In the morning, I awoke to sawdust and sea breezes. I was building a boat by the calm waters. The sun was shining. I was looking at the tool in my hand. My fingers were laced, gentle, around it, well manicured but weathered, seeking only the finest of the physical pleasures. I was not happy, rather contented in how I had come to this place. I was no longer a slave to the future, nor harbored in the shelter of past. I felt no longer a sense of loss, I was empty and I was full.


let's look at this year in time::::looking::::looking:::::looking:::::::

confused.
loss.
sublimation.
defenses.
adagios.
calm into the ground.
deep breath.
extend.
loss.
confused.
pain.
defenses.
breaking.
softening.
wondering.
puzzled.
frustration.
deep breath.
words.
loss.
deep breath.
words.
loss.
deep breath.
anger.
paint.
paint.
paint.
fresh, winter air.
sublimation.
adagios.
extension.
attempted release.




i woke up this morning to this song on the radio:::

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLJf9qJHR3E



I cannot help but wonder what happened with this year. I have never felt so alive and I have never felt so much pain. I have never witnessed so much blatant fear within myself. I have never been so brave. I have never allowed myself to feel this much. I have never allowed myself to get so close to two people and have them both...go.

I wonder if it is something I should write about, as it is so real to me. It clenches my very heart and rips it down into my stomach. I am weakened, I am not a person, I am an amoeba that is feeling with strange tentacles out into the universe.

I twinge between right and wrong. Things happened. I started to care for other persons outside myself. Is this maturation? I don't know when to forgive and when to forget, when to cling and when to let go. It is all such a mess. I want to do what is "best", but "best" seems to have so many psychological attachments to it, strings, etc. Sitting here, with the newest year steadily approaching, I know nothing of what I thought I knew this time last year.

All I know is that my heart beats deeper, fuller, rounder, and that maybe with time, I will come to some sort of balance, some understanding, of the physics of relation to the other. My current trend is pushing, deeper, digging farther, only to enable honest release and further extension. I notice a difference---
one break had healing qualities
one break had destructive qualities

and it is in the forces of conversation and communication that collide that leaves one freedom and fullness from the break.

otherwise, the walls, the icy conundrum of dispersed feelings becomes cause for confusion and feelings of inexplicable loss.

It's like, when a loved one passes and you have time to say goodbye, there is a sense of healing involved. A death unwarned, is a thorn in every part of the body, a heaving of sorrow on a spring bed in Vermont, a silent October night in an apartment.

A non communicative break of connection, relation, and feeling is just another death, a thorn in every part of the body, a heaving of sorrow on a June linen.




towards an honest and witty, heartfelt and rational:




(((((two thousand and eleven.)))))





K

books, mountains and the unfailing french press.

((((((((((reading a good book has this impressive ability to make one softer and more alert.

similar to the after affects of just having summited an east coast mountain.)))))))))))




things recently noted or passed through the cerebral cortex:

yesterday I met with an acquaintance of mine at La Colombe (the cafe of hours long discourse as it produces only the best) I wouldn't quite call her an acquaintance, but a rare individual with whom I can meet and sit after not seeing for six months and delve into the most depth of analysis. She shared with me a story of a trip upon which she had gone. A trip that I took three years ago. Most of the story was curdled up around a particular person and the effect this person had on her throughout her travels. We discussed the power of strange connection with another. The kind that stems from an unexplicable source. As if there is a direct pathway between two, yes, I will say it, souls that arches upward and over the constructs of space and time. We disliked having to admit the possibility of other lives, other means of having connected.

We discussed how these connections have no reason attached to them. That is, no reason from the functioning of the current worldy ebb and flow. Rather, the reason has some foreign taste to it, and yet an all too familiar ring. Like that place, the one you've never been to before. That person, whom you've seemingly known them for a very long time has just entered the room.

Intuitively, we know these people. Yet, as our intuition becomes clouded, these ethereal connections don't have the ability to be cultivated. Or they are temporary and fleeting. Either way, they do not fit in with the individualized strain of survival via Western world.

All of this may seem a bit hookey. As I write it out, I feel it hookey too. And yet, there have been times that I have known things as if they were codes in my DNA. About a person, about a place, and I think there's power to it. A power that I have very little courage to explore, and for that matter even taste. I've been hurt by this power, once, twice, maybe more, because it is not well received and sometimes, in order to survive, I need to ignore it. Or think I need to ignore it.

but there it is, in literature, stories, those who not only entertained this power, but were awash in it. I'm drawn to these stories, I'm drawn to these characters. I'm drawn to the few people I meet who seem to have embellished this power and made it their very nourishment and survival.




this may or may not make sense.


on a more level headed note-

focus is achieved through focus

I hate most of the clothes in my closet

and

NEED A HAIRCUT.




GOODBYE.

the hawk

there was a hawk perched upon a Sycamore branch after school.



It was one of the most majestic things I have yet to witness.

circles, lines, and decaying closets.

you know, i think so often it happens that we are going about in circles and circles and circles until one day we stop:::::: and then begin to go in a straight line.



the whole time thinking, whilst in these circles that we have begun or started or commenced with what we had intended.



realizing, our illusion, once a grand muse, is now a dying piece of sound and we stand, stripped, hopeless, lacking---silent.



Then, taking a step, or making a sound with our voice, that may very well be the first real one.






Something else happened too::: the other day I awoke to look in my closet and drawers and find my clothes no longer a reflection of myself. I told V about it and she agreed saying "this happens to me a lot". It came out of nowhere.



So we are going and going and going and stopping slightly to realize how much we have changed, what is different, our hair is longer and needs trimmed. We let things become us, jobs, ideas, clothes, rooms, books----



if we are not moving, buying, ridding of, we will wake someday living someone's life---




and it won't be ours.



What we really want or how we really feel, no matter how we push it away, will find us again and again and again.













i'm reading lots of books. i want to tell you about them. in French.

you know something,

its nice to have friends.

and people who ask "how does it feel to be back in the land of the living?".

and, and, Chinatown.

and little girls who explain to you the importance of tree leaves.

4 am IV drip

I recently had a delectable experience at the Emergency Room.

I arrived and gave them my name. They took my pulse and pressure and what have you to make sure I was not dying that very moment.

I wasn't.

They took a urine sample. They took some information of the personal variety.

After sitting in the waiting room for six hours, I was brought back to lie on a hospital bed in the middle of a hallway. The nurse brought me a heated blanket. She says "I brought you back here to rest". I thought "yes, she has seen me crying because I was in pain, otherwise, I'd still be out in the waiting room". It pays to express what you are really feeling.

I was awoken at 3 am to another nurse asking me ridiculous questions and telling me I have a severe kidney infection. I believe she put it a "pretty advanced kidney infection". She brought the doctor over and he poked and prodded and said "let's get you a cat scan, I'm afraid you have kidney stones".

So it was some medicine then, after which, I was wheeled down naked corridors at 4 am, barely lucid, soft hospital winds whisking through my unkempt blonde hairs. The tiles were shiny that's what I remember. Time for my cat scan.

The catscan lady was talking on her cell phone while she strapped me in which concerned me for two reasons. 1) Does this not interfere with this thing we call a cat scan? 2) Which one of your friends is up at 4 am to discuss seemingly pointless matters?

They photographed my insides and then returned me to have some blood drawn and an IV put in. I slept and was awoken again in the morning to a strange bustle I had yet to experience in the rear end of the hospital quarters. I was free to go, I didn't have stones, but I needed to pick up those antibiotics promptly.

I'm still in bed. Mostly, I've been here the past few days. I'm hoping to atleast step outside tomorrow.

wish me luck.

caio
K

catching up with oneself

I've been thinking about what it would feel like to go fishing. The art of catching a fish is similar to the art of catching up with oneself---that is, just sitting by the water and, well, waiting.

I don't like posting when the seasonal shift seems off kilter. For instance, today, it is November and I am sweating in the sunshine. It's too much for me. My thoughts are always clearer, my writing more direct, in general, more aware when it is cold. It is when I come alive, when my body feels at rest.

I'm trying to recall how it felt writing in this blog back in June/July. I think something happened this summer that was really good. I can't quite put my finger on it.

I think I should go to New York City soon. It's been too long. But I want it to be cold and brutal. I want to shiver when I walk through Central Park. I've been there when it is warm before, but it didn't touch me as much as the winter visits. I often forget that I lived in Manhattan and worked in a factory for a month proceeding Christmas in 2008. Down the street was Alvin Ailey studios where I took class from a woman named Kat Wildish. I wondered around the streets of Manhattan, into shops, around the park, reading at the bookstore. I was aimless but employed. Dancing.

I often am feeling that what is best for us, we already know and have known. However, we often do not act on this intuition right away. This intuition seems to offer itself to us in dynamic moments that we don't recognize. One has to be in a certain mental place in order to recognize it. I think this intuition is there with us more often than not, however, we avoid it. We make other decisions for ourselves and yes, we do learn, but we often learn in a direction that well, brings us back to square one. It's hard to recognize these moments if we are not living well with ourselves. What is best for ourselves is overshadowed by obligation, by familiarity, by lack of vision. Often, in myself, I will try something that this intuition tells me to try, and I'm afraid or, well, I am not quite ready. For instance, New York was great for a month, but I would have been swallowed whole had I stayed:: I did not understand what it means to have a relationship with a place and while I could have learned in New York, it wouldn't have been the same. Philadelphia has taught me a lot---that I think I am a New Yorker. I need it's extreme environment to feel present and at home.

It's a process though. I've had to go on some circuitous routes to get back to the beginning and realize that where I started is where I ended up, to, well, start again. And that's my relationship with this city. I've left and returned so many times because I something inside of me was certain that there was something I could learn from this city in order to live my life well. And my god, was I correct for once!

It exposes itself in other things too. People.

There's reason behind every feeling. Through them we experience the world, through our body. Sometimes, we have to just sit with them and wait. When we are confronted with decisions pertinent, we will be calm enough to make one and run with it.

that's all.

really.

enlightenment and a muggy octobre.

Yes. I spelled October wrong, or rather, correctly, in French.

It was on purpose. So don't snarl, or sneeze, or choke on your cube of ice, or be upset---

it's silly to get upset, because now i have explained myself.

Isn't that all it is? I have begun, especially after this weekend of "past coming to haunt you and expose the fact that you did not deal with something in a healthy way and now it's returning to eat you alive"

I do, in fact, believe that no one can achieve any sort of answer or understanding by one's own self. Any sort of individual achievement is based off of false pretenses. No matter the feat, the self reliance, another individual, however it may be, gave you some sort of tip off or suggestion or caress or exposure that without, you would not be where you are. Proof?

Proof is the scientific studies that have been done on children that have not been touched as a small child, abandoned, left to fend for themselves----they do not grow, they stagnate because, well I can't tell you scientifically because, but I attempt to understand it as not being in touch with the world, not being connected, staying within the self--and then there is no growth.

And so, we beings interact on a constant basis or a not so constant basis, but we interact. And, oh, how we will always be stumbling and living and working with people with whom we don't agree or even like, or in love with someone, or what have you, and there needs to be communication. Something as simple as, "I'm cold", or "I'm sad" or "I need this".

Is this making sense? That I am not allowed to get angry at another, unless I have completely communicated my needs and wishes. Otherwise, it is your own silly fault for not putting it out there. Even then, it seems, once you have communicated, the anger disappears---it's pointless, because if you have communicated all you can, and they still do not hear you, or do not have the maturity to sit down, listen, compromise, be patient and give explanation, response, a communication of their own needs--then it is something from which you should walk away and cease to have expectations.

But it's on our own selves, to communicate, and it's also upon our own selves that when someone else is trying to communicate, that we listen.

What is needed here: IS TIME.

I could talk more about this, but I can only allow myself a few moments for this blogging business.



Today, I think I reached Western Enlightenment. I was juggling the world--- my bags, an LL Bean wool sweater (WHICH I BOUGHT YESTERDAY FOR A DOLLAR!), some groceries, a cup of coffee from La Colombe, at the bus stop, I called my parents in Hawaii. Just then, the bus came-- I said "HOLD ON MOM", reaching in for two dollars, boarding the bus:::::

THERE I WAS. ON BUS 48. DRINKING COFFEE. THE ONLY POSSESSIONS I NEED PILED IN TWO BAGS AROUND ME. A WARM SWEATER. FOOD.

i thought, yes, so it is that I am hearing about the weather in Hawaii. There it will be sunny,

and here, I know a few things of importance:

it is a muggy Octobre.

my brown coat is at the cleaners.

three and a half years ago, I wanted to move to Alaska and work on a fishing boat----
maybe it's time I take a look at the fact that sometimes, I still do.

but gosh, the combinations that Natalia gives us...



au revoir mes amis.

today.

1. Natalia teaches.

2. la colombe.

3. it rains.

4. lunch.

5. the color maroon.

6. a man collecting rainwater in a bowl.

7. a red rain hat.

8. the library's movie collection.

9. hot chocolate with a tiny puddle jumper.

10. book.

11. sleep.

feeling small amongst familial counterparts

dearest ranges, prairies, wheat fields, and cotton:::

i've had dreams about you lately. there have been no things in my line of vision, no obstruction from horizon.

it's cooler out this morning. skies blue. coffee hot. black due to lack of milk. i haven't had time to sit down for a week. Ashamed to have drank some of my coffee in to go mugs. Coffee, I declared a few years ago, is not a "to go" drink. It is to sit and contemplate, to rest. _____In Spain, throughout the day, most of one's breaks came from grabbing a cafe con leche in one of the many cafes, taking off your boots, chatting with fellow peregrinos. Especially when it rained, it was one solace one could take, and take care of oneself. I remember hiking up, alone, in a mountainous region towards Galicia, through cloud infested towns, sick, cold, tired, wet. Stumbling into a lone cafe in one of the mountain towns...coffee has never tasted so good to me as in that moment.

"How did you sleep?"
"Oh, I suppose alright."
"No, I mean, HOW did you sleep, like, how'd you do it."
"Well, I play hard all day, beat the shit out of myself, and then, there's really no question. I'm exhausted."



I'm playing a part in a play. Letta, the beautiful floozy from Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman. It's a small role and we're being filmed and projected into a dollhouse. I like acting. I don't know if I'm any good. It's true, I do like the stage. Ever since I was little, I recall dreams of acting on stage, or performing on stage, or being on film, or behind the camera. I sometimes wonder why I strayed from this want. It was, so, I became an athlete.----(AH DANCING!)

"get up get up, time for class!" says the Russian instructor. He was my first teacher. Had class on Sunday, the class that used to knock me to the ground---I can now complete and work on the combinations given.

You have to measure yourself with relativity--not with comparison to the rest of the globe-- I thought, after class, so YES, I may not be as good as one could suppose, but let's remember the countless years I could not touch my toes--now, resting my nose upon my knee cap comfortably. Let's remember attempting to drive stick on The Washington Coast, scared, alone, receeding. Now, I cruise around in Quinn, shifting through her gears with such ease and grace...to meet friends, to see people I know, to drive he or she to the airport because I will miss them.

change, can be most excellent.

My family got together Sunday evening for a dinner. Just the four of us. My mother called and said "LET US GO TO THE SMORGASBORD" Of course of course! We sat and ate and chatted and drank coffee until we closed the restaurant. I thought, this is my family? And I have so much fun! And my, we are so inappropriate, and thank you, ma and pa for all those soccer games you attended. NOW DAD, I am more aggressive than my own good! They leave for Hawaii today for five weeks.----but really, as we all stood up at the table to don our jackets and leave into the October airs I thought, my, I feel, actually, quite small, tiny if you will. I looked at my mom, my dad, my brother, all taller and well built and I thought--yes, this is my family, this is where I feel at home in the world, with these people. Stumbling around other people's kitchens, tinier folk, people who can break with the slightest tap, I feel a big fish in a small pond. Around my family, I feel normal, instant, I move around with grace and ease.

so thank you, ma and pa and ancestral counterparts, for making me tall and well built and strong---so I can dance grand and live big, with microscopic intentions.


If I spoke French, I wouldn't be here...

Until next time----think about the importance of the color----

BROWN.

caio,
K

two men on a train.

Man 1: I think I would like to get a hot dog when we get off the train.
Man 2: You know, speaking of hot dogs, I was very confused when I first came to America. Oscar Meyer is a department store where I'm from, here, it's a hot dog company.
Man 1: Yeah? I didn't know that.
Man 2: I'm a big fan of ballpark franks.
Man 1: Nah, they're too chewy. I'm an Oscar Meyer man myself.
Man 2: You would hate hot dogs in the Phillipeans.
Man 1: Why's that?
Man 2: They've got this real thick skin.
Man 1: Oh. (pause)
Man 2: You should have seen my dad when we first came to America. He was really upset by the American hot dog.
Man 1: Yeah?
Man 2: Yeah.
Man 1: This is our stop. I think I'll get some coffee as well.

teacher.

she stormed out in stabbing flats, well pressed capris, a miracle of a trench coat and sunglasses to top it off.

Les sixieme Octobre:::::::

the combinations she gives speak for themselves.

stirrup pants, a barge, and a teacup that never sleeps

it can always be felt, that tenderly approaching sickness:::::making it a weekend, barely remembered.




it's sometimes a good excuse, to stay in and patch all those holes in your jeans, or plan out your future on some cardboard with cutouts and paints and make a nice collage of your childhood dreams. or lament in your bathtub about this that and the other.




things happened though:::that were quite interesting:::




i've always been interested in water and boats really do make my knees weak. i took a wee trip down memory trail and thought a lot this weekend about my time out on The Washington Coast. Just three weeks. It wasn't a:::


BICYCLE TRIP ACROSS EUROPE

or a

TEACHING JOB IN SOUTH ASIA

or a

CLIMBING TRIP IN THE ANDES

or a

RAFTING DOWN THE FUCK KNOWS RIVER IN BRITISH COLUMBIA



I was alone, with a bag, and my severely pious thoughts. There was a cat named Chloe. I walked everywhere and I took buses. I was happy and autonomous.





and I think I hear about all these trips that people take, or adventures and I feel bad for our generation, that we feel this need to do these extravagant things. That making a life, finding a daily existence that we enjoy is, not enough. That building a family, and building a career now maintain these negative characteristics.





To be honest, I think people who travel too much are boring. Tell me about the way your skin feels in a seasonal change, or the taste of first autumn squash soup, or how it hurts sometimes when the small child says those cutting words, and or you read a really great book and bought some new levis and "hey" let's go out tonight to the usual spot for the usual drinks with the usual crowd. There's something to this.





I think once you know a place, it's climate, it's behavior, it's people---then you can begin to live. Really, those who know one place and one place alone, might have more substance in their internal regions than those who have seen and heard and tasted things from the farthest regions.




Then again, I do love exotic things.




i suppose, as all things, a balance sustains.




I did start with boats though:::wanting to tell you about the barge I watched go by on the delaware. Alongside were tugboats, their lights delicate and particular, the goods loaded many and high on the top deck. I thought, yes, someday soon I would like to be on a boat. I would like my mundane to be in movement. I would like to smell the salty sea every morning, with a cup of coffee, and have a hard days work ahead of me.




But for now, I can watch. And get my nails done--painted with--a soft brown---




DOWN TO MY VERY LAST PENNY.






K





ps. I SAW STIRRUP PANTS YESTERDAY.


THEY ARE BACK.

the best dressed man in Philadelphia

picks up his daughter from St. Peter's school every afternoon.


shirts and slacks always pressed to perfection.


spectacles glistening.
shoes shining, two black pearls.


"sir, where do you have your clothing pressed?"


oh yes, between two majestic clouds, ironed by an angel's wings.








i should have known----


today, i found out he's British.

i recently went apple picking:::hempiteras are still being found in my clothing

which is exciting because they are my favorite kind of bug.



today i found out...people actually read this...maybe I should start using proper punctuation, grammar, words in the english language. and so maybe this is one place where i don't have to feel so composed...like eating a dinner without the napkin on my lap.




so i'll talk about this strange day before i tell you about what i've been wanting to tell you.




i woke early and had some severely aquarian indecisiveness about where to get coffee. i don't have a coffee pot, nor a french press (which is a travesty really, the way I drink coffee) i found myself at THE EARTH CUP because the air was cool and i like to ride my bicycle in the coolness. the sky was blue and i thought---yes, so it is that i want to sit outside. rationale. ((((the barista)))) gave me a shot of espresso for free. I ended up sitting with the 'photographer' for awhile. he's a busy fellow. he's kind of famous. i felt kind of famous....but it seems these days i'm spending more and more time with supposed "VIP's". Leaving for ballet class, I saw T, my neighbor...he says "YOU ARE ALWAYS CHANGING YOUR HAIR", I said "yes of COURSE! as is the weather these days"




Dance class (see below), afterwards, I went to go sit and rest my ballet legs before heading home. Already i felt that the city was so small. I was a little disgruntled because I craved the anonymity that one can only seem to get in NYC. Of course, at the park, I see my neighbor "T" selling his art work. Then, I run into an artist I knew from way back---she looked like a sketch book---unshaven legs, mashed together clothes collected from the roadside. She was talking with a professional hairstylist who said "you have beautiful hair, I WANT TO CUT AND STYLE IT" okay "yes, sure, when, where?" OK, so at the park someday soon, I shall have a professional cut my hair in broad day light. What a strange day...Of course I get back from work and neighbor "T" wants me to come see the design of his living room. THEME=STAR WARS. (it was actually really nice)





so this is my life. I woke up wanting to continue delving into "Hopeful Monsters" by Nicholas Mosely. The hour I finally dug my nose was the subway ride home post work.






you know, i don't think fall fashion has really got its leg up on the table. this is frustrating. today i thought about my brown combat boots waiting to be torn out of storage and plopped on my feet for street entertainment come autumnal weather---but god, summer, is holding on with a death grip.







so i wanted to tell you about how i'm finally taking class from NATALIA. and that I finally admitted to myself yesterday that I AM NOTAMODERNDANCER.



which means, I don't know what I am because I'm certainly no ballerina.


but then again, neighbor "T" philosophized today---saying---"look at all this nothing! we can be whatever we want, make things be what we want. I tell a girl she sweet as sugar, and we're still having sex!" and I thought, yes okay, interesting, but what about physical limitations? Or mental limitations? Why do we always want to be "things"? It's like when people ask "so, what do you do in the city?" and I want to say, nothing. and so then, therefore, everything. I wander---but now---



i'm really interested in STRUCTURE. OPEN STRUCTURE. It's a hard line to balance.









really, I'd be really into coaching a soccer team of eight year olds. the guys who do----they're really great.


anyways...
I wanted to tell you about Natalia and how I adore every aspect of her teaching and even though I look like a fool in her class, I'm determined to be not be a fool for too much longer.


THE APPLES, THEY WERE REALLY DELICIOUS.

THE HEMIPTERAS, NOT SO MUCH.




concretely::::sweetly::::
katelyn

september is for jean jackets.

Finally, September, you've arrived. Is it really true that you will soon come to a close? Has it really been this long since I've last written. I had promised myself there would be daily, or weekly offerings. And then I thought, well, no it is not that interesting, taking note of these mundane things::::I should have something to say important.



Really, this past weekend was great. I pulled my latest night out in Philly---finally slumbering around 5am. (((reminds me of life in Barcelona))) The dancing was really good. Four hours of non stop, DJ, all thanks to the DJ. There was some great break dancing going on by two guys---one a beautiful black man who would stop mid air, supporting his entire body by one arm--it was like he suspended gravity, time for various moments in his movement. Then a lanky white guy who moved like a supreme jellyfish. God, I could have watched them for hours. ABSOLUTE.



The previous night was a great West Philly eclipse of my favorite people. J, P and I got pleasantly drunk over a meal in Chinatown and I raced to meet R via bicycle on Walnut and we rode in the night air. God, it was so good. Feeling so free in the final coolness, using my legs, feeling like I know these streets with feet and tires. We arrived on RH's porch and let ourselves in. The most vivid memory was of a jean jacket conversation---and here's what we concluded...


_______
K- Jean Jackets really can only be worn in September.
RC- Oh yeah? I don't see many people wearing them.
K- That's because it's September...once October first arrives, you will notice them with severe distaste.
______


It was something like that. I don't really remember. Either way, jean jackets are really great. I think I might buy one with my recent funds from new job. There isn't much time left though---what. OH NO. LESS THAN TWO WEEKS!



You know, it's been a really good month to say the least---amongst the bad which has exposed itself here and there. September for me, has always been a month of awareness. A month of letting go. A month of facing realities once avoided. I suppose it's the fall when i look back on E's bicycle accident four years ago. It is as clear as if it were yesterday. The feel of the air, the blue skies, the freedom of a bicycle--until the next curve---the dangers of the bicycle staring me in the face. The confusion, the stick that caused it, that hill, the horse statue, calling out to B, the ambulance, the voice of the doctor, the tennis match on in the waiting room, the smell of my hands, losing focus, starting to walk down strange avenues with nothing else to do but wonder, what I was doing. Your world starts to look different after you watch someone come so close to death.



Yes. Let us not get too dark. It is Monday and it's finally quiet outside my window after a morning of jackhammers.


And so, the Fringe Festival is over. The show is finished.


I wonder if there will be an art lecture tonight at the studio. I'd like to hear more about the shift of a hip in a painting as the indication of alteration in Western philosophy. ____
___
___
___


A baby was recently born. A sadness lingers elsewhere---this morning I walked half a mile to find the new york times--

i'm a better lady for it.
_________________________________________________

with gratitude in having not much to say, more so to feel and exist,

K

the art of making chairs -------surfing------- the purchase of a wrist watch

body stiff, sore; thumb jammed from a surfboard, toe broken from a garden divot. it's been an august to remember, so much so that this post deserves no capital letters. it seems that life is running on a flow that any capitalization would surely disrupt.

back in the city, people are talking in cafes. thinking and speaking in fragments, it is a good return. the air is cool, autumn is approaching. it may be that the nicest summer weekend has just passed and we are now set on an arc towards cooler airs.

where does one begin when the stillness is too thick to compare?

my last night in Philly, spent with K and G, philosophizing and discussing current environmental trends. woke to a rooftop and city skyline. Picked up A for our adventure up North. We got a late start. A deaf dog was in the seat. Her breath stank (and would continue to do so)

We drove up past Scranton, 81 North, all the way to Clayton, New York. We took our time, bought sandwiches, repacked our bags. We had ten days together ahead of us. We barely knew each other, but we knew how well we could. On the drive up we talked relationships, we talked Philly, we talked being a twenty something, we laughed, we listened to good music, we started to shed skin and skin and skin and by the time we arrived at the docks in Clayton to meet with A, J, and Z---we were expectationless and free. We left our phones in the car. We wouldn't need them. We took a bag each and boarded the boat.

Ten days later. Back on the mainland, we had bodies coated in hard work, hot summer sun, river water, hair unwashed. We had minds filled with laughter and contemplation. We had silence, we had dedication to ourselves, we had comraderie. We had built chairs and swam naked. We had eaten steaks with Parisians and drank with a meat farmer. We had gotten drunk on the docks, we had watched stars for hours, we had drank coffee with the natives. We went to a Canadian bar. We mooned a tourist boat. We cooked from a garden and we went to sleep early. Dropping A off in Syracuse, we felt overstimulated by the people and the lights, but it didn't matter. We said our goodbyes and while sadness lingered, a sense of beginning was stimulated. Our friendship, solidified.

Driving home. A seed had been planted. Things seemed slow and magnificant. Corn was being sold on the roadside every three miles. The thoughts of city were not so overwhelming. The thought of drinking a cup of good coffee in a cafe sounded exceptional.



I quit my job.




My family took me in for a few days, the farm took me in for a few days with some hard work and meals. My city friend took me in for a few days. And then r's family at the shore took me in for a few more. My august solidified. My consistency rewarded with a note from "mom" and a Monday morning spent with my first surfing experience.

I think now, I'm ready for Autumn. I'm ready for work that is real and good and mind boggling. I'm ready for time to slow itself. I'm ready to dig and not scrape the surface. I'm ready to take care of myself.

Sometimes we go on strange routes that seem illogical. But they're good. Sometimes we forget that what we need is staring us directly in the face.


Fashion update: now in:

gold watches
full figured women
the color white

vacations- take them. live them. rest well.

decay, minimalism_____and the art of new beginnings

Arriving at the farm on Tuesday morning, I was sent to feed the poultry out in the pasture. S came over and asked for my help. The night before, a heifer had gone into labor. There she was, overcome with pain, lying, back legs paralyzed, close to death, -------her calf, deceased, covered in placenta((((blue and gold and purple and orange)))) a yellow butterfly resting on its back. We pushed and shoved to get her to turn over, to no avail. Four hands was not enough. Later, two amish farmers came over and we got her onto her other side.

Over the two days, I took to caring two buckets of water to her, four buckets, six buckets, fed her, gave her salt. I sat on a bucket and spoke with her. Come on girl, come on, you've got to get standing.

Summer is good. Sights like this, upsetting...but it is life and death and all things in between. Things die, so we take them to the woods and life on the farm carries on, it goes on and on and on.



In the kitchen, I speak loudly, with force, so Omi can hear me. Translation constant. Eating European, fork in the left hand, ham and tomatoe on rye. Another soft boiled egg. This is my summer, how can I complain?

I can't.

Coming back to the city, the heat is unbearable, but lovable. Buildings high, angst much more. Exhaustion. Exhaustion. Exhaustion.

in other words::::

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


this upsets me.


If I spoke French, I wouldn't be here.

In the morning, early, as the sun does rise, I am sleeping into augmented fifths and fiddles
that dance:
I am a Texas corpse hanging out on clothes line.

We are creating
false
false
false
images, replications, our artistic notions curbside.

Please, set fire to all the possessions that possess you.

He is there polishing the woolly mammoth's remains
polish
polish
polish
to shine. shoe shine. deluxe.

We will rise tomorrow whether we like it or not and by the end of the day we will like it.

I am sure of this:
Just get dressed you dapper fellow, just get dressed.

"I don't speak French, but I like diamonds"

says a woman at local trendy restaurant. the seriousness with which she said this, makes it worthwhile to have sprung out of bed this morning.

I had some things to say- albeit- uninteresting.

This woman though-Roni Horn-
http://www.libraryofwater.is/landing.html

I don't feel a need to say much more--------


except, my boss took me out to dinner tonight and I went for it, so what the hell, I skip ballet class. It's summer. There's some wine from France to drink and connections to build and sweet summer air to breathe. As we wound down, guess who should stroll by in his swanky sneakers but Roni Koresh. (sensing a theme here?) I pull out a cigarette, reading this opportunity like a tiger on the hunt. And then, ironically enough, I cannot for the life of me, find a light. I lean over to my boss, and she doesn't either. To which she turns around and asks Senor Roni. He responds accordingly, as any gentleman would---and proceeds to lean in and light me.

hello life. hello moments you could never predict nor search. there you have the art of chance flapping her musky wings.




soon we will leave. and then we shall arrive. and then we shall partake in merriment. before we rise again tomorrow and work until we tire.

laugh
laugh
laugh
with your mouth open. (watch out for flies)

Tsk a tsk,

k

the art of chaotic matter*****AND, jean shorts

ARE IN.

In case you were wondering.

http://www.denimology.com/2009/04/Daria-Werbowy-in-Isabel-Marant-S%3AS-09-ad-campaign-denim-jeans-shorts-.jpg

My boss called me upstairs to give me a load of her "hand me downs". Says "I think you're more conservative than me, these are too long". Yes, okay. If it wasn't for la reserve, I'm wondering how I would be clothed and fed.

Well, the jean shorts she gave me are great---they're just begging to accompany previously mentioned white blouse.


I have the next three days off from work, so it's farm time. Value check: days off now spent working 12 hours in the hot sun, smelling like a field, chicken shit on my shoes. I don't dance as much, but you know, summer is time to just be in the sun, drinking water, darkening the skin, slumbering in the shade. I think a life well lived makes for better dancing.

Plus I can work on my posture while I feed the poultry...









goodbye.

there goes another.

autonomy

I've been thinking about the word autonomy.

Autonomy:
1. self government
2. (philosophy) the capacity to make an informed, uncoerced decision.
3. (mechanics) the capacity of a system to make a decision about its actions with the involvement of another system or operator.

From Ancient Greek αὐτονομία (autonomia) from αὐτόνομος (autonomos) from αὐτός (autos), “‘self’”) + νόμος (nomos), “‘law’”)

(thank you wikipedia)

In discussion as to what it means to be free, there are many interpretations. I argue that much of what begins one to express desire for freedom is found in the external realm. For example, a career change, a location change, a change in appearance, dress, personal hygiene, relationships. However, these things do not allow for actual freedom to be experienced because there are still limitations with the body/physical. Actual 'freedom', whatever it may be, seems only found internally via the external.

So for example, I often equate freedom with an empty mind, one not cluttered with preconceived notions. The few times I have come to brush the surface of this possibility, has only been after extreme movement (ie a day spent only in movement). I am left to fall asleep with freedom, my body so exhausted and well used, my mind has the opportunity to BEGIN good thought. Often, I have found after a day of hearty physical exertion, I am able to open a book and, well, read, with freedom from my mind's usual business.

So what does this have to do with autonomy.

I have, in the past, equated freedom with being autonomous. An ability to not only govern the self, but to survive without help from others. To be able to reach a point where looking about you, there is no one who can assist you (in whatever it is, decision making, life advice, climbing up a mountain and cooking your dinner alone) You are forced to turn to yourself. If one has never done this, they do not realize the power that rests within themselves. And while being autonomous is great, independent strain, idealized, I think that autonomy is imperative in building good relationships. This is because the autonomous individual does not expect things from others. Two completely autonomous individuals co-existing seems to me, ideal.

Being autonomous does not mean that you are unaffected by things external as well as others. Being autonomous may even allow for deeper emotional reaction. Reaction that does not rock you off your axis, but enables one to see the fruits and colors, feel the textures of the world a bit more.

Capitalism is based off of the idea of autonomy, therefore freedom. A constant reliance upon government and others does not allow one to experience the freedom existing within themselves (and i believe it is possible for everyone) However, our society limits the ability to be autonomous unless you intentionally seek it out. Our families, our friends, our schools, our jobs, our cities become things we depend upon. Autonomy is achievable in every circumstance, but it takes work and intention.

When going to the ballet barre, no one else can extend arabesque for me. When climbing a mountain, no one else can carry me. I like things that force me to be autonomous. And I like learning how to be in a place that breeds a lack of autonomy and attempting to remain autonomous.

And maybe it's okay, while learning, to have someone hold your hand...

but not for too long.

If they like you enough, they'll let go because they want you to be free.






On a less philosophical note: a raincoat is a great investment
On an even less philosophical note: so is coffee.



Ce va!

white blouse:::::a horseshoe crab::::::(((exploring the abyss on a Wednesday)))

I've been wearing this white blouse as if it were the last shirt on earth. It smells like sunshine, sand, sea salt, farm, and sweat. I'm wondering if the approach to beat this heat is in the art of the blouse. It let's whatever air there is arrive and depart, no questions asked. It's not cotton. And it looks good with anything. You can be classy and tuck it in, or sport it at the beach. What's not to like, or daresay I, love?

The past week or so has been busy. A last minute trip to the shore on the fourth in which R and I watched three sets of fireworks by the bay. I do declare that the fourth of July is a holiday of abandon. For me, it has no tradition and seems always attached fondly to an evening spent with people I could not have predicted. RH and RH rode bike down to the shore and the four of us enjoyed an evening together out on the back deck.

But this is besides the point. The weather has led me to appreciate the current ability to spend time outside the city. I received a phone call from the farm on Monday with news that farmer Axel had his foot run over by a tractor. I took Tuesday and head down to help Stephen feed and water the poultry. Spent the day feeding, watering, setting up a station for the newest chicks, washing eggs, all with seven year old Mike. He sprayed me with the hose. Some turkeys escaped. It was hot. We drank lots of water. Some delicious open faced sandwiches with Omi and Opa, who want to take a trip to Muddy Run state park before summer's end. I'm becoming quite fond of my hours spent on the farm and it looks like I'll be spending more time there than originally thought, what with farmer Axel with his leg propped up on the couch, recovery time unknown.

Yesterday was great. The white blouse accompanied R and I on a late afternoon drive to the beach. The water was cold. perfect. we walked out until we could walk no further. a sense of abandon when you lose footing. no ground. a good kind of fear. we found a stranded horseshoe crab and wrote him a verbal letter of appreciation. An amazing creature! 445 million years old, having changed very little.

Whenever I go to the sea, I feel a sense of being at home. The air. The smells. All of it brings great thoughts to my mind. Somers point is divine. The quiet streets. The mussel sandwiches at Bay Shores II Restaurant and Marina, which i have yet to eat as I've only ever had time for breakfast. The people move slowly, folks sit at the bar and drink coffee, the waitress remembers your face and likes her job. The seagulls are noisy...there's salt on your skin.

Last night, walking from the ocean, you could only see distant lights through the fog. I forgot who I was, where I was. I wanted to go then to the library, take a long walk home, brew tea and drink it with a friend, or a lover, or a dog. You know, the things that actually matter.

PARIS
THE SEA
SHARING OUR STRANGE


The importance of consistency is becoming more clear. It doesn't matter what you choose to do, or where you choose to live, as long as you do, you stay, you see the people around you, bearded or not bearded, scruffy or refined, distant or overwhelmingly open. It may be cultural or the unfortunate opportunity of my generation, but there is a trend to travel, to change location, to change careers, to change interests, to change relationships-------I question this. There's much to be seen in the present smallness. You don't have to go looking. Sometimes, if you just sit and watch, things move about you and change you from the inside. The tides, moving in and out and about, constant yet full of movement and change. The flow of a river etching through rock, a thousand years of sameness producing beautiful work.

It may take more courage to stay then leave. It may also take even more courage to leave things you cannot change and build your own life, devoid of where your childhood could have predicted.


speaking of which, recent news makes me wonder...
(((http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128043329)))--- more on this later.


let's end on a more positive note. important things--- blouses, functional and stylish footwear, trips to the sea side, open faced sandwiches (TOMATOES)---

the ability to shake hands with the farmer who puts food on your table---even if his foot has been run over by a tractor---



.au revoir.

the fourth.

It was one of those days where I stopped looking so far ahead. You could blame it on my glasses, all scratched and crooked hanging precariously off the bridge of my nose, attempting a jump. The train was set to depart at 4:48 p.m. sharp.

"Twenty minutes late, damn," exasperation from the woman to my right on the bench.

I could not have found a better afternoon. The taxicab picked me up from work and I said, "the train station, get me there, as quick as you can". To which he replied:

"If you miss the train, I can take you in this taxi."
"I can't afford your taxi."
"Then just give me your phone number after I drop you off."
"I think my number is worth more than a taxi cab ride."

He laughed. I rolled the window down enough to leave my stray hairs with the city winds and continued to speak with the driver. It was hot. We agreed. Was only supposed to get hotter. The traffic stood aggressive. I did not notice. I was safe because I was headed somewhere.

the sun was torching as I stepped out, a glint refracted off the cab door. Fare, $5.46. "Just give me two back."

I stepped out and entered the station. The feel of train station tiles reflected my toes. I was walking on water. There was slight air conditioned air. I felt strong. A gigantic rooted Sycamore. I felt free. A solo soaring avian. Five minutes to spare, I bought the ticket.

Five minutes late, coffee. I hadn't eaten much all day, been busy, occupied.

Ten minutes late, I took to reclaim my hair in a braid, put on a shade of red lipstick, let the late afternoon settle into my previously perspired skin.

I felt breathless, like nothing could touch me except to love me. The blatant rigidity of the train bench scooping down my back, drying sweat behind my knee caps, the tickle of a hair in my eye, warm coffee to my lips.

Twenty minutes late, just enough time for a smoke.

Putting my cigarette out early, I felt the pull of the train even with the building in between. Sure enough, I squeezed in the door as it shut, brushing my arm, my coffee tinkering-but caught, composed, graceful, for once.

I sat down and took to looking out the window. I was going to the ocean, today was the fourth of July, my friend would pick me up at the station.

It was only later that I realized, in my severe bliss, I had handed the taxi cab driver a twenty.

everyone is traveling::: still at la colombe doing a crossword puzzle...

which, to be honest, is not one of my fortes.

<<<<<<

Main Entry: ¹forte
Function: noun

Etymology: French fort, from fort, adjective, strong

Date: circa 1648

1 : the part of a sword or foil blade that is between the middle and the hilt and that is the strongest part of the blade
2 : one's strong point

>>>>>>>>>>

It's Friday evening, July 2nd of the year two thousand and ten. Today was well spent cleaning toilets and changing bed linens, transplanting another set of impatiens. It's first friday in Philadelphia, but to be frank, I'm not too interested. After a good ballet class at Kip's studio, I took to La Colombe and treated myself to a nice crossword. The ponytailed employee has taken to attempting to predict my coffee choice for the day. Today he got the temperature wrong, however, was right in assuming I would stay inside. While waiting, the girl who was working, Angie, I recognized as the girl who was just in ballet class. Confusion.

Does she have a twin?

Do you have a twin? A doppelganger?

I wish.

of course, Sarah then enters, her twin who was in class and I feel better about the world.

Smallness entertains and this city sure is small. There was my teacher, Meredith Rainey on the corner, shouting my name, getting ready for a weekend trip to the Chesapeake with his partner. It's interesting though, so many people take summers and leave. I came home and proceeding to check el facebook, was bombarded by photographs of everyone traveling or spending summers abroad or spending summers in the tundra. I looked around my room in it's brilliant chaos and wondered..."am I doing something wrong?". If I documented my "travels" (also known as my current life...) with a camera and my photographs were summarized in a set of words, it would look like this:

coffee. coffee. work. ballet. farm. work. farm. coffee. ballet. coffee. work. work. work. cigarette. coffee. water. water. water. cigarette. ballet. book. newspaper. book. notebook. coffee. cigarette. work. work. work. farm. letter. farm.

i'm okay with this. but maybe someday, it could look like this:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------> (life.)

and so i don't have facebook then anyways.

it doesn't really matter. it reminds me of a quote my brother once said while we spent the afternoon spitting seeds off a bridge in Harrisburg:::: "a bridge is a poor man's boat" to which I replied "a book is a poor man's plane".

i digress. i admit, i am a bit jealous of people who can leave and escape in travels. i've done it before but promised myself i would stay put for awhile in one place and watch things shift around me. It's a balance I have yet to understand. A part of me wonders why we crave this travel, this escape, this abandonment of our lives, if only to pack a bag and see things more clear in our minimalism. I think you can find it in one place. That you can abandon your own life within your current reality and build off of that. At the same time, what is the effect that an environment has on a person. Is it about rising above your environment (ie current, Philadelphia) and living in accordance with your own values/finding beauty and inspiration in the smallness of a sidewalk stone or glint of light on a building----or can one reach a point where their environment is not conducive to promoting health and livliness? Each person is different and different environments work for different people-- ie, how one's body reacts to certain weather patterns, or the general mentality attached to a social environment. We have to be careful because the mentality of "it's better there", is a grassy patch that may not be greener. (oops, acted on this one plenty of times)

Let's take a look at some literature in regards to this topic:

I'm reading Annie Proulx's "The Shipping News" again. The main character, Quoyle, spends most of his adult life in remedial jobs, staring at newspaper print all day, marrying a woman with a loose you know what. She sells their kids on the black market and runs off with the guy she's seeing behind his back. She dies in a car wreck just two days after Quoyle's parents commit suicide. His life in pieces, his aunt (whom he's never met prior to these events) convinces him to move back to Newfoundland where is ancestors lived. This change in environment awakens in him his natural abilities, brought to the surface by a cold, brutal environment in a place where getting from point A to B can be difficult. An environment that keeps only the most rough and brave of individuals, a place where, by the end of the book, he is surely shining.

At times, walking around Philadelphia, I feel like I am doing myself a disservice by staying. In being attracted to extremes, I am often bored by simple things like how people dress and walk here. I like awakeness, intensity, efficiency, hard work---I idealize that this exists in New York, Paris, London, the kind I can only imagine must exist in extreme environments like the far north.

Well---atleast I can write letters to W in Alaska and D in Brooklyn. Measly ole me, still slumming in the awkward, lazy eyed streets of Philadelphia. Nothing a bright shade of lipstick and brutal pair of heels cannot heal. Or maybe it's time to leave these streets and intentionally place myself in a place I want to be.

BUT WANTING IS SCARY.

it's simply safer to not want and pretend your a buddhist. but good god, without desire and intruige and questions and exploration---we'd still be thinking that the earth was a square. Actually, we'd still be sitting outside the cave scratching our heads with pine needles. I think that sounds nice, actually. However knowing myself, I'd probably be inside etching philosophical physics on the cave walls and daydreaming about mr. caveman with the intelligent spectacles drinking a cup of coffee in the top of the mighty Sequioa.

a toast to crosswords, smelling like a French woman (STEREOTYPE ALERT), and friday nights alone with the plane of a poor man,

caio.

potence, prose, and predictability.

The Adventures of a Turtle

by Russell Edson

The turtle carries his house on his back. He is both the house and the person of that house.
But actually, under the shell is a little room where the true turtle, wearing long underwear, sits at a little table. At one end of the room a series of levers sticks out of slots in the floor, like the controls of a steam shovel. It is with these that the turtle controls the legs of his house.
Most of the time the turtle sits under the sloping ceiling of his turtle room reading catalogues at the little table where a candle burns. He leans on one elbow, and then the other. He crosses one leg, and then the other. Finally he yawns and buries his head in his arms and sleeps.
If he feels a child picking up his house he quickly douses the candle and runs to the control levers and activates the legs of his house and tries to escape.
If he cannot escape he retracts the legs and withdraws the so-called head and waits. He knows that children are careless, and that there will come a time when he will be free to move his house to some secluded place, where he will relight his candle, take out his catalogues and read until at last he yawns. Then he’ll bury his head in his arms and sleep....That is, until another child picks up his house....

Bleecker Street

We will not begin with complaints. It is useless in these early morning hours when the sun recently tipped buildings with it's fresh light. When sleepy workers rose for another day of strain, profit, and simple, familiar things. The creak of the subway, the smell of fresh coffee, the harsh winter winds on cheek, the pitter patter of feet familial on the kitchen tile.

New York is an entity unto itself. There, I believe, must not be another place in the world with such pace and drive. The thing I like best is the efficiency with which people walk. Feet flowing through and around traffic, traffic moving about pedestrians, rain boots slipping, children lagging, it doesn't matter--people manage to weave in and out and about. There is no right way to walk. If you're slow, people are savvy enough and unconcerned with you to move about you. There is no feeling of angst or interruption.

Merce Cunningham passed away on July 29th, 2009. His studio is located at 55 Bethune St. in the West Village, quite near Bleecker Street. Nearby, are coffee shops, cafes where one can enjoy fancy food, burrito joints, duane reades, (a typical Manhattan neighborhood?) it seems to be situated in a softer part of town. The brownstone's look so brilliant in late afternoon light. His studio is on the top floor of an artist residency. Walking in, you can feel the thickness of recent death still have a hold. The quiet, somberness, of which is never spoken. It's pretty messy, things strewn about, but in the most artistic fashion. The dressing room is open towards the ceiling and filled with dancer's clothes. There are contented voices echoing, laughing in a studio as they stretch. I get the sense, that people here dance. It is what they do, and there is absolutely no question about it. There is no other way. If they did not, a strange death would take hold.

On the wall is a list of rules by John Cage, Merce's lover and collaborator.

seen here >>>>>>http://www.alisant.net/cca/sitespecific/cage.html

In the studio are well worked floors and gigantic mirrors. A stage and old car seats as chairs. Through the windows, one can see the city skyline. The dancers don't say anything to each other. We speak in the language of our bodies. Open and supple, aware and sincere, concrete and strong. We don't know why we do this, we just know that we must. In this, there is unspoken respect.

What does one lose and gain by pursuing adagios in a time of capitalism? We must survive. We must survive. We must survive. It is no longer a physical survival. We sacrifice the comforts (for which there is no bitterness) and steadily progress onward, content, simple, striving, body limber reaching for high arabesques.



"The only way to do it is to do it."

- Merce Cunningham -



Do we need anymore convincing?




___________on the walls are photographs of an island,
a house which my great grandfather built.
there is lingonberry jam in the fridge
enough coffee to kill a brigade of cats.
robust, viking, keep it to the north.
you were built like an ox. a silent cathedral.
living on a boat, by the seaside, you exist
catching fish and laughing:
a hearty, arctic buddha.________________

Lesson for the day: Find a teacher. Ask lots of questions. Practice. Work hard. Never settle for someone else's standards.

the fluorescence of passive aggressive communications

FLUORESCENCE: SUPERSTRING THEORY: THE THEORY OF EVERYTHING:
EVERYTHING.

To begin, let us analyze a specific instant of passive aggressive behavior that can now only be described as "bizarre" and "unwarranted". A scintillating evening of snowfall has left the day to be fueled by hibernation, coffee, research at cafes, and spicy black bean burritos. Interestingly enough, the West Philadelphian spot of congregating anarchists was the place of choice for today's intellectual and societal activity/obligation. The Satellite Cafe, entered, you are bombarded by streams of body odor and anti-establishment synthesis. The gazes are bitter and protruding. The bodies are self-righteous, vegan, and judging. One cannot help but feel the menacing grip of contradictory anarchistic tendencies seep into the pores and cause the world to shift, or shit, rather, into a disconnected mush of a plane. (surface plane that is)

I digress. DIGRESSION.

I placed my bag down across from a friend at the kids table. Every other chair was occupied. Towards the counter, I speculated on some "WOMANHOOD" tea and a four seed cookie for the late mornings reading on John Cage. Upon returning, a small child in a dapper red jacket had seated himself near the table. I asked him if he wouldn't mind if I slid behind him with my things. He did not respond (out of fear and uncertainty?) Setting up my laptop, his mother approached me and with strong distaste and passive aggressive tones was obviously upset that I had seated myself behind her son. (No, I did not plan to entice him into a van with some candy or fuck him)

NOTE: THE FOLLOWING DIALOGUE IS A REINTERPRETATION OF ACTUAL EVENTS--AS ACCURATE AS POSSIBLE DESPITE THE INEVITABILITY OF MEMORY LAPSE OVER SPECIFICS.

Lady (not a lady): "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"
Me- look up in confusion."What do you mean?"
Lady: "my son was sitting there and i am very confused as to why you would sit there"
Me- "Oh, I didn't know"
Lady: "He was sitting there. It's really inappropriate that you would creep in behind him".
Me- "Oh, okay. Well, I can move"
Lady: "No no, no, I just find it really inappropriate what you just did"
Me- "Okay. Sure"

Lady proceeds to turn to her small child and say obtrusively so that all cafe visitors can hear "well, it looks like we'll have to set up our chess game on this chair here".

CONTINUE____AWKWARDNESS INCREASES.

soon....exponentially.

Lady: "I just want to apologize for the way I was speaking to you, but I just felt that what you did was very bizarre and if you had children you'd understand."
Me- "Okay. I didn't-"
Lady: (interrupting) I am apologizing but I thin it was really inappropriate and I was, again, finding it very bizarre what you did.
Small boy: BIZARRE?
Me- "Okay, maybe it was bizarre and maybe I do have a kid"
Lady: "you have a kid?"
Me- "No, but you assumed much abo-"
Lady: (INTERRUPTING again) It was just inappropriate, that's all I'm saying. You shouldn't sit here at the kids table and especially not intrude on my child's space"
Me- "okay"

Universally, we will probably face people like this on a daily, constant basis and so I see it of great importance to learn how best to handle situations like these. Disagreements between two level headed people can lead to very beautiful things. However, when one party is only speaking to and not listening, it seems doomed to failure.

When we are misunderstood in specific situations or by what we belief, how we live, what we do, what we choose to do in a days time, we must learn not to argue with folks who are walls. Folks unreceptive. It is like convincing a newborn baby the importance of Newton's laws of physics. Rather, you must change their diaper, adhere to their whinings, indulge their every fancy.

HOW WOULD YOU HAVE HANDLED THIS SITUATION>>>>?






QUANTUM PHYSICS_____________

the theory of everything.

I don't know if feelings exist.



Yours truly,
Planck's Constant

six p.m. and the art of keeping engagements.

Dear 'my grandmother's watch',

six p.m. is a great time to drink espresso.
six oh two p.m. is a great time to reevaluate the haircut that you received last Saturday
six oh seven p.m. is a great time to kiss the gods and thank them for your mother (whether or not you ever met your mother)
yes, we are alive in this helter skelter, man made, corn cob of a dream.

we have spoken before, of supposed indecision. it is like this, lying about, wondering what it is you shall do with your time. you cannot decide and it is that you should maybe fill your belly with something cold or warm, depending on the season, or that you may need to create some piece of art or prepare for the 9-5 job that is your sustenance. there is no indecision. it is a thing of falsity that masks itself in odd behaviors. you must be decisive, and you have it in you. to wake and make the best of that which you choose should exist.

a timely blizzard has made its way up the east coast and dumped piles of frozen beauty onto the streets and the rooftops of homes. Sunday morning was spent finishing the shoveling of yesterday's snow inflicted laziness. No one went to dance class, the studio was closed. I came back to the city and snowshoed about with a friend. We clamored about at La Colombe and watched a particular NY times reader read each section and fold it indiscriminately. We watched young babies swaddled in wintery clothes sit with dad at the rickety window table and ask questions about the wonders of the world. i took off the wrist watch that i don't have and wrote down some select salutations in a letter to a friend whom I haven't seen in almost two years.

It's leading me to discuss the importance of meeting, drinking coffee, and breaking bread with friends on Sunday mornings. The art of doing nothing is an art which I have succeeded in successfully partaking. Sitting and letting the sun warm the bones through cafe windows. Walking with each foot following after the other like one does breathe. But we have projects and jobs and degrees to achieve and when we leave each other for individual advancement it seems strange to me that we do not work together towards something prosperous. Our survival in these times constitutes a vicious need to be isolated and pursuing our own pursuits. If we do not, we will be lost in the shuffle and drown in the movement is the energy of the city. So I say, "I am doing this, or I am doing that and it is of great importance". And it is of great importance if it sets your soul ablaze or if it makes you live more heartily. Just do not do because you feel you must do by the rhythm of external sources. Take your time, young thing. Life is long (they said it was short) but these lazy afternoons stretch it about like taffy eaten at a picnic on the seaside.

Oh a picnic at the seaside sounds nice.

The song of the day is a piece by Brahms: Piano Concerto no. 1 in D Minor, Op. 15- 2nd Adagio.

Listen. Go the cafe ten minutes before it closes and they start turning off the lights as you sit down to reach a conclusion. So you keep your sweater wrapped tightly and consider that there will not be any conclusion today, nor tomorrow, but you keep doing that which makes you feel alive.

She was wearing a red coat. curdled blood in the snow. there was a creek that wound in accordance with the etchings of pi. your room took on a different shade of pleasantry and chaos.

Lesson learned today: it is of great importance that you communicate your plans. the hour of your arrival. the time of your departure. if I say to meet you at 2:30, I arrive 2:35--just late enough so that you know I couldn't find the appropriate shade of lipstick for the afternoon.

always. keep. your. engagements. (make them few)


'''''''''''''''''''' ''''''''''''''''''''
With admiration for Sunday's sweet solitude.

dearest.

59 dead cows and a feminist manifesto.

Dearest dearest,

It is about that time of night when the sound of a train eases even the most anxious babe. If we are to feel caught in supposed indecision, it is in the hours of the evening that one may fight their lives with a solo fist and fail to die a death of ten thousand words. There are ladies and men in top hats. There are small children eating late afternoon cakes in cafes. There are laptop computers decorating every which corner and strange men lurking in search of changed colors of iris. They may offer to by you a sandwich, and in doing so, expect you to reach your hand in their pants and give a little squeeze. Expectations. Grandiose expectations.

No. I reach my hand out to shake yours and it is not enough for your desires and so I shrug off my coldness with a brutal flip of the hair, catching a light before the subway departs, and now it is that one shall get to the point.

Of a pointless existence, we partake. Yet there are things which one wishes to discover and convey in the words that are written. Save yourself from another self absorbed blogger ranting and raving over the times and the times that were and the times that could be. Not another environmentalist, a cross cultural guru, a fanatical artist. There are things which need to be discussed here that plague the free time of the masses with moss like growth. If led into summation, the particulars will be failed. But to begin, one must, well, simply, begin. And if we are not to begin, we will always be meandering about the possible caves. Breeding impossibilities in the logical determination with which we are so in tune. It is said, "we" in the obvious fact that there is not another I, nor another you which exists. Maybe you grew up in a house that was cold, maybe you did not grow up in a house. Maybe you had to patch your clothes, or maybe mommy and daddy bought you a new party dress every which way the wind blows. These are all things that only slightly matter. If you exist, your crises, observations, expenditures all matter to the greatest extent.

The topics of this shop of poetics hold a broad range (think Montana). However, the parallels which we can draw are only as compact and well trodden as the city streets of New York. We start with particulars, tangibility, and extend into the universal, the philosophical. We compare the intrinsic and aesthetic values of moral convictions alongside that of a well made pair of footwear.

Let us first discuss a happening in the news today. A farmer in upstate New York woke to his usual farming obligations to, instead of completing his chores, decided to take a rifle and shoot all of his 59 cows in the brain. Then, he wrote a note which said to "not enter and call the authorities", after which he entered his kitchen, sat down on his (possibly) favorite chair and shot himself in the head. Apparently, the times were too hard for a man in a profession known for hard work and resilience. Take the extent of the following punctuation for a memorial:

-----------------------------&

In other news, Haiti, Haiti Haiti, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Obama is was whatever will be.

CHRIST.

More importantly:
my stockings have a run in them
THIS: http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/02/04/coyote-on-ice/
there is a wine made by Benedictine monks in Scotland (Buckfest tonic wine) that contains an exorbitant amount of caffeine and its bottle is many times out of 10 used in violent crimes in Scotland.
Mother Theresa had severe dry spells in her spirituality. (exposed in letters she had written, now in print)



So it is about being a woman in a time of capitalism and adagios. A time when we are expected to move at light altering speeds and that when a man holds the door or gives up his seat on the bus for a lady, the feminists release their armpit hair and cry out at overt displays of masculinity. Handing out their manifestos like creeps hand out candy. Let us come down from our high posts, come out of our self righteous lairs, our disciplined downward dogs, our diets of lettuce and water...we are in a recession. I believe it time to let ladies be ladies, to let men be men, to let men who want to be ladies be ladies and ladies who want to be men be men. Let there be no quell of desires. Keep spending your hard earned dollars so the economy does not die, work harder still. Do what you intend, question everything you see, explore every slight fancy, and whatever happens, it's not bad enough to kill all 59 of your cows.