...in any language ...
i am love
i am love
i am love
uncover me
je suis l'amour
je suis l'amour
je suis l'amour
découvre-moi
yo soy amor
yo soy amor
yo soy amor
descúbreme
io sono l'amore
io sono l'amore
io sono l'amore
scopra me
Showing posts with label LOVE. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LOVE. Show all posts
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Watts & 6th
Yesterday Love squinted through the blinds at me on the corner of Watts and 6th Avenue, just as I was mopping up the last bits of my lunch...
I noticed her first. Long auburn flecked hair blew over her face, concealing a sideways kiss. The recipient? An equally full-haired male with olive skin who hugged her closer before allowing her to step back and regather the straps of her handbag up around her bundled shoulder. They stood there, unwilling to let go of each others warmth just yet. Staring, saying nothing with words, emitting it all through energy and body heat.
They parted sooner than I was ready to let them go. As they set off in opposite directions I had a split second to decide who I'd follow with my eyes. Who would be more emotive, who would add more texture to this love story unfolding on an otherwise mundane corner. I chose him, and he didn't disappoint.
He fumbled and bumbled deliciously in the wake of her. A confident stride in a decided direction soon faltered to accommodate a backward glance once, twice, three times in the direction of his Lady. What those glances procured must have been quite inspiring for he paused mid crosswalk, not at all concerned with the car edging forward, revving up the courage to beep. Reluctant steps eventually brought him to the safety of the opposite curb, where he turned in a haze and joined the flow of pedestrian traffic. The curls atop his head bounced above the crowd, which seemed to adopt his amorous amble. How tender.
I watched him recede with a smile all over my face.
No need for dessert, check please.
I noticed her first. Long auburn flecked hair blew over her face, concealing a sideways kiss. The recipient? An equally full-haired male with olive skin who hugged her closer before allowing her to step back and regather the straps of her handbag up around her bundled shoulder. They stood there, unwilling to let go of each others warmth just yet. Staring, saying nothing with words, emitting it all through energy and body heat.
They parted sooner than I was ready to let them go. As they set off in opposite directions I had a split second to decide who I'd follow with my eyes. Who would be more emotive, who would add more texture to this love story unfolding on an otherwise mundane corner. I chose him, and he didn't disappoint.
He fumbled and bumbled deliciously in the wake of her. A confident stride in a decided direction soon faltered to accommodate a backward glance once, twice, three times in the direction of his Lady. What those glances procured must have been quite inspiring for he paused mid crosswalk, not at all concerned with the car edging forward, revving up the courage to beep. Reluctant steps eventually brought him to the safety of the opposite curb, where he turned in a haze and joined the flow of pedestrian traffic. The curls atop his head bounced above the crowd, which seemed to adopt his amorous amble. How tender.
I watched him recede with a smile all over my face.
No need for dessert, check please.
Monday, July 19, 2010
LOVE (again)
"Le Baiser"/"The Kiss", Brancusi, circa 1908It's been an inescapable subject as of late. The recognition of it, the exploration of it and, throughout this past weekend, the loss of it; culminating yesterday in a tragic revelation - the sudden death of a great, great Man, who was also the Love of my friend's life. A love that took four years to germinate but, when matured, bloomed fluorescent and bold. An undeniably beautiful manifestation of one of the most mysterious and complex yet most rewarding elements of the human experience.
One thing I've noticed about love is that it very rarely comes "on time," meaning it rarely arrives or departs according to our projected timeline or the plans we make for ourselves. Yet it's a welcome disruption, sought after and played out again and again. Senseless, yet somehow knowing what we need more than we do ourselves; it's often something we'd never take back, no matter the pain.
This sculpture reminds me of you and your beloved, my Sweet. Gone in the physical sense but made eternal in your need to express it, to understand it. Two figures etched from the same matter. Embraced and immortalized in stone.
True love never truly departs.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
LOVE
and because i'm full of it today, here's a little, or a lot (however much you need, really) for you...
Friday, April 30, 2010
Joy and Pain
There are times when we all need a good cry, when we feel the need to let whatever vile solution that ails the heart escape our bodies in the form of liquid salt.
Last Friday I had ample inspiration to do so. I'd just received news that confirmed my third heartbreak in a record 1.5 years (insert self-loathing but pithy and comical comment here to relieve reader of the need to feel any empathy for me and my wanton ways of the heart). I left work early with a visual of my favorite chinese delivery menu in mind; I'd clearly go for General Tso's this time, a girl needed comfort. I emerged from the subway right onto the corner of South Portland and Fulton to taunting sunshine and the sounds of happy people clinking beers at Habana Outpost. My sunglasses pushed further up my nose, I quickened my pace, determined to make it home without any of the infamous run-ins Fort Greene is known for.
It's just like the universe to prove me stubborn and completely unaware of my needs. As I turned onto my block I saw one of my favorite, most kindred spirits sitting on a neighbor's stoop. She listened politely to my babbling filler, orchestrated to throw her off the scent of my true state of heart. She let me go but 5 minutes later my phone rang. She was outside.
We sat for an hour or so on my steps, the sun warming our legs. I told her what had happened and she listened, silently, only interjecting when she knew I was headed towards the deep end. She's my practical girlfriend, my "man in a skirt" so to speak. The only one who won't let me wallow and mope, but instead inches me toward reason and action. I bit at her sentences initially but eventually, as usual, I realized she was right. And I took the advice.
I still thought a good cry would be nice and so I gathered my things and headed indoors alone, to switch the jeans to cotton shorts, to draw the curtains, to find that menu. Just as I was hanging up with Hunan Delight, another friend called, one with amazing news. And she wanted to celebrate. She was on my corner in fact and could she come over? Of course. Tears deferred. She arrived moments late with a bottle of rosé champagne and some flowers that she thought would brighten my space. (Universe, is that you again?) Four hours later she left my apartment and me with no traces of sadness or the desire to induce it. I fell into a deep slumber, one of the better nights of sleep I'd had in awhile.
The weekend followed suit. Brunch in a sun-drenched window in the LES, shopping, a visiting friend from Munich, a dinner party and lots of reading, writing, learning. One week later, I still haven't cried and I don't think I will. One could say that's very New York. No time to process, moving on, moving on. I say it's a relief to know that joy can be more powerful than pain.
In slight recognition of the latter, I'll commemorate my heartache with this tune...
In the spirit of love and continued openness to its forces, I'll end with this one...
Last Friday I had ample inspiration to do so. I'd just received news that confirmed my third heartbreak in a record 1.5 years (insert self-loathing but pithy and comical comment here to relieve reader of the need to feel any empathy for me and my wanton ways of the heart). I left work early with a visual of my favorite chinese delivery menu in mind; I'd clearly go for General Tso's this time, a girl needed comfort. I emerged from the subway right onto the corner of South Portland and Fulton to taunting sunshine and the sounds of happy people clinking beers at Habana Outpost. My sunglasses pushed further up my nose, I quickened my pace, determined to make it home without any of the infamous run-ins Fort Greene is known for.
It's just like the universe to prove me stubborn and completely unaware of my needs. As I turned onto my block I saw one of my favorite, most kindred spirits sitting on a neighbor's stoop. She listened politely to my babbling filler, orchestrated to throw her off the scent of my true state of heart. She let me go but 5 minutes later my phone rang. She was outside.
We sat for an hour or so on my steps, the sun warming our legs. I told her what had happened and she listened, silently, only interjecting when she knew I was headed towards the deep end. She's my practical girlfriend, my "man in a skirt" so to speak. The only one who won't let me wallow and mope, but instead inches me toward reason and action. I bit at her sentences initially but eventually, as usual, I realized she was right. And I took the advice.
I still thought a good cry would be nice and so I gathered my things and headed indoors alone, to switch the jeans to cotton shorts, to draw the curtains, to find that menu. Just as I was hanging up with Hunan Delight, another friend called, one with amazing news. And she wanted to celebrate. She was on my corner in fact and could she come over? Of course. Tears deferred. She arrived moments late with a bottle of rosé champagne and some flowers that she thought would brighten my space. (Universe, is that you again?) Four hours later she left my apartment and me with no traces of sadness or the desire to induce it. I fell into a deep slumber, one of the better nights of sleep I'd had in awhile.
The weekend followed suit. Brunch in a sun-drenched window in the LES, shopping, a visiting friend from Munich, a dinner party and lots of reading, writing, learning. One week later, I still haven't cried and I don't think I will. One could say that's very New York. No time to process, moving on, moving on. I say it's a relief to know that joy can be more powerful than pain.
In slight recognition of the latter, I'll commemorate my heartache with this tune...
In the spirit of love and continued openness to its forces, I'll end with this one...
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Gil e Jorge
This morning I received my favorite kind of gift, music, from my best friend Carolina. Music is such a cherished gift for its intangible, transitory qualities. With just a few strings or a soulfully sung lyric it can take you immediately to a place. Whether somewhere better or somewhere worse, without fail it makes you feel something. It's such an expression of love, and you know I love that.
Brasilian music has an especially hypnotic quality and so I was thrilled to receive the album Gil e Jorge from the 70s, the collaboration of two greats - Gilberto Gil and Jorge Ben. The track "Morre O Burro Fica o Homem" had me doing a little diddy on the subway platform, it's upbeat samba convincing enough to make the sun awaken from its slumber, emerging to kiss my face as I stepped onto Spring Street.
Portuguese is a language of love. Even the word "saudade" (pronounced "sow-dahd-jee") is seductive and full of emotion. Although it describes a state of suffering, the implication is that you are suffering from having loved immensely. It's an amorous state of sadness. Portuguese also does one of the better jobs at expressing happiness and bliss. It's one of my favorite languages in which to hear, "I love you." "Eu te amo" might lie flat on paper but wait until you hear it live, like in this song "Quem Mandou (Pé Na Estrada)." Wait for the end, there's such passion in the repetition of this precious phrase...
Don't you feel it, the amor? Let it stay with you today turning somber to light, foggy to clear, closed to open.
Caro, thank you for this gift, eu te amo muito meninha.
Brasilian music has an especially hypnotic quality and so I was thrilled to receive the album Gil e Jorge from the 70s, the collaboration of two greats - Gilberto Gil and Jorge Ben. The track "Morre O Burro Fica o Homem" had me doing a little diddy on the subway platform, it's upbeat samba convincing enough to make the sun awaken from its slumber, emerging to kiss my face as I stepped onto Spring Street.
Portuguese is a language of love. Even the word "saudade" (pronounced "sow-dahd-jee") is seductive and full of emotion. Although it describes a state of suffering, the implication is that you are suffering from having loved immensely. It's an amorous state of sadness. Portuguese also does one of the better jobs at expressing happiness and bliss. It's one of my favorite languages in which to hear, "I love you." "Eu te amo" might lie flat on paper but wait until you hear it live, like in this song "Quem Mandou (Pé Na Estrada)." Wait for the end, there's such passion in the repetition of this precious phrase...
Don't you feel it, the amor? Let it stay with you today turning somber to light, foggy to clear, closed to open.
Caro, thank you for this gift, eu te amo muito meninha.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
500 Days of Summer
I've finally gotten around to watching 500 Days of Summer, a movie I was afraid to watch for fear it'd draw me back into a self pitied funk over love lost. Surprisingly, I sit here refreshed, feeling relieved.
There is no such thing as fate. Well, better said, fate is a hard reality to manifest. It requires that all parties are in alignment. And, in love, that is very rarely the case. One persons everything might be another persons right now; a memory etched as fragrant in the mind of one might have left nary an imprint on the heart of the other. Or, worse, be a sign of something amiss. It's all about perception, and timing. Nothing and everything personal. And, while this might seem obvious, sometimes we, or I, need to see it played out in the lives of others, or in art, for it to ring true once more. The heart is a remedial student.
Tonight I go to bed happy to lay the past to rest. Content to live in the present, even more content to say it and mean it. Day 1.
There is no such thing as fate. Well, better said, fate is a hard reality to manifest. It requires that all parties are in alignment. And, in love, that is very rarely the case. One persons everything might be another persons right now; a memory etched as fragrant in the mind of one might have left nary an imprint on the heart of the other. Or, worse, be a sign of something amiss. It's all about perception, and timing. Nothing and everything personal. And, while this might seem obvious, sometimes we, or I, need to see it played out in the lives of others, or in art, for it to ring true once more. The heart is a remedial student.
Tonight I go to bed happy to lay the past to rest. Content to live in the present, even more content to say it and mean it. Day 1.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Devil May Care (?)
This morning I woke up with the words "he who is wise never tries to reprise what's past and gone" passing through my consciousness. Random, yet not so random I suppose. It got me thinking about the lyrics to the song, "Devil May Care," originally sung by Sinatra I believe. Here they are below. Do you agree with this point of view? Seems carefree and lovely, really, but I am not sure I'm so capable...
"Devil May Care"
No cares for me
I'm happy as I can be
I learn to love and to live
Devil may care
No cares and woes
Whatever comes later goes
That's how I'll take and I'll give
Devil may care
When the day is through, I suffer no regrets
I know that he who frets, loses the night
For only a fool, thinks he can hold back the dawn
He who is wise never tries to revise what's past and gone
Live love today, love come tomorrow or May
Don't even stop for a sigh, it doesn't help if you cry
That's how I live and I'll die
Devil may care
The opening piano segment of Diana Kralls rendition, performed live in Paris, seems to try on the idea gingerly, gain a bit of confidence and then rush off in determination. What develops suggests a frenetic struggle with this philosophy. Manic, frantic, almost rushed so as not to feel. As if she's trying to convince herself, doggedly..
For me, the instrumentation accurately reflects the struggles of the heart. To say one thing and feel another. To come undone, some or all of the time.
"Devil May Care"
No cares for me
I'm happy as I can be
I learn to love and to live
Devil may care
No cares and woes
Whatever comes later goes
That's how I'll take and I'll give
Devil may care
When the day is through, I suffer no regrets
I know that he who frets, loses the night
For only a fool, thinks he can hold back the dawn
He who is wise never tries to revise what's past and gone
Live love today, love come tomorrow or May
Don't even stop for a sigh, it doesn't help if you cry
That's how I live and I'll die
Devil may care
The opening piano segment of Diana Kralls rendition, performed live in Paris, seems to try on the idea gingerly, gain a bit of confidence and then rush off in determination. What develops suggests a frenetic struggle with this philosophy. Manic, frantic, almost rushed so as not to feel. As if she's trying to convince herself, doggedly..
For me, the instrumentation accurately reflects the struggles of the heart. To say one thing and feel another. To come undone, some or all of the time.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Cold Sweat
I woke up in the middle of last night soaking wet, literally able to wring liquid out of the tank top in which I slept. I lie in bed evaluating the situation for a few moments, disoriented. Was it dry enough to sleep in, could I just take it off and sleep bare chested? No, the sheets were wet, too, and I remembered the lumpy sensation in my throat from the day before, a sure sign I'm coming down with something. So I fumbled through some drawers, blind, put on another nightie and bundled up again in the driest spot I could find between the sheets.
The sensation of cold sweat is something, isn't it. It implies that, at one point, things were hot, very hot. While you slept, comfortably, your body made beads. The cocoon you slept in increased their production, and you began to steam. It might have been lovely, depending on your propensity for warmth. But then, for some reason, the heat vanished and you awoke, startled at how cold things had turned. Vulnerable, in danger of getting sick, you woke yourself up to go about equalizing things back to normal.
There is a metaphor here. For me, the most immediate one is love. Hot, incubatory and lulling. Addictive in its comforts, producing all kinds of secretions of a physical and spiritual nature. Then gone, replaced by chills in the dark. Poetic but expected, no?
With further thought I find that it applies to a few areas of my life, and I am sure it applies to a few of yours. I'll let you fill in the blanks. And, as always, if you'd like to share the filling, please do.
The sensation of cold sweat is something, isn't it. It implies that, at one point, things were hot, very hot. While you slept, comfortably, your body made beads. The cocoon you slept in increased their production, and you began to steam. It might have been lovely, depending on your propensity for warmth. But then, for some reason, the heat vanished and you awoke, startled at how cold things had turned. Vulnerable, in danger of getting sick, you woke yourself up to go about equalizing things back to normal.
There is a metaphor here. For me, the most immediate one is love. Hot, incubatory and lulling. Addictive in its comforts, producing all kinds of secretions of a physical and spiritual nature. Then gone, replaced by chills in the dark. Poetic but expected, no?
With further thought I find that it applies to a few areas of my life, and I am sure it applies to a few of yours. I'll let you fill in the blanks. And, as always, if you'd like to share the filling, please do.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Medicine for Melancholy
Last night I stayed in to watch Medicine for Melancholy, Barry Jenkins directorial debut released around this time last year. Intermixed with decided commentary on the racial and political textures of a gentrifying San Francisco, it's the story of two young black adults who wake up to each other the morning after a one night stand. Over the next 24 hours the couple, Micah and Jo, pass through varying stages of intimacy, opening up and shutting down from take to take.
While slow and somewhat forced at points, the film captures the awkward yet charged energy that can pass between two strangers turned instant lovers turned "?" brilliantly. James Laxtons cinematography beautifully frames the subject matter. Desaturated color with touches of honey and rose and ebony give the sense of detachment, unfamiliarity, intimacy, romance all at once. It sets a dreamlike tone for a specific place in time that's not here nor there but exists somewhere inbetween; borrowed moments on loan, just enough for these two to figure out who and what they are to each other.
Is this another fleeting connection or the beginning of something solid? We're not sure and, because we're curious, because we've all lived these moments, we hang in there to see. I surely have lived such an experience, a few times, and I have cherished each one of them. The physical excitement, the intellectual stimulation, the pleasurable anxiety of not knowing what's to come. All of this came back to me as I watched Micah and Jo work through it on screen. The following words emerged, free flow, as the credits rolled...
honey and ebony
new discoveries sweetened by physical attraction
the way we reveal ourselves slowly, with time
nuances peeping out unabashed after enough time has passed together
you take salt with your eggs
he has to walk on the inside of the sidewalk, a quirk you notice and he admits, intrigued that you picked up on this
this might be something
smiles emerging from stoic jawlines
how we can learn from someone new, unknown, fresh
body language relaxing, turning concave and convex in the right direction, in favor of the other
a day that rolls on because you both dread goodbye
too curious to press pause, afraid it might be a full stop
so you invent hunger, find thirst,
space for one more cappuccino, interest in seeing a show you know nothing about
one more stop
cruising to the rhythm of the other, unknown but comforting, magnetic
and you start to buzz below
no longer in need of the safety of public places
you want to be alone with him
then the love scene
confirmed, satiated
all day marathon rolls to night
dinner time
cook or go out
before you know it you're filling roles you didn't know you were auditioning for
leaning over him to turn on the stove, grinding pepper
couple, you, he, we
cool
and then the different light reality casts
I'd recommend you see the film and, if you'd like to share, I'd love to hear the associations it brings for you.
Tall Enough
More work by Barry Jenkins and his team can be found at Strike Anywhere Films. Check out Tall Enough. I'm digging his eye and his subject matter.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Works of Heart
For each of us there are certain images and sounds that hold personal relevance..that elicit raw emotion, make our eyes moisten, hearts soften, bodies sway. Different from person to person, these sights and sounds have the same effect on us all. They often take us back to a place, highlighting particular stretches on our emotional roadmap that, whether good or bad, made a deep impression on us.
It's beautiful when these works of heart revisit us from one lifetime to another, from one experience to the next, accumulating more meaning along the way. Almodóvar and the song "Cucurrucucu" sung by Caetano Veloso in his movie "Hable Con Ella" hold such significance for me. I grew to adore this music through love, I rediscovered it years later while falling in love, and I lost it when love walked out the door, my CD tucked into his coat pocket. Amor ganado, perdido, ever evolving, that is what this music means to me.
This morning I awoke to this video, a montage of "Hable Con Ella" set to my song, posted by a friend who has no idea what he has gifted me. He's brought "Cucurrucucu" back into my life, giving it and me new breath.
It's beautiful when these works of heart revisit us from one lifetime to another, from one experience to the next, accumulating more meaning along the way. Almodóvar and the song "Cucurrucucu" sung by Caetano Veloso in his movie "Hable Con Ella" hold such significance for me. I grew to adore this music through love, I rediscovered it years later while falling in love, and I lost it when love walked out the door, my CD tucked into his coat pocket. Amor ganado, perdido, ever evolving, that is what this music means to me.
This morning I awoke to this video, a montage of "Hable Con Ella" set to my song, posted by a friend who has no idea what he has gifted me. He's brought "Cucurrucucu" back into my life, giving it and me new breath.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A Love Letter For You
I've just come across the Philly based public art project,
"A Love Letter For You." Created by the Mural Art Program and Philly-born/New York-based artist, Steve Powers, it consists of 50 murals painted on rooftops along the Market Street corridor from 45th to 63rd streets. Excerpts from a love letter written by a fictional character, Fire, to his girlfriend, Barbara, are chopped up and scrawled on each mural, big and bright.
Messages also express the love of an artist for his native town and of locals for their neighborhood.
Viewers are encouraged to ride the Market-Frankford elevated transit line for the best angles. And SEPTA has chimed in with its "Moving Love Story" contest, which will reward the best love stories ignited while riding their transit system.
I like the message and the scale of this project. Well designed and right out there for everyone to see in the midst of their day, hopefully inspiring viewers to reach out, speak out and love more. Yum.
Below find a map should you be inspired to make an amorous pilgrimage (click to enlarge). All 50 murals and more information can be found on the official website.
Enjoy it, spread it.
*photo credit : all images from www.aloveletterforyou.com
Saturday, January 16, 2010
pairs of chairs
Another early Saturday morning well accompanied, this time by the musings of my friend and sister poetess, Marina Garcia-Vasquez. I admire the way she views this world and shares it with us, open-hearted and tender. Check out her blog pairs of chairs. Things she writes, things she sees, things she's inspired by and inspires with. Displayed with the opposite of fear, displayed with love. One poem in particular speaks to this super human trait. I hope you don't mind, Miss Marina...
Summer Ending by MGV:
We thought that we had arrived
The destination a date in fall
A summer ending in bright beaches, bodies,
Bare nights and white pillows
A backdrop to seduction in late night discussions
Back to back nestled in …
An idea of partnering, pairing
Becomes exotic a reaching point
An arc in a story
It finally arrives and with it doubt
The unraveling and unprepared
The risk of putting it on owning it
Then not being ready for it.
We shall see
We shall feel
And we do
Continue on
Through worded talks
Blue walls, busy sidewalks, office emails
The daily organization of life and then the idea
The pop-up store, the well-curated love
Carefully planned, photographed, a perfect pair
Sellable, palatable, people buy it.
It looks good it works
Oh but the work
No more easy distribution no more easy time
We come to the sidewalk, bare and twisted
The countdown the inevitable
The sun rises and sets, this sentence and a period
One foot in front of the other
Sure we are on a journey but we don’t want to make it
Paired
It’s easy and it’s difficult.
It’s burdened by desire. Burdened by the idea of polished and perfect and momentous.
It is momentous.
We have decided.
Summer Ending by MGV:
We thought that we had arrived
The destination a date in fall
A summer ending in bright beaches, bodies,
Bare nights and white pillows
A backdrop to seduction in late night discussions
Back to back nestled in …
An idea of partnering, pairing
Becomes exotic a reaching point
An arc in a story
It finally arrives and with it doubt
The unraveling and unprepared
The risk of putting it on owning it
Then not being ready for it.
We shall see
We shall feel
And we do
Continue on
Through worded talks
Blue walls, busy sidewalks, office emails
The daily organization of life and then the idea
The pop-up store, the well-curated love
Carefully planned, photographed, a perfect pair
Sellable, palatable, people buy it.
It looks good it works
Oh but the work
No more easy distribution no more easy time
We come to the sidewalk, bare and twisted
The countdown the inevitable
The sun rises and sets, this sentence and a period
One foot in front of the other
Sure we are on a journey but we don’t want to make it
Paired
It’s easy and it’s difficult.
It’s burdened by desire. Burdened by the idea of polished and perfect and momentous.
It is momentous.
We have decided.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Birthday Love
9:40am the morning after my birthday and I'm up. Plight of the Capricorn? Nah. What really woke me up is the residual love I feel and will feel for some time, literally a buzzing sensation, gifted by the beautiful people in my world. I am so blessed to be surrounded by so many solid souls.
My friends, ever plotting, organized all gift giving around a central theme, my growing obsession with all things French. In preparation for the French language lessons I start in February, I received parcel after parcel of francophile friendly delights. I could launch quite the scène romantique in here with all of it. Deep soaking in salts from the south of France, crimson painted toes invisible beneath mounds of foam...alternating between What French Women Know, Merde The Real French You Were Never Taught in School and Les Demains d'Al Manach...lazying about in RUFFIAN hand-sewn hosiery, one hand in a box of Ladurée macaroons... circling mouth with grown woman lipstick for hours, aided by a très mignon hand mirror...more macaroons between applications...finally dressing and making moves toward the door in a mist of Eau de Lierre. Le Pop 4 throughout. Ah, I like this scène, I just might live it.
But all material things aside, the best gift I have received is LOVE. Trite but true, it's all about love. And last night it bounced about marvelously. I smiled molar to molar to see my different sources of love come together, Spain and Ecuador, Brooklyn and Brown, friends old and new. The place was aglow with love and I couldn't lap up or parcel out enough of it. It was a beautiful, beautiful birthday. Thank you, friends.
My friends, ever plotting, organized all gift giving around a central theme, my growing obsession with all things French. In preparation for the French language lessons I start in February, I received parcel after parcel of francophile friendly delights. I could launch quite the scène romantique in here with all of it. Deep soaking in salts from the south of France, crimson painted toes invisible beneath mounds of foam...alternating between What French Women Know, Merde The Real French You Were Never Taught in School and Les Demains d'Al Manach...lazying about in RUFFIAN hand-sewn hosiery, one hand in a box of Ladurée macaroons... circling mouth with grown woman lipstick for hours, aided by a très mignon hand mirror...more macaroons between applications...finally dressing and making moves toward the door in a mist of Eau de Lierre. Le Pop 4 throughout. Ah, I like this scène, I just might live it.
But all material things aside, the best gift I have received is LOVE. Trite but true, it's all about love. And last night it bounced about marvelously. I smiled molar to molar to see my different sources of love come together, Spain and Ecuador, Brooklyn and Brown, friends old and new. The place was aglow with love and I couldn't lap up or parcel out enough of it. It was a beautiful, beautiful birthday. Thank you, friends.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Saturdays with Jonathan
Jonathan Schwartz is the kind of man I hope to wake up 40 years from now and find myself lying next to. Thoughtful, knowledgeable, extremely romantic, endlessly soulful. Knows how to set a mood...when to speak and when to let the silence say more.
I have no idea what he looks like. I have fallen in love with his words and the curatorial, musical genius he gifts on his Saturday Show on WNYC. And now it doesn't really matter what he looks like, does it? I almost prefer not to know:)
He started todays show with Melody Gardot's "If The Stars Were Mine.." Perfect for this beautiful Fall day...
I have no idea what he looks like. I have fallen in love with his words and the curatorial, musical genius he gifts on his Saturday Show on WNYC. And now it doesn't really matter what he looks like, does it? I almost prefer not to know:)
He started todays show with Melody Gardot's "If The Stars Were Mine.." Perfect for this beautiful Fall day...
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Paris
So I'm in Paris. I should have been writing to you from the beginning. By now the nuances and details I so enjoy documenting have melded into overall impressions and feelings. I regret not having rushed back to unload those tidbits, but I felt the need to absorb. There is just so much to absorb. I'll go back and tease out those intricacies at some point, they're too good not to share. For now, my first impressions...
I'm falling for Paris, no surprise there. But I didn't imagine she'd fall, too; that she'd treat me with such favor, revealing her inner most workings with such ease and pleasure; that she'd offer up her best people, full of warmth and a desire to share, to exchange; that she'd literally call my name in the form of a chamber choir singing into the rafters of the Notre Dame.
There is mutual attraction here, the letting down of guards, desire satiated and renewed yet again. I am humbled, stimulated, exhausted, yet wanting more. Like laying next to a new lover, two heads sunken into one pillow, depleted of energy yet unable to relieve heavy lids. Out of a need to stay connected, out of excitement for what's to come...
Hosanna in Paris by Zana-DO
I'm falling for Paris, no surprise there. But I didn't imagine she'd fall, too; that she'd treat me with such favor, revealing her inner most workings with such ease and pleasure; that she'd offer up her best people, full of warmth and a desire to share, to exchange; that she'd literally call my name in the form of a chamber choir singing into the rafters of the Notre Dame.
There is mutual attraction here, the letting down of guards, desire satiated and renewed yet again. I am humbled, stimulated, exhausted, yet wanting more. Like laying next to a new lover, two heads sunken into one pillow, depleted of energy yet unable to relieve heavy lids. Out of a need to stay connected, out of excitement for what's to come...
Hosanna in Paris by Zana-DO
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Body Language
You stole my words.
Usurped them up through a straw,
blew them over my head
into the slight crevices of my elbows,
down deep into my eardrums
where they resonate sweetly.
I've never had someone conduct such an in depth conversation with my shoulder blade.
Not sure what you told her, but she's now alive,
sitting higher underneath the strap of my camisole,
taking the right of way when she bumps into strangers.
A Queen she is.
I wish you'd have a conversation with her sister.
For the sake of my alignment, of course.
Usurped them up through a straw,
blew them over my head
into the slight crevices of my elbows,
down deep into my eardrums
where they resonate sweetly.
I've never had someone conduct such an in depth conversation with my shoulder blade.
Not sure what you told her, but she's now alive,
sitting higher underneath the strap of my camisole,
taking the right of way when she bumps into strangers.
A Queen she is.
I wish you'd have a conversation with her sister.
For the sake of my alignment, of course.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Brooklyn Love
I was so delighted to see each of my Beauties paired with an equally beautiful Gentleman last night.
Summer Love is usually so ostentatious, played out en super vivo, on dance floors, at boozy bbqs, in as little clothing as possible. This has surely gone down, as it should, but last night showed signs of substance behind the hype, of true feelings behind the hormonal frenzy. Couples rested their bones together. Gentlemen, aware, left voids in space in the perfect shape of my Ladies' hips, hair, cheekbones. Fingers intertwined with no signs of coming undone. Now that's a Brooklyn epidemic I love to see.
Live it, Ladies, and pass it on. Mua.
A note I wrote on the wall months ago that felt especially possible last night. Ignore the hater above.
Computer Love;)
Summer Love is usually so ostentatious, played out en super vivo, on dance floors, at boozy bbqs, in as little clothing as possible. This has surely gone down, as it should, but last night showed signs of substance behind the hype, of true feelings behind the hormonal frenzy. Couples rested their bones together. Gentlemen, aware, left voids in space in the perfect shape of my Ladies' hips, hair, cheekbones. Fingers intertwined with no signs of coming undone. Now that's a Brooklyn epidemic I love to see.
Live it, Ladies, and pass it on. Mua.
A note I wrote on the wall months ago that felt especially possible last night. Ignore the hater above.
Computer Love;)
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