----------------------------------------------------------------------
Please excuse the drink induced silliness. Pants, Baraka, Mama and Aisha talking some ish. We are basically five year olds in love. Its true.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
+ Give Thanks
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Tonight I roped D & B into a skype dialogue. Most of it was us smiling happily into the screen and just saying, "ohhhhh." I miss them with a pain to the heart, but the good kind. My emotions are sitting so close to the surface. Never have I missed people so physically. Everything in me aches to be held on their couch while laughing to 30Rock ("my mindgrapes!") I had to take photos because I love photos these days. The poet I stopped by too. That's her with the badass fro.
Much to do but I'm still on Cali sleep time and wide awake at 3:30am. All of my responsibilities begin tomorrow, for those of you waiting. Give me the next few hours of sleep and I'm back to my normal follow through self.
So here we are. I'm home. I've missed the recounting of so many incredible experiences and am left to back track. The stories will come spotty and out of order, but so be it. I want to exist in them a bit longer anyway. I'm planning a chapbook of travel stories and poems so watch out! Reworked and revamped and mostly just for mumbles and the Dust, but you too, if you want to drop a couple bucks.
Anyway. I'm listening to Raashan's CD, which has been my soundtrack on BART and therefore will always have a special place in my heart as it's my Bay area hip hop symphony. He has a song that describes my experience so lovely that I have to share the hook. Thanks, Rashaan:
"Give thanks
when the sky turn red
and the day turns dusk
and what's said is said
I give thanks
for the pain and hardship
keep me focused and ready on target
give thanks
when the walls close in
I get love from my fam and friends
and then give thanks
put my hand over my heart
and let you know its from the very best part."
Now go cop the disc. It's really, really good.
http://www.myspace.com/raashanahmad
----
So here is one story of many.
Saturday morning we woke sticky smelly glorious after a night spent spilling stories, laughs, love, kissing noises in the air like tiny crickets hand claps, their squeaks and smacks putting a little lightening into the dark. Love was everywhere, in the bottom of the bottles, ember on the end of a smoke, Aisha Heaven Pants Gigatino Kristina and of course, mumbles, the Dust and I. The later waking sleepy after staying awake with Baraka until six am, falling in love all over again, reminding him to go hold the beautiful Ms. Rose before she woke for work in just a half hour's time. The big us of the night before whittled down to just Pants, Baraka and I, watching silly television on DVD and keeping company as we relegated Pants to chef duty, partaking in a delicious breakfast. A slow rolling start to the day but by 3:30pm, out the door, Q-Tip and Phife Dog and Ali Shaheed leaking out the car window in dead bridge traffic, Baraka giving me that half-open smile in-love face as I got really into rapping along. We scooped up Tinkerbell and her kitten, who she holds close to her chest in a sweater and made way to Keroac Alley in North Beach.
Ok... go! Charmin' Charlie's idea, to meet in the legendary alley and read poems until the day turned night. The first round arrived awkward and forced until Dusty Rose showed up from work, which revives us. The poems came one after the next for four hours, each of us jumping in the air to rant our pieces, pulling out notebooks on the cool cobblestone, making moon eyes at the poems we've grown to know like a family member's bad habits. D & B read Pixie Dust, I followed with Dialogue with the Self and the Sky and Charlie spits a piece that fits perfectly in succession and there are a few of these brilliant threads of poems, on the spot curating into the air so the words and message create a river of sound and meaning. I grab D & B's hands and challenge them to a race, breaking into speed like a band of crazy horses, the others turning their heads plastered with huge "huh?" grins. They beat me badly despite my longer legs and run straight into a poem, breathless and amped up on adrenaline.
The crowd around us gathered and dispersed like the tide, coming in and leaving, hovering and stepping back into their normal day. The beret wearing old man who gave unsolicited commentary but also put us on to a Jack Keroac CD and tried to get us a gig at the neighboring restaurant. "Naw man, thanks, definitely for another time but tonight we're doing this for each other." The eldery couple walking by talking to themselves in quiet conversation until hearing "Deb gets fucked first," and stopping in their tracks, awe-struck and lingering for a good five poems. The man that video recorded us sneakily for what felt like hours, us all hugging and falling all over each other in true love.
This is how life should always be. (More of the story to come... check back!)
. . . . .
Tonight I roped D & B into a skype dialogue. Most of it was us smiling happily into the screen and just saying, "ohhhhh." I miss them with a pain to the heart, but the good kind. My emotions are sitting so close to the surface. Never have I missed people so physically. Everything in me aches to be held on their couch while laughing to 30Rock ("my mindgrapes!") I had to take photos because I love photos these days. The poet I stopped by too. That's her with the badass fro.
Much to do but I'm still on Cali sleep time and wide awake at 3:30am. All of my responsibilities begin tomorrow, for those of you waiting. Give me the next few hours of sleep and I'm back to my normal follow through self.
So here we are. I'm home. I've missed the recounting of so many incredible experiences and am left to back track. The stories will come spotty and out of order, but so be it. I want to exist in them a bit longer anyway. I'm planning a chapbook of travel stories and poems so watch out! Reworked and revamped and mostly just for mumbles and the Dust, but you too, if you want to drop a couple bucks.
Anyway. I'm listening to Raashan's CD, which has been my soundtrack on BART and therefore will always have a special place in my heart as it's my Bay area hip hop symphony. He has a song that describes my experience so lovely that I have to share the hook. Thanks, Rashaan:
"Give thanks
when the sky turn red
and the day turns dusk
and what's said is said
I give thanks
for the pain and hardship
keep me focused and ready on target
give thanks
when the walls close in
I get love from my fam and friends
and then give thanks
put my hand over my heart
and let you know its from the very best part."
Now go cop the disc. It's really, really good.
http://www.myspace.com/raashanahmad
----
So here is one story of many.
Saturday morning we woke sticky smelly glorious after a night spent spilling stories, laughs, love, kissing noises in the air like tiny crickets hand claps, their squeaks and smacks putting a little lightening into the dark. Love was everywhere, in the bottom of the bottles, ember on the end of a smoke, Aisha Heaven Pants Gigatino Kristina and of course, mumbles, the Dust and I. The later waking sleepy after staying awake with Baraka until six am, falling in love all over again, reminding him to go hold the beautiful Ms. Rose before she woke for work in just a half hour's time. The big us of the night before whittled down to just Pants, Baraka and I, watching silly television on DVD and keeping company as we relegated Pants to chef duty, partaking in a delicious breakfast. A slow rolling start to the day but by 3:30pm, out the door, Q-Tip and Phife Dog and Ali Shaheed leaking out the car window in dead bridge traffic, Baraka giving me that half-open smile in-love face as I got really into rapping along. We scooped up Tinkerbell and her kitten, who she holds close to her chest in a sweater and made way to Keroac Alley in North Beach.
Ok... go! Charmin' Charlie's idea, to meet in the legendary alley and read poems until the day turned night. The first round arrived awkward and forced until Dusty Rose showed up from work, which revives us. The poems came one after the next for four hours, each of us jumping in the air to rant our pieces, pulling out notebooks on the cool cobblestone, making moon eyes at the poems we've grown to know like a family member's bad habits. D & B read Pixie Dust, I followed with Dialogue with the Self and the Sky and Charlie spits a piece that fits perfectly in succession and there are a few of these brilliant threads of poems, on the spot curating into the air so the words and message create a river of sound and meaning. I grab D & B's hands and challenge them to a race, breaking into speed like a band of crazy horses, the others turning their heads plastered with huge "huh?" grins. They beat me badly despite my longer legs and run straight into a poem, breathless and amped up on adrenaline.
The crowd around us gathered and dispersed like the tide, coming in and leaving, hovering and stepping back into their normal day. The beret wearing old man who gave unsolicited commentary but also put us on to a Jack Keroac CD and tried to get us a gig at the neighboring restaurant. "Naw man, thanks, definitely for another time but tonight we're doing this for each other." The eldery couple walking by talking to themselves in quiet conversation until hearing "Deb gets fucked first," and stopping in their tracks, awe-struck and lingering for a good five poems. The man that video recorded us sneakily for what felt like hours, us all hugging and falling all over each other in true love.
This is how life should always be. (More of the story to come... check back!)
. . . . .
Sunday, September 28, 2008
+ Cause All We Got Is Rhythm and Time...
----------------------------------------------------------------------
We floating on the edge of the sky!
So many stories. Wondering when I'll get a chance to transcribe them. Most recently, my purse got jacked from Dusty Rose's car last night while we were dancing in the streets. Back window smashed and our bags lifted from the trunk. There goes my Ghana notebook. All is well, otherwise and the days have been full of things to share. For now, some photos. Stay tuned...
What is happening in the epic photo brigade:
+ Poetry in the park (Chico, CA) with Failures of Capitalism aka Dusty Rose, Baraka & Caits
+ Breakfast Club reincarnate with Aisha, Heaven, Aaron, Caits & Baraka
+ Goodmorning world with Pants, Caits & Baraka
+ Poetry in Keroac Alley with Charmin' Charlie, Baraka, Pants, Tink, Caits & Dusty Rose
+ Random friend we inducted into our cult: Emil aka Dragon
----------------------------------------------------------------------
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
We floating on the edge of the sky!
So many stories. Wondering when I'll get a chance to transcribe them. Most recently, my purse got jacked from Dusty Rose's car last night while we were dancing in the streets. Back window smashed and our bags lifted from the trunk. There goes my Ghana notebook. All is well, otherwise and the days have been full of things to share. For now, some photos. Stay tuned...
What is happening in the epic photo brigade:
+ Poetry in the park (Chico, CA) with Failures of Capitalism aka Dusty Rose, Baraka & Caits
+ Breakfast Club reincarnate with Aisha, Heaven, Aaron, Caits & Baraka
+ Goodmorning world with Pants, Caits & Baraka
+ Poetry in Keroac Alley with Charmin' Charlie, Baraka, Pants, Tink, Caits & Dusty Rose
+ Random friend we inducted into our cult: Emil aka Dragon
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
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.
.
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.
Friday, September 26, 2008
+ Sending Out Blessings
----------------------------------------------------------------------
So much so much so much so much
so tired so tired so tired so tired
whoever is up there, please don't let me forget anything about last night.
A post is coming. For now: nap, if I can make it happen.
Also, love to everyone who is hurting. There are so many people in my life hurting right now and I am thinking about all of your hearts from afar... I have copious amounts of positive energy and I'm sending it out in droves.
.
.
.
.
.
.
So much so much so much so much
so tired so tired so tired so tired
whoever is up there, please don't let me forget anything about last night.
A post is coming. For now: nap, if I can make it happen.
Also, love to everyone who is hurting. There are so many people in my life hurting right now and I am thinking about all of your hearts from afar... I have copious amounts of positive energy and I'm sending it out in droves.
.
.
.
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.
.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
+ What We Live For
----------------------------------------------------------------------
9/23/08 9:23pm Journal Entry
--
Text message exchange #45,603
From: Baraka
To: Mama
Remind me what we live for
--
From: Mama
To: Baraka
poetry love roadtrips adventure rhythm song dance love light sweat sun warmth divine moments transcendance
--
From: Baraka
To: Mama
you got me
----------------------------------------------------------------------
It's been a whirlwind, but what is new? I'm sitting in a theater in the Mission. Anthem is brilliantly directing a play that opens tomorrow night and we are watching the runs. He stops the actors mid-sentence, prompting them to see and feel, to breathe real life into the work. He is tough but gently delivers the critiques. I'm impressed. And learning. The play is about Philippino-Americans returning to their homeland and what transpires from each individual experience. I am happy to catch the sneak preview, just us in the cavernous space.
Sitting here, it's overwhelming to try and make sense of the familiar juncture I'm lingering at. Magic here, home there. I realize they need not be mutually exclusive but it's enough to make one's logical mind into a funny animal with big bad sharp teeth. Yesterday I boarded the bus to Oakland at 9:30am to drop my bag at B&D's and see where the day shifted me to. A text arrives at 9:45 from V. I remember his promise to show me his paintings, but I am consistently surprised by the non-flakiness of people here and agree to a noon showing. (New Yorkers, you could reallly learn a thing or two from Cali. I'm including myself in this lecture.) I spend the morning hours sharing Sophie-moments in the kitchen with Baraka before boarding BART to Richmond where V, full name Vovito, meaning "little Grandpa" in his native tongue but don't tell him I told you as he usually pretends he doesn't know what it means when asked, is waiting in his red pick up truck. The vehicle has a dent on top where a sign post fell on the roof, where, as he says "Jah blessed" by saving his skull. He reminds me of an amalgamation of characters from my past, and though Mozambique is not close to Ghana on the map, he says the "ohhh yah!" that was signature of David.
His spirit is large and his home full of instruments, as he shares the space with the bassist of the "best reggae band in the Bay area." (Is there much competition? Who knows!) We crack open a beer in the back yard and share our passions. I read him some poems and get brave, playing a song on the guitar. "Bloodclot," he says, "who ARE you?" Tells me where to visit in Brazil, Jamaica, Portugal, where to find the authentic experience, as if these places were already on the travel map. I am not surprised to hear his favorite painter is Basquiat. His work is original but reminiscent of SAMO, gorgeous abstractions on canvas and I am genuinely impressed. He plays me a bit of djembe, choosing one of six drums, and, of course, laughs. After sometime sharing, we leave to grab a meal to complete the vibe with full bellies, stopping off at Kapur's house in Berkley.
And Kapur's house in Berkley... wooooo the view of San Francisco is unreal and V jokes that Kapur needs to get a woman to share a glass of wine with window side. "Please find me one!" Kapur begs, his Nepal accent pushing the laughter off his tongue. It seems we have arrived at the right time. Kapur offers us a delicious home cooked meal, spicy enough to make the sinuses run wild and I run to the bathroom repeatedly to blow the lingering cold outta my face. Home-remedy #30 noted. V urges me to tell the story of my septum ring. Inspired, Kapur says, "I want to get plugs in my ears." We look at each other, shrug, ok, and presto, we're shoved into the red truck down the Berkley hills to Telegraph, which, it must be said, is where I'd hang all the time should I ever find myself a resident of the area. Twenty minutes later and Kapur is wincing, his red ears a adorning a much fatter hole than before. We crash a small ball game on the park court (it only took me three shots to score, Yeow! For me, that's amazing.) V drops me off at the BART station with blessings and I came home to my loves.
I am too tired to write about the rest but let me say this: LOTS of episodes of the hilarious 30Rock (this show is unbelievably funny) and epic "you have to hear this song!" iPOD hogging/swapping/sharing/rapping and cuddles and hugs and love and love.
PS Look at my rockstars!
.
.
.
.
.
--
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
9/23/08 9:23pm Journal Entry
--
Text message exchange #45,603
From: Baraka
To: Mama
Remind me what we live for
--
From: Mama
To: Baraka
poetry love roadtrips adventure rhythm song dance love light sweat sun warmth divine moments transcendance
--
From: Baraka
To: Mama
you got me
----------------------------------------------------------------------
It's been a whirlwind, but what is new? I'm sitting in a theater in the Mission. Anthem is brilliantly directing a play that opens tomorrow night and we are watching the runs. He stops the actors mid-sentence, prompting them to see and feel, to breathe real life into the work. He is tough but gently delivers the critiques. I'm impressed. And learning. The play is about Philippino-Americans returning to their homeland and what transpires from each individual experience. I am happy to catch the sneak preview, just us in the cavernous space.
Sitting here, it's overwhelming to try and make sense of the familiar juncture I'm lingering at. Magic here, home there. I realize they need not be mutually exclusive but it's enough to make one's logical mind into a funny animal with big bad sharp teeth. Yesterday I boarded the bus to Oakland at 9:30am to drop my bag at B&D's and see where the day shifted me to. A text arrives at 9:45 from V. I remember his promise to show me his paintings, but I am consistently surprised by the non-flakiness of people here and agree to a noon showing. (New Yorkers, you could reallly learn a thing or two from Cali. I'm including myself in this lecture.) I spend the morning hours sharing Sophie-moments in the kitchen with Baraka before boarding BART to Richmond where V, full name Vovito, meaning "little Grandpa" in his native tongue but don't tell him I told you as he usually pretends he doesn't know what it means when asked, is waiting in his red pick up truck. The vehicle has a dent on top where a sign post fell on the roof, where, as he says "Jah blessed" by saving his skull. He reminds me of an amalgamation of characters from my past, and though Mozambique is not close to Ghana on the map, he says the "ohhh yah!" that was signature of David.
His spirit is large and his home full of instruments, as he shares the space with the bassist of the "best reggae band in the Bay area." (Is there much competition? Who knows!) We crack open a beer in the back yard and share our passions. I read him some poems and get brave, playing a song on the guitar. "Bloodclot," he says, "who ARE you?" Tells me where to visit in Brazil, Jamaica, Portugal, where to find the authentic experience, as if these places were already on the travel map. I am not surprised to hear his favorite painter is Basquiat. His work is original but reminiscent of SAMO, gorgeous abstractions on canvas and I am genuinely impressed. He plays me a bit of djembe, choosing one of six drums, and, of course, laughs. After sometime sharing, we leave to grab a meal to complete the vibe with full bellies, stopping off at Kapur's house in Berkley.
And Kapur's house in Berkley... wooooo the view of San Francisco is unreal and V jokes that Kapur needs to get a woman to share a glass of wine with window side. "Please find me one!" Kapur begs, his Nepal accent pushing the laughter off his tongue. It seems we have arrived at the right time. Kapur offers us a delicious home cooked meal, spicy enough to make the sinuses run wild and I run to the bathroom repeatedly to blow the lingering cold outta my face. Home-remedy #30 noted. V urges me to tell the story of my septum ring. Inspired, Kapur says, "I want to get plugs in my ears." We look at each other, shrug, ok, and presto, we're shoved into the red truck down the Berkley hills to Telegraph, which, it must be said, is where I'd hang all the time should I ever find myself a resident of the area. Twenty minutes later and Kapur is wincing, his red ears a adorning a much fatter hole than before. We crash a small ball game on the park court (it only took me three shots to score, Yeow! For me, that's amazing.) V drops me off at the BART station with blessings and I came home to my loves.
I am too tired to write about the rest but let me say this: LOTS of episodes of the hilarious 30Rock (this show is unbelievably funny) and epic "you have to hear this song!" iPOD hogging/swapping/sharing/rapping and cuddles and hugs and love and love.
PS Look at my rockstars!
.
.
.
.
.
--
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
+ The Postman and Other Fairytales
----------------------------------------------------------------------
9/22/08 12:16am Journal Entry
I am finally cracking open the lined notebook I bought in Ghana for 1 cedi, a patterned school composition notebook, the label now reading:
Name: Mama
Class/Form: Life Tour
Subject: Poetic Sex
It just seemed appropriate to honor it with insignias and jokes from this city. I just finished my post-hot tub chat with Tonya and the Meissner house is still. I wanted a few minutes alone with my notebook, even though the sun will call early tomorrow morn, it's been a few days and my spirit was thirsting for it. This weekend has been as special as each moment here has proven. I arrived Friday night after parting ways with Baraka on BART and a long bus ride on my account of being Cali-ride ignorant. I was in a cold thick haze but pashed through the evening long enough to hear my cousin's music, Ivy on guitar and vocals, singing despite her own congestion, beautiful wise-songed and the high school boys drooled, me with a proud heart filming with camcorder. Maya cool on the drums, bursting out these contained, impressive, I'm-way-chiller-than-you drum solos. They chose perfect covers, Goldfrapp, Beatles, Cat Stevens to accompany the haunting originals and closed the set with a song their Dad wrote for his rock band over ten years ago when they were just wee things sleeping during his gigs. They are a living manifestation of all my 15 and 17 year old rock band fantasies and how right it feels when they introduce me as their cousin. We come home and I read them select entries from my blog, Ivy wide eyed and begging for more, and how good it felt to be "cool" on the other end of the looking glass.
Saturday the girls traipsed off to a festival on Treasure Island, adorning the cutest careful coordinated pixie outfits and the day was spent quietly completing work. One of the most incredible parts about this trip has been connecting with Rick. Of course, it is silly to recount the conversations shared, besides, they are private but honest and touching and infuse my heart with that genuine connection kind of happiness. We close the afternoon with an exchange, I read him my latest poem and he shares a moving song written for a friend. Ouch, says my heart, in a good way. The sharp pain reminds me how much I will miss my new found family.
The evening finds Rick, Grace and I over delicious Indian food and a night of dancing to Zimbabwean highlife music at Askenaz Dance Community Center. The floor is an unlikely menagerie of characters and we exchange laughter, our eyes directing one another to random specimens of hilarity like hidden secrets. I share a dance with an old man who guides me with force into fast circles until I peel away with a bow to solo it out. If I lived in Berkley, I would be here all the time. Reggae, highlife, afrobeat and other world music, housed in this incredible space that is also an activist center I mean... um hi? I'm Caitlin, nice to meet you. The end of the night finds us spent at a table, hanging back for a moment before retiring. I catch the eye of a beautiful man in the corner, laughing and dancing like a misplaced rasta, all by his lonesome. He is wearing board shorts and a short sleeved plaid button up shirt and flip flops, looking way more Island than Berkley and lifts his drink to me across the room. An invitation, if any, I make my way over to his light. V is from Mozambique but has been here for eight years. He works construction but is a painter. He laughs incessantly and it is a joyous infection. We exchange numbers and a half promise to hang out that I don't really take seriously. Disappear into the night, relishing being the mysterious poet from Brooklyn who leaves question marks and stars in her wake. (Little does he know about my goofiness. It's hard to hide for long.)
And this morning. I woke to pancakes and eggs. The girls lumbering in, high off no sleep, dramatically sighing and recounting tales from their life-changing music festival experience. Grace arrives home with her five year old daughter Sophie, who has been with her Dad for the weekend. Brilliant and hilarious in that I-can't-help-but-dance-while-I'm-talking-to-you way that five year olds are, Sophie lights the room with her jokes and interpretative movements and small nuggets of innocence. After breakfast, Grace agrees to cut my hair after all and gives a $60 cut for zip on the back deck, Rick bringing his guitar out and free style writing songs with Sophie about all sorts of silly things in the world. Grace and I add a line or two here and there, my best being "who's nose is pierced" to rhyme with "she is fierce," is a song where I miraculously became a purple lion in disguise.
The night closed with watching "Il Postino," which Rick couldn't believe I'd never seen. Please, please see this sweet movie. It's about a simple postman who develops an unlikely friendship with Pablo Neruda in Italy. My good god, please just see it.
The sweet life.
.
.
.
.
.
9/22/08 12:16am Journal Entry
I am finally cracking open the lined notebook I bought in Ghana for 1 cedi, a patterned school composition notebook, the label now reading:
Name: Mama
Class/Form: Life Tour
Subject: Poetic Sex
It just seemed appropriate to honor it with insignias and jokes from this city. I just finished my post-hot tub chat with Tonya and the Meissner house is still. I wanted a few minutes alone with my notebook, even though the sun will call early tomorrow morn, it's been a few days and my spirit was thirsting for it. This weekend has been as special as each moment here has proven. I arrived Friday night after parting ways with Baraka on BART and a long bus ride on my account of being Cali-ride ignorant. I was in a cold thick haze but pashed through the evening long enough to hear my cousin's music, Ivy on guitar and vocals, singing despite her own congestion, beautiful wise-songed and the high school boys drooled, me with a proud heart filming with camcorder. Maya cool on the drums, bursting out these contained, impressive, I'm-way-chiller-than-you drum solos. They chose perfect covers, Goldfrapp, Beatles, Cat Stevens to accompany the haunting originals and closed the set with a song their Dad wrote for his rock band over ten years ago when they were just wee things sleeping during his gigs. They are a living manifestation of all my 15 and 17 year old rock band fantasies and how right it feels when they introduce me as their cousin. We come home and I read them select entries from my blog, Ivy wide eyed and begging for more, and how good it felt to be "cool" on the other end of the looking glass.
Saturday the girls traipsed off to a festival on Treasure Island, adorning the cutest careful coordinated pixie outfits and the day was spent quietly completing work. One of the most incredible parts about this trip has been connecting with Rick. Of course, it is silly to recount the conversations shared, besides, they are private but honest and touching and infuse my heart with that genuine connection kind of happiness. We close the afternoon with an exchange, I read him my latest poem and he shares a moving song written for a friend. Ouch, says my heart, in a good way. The sharp pain reminds me how much I will miss my new found family.
The evening finds Rick, Grace and I over delicious Indian food and a night of dancing to Zimbabwean highlife music at Askenaz Dance Community Center. The floor is an unlikely menagerie of characters and we exchange laughter, our eyes directing one another to random specimens of hilarity like hidden secrets. I share a dance with an old man who guides me with force into fast circles until I peel away with a bow to solo it out. If I lived in Berkley, I would be here all the time. Reggae, highlife, afrobeat and other world music, housed in this incredible space that is also an activist center I mean... um hi? I'm Caitlin, nice to meet you. The end of the night finds us spent at a table, hanging back for a moment before retiring. I catch the eye of a beautiful man in the corner, laughing and dancing like a misplaced rasta, all by his lonesome. He is wearing board shorts and a short sleeved plaid button up shirt and flip flops, looking way more Island than Berkley and lifts his drink to me across the room. An invitation, if any, I make my way over to his light. V is from Mozambique but has been here for eight years. He works construction but is a painter. He laughs incessantly and it is a joyous infection. We exchange numbers and a half promise to hang out that I don't really take seriously. Disappear into the night, relishing being the mysterious poet from Brooklyn who leaves question marks and stars in her wake. (Little does he know about my goofiness. It's hard to hide for long.)
And this morning. I woke to pancakes and eggs. The girls lumbering in, high off no sleep, dramatically sighing and recounting tales from their life-changing music festival experience. Grace arrives home with her five year old daughter Sophie, who has been with her Dad for the weekend. Brilliant and hilarious in that I-can't-help-but-dance-while-I'm-talking-to-you way that five year olds are, Sophie lights the room with her jokes and interpretative movements and small nuggets of innocence. After breakfast, Grace agrees to cut my hair after all and gives a $60 cut for zip on the back deck, Rick bringing his guitar out and free style writing songs with Sophie about all sorts of silly things in the world. Grace and I add a line or two here and there, my best being "who's nose is pierced" to rhyme with "she is fierce," is a song where I miraculously became a purple lion in disguise.
The night closed with watching "Il Postino," which Rick couldn't believe I'd never seen. Please, please see this sweet movie. It's about a simple postman who develops an unlikely friendship with Pablo Neruda in Italy. My good god, please just see it.
The sweet life.
.
.
.
.
.
+ This Is What Love Looks Like
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