...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

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.

thirty-one.

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...

...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?

kind of blue.

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.

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.

a little bit of patience...

...and a very hot curling iron go a long way. every girl should be equipped with both. tonight, while packing for a weekend trip to dc to celebrate a dear friend's birthday, i paused for a moment to shake the dust off my conair instant heat. When i was in high school, some silly boy teased that I had "home-made curls," since I couldn't afford to go the salon. I think he cared more than I did though...I sort of liked my home-made curls--and so i let his taunts roll off my back. cute memory.

I figured I'd snap a few shots of my throwback, home-made curls. I'm channeling Kay from the Godfather. Kinda sad they'll be flattened and lop-sided by tomorrow. oh well.

he deserves another day...

...on my little ol' blog. And because i love a man who says "why go out for a hamburger when you have steak at home." :-)

last night, a guy with a guitar...

...said "anyhoo." 3x. *sigh* the 1st time, i glazed over. i don't know what song he was singing. The 2nd time, I was okay. By the 3rd time--nothing--or at least, not enough to mention (yet, here i am). oh, and he played the harmonica, guitar, and tambourine--all at once--while singing. and really well. i think that's worth mentioning.

i need therapy...and i think other people can tell. that's a good sign though, right? if i were crazy, I wouldn't be so self-aware. I keep putting off therapy--although I made a tentative appointment...but now I think I have to definitely go next week. I can't write my book without therapy...because there are emotions locked inside that I need to bring out and write down. my book will be just words without them.

Speaking of "the book," I think it's a cliche. a story of human tragedy--painful, but hopeful, blah blah blah. It's okay though...I'll find a way to make it more than that I'm sure. There's time...lots of it.

I attended my first writers salon tonight. At first, I felt uneasy, but thanks to red wine, that quickly faded. I wasn't sure I was in the right room, but after hearing some of the other writers read their works--i knew i'd fit in just fine. A poet there asked me "are you a poet?," and I said "no, i'm some-kind-of-a-writer." fucking self-doubt puts my foot in my mouth everytime. i loathe it. it's depressing! i've been a writer all my life--i've written for work, play, pleasure, and pain--for my entire life. next time, i'll say --with resolve--"I'm a writer." at the next salon, i promised to read my own writing. this woman was there--in-cred-ible storyteller/writer/orator/playwright. I can't say enough--so click on her link.

today, I feel brave.

p.s. I have good lighting in my bedroom...and this is when it's gray outside.

while i was blow-drying my hair...

...and looking a H.A.M., this silly korean girl (hannah, at least i didn't say 'oriental') grabbed me and forcefully made me take pictures...my hair was poofed out every whicha way. and so, this was the only one suitable for posting.

blue is the color of the sky in summertime.

i forgot to post this pic yesterday...of another street in montreal, and a cool blue building and a perfect sky. I think the street was Duluth. And something else blue...a purse i just had to have by Montreal bag-and-belt designer Deborah Adams. Doesn't look like much here--but it's a sweet, distressed leather--made from vintage leather coats--and it's the perfect size for a small wallet, chap stick (can't go 10 minutes without it), phone, Moleskine, and keys...with maybe a tiny bit of room left for a tin of rosebud salve and a pack of virginia slims.

day 4: montreal!

okay, so we're here, but we're pooped after a 12-hour, yet traffic-free drive. still, it's so lovely here--and the weather!!!!! no words, just smiles. must rest up and then eat in the latin quarter...Rue St-Denis.

a bientôt!

he smells of cigs and eau de cologne...

...isn't it obvious? I heart b/w photos, as you've probably noticed from reading my blog. so, today when i read about the art display that opens at Morrison Hotel Gallery on July 18th, I thought, "I HAVE TO go!"then i flipped through the slideshow, and thought "well, I've seen it all...so, maybe not." But, then again, on second thought--I'll go. For two reasons.

1) I haven't indulged in enough art-seeing since i moved here. It's time I switched gears and allowed myself some pleasure-inducing visual stimulation.

2) I like to stare deeply into photos. yes, i know--annoying. But it's nice to get close to the art--maybe see if it has an odor...and look inside, and spot the things in the photo that tell the whole story. When there are fabulous clothes in some of these b/w photos--like the ones worn by Marilyn, Billy, Eartha, and both Hepburns--I like to imagine the colors and the fabrics. And, of course, I act coy when the security guard orders me to "please step back" from the art.

p.s. the Miles photos are tops...that man had style!

ahhh, just a couple wedding pics...

i meant to post these earlier in the week...but it's been a busy one. Better late than never! Enjoy! Awwww, 'Mones!! You look so happy...and hydrated!
Yummmm cupcakes!!
papier-mache wedding reception!
Looking lovely in black I must say.
The bride and the girls.
for giggles

so the wedding was lovely.

we all know how I feel about marriage, but my dear friends who tied the knot yesterday are the owners of something rare and effortlesss. Without a doubt, they'll be in their 80s in matching rocking chairs--sharing fond memories with their grandkids. The bride was lovely, the groom was happy (and hilarious), the day was fab--and HOT! Ninety degrees in the shade. I think the theme of the day was "love is the exception to the rule," or so one speech-giver stated :-( Sounds dismal, but I think she might be right on the money. How hard is it for two like-minded hearts to meet--and keep loving eachother for years through good and bad, richer for poorer, sickness and health?

A couple other honorable mentions of the day:
♥ I caught the bouquet, but dropped the cupcakes--twice.
♥ Some nice gentleman slipped the garter around my thigh (Oh BF--you should have been there!!)
♥ I actually know how to do the Cha Cha slide (but what the hell is "Charlie Brown"??)
♥ And finally, I think I might be warming up to this whole wedding/marriage tradition thing...but maybe it's only b/c the romance and whimsy of the day is still so fresh in my mind.

happiness in the palm of your hand.

Oh yes indeedy! And on a day when I can't really find it in big, tangible globs...I'll take some in palm-sized cake form.

I came across this new cupcake shop here in DC, and I'm posting the link here since the web site is oh-so-snazzy and because I rant at least once a month, "We need some real cupcake shops to compete with those yucky bricks they call cupcakes at Cake Love. Damnit!" (and no, i'm not linking to their yucky-brick web site...you don't even want to bother.) My BF loves them, but my argument has been "You can't just bake dry cornbread and slap some heavy, thick icing on top, and sell them to people as 'cupcakes'--and if you could, my name would be Dunkin Hines."

A cupcake is a spectacular experience--it's more than cake! For years now, my favorites have been the rich red velvets from Billy's that awesome Kevin and I used to stuff into our faces (your favorites were the german chocolates. Right Kev?). Another plus about cupcakes, which probably makes them extra-loved by women, is that they're just the perfect sized dessert with a bit less of that pesky calorie-fat-sugar counting guilt. You can't eat more than you can fit in your hand--well, hmmm...nevermind...INDULGE!!!

let her dream.

"Ugh. What's it gonna be this time? There's
always SOME-thing!"--my usual thoughts as I
hit the last step of the escalator.

I'm so impatient with her. Mostly because I'm
jealous she's able to live in this dream state, and
I have to go on trudging through real life. Her
"life" reminds me of and magnifies that.

She pulls out the baby clothes and shows
them to me. I force an insincere smile, bite my
lip to push away any chance of tears.

I know there will be no babies to fill those
tiny clothes, but I let her have her dream. It's
all she has, and all she has makes her happy.

She smiles back at me--chubby cheeks, missing
bottom row, warm pecan eyes. “Do you think this
will fit the babies?” She holds up a yellow onsie.

“Yes, I think so." I want to run away or change
the subject, but instead I ask, "Do you need
anything else for the babies?”

She shuffles through her cart of belongings and
paper bags inside her cart of belongings. “No. I
think I have everything I need. I can’t wait for
them to get here though. We’re all gonna be a
family again.” More of that smile.

Silence.

“Uh huh. Yea. You’re right. I can’t wait to meet
them,” I lie.

when i can't find you.

I convince myself you are warm in your cluttered cozy apartment making stew with carrots and knitting afghans for your unborn babies.

I imagine you'll call me and invite me over for tea and sunflower seeds, and you'll tell me about your next mission and the people next door who you hear screaming through the walls.

And you'll ask me if I called my sisters, and tell me about when my hair was short and red and how I'd run when you tried to comb the kinks out. How one time I ran into an iron and burned myself, and you held me, wiped my tears, and asked had I'd learned my lesson.

You'll laugh and try to find the pictures you saved from those years in our old gray house with weak floors, but you've forgotten where you keep them.

Before leaving, I'll ask, "You need some help cleaning up this place?" And you'll say, "Oh no...I like it this way. I know where everything is."

4 inches of snow, pale skin, and a photo op.

I was gonna post something about the first snow of the season..."blah blah blah...it snowed last night...4 inches or something like that, and it's nice. some kids in mountain towns got a 2-hour delay...blah blah." but...this trumps snow:

Among a dozen or so parts of my body, I seem to have always been extra extra self-conscious about my pale skin. I wouldn't dare let a guy, or a Peeping-Tom, see me flat out naked unless I had a tan or at least a slathering of some Sun Laboratories (tip: I swear by this stuff post-Winter. It's the only self-tanner w/o that oompla-loompa tint). But lately, like so many other realizations that come with age, I'm starting to become okay with my paleness. Sometimes, with a bit of self-examination and flattering lighting, I'd even call it pretty. I'm getting there. Though, no matter how grown I get, it's still an uphill battle to unhear the "white girl!" taunts from my adolescence. If you went to my high school, you got tormented waaaaaay more for being unfortunately light than for being strikingly dark. (later I'd find that this light-skinned/dark-skinned battle, whether post-high school, post-college, or post-humous, never ends.)

Kids who couldn't even spell it used to call me "translucent!" Remember that movie "Powder?" Yep, that was one of my nicknames back then. I used to pray to the melanin gods to make me just fall somewhere in the middle. I once even oiled myself with vegetable oil and laid out in the sun...to my chagrin, I fried to red, instead of brown.

Nowadays, I can laugh at SOME OF my memories of taunting and of dreams of being browner. And I've been a little more accepting of the "white girl" that I am, often telling myself--and others, "I'm NOT pale. I'm FAIR!" **think Lizzie Bennet**
Photo by S. Smith

today reminded me.

on the day you hurt me, it rained cold and hard.

i cried all day at nothing and everything--and told those who asked "it's hay fever." for the next three months, i went mad and cursed you and me and love and everyone in love.

i thought i'd die.

i didn't.

the deluge became a drizzle. then a mist. and then one day...

...it stopped.

photo by Saanga