… a nomad and a peacock

what does it mean when you finally admit to yourself that you are addicted to change? what does it mean that you can never really see yourself at one job or in one place for the rest of your life?
is there a word for this? nomad? gypsy? revolutionary?
i can’t help but throw myself into new projects, new career paths without a second thought to that which i am leaving behind or ignoring [for a while]. it’s strange to me and exhilarating. a chance at creative production. a chance at [re]breaking the mold, if you will…

on another tangent, i have been longing, yearning even for the edge, for the self expression through what i look like. i am desperately lusting after the angst that made me blind in the past, that made me glow in a crowd. is it just me trying to [re]prove that i am not just one character but many. that i haven’t [and have] changed throughout my years? is it a way to rebell, to commit even?

all i know is i have a hair appointment tomorrow, i have been working with artists, with visual talent and i am gasping, out of breath to be part of it all in the vortex of color…

living it up–living up to it

the joys [and woes] of life as a writer, a journalist even, is that precarious line between living the life and describing it as you see.
let me explain. …
sometimes, life comes as a whirlwind and between the stress of the day to day and the responsibilities, you live it up. forget everything else and within a blink of an eye, you drop what’s most important to your existance–journaling the things you’ve seen, heard and learned out of the experience, putting your words on paper.
flip side: you spend all your time writing about all that you ’see’ and ‘feel’ that you forget about actually ‘living’ said ‘it.’ sometimes its easy to write and engross yourself in a story, a poem, a project … so much so that you forget everything that’s happening around you.
how do you coalesce the two? well … meticulously reminding yourself to do so, i tell myself. sometimes its hard, yes,to tear yourself away from your craft that has come to be a daily necessity [obligation?]
lucky for me, it only takes a certain pair of large brown eyes and the word, ‘mommy’ to break that spell …

to whom it may concern …

ok, recap. 2009=busy.

Las Vegas and killer heels

“i fell on boobie cards!” wailed a girl with mascara running down her face and bloodied knees. she carried her spiked heels in one hand while the other tried to wipe her face.
it was 3 in the morning and we were walking along Las Vegas Boulevard and taking in the sights.
one after the other, we watched as pretty young girls hobbled on their platforms or simply took the wretched things off and walked bare foot along the dirty strip.
i told myself i never would visit this place, that it was just too cheestastic for me and that i didn’t need to go there to see people in heat. but here we are. and it was fun. the city, i discovered was nothing and everything like what i had imagined.
and as another girl screamed out at the top of her lungs, “my feet hurt!” with every step she took, i realized, i’m glad i came.
the thick blanket of smoke that i am so not accustomed to in california was the first assault on our arrival but was shortly forgotten with what seemed to be a heavy disappointment of the strip.
granted, it was day time and we were at the airport. the stretch of road where “sin city” was born seemed tired and dusty and all in all, drab.
where were the colors and lights that i have been dished throughout the years and the only real reason i even agreed to this journey?
when we got to the hotel, i felt bad being the downer in the group, admitting that my fantasy of what vegas was supposed to be, supposed to look like was all but a tired prostitute. but i digress …

a list… or two

“There ain’t no devil, there’s just God when he’s drunk…”

photo credit: the original photog that took this and www.pitchforkmedia.com

“Do you know where friendship ends and passion does begin? it’s between the binding of her stockings and her skin…”

“I’m holding on, ’cause you’re my revolver, and I dreamed of ending, in a violent way…”

there just are too many lines in music lyrics to list, but i will, from time to time add to this list of my favorite liners…

fashion–> anti-fashion?

so yeah, i’ve been MIA. again. to my defense, life has been fast in 2009. trying to stay above water, being creative and keeping up on my blogo, well, it does take a toll.

so anyway, i’ve decided first things first. i had a car accident last friday. what is it about being hit that brings out the ‘abused-woman syndrome?’ and i mean this in a completely ‘nice’ kind of way. here it is; i was rear-ended on my way to work and first thought was, ‘did i do something to warrant this?’ lol. i laugh now because it all seems so silly but alas, it was the first thought that ran through my head. that and, ‘thank good my little boy wasn’t with me.’

anyhoo, i am on my way to see how much this little fender bender is going to cost me. not that this has anything to do with the title of this post. just an update, i guess…

i feel compelled to share: i am a closet fashionista. i say closet because, i fear, i refuse to admit it and then deal with the reprecussions of being labeled a said fashionista. i say this because [with very few exceptions] i cringe when people call themselves that.

i [personally] have always thought that fashion is just another outlet for the creative to express themselves. i don’t think it is something synonimous with high prices and following trends. i love chanel and it’s chic simplicity but i don’t own a single piece. instead. i tear through ‘regular people’ clothing stores and the occassional thrift store and look for chanel-inspired pieces, preferabbly made with natural materials [or at least ones that i can pronounce!]

i hate that so many pour themselves into a life of debt in order to have that must-have bag or pair of shoes at an obscene price. if the label ain’t right, keep walkin’. ugh. i know i’m passing judgment on this, but really? instead, i look to the people i know, who have managed to stamp out their ‘looks’ by mixing and matching and not falling victim to fashion trends.

my favorite anti-fashion hero, by far has to be Drew Barrymore.

photo credit: Bauer-Griffin from www.splendidcity.com

Her fashion sense is always somewhat off, but every ensemble has a twinge of ‘drew’. from boho dripped in beaded accessories to the clean cut, masculine dresses and suits Drew, i salivate! don’t get me wrong,
i  could care less about her acting career or world views, but my ears perk up at the mention of her accessory faves.

so here’s to the Drewes of the world; keep on making a statement through your wardrobe and accessories!

shitkickers and a bob

i’ve been MIA for a while. i could say i have been busy, that i’ve been on an important assignment or that life just caught up to me. i could say that i grew bored, lethargic or even felt i was done with it. but it doesn’t matter. i’m here now. again. and for a long time.

i think i’m doing ok. i still made the first month of a new year mark. not too late, right? so here’s to a better year. a new year. and to celebrate, i’ve purchased my first of many items that i’ve always been too intimidated of and am wearing them with a smile of confidence. my very first adult pair of cowboy boots, or as my husband lovingly refers to them as my ’shitkickers.’

this is a new year. i feel it in my bones. and now, these comfortably beat up pair of unassuming shoes, these boots that my mother found at a flea market last weekend will follow me through my discoveries and help me conquer my unexplainable fears. oh, and my new bob will complement them nicely.

what is it about a good pair of shoes? i like the rugged leather. the sturdy stitching throughout the tops, up my too-large calves, perfectly accommodating. mostly, i love the subtlety of it all. it feels so … western cowboy, so … american. i know this sounds terribly cliche, but i feel moved; compelled even to share my swelling pride in these new boots of mine.

so i’m taking this life of mine by the balls, squeezing every experience out of it and without fear, and a glimmer in my eye take what’s rightfully mine.

eat my dust 2008!

bum-rushed

it’s hard sometimes to live with yourself when your craft lays in stagnant waters. that passion inside of you, that hunger for life…

i used to read three books a week, revel in language and discovering a new word. i use to pour my heart out in words on the screen of my ibook, the words appearing with every click of the keyboard…

i used to enjoy snippy conversation, talking about the state of [the world/the industry/life], i used to enjoy an inside joke, a throaty, hearty laugh but the conversation has quieted on this side of the cursor…

guilt has overtaken me. again. i haven’t put together a sentence, a paragraph, a page in so long that has said just what i wanted to say. i haven’t allowed my inclination for creation to overpower the mundaneness of my current state. my current life. i choke it down before it can surface. i can’t.

and it feels like a part of me is missing. a part of me has gone, leaving me longing for the past, for inspiration, for … something.

sun; burn

you can always take layers off but when you’re in essentially your unmentionables, then what?

i hate summer. and now that i’ve said that, i am bracing myself because of the gasps. i know, i know. i live in California where the weather is warm and always sunny. boo hoo. poor you. but to tell you the truth, i don’t totally hate summer. only extreme summer days like the one that we’re experiencing today. nearly 100 degrees? what gives? i thought the weather was mild here.

it’s your bare skin all of a sudden having suction and the sticky sound of it lifting from a chair, a leather sofa, anything. forget about wearing a skirt–your thighs will look burned and pink at the end of the day from them sticking to one another, flesh against flesh under a heating lamp. and what’s worse, the lethargic feeling that inevitably increases with every degree above room temperature

is it just me or do the summers get hotter and hotter as the years go on? or is it just that i’m getting older and older and less tolerant? either way, i miss the 70s.

the girl with the sun in her eyes

–i sat there, outside under the navy sky and leaned my head against his shoulder. he kissed the top of my head and sat there, quietly with me, breathing the night in…
i had a dream last night where the man next to me was actually a reporter from work. strange, i thought. but then, after trying to decipher the meaning behind the rather random night vision, i remembered him. my friend. probably my best friend of my youth.
we grew up together, he and i. they called him ‘artist’ and i ‘claws,’ ‘cat,’ and any other variation of the feline. we never got the secret password that allowed us into the popular crowd. we read books, wore glasses and shared our deepest secrets.
it’s been years since i’ve seen him, talked to him. and to be honest, he simply slipped away from my mind … and heart.
until last night when this vivid dream reminded me of a similar night with him, after heartbreak, and he comforting me. i miss his laugh, his goofy smile. i miss the conversations we used to have, the late night Denny’s runs. it’s strange the lasting footprint some people have on our souls.