Considering Devotion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

Begin Mother Dialogue:

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

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

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

Que Linda? Pero, Hay Mas . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's True . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto

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

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

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

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


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

Focused Risks

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

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

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

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

artwork courtesy of yours truly

Madam, I'm Adam

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

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

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

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

PS: did you notice the titular palindrome? Nice.

Power to the Cat

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

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

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

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

Landen on Mars

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

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

Sera Feliz

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

Heart You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love you eternally.

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

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

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

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

Cute Or Cut?

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

Hair's to you!

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

Pant Party

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

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

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

Deconstructing Blue

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flight of Fancy

Definition: (noun) an imaginable but unworkable idea.
















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

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

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

artwork is by yours truly

Sing Along

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

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

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

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

Sounds Like Mwah . . . (moi)

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

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

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

Small Farm, Big Dreams

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

Fish Face

The images are coming soon, promise.

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

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

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

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

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

Festival

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

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

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

Hope you enjoy each feature presentation.

welcome