papier-mache world

speaking of crazy...

2011-09-17T14:50:00.002-04:00

...i'm all over on wordpress now. It's my permanent home. Visit me?

go crazy.

2011-09-17T11:10:00.004-04:00

I was spying on Facebook today. Be warned: I do this A LOT. This time though I was spying on a former co-worker's photos of her new life in Nairobi. "I wanna do that! Or, something like that," I said (in my head). Something where I pack up, leave behind everything, and fearlessly start something new. And she's in her 30s--like me! This further adds to the growing body of evidence that you in fact do not have to be a 20-something with a pack strapped to your back to go crazy and start something new.

I've gone crazy before. Just not on the Nairobi level. Not even close to the Nairobi level.

I continued to skim through her albums, half curious, half concerned about whether she'd settled in and was enjoying life there. By the way, if she ever somehow found this post, I'd be partly flattered (she found my blog!) and partly embarrassed (she happens to be one of my dozens of FB friends I don't have a real friendship with.) I'd post one of her beautiful, green, palm-treed photos here, if...well, if I was completely shameless. I'm shameless. Just not completely. Not yet.

I want to plan something crazy. I have given myself a deadline of two more years in my city. Two more years to grow up. Two more years to settle in and enjoy.

x

p.s. This is my 2nd day of posting, and I have little to say, but I'm happy to be getting my groove back. Now off to figure out how to add those little follow-me-like-me widgets.

i came back.

2011-09-16T14:21:00.006-04:00

to reclaim my "roots." well, that's a lofty expression and not at all entirely true. Here's what really happened:

I was sitting on the subway, chatting with a friend about starting a new blog. Something that incorporates my day-to-day hodgepodge with pieces of my city that make me stop. open my eyes. drop my jaw. reconsider why-the-hell-i'm-here-in-the-first-place. As I write this, I fill ready to burst at the prospect of coming back to something I once gave my heart to daily. But back to my story. As I was telling the story to my friend of wanting to start something new, something great...it dawned on me that I had something great already HERE. My something old, so to speak. I had love here already. Large amounts of it. Truth. Beauty. Happiness. Pain. Reflection. Energy. All that here, if I wanted it. And to leave it for dead...well, a waste beyond tragic. Pardon the melodrama. If you love something, you always love it. And if it serves a purpose in your life, you welcome it back into your life, in some form or another. When you're ready. I (think I) am.

I'm going to unpack now, lay out my stuff, take inventory, and start new—or start old. And I might need a fresh coat of paint. Stick with me, if you like.
x

p.s. This is the most beautiful thing i've seen all day.

i moved...

2010-10-10T19:55:00.004-04:00

i really love everything here, but i wanted a change. it took a while (I had to pack and all), but I'm practically all moved in now. Just need a new coat of paint (maybe) and some rearrangements. And the walls are much to bare right now. Still, I hope you'll visit :-)

Oh, I almost forgot, here's my new address.

something new awaits...

2010-05-18T12:38:00.001-04:00

well, less "awaits" and more "comeths." Or something like that.

I'm more than well aware that my heart and brain have not been plugged in here. I think I'm evolving--or progressing, or channeling something. I have no idea what's going on with me, but I do know today's random post is steeped in hormones (so says the inconvenient pimple on my forehead). So i'm choosing this opportunity to tell you rather cryptically that I'm working on something...something new...just waiting for the right title to pop into my head and then I can spill.

Until then...xo

ms. parton.

2010-04-21T14:39:00.005-04:00

So, a woman I work with drops her iPod in our gym locker-room...wait. I'll back up a bit. A very stoic, type-A, super career woman who has most-certainly given me the cold-shoulder a handful of times in the hallways—having met my twice-daily "hello" glances with silent bristle and possible ire, drops her iPod in the gym locker-room. (Yes, we have a gym at work...it's my one-and-only counterargument to the eyebrow raises I get when I describe the horror that is my 1-hour-plus commute to work.) The earphones pop out and all us half-naked ladies get the pleasure of hearing her iTunes. And will you guess what's playing? Nevermind, you won't. Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You." Yes, Dolly did it first (love you, Whitney).

Anyhoo, I love Dolly so dearly that I instantly forgave this woman's blatant oversight of my charm. What IS that? Have you ever done that...forgiven or fallen slightly and unexpectedly in love with someone just because their musical tastes align ever-so-nicely with yours?

p.s. Speaking of half-naked ladies, who knew Dolly did Playboy? Hmmm..kinda sorta curious...

love is a smoke...

2010-04-11T10:29:00.002-04:00

...made with the fume of sighs.

- William Shakespeare

Complicating matters more...

2010-03-26T21:21:00.010-04:00

I 'd like those words silk-screened onto a T-shirt. Size Small. Seriously.

So lately, I've rambled on and on about my minor but constant 'struggle' with thinness...or skinnyness, if that's a word. Or rather, the over-awareness of it by the 40-ish women I work with.

At work today, I took a tooth-brush break in the ladies room after lunch. As it happens (to me), I couldn't find my toothbrush, so i went with the toothpaste-on-the-finger approach to dental hygiene and fresh breath. I'm in the ladies room, doing just that, when one of my editors walks in. She stops and stares at me for a second with shock and horror in her eyes just as I'm applying finger and toothpaste to my tongue. uh oh. My first thought: "damage control." I quickly remove the finger from my mouth, spit the foamy residue into the sink, and say "Ohh, hi! The chicken I ate for lunch was SO garlicky, and I can't find my toothbrush, so the finger will have to do!" Which is the truth. She laughs, perfunctorily. And then said...Wait. I don't know what she said. It was a mumble of nothingness, as she stood there staring at me for another 30 seconds that felt like 5 minutes, with a mother's concern in her eyes. I wanted to say "I'm OK...even though I'm sure it looks like I'm purging. ha ha!" That didn't happen. She walked into the stall..and I finished up, reapplied my lipstick, and made haste.

I'm still thinking about it, obviously. And wondering just what she was thinking when she walked through the door. Something a thin girl never wants to be caught doing is poking her finger toward her throat. But perhaps this is my overactive paranoia sculpting some form of irrational hyper-vigilance. It's likely, this woman walked in and saw me finger-brushing my teeth, a somewhat private act, in a somewhat public restroom and was skeeved out. yeah, that's probably it...

when you have the opportunity...

2010-03-18T18:41:00.004-04:00

...to carpe diem and enjoy these first days of Spring, do it! Choose a day in the middle of the week, and call in sick (or take off in advance, if you're more responsible than I am). Don't log onto to your email (though, you can log onto your blog if you must). I insist.

And if you live in or frequently visit NYC, check out the sunbathing seals and boat rides in Central Park, take the bus down 5th Avenue (it's the cheapest tour you'll ever take), buy a good book for park-bench reading, try the Vanilla Rum gelato (skip the Guinness-flavored one. Yes, Guiness, the beer) from Il Laboratorio Gelato, and kiss someone (be sure to ask first).

Work has allowed me no time to think full, free-flowing, unscheduled thoughts about...well, whatever... so today, I had no time for work.

p.s. Il Laboratorio Gelato is opening a larger shop this summer, and this, my friends, is a very good thing.

p.p.s. RIP Alex Chilton. 59 is way too young to die :-(

Photo: keanerdotnet

blame it on daylight savings time.

2010-03-16T16:08:00.000-04:00

"I have my own insecurities, I don't have the wherewithall to deal with yours, too" ...is what I should have said. I almost regret posting yesterday, only i don't believe in regret. Still, I say this because almost immediately after hitting "publish," I felt my insecurities being splashed across the computer screen like wet paint. Insecurities are that way...they stain us...they stain our world, and if we blog, at times, they stain that, too. If we let them.

That's really all I wanted to say.

oh! how i try hard to keep my karma clean...

2010-03-15T16:35:00.004-04:00

...and not to routinely think terribly rude and unkind thoughts about others—not counting nyc subway riders. But today, I need to vent. Here goes:

A woman who works with me, in a senior position, came into my office for a meeting during which the conversation trailed off into a discussion about her gym and how she's not sure she'll keep her membership because the people there are muscley, crazed maniacs. Then she says, "I hate the women at my gym. They're all skinny. Just like you."

Hmmmm. I wouldn't take offense, except I hear a different version of this almost every week from a woman at work. It's not-so-much that it's offensive, but more that it makes me considerably uncomfortable when someone comments on my body—unless of course, we're good friends or sleeping together. So, what if I said something like, "I really don't like the women here. They're all pretty fat. Just like you."

It's not at all me to say something like that—I'm much much more likely to comment on a woman's shoes or hair—not their weight. But, just to prove a point, would that be wrong?

On a side note, I'm no idiot... I realize that many cultures (and fashion magazines) regard "skinny" as the ideal body type, so perhaps she meant it as a compliment. And perhaps it's the negative connotations that come to mind when I hear the word "skinny" that chip away at my self-confidence. Growing up, in a black neighborhood, with black women and black relatives drilling into my psyche that "skinny" wasn't a good thing...wasn't healthy... wasn't the ideal—I admit to having unresolved issues with the word. Yet "slim" or "thin" or "svelte"—don't hurt one bit...in fact, I prefer them. I need to think on this more, and perhaps consult with some of my slim-thin-svelte girlfriends. Or maybe even Randy Cohen.

Stay tuned. Oh, and tell me what you think!

I just ate a half-melted section of Kit Kat from my purse.

2010-03-10T15:16:00.010-05:00

But in my defense, it was still in the package, and there were no visible lent or dirt particles present. Is that gross?

Anyhow, speaking of defending my indiscretions ...

I truly-deeply wish life will slow down a bit...so I can post! And by "life" I mean, work. At least 90 percent of my life lately is work. The other 10 percent consists of time-spent-with-loved-ones/sex/yoga/eating/going to the bathroom...oh, and sleeping. How sad is that? If only I could blog about myself for a living.

Speaking of which, I've watched all but the last 10 minutes of Julie & Julia, and even if you don't love/admire/respect Julia Child (and I do), you should see it. I mean, if you like food, particularly, rich, gooey, drippy, buttery, meat-centric food, I suggest you click-and-add it to your Netflix queue. Of course, I can say a little more after I finish watching it. WARNING: It will make you hungry.

But again, I want to post. That's my uppermost goal this week...and I have at least 2 juicy ones in the pipeline. And by juicy, I mean love-speckled and slightly sappy. So, until then, I bring you the Oscar-winning animated short Logorama. It's truly brilliant and worth the 16-minute chunk out of your life. If you watch it and think otherwise, tell me why...because I can't imagine who could hate this film....well, except maybe Ronald McDonald.

post this on a wall...

2010-02-23T11:15:00.006-05:00

...where you can read it and refer to it regularly. And by "this," I mean this. I'm printing out these 40 life-isms as we speak/type/read, and highlighting numbers 5, 8, 9, 12, 13, 20, 22, 25, and 28 in pink. Which of these will you highlight?

p.s. In honor of National Pancake Day—I wolfed down 5 yummy banana silver dollars (not the ones below, unfortunately). However now I. CANNOT. MOVE. So I strongly urge you to not follow in my footsteps. Choose your own pancakes, but tread lightly. Don't eat 5 all at once and perhaps skip the butter and syrup, oh—and the side of bacon, altogether.

Photo: D'Arcy Norman

on being a teeny-tiny bit fearful to fully commit...

2010-02-22T11:26:00.002-05:00

...hannah had this great advice for me...and while I can't post the entire email (out of respect for her/my privacy), I posted the eloquent and supportive little snippet I loved most of all...

...perhaps it's the expectation that may be getting in the way. maybe when we tell someone something about the past, we expect that "chosen" person to then be so affected that they'll be there forever, as a blanket to cover us, as love to protect and house us, so we'll belong... we're all like this... everyone's heart gets broken because that's the inevitable progress to adulthood. people break promises and sometimes they leave and disappear, but you'll always have you, and the universe, and the love in it. and sometimes that love brings people back to you as well.

p.s. This week is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week. What will you do to promote good health and acceptance of all bodies? For me, it'll be iyengar, followed by copious amounts of comfort food, a few glasses of Cab Sav, and lots of dancing (hello, cardio!)...because in my opinion, being healthy isn't always about moderation...it's about harmonizing the extremes.

in my mind, i'm a ballerina...

2010-02-18T12:01:00.008-05:00

Unless you're one of the lucky few, everyone has an alter-ego, make-believe job. Or that magical artsy career you always wanted when you grew up that never happened because you opted for a "real world" grown-up degree in Poli-Sci or Journalism over the Theater Arts one. Feel free to blame your parents for that one.

In my magical-artsy-career mind, I've always been a ballerina. And although I've never taken a class (hopefully that'll change soon), my-friend-Peter says I move like a dancer...and another friend once remarked "are you a dancer? Because you have very strong toes." ;-) At 32, I'd have to say it's a little too late for me to pirouette or plié on the New York City Ballet stage...but one can dream. And by dream, I mean play dress-up...

I came across this skirt today on the UO sale web site (damn them for those sale reminders!). How lovely for Spring! My first impulse was to go for the pink for the sake of fantasy and flair (plus, anything goes in nyc, right?). But on second thought, gray might be more practical, more down-to-earth, more suitable for real life. What say you—gray or pink?

I typically don't post pictures of naked men...

2010-02-15T10:13:00.008-05:00

...on my blog, but I'll make an exception today.

On my way home from yoga class a little bit ago, the sneakiest smile crept onto my face thanks to this 100-foot high billboard of sweat-laquered loveliness. The oiled-up gentleman is Parisian model David Agbodji—and I don't think I care or need to know anything else about him (the ad speaks volumes, doesn't it?). I'd like to thank Calvin Klein for giving ad space to the beautiful specimen that is darker-skinned gentlemen. Of course, he could very well be simply capitalizing on the fashion industry ~~gimmick~~ trend of shining the spotlight on models of color. Either way, I now feel the way men must've felt when they had the pleasure of looking up in the sky at Eva Mendez's deliciously barely-covered bits for the past year.

If you'd like to see more of David, here's a handful of pics of him in the Spring 2010 Calvin Klein campaign (fyi, includes a NSFW backside shot I really didn't need to see). Of course, if you live in NYC, get down to Houston and Lafayette for an up-close-and-personal drool-worthy ogle fest of your own.

I guess now the burning question is who was the lucky person who had the painfully tedious task of shellacking this guy (oh, and has he been shellacked everywhere?)—and where does one apply for such a job?

p.s. Happy Chinese New Year—year of the Tiger.

Photo: Vanity Flair

"I want women to look stronger"

2010-02-12T22:26:00.004-05:00

"I grew up with three older sisters, and I saw them go through a lot of shit, I always wanted to be able to protect them. They would call me up to their room and I'd help them pick out clothes for work. Just, you know, what skirt with what cardigan, but I was always trying to make them look strong and sheltered."

"I design clothes because I don't want women to look all innocent and naive, because I know what can happen to them. I want women to look stronger..."

"I've seen a woman nearly beaten to death by her husband. I know what misogyny is...I want people to be afraid of the women I dress."

—Alexander McQueen

in your nightmares...

2010-02-11T20:46:00.007-05:00

...that's where you find monsters like these. Or in a dark Tim-Burton fairytale. You've really gotta wonder what goes on inside the mind of a person who brings this theatrical goth-erotic sort of imagery to the runway...full-body leather butcher's suit...blood-splattered waistcoat...sickly, ashen faces.

When hannah emailed this slide show last Fall, I watched the entire thing right then and there. Only two weeks ago, I shared the same slideshow with two fashion-loving girls at work, and "how vampire-ish!" "so Johnny Depp" and "wow, so dark. i love it..." spilled out over email.

There will be a little less beauty (the hauntingly terrifying sort) in the world now. farewell alexander.

Photos: New York Magazine

please don't touch me with your pork bun.

2010-02-09T08:38:00.015-05:00

There's a reason I'm smiling on the subway today...and it's not because of the stellar cup of coffee with hazelnut agave (you must try it) I'm holding—it's the near-certainty of a full-fledged snow storm tonight in my wonderful city. And when it snows here, all city workers have to slip and slosh in to their lofty Manhattan offices, but not me. nope. I work in Westchester County—and when it snows here—even if it's only 5 or 6 inches, we get a snow day. So for a day, I love Yonkers, better known as the armpit of Westchester, also known as "an unimaginable fate far worse than death."

Make no mistake, it's not the warm cinammon-sugar-flavored civility of suburban life that forces resentment into my heart during my 1-hour-plus trek to work everyday—it's my 1-hour-plus trek.

Oh the horrors of my smelly, claustrophobic commute. Today I had the divine pleasure of watching a teenage boy devour a greasy, fleshy pork bun in front of me. yum. Add the wondrous olfactory sensation of stale vitamin odor, which was very likely just old piss, and we've got a winner of an F-train ride today. We don't really need to mention the man who at this very moment is leaning over my shoulder watching me write this, or the guy sitting across from me with his knees spread so far apart, he's likely to give birth to his balls at any moment.

I get emotional and my left eye twitches a bit when I speak about my commute, and people who work on 34th Street or drive up the FDR to work don't get it. Three weeks ago I burst into my apartment in a fit of tears after a 300-pound Hasidic "gentleman" sat on me. Not next to me—but literally—ON me. After a shiteous day at my 9-to-5, Schlomo mistaking me for a Lazy Boy was the icing on my catastrophic cake.

Yet and still, the things I detest most about the almighty MTA on some days become the things I love on others. Like when the train car morphs into an elbow-to-elbow jam-packed tuna can and I get to hover 4 inches away from my morning-rush goth-boy crush, picturing what he might look like sans the long face and leather arm cuffs, and umm, naked. ahhh... Where was I? Oh yes...if all goes well tomorrow...oh nevermind...just buzz me when the snowmageddon starts...

Photo: taniworld

what i love most today...

2010-02-08T10:30:00.003-05:00

...is this coffee cup sweater. Really—I cannot stop ogling it and feeling warm and snuggly about it. Damn it, I don't know how to knit, but I will learn ASAP if only to create adorable little knit wonders like this one. I MUST have one...and apparently, I can get one right here on Etsy for the low-low price of 10 to 15 bucks. (Gotta love Etsy.)

The only downside I can see (for me) to having one of these cup Snuggies, is that it might very well cause me to wolfishly absorb more than my 2 to 3 cups of coffee a day—which could result in even stranger behavior than usual—and perhaps an increase in my already high level of nervous energy. Oh well...sometimes one must sacrifice sanity for art—or in this case, arts and crafts.

Photo: Design Sponge

downward facing dog.

2010-01-31T23:31:00.010-05:00

I'll be doing a lot more of those from now on--along with some planks, trees, baby cobras, and savasanas. Today, I just closed my eyes, handed over my credit card, and joined an amazing yoga gym where all the women look like they don't need yoga. It's okay, if all goes well, I'll be there soon enough. But, it's about mental well-being, right? Riiiight. No really...I'll explain.

Several months ago, I "dumped" my therapist. I'd learned so much from her, like how to identify patterns--the negative, self-sabotaging kind. But there came a point when i felt the learnings slowing down, and that was my cue to move forward. At times, while I appreciated her insight and understanding, I really needed some instruction, someone to tell me not to jump off that bridge. Like many relationships, this one ran its course, and ended.

Several times since the "break up," I've given thought to what I'd do if I needed to resume therapy sessions again. Looking for a new therapist in New York is a daunting process--there are so damn many, and they've all written books on "loving YOU more," "winning at love," or "getting the love you want." Time was when it seemed all my friends here had therapists...now not so much. People don't have jobs, so they don't have health insurance, or maybe they're just finding other ways to cope with anxiety, addiction, loss, painful childhoods, and love woes.

It turns out my "other way" is yoga. Nothing new there really...I've always loved to practice, but after trying a week at this new-ish yoga/pilates/full-body-conditioning "ahhh come in, we love you here" studio in my neighborhood, I felt something different. Not sure if it's the lavender-scented mats, the huge multi-purpose rooms (lotsa props), or the super-human instructors, but I've felt this tangible sense of all-consuming happy energy after each class. I think they call it a "high." The type that you want to break in half and share with someone you know could use it. This must be how my-friend-Mer feels about her daily run, or another dear friend feels about ballet. Whatever it is, I feel good all over (channeling Stephanie Mills), and less inclined to run down aisle-hogging shoppers in Trader Joe's with my cart.

Another thing: During yoga, I don't think about my workday, or bills, or even what I'm going to be when I grow up. I'm in the moment...completely. And of course, trying not to focus on what the guy behind me thinks of my bum (which is also, by the way, very excited about the weeks ahead).

...this morning i woke up...

2010-01-24T12:32:00.021-05:00

...late. Missed my 11am pilates class. But it's ok...no worries. Lately on the weekends it's rare that I sleep past 8am...call it ADHD, call it too many obligations, or call it an addiction to coffee. But today, I slept in a bit and finally listened to the Patti Smith interview with Terry Gross that my-friend-Rachel recommended to me last week on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Rachel knows a lot about Patti Smith...I know very little. Only that she's a poet and her music was a huge deal during the punk revolution of the 70s and 80s, she was part of that generation of Chelsea-Hotel artists, and that she's got this easy no-makeup just-woke-up androgynous manner about her. I'd love to look like that. Give me Tilda Swinton any day over say, Angelina Jolie (though I do heart Angie).

Anyway, Patti is promoting her new book "Just Kids" dedicated to her friend, onetime lover, and soulmate Robert Mapplethorpe whom you may know for his erotic often sado-masochistic style of photography. If you listen to this interview, you can hear two things in Patti's voice: 1)She's cool-calm. If you're like me you'll want to know how you can figure out how to find her and soak in some of it. 2)She fiercely loved and believed in Robert...they fused their passions and hunger and found a purpose for art and life together. She had this to say about how she found peace after the pain of Robert's death in 1989 of complications from AIDS:

The idea that time heals all wounds is not really true. Our wounds aren't really ever healed. We just learn to walk with them. We learn that some days we're gonna feel intense pain all over again and we just have to say 'Ok, I know you. You can come along with me today.' The same way that sometimes we start laughing out in the middle of nowhere remembering something that happened with someone we've lost. You know, life is the best thing we have....and I think it's very important to not be afraid to experience joy in the middle of sorrow.

If you can carve out 46 minutes and 16 seconds to listen to the interview--do it. It'll make you feel good...and we all could use a couple more things to make us feel good, right? As for me, it's already past noon, so I'm off to hunt down coffee, donuts, lavender soap, and brown eyeliner (so much for the "easy no-makeup just-woke-up androgynous" look, eh?).

Photo taken in 1976 by Robert Mapplethorpe

...i was just passing through...

2010-01-20T22:24:00.008-05:00

...and decided to stay a while. I needed to, and yes, for good. I needed to figure out a clear purpose for being here, in this space. And it needed to be something I could sincerely commit to, at least for now :-) So after much thought, several months worth in fact, i'm giving in to my inner voice and dedicating my blog to love--the idea of it, perhaps the meaning (oh, I could write a book!), loss of it (at times, hopefully not often though), acts of love, you-name-it. Why? Because love is something I so earnestly obsess over, and know so much and so little about. It's something I can share with you--that is, if you still like me. I promise not to be boring.

Anyway, this calls for a re-design of sorts. Sorry I'm not more prepared--I just decided to sit on my bed, open my laptop, and sign-in b/c I knew that I could not go another night without writing something here.

p.s. when I signed into my account tonight, I hadn't done so since August **tsk tsk tsk**. I finally read and approved some extremely lovely and supportive comments. Thank you so much for those. Now to bed with me...xx

p.p.s. If you can't sleep, here's something silly to keep you up for a little--or maybe a lot--longer.

so, the Chinese super of my apartment building...

2009-07-27T16:35:00.020-04:00

...doesn't speak English. And that's totally fine with me since I've hardly really needed him for anything crucial other than the two times I stupidly locked myself out of my apartment. In one case, he called the landlord, who translated, and then allowed me to climb out of his bedroom window, up the fire escape, into my bedroom window. (If anyone is reading this now and thinking it's easy to climb into my bedroom window, be warned--it's now locked.) In the second case, he wasn't home.

I run into him 3 or 4 times a week, and he always greets me with a "hello," and a nod, and I do the same. Then we share 15 to 30 seconds of awkward silence. If not for the language barrier, I'd say things like "So, how's it going?" and "Love the paint job in the hallway. The gray was a lovely choice." Or even, "What's with your love of boiled cabbage? You're a nice single guy--but the smell HAS to be just a little off-putting to the ladies." And I'm sure he'd say things like "Why do you keep locking yourself out of your apartment?" and "Why does your neighbor insist on smoking in the hallway even though there are 'no smoking' signs all over the walls?" Or maybe even, "Look, you seem like a nice, respectful girl. But would you and your lover mind toning it down at 3 in the morning? It sounds like you're gonna fall through my ceiling and I really need to get some rest."

But alas, those conversations will never happen. OR WILL THEY? Well, I have a mustard seed of hope.

On Saturday, I ran into him as I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, and he paused, as if calculating something life-altering in his head. And then, like a child with a slight--almost undetectable--speech impediment, but with remarkable eye contact--he blurts out "Hi. How are you?" I responded in my usual sweet manner, "I'm well, thank you." I didn't realize until I stuck the key in my front door that the super and I had just had a conversation. Yes, "Hi. How are you?" is a casual phrase that people pass around so frivolously that it's rather meaningless in most cases. And he could very well have had the ability to say it all along, and maybe felt that I hadn't yet--until now--earned the right to the "how are you" portion of his day-to-day greeting. I say all this to say, it was more verbal communication than I'd had with him in the whole year and change I've lived there--and a sign of respect, I suppose.

Anyway, it gave me great pleasure, so I figured I'd share. When I see him again, I'm going to stop him and say "lei ho ma?"--the Catonese version, of course. Let's hope he doesn't speak Mandarin...or get offended...or think i'm trying to flirt with him. Uh oh, I think, I mean...I hope, I mean I'm almost certain I locked my bedroom window...

a little reggae music...

2009-07-19T19:45:00.009-04:00

makes for a lovely end to a steamy July weekend. this post is meant to honor reggae and dub legend Lee "Scratch" Perry. I prefer to avoid the overused phrase "the one and only" yet in Lee's case, the shoe fits. Anyway, this was my first time seeing him live (what a show!), and likely the only time in either of our lifetimes. He's 73...still horny (he has a song that uses the "P" word about 35 times *blushes*) and shamelessly eccentric--think bedazzled baseball cap, layers and layers of gold chains and rings, and a fuschia beard. Love it.

a lil bit o' good news.

2009-07-17T11:27:00.005-04:00

I'm not Irish...but today I'm lucky. My company just voted to NOT do lay-offs. Just as I'd figured out how to make the most of being dirt poor in NYC while struggling to pay rent on an overpriced, tiny (err--cozy) apartment--I can now resolve to continue making the most of living as usual--and perhaps saving for what may come down the road.

In honor of no lay-offs, I'm grabbing a couple of my dearest girlfriends for an all-night dance-(and flirt)-a-thon.

Have a lovely weekend all!

p.s. And Nichole...if you're listening "CONGRATS" to you.

last night i dreamed...

2009-07-13T15:39:00.005-04:00

...the wars ended
and strangers danced in the street
waving flags from trees

I made a feast to celebrate
but you never showed.

even in the best of times,
i have learned, though slowly
you are not there
and i do things i typically would not
like make a feast

now i have learned, to not do the things
i typically would not--to begin with

snow in july.

2009-07-08T13:46:00.004-04:00

hello, global warming. If this isn't a sure sign that the climate is in distress, I don't know what is. Take a look at pics from my office's parking lot after last night's hail storm. Shocking, right? In case the photos don't give you a clear visual, those hail stones are the size of marbles. ouch! Of course, the whimsy-seeking kid in me thinks it's pretty darn cool to have a little ice on an 80-degree summer day :-)

waiting is hell.

2009-07-06T11:45:00.008-04:00

when you're waiting for the lay-off list to land under your office door, you begin to consider how great life would be without the obligation and stress of a nine-to-five, and how dismal life would be without that stuff that makes the world go 'round. and how temporary everything is...jobs, income, layoffs, office doors, stuff (maybe even stress--if i so choose).

p.s. i whole has passed. yes, i'm a bad blogger. i know. i don't deserve the title "blogger." don't hate me (if you're at all even reading this).

at first glance, one might think...

2009-06-10T14:18:00.010-04:00

...this hardly qualifies as art. but, everything on this earth deserves a second look--except for the toothy little man that yelled "hey sweetie" at me repeatedly from his truck as I was leaving my apartment this morning (though, at least i got an 8am giggle out of it).

art is "the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance." And might I add, if you can't stop staring at it, it's art. but who cares what I think. I love this piece here by Michael Bilsborough. His first NY solo exhibition opened last month. I'm moved to scribble my own psychosomatic maze.

from The Only Way Out is Through (if I had an exhibition, I think I'd name it this).

i wrote this on march 30.

2009-06-08T16:48:00.003-04:00

and i found it in my "drafts" today.

i miss the bf sometimes. everyday. he's completely moved forward and let go, and right there in 2nd place, i've tried to do the same. but i miss the old us. the happy us...and isn't that what they all say...they "miss the good times"? but wouldn't it be a blessing to have someone to get through the bad times with as well?

I've still got his shower scrubby under my sink, and he might have my bath scrubby still in a bag in his hall closet. who knows. when we broke up, he gathered all my stuff, dropped it into a plastic bag, and put it in his closet. It seemed very cold. Though, I thought to myself, "why not just throw it away?" i still have all of his emails...over 200 of them. i don't know whether to delete them or not...seems cruel to keep them, and cruel to delete them. months ago when i asked him if he'd kept the emails, he said "yes"...and that he'd keep them, though he probably would not read them. I wonder...

6 am

2009-06-02T11:15:00.005-04:00

dawn's light jumpstarts the day,
kicking the night frost from his branches
"go away darkness. go away cold"

the deafening silence becomes
the song of robins
the stillness--
the dance of winds
the flutter and the tempest

yes, you are ready, my love

as the first elm bloom undresses
the laying grass shakes itself to life
the air has a virgin's odor
new. warm. lucky.

for 100 days ahead
we are Spring.

Image: sudhamshu

calgon, take me away.

2009-05-28T17:59:00.005-04:00

that phrase never gets old. There are days I really wish I could say "take this job and shove it," another cliched, but never-gets-old phrase. Today is one of those days. I love my job, and I'm lucky to have a gig that I like, pays me decently, gives me health benefits, and even sometimes fulfills me creatively (I know, I know). But more and more lately, and partly due to the economic crisis, I've considered whether I'm cut out for many more years of nine-to-fiving-it.

Freelancers always seem so relaxed, don't they. And they work from far-off places--like the hammock in their back yard--or some warm, sunny vacation spot. I'm not saying that's the road I'm taking anytime soon--because lord knows the market is too unpredictable right now. I guess, I'm just sayin'. Just venting.

And on top of the stacks of paper on my desk, and the to-do list that covers pages of my notebook and hardly has any cross-outs, there's the looming sadness that my writing is having to take a back seat. And it hurts. a lot. I wrote short prose-y things (I think you call them poems) last weekend. It fulfilled me more than several months of working my ass off and bringing home a decent paycheck. go figure.

this woman's work...

2009-05-27T13:50:00.011-04:00

...hangs in one of my most beloved coffee shops in nyc (Hi Wendy!). Her mixed-media paintings have hung on the shop's brick walls for a little over a month (and I pray they stick around). Every morning, when I walk in to grab my coffee, a quiet inner voice says "You need one of her paintings in your apartment." But-I'm-afraid-to-spend-money-because-of-the-looming-possibility-of-layoffs-at-my-company, I say. "Oh fuck it," says the voice, a bit louder now.

I like this one here--the photo doesn't really show you how multi-layered her work is. If you could see this one up close, you'd see thin slices of paper with chinese writing...perhaps from menus, and other scraps of paper fitted neatly into a kaleidoscope of intentional blotches, drips, and lines. And this painting, i'm thinking, is of a man, not a woman. A lovely man raised by two lovely women. Take note, California.

Art by Loren Abbate

a friend told me some depressing news yesterday...

2009-05-25T10:51:00.000-04:00

..."When you see the man you're gonna marry, you'll know it immediatlely. It will make you sick. You'll have absolutely no control over it." That made me feel dreadfully awful because:

1) I don't want to be made sick by love.
2) I fear giving up control of anything in my life.
3) It hasn't happened yet: the sickness. So does that mean i have not loved?
4) I truly believe I loved two men in my life, and her statement has me doubting that. I was made sick when we broke up, though not when we met/were together.

When I posed question #3 to her...she said, "That's right. You have not loved." I don't want to believe her theory, but she is amongst the happily married, so what do I know, you know? When I said to her "Well, I get what you're saying, but I'm not so sure I even want to get married," A little light glimmered in her eye (seriously) and she said, "Well, then dating around is what's working for you right now." And then I couldn't tell if she was insulting me or belittling me, or if I was just taking everything a little too personal b/c she's happily married with two beautiful kids and a beautiful husband, and I am not. So I said "OK" (rather pathetically) and walked away, thought about it all, felt crazy, obsessed on it, and decided to commit my obsessing to words here. I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you have any.

it's been a month...

2009-05-18T14:24:00.003-04:00

...and I can no longer get by with the "my computer's dead" excuse. I'll just say, "Life has taken over" and there's been a lot of it. So much to say, so little time. Work has taken over as well--and it's kicking my butt.

Okay, enough rambling. This post was just to say "hello" "I've missed you," and I'll be back really soon, and more consistently, with peeps and winks from my life. Ooh, and there's love stuff, too! Hope I still remember how to blog...xo!

okay, baby is dead.

2009-04-17T16:51:00.002-04:00

i cannot post enough sad faces here to describe my utter distress over the news that my lovely laptop has a dead hard drive. All the pictures. All the music. All the porn (he hee hee). All my writings and scribblings (thank god I write everything in notebooks). And no, I did not 'back up.' I feel like Carrie in that episode where her computer flashes a sad face and shuts down and everyone keeps asking "did you back your files up?" Except instead of a sad face, I got the Question Mark of Death.

p.s. Enjoy the weekend! Since I won't be trapped inside typing away on my laptop, I think I'll spend the weekend outdoors. Allegra--check! Patenol--check! Neti Pot--check!

baby's sick. again.

2009-04-13T09:58:00.002-04:00

my lovely beautiful laptop is experiencing technical (or perhaps emotional) difficulties at the moment. no, that's not the main reason i haven't been blogging, but it's my story for now, and i'm sticking to it.

back soon. xo!
Chubbs

"40 plus and single?"

2009-04-04T13:15:00.013-04:00

this was the subject line of an email that sneakily squirmed it's way past my spam filter today (gotta get that thing fixed). c'mon! times are not that hard that i have to be tagged "single" and 9 years older, are they? wait--i'll answer that. NO, THEY ARE NOT.

or perhaps the gods of dating are suggesting that i'm meant to take a lover in his or her 40s. how clairvoyant of them! but wait, i guess if they're gods--they'd have no use for psychic powers. anyway, don't know where i'm going with this, so I'll end here by saying, i have neither the need or want for the matchmaker emails. In fact, I made a match all by myself just half an hour ago with a chubby little black pug, with one good eye and a hankering for my ham sammich in a charming little hair salon on Broome--where jacqueline gave me a lover-ly bang trim (see below). He crawled onto my lap, enduringly planted himself there--and I fell madly in love with him. Oh, and then he fell asleep.

last night...

2009-03-30T06:35:00.001-04:00

...i dreamed of writing a book of short stories.

don't move.

2009-03-29T22:28:00.001-04:00

*sigh*
what?
it's just a lot.
what?
i dunno.
there's a lot you don't know.
i don't want to know yet.
do you want to tell me?
no, not yet.

you're smarter than i am.
am not.
but you know what i'm thinking
i don't.
but you read my mind.
no. okay--yes i do.
i'll stop.
i'll stop thinking now. i will
okay?
okay.

let's not think today.
today we will not think.
let's just lie here.
look at me. and lie here.
and be simple.
we are simple.
yes, we are.
simple is nice.
yes. it is.

this will not be cool to you.

2009-03-23T22:55:00.009-04:00

but come with me anyway.

at the bookstore on bedford, the one with about a dozen shelves of the best books by the best authors--Wilde, Butler, Atwood, Boyle. You name it, it's there, or they can order it for you. "One week. That's all." So, I'm eyeing the social activism section, without knowing i'm eyeing the social activism section. Pick up the Eldridge Cleaver biography, and it hits me "Is this the social activism section?!" Wasn't he a traitor? I recall someone telling me that. But what do I know about social activism and being a traitor? "I should read this book." I could learn something about being a black radical in the 60s.

Anyway, I slide the book back into its slot, trading it for the last literary masterpiece by some French guy. Not Voltaire--i think Descartes. I skim the back copy--it says something about him being the "world's greatest philosopher." I dunno, this wall is a bit too heavy for a Monday evening. Where's fiction? Didn't I come here to look for a cheap copy of "The Road"? I pivot--a little too fast--bolting away from the social activists, and at my 180 is this guy. We lock eyes (really, we do) long enough for me to deduce that he is not in fact someone I "know from somewhere" like college, or my commute to work, or my neighborhood coffee shop or bar. but I do kinda know him from somewhere--like somewhere on a stage performing in front of thousands, and not standing less than a foot away from me in a Williamsburg bookstore waiting for me to scoot out of his way so that he can eye the social activism section!

He's my height. Lovely eyes beyond round specs. Cool afro and beard--perfectly messed up. He reminds me of a little brown bear--the friendly kind that share honey with you instead of biting off your arms and legs. I don't do anything brave like ask for concert tickets or say "hi-omigosh-it's-you." But before leaving empty-handed, I take an extra long time perusing the shelves, pausing to sneak peaks at him (hoping he hasn't noticed), and speculating on what book he ended up with. Soul on Ice?

photo: stereogum

natasha.

2009-03-19T12:34:00.005-04:00

r.i.p.

from Asylum

i promise to be more pleasant.

2009-03-18T14:15:00.007-04:00

i do, and i really have sweet, sappy things to say (though, i've just been busy busy). But I haven't been able to wipe this news from my brain...and how awfully grim it is. You hear the stories, you read the news headlines about the "epidemic" in DC, but seeing it here in this shocking visual gives it a entirely different, dare i say--horrifying--dimension. My jaw dropped when I saw this. My city *sigh*

p.s. and let's add another layer, shall we? DC is not a state :-(

soft spaces.

2009-03-08T21:04:00.002-04:00

Our gray house has thin walls.
It smells old.
Firewood and ash.

He smells of firewood and ash.
Long black hair hides his eyes.
He is a nose and a beard.

You take him into your bedroom.
Our bedroom.
Mumbles. Squeaks. Cries. Sighs.
Your bed.
Our bed.

You scream
Are you crying now?
Are you sad now?
I hear you call him 'vile.'
What does 'vile' mean?
A liar!
I know what a liar is.

He stumbles out. Buckles his belt.
Nods at me. Wipes his brow.
No eyes.

He shuffles down our staircase.
Feet heavy.
Out of our house.
"Get out of our house!"
The screen door slams.

"Can I sleep with you now?"
You nod at me. Wipe your brow.
Brown eyes.

I squeeze my face into the soft spaces on you.
My nose into the place where your heart thumps.
Breathing in and out.
Taking in the fragrance of
sweat, him, and drugstore perfume.

i know that i complain often...

2009-03-02T18:58:00.006-05:00

...about having to trek all the way out to the sticks to get to my job. Most days i waver between reminiscing on the easy non-commute of my old job in Midtown, and just plain ol' fantasizing about not having a job at all...though I've never had the luxury of the latter (and if I did, I'd likely not think it as grand as it seems). Yet, when it snows, what does one who trekketh out to the sticks to get to work get? A SNOW DAY!

Last night i said to my friend Harry, "I reaaaally hope it snows all night so i can have a snow day."
Says Harry: "Snow day? You don't get snow days. It's New York!!"
Says me: "Yes you do, if you work in [the sticks]."
And sure enough, I woke up to several inches of pillowy white goodness and a message on the company voice mail saying "Due to inclement weather, the office will be closed today." Oh, the utter joy of a Monday off...

To properly celebrate, Hannah and i packed up some grilled cheese sandwiches and strawberries, and took a stroll through Central Park. It amazes me how the snow muffles sound and makes the city feel slower and less frenzied. Two friends sat on a swing in Central Park, gliding and giggling like children, and watched the real children sled and giggle down a hill. Who says there's no such thing as perfect? Well, it was at least until my fingers and toes began to freeze b/c of the 20-degree temps...ouch...oh well...sledding...snow pose...swinging...i didn't see the set of steps on the side of this hill, until after i'd climbed up (and fallen down...TWICE)oh, and then i met a boy...

faithful.

2009-02-27T12:31:00.003-05:00

painting by Chris McGraw

this makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

2009-02-27T00:54:00.005-05:00

not that i need help in that department :-) but, no, seriously, this is my most favorite commercial. watch it. i promise you'll feel warm and fuzzy afterward. unless you don't want to. but that would be a shame, so just watch it anyway.

tell me how...

2009-02-19T22:50:00.009-05:00

...to feel nothing.

There is a song I love this week.
You would love it too.
But you won't.

There is a store on Orchard.
You bought something there once.
It's closing.

There is my wooden chest.
I want it back.
I want to reupholster it.
I don't know how.

There is this ache in my stomach.
remember? what do you remember?
tell me how much.

are you laboring to forget,
the way that I am?
is it working?
tell me how.

do you cry silently in the blue night,
like i do?
do you hide your eyes, like me?
or are you fine?
tell me how.

p.s. she's a ghost

where is my automobile?

2009-02-18T12:15:00.005-05:00

happy birthday john hughes. and thank you. the world would be a much sadder place for unpopular, acned, rejected, sweaty-palmed, geeky, fat, skinny, big-haired, flat-chested, gangly, acid-washed, metal-mouthed teenage boys and girls without you. (and thank you most of all for jake ryan.) xo.

thirty-one.

2009-02-16T20:31:00.011-05:00

i had no real plans to celebrate..."I just wanna do something low key." well, it was anything but...*smiles* (thanks hans)

♥ din-din at Sticky Rice (I must have that giant blue chandelier!!)

♥ beers under the red lights of motor city (no, no doorguy yet. my long-lost brother, apparently, was there)

♥ delicious orange-flavored shots and Jimmy James at the magician (tom, what did u put in those shots???),

♥ impromptu lychee martinis, bourbon & ginger ales, and chit-chat at verlaine (stan, thanks for fixing my rosary)

♥ more beers at motor city. (uh oh)

♥ braided the doorguy's beard TWICE--added a little lip gloss and spit to help the braids stay put

♥ chatted with iraqi heavy metal band. told one I was a man. he believed me. asshole.

♥ chatted with New School students. lied about their ages (they're sooo much younger than we are). one is the spitting image of Carey Elwes.

♥ doorman wrestled a douchebag to the floor, and said douchebag was thrown out. trash talking ensued.

♥ tried to get a 20-year-old girl into bars, in vain. ahh youth.

♥ went to Iggys with New Schoolers. (i really want to break their camera)

♥ "[doorman], are you okay?"

♥ hannah won the scavenger hunt (damn you): a cigarette, a cough drop, change for a dollar. but i got the piece of gum.

♥ we didn't see a bulldog we could obnoxiously mistake for a collie nor a guy with a sports cap we could yell "go team" to...but we had a wonderful night!! (let's not even ruin it with talk of the hangover)

here are some silly pre- and post-birthday mac-pics.

it's been ages since...

2009-02-15T09:38:00.011-05:00

...I've had a Gawker-worthy celeb siting. Last night, it was Mischa Barton, low and behold, at one of my LES brunch haunts. I noticed her because my date Liz kept ogling her feather skirt. Liz gave it the thumbs down--I gave it a thumbs-up, but did little birdies have to die to make it? :-( Liz and I had a loverly date, munching on beet and chicken salads, swooning over our hotter-than-Jude-Law waiter, swaying in the warm tawny light to what had to be a handpicked-by-me 80s mix. Liz giggled and said, "They've got your number." When "Africa" started playing, our jaws dropped and we sang along--not knowing or understanding the words. Here's the video--my first time seeing it, and not what I expected, though, in that predictable-8-member-80s-band-with-big-hair sort of way, maybe it is. There--I just referenced Mischa Barton, feather skirts, and the band Toto in one blog post. I just made your day, didn't I?

i never celebrate valentine's day...

2009-02-14T12:10:00.005-05:00

...but i am an avid of love. Does that count?

In high school, it seemed every girl got roses and candy and bears (oh my) for Valentine's Day--and I got squat. So, I figured if I denounced Valentine's day, I'd be much less hurt about being slighted every year. That didn't work out as I'd planned. In college, I still felt the sting of rejection when I spied a girl dashing up to her bedroom with a batch of balloons, and a grin dripping with self-satisfaction that said "He loves me THIS much." And oh, let's not talk about the date stories, "He took you where?" "No way!" "Girrrrl, you're so lucky. He must really love you!"

Several years later, a sweetheart of a boyfriend gave me 9 dozen roses...yes, that's 9 multiplied by 12 equals 108 roses! holy moly! So, in his own way, he'd made up for all those high-school and college years of me getting nothing but tears and self-pity for Valentine's Day. But I wasn't as thrilled as I thought I'd be. I wasn't filled up with that "He must really love me" feeling. In fact, it didn't feel like love at all. It felt contrived, showy, boastful even--and much too easy. I pompously thought "now we're just like all the other couples who garishly feign their endless love for one day a year." I never told him that. It would have hurt him. Besides, his heart was in the right place, and it wasn't his fault he'd chosen to give roses to a complicated, over-thinking, wishy-washy woman. Instead I hugged him ever so tightly, and said "This is enough roses for a lifetime! *smile*"--and I meant it. After that day, I asked him to never buy me roses again--because I didn't need 108 roses to know he loved me. And besides, we didn't have 9 vases in our miniature basement apartment.

I asked a friend yesterday what she and her husband were doing for V-day. She said, "Well, nothing really...Feb. 13th is the day he proposed, so we don't really do anything for the 14th. Besides, if he'd proposed to me on the 14th...ugh...I doubt I'd have married him." There you have it, from one complicated woman to another.

And so it goes, I don't need one day of the year to know I am loved...tell me everyday, or tell me once every month or even once every six months...or really--just tell me when you feel it...don't squeeze it into February 14th. But, heck--bring on the dark chocolate!! These are my favorites :-) I'm in lurrve with the orange peel.

up close.

2009-02-08T19:51:00.002-05:00

"Things that upon first, up close viewing seem completely abstract, full of seemingly random designs, but after stepping back from come into focus and make sense as one cohesive picture." --Alex Brown Near North Side, 2008, from Alex Brown's "Fodderland".

p.s. if you're in NY, or if Alex's exhibit comes to your city, i highly suggest seeing it. very alluring, cool stuff. sometimes i walk out of a gallery, and think, "I could have done that!" Well, most times I think that. But not this guy's work...I could never in a million years create anything like what he's done. And that's what you want to feel after you take time out of your Sunday to look at a bunch of paintings, isn't it?

happy birthday bob.

2009-02-06T07:02:00.004-05:00

you would have been 64 today. i wonder if you know how much your music is revered, covered badly, and exhausted by an anxious college boy to woe a softhearted college girl--who grew up listening to bob songs on her sony cassette player.

the blackest eye.

2009-02-05T00:01:00.002-05:00

Black eyeliner is the one (make-up) item i'd want to have with me, say, on a deserted island. "But why would you need eyeliner on a deserted island?" you ask. Well, my dear, it's not about need, now is it? That black eyeliner can double as a make-shift inkpen, for which to write on a makeshift sign made of tree bark--HELP. SOS. SAVE ME...and wave in the air when a plane or ship glides by, thus, saving your life. So, the thing you wanted, became the thing you needed. Stop me now...lol.This is perhaps the blackest eye liner...and it doesn't smear. go out and get it. Urban Decay 24/7 (shade: Zero).

to you.

2009-02-04T17:16:00.006-05:00

today is my ex-boyfriend's birthday. (and i love him still.) he's a jolly good fellow...no matter how much he denies it. so happy birthday to him. photo by Henry Diltz, possibly taken in 1968--pre-fame Pryor

you're a dick.

2009-01-31T21:10:00.007-05:00

what i should have said to an ex lover i nearly walked into on houston this weekend. so odd. but instead, i said "heyyyyy." awkward, isn't it? running into someone you once slept with? his eyes said i was the last person he expected or wanted to see. lucky for him, i wasn't his girlfriend catching him in the act of messing around on her. and that he was. i can hear the story he must've told her. "I'm going to new york this weekend to watch the superbowl with my boys." it's not right.

and something else...likely the most important piece of this: a sigh of relief. i am relieved. relieved to have him fully, absolutely out of my life. a tinge of guilt. "i'll text him and say 'it was good running into you'." but it wasn't good. and what's the point? i didn't text, nor did he. so...nothing. nothing but perhaps a reminder that the heart heals when it's ready to. what was once so much--a reason to come back. a reason to try again. a reason to reconsider. a reason to cut him a break. a reason to forgive the other women. a reason to give him space. a reason to let go. a reason to get on with life--is now nothing. but just maybe that IS something.Balloon Girl, Banksy

p.s. happy chinese new year! though today's parade prevented me from crossing the street to get to my apartment, all is forgiven. the dragons were lovely. and the baby with the ox-horn headband...you know who you are--simple adorable.

hurt. heal.

2009-01-27T22:32:00.017-05:00

i'm supposed to write a letter to you. you will not read it. it would hurt you. or not.

you will never know the sweetness, nor the misery, and that i missed you for so long, and how, one day, i stopped.

you will never ever find out what happened when i was 6. and you will never know how I blame you for every. single. bad. thing that happened thereafter.

and how i have hated you and hated loving you.

you will never know how many times i have lied...over and over and over and over and over...about you. i kept your secret.

you will never know how i labor with the words...you will never read.photo from A Relationship Left for Dead on the Lower East Side--on view through Feb. 21. This and other works chronicle a gay couple's relationship over a number of years through photos from their picture album--the album was found, abandoned on a street in the LES.

recession-proof me.

2009-01-25T22:14:00.016-05:00

many of us are feeling the bite of the recession in one way or another. for a girl who likes to indulge in the somewhat-finer things, it's been super tough to cut back on my weekend shopping sprees. but all is not lost. for one, i love vintage and re-sale shopping--and a great deal of my wardrobe, and all of my boots are either thrift or ebay purchases. it feels less like shopping, and more like recycling--thus, lessening the guilt factor, boosting the green factor, and, keeping more of the other kinda green in my wallet.

it's said that during these tough times, buying yourself something small, like new makeup, keeps a lady happy. it's called the 'lipstick effect.'

so, today when alesia and I bounced over to soho, I had to put on my horse-sized blinders--in sephora, where all the magically delicious face and body-care products call to me, that's a colossal effort. i'm a moisturizing ADDICT! i want this and i want that...and by this i mean the urban decay concealor, and that: the korres fig shower gel and body butter. but i stopped myself from splurging--I know, no fun. instead, i bought something i needed. a new hat...a true necessity in this cold-wave we're experiencing in the north east. I convinced a hat man on orchard to sell me this 25-dollar, hand-knitted beauty for 15 bucks. Baby soft and warm--this little hat feels like something my grandma might've knitted, had she been a knitter.

We ended a day of mostly browsing and gawking with 6-dollar cuban ham-n-cheese sandwiches, and 2-dollar yeast donuts from Donut Plant. yum! Indeed, an ab-fab, recession-proof way to spend a Sunday afternoon! p.s. I Googled "how to knit" and apparently it's self-teachable. hmmm, a new recession-proof hobby?

finished. done.

2009-01-21T22:35:00.000-05:00

i finished my steve martin book on the subway today. I didn't want to finish. When I reached the last 10 pages, I slowed down, put the book away for 3 days--I wanted to hold on. The last word meant the end, and I wasn't ready. But today, I did it. I ended it. I let something sublime out of my life. I have the memories though, and I'll tell stories about it--but it's done. Perhaps I'll re-read it. Not many people immediately re-read a book they've just finished, do they? They return it to the shelf...read another book...forget about it...miss it...and one day it calls out to them and they pick it up again. but that could take years, if at all.

I'm rambling and leading you into some other piece of my life...and I'd rather not. Instead, I'll share with you one of my favorite bits from Steve's book, The Pleasure of My Company (thanks again, angda.)

The day after the letter was Easter Sunday. It reminded
me that as an adolescent I was primped and combed and
then incarcerated in a wool suit that had the texture of
burrs. I was then dragged to church, where I had to sit
for several hours on a cushionless maple pew in the
suffocating Texas heat. These experiences drained me
of the concept of Jesus as benevolent.

p.s. jay leno just said the funniest thing. "Barack Obama's first order of business will be to pardon Aretha Franklin's hat." ha.

feeling good.

2009-01-19T21:01:00.004-05:00

i think i'm more of an exhibitionist than a narcissist. i'm not self-obsessed, but i do enjoy attention. so i'm embracing it. i felt kinda lovely this weekend. not sure why...call it mojo, or a new president, or call it finishing a 20-page essay, though it's much too long, so now i'm in the editing phase. And i started a new essay. yes, if you could see me you'd see a woman patting herself on the back.

my hair is getting long and unruly, and i need to figure out if i'm gonna get a trim or go long and scraggly. kind likin' scraggly, though several times this weekend, while eating, i got a mouthful of my hair. and during a few cigarette breaks, almost lit my hair on fire. seeee...cigarettes are dangerous kids. today i celebrated the holiday the way MLK intended, spreading peace, loving my fellow man (and woman), and letting freedom ring. And I did something I rarely take the time to do--I took a quiet walk in Riverside Park--and showed a little appreciation for the beautiful snow-capped trees.

p.s. i've only recently "discovered" alice smith. i'm late i'm sure, i tend to "discover" most musicians late. anyway, i love her a lot right now. what a voice. and she's sorta beautiful, isn't she?

so this is for my lovely.

2009-01-16T11:41:00.003-05:00

hannah posted this in my comments section, and I thought it deserved to be front-and-center. it's beautiful and sad, and written by Frank O'Hara.

I've only recently (like a month ago) started to gradually warm up a bit to poetry--thanks to another talented friend who's shown me that poetry isn't all lofty rhyme, finger-snapping, and exaggerated (bordering on pompous) voice inflections. Poetry can be simple--just letters that impart feelings and other things with or without an orator, in other words, a story. Like, I could write a dedication to this most-perfect tea I'm drinking right now (but I won't), and if it were a good enough poem, you'd be able to taste it just from the words on the screen. I'm rambling...anyway, here's the poem by Mr. O'Hara...titled "Poem (To Franz Kline)".

I will always love you
though I have never loved you

a boy smelling faintly of leather
looking up at your window

the passion that enlightens
and stills and cultivates, gone

while I sought your face
to be familiar in the blueness

or to follow your sharp whistle
around a corner into my light

That was love growing fainter
each time you failed to appear

I spent my whole life searching
love, which I thought was you

it was mine so very briefly
and I never knew it, or you went

I thought it was outside disappearing
but it is disappearing in my heart

like snow blown in a window
to be gone from the world

I will always love you.

p.s. it makes me sad that Mr. O'hara died in car crash on fire island--such a beautiful place. i didn't know you could drive cars on fire island.

p.p.s. this photo is incredible...(close-up of yesterday's crash-landing).

i'm going to bore you now.

2009-01-15T10:51:00.004-05:00

I finished my two intro writing classes tonight--and I've come away with several insights:

1) I'm a better writer than I thought. yay. And being surrounded by other good writers only heightens my lust for authoring something great and lovable.

2) I'm a slow writer. I'm okay with that. Slowness can be a strength, said the tortoise.

3) I need to be more aggressive and really PUSH myself. The vision is there--but I hold back. Must be less lazy and more confident!

4) Knowing the plot is the easy part--character development is where it gets complicated. Making readers like your protagonist--and pull for him/her is a toughie.

5) NYC is full of lonely, batty people--and some of them take writing classes solely for human contact. On the elevator ride up to Creative Writing, some guy spilled his purpose for taking a Non-Fiction class all over me. He's writing a self-help book, and this was his 2nd non-fiction writing class b/c he was trying to decide which instructor he prefered, blah blah blah, and he's taking Non-fiction because it's hard to fit self-help into one particular writing genre. hmmm. All that from floors 1 to 4, and I can't say I really cared to know any of it. But, I'm polite (or naive, as my friend Peter would say), so I said "Oh. Ahh ha. Well, good luck." And I meant it.

6) If you can help it, do not sign up for a writing class where the instructor talks more about herself and her "commitment-phobic boyfriend" than the actual writing process. While her life might be an interesting one--I don't want to pay $425 to hear about it--I could pay $13.95 and just read her memoir.

p.s. Noooooooooooooooooo!

p.p.s. i just re-read this post, and it's really self-centered. forgive me...

r.i.p. mr. roarke.

2009-01-15T10:42:00.006-05:00

And may your legacy live on through netflix. At age 5, I was hooked on Fantasy Island—it terrified me and gave me nightmares--I blame Hervé Villechaize--yet, you couldn't pry me away from the television. The show was right up there with the The Love Boat and Romper Room. wow. he was a dreamboat...look at those eyes **swoon**
I haven't seen this movie (yet), but don't you just love the getthefuckouttahere side-eye he's giving this damsel?

vanity is good for your health.

2009-01-14T23:01:00.008-05:00

The only reason I haven't smoked a cigarette in two days is b/c I don't want my hair to smell like an ashtray. It took 2 hours to flat iron, and I'm not throwing that away for 4 minutes of nicotine-laced joy.

And then, there's this buzz about third-hand smoke. The message here: Don't smoke when your kids are around you...duh. Oh, and don't smoke in your house or car if you have kids, and don't let your kids sniff your hair after you've finished smoking.

the world is afraid of eccentrics.

2009-01-12T12:35:00.009-05:00

or at least, Hollywood is. What's wrong with having fun, and being a bit OFF, or wearing a tacky, over-the-top shiny suit--even if it means landing on the worst-dressed list, in the case of Mickey here?!

I really appreciate Mickey--he was my favorite celeb of the night--funky suit, sequins, blonde highlights, (botox), wallet chain and all. He'd be my pick to hang out with at the after-party. Can you imagine the stories (and the drugs--but oh, lets not go there)? Perfect bores the hell out of me.

p.s. The Wrestler is on this week's must-do list.

Photo: Yahoo.com.

a dozen or so things...

2009-01-11T10:07:00.018-05:00

...that make for a perfect saturday night.

1) A lovely, crazy girl named "granpa."
2) sephora.
3) blackest eye liner.
4) American Apparel.
5) figure skater dress (oh no!)
6) You've got a bruise on your back. No, it's cupping. Oh.
7) vintage boots.
8) joie de vivre. joie de vivre.
9) snow. snow. snow.
10) quesadillas and caesar salad. water with lemon please.
11) a dog in shoes. poor thing!
12) herbal medicine...................American Dad reruns. 12oz bag of popcorn. LOL. California Dreaming. Tiny Dancer. Last Christmas. Caribbean Queen. Smooze. Love Will Never Do Without You. LMAO. Susan Miller. Ben & Jerry's. Who draws the ice-cream art for Ben & Jerry's? A ride on the 1-train. Making faces at dogs. Now the D-train. Making faces at beautiful guy (his bike was in my way. what?! it was! *giggle*). Home. I Be Troubled. Baby Please Don't Go. Mannish Boy. Going Down Slow. Zzzzzzz.

night and day.

2009-01-10T10:26:00.021-05:00

last night, i went out with meredith to do some post-work, pre-dinner consignment shopping. As we were digging through the racks of the very tiny, but surprisingly great Tokyo Joe, trying on pre-loved dresses and sweaters, this song came on and i froze in my tracks, my hands gripping a near-perfect Rhuel wrap sweater. Meredith tilts her pretty head and looks at me with "mom" concern-- "What?" And now i've lost all control.

I have this little arrangement with myself when it comes to PDA (public displays of angst): If I feel I'm going to cry, but no one notices, I can slurp back my tears so that my eyes are just glassy for a sec, but no roll-down-my-face tears actually materialize. Yet once someone's notices the tearlings, and questions them...that's it--waterworks! So, when Meredith asks "What?", I do the face-fanning motion, but the tears well up and I tell her, "It's this song! Man...this song reminds me of [a boy I love]." More tears. Bigger tears. "And I've never heard it played by anyone else." Until now.

I suppose we all have one of these songs--or 2 or 3--that reminds us of a certain someone, don't we? And you either laugh or cry--or if you're like me, you do one right after the other.

If you have a moment (really only 3 minutes and 3 seconds), and you'd like to hear something deeply pleasant and near-and-dear to the girl who writes this blog, this is Billie's version of "Night and Day." Written by genius Cole Porter in 1932, it's been recorded many times by many folks (Ella, Sammy, Frank), and it goes like this:

Night and daaaay
You arrrre the one
Only you beneath the moonnn
or unnnder the sun

Ohhh, here come the tears again...

i gather...

2009-01-08T16:31:00.010-05:00

...wee, fiery bursts of bliss from other bloggers. Today, this lovely-shoed lady's entry was said-burst. Her mention of Paris makes me feel both amorous and more-than-a-little regretful that I didn't do study abroad in undergrad. I couldn't afford to travel across the mason-dixon back then, much less the atlantic. but now...

The sculptures by Petah Coyne of which she speaks (hope she doesn't mind that I stole one of the pics...I needed to give you a visual) are freakishly alluring taxidermal bouquets of living and lifeless. When i die, I want to be buried within a sculpture like this one (sans the feathered, Hitchcockian effects), topped with red roses, bits of black and cream lace, old Chapstick caps, merino wool yarn in all shades of light blue, dozens of dried Fall leaves, six locks of my own hair (clipped close to the root), and a pack of Capri Ultra Lights sprinkled throughout (for de-stressing in the afterlife).

p.s. it feels good to be back.

hi. hello. again.

2009-01-06T22:55:00.008-05:00

last night, i panicked. "wait, i thought it was wednesday night!?" my first thought upon reading the reminder email about my "Tuesday night" volunteer project.

When my alarm clock sounded today, i knew--even before i shook my lazy bones out of bed, that i wasn't ready. 6:30 am and a self-doubt ticker already circling my head. "What do I even wear to mentor kids? And who are these kids? They're not gonna like me. Are they teenagers? Oh no, please please don't let them be teenagers." I'm terrified of teenagers.

I'll wear all black. At least, that way, if they are teenagers, they won't tease me for being too eccentric or too plain, or for trying too hard or not trying hard enough. And perhaps I'll just blend in and become invisible and not be reduced to the wretchedness of my own teenage years all over again. And I'll wear the earrings that Maria bought me from Brazil, because I feel like less of a kid myself when I wear large earrings. *catholic-school-girl brainwashing*

So, I got dressed in my all black, pinned up my hair in slightly-messy bun à la easy-breezy authority figure, grabbed my pack of Capris, just in case I need one after the self-esteem pummeling--I mean mentoring (damnit! only ONE cig left in the pack), and onward.

Nine hours later, after my day-job, I'm walking east on 125th toward the Harlem rec center. I don't miss Harlem, and the 2 bulky, hooded guys ogling me on Lenox and 123rd reminded me why I don't miss Harlem. But, I DID pick up two bars of honey-and-apricot shea butter soap from the african vendor--so maybe I miss Harlem a tiny bit.

I'm on 122nd now and walking toward the rec center. It's a quiet, unlit street and I'm already not liking the secluded-feeling of the street I have to walk down to get to it, asking myself if I can commit to this dark, seedy walk for the next 6 months. No one would mug me just one block from a children's rec center, would they? Maybe I can find a better-lit, less seedy alternate route. I used to live here...what's happened to my fearlessness? Wait--I was never really fearless.

When I get to the center, two lady security guards have me sign in, tell me I look like one of the parents--"the chinky-eyed one," and point me through the royal blue double doors. When I get through the doors, I keep walking, slowly--not sure if I'm in the right place. I'm waiting for someone to point me further in the right direction or a big sign with an arrow that says "This Way," when Claire, our fresh-out-of-undergrad team leader cheerfully waves me into the classroom. I'm thinking "Good, she's friendly." So far, so good. An i-don't-wanna-be-here-and-i'm-not-hiding-it team leader would have prematurely ended it for me.

When the students arrive, they're high energy, expressive THIRD GRADERS. YES! No teenagers! We all sit and give introductions, and when we're asked to break into our teams, a lovely, giggly little girl named Heaven, points to me and says "I want her!" She wants me *smile*

I won't tell you about the two short stories Heaven and I wrote today (though one was about her and I becoming "best best best friends")--I want to protect the confidentiality of this young author. But I will say that we're off to a great beginning, and I will be making the walk down the dark, seedy street (or an alternate route...lol) to the rec center, with the two lady security guards, the blue doors, and Claire--2x a month--to help Heaven spill her big, beautiful imagination onto notebook paper.

Oh, and she didn't care what I was wearing and didn't notice my earrings or that I wasn't quite as ready as I thought I should be. And I didn't smoke that cigarette.

ok, so, break starts...

2008-12-10T20:52:00.011-05:00

...now. Not sure for how long.

They say, in order to appreciate something, you have to let it slip from your fingers. "They" also say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Both remain unproven.

i really wanted to post...

2008-12-09T22:12:00.008-05:00

about the shitty mood i was in today. but i figure, it'll pass **crossing fingers that it's PMS.** I haven't felt honest enough on my blog lately. I haven't felt like enough of anything--(there's some honesty). Maybe that's why I want to cancel it. It's not helping my happiness. In fact, re-reading some of my past thoughts...well, it's sad. I'm sulking more than i am laughing. The new year really needs to show me something...anything, a new direction, a flicker of THIS IS YOUR PATH.

P.S. I really appreciate your "don't cancel your blog" comments (i love you guys). I don't think I'll cancel. well, not yet. Although, I'm considering a possible name/subject matter change. For now, perhaps a break? Hmmm.

bitter cold and disappointment.

2008-12-08T18:53:00.002-05:00

today was one of those days. you know the kind where you have to double-wrap your scarf around your face, wear multiple layers under your coat, and would rather just let your cell phone ring than take off your gloves to answer it. yep, bitter bitter cold today. typing from my warm bedroom right now, i feel lucky to have a roof, albeit a small one, over my head.

now on to the disappointment. so, i kinda love coffee, and rachel invited me to a coffee cupping at Joe--think wine tasting, but only with coffee. So, of course i took her up on her offer--i'd never turn down FREE coffee. Now i'll rundown what this cupping consists of:
- a long lecture-style explanation of coffee aroma, flavor, body, after-taste, yadda yadda yadda
- a sniffing of the grounds, then a sniffing of the grounds after adding hot water, then a sniffing of the grounds and water while stirring with a spoon.
- Then after 15 or so people have sniffed the hell out of these 4 different blends of coffee, can you guess what comes next?
- A tasting of these same coffees that have been sniffed. And not separate cups for each of us--nope, we all had to slurp from the same group of mugs.
- Rachel and I stared at the mugs, then at eachother, then at the mugs, and voted unanimously against the tasting portion of the cupping, or shall we call it the "swap spit and germs with a dozen or so strangers." Oh well. So much for free coffee.

p.s. today, a tiny thought popped into my head. CANCEL YOUR BLOG. I have fully thought it through, so needless to say, I have to weigh out the pros and cons. To be honest, I think I'm a bit bored of reading my out-loud thoughts.

polka-dot pals drank belgian beer...

2008-12-06T13:39:00.009-05:00

...in a crimson bar.

danced at persian office party in a stark white loft
blue strobe lights, naked brown baby.

found discarded bag of toy cars
purple pimp car, cherry Jag, busted black-and-white limo.

met two rosy lovers at black pub
called Redhead.

happy birthday, baby.

2008-12-04T12:34:00.010-05:00

happy birthday, baby. i love you so...**humming 16 Candles**

Today my Hannah turns...well, I'll leave her age out of this. Anyway, she turns a year older! yay!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HANNAH--do something fun, do something adventurous, and for god's sake, don't sulk and mope about your age. xo!

And here's a photo of another Hannah. Meet artist, feminist, and narcissist Hannah Wilke--in her birthday suit :-)

i need to get cable...

2008-12-03T10:07:00.004-05:00

...for two reasons:

1) On Feb. 17, 2009, my roomie and I will have to get a DTV converter box.

2) The junk on network tv considerably outweighs the quality stuff. i.e. The World Music Awards have to be the lamest music awards show ever. They should rename the show, "We'll Give Awards To Whoever Shows Up to our Sucky Awards Show." And can someone tell me if that's beyonce's real hair? It looks natural--and besides, are weaves even popular anymore? Are they still called weaves? I'm so out of the loop. Anyway, she's still annoying as hell to me, and i'm soooo not okay with her portraying the great Etta, but call me shallow--I kinda like the hair.

p.s. this may be the only time i ever mention football or any other sport in my blogging. Plaxico means "Peaceful"--and not "Dumb Ass" like you may have thought. And, I've been wondering about this too.

i really need to...

2008-12-01T21:49:00.009-05:00

...get off my ass and wash/style my hair. Ugh...it's almost 10pm, and flat-ironing will take me into the wee hours...so...I wish hats were acceptable dress code at my job.

tonight, i did not cry in therapy (that's a 1st in almost three months!)...I got teary, but no tears fell. And I'm thankful that I found my bottle of naproxen and my heating pad. And finally, tonight--on the subway--I wrote my prose-ish essay (i refuse to call it a poem) that i'm submitting to a friend's literary web-azine. Still needs some cleaning up...but all and all, very good first draft. PROGRESS--whether on a cushiony couch, on the pages of a tiny moleskine, or inside a pill bottle (yes, i said it)--feels pretty damn good.

love is...

2008-12-01T11:29:00.001-05:00

dumb. And what's in the water in Long Island??

good things really shouldn't have to end.

2008-11-30T17:01:00.011-05:00

but they do. and by good things, I'm of course talking about the very long, lovely thanksgiving weekend. it's over...I'm home, back in NY...rainy, cold, gray NY. But, not to worry, the thankful residue has yet to wear off. I'm thankful, post thanksgiving thankful, for Michael Jackson--songs like Beat It and Never Can Say Goodbye made today's 2-hour gridlock so much more enjoyable (yes, i said "enjoyable)"). And I'm thankful that I've inherited a teensy cooking gene. I somehow dug into the culinary lobe of my brain and concocted a pretty decent mac n' cheese casserole, and candied mashed yams. go me! I'm also thankful that the mumbai attacks are over...though saddened by so many lost lives. i'm thankful, that i wrote my novel's outline and "finished" an entire chapter. And while it's true that it's not quite what I dreamed it would be, i filled some pages with a part of me, and with some work, it can only get better.

p.s. i am also thankful that some fairly-awesome person introduced me to THIS BALLAD. (you can check out the video here--it takes a long time to load--10 minutes or so--but it's worth it...i promise.)

kind of blue.

2008-11-23T18:17:00.012-05:00

a lovely last night of laughter and liquor with shamona led to a pretty dreadful morning for moi. but, even in my feeble state, i forced myself to walk over to the morrison hotel to see the new miles davis photo exhibit. i really don't need to say it was alluring...miles wasn't classically handsome, but he was terribly photogenic. but we're talking 1960s Miles. 70s Miles was a bit frightening--the disco years were not kind to him. so, let's just focus on the 60s. he frequently had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and rarely smiled...or so say the photos. but i suppose jazz isn't the smiling kind of music. 1962, Photo by Don Hunstein

p.s. a little trivia: Miles had a small part in the movie Scrooged. He was a street musician.

p.p.s. on a completely separate note, do not see this movie. most disturbing film i've seen this year.

ooohs and ahhhs.

2008-11-21T16:16:00.005-05:00

this is exciting, though I haven't ice-skated in over 4 years, and I was never that good anyway. to be perfectly honest, i was pretty bad.

i don't like poetry, but this woman's blog inspires the crap out of me.

and i really want this late poet's book, Scrambled Eggs & Whiskey. This weekend, the plan is to find this book...and stalwartly continue to dislike poetry. Here's a little something by Carruth that I like....

Sonnet #10

You rose from our embrace and the small light spread
like an aureole around you. The long parabola
of neck and shoulder, flank and thigh I saw
permute itself through unfolding and unlimited
minuteness in the movement of your tall tread,
the spine-root swaying, the Picasso-like éclat
of scissoring slender legs. I knew some law
of Being was at work. At one time I had said
that love bestows such values, and so it does,
but the old man in his canto was right and wise:
ubi amor ibi ocullus est.
Always I wanted to give and in wanting was
the poet. A man now, aging, I know the best
of love is not to bestow, but to recognize.

letting go...

2008-11-19T11:27:00.009-05:00

...is a feat among a perpetual list of feats I've found so much easier to pull off as a child than as an adult. In my child's mind, not knowing the true value of what I was letting go of seemed to help with the divorce. In my adult mind...it's a constant battle of heart and head. Growing up is hard. *sigh*

Today, my head won over my heart.

I'm saying goodbye to something beautiful. Something that has both brought me unmatched joy, and has borne the weight of my baggage for several months. But as of late has begun to cause me more than a little pain.

BACK PAIN! arrgh.

Alas, I could no longer bear it. So, farewell my fabulous, maple-colored (and odored), one-of-a-kind bag. May your re-thrifting lead you to the arm of one that can love you even greater than I.

p.s. there's a doe and buck mating outside my window. well, it's more like a game of cat and mouse. (same thing I suppose.) she's hiding beneath a tree, and he's waiting patiently for her to come around.

snow!

2008-11-18T13:53:00.002-05:00

just a couple flurries for only 5 minutes. but really beautiful.

...and speaking of snow, i love this... p.s. ...and speaking of crazy, i love this too. Three out of 4 white supremacists are pro-Obama--and some say he's "not Black enough.".

a dog named ginger.

2008-11-17T11:51:00.008-05:00

quick, unremarkable story.

last night, angelica and i are walking home from a dinner of pork, beans, steak enchiladas (truly the anti-date, just-go-straight-to-sleep-after-eating dinner), when we spot a sweet little pooch, like this one, seemingly lost--pacing up and down the sidewalk. Can dogs pace? Perhaps it was more like "wagging up and down the sidewalk," anyway, leash around her neck--but no one on the other end of it.

Angelica and I are both immediately smitten with the precious furball...and worry that, if left there all on her own in Chinatown, she might get "abducted" (no comment). Angelica grabs the leash--and we set out to either walk up and down the street ISO the mom/dad, or take her home for the night. Before we can cook up a hasty practical plan, we hear a woman screaming, "Ginger! Ginger!" This is both symbolic and ironic. Symbolic, because I've been wanting a dog--and for that reason--have signed up to be a volunteer dog-walker--and this is quite possibly a black-and-white sign that I'm ready for my very own pup. maybe. And ironic because, well, if you know me, you'll know why. So, I'm happy to report Ginger is safe and sound--or at least she was when we returned her to her mom.

ughh...she was such a cutie pie! you know those little caramel chewy candies with the white sugary middles? that's what Ginger reminds me off. So, in honor of Ginger...I give you, one of my favorite comic clips...

two things i know for certain:

2008-11-16T13:20:00.005-05:00

i'm breathing
i love you

i love you
i'm breathing

i've been thinking...

2008-11-12T00:20:00.006-05:00

...perhaps I'll leave this great city. Dig my heels in somewhere. Really, more like, plant them.

i know, i've got some 'splaining to do, but i'm still thinking. Thinking so hard I cannot sleep. And so far, this feels like the right direction. My gut says "go." My head says "plan." (i'm annoyed with my head...I want it to quiet down for once...)

miriam...

2008-11-10T07:03:00.005-05:00

...makeba. a beautiful voice, a beautiful soul. r.i.p.

i do not want to worry...

2008-11-09T17:38:00.000-05:00

...about whether or not i am loved. i just want to love things and leave good things behind. and i don't want to talk about it.

today, i made your shirt
a mop.
and now my kitchen floor
is clean.

today's 2 learnings:
1) a pedgie
2) the process of removing a pedgie is one of my least favorite sights

So, i was at one of those outdoor thrift markets the other day, on Houston...though judging by the prices, not sure it should be called "thrift." So many good things though...vintage loveliness all around. And there among all the loveliness were two dildos. "Ugh. Who wants a pre-loved plastic penis?" says me. Maybe if it were gently used. I don't know...maybe it's good mantle art. But then again, most girls/guys are "using" a pre-loved phallis anyway, aren't we?

p.s. ever wonder what life would be life if you could always laugh all day long at yourself and at the world? i recommend seeing Happy-Go-Lucky. And another recommendation... "Naked Confessions" by Richard Prince. Prince's "Canal Zone" exhibit opened yesterday at the Gargosian Gallery, and runs through December 20.

silly little ethical quagmire.

2008-11-06T20:12:00.007-05:00

first off...OBAMA! I had to take a few days to take it all in.

today when rachel and I went on our "it's-3-o'clock-and-i'm-dying-are-you?" coffee break, we snuck a peak inside the holiday coat drive box in the building lobby. Don't ask me what led me to peak inside...possibly just sheer curiosity or maybe comic relief--I figured I'd see lots of shoulder-padded London-Foggish oversized trenches in cobalt blues and dingy khaki. But no. instead i see a cute little well-made coffee brown leather jacket...in a size SMALL, no less. oh why oh why did i look?

at first, i thought, "that jacket's mine." followed by, "but no, it's for the poor." and again, "what poor new yorker needs a tiny leather jacket...it's not even warm!" but, alas, I couldn't do it. i'm obsessed with keeping my karma in good-standing..besides part of me thinks it's stealing--even if it's just from an over-sized box...although, another part of me thinks, "i'm poor, and my life deserves a free jacket." so i asked my friend chris...what should i do...he's pretty wise, and i think ethical for the most part...he's a finance editor...so that at least makes him more level-headed than me. he told me it's okay. "take it, but just swap it for a jacket you have at home that you don't like." I dunno...I don't really have any jackets or coats that I don't like. Ugh...woe is me. Perhaps this is one of those life-tests. Or maybe i'll call Randy Cohen. OR...I'll rationalize it the way I rationalize most things in my life...if it's meant to be, it'll be.

p.s. tomorrow i get my flu shot! yes. i'm excited. i get excited over anything that temporarily quiets my hypochondriacal tendencies. For more on the what-when-how-why of flu shots, see my smart friend Daniel's blog.

i did it.

2008-11-04T10:59:00.006-05:00

...I did my little part to change the world. and I did not cry. In fact, this is my "I VOTED FOR BARACK OBAMA" face. p.s. now i'm off to get coffee...

i cannot contain myself.

2008-11-03T10:49:00.004-05:00

and so i won't. tomorrow, the world will change. i'm so overwhelmed with emotion today...I really can hardly work. I might cry, but maybe I'll save that for tomorrow. Get excited people...for the last day of Bush, and the first day of Obama.

i was supposed to buy a broom today.

2008-11-02T14:14:00.013-05:00

my apt really needs a good sweeping. But instead i lazed the morning away (yay for an extra hour) watching Degrassi. and Skyped about life/love/writing/babies/therapy/ny/london with hannah for a bit. then i went to see this in central park. but the line was too, too long...so I watched some of the ING NYC Marathoners cross the finish line...including a guy who took off his prosthetic legs right before the last 2 or 3 feet..and walked across the line on his hands (in a hand stand, no less. whew. crazy new yorkers).

Oh, but on the way, I stumbled upon a pile of discarded 1980s heels...all in a size 7 and a half. Is it Christmas already? My birthday? But then, I got them home, and tried them on and only one pair fit, and not the pair I liked. And I realized, they're all pretty ugly anyway. So, I think I'll find a more-suitable home for them...(thrift shop?)

it's nanowrimo.

2008-11-02T09:01:00.002-05:00

national novel writing month...that's 175 pages, 50,000 words in one month. That's 5.8 pages, 1,666 words per day...and you should have started yesterday!

purr. meow.

2008-11-01T14:33:00.018-04:00

Halloween is a big deal in NYC...and just a bit overwhelming. People are everywhere, draped in bloody gore and cleopatra makeup--or sometimes just a loin cloth--and you constantly have to doubletake to figure out if they're in costume or just their every-day freak-o-nature garb. You get my drift. Best costume of the night would have to be the home-made robots--you had to be there. Runners up include Bjork (in swan dress), the bee and the flower (they were a couple..awww), and the American Werewolf in Paris (an almost-perfect likeness).

Me on the other hand...I'm quite boring when it comes to dressing up. Every year I say "I'm gonna do something COOL...and every year, I'm either "a better version of myself" or a cat. so, here I am. ...i'm a cat. meow, purr. of course, i forgot to take pics before the party, and this was taken at about 2am...after a little too much catnip. So, I suppose I'm an alley cat. A forlorn, goth, alley cat. Smudged as it may be, I really think I could get used to the black lipstick... p.s. oooh, i forgot to plug Black Opal eye liner pencil in Licorice. It's seriously black! good stuff, and so much cheaper than that name-brand stuff. go buy it and report back.

watch...

2008-10-31T09:55:00.006-04:00

...HIM (not sure that videos will play unless you have flash..boooo). c'est manifique. I saw an amaaaazing performance last night, and this guy was one of the dancers that made me regret not taking those ballet lessons in 1st grade.

p.s. happy halloween. More on that...and my sorta-kinda costume...later.

soooo, i got new hair.

2008-10-28T20:53:00.003-04:00

hair-over-the-eye hair. very veronica lake. i figured i should take pics while it's salon-fresh, because there's no way i can re-create this. p.s. the day i woke up, ...and was no longer in love with my ex-boyfriend was the greatest, sunniest, brightest, most satisfying day...almost ever. you didn't know me back then...that dumping pre-dates my blog. i was a mess. if i had blogged, it would have been un-readable. unbearable. an overflowing barrage of rain, and sadness and gloom....a diary of mope-ery. but on the day my best friend asked, "do you still miss him?" and i said "no," without a doubt and without explanation...ahhhhhhhh. i cannot express. i even questioned whether i had ever really been in love with him. thought, maybe i just enjoyed the chase, or the sex. Oh, but then i got sad. To think, "maybe I never loved" him would have meant I had never loved. That possibly I did not have the expanse to love....or that I do not know what it means to love. Oh well...there's still time, right?

more from outsiders ny...

2008-10-27T13:53:00.006-04:00

...since i obviously cannot get enough. And can I just say, that barack seems to be the muse of every modern artist, more so than any other political figure of this time or past (I wonder. Don't quote me, I didn't factcheck this.) This is a piece by David Choe that i'd love to own...if only because it reflects its own light--even when the room is dark. oh the symbolism!

tonight i had beers on an empty stomach.

2008-10-26T20:10:00.012-04:00

followed by the most delicious cuban ham and cheese sandwich known to man. seriously. i devoured it like an animal--dripping pieces of it all down the front of me and on my Lola & Emily canvas bag. yum. yum. and yum.

but right after the beers, and right before the sandwich, i went to the closing of this street-art exhibit from London...Outsiders NY. An eerie, dirty, fascinating collection of photos, sketches, watercolors, scupltures and collages. Filthy-fun stuff..really...I looked deeply into a collaged portrait of President Bush, and found dozens of dicks. Some of which were stuffed in someone's mouth. And this one below, by absurdist sculptor Mark Jenkins made me think, "what the heck's he saying here?" My literal interpretation = Grover was a bum--and maybe he was, but still--he made the children laugh.

i have a broken heart.

2008-10-25T10:12:00.005-04:00

...and I think I have for most of my life. I thought possibly saying it out loud would make me feel OK about it. But so far, nothing.

p.s. Maybe I'll come back later and re-read this, and who knows.