Election Update

So, I realize this hasn't been updated in very long, and unfortunately, it took a very judgmental comment by Mr. Richard (see down there?  where it shows I censored his comment?), but here is my take on the election process this year thus far.  
Both candidates fail to impress me.  No one will give a straight answer.  They have both lied about the other to try and get a leg up.   Both sides, despite professing moderation and bipartisanship have fundamentalists that take the race away from workable issues, and reroute in anger and distrust of the unknown.  Politics sucks and seem to get done in two years what most NGO's (with equal bank) get done in 9 months.  It's a shot in the dark, because there are less and less ways to get a politician to do what he said he would do once he has the power of office.  There is always a way  to swing things in your favor, when you have the upper hand.

Yes Richard, I am your worst nightmare.  Third party here I come.


Heartburn and Heartache.

Ug.  No matter what those little unsalted green/brown/magenta nuggets of goodness whisper to you, pistachios won't help your heart burn.

I felt the need to share this.  I am still not sure what I think if the election this year.  I question anyone who says they do.  I've just been a little despondent since Edwards dropped.  Regardless, I will probably be a vote for Obama or not vote at all.  Still depends.

Spooky, in't it?
I will be so pissed at America if you do it again. Seriously, I won't even invite you to my birthday parties, and at our thirty year reunion when people ask, "Hey, whatever happened to America?" I will just scowl and get all slitty-eyed and make a face that lets them know I DON'T want to talk about you.


The Eye to London

So AM New York offered me an illuminating article this morning about the "Telectroscope" at the foot of the Brooklyn anchorage for the bridge by the same name.    The back story was delightful, as were the three images included in the short piece.  But what has captured me the most in this fine example of journalistic prowess is the new addition to my vocabulary it has afforded.  "...a 3,000-mile tunnel lined with mirrors, creates this jaw dropping artistic example of 'steampunk' (a term used to describe a fusion of Victorian style and futuristic technology)."  While I feel like I must have heard the term before, I think it is fair to say, and if you know me at all, you will agree, that this word will soon become a favorite in my lexicon.
Sometimes you can't help but love it when the media openly embraces a lie.  I can't find the specific article online, but here's a little more information.

Top Five "steampunk" related items:

1. The City of Lost Children directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet
2. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
5. Stardust by Neil Gaiman


Audio Learner+Visual Learner does not= AV Learner

So I have been working at this real estate group for 6 weeks now.  Here's my main problem.  Relational being that I am I am going nuts that everyone I meet here has a duel personality.  It is not through any fault of their own.  
It's just as if I have met twice the people.  The phone voices, and the suited faces.  Spare a handful of people who walk up to the front and TALK to me once in a while, I see and smile at people when they come in and out, even carrying on a friendly banter with some of them, but the minute I buzz their desk, who knows which one is which.
I wonder if this situation has any commonalities with phone sex?


I rock at rocks.

This is my recent attempt at being hip with culture.  Welcome to the world little Potato Sankara Stone!

Thank you Jackson!



Upcoming show:

Brooklyn Artists Gym presents
Rockers & Posers
BAG Gallery
May 22 - June 5
Opening Reception: May 31, 6:00-9:00pm

The Rockers & Posers show features contemporary artists focusing their talent on portraits. Media represented in this group show include video, photography, illustration, painting, sculpture, ceramics, printmaking and alternative media.

Brooklyn Artists Gym
168 7th Street, 3rd floor
(between 2nd and 3rd Avenue)
F to 4th Avenue, or the R to the 9th Street
Brooklyn, NY 11215


And just for those keeping track, here is a list of things I currently want but cannot have: sewing machine, mac mighty mouse, dark crystal dvd, pastries, my momma, summer haircut I love, kitchenaid mixer, more books, someone to mount my photos for me, time to bike, outdoor sleeping space, and antique music box.

Check back later.


black day

Rauschenberg is dead. I don't know quite what to do with myself. I am sad.


Slightly Hypocritical Thought’s On Blogging, and Why Were Are the Most Fearful and Vulnerable Generation Yet

This entry will be titiled:

"Slightly Hypocritical Thought’s On Blogging, and Why Were Are the Most Fearful and Vulnerable Generation Yet." 


"When You Drive Alone, You Drive With Ghosty Hitler"

In modern times with digital pictures, audio recording, and other tools to document every little aspect of life (perhaps even blogging), our identity has become closely linked with how well we can document it.  Modern thought has its influence on this: if you can’t prove it with a picture, you are apt to be doubted in your claim of catching anything bigger than a 5 lb fish.  But I believe over-documentation, and the world of empirical proof have fostered a fear of forgetting.  If we cannot produce the physical, literal evidence of our being somewhere, what’s to say we ever went?  Technology, combined with the move from modern thought to postmodern thought has resulted in our fear of forgetting, or worse, being forgotten.

This fear extends into public art and policy.  The general populations compulsion to memorialize anyone and erect monuments to everything come from a deep-seated belief that if they do not force people to remember, not one will.  Particularly surrounding the war and our contemporary climate of terror, “Never Forget”, and “Remember the Sacrifice” seem to have replaced, “Loose Lips Sink Ships” “Food Is a Weapon, Don’t Waste It.”  Instead of advice on how to do our part in the fight we are all fighting, contemporary slogans try and remind (or convince) is why we are fighting.

To be fair, I recall “Remember the Alamo,” but not what I am supposed to remember about it.

I’m not sure what this fear and compulsion say about us as an American people, but I’m saddened that we are afraid of our failing memories, and the inability to transmit real love and respect through oral tradition.  Think back to all the sci-fi movies that warn about trusting too much knowledge that otherwise would be in our brains, to outside sources.  Or even teen novel The Giver.  Let’s not get lazy people.  Remember “You Can’t Beat the Axis if You’ve Got VD.”

PS: I got into a group show at the Brooklyn Artist Gym called "Rockers and Posers". Sounds fun, right? Go me! More information to come. And yes, I am aware that I didn't post anything on here about the last show at NYCAMS," Who Lost This Piece of Paper?" Images forthcoming. Promise.



I am standing on my mother, and she is standing on my grandmother. My great grandmother can not longer breath under the eighteen of us. I do not know her mother.


Hello, Kitty.

I have been feeling terribly desperate lately, in the whole range of areas to feel desperate in. From jobs, to work, to men. It’s just really no good. So here’s today’s hope: To drink deeply from the cup, and not grasp wildly at straws.

I went for a walk in the sun today to photograph widows and orphans. Here’s one of my favorites:



I’VE HAD A BABY!  Well, to be more accurate, I’ve had a baby vomit on me.  I have recently become the part-time caregiver to a three-month-old.  Who would have predicted?  (Or allowed?)

Some thoughts for the day:

I am broken.
I am remade better.
I don’t need the cardboard sleeve on my coffee, which means my hands are calloused enough to protect my nerves.  It’s some sign of hard work.


Passion v. Vision- KO!

So it comes to passion and vision, the two things one cannot live without in the City.  Without the pairing, men are destined to be the walking dead.  These men are necessary in the City, but not the heart of it.  So, I am left in the despair of the realization of only being with one of the lovers.  Passion abounds, but with no object, there is no vision, and all the energy and fervor in the world are for naught.  My soft heart tears like a rotten peach on every blunt edge, and my body will not slow for its own welfare.  Licking my own wounds is counterproductive to healing, but brings temporary comfort and target to distract me from my lack of vision.  If only I could figure how to lick my own heart and eyes to heal the rift of my passion and vision. 
            Sometimes I long to be a great artist.  To make works able to move the hardest of men to tears.  Not by sentimental appeal, by but illustrating and being Truth.  Other times I think I might have some masterpiece of words welling up inside me that will bring about civic catharsis and lift all people out of their trance.
            But my greatest longing and desire is to impassion others, for the Lord, beauty, truth, and life.  But I lack the vision, and in it, become the walking dead myself.  I can see the final composition I want, but when I try to focus on a part or stroke, I am left confused or blind, like the first time I had a migraine, or a brain tumor. 
            I would rather be thwarted, than be so powerless.  In hitting a brick wall, at least one is moving beforehand, and then there’s even the ricochet.  It seems better than sleeping awake.
            So vision and passion, glass and fire.  The imprecise and global desires of my heart for peace, beauty, and truth paralyze me.  Vision seems so immediate and local to me that I could never accomplish all that I see.  Paralyzed by my own inaction, there are so many causes that I ache for.  But I do not feel a pull.  And cannot know where success lies.  And I am frozen. 
            If I cannot see any outcome, regardless of probability, I am dismissive.  I feel like I must ride my bike off a cliff, to make sure my parachute doesn’t have any holes in it.  Perhaps I should knock on all the doors to have them slammed in my face, rather than wait in the cold for one to open.  A draft of warm air every now and then is enough to keep me going. 


Mid-Winter's BBQ

So after that last posting of writing jeremy reminded me of this piece I wrote at the end of fall/beginning of winter when I could still ride my bike. I have been experiencing a bit of the winter gloom lately, so I though maybe I would post it to urge "bikeable" weather forward. I think there might soon be plans for a "Mid-Winter's BBQ" as well with the same purpose.

Sunny cloudy Sunday ride
down Ocean Parkway to see the bay.
Pay respect to the gray scale amusement park who rivals the coma of the beach.
And the thumbp, thumbp, thumbp of my bike on the boardwalk sounds like a happy eternal flat tire.
A scratchy Italian radio is playing for two scratchy Italian men.
No bass at all.
I sit two benches away on an otherwise deserted stretch of planks to eavesdrop on the movie magic.
I wish I had a thermos of something to sip and wrap my hand around.
Ride home trying to remember sand and thumbp, thumbp, thumbp.
My love for an island that is not really an island is stillborn in the early winter air.
I am trying to ignore the “empire” in “The Empire State” of every license plate.
I pass.
The spooky grit of coney island trumps antiseptic fireworks of Times Square


Writing Samplings

The performance went great, thanks to all those who came out. The videos and images are making their way online slowly but surely in the new stuff section here. I've been have a rough few weeks since quitting my job with no backup plan. I keep getting "leads" which go no where, and interviews that make me hate life. Plus its Feb., which means pleanty of grey and no sun. I am solar powered.

So, in my tired and frustrations I have been doing a little bit of writing between checking NYFA and my email. Here's a few samplings, don't be too harsh.

I am petite middleclass, and I think that mist be a force of gentrification in this apparent “urban blight”.  I find safety in the fact that someone once told me that I walk like a lesbian, which I took as a commentary on my solid, heavy, unmovable steps.  My feet don’t move unless I say so.  It makes me feel that despite my short stature and feminine curves, I might seem like less of a victim in my neighborhood of strangers.   I am “Miss” and “Ma’am”, when “Hello, I am selling candy for my basketball team at school.  It is only a dollar.”  But otherwise I am, “Hey baby; hey sexy thang; I want some of your sweet white chocolate vanilla.”  I want to exist on a level of mutual respect with my neighbors, but who is my neighbor, player or basketball player?  Lately, I have just taken to walking with one shoelace undone because when I once did it mistakenly, all anyone said was “better tie that.”  There’s something to be said for consistency’s power to greatly reduce confusion.  It’s just easier.
            Who is my neighbor? Who is my brother’s keeper?  Who is my keeper?  I am sure the residents of the apartment below me are not as reassured of their safety by their by my pounding stomp of a walk, but if I can’t have a dog, I might as well have the protective sounds of a 300lb man.-

When I go to art museums, it’s kind of like the zoo.  Not that it’s crowded or loud or smelly.  It just that I have to see Cornell just like going to see the monkeys; I have to see the Klien, like visiting the Reptile House.  It is like dropping in on an old friend.  But, good old Joey never changes like real people do. -

I had this dream, where I had finally written a beautiful song.  And I had one of those conscious dreaming moments where I thought, “I actually did write it because this is my dream and all these thoughts are mine.”  So I tried really hard to remember it, but when I woke up, the only thing I could remember was the following line,
“If Dusty and Lonely
Got to cuddle the whole way,
I hope home’s not too far to go.”
Ain’t it awful to find out something you thought was beautiful is crap.-