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India Arie: The World Must Know

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2012| 10 Comments »

Can this be any cuter? This woman is hands down one of my favorites.

There are times that I have had where her voice, strength, courage, positivity, inspiration, openness, and heat has carried me through.

Love love love love love loooooove.

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Palomita Amigita

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on February 8, 2012| 16 Comments »

The mornings are the nicest time.

The softest, sweetest.

My bed holds me close as possible while I track remnant trails of dreams behind my eyes …

So often the droned flutter of scurrying, new-day duties carry my mind up to your scrappy nest, or your fictitous body down to my favorite pillow.

-Where I cradle you.-

and you coo to me of your endeavors,

and your take on the world below,

and how you feel about your family,

and what you discuss when in unison.

I get to ask you questions on aviation, hierarchy, and simple philosophy.

My nose pressed against your dusted feathers, perfect puffy fragile belly,

rapid fire heart.

Outside~ where you really exist you are poached, and purposeful, and street wise.

-A real city slicker.-

You will be the last to die. You who’ll consume anything.

Little piggy. Little rat. Little pigeon.

Oh, soiled, little dove, I want to know you.

I dropped to my knees when you perched on my screen!

Did you move in above my window because you sensed my loyalty?

My awe for and respect to you?

Your song makes me feel at home, in summer, on a fire escape, skinned knees hanging down, streets below.

Your hum is my vehicle of transport~

On your wings I wander light,

Inspired to create in your honor.

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Advice to the Gents; a Voice of One Woman Representing Thousands

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 22, 2012| 33 Comments »

This one goes out to the throngs of good men who are single and are unsure why… Sometimes we are our own worst enemies, and it takes another person a bit further away and with a different vantage point to fill you in on what you keep missing. Please do not feel insulted~ it’s all the purest of intentions. And I’m feeling generous. Altruistic. To the point. And, after all~ the world is absolutely a better place when we’re getting loving.

This entry is intended as a self-help guide of sorts. You can use it as a checklist. And your secret is safe with me. If you look in the mirror to find yourself fitting a no-no here, fear not, you can change and grow. You are strong and versatile. Great things are abreast. And you’re welcome.

These are a refined, thought-about-at-length, discussed over many drinks with many a pretty lady, collection of reasons why you might not be getting any nookie, mixed and fixed with a fair collection of “don’ts”.

Trench coats. C is no longer for cookie. If you are wearing a trench coat, you look like a Creep. And I’m sorry. But you’re sorrier. I can’t believe you didn’t get the memo. You’re not getting any *%^*# because women think you’re into Dungeons and Dragons. Or that you have some vampire slayer complex. Or you’re a wanna-be bounty hunter. Or you never left that 90’s hair band phase. You know- the one that stayed in the 90’s?

Sweat and the rules of the dance floor. If you are cute and we like you, we will be happy to talk to you. If you are sweaty from shaking it, that’s fine. Go on with your bad self! Maybe we can even dance together. BUT- if you are very sweaty, please refrain from hugging us. Or putting your arm around us. Yes, it’s difficult to resist, but it will serve you in the long run. Withhold hug now=earn hugs later. This is good, sound advice. Believe me.

Pinky rings. Don’t. Just don’t. You’re not Kanye. K? And that’s all right. We just want you to be yourself. Just not in that thing. It’s creepy and makes you look like a washed up cocaine dealer. Bad bad bad. Ok, stop laughing and put it away. You are not the exception.

Flossing. You feel inconvenienced by flossing. Really? This is part of basic maintenance. If you don’t like your mouth bleeding, rest assured that this will stop once your gums adjust to human touch. Suck it up and initiate your mouth to cleanliness. Think of it as being in a really cool (and necessary) gang. The blood is just part of getting jumped in. (Applies to ladies too)

Mustaches. You had to know this one was coming. I don’t know why, where, or how you recently got the idea that this above the lip fuzz is hip, but I feel like none of you ever consulted with those of us that you are aiming to impress with your dashing good looks. Um, hello? The skinny is this: you have been misinformed. If you talk to one lady who favors this ickyness, she is the 1%. We are the 99%! If you are below the age of 50, and you have hair above your lip that is independent of, and disconnected to other hair on your face, it’s time to grab a razor. Waste no time! If you are not a cop, you have no business with one of these things. Plus they get all nasty when you are eating and drinking, and they also don’t feel very good where we want everything to feel really good. Smell what I’m cooking?

Cologne/ Oil/ Smell. This is a case where less is more. We appreciate and applaud your daily shower regiment. We do. We really do. If and when (because it happens) you do not have an opportunity to bathe, do not cover up in a masking smell. The truth is that you then stink like B.O. and cologne had a bastard child. This is a bad baby. Nobody wants to hold this baby. A tip: Alcohol neutralizes your odor, so grab a cotton ball, go to the emergency kit, and swab away. Then reapply deodorant. Optimally you will shower, but sometimes that’s not an option. There is always an alternative. Also, on the topic of deodorant, please please please select one that is not over powering in odor. This especially affects us because you are often taller than us, and you must remember where our noses get squeezed into sometimes when you hug us. Contrary to the commercials, we do not want you to spray Axe across your chest. Deodorant is intended to eliminate odor, not create a new, choking, powdery one. Blech. (ladies too! please!)

Standards of Initial Contacting. May-haps it’s because I was in a relationship for the better part of the last 3 years until semi-recently, that this one slipped by me and now I am in regular awe of it… Texting. Ok. Let’s break it down. It was lovely, “back in the day”, when a gentleman would take our number, waiting the proper amount of time (4 days on average; demonstrating his coolness, collectedness, and certain lack of desperation) before calling. Then he would call, and we would have a conversation. Like a real conversation. Not one sentence ping-ponged back and forth between waves of radiation. And this person would be new (no facebook stalking or preemptive question satiating before actual contact) and the conversation was or wasn’t. Simple. Now the accepted standard is that we give our number and can expect a text with in the next 1-3 days/ later that night. So the amount of time between has been shortened on account of the speedy connected world we live in. Here’s where I come in with advice: we still want a phone call. A text is impersonal and not demonstrative of your boldness, confidence and bravery. Take a chance! We like your voice. That’s why we want to talk to it. Worst that happens? We don’t like it, and guess what~ it’s a big, sexy sea of fish out there. Knowwhadimsayin?                                                                                                                                                                                                      *Another note- if you called a lady or texted her more than 2x and haven’t had a response, she is more than likely just not interested. She may just not know how to say it. Move along> think big sexy ocean lapping away happily. Next time!

Donald Ducking. There will never be a point within the comfort that you feel with or towards another human being where this will be ok. If you don’t know what this means, be certain to look it up. It’s a major no-no. I don’t care if you’re 25 years deep together. I am telling you so that you know very well: this is a BAD look. I hardly recommend this in private; it’s better not to tempt the habit. If you must change the order in which you dress/ undress, so it goes. Also, while on the topic, always make sure to take off your socks during sex. Not hot.

Well, that about wraps it up for my unsolicited yet o-so-necessary advice. May you walk away smarter, with more confidence and swagger… and at the very least… your pants on.

 

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Lovelies~ A Poll if You Will

Posted in Uncategorized on January 18, 2012| 7 Comments »

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Colonizing Accents and Sparks of What’s Supposed to Be

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 18, 2012| 6 Comments »

And so it goes… It’s arguable that life is perfect. That everything comes just at the right time. That our struggle against the flow is trivial, wasteful, and pointless, as what is due is on its way. Even in moments of sadness do I recognize that I have had and will have once again in the future~ my time to shine.

How is the proof of perfection measured? Why in the little things, of course. In those tiny, serendipitous experiences that align our moments in the strangest and most unexpected of ways.

Today a colleague and myself were having a totally random conversation about accents. I was telling her that how it would be super interesting to study accents  in the U.S. in relation to how and when they were brought over, and how and when they began to become distilled and eventually shed, as westward expansion gained momentum. ( As you likely know, the British colonized from the East coast and moved west, so by default accents are by far the strongest in New England and then of course, the South.)

I have always gotten a kick out of linguistics and etymology, but never thought much of the connection between expansion and settlement from the 1600’s affecting our very diction now! Amazing! Anyways, so these were my thoughts~ there you go, now they are yours. (Tawk amongst ya’selves.)

When I came home today, my colleague had sent me an article from mental floss magazine that was sent to her today. So take a guess about the content. Go on. You know you want to… Ok, ok. “When Did Americans Lose Their British Accents?“. Yes kids; that was sent to her. It’s a pretty interesting and neat little ditty too. Scope it! …Now you tell me~ do you believe in coincidence, or do you think it’s far too random? I’m not sure what the source of Godliness/ Goddessness or wild, beautiful deity presence is out there, but I do feel pretty confident that I just got winked at.

Love it.

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Fascination Station: The Homeless Chronicles Part 1

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on January 11, 2012| 12 Comments »

There are two kinds of people in the United States who will sit down next to a perfect stranger on the same park bench when there are other ones in the nearby area that remain unoccupied:

1) A person that wants you, or has something that they hope you want

2) Drunks

It is not unusual for me to take my bike and point it towards the direction of an adventure I hope to come upon.Often times I will ride westward towards the esplanade of the city. The latter part of the ride itself is lovely; over the river, next to the train tracks suspended above the water on tremendous, whiny, old, wooden beams. For the many who are yet to be familiar with Portland town, the esplanade is a long stretch of sidewalk that is on both sides of our river, the Willamette, dividing the city respectively into east and west. As you can imagine, there is a good ebb and flow of foot traffic here at every hour. There are joggers, bike riders, people strolling, destitute folks, people recovering from another long night of drinking, drugging, or just plain ol’ being homeless and snoozing there. There are people taking photos, people reading or drawing, musicians playing together…

I came down to the river the particular day in question to wrap myself up in the gentler flow of the city. Equipped with sketchpad, writing book and an array of pens of different thicknesses, I sat. I looked into the river and at the passers bye, hoping that the words would begin to collect themselves for me. Gather anytime my fantastic friends. Inspiration? I’m here.

Stage left, in come this rather large fellow. He seated himself next to me on the bench. No invitation needed for public benches, true, but when there are other vacant benches, don’t most people know to take one of those? It’s one of those unspoken social cues that we all adhere to and accept. (Similar to the unspoken rule in the men’s rest room where when using the urinal you go to the one at the very end, and each next guy to get up to use the john goes as far as possible from the other user. Right? Yes, woman know these things (woman, did you know about this?!) (We are so lucky that we get to pee together!).) So there we are: me with my pen, dutifully sussing out a brilliant topic bound to dawn any minute, with a slight distraction due to my new bench mate who was fairly odorous (boozy stank); and he, a rather lumbering fellow with a large presence that had a slightly jumbled and wayward feel, along with a subtle allure that peaked my interest an itty bitty bit. Microscopicly so.

He began talking and asking me questions that were just fluff and I felt that he was hoping to find a friend in me. I was still absorbed in my hopes of creation, also hoping he would leave, albeit humoring him despite my disdain for superficial conversation for the sake of conversing. Well whaddaya know, he pretty much talked to me until I was hooked. It’s when you least expect it, kiddies. Hints of his story splintered through the fluff of simple monologue and he had my attention. He got me, like a slow drug would: Methodical and persistant administration.

And the verbal foreplay had reached a point where I wanted to know more. Impatiently awaiting. Maybe he would get it out and then I would have some fodder. That was when he became distant and when I realized I was, in fact, an asshole. He wasn’t going to just give it up. I had taken this man for granted because he sat down next to me,  and I had assumed that his routine was the same old song and dance number I had seen exacted so many times before: drunkard with loose lips, talking to who ever will listen. I didn’t feel special or “chosen” and I had taken him to be very open. I forgot, and was slapped with the reminder- there are still sacred tales behind eyes the of those souls who seem broken.

Finally, it came.

His story. True as sin.

Drunk Native American.

Big, lost man.

Ancient myth.

Vagabond.

This story unfolded in such a fashion, becoming absolutely one of the most beautiful and humbling tales that I have ever heard.

Somewhere in the Southwest a large man once lay. A sterile gown. A white bed. Eyes shut. A coma had claimed him from nights and days of exessive drinking. A coma that turned days into weeks and turned weeks into months. Doctors and attendees stood by, idly. Deep sleep of an undisturbable variety. Dreams showed no presence, playing on the lids of no eyes.

A small number of people were left in his life. Bridges had been burned and pain had struck chords, severing ties with too much weight to mend. The tiny amount of loved ones left came to visit. Trickling in slower than tales of tortoise. They whispered and they prayed. They cried. They talked to him. Different tactics eliciting nothing.

His uncle came one day to his bedside, this time bringing desert Sage. In the hospital room the bundle was lit, and the man in the starched gown was smudged. Did they treat him like a lost spirit? His body was brushed with sacramental smoke. His face washed clean with the scent. The big man’s nose… began to twitch.

This was seen.

A break through. A big deal. But the end of the road, as nothing else dented the difference between the standing and laying in the room again. Not even Sage. Not for weeks in spite of multiple tries.

Weeks later another family member came carrying family heirloom in tow; an instrument used in ceremony. A beautiful, simple rattler. A rattler that had guided this family in the hogan. A rattler that his ears knew. The sound of the desert. The sound of wheat tufts dancing in the breeze. A song of nature. Perhaps the sound of home.

The big man lay completely still. When the rattler was shaken- up rose his hand, mimicking the movement. As if to shake the tools, as if it was he, making the noise.

Weeks lapsed once again, and intermittently his responses shortened the amount of days between the stretches of stillness.

It was these visits, featuring different family members, presenting an instrument, a scent, a song, that brought him to, eventually.

Finally one day he awoke, and slowly reoriented himself with the world. Reacquainted himself with his family. Embraced the ways with which he was raised. Got back on his feet. This is not to say that his base was solid, or suddenly he was resilient to his demons and the challenges that awaited. He was still a weak man who’s best friend and worst enemy were combined to be found at the bottom of the bottle, with a call that over powered the rest. But his sense of self, his sense of spirituality, his understanding of connectivity and family… all these things were bestowed upon him. Refreshed. Now, if he were to die, he knew where and how he would go, and that it would be his time, and his journey would be safe.

Thank you for reading. Aho. 

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Dogs Dig

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 6, 2012| 4 Comments »

Back where I grew up was this park in the town of Hempstead; “Hempstead Lake State Park”. It sounds pretty, right? Wellll, it was green. Greenish. It was the most greenish area around us for a bit, so there was that. And there was a lake. And it was pretty from a far. Prettyish. And then when you got up close, not so much. No one swam in there. Not a chance. It was filthy. And there were probably dead, bloated bodies in there. And it stunk.

The park ran dangerous and once we grew older and had stashy parties in the woods(ish), we would go, but be in big masses when traversing through and around. Lots of creepy stories came from here.

Anyway, one day it turns out that there is going to be a drum circle there. What?! Yes, a drum circle there, in the day, with… hippies. Unbelievable. Well, we had to go, as a matter of course, and see the turn out with our own eyes. I repeat, this was not that kind of park. Not even almost.

The day came. It was cool and crisp. Bright and sunny. We blazed some and walked through the woods. We could hear the drums in the distance and I recall joking about little wood elves banging sticks together around us because of the way the sound echoed off of the trees. As we got closer and closer, we heard the most peculiar sounding drums. I mean, it sounded decent and it/ they were definitely keeping the beat. We heard it for a while and the sound was so different than that of any other percussion instrument any of us had ever listened to before. Finally, we had ascended upon a clearing, closing in on the drum circle in the adjacent field from where we had emerged. There, in the field before us was a felled log with four dogs tied to it, that most likely belonged to some of the drummers… There they stood, barking at random and without panic, appearing relaxed and content… adding their own barking rhythms to the sound cloud. They were 100% on point with the drum circle. It was absolutely astounding.

I thought of that today when a friend emailed me this little cute diddy.

Dogs man, they get it!

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Haiku Break Part 2

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 31, 2011| 2 Comments »

Portland’s China Town

Ginseng, porn, souvenir shop…

One block radius

*****

A true paradox

In having lots of money…

I’de still like to know

*****

If I owned a bar

I’d trade light beer for cleaning

Everyone’s happy

*****

Having wings sounds nice

Talk about a rad surprise

Travel whenevs, babe!

*****

Sometimes I pretend

That the highway is ocean

Tricks my brain to calm

*****

Dancing at the club

Is fun if you can ignore

All but the music

*****

Understanding you

Is like trying to put socks

On a slippery fish

*****

Bar scene’s a shit show

Or maybe I’m getting old

Time to moisturize!

*****

Hear that far off train~

Your distant below woos’ me,

Always brings me home.

*****

Ha! Pleasure and pain

Decieving me to believe

That you’re connected

*****

My neighbor’s creepy.

His lazy eye follows me-

Gets the best of him.

*****

Splinter on my ear!

What are the chances of that?

Someone get my mum!

*****

Claimed he spoke Spanish

Claimed lots of things; unimpressed

Can’t get in these pants

*****

Major indulgence

Turning heat above 70

Cozy, naughty girl

*****

I’m like a child

Not wanting to go to sleep

Can’t stop the party

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Spanish Town

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on December 20, 2011| 7 Comments »

I want to live where the wild Ginger grows.

I want to set up shop amongst the racket of howler monkeys that shriek at the warm, sleepy, star dusted dawn. Everyday. Reliably.

I want to look down at the ground and kick at fat grubs with my barefoot feet, and feel the virile earth give just a bit; just enough to let some air out and give the worms some work to do for no good reason in particular.

I desire the smell in the air of mysterious and magnificent, unnamed tropical flowers that are very red and robust,  screaming pinks, bold charming candied yellows. I want to pluck them for my tea after humming a new tune of gratitude that I just made up because the inspiration is so damn thick that it is simply oozing- wet and juicy all over the place, where I stand drenched in the generous gifts of rhythmic cobalt full magenta golden song and hot spellbinding aqua haunting ocher poetry. 

A place where art is never dormant. The spark of creation ignites and burns burns burns, creating an absolute ruckus of overturned firey beauty.

Where I just can’t get any sleep and no- not because I am unrested but because the jungle hums and churns and I know to listen, as I am actively learning secrets of the ancients and what it is like, and what it takes to live housed and homed in the middle of la selva.

Little green snakes will slither clear and not slip into my favorite shoes.

A place permeated with the scent of  fresh tortillas. Todo fresco. Tierra local. Harvest practices relied upon for generations. Methods of sowing and reaping on dial with the waxing and waning of the solar system  itself. Stone ground and pounded with experience, hardened hands, hardy laughter, crows feet on faces for days.

I want to bathe in tepid waters of mineral pools, cleansing my mornings in mud and waterfalls. I will run my fingers through my hair and let the little pieces of leaves and sticks stick around like they picked me on purpose.

Let me live in Spanish town. Some where, somehow, someday. Where colors are brilliant, where the plants dance along, where old stories are revered and passed on, where we feel exuberant and incredibly alive because home is where the carazon es.

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For Jim: A Tribute

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on December 8, 2011| 8 Comments »

Amidst the raspy cattails and lobbing murky water is where I find you when I want to.

That night that we ran like hell, away from the world that we imagined to be watching, wanting to stop our mischief.

Where we scaled the rusted, cutting fence, making it over the barbed wire, thanks to Chris’s sweatshirt, unscathed some how. Always unscathed. Jumped down with out caution or fear holding us as we entered our familiar domain.

Encircled by resilient wild reeds, fat and abundant river rats, crackling speckled brown nesting birds, and decomposing, unnamed garbage.

The smell never mattered much because that was home and it was what we knew, and we grew up to laugh at it; holding our noses and running until we were inside, gasping for air, cracking up and seeing who made it to the interior last.

Those times while you had that janky-ass car with the doors that wouldn’t latch, and you would do donuts in it at the drop of a hat, making me crazy, forcing us to grab onto the front seats for dear life, leaving tracks on the pavement.

Looking back it’s like we were just living on our toes in those days.

Truly young, wild, and free.

But I’ll tell you Jim, you made a humbled believer out of me. And I’ve seldom told a soul because I would rather be unheard then unbelieved.

That night in the marsh where we all danced along the board walks, muddy, messy water on either side. Residue from Oil City seeping into the planks, making out traverse slippery and sleek. And we found that busted up 4 or 5 foot Graffix with the Joker base. And it was broken, but you swore to repair it. (Somehow it would wind up in my room, leaving me with the challenging responsibility of sneaky disposal.) And we made all sorts of wierd sounds that night because we finally felt alone.

And we settled in to watch the sky.

Finally.

And I’de never seen a NY sky so clear before.

Each cloud so disctinct, holding it’s very own proud shape.

And they took on thier figures before our eyes, entertaining us for what seemed like encapsulated hours.

And I saw Snoopy of all things. And we all watched and marveled, because Snoopy it was and there was simply no disputing.

And Kalinda saw something that is long forgotten, and Chris another… and it was all so crisp and vivid.

We watched together as Snoopy’s ear detached from the cloud parade and floated away as we all howled for him because the image was just so real. We could hardly believe it. Hard to believe. Grateful to witness.

And then you spotted, and I’ll never forget, the Grim Reaper. And you saw it first. And no one could dispute.

And we all self-assessed, inwardly, checking, after all, we weren’t tripping or fucked up beyond plain old weed and alcohol. Pills may have been present in our systems, but definitely no hallucinogens.

And in the night, clear as day, there it was.

And you got quiet.

It was eery but I don’t remember thinking that it was a sign.

I don’t remember anything else after that.

My memory draws a still, flat lined blank. Quiet and blind. Maybe with a soft subtle static to it. Until the day that I heard the news.

Perhaps a month after?

You had been killed. You were murdered. In Long Beach. At that bagel store in the East end. Crawling on your elbows through a ceiling shaft. In your early twenties.

A coke deal gone bad.

And all your hustle and your good intentions, all your far out, stoney epiphanies, your unstoppable language creation and invented and catchy phrases~ poof. Like a thunder clap into the air and back amongst the sky that first claimed you. And you were dismantled from this world as I could understand it.

You and your troubled ways; brawny and street wise with a sordid past and a secret tender heart that we knew so well.

You came to me last night during a peak of inspiration. I feel it is time to release you. I will never forget you and where you almost went.

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