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I'm officially back here now:
http://king-poetic.livejournal.com
See ya there.
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Saturday, October 25, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
+ Reflection
----------------------------------------------------------------------
It is midnight here and the moon is full. Last night Bekah and I walked the corner after Sin Sin and she howled at the moon at 2:30am and a whole group of people started howling down the street with her. She is magic like that. Tonight I am sitting in the middle of my own magic. A canceled hang out and not enough energy to scrape together alternate plans left me in the house for much of the day, productive in a logo creation, a cover for Yusef's album that he was totally with and a new presskit, but a bit disconnected and feeling the weight of NY's missed connections lifestyle. I called Dusty Rose and Baraka who told me look at the full bright moon as they did, amazed and comforted by seeing the same ball of light suspended in the sky, even when across the world. Their love makes me feel whole. They trust everything. I trust them. I've been wanting to tell this beautiful story of our trust for some time and haven't been able to approach it. I think now is the time. The voice of this piece is all over the place, but the telling is what's important.
---
It's a bright thursday morning when Baraka climbs into the couch with me, kissing my eyelids, "Mama, it is time to wake up." I've hit the snooze button four times on the make shift cell phone alarm and shift, groaning, "already?" Didn't we just go to bed? It's only 9am. That makes three hours of rest since he departed from our late-night confessions to close his eyes and dream. The sun through the blinds whispers hello all over his face and I pinch him to be sure he is real. His dread locks are spiking out in all directions, the soft loose hair near the scalp my favorite to touch, the tips brushing against his bare shoulders as he lifts me to standing. Dusty Rose is preparing for the trip in the kitchen, hovered over the computer, gathering directions as I shuffle into the shower and the three of us clean up to lumber sleep-heavy into the car, waking our way three hours north of Oakland to the promise-land of Chico, California. They call me Mama, but she is the mother hen, whipping us into shape like kids on too much kool-aid. Together we are a sight, all draped limbs and love leaking out of our bed-hair and rose-shaped lips. It is no lie, people everywhere fall in love with us, how could they not?
On the way, we stop in Walnut Creek where Dusty Rose gets a fabulous hair cut. Baraka and I hold hands, waiting, wandering for food in the slick department maze this small town calls an outdoor mall. The Dust's new cut mirrors her spirit in it's androgynous pixie splendor and I balk at the driver's license she reveals, her past life as a married woman with long blond hair and not a stitch of the Dusty I hug each morning, noon and night present in it's strange depiction. Sharing the three sandwiches gathered, we drive, the wheel passing though each of our hands, the other's fingers in the driver's hair and hip hop booming on the stereo. We roll the windows up for the guilty pleasure of Eminem and Dusty grins big, her awkward-beautiful head nod punctuating the beat. The lyrics take hold of my heart in a way they never did hearing the commercial for 8 Mile freshman year of college, I apply them to the car ride and elevate, "you better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you want it, you better never let it go."
And it goes like this, Aesop Rock to Outkast, calls to Grandma, and rest stop food, The Roots and Blackstar, '93 Till Infinity, have you really never heard the version of Hell Yeah with Jay Z? We arrive in Chico while the sun is still blazing in the sky, meditation, meditation, meditation, we find a park on the college campus and draw out the camera, laughing poems to passers by in front of a back drop of stone sculptures. Lay in the grass and more poems to the air, ones we know and have known, new ones and notebooks pulled out, the tape recorder rolling, the giant headphones passing ears. The photographs capture but a small taste of our magic, the joy proven in the dance and funny faces and eat-your-face grins, we are in love with each other, with the words and the whole world knows it. The college kid we grab as audience to the words, Baraka and Dusty Rose reading into his steady gaze like a challenge, the woman serving us coffee as we bounce around the joint, words spilling off our salty tongues, the kisses that pass from Baraka to I to Baraka to Dusty and the stupefied smiles that pass in our wake.
There is a street market in Chico and we wander through, travelers with wonder in pocket, arriving in a tornado to the Peace and Justice Center. Tazuo, the host, is quiet and reserved, perhaps taken aback by our boisterous entrance, perhaps laughing. He presents the flyer for my feature. It has my face big and my words scrawled across a gorgeous illustration of fireflies and fairies in a mason jar, personifying the poem into life. I am moved by the care taken and in my excitement, knock into a shelf, scraping my shoulder. "Whoa, are you ok?" he asks, rubbing his fingers gently across the large blue-purple mark brandishing the skin. "Oh, no! I took a lover," I laugh, shaking the unscathed shoulder where the love-mark lives and Baraka and Dusty giggle along. The slam is filling with folks slowly and we sit to prepare. My body begins to shake a little, a combination of exhaustion and excitement, the long journey to the small venue, the worry for my love in Los Angeles, who's phone call I cannot take but want desperately, to answer and be a good friend. The slam begins. Among the poets are my loves, who bring ferocity under their tongues and shake the room. I am proud that they are my friends. Taz jokes when I interrupt the reading to run behind a poet to use the bathroom and I almost cry, sensitivity sitting on my skin in an inexplicable, raw way. Baraka holds my hand. An eleven year old reads a wise poem, looking me straight in the eye.
It is a good slam but my belly tells me something else is happening. And it is. An older man steps the patch of carpet deemed stage and closes his eyes. Recites lines about abuse that make my insides crawl. "Oh big brother, touch me down there" as his hands snake over his belly and pelvis, rocking back and forth on his tip toes. Like a rocket, his hand violently slaps down the mic stand, breaking it. He picks up the chair in front of me and slams it backwards into the copy machine. It wheezes and blooms, trays of paper falling open. The room is a taut string of tension and I am paralyzed wide-eyed as Baraka slowly circles me, his fingers still in mine and blocks Dusty and I, our three bodies taking the space behind the targeted row of empty chairs. The man, eyes closed and raging, leans into the chair in front of Dusty, almost falling into her body. She places one cool boot on it's leg and shoves back, full of calm and "Don't fuck with me," all at once. We are a bubble around each other. The man closes in a soft flurry of stuttering, hesitant hand claps and I run to the fresh air outdoors, disturbed by the scene. Baraka follows, cradling me in his warmth. I am going on next for my twenty minute set, "my love," he breathes into my ear, "you do what you want to do, you only have to be honest." Dusty Rose joins us and I am center circle, being held in all directions, her heart beat sinking it's song into my back.
We rejoin the room as Taz is reciting a poem on the broken stage, addressing the scene. It is clear in it's metaphor and it is beautiful. He refers to me through the reference of Brooklyn, speaking of safety and responsibility. His words are so pure and perfect that I am shocked it is being written as it's being put to air. There are lines he pulls from the sky mirror my own lines bizarrely, but he couldn't have known that. I take it as a magical sign and do what Baraka said, stepping in front of the room with no mic to use, all the witty banter and normal stage presence sucked from under me. I begin with the prayer. The audience hums. Baraka calls my Los Angeles love on the phone and the room says hello, my poem for her arrives next, sent via speaker phone function across California's air waves. It is the only thing I have to offer in the moment. The rest of the reading is lost beyond memory. I only recall pacing back and forth like a madman, apologizing for my lack of story-telling and barrel though each poem with an intensity I had never before possessed. Exiting the stage, I snap back to reality. Taz has let Baraka and Dusty Rose perform three of their group pieces. They cap the night off on a high, infesting the place with their contagious spirit.
In the spirit of such a night, I pass out free copies of my books and CD's. Ask for feedback or a poem in exchange, knowing full well such strangers don't usually follow up. I am reminded how few there are like us, who take the time to connect and reconnect, fulfilling our promises to pass on a note of thanks, but I don't mind. Tonight was a different kind of night and their presence through the chaos was enough to make a heart recognize a different kind of thanks. Taz looks me dead in the eyes, "you are magic." He gives us the gift of three brilliant haikus and I leave with a DVD of the haiku slam he curates in my greedy palms. Matthew, who's words we drooled over, escorts us to the car. We have a long trip ahead, but are deeply thankful for the words shared. It has been a day, we decide, over breakfast food at a roadside Denny's. Each of us takes turns confessing how important we are to one another, the level of trust that has risen and rushed us like the bravest waters, our innate reactions to danger, the way we hold each other, in spirit and in touch. Each of us takes our turn to speak the magic in even scary scenarios, the thankfulness that arises when you chose to acknowledge what beauty lifts from the rubble. I drove back the entire way home, three hours of Baraka's lips on fingers, Dusty Rose sleeping across the back seat like an angel, the car humming down the high way. My family.
And this is just one story. Thanks, all my loves, from Chico to Oakland to Brooklyn. You make my life worth living.
PS. Some people do give thanks. The email I received from Matthew the next morning proved kindred spirits exist in this expansive universe:
Caitlin!
Chico was so glad to have you at our slam last night! Charming or not (and you were still pretty fucking charming in your transparency), you ripped that shit like urgency. And while I can't speak for the entirety of our small but lovely audience, from one poet to another, your words hit me near my center. I fucking welled during one of your poems. Yeah, that’s right: WELLED. As in, I was on the verge of tears. I think a lot of that had to do with the unique vibe in the room. Despite the slam's odd moment of busted vulnerability before your feature, the energy of last night was wonderfully cathartic and extremely uplifting in its honesty...
I guess we can't hide our scars (or our SMILES!!!), and we would absolutely love to have you back whenever you’re in California again! Anyway, these few early-afternoon lines of poetry are a personal thank you for blessing Chico with your spoken words, as well as kindly gifting me with free copies of your book and CD (I'm absolutely in love with "High-5," by the way)...
FOR CAITLIN
I want to locate the smallest way you managed to move me with your poetry,
Cradle it,
And say, "This...there is no way I can describe this..."
But someone out there will attempt to close shut that beautiful distance.
The mean people who name everything might just try
To whittle you down to less than the skip in your step
And the big hugs in your heartbeat,
While you’re busy auctioning off soul shrapnel
As a substitution for a full night of sleep.
But if you should smile in any given moment today,
I’m confident that the walls will readily admit their cracks.
They would apologize for trying to contain you,
Just listen!
The syllables are already forming on their lips,
They say, "This...there are no words for this..."
Except, maybe,
"Thank you."
:)
It is midnight here and the moon is full. Last night Bekah and I walked the corner after Sin Sin and she howled at the moon at 2:30am and a whole group of people started howling down the street with her. She is magic like that. Tonight I am sitting in the middle of my own magic. A canceled hang out and not enough energy to scrape together alternate plans left me in the house for much of the day, productive in a logo creation, a cover for Yusef's album that he was totally with and a new presskit, but a bit disconnected and feeling the weight of NY's missed connections lifestyle. I called Dusty Rose and Baraka who told me look at the full bright moon as they did, amazed and comforted by seeing the same ball of light suspended in the sky, even when across the world. Their love makes me feel whole. They trust everything. I trust them. I've been wanting to tell this beautiful story of our trust for some time and haven't been able to approach it. I think now is the time. The voice of this piece is all over the place, but the telling is what's important.
---
It's a bright thursday morning when Baraka climbs into the couch with me, kissing my eyelids, "Mama, it is time to wake up." I've hit the snooze button four times on the make shift cell phone alarm and shift, groaning, "already?" Didn't we just go to bed? It's only 9am. That makes three hours of rest since he departed from our late-night confessions to close his eyes and dream. The sun through the blinds whispers hello all over his face and I pinch him to be sure he is real. His dread locks are spiking out in all directions, the soft loose hair near the scalp my favorite to touch, the tips brushing against his bare shoulders as he lifts me to standing. Dusty Rose is preparing for the trip in the kitchen, hovered over the computer, gathering directions as I shuffle into the shower and the three of us clean up to lumber sleep-heavy into the car, waking our way three hours north of Oakland to the promise-land of Chico, California. They call me Mama, but she is the mother hen, whipping us into shape like kids on too much kool-aid. Together we are a sight, all draped limbs and love leaking out of our bed-hair and rose-shaped lips. It is no lie, people everywhere fall in love with us, how could they not?
On the way, we stop in Walnut Creek where Dusty Rose gets a fabulous hair cut. Baraka and I hold hands, waiting, wandering for food in the slick department maze this small town calls an outdoor mall. The Dust's new cut mirrors her spirit in it's androgynous pixie splendor and I balk at the driver's license she reveals, her past life as a married woman with long blond hair and not a stitch of the Dusty I hug each morning, noon and night present in it's strange depiction. Sharing the three sandwiches gathered, we drive, the wheel passing though each of our hands, the other's fingers in the driver's hair and hip hop booming on the stereo. We roll the windows up for the guilty pleasure of Eminem and Dusty grins big, her awkward-beautiful head nod punctuating the beat. The lyrics take hold of my heart in a way they never did hearing the commercial for 8 Mile freshman year of college, I apply them to the car ride and elevate, "you better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you want it, you better never let it go."
And it goes like this, Aesop Rock to Outkast, calls to Grandma, and rest stop food, The Roots and Blackstar, '93 Till Infinity, have you really never heard the version of Hell Yeah with Jay Z? We arrive in Chico while the sun is still blazing in the sky, meditation, meditation, meditation, we find a park on the college campus and draw out the camera, laughing poems to passers by in front of a back drop of stone sculptures. Lay in the grass and more poems to the air, ones we know and have known, new ones and notebooks pulled out, the tape recorder rolling, the giant headphones passing ears. The photographs capture but a small taste of our magic, the joy proven in the dance and funny faces and eat-your-face grins, we are in love with each other, with the words and the whole world knows it. The college kid we grab as audience to the words, Baraka and Dusty Rose reading into his steady gaze like a challenge, the woman serving us coffee as we bounce around the joint, words spilling off our salty tongues, the kisses that pass from Baraka to I to Baraka to Dusty and the stupefied smiles that pass in our wake.
There is a street market in Chico and we wander through, travelers with wonder in pocket, arriving in a tornado to the Peace and Justice Center. Tazuo, the host, is quiet and reserved, perhaps taken aback by our boisterous entrance, perhaps laughing. He presents the flyer for my feature. It has my face big and my words scrawled across a gorgeous illustration of fireflies and fairies in a mason jar, personifying the poem into life. I am moved by the care taken and in my excitement, knock into a shelf, scraping my shoulder. "Whoa, are you ok?" he asks, rubbing his fingers gently across the large blue-purple mark brandishing the skin. "Oh, no! I took a lover," I laugh, shaking the unscathed shoulder where the love-mark lives and Baraka and Dusty giggle along. The slam is filling with folks slowly and we sit to prepare. My body begins to shake a little, a combination of exhaustion and excitement, the long journey to the small venue, the worry for my love in Los Angeles, who's phone call I cannot take but want desperately, to answer and be a good friend. The slam begins. Among the poets are my loves, who bring ferocity under their tongues and shake the room. I am proud that they are my friends. Taz jokes when I interrupt the reading to run behind a poet to use the bathroom and I almost cry, sensitivity sitting on my skin in an inexplicable, raw way. Baraka holds my hand. An eleven year old reads a wise poem, looking me straight in the eye.
It is a good slam but my belly tells me something else is happening. And it is. An older man steps the patch of carpet deemed stage and closes his eyes. Recites lines about abuse that make my insides crawl. "Oh big brother, touch me down there" as his hands snake over his belly and pelvis, rocking back and forth on his tip toes. Like a rocket, his hand violently slaps down the mic stand, breaking it. He picks up the chair in front of me and slams it backwards into the copy machine. It wheezes and blooms, trays of paper falling open. The room is a taut string of tension and I am paralyzed wide-eyed as Baraka slowly circles me, his fingers still in mine and blocks Dusty and I, our three bodies taking the space behind the targeted row of empty chairs. The man, eyes closed and raging, leans into the chair in front of Dusty, almost falling into her body. She places one cool boot on it's leg and shoves back, full of calm and "Don't fuck with me," all at once. We are a bubble around each other. The man closes in a soft flurry of stuttering, hesitant hand claps and I run to the fresh air outdoors, disturbed by the scene. Baraka follows, cradling me in his warmth. I am going on next for my twenty minute set, "my love," he breathes into my ear, "you do what you want to do, you only have to be honest." Dusty Rose joins us and I am center circle, being held in all directions, her heart beat sinking it's song into my back.
We rejoin the room as Taz is reciting a poem on the broken stage, addressing the scene. It is clear in it's metaphor and it is beautiful. He refers to me through the reference of Brooklyn, speaking of safety and responsibility. His words are so pure and perfect that I am shocked it is being written as it's being put to air. There are lines he pulls from the sky mirror my own lines bizarrely, but he couldn't have known that. I take it as a magical sign and do what Baraka said, stepping in front of the room with no mic to use, all the witty banter and normal stage presence sucked from under me. I begin with the prayer. The audience hums. Baraka calls my Los Angeles love on the phone and the room says hello, my poem for her arrives next, sent via speaker phone function across California's air waves. It is the only thing I have to offer in the moment. The rest of the reading is lost beyond memory. I only recall pacing back and forth like a madman, apologizing for my lack of story-telling and barrel though each poem with an intensity I had never before possessed. Exiting the stage, I snap back to reality. Taz has let Baraka and Dusty Rose perform three of their group pieces. They cap the night off on a high, infesting the place with their contagious spirit.
In the spirit of such a night, I pass out free copies of my books and CD's. Ask for feedback or a poem in exchange, knowing full well such strangers don't usually follow up. I am reminded how few there are like us, who take the time to connect and reconnect, fulfilling our promises to pass on a note of thanks, but I don't mind. Tonight was a different kind of night and their presence through the chaos was enough to make a heart recognize a different kind of thanks. Taz looks me dead in the eyes, "you are magic." He gives us the gift of three brilliant haikus and I leave with a DVD of the haiku slam he curates in my greedy palms. Matthew, who's words we drooled over, escorts us to the car. We have a long trip ahead, but are deeply thankful for the words shared. It has been a day, we decide, over breakfast food at a roadside Denny's. Each of us takes turns confessing how important we are to one another, the level of trust that has risen and rushed us like the bravest waters, our innate reactions to danger, the way we hold each other, in spirit and in touch. Each of us takes our turn to speak the magic in even scary scenarios, the thankfulness that arises when you chose to acknowledge what beauty lifts from the rubble. I drove back the entire way home, three hours of Baraka's lips on fingers, Dusty Rose sleeping across the back seat like an angel, the car humming down the high way. My family.
And this is just one story. Thanks, all my loves, from Chico to Oakland to Brooklyn. You make my life worth living.
PS. Some people do give thanks. The email I received from Matthew the next morning proved kindred spirits exist in this expansive universe:
Caitlin!
Chico was so glad to have you at our slam last night! Charming or not (and you were still pretty fucking charming in your transparency), you ripped that shit like urgency. And while I can't speak for the entirety of our small but lovely audience, from one poet to another, your words hit me near my center. I fucking welled during one of your poems. Yeah, that’s right: WELLED. As in, I was on the verge of tears. I think a lot of that had to do with the unique vibe in the room. Despite the slam's odd moment of busted vulnerability before your feature, the energy of last night was wonderfully cathartic and extremely uplifting in its honesty...
I guess we can't hide our scars (or our SMILES!!!), and we would absolutely love to have you back whenever you’re in California again! Anyway, these few early-afternoon lines of poetry are a personal thank you for blessing Chico with your spoken words, as well as kindly gifting me with free copies of your book and CD (I'm absolutely in love with "High-5," by the way)...
FOR CAITLIN
I want to locate the smallest way you managed to move me with your poetry,
Cradle it,
And say, "This...there is no way I can describe this..."
But someone out there will attempt to close shut that beautiful distance.
The mean people who name everything might just try
To whittle you down to less than the skip in your step
And the big hugs in your heartbeat,
While you’re busy auctioning off soul shrapnel
As a substitution for a full night of sleep.
But if you should smile in any given moment today,
I’m confident that the walls will readily admit their cracks.
They would apologize for trying to contain you,
Just listen!
The syllables are already forming on their lips,
They say, "This...there are no words for this..."
Except, maybe,
"Thank you."
:)
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
+ Seven Sins in the Shape of a Silkworm
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Seven Sins in the Shape of a Silkworm
I say your name
and my heart blossoms:
Baraka
I've known you for 4,000 years
a day, seventeen minutes and
five seconds
before this human flesh
we were hot ash
a secret lovers two favorite songs
in succession on dusty vinyl
a first kiss under moon's careful watch
an avalanche
stones skimmed in game across
a creek's surface
we were tombstones and burial
a jewel in the crown of Nefertiti
believing in nameless gods
and the spirit of jesus in a horseshoe
we were myth
passed around fire cloaked
in the smoke of a peace pipe
do you remember how we held
each other back then?
in cold empty evening
it's the simple nest of your arms
cross hatched across bare belly
pink crooked tongue
misplaced cheek
stain under nail
what the brain choses to hold to
what the body aches for
early mornings smell of pending sun
and small things crawling
under earth's skin
all living creatures desire
the bee spreads pollen
crickets sinewy strings
ants marching diligent as we play
Sunday morning on repeat
reduced to wet openings and limbs
notice my mouth, a beating shrine
keeper of ghosts
and other hauntings
sing my name into eardrum
let it unfurl slowly like a sad hymn
I am looking for your next incarnation
make it a surprise
.
.
.
.
.
+ Bragging Rights
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The fools have been holding out on me. I found you out! Videos. Check out the people I'm in love with. They are really kinda rilly amazing. The thing is... now? These clips are old. Imagine them 1,000 times more fierce like badgers.
In this order: Baraka, Dusty Rose & Dre
--
Baraka; Revelation from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Baraka; Idols & Idle Heroes from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Dusty Rose; Consecration from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Dusty Rose; Sailboat Moon (Jentle's Poem) from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Dre; Power from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Dre; Big Mistake from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Glugglug says the heart thing.
.
.
.
.
.
The fools have been holding out on me. I found you out! Videos. Check out the people I'm in love with. They are really kinda rilly amazing. The thing is... now? These clips are old. Imagine them 1,000 times more fierce like badgers.
In this order: Baraka, Dusty Rose & Dre
--
Baraka; Revelation from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Baraka; Idols & Idle Heroes from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Dusty Rose; Consecration from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Dusty Rose; Sailboat Moon (Jentle's Poem) from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Dre; Power from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Dre; Big Mistake from Jen Toal on Vimeo.
--
Glugglug says the heart thing.
.
.
.
.
.
A Song of Sorts for Dusty Rose
----------------------------------------------------------------------
A Song of Sorts For Dusty Rose
slip a smooth stone in my pocket
blood worm incantation
mama, even the night can't take us
I know who you are
moon breath
begging womb
16th street
buckling knees
let's talk until the sun chases us down
our ribs bruised from
little sleep and no food
the highway craves
fresh bladder on its weeds
dirty rock n' roll 'till morning
tell me what you grieve
I have an apple we can bury in the redwoods
paper for our filthy mouths
sillygirl, there are no rules
my shoes got lost in ocean
let's write a novel
and I will wash your feet
look, it is 6am and we're still laughing
what do you want
what have you always wanted
I will slip into moonlight
lets invent a way to say love
that doesn't use words
.
.
.
.
.
.
A Song of Sorts For Dusty Rose
slip a smooth stone in my pocket
blood worm incantation
mama, even the night can't take us
I know who you are
moon breath
begging womb
16th street
buckling knees
let's talk until the sun chases us down
our ribs bruised from
little sleep and no food
the highway craves
fresh bladder on its weeds
dirty rock n' roll 'till morning
tell me what you grieve
I have an apple we can bury in the redwoods
paper for our filthy mouths
sillygirl, there are no rules
my shoes got lost in ocean
let's write a novel
and I will wash your feet
look, it is 6am and we're still laughing
what do you want
what have you always wanted
I will slip into moonlight
lets invent a way to say love
that doesn't use words
.
.
.
.
.
.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
+ When I Reminisce Over You My God
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Please excuse the drink induced silliness. Pants, Baraka, Mama and Aisha talking some ish. We are basically five year olds in love. Its true.
Please excuse the drink induced silliness. Pants, Baraka, Mama and Aisha talking some ish. We are basically five year olds in love. Its true.
+ 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
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
.
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.
.
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.
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.
.
.
.
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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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.
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.
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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