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.