Love Painted Here (The Original): 08/22/2004

snow

purple

Sainte-chappelle a Paris

Reunion

(Upon viewing an installation of Frank Lloyd Wright's windows)

They migrate from all directions
flying in perfect Wright formation,
these bits of camed glass,

flying parallelograms,
tiny jewels of amber
citrine topaz amethyst

soar up and spread like wings
of some ghostly,
glittering flock of geese

like oceans or trees or sky
colors deepen and transform
his luminous spaces

bubbles frozen into each piece
like breath captured
held in awe forever

brushstrokes like feathers
or waving prairie grasses,
each iridized section

its own sunset
or starlight flickering
against the night sky

the windows,
some sold, lost, broken
separated like children

unable to be cared for,
abandoned like jewels gathered
again in mystical open flight

through Wright's universe.
The walls here torn away,
light the only border.

Marriage Dream

I had a very long and extended dream about David and I last night. David is my former boyfriend (for 8 years) prior to the last 2 years of dating crap. He is still one of my closest friends (smartest person I know, brilliant as a matter of fact ---he's scoffing right now as I write that---whom I call for every question I can't answer, literally).

Anyway, I don't know how it all started, but in the dream, he and I were having a conversation and I eventually said something about getting married. Like, lets just get married then and get it over with (so romantic). And he thought to himself for a few minutes (very pensive, we both get annoyed with each other telling a story--me at him for his long grand pauses, and he at me for recalling every minute detail in hyperstyle) and said "Ok then, let's get married."

What? I was in shock. But I was excited too (though there was a part of me that was super anxious about it). So we started making plans. It was to be an outdoor wedding where I would walk down this long boardwalk through the woods. I fretted over my dress (which was to be a simple sheath of pale green--nice :) and shoes and the flowers I would carry.

Suddenly it was the day of the actual wedding and I freaked out because I realized that I hadn't sent out any invitations (talk about self-sabotage!). My friends and family knew about it, but I was very upset thinking that no one would show up. David was calm, as always, and said that of course everyone would be there.

Then I didn't have the correct shoes. Then it started to rain. Everything was going wrong. I ended up alone in my apartment. We never did have the ceremony. But somehow it felt like I was married in the end after all. It wasn't how I wanted it to be. I felt deflated and disappointed. Of course I did feel that way in our relationship, wanting to get married and have a child, and he not wanting that at all.

Well, I suppose that IS how I feel in real life right now too, just not with him anymore (reconciled all that).

we find medusa...

floating up to the ceiling of wavy red hair

becoming just a haze

starting to fade away

alternate, crisp view of dog chasing cat

The Magdarooni :)

Me, post-haircut...trying hard to avoid all those mirrors!!! (for once--since they are on every wall, you can't hide your "bad side"!)

As promised, photos from my haircut today. This is Salon Dube` on Elmwood Avenue (my neighborhood)

How We Are Meant to Read a Novel

So I have mentioned that I am reading Azar Nafisi's book Reading Lolita in Tehran and in it she says this (pg 111):

This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience.

I absolutely loved this description. Upon reading that sentence, I immediately wanted to get up and work on my novel. I should really print out that one line and post it on my computer, because this is how I need to approach my book.

I've been struggling with it for awhile now, feeling it isn't fresh, that it's too contrived. I need to write more organically I think, just let it come. The places it is easiest for me to do this is when I am writing about the photographs--those sections I think are the best. And that's because I am not really describing them, but expressing (trying to anyway) the essence of them. To give the reader the feeling of standing in front of them, visualizing them.

I think I've discovered the solution to my problem with the rest of the novel. Why I am stuck. I am only writing this way for the photographs, but I think I need to do it in the rest of the novel.

Kiss My Tiara (please)

I consider myself first and foremost a poet, if not in actual writing terms, definitely in approach to life. Whatever that means. Then I consider myself a writer who writes about things that "matter." (I have a feeling that a character who works in an animal lab and has to guillotine (sp?) the heads of little mice, will be appearing soon in a short story) (very disturbing...). And lastly, I guess some people find me funny. I am just being over-the-top story-telling me. But in the vein of the book Kiss My Tiara (How to rule the world as a smart-mouth goddess), I offer you the following:

I just happened to check my stats on my other not-proper-for-general-audiences rated blog (which, thank you to my very faithful I-read-you-with-my-coffee-in-the-morning readership, has now passed the 11,000 hits mark :) (for those of you who don't know, it is a blog about my dating experiences and the numerous cads I've endured over the last two years---ugh) and I see that someone was looking through some of the archives. I clicked on one of the referring links and came across this little ditty which when I re-read it, made me laugh. Of course, we all love our darlings (who said we should kill our darlings??) But I thought I'd share it anyway. Watch out for obscenity!

HOTHEAD
So apparently I am NOT allowed to have feelings. This seems to be the general feeling of the men who I interact with, both in person and online. If I DO have a feeling, I am to KEEP IT TO MYSELF (unless of course the feeling is one along the lines of "wow, you've got a big dick, can I suck it?").

Do I sound a little bit angry? WRONG. I have no feelings. I am dead. Hence, the little status message next to my Yahoo screename now says "dead." Just to be clear to all the men that I no longer have feelings, so they can feel free to message and interact with me without fear of having to be, GASP, responsible!!

Oh, those exclamation marks suggest that I am currently experiencing a feeling. Do not be mislead. I am not feeling a single solitary thing. Really.

Now P on the other hand certainly has his share of feelings, and I am so lucky that he likes to share them with me. I mean, after all, most men just refuse to share their feelings. Not P, AKA Hothead. That is his new name. Hothead. Why?

Because he so freely shares his feelings of anger with me. Wow. I feel so honored. I, on the other hand mistakenly said I was sad that he was sending sex cartoons to his buddies (somehow I ended up on this list) and then he tells me he is waaaaaaaaay too busy to send any offline messages or emails. I was not really sad. I made that up. Because, as I have mentioned, I HAVE no feelings.

How silly of me to make that mistake. How dumb of me to think that I should have feelings and that I might be able to express them. Hmmm.

Fear not men of substance and passion, Miss B no longer has any feelings, unless of course, as mentioned before, they are of a "come-fuck-me" nature.

I am so glad to have cleared this up.

My Hair As Art

Tomorrow I get my hair cut. Second to last time...(boo hoo)

So it's no secret to anyone who knows me well (and those made to suffer my commentary and blogging ;) that I recently found out that my hairstylist of the last 17 + years, is moving far away.

I've been going to him since I was in my very early 20's and my comfort level with him and his ability is extremely high. For many of the last few years, I only need to sit in that chair (which reminds me that tomorrow I am going to bring my camera, because his studio has all these cool mirrors which reflect off of one another---plus I know he'd appreciate some photos) and he just combs my hair a little, says So what are we doing? and I say I don't know, what do you think? He looks quizzical for a moment and says Ok, I know what I'm doing and turns the chair for me to get out and head for the shampoo.

This has been our routine for a long time. I trust him, because he knows my personality now, my age (we're actually about the same age), my lifestyle (lazy when it comes to doing hair---ok---we do differ here---he insists on straight cuts and I am too lazy to blow them dry). He knows I sing and actually, asked me to sing for a very very big event he was promoting (more on this later). He's a comedian, and every cut is a comedy routine. Obnoxious, sexist, rude, hilarious jokes. Only Todd could get away with this with me (he does, after all, have my hair in his hands).

Why is all of this important? Because, my hair is a statement. I've had super short spiked cuts all the way to my current chin length blunt cut. My hair is an expression of spirit. Fun, sweet, sexy, defiant, sleek--all are words that could describe my different hairstyles. Those words might also describe me at any given moment too.

Todd told me once, that he liked to cut my hair, because I always let him do what he wants. He had artistic freedom. I would guess that this was why he took it up in the first place, for the artistic reasons.

My hair as expression of the self, as expression of his art. I am sad that he is leaving. I imagine life without my every-six-weeks haircut and comedy routine will suck for awhile. Not to mention that no one in the city of Buffalo could possibly HIGHLIGHT my hair in the exact shimmering gold I have grown accustomed to (and NO, at almost age 39, I do NOT have one single strand of gray--thank you very much) (good genes--thanks mom :)

PS- The other day I was in my friend Donna's bead store (yes, of course, more on this later) and her friend who just happens to be a hairstylist and does a FAB job on her hair, walked in and said "Oh, I like your hair!" Hey, I forgot all about YOU! I believe my new hairdresser has been found. Then why do I still feel so melacholic...?

***sigh***

Told Todd I'd even fly down. He said he's just giving it up altogether.

***heavy sigh***

On Death and Dying Author Dies at 78

On Death and Dying Author Dies at 78

Well this made me a little sad today. I've read several of her books. She was a great woman as far as I am concerned. Being present with those who are dying is so important and transformative.

Peace.

And Let's Not Forget

I used to sing all the time, everywhere, anyplace. In college and in high school. I was completely unabashed and just sang. I played the piano everyday in high school and in the dorm at college everyday as well (story of me and pianos I'll save for another time). I played my clarinet fairly often too. I lived with these two wish-we-were-musicians metal heads (and my Muslim friend Fares---if you can believe that) my senior year in college. I used to pick up their guitars, and just play. It irked them that I could pick them up and just make something up.

Then I had this incredibly insecure wannabee musician boyfriend (I was no pillar of security at the time). He had a guitar (which ended up being my first one, and I still have it) that he tried to play, but really, he couldn't. The truth is, he just wanted it to be easy, and it is not. Even I, when I actually tried to learn the correct way, was very very very frustrated for a good three months---but I stuck it out. He did not. Anyway, he ended up playing the African drums. He was a big hippie. Now when I think about it, I get so mad that I put up with his shit. But I was young.

Anyway, we always had to listen to his African/Caribbean drum music wherever we went. Never anything else. Once, on our way to Ithaca he actually let me listen to some James Taylor (the reason I wanted to learn guitar in the first place---to play his stuff) (I wasn't well at the time, so it was his attempt to appease me). Of course, I began to sing. Charlie (I just have to write his name, I can't help it) said to me (nice, non-abusive man that he was...hrrrrmmmm)
Can you just stop singing? You're ruining the song. Your voice is too "perfect."

What?? But the worst thing is, I did stop. I never sang again in front of him, even when he'd try to get me to, to show me off to his friends (who, incidently, all told me later on that they told him he treated me like shit and that they hated it). In fact, because of that comment (and other serious things going on in my life at the time), I just stopped singing if anyone could hear me.

One day, my friend Melinda came over to visit. She was a fairly new friend I'd met at my job in a group home. She didn't know that I sang. Anyway, she heard me singing by accident as she came up to my apartment. She begged me to sing for her, but I just couldn't. This went on for awhile, and finally, I made her go in the other room, and I sang.

That was it. Melinda wouldn't give up until I sang for her, in front of her. She is the reason I started to sing again for people. Writing about the other stuff just reminded me of this. How I was so not myself back then (this is what oppression does to a person). She was always in my audience when I first started to play open mikes and coffee houses. She's one of my very finest friends. I am very lucky.

Me & My Guitar

So yesterday Joe, my musician friend downstairs, and I, run into each other as I am leaving and he's getting ready for some jazz gig. He says he hasn't seen me or heard me in a long time...and what about my bike? Would I please ride it, dammit?

OK. OK. I've been hibernating a little, so? I say. I told him I haven't played my guitar (with requisite singing) in a long time. I am not exactly sure why, but I know I feel like I don't want my other neighbors to hear me. Why? I guess because I don't like them so much, and I feel I don't want to share that part of me with them, albeit, inadvertently.

I live in a big old house that was divided into 5 apartments. I've been here forever. Joe's been here awhile now too. The other two (the 3rd floor isn't rented anymore--probably because of me complaining endlessly about the loud-stomping fools that used to occupy the place), well, I just don't like them. It's as if they think they live here alone--you know what I mean.

But before, I liked all my neighbors, and I used to sing all the time. I sometimes wondered if my singing and guitar and clarinet bugged people, but when I asked the landlord about it, he said that no one ever complained.

Well, three things I want to mention:

I was lamenting on my other blog about not being able to sing and play guitar (I do sing in the car, where I think no one can hear me, though sometimes at a red light I will get some very weird looks! lol) and today Wayne commented that he has heard my voice and that I should sing again because so many people would give anything to have my voice. (***tears welling***) He's so good to me. Always knows the exact right thing to say. It's quite amazing, really.

Joe asked me last night to come and sing an old jazz standard (my absolute favorite thing to sing, following acappella hymns) with him and his band. He said You know this invitation isn't open to just anybody. He's a sweetie too. Once, a few summers ago, I was playing my clarinet and he must have been in the backyard. The next time he saw me he mentioned that he'd heard me, and just kept saying "You're really good. I mean it. Really." Yes, I suppose I can still play. It's amazing after all these years--though my "chops" need practice even if my fingers don't. I always end up with a red welt under my lower lip when I haven't played in awhile. Anyway, I didn't go sing last night. That old "Barbara Streisand" phobia, which I must overcome. Really. (Forgetting the words really really sucks!)

And last, these things remind me of my friend David, who used to live in Joe's apartment downstairs. He was quite a nice, mild-mannered guy, and even if my music bothered him, I doubted he'd ever tell me. One year, on Christmas Eve, I came home to find a little Christmas card from him on the table in the hall. I got upstairs and opened it. This is what it said inside:
Thank you for filling the hours with beautiful song. I wept when I read those words (welling again now). It was one of the most sincere and lovely compliments I think anyone's ever given me. When I saw him next, I thanked him, and as if his original compliment wasn't enough, he said this: You know sometimes I even open my door and stand in the hall, so I can hear you better.

We have such power to be a light for other people, don't we? These things remind me of that...

So today I sang and played my guitar again. I cut down all my fingernails, tuned it by ear, and winced as my barely-there anymore callouses on my left-hand felt a familiar pressure. I remembered my songs, most of them anyway, and gradually my voice loosened. Some of the problem is I haven't completely regained my faith in my voice since losing it 100% (not even able to utter a sound---no squeak, nothing) over a year ago (this was due to chronic bronchitis---NOT because I don't know how to support my voice--I do), but some of it is just lack of real use.

My fingers are sore now, but I feel like myself again. Like something I'd forgotten has been found.