Sunday, August 31, 2008

good morning.

"American Flag" Moon Pix, Cat Power

LBI Sunrise.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Let it be known...

I was reading Poets & Writers article on Billy Collins, an American poet, and he said something which I agree with 100%, which in turn made me feel a lot better in my beliefs as an experimental writer.

Elizabeth Kelley Gillogly reports "Unlike many poets on the literary scene today, Collins does not have an MFA, he has never taken a workshop, and he has never studied creative writing with anyone, 'Eighty percent of the reason I was attracted to poetry was that it is something you did by yourself,' he says".

Thank you Billy!
Now back to the lonesome (but fabulous) drawing board.

Every Given Tuesday.

New music thoughts/excitement!

Loving Ra Ra Riot's debut album, The Rhumb Line.
It's gotten great reviews, and the songs fosh live up to all the hype.
Their group name reminds me of the beginning of a nursery rhyme Ba Ba Black Sheep...
Don't ask me why.
Check out tracks: "Ghost Under Rocks", "Dying Is Fine" and "Oh, La".
Though the drummer who recently passed on wrote most of the tracks, this group from upstate NY doesn't hesitate in the mourning, but instead will rope in new indie fans from all over.

Also, The Verve is back and better than ever!
After a decade long hiatus, their new album Forth contemplates ideas of Heaven (duly noted on the album cover), and each song is a blend of trippy languid tunes ready to be unwrapped as fall's early christmas present. A nice awakening after their infamous single "Bitter Sweet Symphony", threading their haunted radio past to the talent we always wanted to hear. They have FINALLY refilled the glass with more. "Sit and Wonder" is reminiscent of Bono's voice, but makes me wonder where they were sitting when they wrote it. What sun did they see that day? Sit and wonder about what? Were they on Valium (see "Valium Skies")? Pretty much obsessed w/ "Love Is Noise", because it is.

music music music I love new music to my ears.
in the future if I have no money, at least a stellar record collection will allot bragging rights.


Strawberry Shortcake’s favorite flavor.

Pink sunset on LBI from my balcony.

Since were not on the Caribbean, instead of singing “Kokomo” I’ll go with The Little Ones, “High On a Hill” off Sing Song.
Upbeat enough to reflect the vibrant color of our/tonight’s sky, but contemplative to mirror the disillusionment of time zones and location. Technically, I wasn’t on a hill, but at some peaking point elevating my zoom lens to capture cotton candy clouds.

The Sing Song album cover reminds me of an old Shins album cover, Chutes Too Narrow (the album which helped make Garden State famous). Cartoon mountains and rivers on one cover, and holey trees and a whispering apartment building on the other, echoing themes of abandonment through ghostly windows. Even the boring browns of an assumed crowded translucent building are warming, and make me want to draw with FAO pastels in my moleskin.

Maybe it’s the same artist, I’m going to look that up.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008


We saw dolphins yesterday!!
Such beautiful creatures & smart!
(I tried to write this post yesterday as well...the internet down here is presenting such difficulties.)
Echolocation. Did a science project about all that in the 7th grade, and went to county fair.
Drifting. There was a school of them about 40 YARDS off shore (around 5:00PM).
Going up! Going down! Dipping their noses with the grace of Fred Astaire.
Two of them were playing with each other, while the rest of the group continued to swim south.
I just adore these animals and had the urge to jump into the rough waters and swim past the breaking point to make new friends.

I’ve swum with dolphins before, but never in the wild. The whole extravaganza was organized, and people made money off my mother and tourists like us on Paradise Island. The dolphins cushioned our butts for about five seconds as we pretended to fly with our arms barely extended to the sides, but the water was enclosed, and even as a young child I felt bad for the animals in captivity.
I want no restrictions, no rules, just playtime with these gentle, loving creatures.
Maybe will see them again today, tomorrow…I’ll keep ya’ll posted.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

The Platinum Age

In a dance competition platinum comes after gold.
In a ring shop (Harry Winston) platinum is always better than gold.
We did it, but we can do it again. Better.
We're going way back here, 1969 possibly.
Man on the Moon to Global Warming.
The sun and the moon, two circular orbs. Our start and finish lines.
How about Ted Kennedy!
Amazing--reflecting those golden years with America's new revolution with Obama.

When I was watching the Raconteurs at Bonnaroo, they were rocking out and I had my hair loose--I couldn't help but think of one word: Revolution. The spark was in me, and I was giddy.
Through the speakers was noise urging me to jump and smile for change. Even though Bonnaroo happens once a year, I felt like this was "our time".
My generation's Woodstock.
The audience was a larger scale of the Lost Boys, and in those five days no one wanted to grow up.
We could all fly.
This year we're on the brink of an election, and it's now or never.

These are just random thoughts tinged with excitement, but the Democratic convention is underway and I'm getting more and more amped to see what America's core is really made of. I really do feel this can be an awakening, some sort of revolution.
Why are we so jaded? The internet and computers initiates millions of possibilities, but we sit on our asses most of the time dawdling over favorites. Lets stand up! March, protest, graffiti! It's the future, lets get wired physically.

Pili Kai Lua

Hello from the beach!

Down at the shore hut, been here for some glorious days with much more to come.
Beach is a bit windy today, but just my luck I've found internet access right on my patio!
Been deprived fro a few days now, but it's nice to get away from all things technology related.

Our house, Pili Kai Lua is just as lovely. Bumble Bees have been torturing me on the deck with my 11am coffee.
No worries, Labor Day will take them away as quick as they came.
"Lua" reminds me of Bright Eyes and his old addiction song. Had that playing here on LBI three years ago.

Just finished Pattie Boyd's "Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, And Me" autobiography/memoir.

Fabulous. I loved hearing about Harrison's prayer routine with Maharishi and the gang.
Brian Epstein's death gets sadder and sadder every time I read about it.
What a fabulous rock lifestyle, but what do you show for it?
"Something" & "Layla"...that's enough for me, and should be for every other female on this planet.

I was a mini-muse: short-lived, never famous for both the musician and the muse. Any song(s) one has written about them can be painful to listen to. Watching others praise the artist, but have no idea who or what the inspiration was can be hell. Sometimes you just want to shout out, "That's me!". Other moments you relish in the fact that no one knows the true you, and pat yourself on the back for maturing and growing...maybe successfully avoided 'caring' too. In retrospect, the muse's interpretation is most likely different than the one projected. A moment in time, a feeling described over three minutes, can never amount to more than an evening with the creative process as your company. A song is just a space encapsulated, kidnapped and played on repeat so one can live in the past. It's torture and beauty combined: ultimately, for me, leading to unwarranted confusion.

[What's funny- and I'm adding this little blurb in after thinking about this post-is that I have muse's too. Except, unlike my personal experience, they don't know who they are. I mean not everything I write is inspired by a person, but some pieces, or thoughts within a piece are definitely inspired by someone. The fun part is they have no clue, and it's much more devilish to maintain that secrecy. If someone asks, I'll tell (I'm all about explaining my work); but for now they can live in ignorant bliss.]

Muse is such a pretty word. I think of seashells and waves when I hear the word. I immediately associate the word with a siren from Ulysses. Warhol and Dali's females were like goddesses, trapped in their little bubble but gorgeous and inspiring to the Zeus of their time. Every muse is gentle and wave-worthy.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

faux rock

speaking of all time favs, this picture is one for the books.

here's what goldie said, "i want this blown up and hung all over the fuckin world".
Winter, 2007

car tunes

You know when you listen to an album after not hearing it for some time,
Only then to realize why you had it on repeat for two months...?

It's as good as ever.
The Shepherd's Dog, Iron & Wine.

This band has got something. Something spunky.
They're not you're average joe playing some hokey pokey wannabe indie stuff.
Their musical style is completely original, and the lyrics makes me want to pull on Beam's ironed beard w/ a glass of red be fresh.
I was driving on River Road today, sun was setting, skyline to my right, and I just realized how much I absolutely love this band.
Saw them at Bonnaroo, but they played a set totally Marley based, and chilled the f out. Bongo drums and all.
Twas groovy, but their electric side is snazzy, intellectual, and makes my car sound system sound awesome.

The album as a whole is wonderful, but these are a few of my (now) all time favs.
"Pagan Angel And A Borrowed Car", "White Tooth Man", "Carousel",
"House By The Sea", "Innocent Bones", "Boy With A Coin", "Peace Beneath The City".

That's a little over half the album, but I mean, that has to be a good thing right?

Fosh one of the best purchases over the last year. Dropped in 07, not quite a year yet.

"Peace Beneath the City" Lyrics

"Here’s a prayer for the body buried by the interstate
Mother of a soldier, a tree in a forest up in flames
Black valley, peace beneath the city
Where the women hear the washboard rhythm in their bosom when they say
'Give me good legs and a Japanese car and show me a road'

Sing a song for the bodies buried by the riverbank
A well-dressed boy and a pig with a bullet in the brain
Black valley, peace beneath the city
Where the white girls wander the strip mall, singing all day
'Give me a juggernaut heart and a Japanese car and someone to free'

Say something for the body buried like a keepsake
Mother of million mouths with the very same name
Black valley, peace beneath the city
Where the women tell the weather but never ever tell you what they pray
They pray, 'Give me a yellow brick road and a Japanese car and benevolent change' "

"Innocent Bones" Lyrics

"Cain got a milk-eyed mule from the auction
Abel got a telephone
And even the last of the blue-eyed babies know
That the burning man is the color of the end of day
And how every tongue that gets bit always has another word to say

Cain bought a blade from some witch at the window
Abel bought a bag of weed
And the even the last of the brown-eyed babies see
That the cartoon king has a tattoo of a bleeding heart
There ain't a penthouse christian that wants the pain or the scab, but they all want the scar
How every mouth sings of what it's without so we all sing of love
And how it ain't one dog who's good at fucking and denying who he's thinking of

Cain heard the captive boy leap off the rooftop
Abel heard his papa pray
And even the last of the black-eyed babies say
That every saint has a chair you can borrow in a church to sit on
That the wind blows cold across the back of a master and the kitchen help
There's a big pile of innocent bones still holding up the garden wall
And it was always the broken hand we learned to lean on after all
How God knows if Christ came back he'd find us in a poker game
After finding out the drinks were all free but they won't let you out the door again"

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

ice cold.

Go listen to "Whaling Tale", by Valley of the Giants to hear a story about a penguin.

man man man

"Pigeonhold" All We Could Do Was Sing, Port O'Brien

and then I channel this:

From The Music Man:
1st salesman: Cash for the merchandise, cash for the button hooks
3rd salesman: Cash for the cotton goods, cash for the hard goods
1st Salesman: Cash for the fancy goods
2nd salesman: Cash for the noggins and the piggins and the frikins
3rd Salesman: Cash for the hogdhead, cask and demijohn. Cash for the crackers and the pickels and the flypaper
4th Salesman: Look whatayatalk. whatayatalk, whatayatalk, whatayataalk, whatayatalk?
5th Salesman: Weredayagitit?
4th Salesman: Whatayatalk?
1st Salesman: Ya can talk, ya can talk, ya can bicker ya can talk, ya can bicker, bicker bicker ya can talk all ya want
but is different than it was.
Charlie: No it ain't, no it ain't, but ya gotta know the territory.
Rail car: Shh shh shh shh shh shh shh

Hot and Broke

Click here to read my first-ever Fringe Festival review of Hot Cripple

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

"I won't crutch"

"Detach" The Loving Sounds of Static, Mobius Band

LBI: Barnegat Light, Beach Haven, Harvey Cedars, Long Beach, Ship Bottom, Surf City.
Jersey Shore highlights the end of every summer. Now it's back, and I can smell the autumn leaves changing, clothes getting woolier, and beer taps becoming tastier.

It's all a game we play. Do do do di da.

and we're back.

Superbowl Champs 2007 return to the field.
Tuned in.

and we won.
Love the rivalry between my college state and home state. Ooohhhh which one to root for? Actually, there is no big rivalry...I made it all up in my head. Though pretty cool to have your friend visit and get to watch their home team too.

Tailgating hours in our (Jersey) stadium have now changed from seven to five hours, construction altering the beat of New York.
Have to admit was a little nervous to use the charcoal grill, giving the experience I had with lighter fluid hot dogs at Bonnaroo.
But turned out great! Someone even called my burgers "homemade!" (they were pretty tasty.)
The Tailgate brigade has begun!
Time for crispy buns, sore shoulders, and the GIANTS to kick some ass!

toasted toads.

toasters celebrating the double deuce in NYC.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

They really are Bodysnatchers!

enough boring depressing talk.
lets get to the gloomers who invented gloom: Radiohead.

Attended their second night performance, of the inaugural All Points West Music Festival, NJ

This show (not festival) was the best thing I have ever seen. Hands down fucking fantastic.
Anton and I have been trying to search for words that can describe their spelindiforous two hour set.
Nothing comes close.
I should just leave this blog blank, because my words, critics, die-hards, NO ONE can do them justice.

Hah, now if only I could tell you what they opened with. I'm pretty sure it was "15 Steps", seeing that's the first track on In Rainbows, but I was in awe of Yorke's voice and the set design, I didn't care what I was listening to, but I knew it sounded like the Phoenix's cry when Dumbledore crosses the border between jesus rising and magical occurrences.

If not, than it certainly was "Bodysnatchers".

The lights! The lights! The lights!!
Please go read their blog, and check out how they saved energy and created a mechanical musical hypnotic rainbow at once.

I LOVE how Radiohead completely controls their crowd. You can't turn them off mid-way through a ____.
All of a sudden, people waiting for hours to be in front on the stage emerged from the masses, and moved away from the band, as if by torture. I mean people were MO-VING.

By no means is that a bad thing. Their intensity in sound, design, volume, body temperature, WHATEVER, pushes their fans to the limits. Testing/daring/indulging/enjoying driving crowds mad and enabling a frat boy to be comfortable with his sexuality by dancing in and to another dimension.

Bodies were either motionless ( sans the rhythmic leg), or dancing from pills with energies of a five year old.
Others just stood with gaping mouths, as cigarettes burned themselves out because others simply forgot who they were. Their last name, where they live, and what they do.
It was all about the moment.

The downtown New York City skyline didn't hurt the scene, only made the concert that more majestic.
I forgot I was in New Jersey, and instead on Planet Radiohead where peace is a sufficient word for anything, and Greenwood shares a latte with me every morning, discussing the current themes of rainbows. Can I just say I love that Radiohead reverted to Rainbows. They are beautiful.

Lyrics came alive and floated like a 3D movie in our face.
"I have no idea what I am talking about", "When the walls bend with your breathing"; "I'm an animal trapped"; "Your eyes they turn me, why should I stay here?"; "Green plastic watering can"....

Watching Yorke is a feat within itself. He is ballistic. His head...the mic...the drowning voice which we all love. Ah!

I will be writing about this for a long time. More later.

Drink Me

I currently feel like I'm standing in Greenwich, London.
On the border of an axis. A divider. A connection. A compilation of time by straddling.

I'm trying to figure out how you align mourning and a birthday.
3 yrs in and still no success. I can never seem to find an appropriate balance.
Let me explain.

you find yourself mumbling R.I.P.

Alone with your social group. Are you kidding me? Sympathy towards everything else is a joke.

People, this is birth and death here. I mean clearly this situation's gonna be complicated.
It's my own self worth (whatever that may be at this point, because validation 2 months out of college is rare) versus half of my molecular solar system; a.k.a. the memory of a parent.

What I should do after not being able to spend my 21st in the States (in London they don't give a shit as long as you can hack), is go get smashed the entire weekend. "Should" a tricky word.
Will I?
I mean maybe Friday, Saturday, but that involves scheduling and questions...
Wait wait wait. Waiting! To hit pause on Sunday to mourn, and then hop right back on the fucked-up ban wagon.

Elation. Happy days follow a tragic day. Fate, the damn bitch, provided me with two hours to recoup, chill, smoke a fag, maybe hyperventilate one or twice, and then "Heyyyyyyyy girl, guess what?! Go party now cause you're one year older!"
Though, farther away from memory, and Hollywood blockbusters, such as Ghost, become laughable, well because you realize (with age) this shit truly doesn't exist.

This year, sports are taking over, and that's just fine. At least it's olympic season. Fuck, I'll even wear a beret.
Someone has to carry the torch into normality--even if it's a quick turn around.

so you're backtracking?/.

where am I?
lift up my ball gown please, check for ruffles and satin and lace and layers. They're all gone.
Stripped of dignity and loss of space, intermingling with the fiery passion to keep on hurting.
Go draw a map or something.
Make yourself lost.

Follow the instructions.

Simon (the Internet says):
home (n.)
1. A place where one lives; a residence.
2. The physical structure within which one lives, such as a house or apartment.
3. A dwelling place together with the family or social unit that occupies it; a household.
4.-a. An environment offering security and happiness.
-b. A valued place regarded as a refuge or place of origin.
5. The place, such as a country or town, where one was born or has lived for a long period.
6. The native habitat, as of a plant or animal.

Now read this:

Andrew Largeman: You know that point in your life when you realize that the house that you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of the sudden even though you have some place where you can put your stuff that idea of home is gone.
Sam: I still feel at home in my house.
Andrew Largeman: You'll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day one day and it's just gone. And you can never get it back. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know. You won't have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place.
(Garden State, 2004)

So spit at my dress.
Dust off the award medals and cheap trophies.
Silent attacks of frames, curtains poisonous paint, boxes, bottles, cards, games, books, first Cd's, and pre-pubescent Polaroids.

Anywhere but here.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

"Hater, I have your diamond rings...

...and cold is cold when you're ending with diamond eyes"

Severely sleep deprived.
She keeps singing, so I'll keep writing.

"Cross Bones Style" Moon Pix, Cat Power

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Three-A Lounge Review

Way Back When…
Speakeasy in the Village.

If prohibition was at a time where Kumquat and Kirshwasser were served, we’re sure people would’ve been lookin’ a whole lot better at those hidden utopias. Welcome to PDT-Please Don’t Tell, and we have to, but we really don’t want to.

Once you get past the confusion and enter an obscure telephone booth through Crif Dogs (please wait to judge before you get inside), a door suddenly slides open. Poof! You’ll find an underground lounge truly much less pretentious than it appears to be. Their dank demeanor is immediately foregone by an extensive drink list, each with a kind description and minor history. Sailor lore and Swiss mysteries are weaved into how a cocktail came to be by collaborations of New York City’s finest bartenders

The menu’s alliterations and rhyme scheme coyly intrigues you, and well you might keep on swiping that card…just for a taste. Try the Bizet, categorized under “Music To Our Ears”, PDT shows their love for connecting old-school music to new-age drinks. PDT mixes temptation with reality as you realize you truly are hidden from the streets (and that may not be a bad thing). They occasional telephone ring may be heard, but don’t fret, you’ve already made it inside the booth.

It’s the 21st century, and conceptual prohibition has never been more fun.

Two-A Fashion Review

Who Said Being A Bookworm Wasn’t Sexy?
Loro Piana

We know you love to read the satirical pages amidst coffee and deadlines, but as you carry that hidden magazine in your upper arm, lets stop and digest your wardrobe. Instead of flying all the way to Firenze, Loro Piana is available to you, pairing a learned man with a melon sweater. The new Mezzocollo Sweater is perfect for fall cruising. Room for hands, comfort, and initiating the double take, you’ll indulge in this mock turtleneck, collar popped or not.

Loro Piana’s reign has proven to sustain the modern patterns for an everlasting classic, suave look. Try on the Spello Woven Shirt while you tuck in the blackberry to its chest patch pocket. We assure you, people will be interested in reading your private book collection.

Enough about your late night endeavors. If you feel like dropping the suit for a night, check out the designer’s Storm System line, a trademark of Loro Piana, making your time in the weather, better. Their Storm System dark brown coat is impermeable until the moment your confidence doesn’t need it. Library or tavern bound, you’ll feel unstoppable with creases in just the right places.

For practicality, style, and class, lets leave it to the Italians. All you have to do is buy it like the morning paper.

One-A Restaurant Review

Fusion Without the Confusion.
Momofuku Ssäm Bar

How lucky can you get? The East Village “lucky peach” restaurant makes one thrive like a ripened fruit, closing those body boundaries as you sit next to your comrades on stools meant to lean-into. David Chang’s fusion food is fashionable in every aspect. Wine lists are served in Moleskin journals, bringing the literature back into dining (at least before the second glass). Don’t worry about being overheard, because you won’t. The intimacy of the wall-aligned benches and soothing taste of sake will cure all paranoia’s.

With an open kitchen and waiters who walk with a swagger, each exuding their own styles, you start to warm up to the small yet descriptive menu. You’ll find your corn may be from Jersey, but we are graced with goat butter from the UK. Everyone is on the same level, literally. Momofuku Ssäm Bar has come up with a whole new style for cafeteria-type seating.

Don’t let one passing plate fool you—the Steam Buns may be a local favorite, and considered a dessert by many, but just as the tiny white plate contrasts this dark paneled bar, a whopping bowl of pork wavers to your nostrils.

Just in for a drink? Stop at the tiny yet intimate L-Bar in the back, where you can watch the energetic chefs create sushi and mouth-watering bo saam…just part of the experience.

You’re in New York City; go invigorate your taste buds.

same feeling, every time.

Go collect your Urban pillows.
Light a candle and throw up a peace sign.
Strawberry incense and a rooftop.
Bodies collaborating and get-to-know-you smells.
Zebra zodiacs and ankle charms.
"With You, Without You" [Instrumental] The Beatles, Anthology 2 [Disc 1]

Wish I had a Dobby...

This post welcomes Harry Potter fans.
Tonight I had an experience that was a first of many sorts.

Humiliation. I'm used to that after dropping a box of tampons only to have it absently kicked by my friend across the mall area of my high school before I even realized the box wasn't underneath my arm anymore. Whoops, that was mine...? A story which was denied for three years on my part. But that is truly irrelevant.

I was going to a lounge, assigned by a company to review. Twas a test, and I will eventually get in...Tomorrow. I finally felt a speckle of what it must have been like during prohibition. There was an address in the East Village, an unlocked gate, but totally blacked out blinds. No light at all, surrounded by a bustling street of restaurants and bars galore. I was confused (as I normally am) as to if the joint was even open. I stood outside for ten minutes. Waiting. Crazy, because clearly the place was just making me wait for a password or some shit hidden on a lamp post across the street. Duh. Creeping down steps, not sure what the hell I was doing, I hesitantly knocked on the glass door to a place that looked as abandoned as the house in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. I'm sure there was a camera watching me from inside as I tapped awkwardly and desperately trying to get an assignment done. The name, which I am choosing not to reveal, yet, says a lot about this place.

A speakeasy. It’s as hidden as the Ministry of Magic. Now, one must enter through a telephone booth, connected to another joint, which happened to be a dingy hot dog eatery. As people dressed to the nines entered the smelly doorway to the right of where I stood, I was looking severely lost and figured, "What the hell there has to be something THROUGH there. Please?"

Do you know in Order of the Phoenix, when the director changed J.K. Rowling’s entrance to the Ministry to a classic London telephone booth? Harry and Mr. Weasley sink into the streets of London on a deserted street into what would be a muggle government building. Bustling with business wizards and extremely intelligent owls, there entry was custom. And mine would be too, if I was reaching my prime eighty years ago.

An older woman, who knew what was going on, accompanied me on my food venture, but I refused to believe there was something beyond what appeared to be an old souvenir telephone booth. I get it. You have to go IN the smelly place, but why? My thoughts were flying in a matter of seconds as people behind me pressured by dignity. Where am I? Do I pick up the phone? Is this wall REALLY going to open? (Cause that would be super cool if it did!) What do I say? What if it doesn’t and I’m standing in a telephone booth in a hot dog place? I was so flustered I didn’t read any of the signage in the booth. Instead, my body halfway in the booth, clearly divided, I barely picked up the phone, hung it right back up, and rolled my eyes to my companion. As the eyes were curving over to the left and my torso was out the “door”, something behind me opened! I diverted my attention back to the now opened wall. I could barely see anything what with the black walls, black couches, dim yellow lights, and the hostess’ black dress.

I was engrossed in multiple opinions of why I was here, and it completely showed on my face, as I turned in aghast to this girl. Completely shocked. And if you know me, face #327 came to life tonight. I really wish I had a Dobby to take a candid of my face, realizing I had just found the key to the underground. The secret service, FBI headquarters, the Chamber of Secrets! I secretly wished the reservationist had a wizards robe on, because that just would’ve been amazing. This may sound ridiculous, but for about two minutes I couldn’t believe I just encountered what my beloved childhood fiction star was accustomed to in his daily routine. Cara, are you reading this? This was my alloted ten minutes.

If anything, it was a fabulous laugh. I’ll be dining and reporting shortly.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Sad-Eyed Lady, Bob? Gentlemen here.

August 2ND, 2008. Houston, Texas.
I keep writing 2007 in my book instead of 2008.
Is that a summer signal, tied to the memories of last year's exploration or my own lapse of judgment?

Gabe and I explored her new town. Paid a visit to the Contemporary Arts Museum-Houston. Was pleasantly surprised when I walked into the exhibition space and saw portraits of dancers hanging on the white walls. Different from the Fine Arts Museum, with space for collectibles, genres, and exhibitions, this space was purely for exhibitions--giving the artists free reign to design and manipulate walls, crevices, and corners however desired. I always enjoy the free access to these architectural utopias, providing the community with art. Simple. Yet why so debatable and astonishing? Foreign/insightful/eclectic concepts from distant lands, with ideals which may not cross our minds on a lazy, hot Houstonian afternoon.

Featured artist: Sam Taylor-Wood.
Making out way throughout the circular space, we encountered video loops in mini theaters, still life's projected and warped onto a flat-screen. Apples sped up to watch their decay, Downey Jr. behind held by a women-resurrecting Madonna and Child. My favorite collection was "Crying Men". Taylor-Wood used movie stars for all her shots, and all gave a different, moving intimate feeling of what it's like to cry. The portraits led from one to the other in a semi-circle: Hayden Christensen, Tim Roth, Ed Harris, Lawrence Fishburne, Benicio Del Toro, Daniel Craig, Forest Whitaker, and ending with a seven minute video of David Beckham sleeping. Charismatic. Masculine. Innocence.

I questioned the various levels/reasons/triggers/emotions/reactions of her positioned men. Why the stance, body language, mouth anguish, space between the teary eyelids? Did she just say, show me how YOU cry? Or did she give them a certain situation, in which they had to act accordingly? The varying degrees of wetness discarded on their scarred faces echoed wardrobe and lighting effects. Del Toro appeared to be crying out of prayer, which made me think of his extremist portrayal of a religious drunk in 21 grams. Fishbourne was the darkest character of all, looking straight at the camera, very matrix-esque. His emotion and position felt impure, and a fake ploy to trick someone only to do a back flip over their head as he steals the most valuable computer chip of our century from their inner suit pocket. Contrasting his cold demeanor, Christensen appeared boyishly sad with a pink collared shirt, as if he just realized Star Wars was fiction.

I appreciate how the series was a consistent, classified group of men. Women-the undertone of being too emotional from critics all alike- is turned onto the men. Maybe Taylor-Wood wanted them to explore the varying degrees of women's emotional psyches. We can't be too sure. Ed Harris is barely recognizable, but looks out of a window into what I imagined a garden, somehow told he has just become a widower. I noticed the males were all shot from the torsos upwards; The viewer never sees where their support is. No grounding or direction can be determined. The balance, equality and locale of three-legged stools or a leather couch or a pair of kneecaps embracing the floor is purposely hidden; leaving wonder and a disturbing sense of wanting to give sympathy to a complete stranger. There is NO sense of sturdiness. And isn't that all part of being torn, shaken, and upset? Not knowing where to turn or how to balance ones state of mind. We defy gravity when wailing because our center is torn between reality, memory, mortality and angst.

This young British female has gone places. We are lucky enough to witness the person and not the actor. Taylor-Wood has molded the actor, instead of the actor stealing the scene-we know it's her vision, and they are just there to emulate something personal to Taylor-Wood.

[Photo Credit: The artist, Sam Taylor-Wood]