and yourself and know that it is rare but not hidden, this kind of stellar love. It's found in familiar friendships and even in the smile from a stranger, it is folded into a batch of homemade olive hummus brought to your doorstep, sipped from a bottle of chilled sake brought on a whim, and unearthed on a random Saturday night that took an eternity to arrive. Enjoy your loved ones . . . the time is now.

A big PS: while I will elaborate soon, I must thank the dozen loves in my life who made these, non-computer generated photos possible. I used my new camera!!! Mikey - u likey? xoxox

True Story

2008-06-01T11:35:00.000-07:00

The next year of your life will be different.

This quote from an author I love, makes me hopeful. And maybe even a little wary too. Maybe this year, I'll look like this girl. Pretty shoes, relaxed posture, observing my life happening somewhere in Paris?

Iheartsantogoldsonglightsout

2008-05-27T21:47:00.000-07:00

Darlin, don't have to worry, I'm not your type.

Mama

2008-05-11T11:21:00.000-07:00

So, it's not September, her birthday month, nevertheless it is a day for my Mama. For me too, I suppose. A day set aside for many of us to reflect upon Motherly love. Some of my friends have lost their moms; to cancer, to circumstances of estrangement and bordered lines of longitude and latitude. I consider myself so lucky, very. My Mom has been here to set standards and examples for me as a woman, an artist, a creative resource, a teacher, an advocate, a writer, a wife and yes, quite profoundly, as a mother.

Married at 25, a young Pamela didn't rush into having children right away. Half of her 9 year wait was fostered by my Dad, a guy who was a bit scared of babies and fatherhood perhaps. Nevertheless, after having his first, my sister, he often tossed around the idea of a family of 10. Not for this career girl, my mom is delighted by myself and my sister, respectively. My point, however, is that she was a woman not pressured by society's need for her to embark upon her duties of procreation, ASAP. I think the reason she and my dad are still together and still make each other laugh, can be traced to the fact that they got to grow up together, to be in a relationship for a decade prior to learning how their newborn circumstances would inevitably shift their lives' dynamic. Another reason I respect my mom is that she knows how to take care of herself, and yes, others too. Growing up, we always knew that after she got home from work, it was her turn, time allotted to soak in the bath tub and take phone calls from her girlfriends. (A thought that still drives me crazy today: safety hazard much? She still does this, and it makes me crazy thinking that she's shaving her legs while holding a cordless phone in the other!) . . . but aside from the cautionary element to this tale, I must say, that after her solo time, she was refreshed and ready to do parental chores and to give her family the attention they required. Like making sure me and my sis had a glass of milk with dinner and some green bell pepper slices with our spaghetti. Like making sure lunches were made, and homework was done . . . and hearing about our little kid days.

My mom left yesterday to head home with my dad. I was sad to see them go, am sad she's not here, just reading and relaxing in my small home today. It's a bit overwhelming when visitors call, parents especially, and we can't necessarily slow down enough to really soak them up. I love going home for this reason, there aren't tours or time we feel needs to be filled with something, some activity, some . . . event. And don't get me wrong, our events were great; Legion of Honor to see the Annie Lebovitz exhibit, dinner at a favorite carnivorous friendly Hayes Valley beer hall. One thing that did remind me of our time as mother and daughter at home are the articles and clippings from brochures, magazines and newspapers that she collects for me. One stapled cluster includes: "10 Commandments For Total Happiness,"8 sex and love things men are right about," (Pamela, wow?!) and "Ever feel like you're drowning in debt?" I must say, I cannot wait to finish cleaning my apartment and then read each of these gems from my Mama.

So, here's to Moms. To their love, their craziness, their unique ways of caring for us, be it from afar, in the present, or memories from the past. I can only imagine what motherhood will feel like . . . it's such a natural but thoroughly strange idea to me. To give birth, to adopt, to inherit, to gain or acquire children however they might find us, I can't fathom how intense the relationship will be. Caring for a child who depends fully on what we can provide them. I ponder the idea of how we are responsible for their well being, and yet still must focus on our own. Kudos Mom, what a balance you've struck! I hope you will give me lessons if I'm ever so lucky to effect a son's or daughter's life the way you've helped me shape mine.

xoxox

missing persons

2008-05-07T22:25:00.000-07:00

I miss you. Tonight my parents came to town. We ate dinner and talked and reminisced and they did everything in their power to avoid your name or my current heart ache. They did this because they love me and wish for my pain to end; or to at least be responsible for relieving my mind of its constant thoughts of you. Nevertheless, I brought up your name. How could I refrain? Discussing my life with them necessitates your name and our excursions and time shared. It was so hard for them to attempt changing the subject or not making a big deal of you, and my now very real loss of your presence. Either way, I miss you. I think they miss you too. Just a week shy of meeting a man they thought had stolen my heart and a man they thought they could trust being its keeper. So sad, for me, and yes, for them. They never want me to rush into anything, but truth be told, they hope for my happiness, and indeed pray for some grand babies. I wanted to write to you tonight, right now. It's taking much of my energy not to send you a quick line questioning your mental state. If you want to know mine, it's indecipherable, mottled, tragic and free. All, like me. I'll see you at work tomorrow, but Friday I will be with them, viewing photographs that you'd be so much better off narrating. They planned to meet you, fall in love with the one I love, and now, like me, my sweet parents are bruised and a little bit shattered at the illusion of you. How will they ever believe all the wonderful things I told them about you, while my face frowns? Sighs abound. Nevertheless, my Guardian Gemini horoscope could not have been more accurate. It reminded me that my heart is hurt, and told me to instead focus my energies on the folks who love me most; my folks. And with those fresh Wednesday words swirling in my head, I can depart to my dreams, and hopefully not revisit the paranoia induced nightmares that plagued my Monday night's rest. Good night mister Taylor, love ya, mean it . . . for now.

you say tomato . . .

2008-04-29T22:16:00.000-07:00

This Sunday was April 27th, exactly 8 months since he first called me. And who'd have guessed that our relationship would be so prompt and aware of lunar calendars, but never fully aware of each other? My heart hurts. We have not talked since Sunday really, just passing glances down populated, working hallways. I want to hear his voice, and want him to miss mine. Nevertheless, I'll wait. There was no specific closure for either of us. He, masked by sunglasses, holding potted plants in arms too occupied to embrace my shrinking frame; curbside and so alone, it was only a "thanks for chatting" that ended our daisy tearing conversation. We visited the nursery that day. I bought a Wondering Jew plant to hang outside my kitchen window, such a beautiful color palette of sage and violet leaves now hang and need sunlight, demand water and crave attention. I am not Jewish, but feel the wanderer nonetheless. I will plant tomatoes and basil and hope that they flourish in my roof top's sunlight. A bag of potting soil, to be shared with him, sits heated and odoriferous in the backseat of my car. I will soon have to deliver my unused portion. The passing of the dirt. What metaphors, eh? The collective purchasing of plants to be nurtured, given new beginnings, seedlings that crave and require devotion . . . and then dirt. The literal unloading of our dirt onto each other, to be utilized for the purpose of nurturing simpler forms of essential life. Hmmm. It's sad and so very true, this relationship's demise. But how, I really wonder, that after 8 months without seeing a flower, a blossom or any fruit and receiving adequate care, did I ever think this plant, this man, would be fruit bearing? Winters are hard, weather is tainted by a warming of the globe and yet I still thought that he might change, and that I might be the sunlight to help him grow. Not so. My girlfriend told me just yesterday that I am but a girl standing, waiting and hungry beneath an apple tree hoping for a sweet, orange fleshed mango to drop. Alas, no mangoes, no apples either, just a tree with roots hidden down deep beneath the surface, protected by soil that might dirty my hands too much; grit forever stuck in my nail's beds. I hope that he can uproot himself, honestly. Because the saddest part of this scenario, my reality, is that I love a person who is focused on healing his own wounds - raking, tilling and excavating his earth - and yet can't allow himself the opportunity to flourish, fully. Without water we cannot survive, nor plants nor various arboreal types. And now it is time for me to tend to my own little garden, and hopefully watch it grow, threatened all the while by city air, unpredictable heat waves and water shortages. Maybe someday he'll come over for a caprese salad, an assemblage of roof ripened tomatoes and backyard basil, homegrown by yours truly. Or maybe, quite possibly and almost certainly, not.

roar

2008-04-26T13:31:00.000-07:00

I took a much needed Mental Health day from work yesterday. I ran errands and took care of some grown-up chores. I also made a visit to my local Kinko's, where a most delightful, Brooklyn bred man named Phil helped me with my little project. My Etsy shop is on hold for a bit while I figure out the date of my next photo shoot. In the meantime, however, I have selected some garments that will fare far better for sale in real, touch the fabric and test the zipper, life. These select pieces just wouldn't work on Etsy, due to odd, super teeny vintage sizing and slight fabrication snafus. Hence street shop!

My dear friend Mike owns my favorite coffee shop. He has been so generous in the past to allow little sidewalk sales to happen just in front of the store. This coming Saturday will be no exception. It also happens to be Faye's Video and Espresso's Birthday! So, I'm going to assist in crowding the concrete and hopefully contribute to peopling the store by extension. I have my garment rack and plan to have a stellar, visually intriguing merchandise set up. So yesterday, at Kinko's with Phil's energetic and sarcastic Brooklyn style assistance, I made tags for the clothes. This time I won't just end up giving everything away . . . I will make a profit. Sure, I'll welcome some bartering, but the price tag is just that: the price tag period. Don't I sound mean? Or maybe just firm? Or maybe like a business tycoon? Either way, I'm excited about my sidewalk business, so much so, that I've coined a name for this impromptu shop of mine. Ready? It's "Lion Tamer Vintage." What do you think? I'm using the above photo of yours truly as the card/price tag. Phil thought that mountain lion was my family pet. Apparently there aren't lots of mountain lions roaming the streets of Brooklyn, New York. On the back will be contact info for Lion Tamer Vintage as well as my Etsy address. Nothing like a little project to get my mind off of the other projects that are currently on hold, in limbo or simply unfinished. And by projects I mean bills, diets, and relationships. I haven't heard from the man I not so secretly admire today. I wonder if he'll call, and wonder if I'd answer. I wonder if I'll get to say my piece or if he'll beat me to it. If he'll be the one to say "I need time," or "things have changed," or "I can't do this." And if he doesn't say anything, what then do I? Taming lions is no joke. Wish me luck.

S.O.S

2008-04-24T23:52:00.000-07:00

What I am to you, is not what you mean to me . . .

These are lyrics, but really, they could be my words. I wish they didn't ring so true, but sadly, they tell truths, many, many. Tonight I met up with a friend for a beer. I tried to think it was just friends having a carbonated elixer, but after the man I visited became my patient and I his therapist, I realized that we misread each other. He pined about how badly he wants a girlfriend, someone to punctuate the Saturdays and Sundays of his rigidly scheduled weeks. He knew I had a dinner date, but not with whom. And after feeling good to have been mildly sought after by him yet again, I felt bad for knowingly departing to see the boy I've been spending all of my weekends with. I headed to his home where he made dinner for us. He played guitar for an audience of one, albeit in a posture that acknowledged the wall as his audience rather than my shrinking self. It was late, but we both missed each other and retreated to his familiar, dimly lit room. Talking nose to nose and then not at all, in words unspoken, we found solace in the comfort and ease and excitement of our two faces. And then it became "later than we thought it was." I interpreted these words as a signal to depart sooner than later. Unsettled, I mentioned my interpretation of the false invitation to go. Frustrated and feeling misunderstood, my sweet special friend felt aggravated by my tangling of his words. Why, I wonder, is it, that communication gets in the way of communication? I gathered my things, including my scarf and under utilized dinner ingredients, said goodnight and bid my fair, yet weighted adieu. Tonight, right now, I feel so very sad, so thoroughly confused and yet somehow empowered. Do I need now to make my move? To force him to realize that I could potentially cease being around at late hours, or even at all? Do we break our hearts in premature attempts to save the beating vessel, or do we wait and hope and pray that time will tell, will heal and maybe even surprise us with delights of love? I do not know. And I wish I did. I am at a loss. Imagining my days without him hurts my heart. It makes my already sore, pilates stressed muscles ache more. The notion of his presence no longer being a part of my reality, offers me little comfort, but instead dread. So, tonight, hoping that soon I will tell you of great sacrifice on his part and triumphant overriding of emotion and reason, I will instead ask of your advice, your thoughts and your strength to get through whatever it is this night represents. Life is short, love should be simple. That's the good stuff. The early eve man reminded me of just that; that companionship mends wounds and makes for time well spent. I only wish that my current flame knew that someone else was not just seeking my companionship and humor and wit and familiarity, but that he also knew that people who love us are the best cure for myriad ailments. I want to be his prescription for success. I guess, however, that I better start taking my vitamins first.

MexiCAN't Wait!

2008-03-30T15:21:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am off to Mexico with a girl who I'm guessing is my sister from a different mister, we were separated at birth I'm quite sure. Who else finishes each other's sentences without such strong genetic ties? Who else can translate a simple stare into complete experiences, detailed dilemmas and insightful inside jokes that other people just "don't get?" Hmmm. I must question my mom more about this sibling scenario. Either way, we're out of this city for a few days, to catch up on, even redefine R&R. Rest and Relaxation and Rejuvenation and sure some Rock n' Roll thrown in for good measure, we two need this break from our day to days so very much. Will you miss us? We'll miss you, and say salud! to you and yours while we sip a tasty margarita or two.

Sometimes vacations offer timely shifts in scenery, breaks from routines and the occasional moment for reflection. I hope to reflect, reevaluate and really wrangle my self and my senses on this trip. When I come back, I hope to have had my presence missed, but more so, I hope to have found myself to be more present, with myself. Here's to leaving it all behind and then coming back to find . . .

Adios

Chirp

2008-03-27T20:04:00.000-07:00

"When you awaken, then you are obligated to think about what to do with all of that glorious energy in the morning, right? You know, when you want to just knock the hell out of what's holding you back from being truly happy or getting what you want out of life. That's the bad energy at work. All you need is the nerve, to find the nerve to do what you really want to do, right? The problem is that it may come natural to you, but it does not always come easy. So, maybe now you've got a clue about what's been on my mind. I think it is still considered an Olympic event nowadays: wrestling. I hear it's Tibet vs. China . . . after Tibet's Independence Day . . . of course. Grappling. I feel someone grabbing my elbow."

Adam J, wrote these words to me in a letter I received just yesterday. Sometimes I wonder how he knows me so well. How can another person feel my pulse race, how can he know that I am not alright, even miles away? Is it that obvious, I wonder? Either way, Adam always manages to instill questions in my ever prolific and imaginative mind and simultaneously quell the insecurities I rely upon. He continues with:

"And in order to win, you need to realize the powerlessness you might feel in any difficult situation, and admit that the reason you feel that way is because you are powerless. So, it's somehow about promoting a wrestling match between you and you. It's the raging battle within that takes your spirit and your sleep. And makes you sweat."

I cannot express to you, my few and far between readers, what these words mean to me. They speak to me on so very many levels. I will conclude with this wisdom, courtesy of a man who knows no limits of compassion and generosity.

"And so you do little things like play your guitar, which takes you away from all of that for a little while. And if you pay close attention you can figure out what I am listening to lately, can't you? (it's Clapton). You have a coffee with your best friend. You can also call your mother on Easter Sunday and ask if she still hears the squirrels running around in the attic - and I don't mean mentally! And you take stock in what is really happening around you, and try to fit it all in. You look for the rescue impulse everywhere. You lay out those personal expectations that fuel the impetus to change. Then you wait . . . for the big event."

This is my big event. This moment, this time, right now - is make or break. I am in love with someone, perhaps an idea of someone, who does not, or cannot reciprocate my sentiments. Tonight I sit, waiting for a phone call, wondering if the phantom doorbell ringing was actually his finger's pressing, and think to myself about deserving, about intention and about fate. I want so badly to be in love. But the love I should be seeking is the love of self and of life and of those who mirror my own profundities. So, I share these inspirational words with you, my loved ones, because it is the truth. We need to wrestle and get dirty with our demons. And then, we need to win, by way of want. So tonight I bid adieu to those feelings that corner my heart, that label my efforts and that seek to quell my creativity. A mouthful, I know, but thanks to Adam, tonight, I see how simple it can be.

Fly away to you. To you and to yours.

Lady in Red

2008-02-04T21:51:00.000-08:00

Hi. So sorry I haven't been in touch. As a matter of fact, I've been out of touch, with more than just you. My horoscope warned me of drama this week, and foolishly, I felt it a premature forecast and wholly unparalleled to my current existence. Nevertheless, I was wrong, sorely, painfully mistaken. I don't intend to throw myself a pity party here, but I'm pretty sure that my heart started to break and suffer great pain this evening. It was the conversation that began with innocent questions, and ended with the suggestion that this should be discussed in person. And "in person" shouldn't hurt or be odd or strange or unwelcome, because "in person" means life and love and scents and senses . . . but somehow, right now, the idea is not welcome. He, this gem of a man I've had the luxury of spending days and hours and wee hours and categorically significantly insignificant moments with, has been thinking. And thinking, truth be told, is not what it's cracked up to be. If I think too much, I can imagine great horror, great success, sweet baby faces, off-white wedding gowns and funeral services. Thinking, can be one person's demise via projections and false notions of the future. But, hey, thinking about days ahead can also translate into finishings: goals accomplished, phrases uttered and time well spent - so call me crazy for thinking that I might have found my match. Big sigh.

It's not sadness, this emotion, or emoting, instead it's a check-in. My horoscope was simply reminding me to be true to the one thing I know to be right and wrong and unjust and fair - me. I wish I didn't previously recycle the words, in the hope they were incorrect, or I'd have posted them here. Nevertheless, I'll say this . . . I am, as you may be, like the dress featured above. We are tattered, we are aged, we have seen trials and tribulations and tights, and yet we will still become someone's bookmarked page on someone's wish list, ready to be given new life and readily available to help someone stand out in a crowded room . . . ready to independently shine on our own, in living color, vibrant and beautiful and stained but never damaged goods.

xoxoxox

Sorry, photo is coming soon. It's file was too big . . . soon, however, you'll be able to see, and even purchase her on my etsy shop . . . think vintage, classy, red frock - like us all . . .

Raising The Bar

2008-01-06T15:19:00.000-08:00

Almost one week into the New Year, the day that this photo was snapped, and while not as sun filled, all certainly does look quite nice. Let's hope this pseudo warming trend continues. So today, it's Sunday and so far the forecast looks good. A productive walk with my fave pal, Pat, and some much needed down time of chatting, sipping and reminiscing, this 6th day of 2008 feels great. Last night I had the pleasure and gift of hearing a living legend play and interpret some songs of the past. Ramblin' Jack Elliot reminds me of a present day American griot. Singing his songs, as well as time tested tried and true tunes, this man truly turns the art of listening into a performance. His quintessential rambling not only sets the stage for each song, granting his audience a glimmer into his life an that of each song, he then finishes them off with appropriate educational exits. My company was another factor that set the stage for a delightful, starry filled, cloud scattered evening. I feel so lucky to have people in my life who reliably inspire, encourage and remind me just how lovely it is to simply breathe and be alive. Reveling in each other's plain existence, I can't help but thoroughly appreciate what a luxury it is to feel wanted and hopefully I succeed at returning the favor by giving that same tiny gift to those I love as well. And it is a gift, one that I often take for grated and overlook. But my date's presence is so very present and, in the words of one wise Debbie Harry, I am always touched by that presence, dear. For an energetic rock n' roll reference and lyrics that attest to such a statement, watch this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YLdtrQ7vPOU&feature=related

Call Me . . . crazy

2008-01-04T19:27:00.000-08:00

Oh my pretties - all four of you! How I've missed you. This blog, this silly little writing exercise of mine really does keep me grounded, connected and allow me feelings of fleeting creativity . . . hence, I share. Happy Happy two thousand Great! This one's gonna be good, I feel it in my bones, don't you?

This year around, I resolve not to make resolutions, but one idea and hope I do have for 2008 is to read more, and not just my weekly horoscope. Once upon a time I was a voracious reader, a real smarty, and somehow, without a syllabus and required thoughts on recent reading of the academic ilk, I have seriously sloughed off. Tis a shame indeed. In college I loved all I read, albeit intense and often morbidly depressing, I still used to pine for the days of free reading. And here I am at 27, five years out of the concrete confines and I've yet to read the classics; like Deborah Harry by Cathy Che and Chronicles - Volume One by Bob Dylan . . . and what about Slash's autobiography? Man alive do I have my work cut out! Truth be told I cannot wait. I also resolve not to resolve, but to try and dance more. In my kitchen with a pretend audience going crazy for my vocal talents and fluid moves. I hope to practice these gems for the boy who makes me wanna shake it up, and also seek to attend more venues where my friends and friends of friends gather together their compiled collections of classic vinyl. So move it, would ya?! I'm a gonna. Rob, you with me? Let's rip that dance floor to shreds, eh?

Here's to you and yours. And especially to Debbie, my own special rock n' roll fashion icon/
white polyester clad heroine.

xoxobg

Considering Devotion

2007-12-02T18:06:00.000-08:00

I just cleaned out my hall closet. Purging feels so good - thoroughly, solidly good. I found four of my old journals. One is shiny with pictures of clouds on it and opens like a regular book. Another is an extremely peculiar and profound square shape with lined paper, covered in a thin layer of rust colored velvet. Then there is the matte vinyl, gilded and inscribed notebook that's sophisticated and built like an envelope, that locks with a secure flap to keep precious thoughts private. The final is an incomplete and simple black book that reads more like a sketch pad or a pamphlet. I have yet to excavate all four separate historical accounts, but one journal did get cracked briefly and to my surprise, what I read rings as true, if not more than it did in December of 1999, my nineteenth year.

Allow me to share the lovely text, A Cure for Self Loathing, written by Alice Hoffman.

The remedy, to be followed more or less: do not look in the mirror for three days and do not speak with anyone you suspect of agreeing with your current opinions of your self.

On the first day: wear blue, buy roses, fix something broken, polish furniture. Allow yourself a mistake, drink a mixture of lemon juice and water, cry all night, then shop for new pillowcases.

On the second day: make jam, visit an acquaintance unable to leave the house due to illness, sorrow or advancing years, fix a pot of tomato-rice soup and let simmer. Give your coats away to those who cannot stay warm. Forget what you could or couldn't or didn't do right. Run for two miles, paying attention only to the shape of leaves, the sound of birds, the idea of desire.

On the third day: paint your bedroom, absolve an old enemy, braid your hair or cut it all off. Think about November, imagine starts and clear skies, believe in possibilities and in hardship. Study signs, be grateful, consider devotion, moonlight and your own dreams. Early in the morning, at the hour when the grass is still damp and the sky above you is cracking open like an egg, walk a dog through your neighborhood. Then and there, while most people are still asleep in their beds, forgive yourself.

The photo was taken at Ocean Beach by my special friend, on his tiny phone, as we saw the great sun hide behind the sea and listened for the green flash.

Manic Monday

2007-11-26T18:17:00.000-08:00

Today I feel a little like this lady. She's pensive and serious and wrapped up in her hair and her head . . . I wonder what the expression recalling a certain stoicism reflected on her face alludes to? Is she proud? Is she distraught? Or maybe, she's just real blue?

This is a close up of her face, the rest of the canvas showcases my novel attempts at using spray paint.

Lion's Gate

2007-11-23T13:12:00.000-08:00

We each need to make our lion's roar -
to persevere with unshakable courage when faced with all manner of doubts and sorrows and fears -
to declare our right to awaken.

This is a Native American proverb, metaphor, truth, adage, dictum, truism, word, moral, repartee, saying, byword, epigram, axiom . . . you choose.

This folk wisdom is so revolutionary to me. It is liberating and empowering. In my eyes, the suggested strength is not required to combat an existence constantly painted by vivid streams of agony, hardship, heartache and catastrophe - but instead it speaks to finding our unique internal delirium so that if and when hardships do approach, we roar and usher them away from our blessed pride.

It's funny how things and people and space and time can, and do change in subtle yet profound blinks of an eye. Oh, dynamic life . . . little sigh. I felt a bit the fool just yesterday, providing so much for another person, showcasing my gratitude in edible incarnations and with my time; some premeditated thoughtfulness and some simply hours. The reception and unfolding of our day, proved an askew view ending in an illegible scenario. The resulting fears that crept upon me were and are somewhat overwhelming me today. I cannot know what another person is thinking without words, or an invitation to do so, and hence am stranded with a searing question mark branded on my brain. Although instead of dwelling on the successful sanity of someone else, for now I will persevere with unshakable courage with the intention of waking myself up.

Peace of Mind

2007-11-21T20:41:00.000-08:00

Scott, Scott the teacher, formerly known as "hot for teacher," asked me to dinner the other night via text message technology. Dylan emailed and then called me with high hopes I'd be provide momentary distraction to his much needed packing schedule and join him for a glass of wine. Then on Wednesday, Ryan gifted me with two CDs, one a computer friendly version, the other minorly edited for immediate car or stereo appreciation. And yet, it's the boy who bought a light and lock for my bike who I envision as the safest bet. Why, I wonder, are cliches often too true? Love/intense like finds us when we least expect or imagine it to, and when it rains (men), it pours? Argh, true story, confusions abound. And while I'm at it, with these questions I pose to us all - why is it, that once we think we may have found our match, the other, more unstable yet hopeful mirages of former truths surface? Hmmmmm, I simply do not know. Yes, big old sigh. I know only this, I am one girl who does indeed appreciate the attention, but am also a gal learning the importance and relevance of timing - it seems to be everything, at least at this hour. Timing, with the stars and moon and planetary alignment is imperative, nevertheless, many of us, myself included, often feel as though timing is a mere coincidence. I think now, right now, that it is no coincidence, but rather divine intervention that leads us to the longitudes and latitudes of where we should be and with whom.

My new rendezvous are not squeaky clean, they too are muddled with humanity and baggage and fraught with emotions in need of much fragile unraveling. Nevertheless, it seems as though where I am, where he is, is exactly where we are supposed to be. But in finding this out, apparently the universe must test our collective will and discern whether or not we fit, in the here and now. I sure hope we do. But why then, is it that once we are fastening the safety belts of lust and love and trust, is it that we are presented with such dubious inducing obstacles? I wonder still and will continue to until the day I can peer and gaze into my own kin's eyes with certainty that I chose the right one, and he me. Until then, I suppose it's a gamble, and we are all living in a state that shares no concrete truths, Vegas style.

So, with this vague information, I seek only to inform and remind myself and perhaps my few readers that we have guts for a reason and our intuition is no joke. So listen to that little internal voice but don't let it forcefully become the soundtrack to the days you're living in, marked and made memorable with sounds all their own. Ryan has provided me with a beautifully streamlined soliloquy to our courtship, brief union and drawn out days. And while I read far too into the lyrics coming from other people's mouths and lips and diaphragms that he choreographed, I must not abandon the idea that maybe he did mean to tell me that he missed the boat? And if he did intend such a message, where does that put me now? But, as I continue to sail on . . . and while it often takes another encounter to mend the wounds of those previous, sometimes time doesn't heal, nor studio produced rhymes. Sometimes time simply becomes the past. And yes, there's so very much past inside our presents, but don't we owe it to our presents to be present? I think yes.

Happiest of days to you, give them thanks for me.

right . . . now

2007-11-19T21:21:00.000-08:00

Tonight I did two lovely things for myself and for others. I baked an apple pie and watched an Eckhart Tolle DVD. Seemingly unrelated actions, these two delights are however, inextricably linked. Not because the person who will (hopefully) be savoring the pie is also the one who gifted me with the enlightenment flick, but instead because each event existed in the present, the now. From the peeling of the crisp, green granny smiths to the breath and aural attention paid to Mr. Tolle, I felt what it was he spoke of . . . existing in the present moment and embracing all the emotions that accompany it. While I only managed to peel 5 of the 7 apples in one fell swoop with my new carrot peeler, instead of feeling defeated I thought it to be a success, since the last time I made a pie from scratch, I was time shy of sipping the ever important glass of Cabernet while I did so. Yay for me! The way this gentle man talked about living in the moment made life seem thoroughly approachable again. I will not worry about my day at work tomorrow because it hasn't happened yet, and also because I may be surprised at it's unique qualities compared to today's rather mundane characteristics. Often times I try to remind myself to appreciate each moment I have, be it reading a friend's brilliant blog or enjoying the biting acidity of fresh cut Maui pineapple. Nevertheless, it has become far to easy for us all to dismiss the lovleliness found in the small treats and trivias and trials and tribulations that populate our days. Usually, my reminders come in the form of telling myself that if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, what would I have hoped to have been doing in the days, moments and even seconds beforehand. That scenario, however, seems so morbid. I'd like to change my mantras to extend farther, and to realize that each moment is dictated by my environment and how I choose to interpret it. Same goes for us all. Instead of feeling trapped in traffic and literally stuck in grid lock, perhaps we could view the inconvenience as time granted for us to pause and listen to our favorite anthem on repeat, or an opportunity to look out the window and survey the usual route we traverse and consider normal, and witness the details of a landscape we don't really ever get the chance to notice. (The traffic example is loosely based on Tolle's words, fyi - but the interpretation is my own). It's not enlightenment, but rather a pure sentiment of being content that I feel tonight. I can only hope that it lasts and that my new little outlooks and attitudes and emotions and simple appreciations will rub off on those I'm lucky enough to be surrounded by, and vise versa. Magnetically captivating and can't quite put your finger on it feelings are what I aim to express . . . by not even trying at all.

Does that make sense? It's beginning to for me, but for now I'll just take it one sigh at a time.

PS: the above photo was taken en route to The German Tourist Club, a favorite getaway for me and a special plus one. And since Mr. Tolle is of German decent, what better way to say "Danka?" And, if you look closely, you'll notice Sutro Tower smack dab in the middle of the valley . . . a landmark I now notice as home.

heART

2007-11-14T20:26:00.000-08:00

Wow . . . so long. I miss you, I miss this . . . lots. I will say, however, that the time in between has been full of living. Living riding bicycles in high heels, living eating sushi paid for by one hefty gift certificate (thanks Jen!), living lost in tempo driven guitar riffs and cutting crudites for a Tuesday night's salad. My life has been lovely and rich. It's been chalk full of days that drag at work and evenings that stray too quickly. Hours populated by stares and sights and sounds and senses. Do you use yours enough? Do you taste everything that touches taste buds and hear the guttural sounds of genuine laughter, do you feel the touch not of your hands scratching an itchy neck's nape, but of an embrace, do you smell on primal levels? Hmmm. If not, I say do it - try, it, love it and yes, quite simply; live it.

Last Friday was an evening spent with two of my favorite people in San Francisco. My "uncles" Roy and Harlen took me to bare witness to the beauty of old world Jade at the Asian Art Museum's unveiling of such a dynamic stone. After a thorough perusal through glass enclosed cases containing little fragments of history, it was off to the present. My dear friend Rex had an opening that truly took the house down. We attended, the three of us to join in appraisal, awe and celebration. Wow, do yourself a favor and see some of his work here, please. I ventured to the gallery with the knowledge that my Saturday night's date may too be present (at my suggestion and his returned enthusiasm). Eager to have my old and new worlds collide, unfortunately it was a matter of time, a reservation to be exact, that our ships instead passed in the night. Nevertheless, as we pulled away on paved streets, I saw my new friend pull up, denim clad, on his bike and park in front of the sprawling art seeking masses. He entered and surveyed. I knew before he, that I was gone, but hoped he'd a appreciate the art for a second time around that eve. He saw and he liked, lots. Which proved beneficial for our Saturday together. A night spent admiring half assembled art at Rex's studio and then draped effort-fully over a slanted a ping pong table. I never knew I had such cat like reflexes . . . game on! And for me, Saturday was yet another option to combine my old and my new worlds of love and life. A success I think, and a true delight to boot.

It's funny how our presents, our day to days, can be brimming with mundane livelihoods like work and time cards and chores, and yet still manage to breathe real, vivid, tasty life into our often routine, more sedate versions of it. My thanks go out tonight to three people whose names all boast only 3 letters . . . Roy, Rex and you.

Vive la Vida, eh?
xoxoxo

Coffee and Tea

2007-10-28T00:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I posted some words and a pic for the first time in quite some time. And while I received two lovely comments (thanks T & D! ), I then panicked and removed it from public view. Here's why: I was lucky enough to be spending some quality Friday time with a dog named Moe and a boy, whose name also has three letters. We leisurely walked sweet, hyper Moe to the park and then ended up on my favorite, most prime real estate location in the city; the bench at my fave coffee/video shop. My best friend owns and delightfully operates the junction, and we chatted with him for a bit inside after ordering a divine soy latte. Meanwhile I am loving the fact that two of my most special people are in the know with each other and seemingly enjoy the respective company (big, yep, sweet sigh). MM mentioned this lil blog and that I haven't been updating it. It Might Be Cinema's title is a name I have yet to utter to said third party for fear that he'll read my neurotic dissertations and random soliloquies, some with him as the protagonist, and then abandon ship faster than you can say "ahoy!" Plus, he's no fan of blogs . . . although I think he's unaware of the myriad incarnations that they are capable of inhabiting. Nevertheless, since the post I submitted to you all yesterday was fraught with details of my like for him, I decided to remove it, in case he heard and remembers MMs web address referral. Heaven forbid he actually know how I feel!?? So, tonight, knowing that he most likely won't visit the site, as MM was quick with the tongue and release, I will reinstate some, not all, of the fun facts about this new Libra gem I have been lucky enough to share my days and spend quality time with.

There's the teapot that his Mom sent him. It's not suitable for his hefty habit and so he re gifted it to me, an honor I say, and thank you. He thought it would match my kitchen's motif - and yes folks, he's right, it does. Then there are the sublime acoustic renditions of old blues tunes he plays, not necessarily for me, but with me . . . I may be a small one, but I am a good audience. And perhaps it's the new back light and lock that he gifted Cherry Cola (my bike) with. While it's up to me to get the helmet, I am forever grateful that thanks to him, night drivers and riders will always steer clear of my flashing rear. And since my brain often experiences great lapses in time and space, I am also anticipating never having to say "shoot" because I forgot my lock and we're already there . . . it's attached to my bike now, hence, problem solved. This character comes up with a new nickname for me twice daily, he is sympathetic to my non-dairy eating predicament, he takes me places and shows me thing about SF and SK I never knew existed. And to that I raise my cup of tea and say cheers.

And like yesterday's glimpse of a post, I'll say again . . . let's not jinx this one, eh?

Ready, Set . . . you know

2007-10-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

Last night was an evening of R&R. And no, I don't mean Rest & Relaxation or Reading and Reminiscing, I mean Rock N Roll! My new friend, a boy who has managed to introduce me to so much more livelihood than just music, took me to see one of his all time favorite bands in concert. Coming from a person who is more often than not a purist in many respects, including his musical tastes, I have to admit that I was mildly shocked to be one among the crowd of rowdy, uber-fans who came to literally thrash for this Norwegian band hailing direct from Oslo. It was beyond great. I remember having my hand on my heart and feeling no pulse, just drum, base and reverb. The guitar solos, the costumes, the intensely evident need for call and response audience participation - this was a show that truly did rock my world.

As a lady with a strange affinity for feathers and all things bird, I wore my favorite shirt to the concert, it has mini wings. They aren't really wings, but to me, they look like the beginnings of wings, baby angels. Riding my bike to our amplified destination behind a pro was intimidating, but I had two secret weapons beneath my coat, and so I soared. Without flying, I did, however, feel slightly in flight. Last night was the perfect prelude to my day today, an anniversary. And had I not been working where I am now, I wouldn't have met my evening's co-pilot. Perhaps we'd have met sometime or some place else (like an alternate universe), but I'm glad I was where I was when I was for more than one reason. One year ago, I landed the job that I thought might lead to the position of my dreams, allow me to flourish and yes, spread my creative wings. Not so. Nevertheless, I think about Maya Angelou and her most fitting, ever timely words, "where you are is exactly where you need to be." But where this painted birdie needs to be, is away from the coop.

Yet, here I've been, and still continue to be. But for how long? Sigh. Tonight, upon retrieving mostly bills and un-fun credit card courtship proposals from my personal post cubbie, I found a small box, the size of a compact disc, addressed to moi. It was a gift, complete with two notes - one federal, the other heartfelt text - from one of my most favorite mentors and fans, Adam J. Because I can't do his words justice in summation, I will instead showcase some of them here for you to read. I know I've said it before, but you know what, I'm going to say it again, because repetition often leads to memorization, saying it can make it feel real . . . I am loved, as are you. And it's so unimaginably important for us all to remember that somewhere, somehow, by someone, you are loved and appreciated and noticed . . . often it's easy to ignore, but it's too important to dismiss and since we all need reminders, please allow me to take the gift of assurance and significance that Adam J has given me and share it with you . . .

There often emerges a gentler profile in the eyes of those who can appreciate an assembly of truly gorgeous feathers . . . and even if it's not quite the perfect time . . . you just can't easily accept your unique plumage being used as stuffing in a corporate pillow when you are such a beautiful bird.

Make sure to shake a tail feather or two on your way out of the coop, (your name here) . . . since you are by far the rarer bird in most flocks - and the one with the most unique and colorful plumage, right?

Fly away with me today . . . listen to your favorite rock anthem, leave a job behind, or simply prepare for said take-off . . .

Thank you Adam J.

i AM loved!

2007-09-30T21:38:00.001-07:00

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 . . .

2007-09-30T19:00:00.000-07:00

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 . . .

2007-09-26T21:16:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-24T22:07:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-21T20:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-20T21:33:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-19T23:59:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-13T21:28:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-13T20:12:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-12T21:20:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-11T20:54:00.001-07:00

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 . . .

2007-09-11T18:47:00.001-07:00

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?

2007-09-09T19:34:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-07T19:05:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-04T18:45:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-01T12:11:00.000-07:00

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

Sing Along

2007-08-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-08-26T19:25:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-25T20:01:00.000-07:00

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.