Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘photography’

I want to choke on my own words. Wavering and stuttering: not an option.
I want the full. The full frontal. The wham-bam.
I want crash course.

Come to me, speak to me, remind me of my contents. The fierce part.
And my sacred ability to express my scars, and wonder-wander constellations of light year stars, byproducts of being too-late too-long at bars, slow-blinker-for-ever-shit-drivers in cars…
I’ll take it.
Drunk ramblings.

Distracted in the door jam I’m waiting for the some revival jolt.
So kick my legs out and have me begging for a way to say what  my mouth hasn’t known yet.

A person can walk around feeling freed of emotions like shaker salt peppering them out liberally, honestly. You can even spread your feeble gosple, no? But it turns out that determination can’t be told between apples and oranges with out a palpable type result. Just when you thought the truth was self evident. Damn it, George.

Tell me how can you speak so frivolously about your heart mind? How can your cards show like that? Like low low low.
Was I taught to hide? There’s so much work to do. To mend oration. And delight in bent diction.
My words they tumbled but sang dust-wind as they did so, and it seems that’s all was heard, and now I understand the song well better.
Laugh; be mad; be merry.

Be alivest!
Turn lights on, convulse, define.

Daytime mimicry moderation
and
faux sun.
Pale. Silly, bright you. Glow.
Shine fully for so I don’t slip banana-peel-optimism, sweet-tooth-cheer, cavity, crack me with your smile. I’ll take it all. Reverse purge.
Curses, blessings, mundane prayer power.–
The calmest mind gets to rest and you know that’s not why I am here.

pud

Read Full Post »

At the mention of pelvic floor to any woman, an instantaneous muscular response ensues.
The hint of simple nod towards a kegle creates a domino effect in us ladies more contagious than a yawn. ((It’s happening right now ladies, isn’t it?))

And so, as such, I glide my coffee, straight backed, unshakable thighs,  tight pantied- to my haven table amidst the oceans of tantalizing print literature and calling, glowing screens a sparse cafe does hold on a rainy day.

My potion, viscus, flirting just above the brim- my tool to groundation and focus. A cheap, less monitored effect than Adderall or common prescribed pill-tools over my dawdling head. One can hope. The barista gifted me with a frothy heart atop my hot palmed mug, much like my own sometimes, all afloat and warm with a penchant for the grand spill. Oh coffee, why mimic me so?

A power outage led me here today. With a swift flicker, the glow of my alarm clock- a decisive two to three electric attempts at resurgence- the whole house- as if to settle all at once with some hefty exhale- gave up it’s connection to contemporary lifestyle and customs it thoughtlessly holds. And I- up with bright grey sky hinting- arose to a more simple portalistic time. Way backish.

My thoughts went to oil-lamps. My thoughts to sweater layering. My thoughts to non-perishables. My thoughts to generating internal warmth in the loved/hated yogic chair pose. My thoughts to what if this is it and our reliance upon modernity now severed, and be damned with the freezer goods, and the ability to operate appliances like an emergency drill, or entertain myself with my nil-discussed-distracting online video shorts addiction. My thoughts to I must be more prepared for the Big Shut Off. Big Cut Off. Water supply extra and perhaps time to start canning. Not really canning, but some sort of Oregon Trail-y preparatory shit.
My thoughts to common baby light my fire. Or really more that- I could or should light a fire, but when is life not fit for a surprise song?

Back to the big Turn Off. Whilst I sip at my warm, opaque choice.  The northeastern half of the city sits in the dark and still in Little House on the Prairie mode and I wonder, as I should: what if. If when. Cowboy coffee is easy enough, but basic power is past me. I can’t coerce a bulb to brighten even though I am so so very beautiful. My own craft, how I make my bread and pay my bills- beyond limited, considering my heavy reliance upon today’s conveniences. I am ever/ we are ever~ just. so. acclimated. In time we would find our way back to elementals, but until then… amazing adaption and  tremendous tyranny.

Crossing town had it’s own absent-minded loveliness to it. The stop lights being out, forcing people to work together. Zippering. My turn your turn my turn your turn. And on so.
Despite the rare sense of cooperation, the act of the 3-D shadow of dead incandescence all but lingered upon us, overarching, with a menacing feeling. Blackened, hanging stoplights. Firelights void of heat. Red yellow green colorless, sucked dry. Swaying lifeless like rot fruit bewitched to the vine. Soulless. Burnt out and in. Nothing left to keep those lights alive passed a rewiring if possible, or our brilliant, once upon a time, memories. “When I was young, child, we had great lights that hung above the streets and told us what to do. It was beautiful. Especially the rain part, child. Especially the rain”.

What might it be like, imagining we were prepared for it. Imagining the Big Shift did happen. What would it be like? No more voltage. Sleep you electrons, so little. You’ve done so good. Thank you thank you.
Now what? Our city’s minds, our ways; back to scratch. And then? What now? My thoughts? Time to prep. A resurgence of survival skill knowledge. Time to tighten up.

dark

Read Full Post »

Soft breath came out in undulose roll, a serenity given to understanding incidences of stolen moments receding. Time time time, just a moment away.

All she ever wanted was a muse by her standards which were seemingly not set too high. It didn’t take much to ignite the visionary exacting that lay inside her, but love was indubitably, formidably, the key. The world could speed up for all it wanted, or creak slowly in orbit, if-to-when that one would enter stage left. Or right. Or come climbing down downy, silken spun, dream-fire-escapes and just come on in. The water is oh so fine.

Her inner workings were a scramble. Try she might, but the holes inside were waxing and waning with the tides and the moon. Her fits of full and lonely nipping at her heels just the same.

Sometimes the vibe was self-evident. A physically provable thing, probable thing, displayed in sights of messy hair, tired from tugging. Showed up in baggy eyes, bruised from booze. Achey muscles, self-induced over-workings, awaiting their holy massage.

Thank the greatest ones for her breath. The flowers were with gratitude. The trees felt younger for it. Where she could finally slow her roll and simply believe… just a moment away.

xo

Read Full Post »

Don’t look at me. I’m hideous. That picture that I posted- don’t you dare take a peek. It is to serve as a disciplinary tool for when someone tells you “don’t look”, you actually won’t. It’s for practicing purposes. It’s to fortify you. Because I love you. I do. But I’m still embarassed about my state of affairs, facially speaking.

It began yesterday morning, Monday the 3rd. I awoke shortly after 6am to find that I had a major shiner. Ok, not like a baseball walloped me, but as far as a “spontaneous contusion” (my deceptivley professional sounding self-diagnosis) goes, it’s pretty savage.

I went to sleep Sunday nice, like an innocent lamb. I woke up with a fucking busted-ass black eye.

And now I am privy to the world through the eyes (genuinely, not a pun in sight, just clever phrasing) of an abuse victim. I am seeing somewhat of how it is to look, and be responded to, in a manner of a woman who has seen the ugly side of a fist. It. is. a. trip.

The last two days have involved people shifting uncomfortably around me. A stirred mix of sorrow, discomfort, and concern emanate from stranger’s gazes.

No eyeliner, tacky wallpaper. Don't judge me.

No eyeliner, tacky wallpaper. Don’t judge me.

As for my friends, I have been making up deliciously elaborate bullshit stories of what happened.

-There was an old woman, laying in the middle of the road, in the rain, naked, and it looked like she was crying and confused. She was holding a baby, naked, crying, you could tell the baby was hungry. In the arms of the baby was a puppy, furless, crying too somehow. So very vulnerable. I heroically approached and the puppy popped me one. This story was BELIEVED by two of my friends. I need new friends.

-I was at a bar and told some Billy Joel looking mother f%^&* to kick rocks because he was bugging me. He got a mouth on him and his girlfriend was on my jock and he didn’t like it and so he took me on the whiskey train to Fist City. Then it all went up in the air and became a straight up barroom brawl.                                                   My friend asked me if his girlfriend jumped in too. I let it run for a bit longer, because I was having too much fun to bring truth into the equation. I still can’t believe how gullible my people are. (Grumbles something about West coasters). I told him Billy Joel would NEVER do my like that. Please.

I guess that’s about it for my spontaneous tides of baloney.

I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of the bruise and it is somewhat unsettling, but the doctor said she thinks that it was mysterious trauma or possibly a spider attack. Bananas. It looks a lot worse in person, for the record. It totally merits it’s own blog posting as such. I’m serious.

I suppose if there is a moral, for the sake of a proper wrap up here, it would be that if you ever get busted up, make up a good reason and see how far it takes you. Aren’t we here to have a good time?

Read Full Post »

Sometimes I’ll begin to wonder, and my wonder will be laced with concern. I wonder if the way that I feel about music and what it does to me is normal; is healthy. Profound would be a tidy, dismissive way to describe it, as 2 syllables can only cover so much ground.

The way that I will feel can be alarming. Like it’s so good that it hurts. My brow will involuntarily furrow. I am completely at the mercy of someone else’s creation and they are singing right to me.

I went and saw The Shins last night. It was heavenly. I felt so much love that it made me uncomfortable. Like my seams would burst. The sound was amazing and his words- uh! James Mercer is blindingly brilliant. It has been a very long time since a person has reached me in the place he does. His prose is thought provoking and ever so delicious. I have a fairly gigantic crush on a man’s mind who I know closest from a 15 yard distance. Love is amazing like that. And reason is laughable.

It’s crazy and comical to realize that you have a crush on the most likely impossible. There’s nothing substantive about my feelings, seeing as I don’t even know if we would get along on all levels, but seeing him live always leaves me levitated. It’s powerful juju, a man with a song. Damn.

Read Full Post »

The inception of any fantastical idea is a considerably fair cause for celebration, if not immediate action. In fact, I believe every first should be celebrated in one way or another. Minor victories. Like say you decide last minute to conduct some interviews on a test group, and have some particularly suiting and saucy curiosities to work with, and you are bold enough to make up who you work for in order to support your strange desires. Pill Box, is the moniker that was freshly devised; the moniker that represents a faux-blog. It will somehow serve the public, eliciting the info that only bullshit artists can possibly get! My good friend and I (pictured below in our official hats) set out to the public to conduct random, wayward interviews. This experience was the warmer. This is just the beginning. The aforementioned blog exists not, but will be moonlighting under this here (lovely! (ahem)) Pigeon Heart Ponderings business. Verrrry exciting.

It is amazing what the written word does. Writing “Press” on a piece of scrap paper and safety-pinning it to trucker hats can (and did!) grant surprising credibility.

Every summer we have the Soap Box Derby races here in Portland, Oregon. Everyone hangs out on this dormant volcano, drinking and enjoying the amazing, crazy, and often ridiculous creations that teams of people unite over to make and zip down hill on. The rest of us go for the beer, views, hilarity, shock, aw, and sunny days with friends and strangers. It’s a fantastic scene with some wild and creative folks. What better place to ask questions? I just don’t know.

So what up with the questions, girl? I heard that. Let me premise that I was feeling frisky when I thought up what I was going to be asking. I thought, in that moment, that there’s probably lots of freaky people that would do this type of event, so might as well ask them sexy stuff. I also figured there oughtta be some rebels up in there so might as well milk it. Right? Who’s been in handcuffs, party people?

The first noteworthy interview was with Brian Taylor of “Los Locos Bambaderos”

1. Is this your first derby? “Yes, my 1st!”

2. What’s the inspiration behind your soap box mobile? “The Deviants challenged us. They said they would smoke us. They never even showed up, so we already win by default.”

3. What else inspires you? “Good times.”

4. Who is the hottest contestant here? “The Lone Shark.”

5. If you had to pick a soap box to have sex in which would it be? “The bath tub.” This was the most common answer. Mind you, there were both a hot tub and a bath tub soap box car. The only shot I have of it is behind this crazy fish box car thang.

 

6. Where’s the craziest place you ever knocked boots? “On a picnic table. In the park. In the middle of the day.” Oww!

7. Have you ever been busted for anything? “Never.” ((Snicker))

8. Are you high right now? “I wish.”

9. Aren’t you afraid of the Mt. Tabor Mangler?! “No.” * This question cracked me up because it was absolutely fictitious; we just wanted to see the responses. I gotta say that pretty much everyone seemed unfazed and unconcerned.

10. If you had to pick a political figure to compete in this race against who would it be and why? Without skipping a beat he says: “Palin. Because she would lose and I would cream her ass!” Zing!

Next contestant interview: Erin of The Mile High Club. Check her out above with the press! This woman is actually in the Mile High Club. I had to shake her hand. That is pretty damn crafty. Unfortunately we didn’t get a flic of her ride, but check out what she had to say:

1. “This is my 5th year at the Soap Box Derby races. Every  year I do a different car. I do it with my friends and it is a lot of fun because usually we a re really busy in the summer. This is our down time.”

2. “I’m inspired to take time out for creativity, and also the fact that this is a non profit event.”

3. Sexiest contestants? “The Beauticians.”                                                            Boy do I wish I had a better picture! They were getting perms for crying out loud!

4. “I would choose to have sex in the Thomas the Tank soap box car for the irony of it.” A photo is hardly necessary. This replica was pretty spot-on.

5. She was not high.

6. Totally unperturbed by the Mount Tabor Mangler.

7. Would chose to race “Benjamin Franklin because his box car would inevitably be a pretty sweet invention. He would also probably have a really cool costume.” Ha!

Many interviewees had similar responses when it came to inspiration: women and substances. Several contenders were racing for their 1st time, others their 2nd, and some their 5th. Most people have a record, likely involving “youthful indiscretion”. Not one person feared the Mount Tabor Mangler.

There were lots of other incredible mobile creations. This was just intended to share the derby with you and wet your whistles for the good things to come.

So if you fantasize about asking public opinion, but just lack the platform- we’ve gotcha covered. Speak out here to me and if it sounds fun it may very likely be included it in one of our days out, talking with townies… Let’s share the dream! -Making the most out of hitting the streets-

Read Full Post »

Purest form is a mind stark white.

An empty canvas unrushed to dress.

A now now now now now frame that doesn’t desist.

A soft focused eyeful with steady and attended pulmonary response.

Where everything is from the same, original cell~

Once and still somehow.

It’s advanced harmonics at play.

And the breeze blow the trees in unison,

while figurative branches burst to bloom.

Read Full Post »

Sometimes it is the prospect of possibilities themselves that stop you dead in your tracks. The openness wallops you- you get  thrashed back into the cush lazy boy chair; assuming the iconic image of the skeleton sitting before the speakers- his skin blown off by the sheer volume.

That is how I feel sometimes when I want to access creativity.

I hit open mics often. I go. I sit by myself.  I’m in my own private little world….

I go strictly for contagion. The inspiration in the room rubs off as the gears inevitably begin to turn and I think to myself: “There are about a million things that have never been done that I could be doing right now…”

Like playing out languid daydreams, fiddling with the reel as it turns; Unfolding ideas.

 

If your hair stands up in a storm it could be a sign that positive charges are rising through you, connecting you to and reaching you toward the negatively charged part of the storm. It could be that the lightening has chosen you. You can be a conductor. This will be your most important job yet. The brilliance in bolts will be your inward symphony. Your rag tag orchestra will be ablaze with a gaggle of madness and electric splendor.

Will you run inside and attempt defiance in natural selection?

Will you accept the possibilitiy of surviving to perhaps become something of a Shaman? Native folklore tells of the lightening bestowing powers… So will you sit outside and feel the rain now? …Your self inflicted sacrificial moment of Russian Roulette….

I always had this strange feeling about how I might die. I’ve been close to it before. Colorado, where the sky was overtaken by sudden darkness. The clouds dragging greedily across, casting long shadows in their wake. Ponderosa Pines blowing fiercely, whipping their helpless needles about. The smell of ozone and storm welling up to the crux.

We ran like children home-alone, jetting up the stairs, afraid to look behind them, steeped in imaginitave fear of what terrible person might be chasing close.

I saw a deer’s dismembered leg up in a tree on that hike, not far above my head. The wieght of the omen pulling across my back, hindering my steps, slowing me down and shaking me deeply. I was in awareness that it was part of the wild. That I too, was part of it. Could be consumed. Be it by big cat or by the heavens. Part of the raw, unforgiving forces. Far bigger then me. Nature; filled with love but no pity, which by default pulls mercy out of the question.

The deer, a likely victim to a mountain lion, victim of the cycles. And I, running with adrenaline bursting through my heart. Death scenes delighting the caverns of my otherwise occupied mind, where the lightening would pick me,  pluck me, and freeze me, sending a specially made spark from below, holding me captive, propping me in place like a helpless doll.

It is all so much- making me want to go home to a place I’ve never been.

It is like being drawn towards a solid wall.

If I went fast enough would I override the tighteness of molecules? Would they forgive me and let me through?

Carry me back . Cradle me with out arms.

Take my orphaned soul and let me cry until I laugh and confuse my own self all over my emotions.

Fill me up and let me shake and burn with the greatest energy. Consume me if you must, but remind me in the interim- that I am oh-so-alive, and let my art explode.

Read Full Post »

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. 

Read Full Post »

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

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »