go crazy.

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.

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.

when you have the opportunity...

...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

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

...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!

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

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...

...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"

"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...

...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

...this morning i woke up...

...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

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

...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...

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.

at first glance, one might think...

...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.

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

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

this woman's work...

...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

"40 plus and single?"

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.

don't move.

*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.

natasha.

r.i.p.

from Asylum

soft spaces.

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...

...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...