Love sounds good...

...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

Que rica la sombra..

this morning i reached for my ipod, in search of a meditation track i wanted to listen to. i could locate this track blind, having reached for it in darkness, both figuratively and literally, many times. this morning my fingers expertly rounded the white circular center of the little device; 3-4 motions to the right, a few quickened revolutions to move down the track list, maybe a counter clockwise dip back to account for an over zealous digit, and then "play". but instead of the calming, opening chords i expected, i heard these bright, curious notes...

(adjust the volume within the player if you need to)

the voice of javier ruibal - impassioned, alive, so in love with his subject - enveloped me. and i let it. i got lost in it, understanding that i not only need to hear but also accept and ingest these exultations, these expressions of love. a reminder that i am loved, in general, and that such a romantic love can and does exist.

a premonition, a glimpse. the future reaching back to coax me forward, towards what's to come.

Ay, al revuelo de tu falda
que fresquito es el verano
dame tu boca de limonada
y cura mis labios que estan quemados

Ay, que me importa a mi el levante
si nos vamos por la orilla
yo vivo el sueño del navegante
y sueño que te llevo la sombrilla

Y a la magia de las velas
no hay estrella que te iguale
cuando la sangre se desordena
atrapa mi corazon que se sale

y en las cumbres de tu cuerpo
se enreda toda la luna
y mas alla todo es incierto
...bendita verdad si tu te desnudas

Ay, toito cai lo traigo andao
desde el puerto hasta Sahara
tengo la fiebre del alunao
seria el delirio si me besaras

Ay, toito cai y lo que queda
me lo traigo cabilao
que ya no hay brisa sin tu malena
que rica la sombra que hay a tu lao
que rica la sombra que hay a tu lao

Uh, pero tienes la costumbre
de poner agua por medio
donde esta el faro que a ti te alumbre
y donde la isla de tu misterio

y de repente ya te has ido
mas alla del rompe olas
sola en la tierra, en la mar sola
no se si te tengo o si te he perdido

Ay, toito cai lo traigo andao
desde el puerto hasta Sahara
tengo la fiebre del alunao
seria el delirio si me besaras

Ay, toito cai y lo que queda
me lo traigo cabilao
que ya no hay brisa sin tu malena
que rica la sombra que hay a tu lao
que rica la sombra que hay a tu lao

que rica la sombra que hay a tu lao
que rica la sombra que hay a tu lao

happy fourth

my plans for a july 4th weekend spent on a farm in vermont have been foiled. but life continues to be a wonderful mélange, a random cacaphony that's sometimes pleasant to these expectant ears.

friday evening began with a walk on the highline. a zip up broadway to a lecture on the phenomenon of supernovae at columbia university's pupin hall of physics, where my companion and i compared the attraction and repulsion of the circling neutrons in pulsars to our matters of the heart. a stroll up a leafy, quiet, northern stretch of broadway to a morningside heights dive bar where we muscled down burgers with hefeweizen. and then, because things were just too decent, a zoom back down to the meatpacking district where, low and behold, we were admitted without much muss to one of the most exclusive perches in the clouds - the boom boom room, in all it's cream and golden glory, and le bain, it's adjoining terrace complete with a bubbling whirlpool, lush faux grass beneath the toes and circular waterbeds the color of pink flamencos beneath the bum. (they must not have smelled the alkaline remnants of physics nerd on us)

saturday began late and still sleep deprived, kick started by the sounds of impatient text messages from myriad sources. i half watched the sorrow that was the argentina-germany game as i swung a skirt around the waist and applied sunscreen to the exposed regions. an hour and a half later, having navigated the haze that is grand central station, a breakfast sandwich tucked under the arm, i collapsed into the seat of a train headed north up the hudson river. fighting to keep the lids extended, i marveled at grassy mountain after mountain jutted out over expansive river, intermixed with tiny, overgrown islands laden with abandoned fortresses. what life must have been like when they were in use, what life must be like for their contemporary inhabitants; a far cry from the den of iniquity i'd said goodnight to the previous evening.

some time later i was shook awake. we were there, at the beacon train station, a 5 minute walk from dia:beacon. molested at the thought of having to muster enough energy and intelligence to ingest and respond to art, i shuffled and grunted. upon reaching the promontory that looked down on the museum, i was disappointed to see a less than impressive external shell, a one-story factory. i quickly self-regulated upon entering the cafe and bookstore, however. coke in bottles (one of my favorite indulgences), ronnybrook farms yogurt (a sign that dia:beacon is gastronomically conscious), homemade creamsicles from the adjoining town, gus organic sodas and a bowl of homemade black bean and corn soup that whisked by (further evidence of the same) hushed my whimpers. a floorplan in hand, my inner arty perked, i was ready to go.

needless to say, dia:beacon impresses, not just with the works of Sol LeWitt (crazy genius), John Chamberlain, Richard Serra and Andy Warhol, but with the space itself. wide, white halls that take a good 2 minutes to traverse with intention, a good 30 minutes if you're stopping to ingest each piece; vaulted ceilings with paned skylights on slant that dance off of elements poignantly, particularly in the subterranean, shaded space where richard serra's torqued ellipses I, II, and III live. and then, the best part, the sunken, slate grey sofas that beg for lounging interspersed throughout, allowing one to lay back and absorb the moment. it's just brilliant.

because i always try to follow the rules (smile) and photography was prohibited, we only took a few shots at close range with my iphone. hopefully this will give you a taste. you'll be pleased if you go and see the rest for yourself..

this morning, sunday, i awoke early to write to you. i feel i have neglected you, the words that escape my fingers as of late have been for my eyes only. this post is a make-up of sorts, a gest and request for re-acquaintance. so, hello.

this afternoon i board another mode of transportation, this time headed south towards the delaware river where i will flirt with cabin living. lake swimming, bonfires. midnight hikes and sleeping in a tent if i'm so bold or well accompanied.

happy fourth of july, à bientôt.

Top of the Rock

The Art of Conversation

I've been meaning to go and experience Tino Sehgals exhibit at the Guggenheim entitled, "This Progress." Apparently not a single sculpture or painting adorns the upward swirling hallways of the galleries. The art is the people; the improvised interaction between yourself and four human beings who ask you a series of evolving questions around the theme of progress. You extract as much or as little from the piece as you give. I think that's just brilliant.

I've just listened to Kurt Andersens interview with Sehgal on Studio 360. Take a listen here, and think about how you'd respond...what is progress to you?



I'll be going before it closes on March 10th and welcome any company.

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.

First Snow

Snow has this settling quality. While it falls, before it gets too thick and untrodden, you have time to identify exactly where you want to be and get there, merrily all the way of course. Those drifting snowflakes and untouched quiet, white streets are so majestic and calming. Once you arrive, you unload your reinforcements - reading materials, a bottle of wine, some groceries and/or takeout menus from a few restaurants with a staunch work ethic - and you marinate. You'd better be happy with where you land 'cause you might be in there for awhile. And that's all the fun, settling in for an undetermined period of time, indulging dramatically in one of the last survivalist rituals in a society of twitter and on demand everything.

Inside your cocoon you amuse yourself with whatever is around - a lover, npr, a recipe you've wanted to try and have managed to scrounge up the most obscure ingredients for, that organizational project you've put off, a writing project you've also put off. The point is that you have time, more than you've had this entire season, and that's a luxury. For me the most rewarding luxury time can gift is the ability to sit still and let my mind slow and sharpen, to take deeper more fulfilling breaths, to let sufficient oxygen flow to my brain, enough to experience more complete, compelling thoughts and feelings.

In moving from rote behavior to moving and thinking with intention and awareness, my creativity comes out. I start to notice the small things, the quiet things that for me hold the most inspiration. Like how striking my blue plastic wrapped NYT looked all nestled in the snow atop my stoop this morning, the only trace of humanity in the heavy booted footprints that seemed to have come and gone in the same imprints on the stairs; how one can note the relationship status of each neighbor by counting the number of snow-caked boots and umbrellas discarded outside their front door, and how two sets of boots and a girly hat hung outside A1 may mean that my lonely neighbor might be coming out of his funk; how one weeks worth of clothing unceremoniously thrown onto the settee in the corner resembles the shape of an old lovers body in his favorite sleeping position, a mass of black hosiery simulating the bend at his waist, a grey sweater impersonating a tucked arm.

It turns out that my hibernation here might not last that long. One thing the city does efficiently is plow and salt the streets in a timely manner. I could keep the brunch plans I've made and I probably will. But for now I'll pretend I have no recourse, no other choice but to stay cooped up here, settled in indefinitely, for a little while longer.

Ce matin

A morning spent buried under 3 blankets and the New York Times,
ignoring the dust bunnies irreverently procreating in the corners,
munching on peanut butter and honey toast.
That's what I want.
Grocery shopping and brunch plans and sunshine to the wind,
delegated to those with more ambitious aims.
This morning,
regardless of the weather and who might beckon,
the universe ends beyond these four walls.
Just me, hiding out.
Well accompanied by talk radio, a mound of reading
and, of course, good music.

Shamoosi

My Mother's name is Linda but I call her Shamoosi, a name I made up around 8th grade when adolescence and childhood were mixed up in an awkward knot, in that undefined space in which one holds onto yet rejects the infantile love that's been bestowed upon them. There is much evidence for the case that I am her daughter. Her eloquence, her intelligence, the way things have to be juust right have all wiggled their way into my psyche and way of doing things. But, at the same time, we are so different. Her style has rounded, polished edges, I am more mix and match. She is conservative, I am a ranting liberal by comparison. Sometimes I say things that make her lips hug together in shock.

Last night that facial expression was exacted by my proclamation that I will never wear a diamond. It's true, I have never seen my style naturally melding with something so shiny and in your face. Don't get me wrong, I like nice things, but of a different tonality. Because she is my Mother she pressed me on this declaration, telling me that I deserve nothing less. "I know," I said, "you taught me that. I know what I am worth, but I want something different." "Oh Hosanna," she said, "always pushing it." Being her daughter, would she expect anything less?

This morning I woke up, sauntered into the living room and caught a glimpse of something glistening back at me over the rim of my coffee cup. A ring, a black diamond ring, sitting on top of the heap of brass and silver jewelry I had relieved myself of the night before. I smiled, instantly knowing where it had come from. It's beautiful, more slate in color than opaque black, an oval shape set in a silver braided band. It was my Aunt Lois' she tells me, gifted to her and now gifted to me. "It looks vintage," she says, knowing her customer. "I'll take it," I happily relent.

Thank you, Shamoosi, I love you.

Familia

If you're blessed you can probably count off a few non-nuclear, surrogate families you have accumulated over the years. I certainly can, and I am proud to say that my family is beautifully colorful.

On Friday night I found myself at the going away dinner of two sister friends from Barcelona who have spent the past 2 months living in New York. We'd taken the long route to the restaurant, winding through crowded pedestrian streets. The two of them ambled as they tried to absorb everything they'd gained, sifting through what they'd take and what they'd leave behind. I recognized that look of gratefulness and extreme sadness, acceptance and denial. It's the same face I wore during my last few days in Buenos Aires.

Sitting at a table of 8 close friends their tears finally came, brimmed up and released by cheeks swollen with laughter. And they didn't stop for some time. A Korean friend leaned over and asked me how to say "I miss you" in Spanish. We spoke the phrase back and forth to each other a few times, her pronunciation becoming more acute, and then she asked me to write it down. "Te echo de menos" in Spain, "te extraño" in Central and South America. Five minutes later I saw that same napkin half way across the table, being passed from person to person, receiving an additional etching with each turn. Japanese characters, Korean phrases written in both the Roman and traditional alphabets, a drawn map of Barcelona, nicknames embellished with fat curly-cued letters, "te quiero" and other Spanish endearments littered the page. After many squeezes I eventually poured myself into a cab, satisfied knowing that our linguistically limited yet fluent family will have an autumnal reunion in Europe. Can't wait.

I woke up early on Saturday and headed to Connecticut to see another family of whom I am an adopted member - the Iranian and Trinidadian blood relatives of my tall beauty of a friend, Tisola. The last time we'd all been together was for her wedding. Yesterdays celebration was in honor of her baby bump. 8 months in she was beaming and hilarious as ever, guffawing about a "pregnant lady" shoot she'd just done with Nigel Barker in which he had to ask her to put more clothes on. Typical Ti.

In true Iranian-Trinidadian style, a flavor they've perfected over decades, the party was long, loud and belly-busting. Surrounded by prodding Aunties I was ordered to "eat, eat, eat!" while they questioned why I am no longer with my ex, a talented photographer who took pictures of the wedding in Tobago. After the third go-round, I realized what was going on. They'd wanted him to take pictures of the shower but had not asked him because of me. Sweet and wholly unnecessary. In that moment I realized that I was, that I am, family...that they want to protect me and see me happy. In this family that means steady beaus, white gowns and, eventually, bumps.

Ti's Grandmother touched my flat(ish) stomach and wished upon me a baby of my own. Though that's not for me right now, something about feeling her wrinkled, regal hand resting on my belly made me drink the Koolaid, if only for a moment. I have to admit I "tried on" a little girl of about 4 who looked like she could be mine, supporting her on my knee as I stroked her hair and let her play with my necklaces. That's the thing about family - though we might buck against its traditions we often find ourselves eventually tamed, or we create our own renditions. Call it biology, call it societal conditioning, it's really the basic need to give and receive love.

Next weekend I am going home to see my original family - the one that gave me life, made me who I am and made it possible for all other families to form.

canción para hoy

I was quite surprised to receive so many responses to my last entry. Thank you for letting me know you're out there. And for the words of support, as well as reproach.

In return here's a song. One of my favorites, in message and melody.

chiquilines, en la vida
hay que vivir el momento
que no se juegan descuentos
para sacar lo de adentro

aunque a veces todo duela
y hasta el alma se te casque
el corazón gana siempre
cuando por fin despertaste

la voz, los días, las penas
se van por la misma senda,
las penas que sean de otros
y la dicha del que aprenda

piso mio

sunday morning.
bed unmade.
love?
well...

Pie Jesu

I was a music geek as a child. I can remember my first evaluation with Mr. Kolb, who would become my piano teacher. I, a nervous nine year old. He, a very tall, youthful man with fluffy hair, round glasses and a very jovial attitude towards music. We sat side by side on the bench. He tapped a simple beat on the glossy wood and asked me to repeat it. This went another 10 rounds, the beats becoming more syncopated and complex, my excitement rising. At the end of the exercise, I was deemed a promising talent and my musical education began.

Next came solfege classes (do-mi-mi, mi-sol-sol, re-fa-fa, la-ti-ti), a position as an Alto II in the Virginia Children's Chorus and Summers spent at Walden, a music camp in Dublin, New Hampshire. There I wrote music, sang Gregorian chants and shimmied down the fire escape late at night to swim to the middle of the deep, black lake with the "big" kids. Good times that dwindled around 8th grade, when a heavy course load required a choice between music and dance.

This morning, those years came rushing back to me in the form of a song. I lay there with my pillow over my eyes, half meditating, and I heard it. The first chords of Pie Jesu. I started to hum and then I started to sing, surprised that I remember of all those Latin words. Whoever taught it to me imprinted it upon my heart, on a part that's been in shadow but was awakened for some reason this morning. I started to tear. It's a beautiful piece and I want to share it with you.

Listen, enjoy!



Pie Jesu, Pie Jesu
Pie Jesu, Pie Jesu
Qui tollis peccata mundi
Dona eis requiem
Dona eis requiem

Angus Dei, Angus Dei
Angus Dei, Angus Dei
Qui tollis peccata mundi
Dona eis requiem
Dona eis requiem
Sempiternam, sempiternam requiem

Hallelujah

A friend of mine just gave me a beautiful gift. She sent me an email with a link from the NYT, a response to my post from yesterday. Was so nice to see that someone actually reads what I write and, more importantly, that it means something to them. Thank you, Lizzie.

Here is the link she sent me - the artist Maira Kalman's colorful account of Inauguration Day. Isn't it beautiful?

"E-mail This"

Every Sunday, almost without fail, I receive an email from the New York Times. Not just the blanket email blast of the day's headlines, but something more personalized. From a friend who read an article, thought of me and clicked that oh-so-helpful "Email" button to send it my way. It's usually in support of something I'm into or am going through - recipes for a Moroccan meal; a restaurant review; 36 hrs in Buenos Aires which, last Spring, resulted in a flight confirmation email in my inbox about 20 minutes later; a Modern Love article meant to give me hope after a romantic letdown; a book review. Yes, this could be just another way for the NYT to gather facts that will be used to sell us more stuff we don't need and can't afford. But the sender's intentions and the effect on the recipient far outweigh any sinister marketing motives. Those articles are sent and received out of love and hope. They're some of my favorite emails each week.

Today I received an article on a new dance studio in Brooklyn. I forwarded an article on unconventional ways to display and sell artwork to an artist friend, and another article about the shifting rental market to a couple who has sold their home and are contemplating where to go next. Nothing that will change anyone's life, but it might. At a minimum, it shows you care.