Posts Tagged ‘photography’

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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This makes me happy.

Sandwich anybody? Dumpling tacos? Ricey rice?

Born in the hospital across the street from Central Park, and raised between L.I., the East village, and uptown in Washington Heights, I was. The taste for travel was developed at an early age, being the daughter to two adventurous spirits. I left the East Coast long ago, but still vie for it from time to time, on an inexplicably  deep level.

What I miss is the mash up. The haphazardness of it all; along with the solid working order. Everything is atop of everything else; no body is phased. Try to surprise me, eh? What I miss is the in-your-face-ness; The dare-to-be-ness; so infused and embedded in the culture at large…

I mean, come on: "Dozens of delicious flavors and 3 shitty ones" blazed above the door. Snaaaarkyyy

Another thing that I long for that remains insatiated in me is the real, heavy, richness and diversity in culture there. Walking around a few blocks, one is guaranteed to pass a conversation where you can’t even identify the language. Ah! I miss home. I miss super authentic ethnic food from an uncharted hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

E 6th St is rife with Indian food places. If it looks famliar... you probably WEREN'T here. Haha.

Not that I claim that it is anything close to utopian, but people seem to coexist there, overall, better than where I currently reside. In Portland OR, the community is nice, considerate, environmentally aware, progressive, and many other fantastic things, but we lack genuine integration. It’s rather sad and doubly awkward. The grass is always greenerrrr. Assuming that there is grass, of course.

Five Points/ LIC

This city, which, in truth deserves a tremendous amount more of my time and attention to really do a proper entry, is so f*$%^n’ random. Anything really goes. I love it. It is nuts. I don’t know if I will ever/ could ever live there again. But my goodness, it is the best city I know.

yes, these ARE toothbrushes. You're right! Yes, they are in a special protective keeper, discarded at the foot of a tree on E. 12th. How ever did you know?!

A stop off the LIRR in Queens, this trash burned. One man tried to help(ish) by pouring a 12oz. water on it. Policeman walked on bye. It was "contained".

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Definition of HERO

a : a mythological or legendary figure often of divine descent endowed with great strength or abilityb : an illustrious warriorc : a man admired for his achievements and noble qualitiesd : one who shows great courage
a : the principal character in a literary or dramatic workb : the central figure in an event, period, or movement
plural usually he·ros : submarine 2
: an object of extreme admiration and devotion : idol
       Ask a modern kid who there hero is. It’s probably no surprise that  the majority of the time the response will be full of celebrities and sports players… Curses. Sometimes someone on their list might make the cut that’s worthy of hero/ heroine status; albiet dead. Obviously this is a reflection of our value placements in our flashy, splashy, frenetic, bigger-is-better, faster, technologically-infused society. But wait! Fear not, as this isn’t a rant on our scopes or sad states of affair… Hold tight.
       Every now and again I like to step back and take inventory of my interests, priorities, actions, and what/ who I appreciate. Knowing too much celebrity gossip, or really any for that matter, has always just freaked me out. I think this stems partially from a deep seeded fear that the info would take up valuable space in my brain. The other part being that I really just don’t give a rat’s ass. It’s just kind of creepy. I never got the fascination with ‘People’ mag, or any of that kind of thing… Different strokes… Keeping abreast of politics is an absolute priority, despite the fact that it generally tightens each and every one of my muscles, as the daily stresses of world events settle in. Man, there is some heavy sh#t going on!
       It is my intention in this post, to draw upon the quite, ever present, ever acting champions. The people, places, and things that lend us inspiration and encouragement, just by virtue of being. These are beings who exist, embedded in the very fabric of our lives, as if to sway gently, steadily, and with constance in the background, yet provide a critical placement that is key in the peace that we do feel.
 And so, my heroes…  are comprised of the little old ladies with practiced, yet natural poise, who carry huge, heavy baskets on their heads, walk for miles, and can laugh with out spilling a drop.
People who have a cause and are rebels who do not lose sight of the grand picture, and remain steady and as light hearted as possible, and bring ease to those around them; effortlessly.
Living, breathing artists who are aware of their God/ Goddess given gifts and do not keep there talents pent up, but share, inspire, create, and spread the colors of their imaginations all over the cities and onto the children, encouraging them and pushing them to do great things.
People who are brave enough to pick up a beat and make it come alive, and/ or who play an instrument and speak the language of love with it, bridging cross cultural gaps. 
The beauty, resilience, and tenacity of every flower, weed, lichen cluster, and blade of grass that bores it’s seed or spore into the side of buildings, cracks of sidewalks, breaks in pavements, whispering softly the song of reclamation.
The      humble gardener with the itty bitty plot who gently and wisely tend their crop, planting flora in the name of healthy eating, good living, sharing the abundance, and beautifying the area to make passer byes happy and meet friends.
The ones who let there freak flag fly (say it 5x fast!) and dare to be. And do this just cause why not. 

Motivated individuals who are driven enough to start up companies that do not compromise their morals, that support free and fair trade, a livable wage, and respect to the people and the land.

I will likely have to come back to this and add. Regularly. A roaming tally.

Feel free to add as well… Who are your heroes???

     “The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to love, mad to talk, mad to be saved; the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
-Jack Kerouac 

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