smoke signals - flashing mirrors - messages in bottles - carrier pigeons - flags in the air - hoofbeats on the ground

Monday, June 28, 2010

it's all about the tags, and what the hell.

pink floyd
wish u were here

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

dear melissa

The common man he wants to grow

But he does not know

What he does not know

He seeks the vestige of his friends

With little faith that hearts will mend

He writes this sobby dribble trash

Making him all more the ass

His hands get rough and head less dense

While wishes and dreams lose all sense

The common man he wants to grow

He tells his Father, he tells the road

The common man I thought was not me

But I did not see, I did not see

The common man he wants to grow

But he does not know

He does not know

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Dear Joe

I thought this would amuse you.

A food-community on the old LiveJurnalz is accepting applications for moderators. This was part of my application submission:

Q: Why should we pick you out of everyone who applied?
A: This week I baked eleven loaves of bread, studied thai cooking ingredients, read My Life in France AND the new Bourdain book (medium raw) (twice), stole a case of wine off a boat, and replanted my balcony herb garden. I know the difference between this community and (another, similar community), and what is appropriate for each. I think people who only want traffic to their personal blog are a pain, that's not community. I believe that excessive use of the term "om nom nom" is a crime. Food porn is exactly that - it's porn. It should arouse and inspire, and occasionally be slightly disturbing. And lastly, I know how to create a f***ing lj-cut. I've been using lj for 10 years.

Monday, June 14, 2010

dear melissa

I tumbled about you, I honor you :o)

a few months ago one of the greatest influences and friends and loves of my life, Melissa Sue Stanley packed up her life and moved to Switzerland. To a tiny town nestled in the mountains filled with the most amazing cheeses, breads, etc.

we stay in touch as one does with a close friend. We write letters, we skype, we email and facebook status update and share a blog exclusively for keeping up with one another. I do not typically share these letters on this blog because it is such a very different format.

Dear Melissa I miss you greatly you. You have taken with you to this new land a piece of me. One that I was happy to give up to see what you could mold it into. Whisper it secrets and great truths and then I can come pick it up or you can mail it to me and I will be better again.

The year has been a carousel of transition, but it stops every now and again and we can try to stand on our feet and see what change has transpired. And if we remain still enough we an actually see some of our struggle, our pain, or losses spin off with the wind.

Letting go....oof....not the best thing I do and yet it has become one of my strongest lessons and best assets Ive ever acquired. Of course I am still learning.

Layers and layers of messaging. This is written for Melissa, for Maggie, for my Father and Mother and Sister, and for you. You know who you are right? Beyond our limited capacity to see and experience the world is a that great, great open universe in which we are all connected. Doors open and close, carousels start and go. We are all full of fits and starts and perhaps I am now embarking on my next.

Just listen to the melody of the carousel, get lost for a minute, step carefully and hold someones hand, smile, it will be all too soon before the ride is over.

Thursday, June 03, 2010

dear melissa

Domesticity Isn’t Pretty

My father told me he would always help me find my way home. I have reached a point in my life where I would like to or perhaps need to build my own home. I miss the idea that used to visit me of bringing to life my own family. It seems to have taken a temporary vacation. Tickets for a return trip are scarce. I suppose that is what happens when we deconstruct our identities. I begin to see a sad boarded up house, wood planks blocking the windows, broken down car in the driveway, weeds overtaking everything.

I used to keep a list in my wallet titled “Good Thought: In Case of Emergency.” I pulled that out tonight and it read:

  1. Keep playing the game, just keep playing the game.
  2. Driving down the highway, in traffic, do not switch lanes. Have patience, things will begin to move at the right speed again.
  3. Listen to Amsterdam music, close your eyes and go there.
  4. Sing everything you know.
  5. Write until you hands cannot work anymore.
  6. Run until your legs cannot work anymore.
  7. Think of all the people who love you, write down their names and why.
  8. Remember you have to let go a little sometimes if you want people to come back.
  9. Go to a bookstore.

I realized I’d written that list almost 10 years ago when I was just coming to terms with my sexual identity.

I am not a crier. I wish I could. Thoughts of my family can sometimes induce tears, but they are almost always stifled by an unconscious resistance. As I read through the list I began relating to that scared and pressurizing feeling I felt at 15, eyes welled up, maybe I let one tear escape, sniffle, sniffle, cough and resume control.

I then thought of that home again, seeing now piles of lumber and hammers, nails and screw (all neatly organizes of course). The silhouetted figures of a husband and a kid and a dog (okay, Samson was definitely there too).. One piece of furniture to move in, my first real kitchen table.

My hands are ready for the labor. I am ready to make the first strike now. Bruising, scraped, swollen thumb be damned (I am not too good at the construction thing), but it will be my own home.

And you will come to visit. Will you come to visit? And you will sit at my kitchen table. And maybe you can help me build it stronger, make improvements here and there. And you, you will give it the name ‘home.’ And all of you will bring me home..