Bouncer Cuts

 * The following is another excerpt from that novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while... It's the one about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published? Well. This is a little snippet about the place where he likes to write.

Author's note: this story is set somewhere just before the year 2000, in my favorite place in the world: San Francisco.

~~~ 

    If you’ve ever flipped through a National Geographic or perused the Discovery Channel or – at least – been to high school, then you know; the ability to survive hinges on the ability to adapt.

This also holds true in the business world.

In defiant reaction to the past decade’s flailing economy, the city has begun to evolve by breaking out into a pandemic of creatively trendy, multi-purpose business establishments. It’s not a used book store anymore; it’s an art gallery with an espresso machine and a toaster that just happens to sell used books or, perhaps, it’s an ethnic “fusion” restaurant and bar with a cabaret license and an open mic. In this case however, the Brainwash is a laundromat cleverly disguised as an internet café with a bi-weekly poetry night. Upon entering, you might notice the pseudo-iconic, religious candles lining the windows or that the ceiling is edged with terrifically cheesy red, star-shaped twinkle lights. Every available wall of this kitsch Shangri-La has been brightly indoctrinated with framed collages of old Maytag pin-up propaganda. All the tables and chairs, which look as though they were rescued from the city dump, are very purposely mismatched, reconditioned and then arraigned into careful disarray. If you close your eyes, and this is my favorite part, you might hear a lone saxophone preaching in time to the HUM-SH-SH of thirty plus washers or maybe even a few words from the gospel according to Miles Davis weaving in and around the FOOM-CHIK-FOOM of a double load dryer or, like now, the silent wisdom of a local cellist stuffed into a corner, weeping a quite halleluiah.

It’s brilliant, it’s convenient and it reeks pleasantly of fabric softener and coffee.

As I cross the brushed aluminum threshold of the Brainwash, it’s all I can do just to keep myself from genuflecting.

…

With a melodic THOONG, the door swings shut behind me, leaving the horror of my morning tied up alongside a disgruntled schnauzer and a cluster of messenger bikes. Amir, the resident java jock, shoots me the male head jerk of acknowledgement as I approach the counter.

“Hello Buddy!” His flawless, academic English is British crisp with Middle Eastern undertones. “And will we be writing today, my friend?” Like many writers, I indulge in a superstitious methodology.

“Hey Amir,” I say, slipping into a comfortable smirk, “Maybe. Is Sabreal around?” Six years ago, fresh out of college and with the ink still damp on my Lit degree, I stumbled into the Brainwash desperately seeking sanctuary from my overly exclamatory neighbors: “Oh Baby” and “Big Daddy.” The ensuing fit of inspiration sparked a series of sexually charged satire that ultimately lead to my inclusion in the prestigious literary anthology: “The Best Writers You’ve Never Heard Of: Volume Eighteen.”

I’ve been coming here every day since.

Amir dips down behind the register and pops back a second later with a beat-up old bowling bag held together with something like a thousand stickers of concerts past. “I think she is in the back, my friend. Shall I go fetch her for you?” I can never tell if his over-the-top customer service is amusingly genuine or amusingly sarcastic.

“No, that’s OK, man. Thanks.” I grab the bag and aim myself at a small, out of the way table set in direct diagonal of the staging area.

This time of day, the place is still fairly empty though, as always, there’s a line up of people suckling on the Brainwash’s WiFi teat, furiously texting their “BFFs” or squinting intensely into their laptops or tablets to download the day’s fix of Electronic Methadone.

We are America, the anesthetized.

Not that I’m any better. I once spent six lonely hours on a sleepless night instant messaging who I can only hope was some girl in Florence and not some unemployed shut-in living out some weird fantasy in his mother’s basement. Computers, the internet – they’re tools that help me obtain as much instant gratification as I can handle. My writing however, is art and half of that art is in the process, which is why I go through all the trouble of maintaining my Royal beauty.

It’s with the kind of pride usually reserved for new mothers that I unzip the bowling bag and along with a ream of paper, draw forth the fifty-pound, all-metal love of my life: Lenore. My typewriter. Comparing this marvelous machine to a laptop is like trying to compare Rodin’s “Thinker” to a blow-up doll.

There’s a single sheet of fresh paper rolled through the carriage with the word “The” typed boldly in the upper left-hand corner. Unfortunately, that “The” has been there for almost a week. Sighing, I tilt my chair into the wall behind me and let my eyes go out of focus, drifting… “The.” The what? The… day. What day?

“C’mon Lenore baby, talk to me.”

~~~

 

 

A Taste

The following is an out-of-context, random snippet: a taste (one of many to come), of a three part book series that I have been slowly working on. It is a passion project, born of a desire to preserve my familial history.

I am Romani, a product of two immigrant families that found their way to the United States in the early 1900's. I was raised by my mother's side, and specifically by our familial elders. During the first ten(?) or twelve-ish years of my life, I was blessed to have been more directly raised by the few remaining immigrant members of my family. 

They passed on to me our language, our culture and traditions (romanipen), and all the stories of my maternal clan -- who we were, where we came from, and how we ended up in 'America.' 

We were 'outsiders amongst outsiders,' because unlike much our community, we were only "Catholic on the outside." On the INSIDE, we were goddess worshiping pagans. "Kitchen witches, midwives and herbalists," according to my great, great aunts and uncles. Through them I learned divination, fortunetelling, and the ways of the Strega. We were closed and private about who we were, and hid in plain sight amongst the Italian Catholic neighborhoods we lived in.

I was often told; "It's up to you to keep our stories, add to them, and pass them on."

This was due in large part to the majority of their kids -- my great aunts and uncles -- deciding rather unilaterally to assimilate and 'just be Americans.' Many of them were unaware of our lineage as it was, and only passively passed on traditions they never thought to ask about. I don't really know why our elders let that happen, but I figure that they wanted a safer future for the family.

But because my elders parented me, they passed everything to me, because -- quite simply, I asked them to.

In the last maybe ten or so years of my life, as more and more of my family dies off, and especially as a part of the Roma movement towards our peoples' sovereignty as a stateless nation, my promise to pass on our story has felt more urgent. I am the last living member of my familial line -- on either side -- who still lives by and practices our traditions.

I do not have children. Never wanted any. So the problem then presented itself: how do I preserve, add to, and pass on my elder's stories? Our history??

Initially, I just wrote down the stories as they were told to me. But like any good artist, I asked myself; "why?" Why would anyone care about these stories? (Outside my family or the Roma community at large, that is). As we are a people almost completely unacknowledged here in the U.S., I could not think of an effective way to drum up interest and really 'share' it all.

So I sat on it and waited for inspiration to strike.

Meanwhile, I had started playing an RPG with my friends: "Vampire the Masquerade." I am a goth, (since the late 1980's, at least) and am a little obsessed with vampires. Or a lot. OK, I am a LOT obsessed with vampires. The lore, the horror, the romanticism -- all of it. Gimme.

So, obviously, I made my character an extreme version of myself. This got me thinking on her backstory. Well, I had JUST typed up my family stories, so I referenced them for inspiration. And that's when it hit me -- I could write a novel (or three. Why not three? Some of my most favorite authors wrote things in threes.) 

As I outlined my project, it evolved into "The Sacred Pilgrim;” a three part fantasy narrative that chronicles the life, death and rebirth of a Romani woman born into a world of adversity, magic and mysticism. 

This epic narrative, which begins just after world war 1 and is set in Sicily, follows the transformational journey of Aradia Medrano, birthed twice into surreal situations: once as the avatar of the Mother Goddess, and once as a powerful vampire. But not just any vampire. A creature from Romani folklore called a Mulo. A "Mulo" is born of pain and suffering and injustice all served up fresh on a wrongful death and an improper burial. 

You might be thinking "Revenant," and you'd be right -- sort of. When a poor soul rises from the grave to seek justice and/or revenge on those who wronged them in life, AND kills them by drinking their blood and then being cursed to roam the earth for all time, AANNNDDDD can only be stopped by their first born.... you get a Mulo. Or in my story's case, a Mula -- which is the feminine version. 

I employed the stories of my elders to serve as the backdrop and origin of my character, took the lore of the Mulo, and added the mysticism of my personal family lineage. It is many things, this book. It's folklore. It's historical fiction. It's fantasy. And -- it's horror.

On the outside.

On the inside, it is an attempt to decolonize my people. It is me sharing pieces of my culture. It is reclamation, preservation and metaphor. It is survivor's guilt, loss and compounding generational trauma. It is the universal human experience of discovering and embracing your truest self, against all odds. 

The first installment spans the early 1900’s, through the mid 1950’s. We follow Aradia through childhood being groomed for her destiny by her mother, a talented woman known as Mother Losna. We experience World War 2 through Aradia's eyes. Our hearts are lifted when she meets her husband, and when their daughter is born - and stand solemnly by her as she later grieves their tragic deaths. Who is the architect of so much loss? Is it the will of the universe, or the carefully laid plan of a vampire known only as Luna? When she offers Aradia - at her darkest hour - a chance for justice, will she accept? What lies ahead as the Vampire ends Aradia’s mortal life? Walk with her, as she journeys through the seven gates of the underworld on a path of self discovery and empowerment to see what finally rises from the grave.

~~~

    The Vampire Luna awoke just as the final rays of sunlight faded from the sky, like a switch had been flipped. She looked over at the woman next to her and rolled onto her side, spooning. The woman’s hair smelled like wildflowers, and Luna drank it in, as she lightly ran her fingers down the length of the woman’s nimble form. She reached over and gently cupped the woman's supple breast, feeling its weight in her hand; sinking deeper into the tangle of her thick, ebony locks. “I love you,” she sighed, nosing the woman’s ear. “From the first moment I saw you, I was lost forever.” Luna rolled flat onto her back, twirling soft curls around her finger. “But can you ever love me, though?” She sat up, leaning her head against the plush, overstuffed headboard and gazed up at the swirling, sheer pink fabric draped inside the top of the canopy. “I was so nervous when we finally met, you know? I remember playing the scenario over and over in my mind trying to think of the perfect opener.” She laughed then, feeling embarrassed. “I guess it doesn’t matter much now.” She swung her long, pale legs over the edge of her queen size poster bed, and stretched. “You said you’d walk with me, do you remember that?” She stood, gathered her pink, marabou robe off the edge of the bed, and slipped it on – it’s train billowing behind her – her skin shuddering under its decadently gossamer caress. She crossed the terrazzo floor of the master bedroom to the double glass doors leading out to the veranda, and drew back the heavy, magenta curtains. “That was two nights ago,” she called over her shoulder, pouting. She paused, turned back and took in the beauty of the brisk Palermo autumn night.

Did I do something wrong? She wondered.

From her villa, set deep against the hillside, the vampire could see the entire city spread out before her, like an extensive menu at a posh eatery. She watched the lights come on, one by one, as fathers came home to their families, and mothers set the night’s supper out, and exhaled dramatically. “Two nights. Two nights, and you’re still not here.” She looked over longingly at the woman lying in her bed, sticky with viscera and gore; “It’s ok, my love.” The vampire thought briefly of the hundreds of birds camped at Aradia’s grave; “I too, can wait.”

She smiled to herself, revisiting some highlights of the night before with her newest plaything – a young, raven haired woman from Napoli named Guillia. Luna had chosen her, because of the ways she reminded her of her beloved romnij witch; lithe and caramel skinned – an enigmatic morsel with bewitching eyes ... and, as it turned out, very skilled fingers. She had been a lively and good humored girl, who was apparently backpacking through Sicily as part of her ‘year of self discovery.’

What nonsense, she thought.

“Excuse me, Madame Luna?” A small, rotund man with slicked back hair, oily skin, and a pencil-thin mustache entered the room; respectfully keeping his distance.

“What is it?” asked Luna impatiently, drawn from her musings. The man shifted from one foot to the other, nervously glancing at the bloody body still on the Madame’s bed. He absently licked his lips.

Broiled! No, ROASTED! He thought, fresh garlic, minced. Some locally pressed olive oil, rosemary… a little thyme, maybe?

He cleared his throat; “Will you be needing breakfast, Donna Luna?” He loosened his ascot, and unbuttoned his collar, exposing his neck.

Luna, still gazing ahead at the city, said; “No. Thank you, Vincent.”

Vincent re-buttoned his collar, tidied his tie, and smoothed out his pinstripe suit, easing a bit. “Very good. When you are ready Madame, I will update you on the details of today.” He glanced back at the woman lying peacefully on her side, as though deep in a dream – his stomach growled.

… Salt, pepper, dijon mustard... parsnips?

“Fine, fine,” Luna replied, half listening. It was now quite a long time ago, and yet, she could still recall the circumstances of her dark transition with perfect clarity. One does not forget one’s vampiric rebirth, after all. With her embrace, she had risen the very next night in her full glory, marveling at the newness of it all – ravenous. Powerful. “I did EVERYTHING right,” she muttered. Then, in a lightning flash of angry frustration, she spun around and was suddenly upon the man, having moved faster than thought. Before Vincent knew what was happening, an enraged predator was holding him up against the wall, her hands at his neck – his feet nearly a foot from the floor. “Where is my prize, you little Guinea shit?!” Spit and blood bubbled through her clenched teeth, her black eyes bored through him like hot pokers. The man struggled in vain, and clawed with futility at Luna's grip, terrified but also … deeply aroused.

His voice was strained and raspy, a trickle of urine dribbled from his pant leg; “I don’t know, my mistress!” The vampire hissed and with one hand threw Vincent down, who curled into a ball, quailing. Luna put her hands up and out, and took a slow, even breath.

“Of course you don’t, you illiterate bug.” She glowered at the groveling man and smirked.

Pathetic.

Thoughtfully, slowly, she raised a well pedicured foot, and presented it to him. Without hesitation, Vincent placed it tenderly in his hands and reverently kissed it, quietly moaning as he did; “This little piggy went to market...” He began.

She grinned; “Good boy.”

He had barely made it to the third ‘little piggy,’ when Luna, finally bored, kicked him away. In an instant, she had returned to her vista, and continued to gaze down at the city just as the last of the street lights came on.. “Eat what you want and then clean … that ... up.” She gestured at the bed, disgusted.

Vincent scuttled to the remains, and hungrily gathered it up into his arms, drool beginning to froth at the corners of his mouth. “Yes my mistress. Thank you, my Mistress. You are as generous as you are beautiful, my Mistress!”

Luna waved him away. “Go, pig.” He tossed the girl around his shoulders, his lips smacking, and backed quickly out of the room without saying another word. She closed her eyes and counted to ten in a half-hearted attempt at regaining her calm..“Where are you, my pet?”

...

 

 

Gen X Stuff

I am going to illustrate for you what being gen x is to me. So sit back and cuddle up, because it's story time with Bibi Felicia!

Brought to you by the number 69 and the letter “F” – keeping you well stocked with fucks through the most frustrating of times. 

 

Picture it! 1978.

This was the year that I learned two new vocabulary words: "Asthma" and "Allergies." This was also the year I learned about asphyxiation, when my wind pipe suddenly and unexpectedly snapped shut, rendering me unconscious. I don't remember much about that, but apparently I died for two whole minutes. So fast forward a bit to the hospital where I had been revived to find me out of sorts – wheezing and sputtering like an old car. 

 

It turns out I had asthma. If you don't know what that feels like, get an old drinking straw, flatten it out, and try to breathe through ONLY IT for a few moments. WARNING: you may pass out!

 

I was put through many uncomfortable tests in the following days... the worst one was a scratch test. This where a doctor called an “allergist,” injects a tiny bubble of concentrated evil called "allergens" juuuussst under the surface of your skin. They do this in a kind of grid – to see what happens!

 

So, these “doctors” covered my entire back with these poisons – which hurt me like fire – only to watch me adversely react to EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

 

Yup! Turns out I was allergic to literally EVERYTHING: animals, dust, mold and mildew, detergents, cleaners – the air... you get the point.

 

I was also allergic to all food stuffs except, I am told, red meat and oranges. Yum! 

 

Now, just to throw this out there: they were still figuring out antihistamines back then, and epipens, which were only developed the year before, were not made available to the general public until sometime around 1987 ish.

 

So what sage advice did my chain smoking doctor offer my mom? He said -- and I am quoting because it's a day I will NEVER forget; “Just let her eat whatever. She'll EVENTUALLY build up a tolerance.” In case you are wondering, that's the medical equivalent to “walking it off.” Yeah. 

Needless to say, I spent a lot of time in emergency rooms until I turned twelve and sure enough, my body did a complete 180 and was no longer asthmatic. 

 

And except for fur, a weed called “goldenrod,” maybe crabs? and kiwi fruit, I am allergy free. The lesson here, is that we are all stronger than we think, so don't give up, even if it kills you!

 

Toodles bitches!! 

 

 

 

Urban Crawing

I love traveling to new places. As an artist, I often get to travel on someone else's dime. 

"Hey we're doing a show in (insert name of city, here) at (name of gallery) and we'd love to have you be there for the opening." 

I'd negotiate travel cost and a place to crash as my fee, knowing that as long as I could get there, I'd be able to sell a piece or two, cover my expenses, and still have something left over for my savings. It was a win-win situation: the curator would get to parade 'the artist' around and impress the V.I.P.'s, the art groupies got to mingle and do photo ops, and the gallery would get a HIGHLY motivated sales person chatting up potential collectors. 

In cool circles, that's called a "scene." 

Inevitably, the opening would devolve into a full tilt rager, and that would be my cue to head out on my own and regroup. For me, these jaunts were equal parts work trip and mini vaycay, where I got to meet new people, see new things, talk shop, and grab some sweet, ironic, touristy bullshit.

My favorite way to do this, is to indulge in a little game that I call: Dicing. I came up with it in my freshmen year of college. I had just moved back to California, was living in San Francisco as a newly minted adult, and loved nothing better than to go on a late night urban crawl. Over the years, I've taken many, many folks dicing: friends, dates, family... weirdly, it caught on for a time and soon there were all kinds of people dicing. Since those days, I have made it a point of introducing fellow travelers and new contacts to my quirky little game but these days, with everyone lost in their phones, the practice has more or less died.

In recent years, it's pretty much just me out and about touring whatever city I happen to be in. By now, I've diced around Picadilly Circus, old Paris, Shanghai, most of Belgium, Berlin, Milan and every major city in the Sates, just to name a few. It's one of my small joys in life, and I always have the best adventures while doing it.

So what is dicing, you ask? Well, as I just happen to have written a thing about it...
~~~
To "dice" is to wander about the city and get – essentially – lost. Do this often enough, and you’ll see it all. Shake through the pockets, purses or messenger bag of any given local and you’d be sure to find a pair of garden variety, pick ‘em up at any liquor store, six-sided dice. Mine happen to glow in the dark, as my tendency is to 'dice,' 'toss' or 'roll' after hours.

A lot of times, if you need to clear your head or if you’re out courting or showing some out-of-towners a good time or even if you just feel like being out for the sake of being out, you'd grab your dice, give them a quick shake and toss them on the ground in front of you. How they land depends on what you do. For instance, you toss your dice and they line up left to right, three and five. From wherever you are, you’d go left for three blocks, turn right and walk for five, all the while doing whatever you’re doing and taking note of landmarks as they happen. If, on the next toss, the dice line up head to toe, you’d then total them up and walk that many blocks forward. On the rare occasion that you run out of blocks before making your count like, you hit the docks or a closed road, you’d just “bounce back” how ever many blocks you had left, and then toss anew. Some of the more cunning types talked about 'crapping.' Crapping is basically the same thing as dicing only done with a partner. At every toss, you and your buddy bet against each other; odds or evens, high or low.

Sometimes, you’d be sitting on a bench somewhere, having a burrito or a smoke or whatever and you’ll see a small crowd – maybe a roaming bachelorette party or a bunch of out-of-towners, crapping on the corner. However you wanna spin it, it’s the only way to REALLY see the city – just as long as you’re not in any kind of hurry. I’ve done this enough times that no matter where I go, I know exactly where I am and how to get to wherever I want to be.

Life should be so simple.

The Artist's Conundrum

In media and on television, there's this glamorized view of musicians, writers and artists like, once you sign that record deal or land that publisher or get that gallery exhibit, you've hit the big time and now money's going to start hemorrhaging from your asshole by the bucketful. 

Hell, I certainly thought so.

 But if this were actually true, the service industry would utterly collapse for want of able bodied staffing. Picture it:

* Restaurants would all be self-serve buffets

* No one would be there to park your car

* You're pouring your own mochas.

Capitalism, as we know it, would come to a screeching halt. Meanwhile, the arts would bloat and over-saturate its respective markets to the point of intellectual hedonism before finally caving in on itself; crushed by a level of smug pretense and self righteousness the likes of which the world has never seen before. 

In College – sleep deprived and either drunk or delirious, we hailed this event as: “The Artapocalypse,” noting that at the very least, the end times would be beautifully documented. 

We were grossly unaware of how much of a bubble the college experience can be and the subtle way it has of setting you up for disappointment. In my senior year, I was required to take a business class and an intro to marketing class. Now, at that point, I thought it was a complete waste of my time. I mean – OBVIOUSLY, my instructors were unable to fully recognize the sheer magnitude of my brilliance. Surely, upon graduation, agents and publishers alike were all going to vie for the privilege and honor it would be to represent me. My voice would be loud and strong and speak TO the masses FOR the masses. Critics would worship me. Sad boys would frantically expose their chests at my readings just so I could sign them. I'd inspire the world and spur a new movement with my unique style like the Beats once did, thereby changing the face of literature and the arts forever. Felicia De Rosa: “National Treasure” – beloved by all. That would be me. Fuck yeah.

If only.

The real, painful truth here, is that in order to simply get representation, you must first suffer through literally HUNDREDS of rejections. Phrases like; “Instant Classic” and “Overnight Success” are just made-up buzz-terms that weaselly marketing execs use to try and sell (insert creative endeavor, here) to we, the general public. 

The hard lesson we 'right brainers' eventually learn, is that success is subjective and depends wholly on how you perceive it. If it's creating… whatever... for the sheer joy it can bring you, then you more than likely have an alternate source of income and are, on the whole – a content and fulfilled person. 

If this is the case... for the record, know that your peers probably hate you. 

However, if success entails you doing what you do AND making a sustainable living while doing it... you best lube up because you're gonna get fucked. It takes commitment, endurance and cunning to eventually make it to a place where you are recognized and, hopefully, remembered for your efforts. It's from this point where you see the Piccassos and Morrisons and Benatars start to emerge. In the art world, that's Valhalla.

It's the means to an end. Yes, I do what I do because something in me compels me to do so. It's like breathing: if I stop doing it, I'd suffocate. But at the same time, I understand that without some commercial success, when I die, so does my work. 

A Trauma Kids' Thoughts On Modern Parenting.

I once read somewhere that “We are the imagination of ourselves...” – I’ve forgotten where – it could have been on a tee shirt, in a fortune cookie or in one of those shitty zines you find in an even shittier coffee shop… doesn’t matter. The point is, I never imagined my life turning out like this, wound up and twisted the wrong way. 

Each of us starts out the same: a pure, shapeless lump of potential. I hate that word – “potential”. To me, it’s synonymous with “failure”. It means not good enough or, at best, “half-assed”. Teachers tell parents that their kid has “potential” like it’s divine intervention. This wretched term translates to the parental ear as: “Your kid MIGHT discover a cure for cancer,” or “Your kid MAY become president,” or whatever their shortcomings and dis-proportioned expectations might be. It seems that in many cases, these people only become parents to distract them from the sad truth of their own un-pursued “potential.” Sadly, when a teacher tells them that their kid has “potential”, all they’re really saying is that your kid’s not a moron – be happy…

My own family experience was no less frustrating. For my parents, having a child was an act of reconciliation… a way of vicariously reliving their own lives with a sharpened sense of hindsight – lucky me, I was their collaborated effort. Growing up, I envisioned carefully laid blueprints showing what on me was to go where and how.

“No, Dear,” My mother would say to my father, “Those aren't her lips.”

I could see my father drinking gallons of milk and doubling up on iron and protein supplements months before clumsily coming too soon into my mother’s frustrated womb. This is a night I often curse. In my opinion, just because you can have children, doesn’t mean you should. It often baffles me on how much bureaucratic bullshit you have to sift through just to obtain a driver’s license… Prospective parents, I think, should have to take a test.

“Sorry folks, you got 48 out of 100 – 90 is passing.” BAM! Down comes the huge rubber stamp – ‘F’ in bright red neon. “Better luck next time.” This, of course, would send my father into a frenzy of male posturing.

“This is an outrage! Blah, blah, blah…” I can almost see him pounding on the table for punctuation as my mother calmly shoos him away. She always plays the good cop.

“Can’t you bend the rules this one time?” She’d have those blueprints out at this point, drawing the clerk in closer, making eye contact and slightly licking her perfectly lined lips; “We’ve been working on this for quite some time.” The clerk, no doubt, is watching his line zigzag out the front door.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he'd say severely, “No children for you.” He'd motion to a nearby security guard; “In fact, I’m sending this officer home with you to collect any plants or animals you may have. Good day.”

Ah, but only in a perfect world would such a scene transpire. As it happens, I was born into this world a healthy, unassuming, eight pound lump of –“potential.”

FYI? My first word was “ironic.” 

Blood Lust

See me, as I rise
Resplendent; piercing the dark
My eyes upon you
Shimmering, drenched in moonlight

Like whipped silk beneath my touch

Will you dance with me
Occupy the quiet darkness
Embrace living death
Step in my parlor, dear fly

Invoke my name, shun the light

Guide your mouth to mine
Hitching breath, soft tongues release
Your presence, fills me
Hot copper, spiced ambrosia

Flowing, spilling down my chin

Beg me not to stop
Drink of me and be reborn
My whimsy, my muse
Your breasts crush against my own

My fingers exploring you

Pleasure radiates
A cold wave that burns within
The tides wax and wane
Pull me closer, guide my hand

Drown in my oblivion

Worship at my shrine
For I am retribution
Mistress and mother
Claw marks, tooth and gash, arched backs

Be with me, love… evermore

 

Another excerpt!

* The following is another excerpt from that novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while... It's the one about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published? 

This here is a flashback scene to when he was a kid...

~~~

“Goo-ood Times, Baa-aad Times – you know I had my share...”

The Pontiac’s top-shelf stereo system blared the blues inspired riffs of Led Zeppelin at critical levels, shaking and rattling the doors in time to John Bonhams' aggressive drumming. 

“When my woman left home for a brown eyed man, well, I still don't seem to cah-aaare...”

Dad wasn't into the soulless, commercial sound of contemporary music. No, he stuck to the classics:

* Lynnard Skynnard.

* Black Sabbath

* The Rolling Stones

He knew every verse of every song by heart and would passionately sing along to each and every one, creating duets and complex harmonies that would leave your jaw hanging in complete and total amazement. 

Unfortunately, Dad – as it turned out, was completely tone deaf. 

He butchered 'Walk This Way,' destroyed 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' and completely disemboweled 'War Pigs' before I finally had the nerve to stop him. With my hands pressed firmly against my ears, I turned to my Father and shouted: “DAD!” He turned the music down to a low rumble. 

“Yeah?”

I took a moment to answer, my ears still ringing, to briefly mourn the death of thousands of irreplaceable sensorineural fibers before responding. Dad dropped into fourth and swung the car onto the turnpike, the motor roaring back into fifth.

“Well?” I could tell that he was anxious to get back into the music.

“What the hell's so funny about fish, anyway?” I asked at last.

He looked confused. “What?”

“Fish. This morning you said you had fish for dinner and then you and Mom started laughing and I didn't get it and I'd like to so – what's funny about fish?”  

“It's grown up humor,” he said, leering,  “Ask me again when you get outta high school.” Dad scanned ahead, looking for cops as the speedometer creeped past ninety. “By the way,” he said, changing the subject, “Don't ever let me hear you cuss in front of your mother again, capiche?” His tone was deadly serious. Dad had only ever hit me once before, not counting the occasional, correctional “love smack” to the back of my head – and it was pretty awful: do as you're told and don't disrespect your grandmother. Lesson learned. 

“You swear,” I said, reproachfully. “All the time.”

“Yeah, I do. But I shouldn't. Not around your mother, at least. She deserves better.” A darkness crawled across his features then, briefly, like a passing storm cloud. He blinked his eyes a few times and shook his head, his quiet smile resurfacing. “Tell you what,” Dad said, “I don't mind you cursing around me or your friends but we'll both watch our mouths when your mom's around, okay?”

“No shit?” I asked cautiously.

He laughed. “No shit.”

“That's FUCKIN' awesome, Dad!” I sat a moment and pondered my new super power. “Does it fucking count if mom's in the fucking house, but not in the same fucking room I'm in?”

“Yes,” he said grinning.

“But what if she can't fucking hear me?”

“Your mom hears everything, you know that.”

“Yeah... Oh! But what if I'm real quiet, like this?” And in as soft a whisper as I could manage, I said; “Fuck.” 

“What do you have, tourettes? I said no, Daemon,” He barked. “Not if you whisper it, not even if you just mouth the word. Not. Around. Your mother. That's the deal, got it?”

“OK, OK but – what if I'm with Mom and I'm helping her with the fucking groceries and a jar of fucking  peanut butter accidentally drops on my fucking foot and it hurts real fucking bad and I can feel the word 'Fuck' want to fuckin' come out...”  He turns towards me, one eyebrow cocked.

“I'm listening...”

“Well, what should I say instead of 'Fuck'?”

“Darn.” Dad said instantly. “Darn or drat.”

“Or phooey?” I asked.

“Yep. Phooey works. So does Fudge, nertz, dang...”

I giggled. “Crap?” 

“Nope, sorry. Crap's off limits.”

“Dammit.” I hung my head dejectedly which made my father burst out laughing. I liked making him laugh. He reached his shifting arm around me then, man-hugging me.

“You're a good kid, m'boy.” He turned up the stereo and went back to checking for speed traps, chuckling to himself and muttering; “Something tells me I just created a monster.”

~~~

An Excerpt

* The following is an excerpt from a novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while, as I navigated some pretty wild life changes. It's a story about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published...

~~~

    I was sitting with my feet dangling off the rear porch, curling and flexing my toes in the verdant patch of grass that grew over where the septic tank was, while Dad worked on his project Pontiac. It was summer break and hot enough to make everything doughy. Damp, suffocating heat pulsed in waves off the tarmac making even the smallest action happen in slo-motion. The noon sun rode high in a brilliantly clear, cerulean sky as Mom tended to her beloved garden. It was a beautiful ten by thirty foot menagerie of every herb and spice you could name festooned with bright red and yellow Gerber daisies. Off to one side she had a patch of Roma tomatoes, the other; Zucchini. The year before, her efforts were featured on the cover of “Gusto dell ‘Italia!”, THE locally produced herald of neighborhood happenings which Mom immediately had laminated, professionally matted and framed. This achievement hung as the centerpiece in our bright, everything-must-be-orange kitchen on the small bit of wall that faced our diner style breakfast nook and shared accolades with:

* My birth certificate.
* Mom and Dad’s wedding photo.
* An autographed picture of the Pope.

    Sadly, Mom’s garden seemed very out of place in what passed for the rest of our yard, which was little more than a dilapidated mine field of crab grass, fire ant colonies and the white, crusty remnants of Adolph, our neighbor’s prize winning Doberman.

    I was nine and three quarters and as I was small for my age, was not allowed too far off our property without parental supervision so, going out to play was a lot less exciting than it could’ve been.

    “Mom!” I could see the tension creeping into her shoulders as she came back from wherever her mind had taken her.

    “Dio lo aiuta… Yes?”
    “I’m bo-oooooooooored!”
    “So?” she said with a shrug, “Find something to do.”
    “There is nothing to do! That’s why I’m bo- oooooooooored!!”

    “Hey!” she said without turning, “No whining… It’s too hot for whining.” Then she grunted, uprooted a handful of weeds and chucked them behind her. “What about that story you’ve been writing? You know, the one about the wrestler and the priest?”

    “It was stupid.” I said, crossing my arms and kicking at the ground. “I ripped it up.”

    Mom sat back on her heels and looked out from under her floppy gardeners’ hat at me. “Jeeze kid, cut yourself some slack. Do you really think that Steinbeck got things right on the first try?”

    I hung my head, studying my feet. “I dunno.”

    “Well I do.” She stretched her arms out in front of her, flexing her fingers. “Good writing doesn’t just take talent, kiddo – it takes revision.” She rolled her head from side to side, cracking her neck. “Now where’s that father of yours?”

    I pointed towards the front of the house. “Workin’ on the car.”

    She sighed, calling out: “Honey?” waited a moment listening, then a little louder; “Hon-EEEE!” When he still didn’t reply, Mom threw up her hands, muttering; “Che pezzo di stupido…” before shouting; “SLIM!!” There was a faraway CLANG followed by a THUMP and an “Ow, Fuck.” When she needed it, Mom had a voice that could wake the dead.

    From the driveway we heard; “WHAT?!?”
    Mom gazed up to the heavens in exasperation. “FIND SOMETHING FOR YOUR SON TO DO!”
    “ARE YOU SERIOUS? I GOT HALF THE FUCKIN’ MOTOR APART OVER HERE, BABY!”
    Mom blessed herself. “CAN’T HE HELP YOU?”
    “NOT RIGHT NOW… MAYBE LATER!”

    Mom looked straight at me, taking another breath. “Bored, huh?” I nodded awkwardly. “OK,” Mom said, standing, “let’s take a break.” She pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto the mat she had been kneeling on, reached out her hand for me to take and led us out towards the front yard. As we passed Dad, his feet sticking out from under the Pontiac, Mom hissed; “Odioso zuccone” and kicked gravel at him.

    “Love you, too sweetie.” You could almost hear him grinning.

    Mom and I walked down the length of our street and across an abandoned set of train tracks, which didn’t seem to start or end anywhere, to Papa’s, the local gas station/pharmacy/deli/convenience store, for an Italian ice. Not sherbet, not sorbet but an Italian ice. I still don’t know what the difference is, but according to Mom, it was better. It didn’t really matter. An Italian ice – lemon, was more than a sensory memory in the making. It was and will forever remain, frozen summer concentrate in a paper cup; the kind that can only be eaten with what resembles a small tongue depressor.

    It’s true, just ask any kid.

    The door chimed as we walked in. “’Mornin’ Missus. Real scorcher, eh?” Papa was six and a half feet of raw leather stretched over a coat rack. “Go easy with that ice Son; you’ll freeze your brain.” He smiled his big mail-order dentured smile as he leaned over to tousle my hair.

    “It’s not the heat,” Mom said opening a Coke and grabbing another, “It’s the humidity.”
    “Isn’t that what they say about Hell?” Papa chuckled to himself as he handed over Mom’s change.
    “I wouldn’t know.” She picked up her small sack of purchases, tossed a sweetheart smile over her shoulder and, motioning for my hand again said; “When you get there, write me a letter.”

    We were nearly home when Mom reached into the bag and pulled out a balsa wood glider. “Here you go kiddo,” she said with a wink, “aim high.” It was assembled and ready to fly by the time I WHOOSHED passed Dad and the car and into the shade of the back yard, ratta-tatting imaginary zeros. Mom, the ultimate problem solver, knew that for half a buck, an imaginative kid like me could spend the whole day looping and power-diving the world and never once think to bug her. She had, in essence, bought herself the rest of the afternoon alone in her garden checking for aphids, while I bombed the shit out of World War 2 Berlin.

    At least, that’s what I was doing until a breeze blew my glider off course and into our neighbor’s yard.

    Adolph’s yard.

    Which is why I was sitting with my feet dangling off the rear porch, curling and flexing my toes: 

 

    I was deciding how badly I wanted my plane back.

 

Bone Tired

My GODDESS, but I'm tired!

Tired of politics
Tired of in-fighting
Tired of capitalism

Tired of Gaje-splaining
White-splaining
Man-splaining

Tired of who's generation sucks more, or who's god has the bigger d1ck

Tired of constantly fighting to just exist
Tired of gas-lighting
Tired of people talking without thinking

Tired of Fascism
Communism
Nationalism

Tired of being told who I am by clueless morons who couldn't find their own ass with a GPS and a flashlight

Tired of gatekeeping
Tired of indignity
Tired of genocide

Tired of children dying
D-y-i-n-g.
DYING!!!

Tired of treading water in an endless sea of blood, while the ones I love get caught in the undertow

Tired of “pick mes”
Tired of fake feminists
Tired of “fuck bois”

Tired of never being good enough
Fast enough
Strong enough

Tired of the world burning to the ground and only having a leaky water pistol

Tired of zero accountability
Tired of unrealistic expectations
Tired of excuses

Tired of “trending”
“Canceling”
“Stitching”

Tired of pretending that my pain doesn't exist just to make you feel more comfortable

Tired of liars
Tired of appropriation
Tired of hypocrites

Tired of intrusive thoughts
Sleepless nights
Self harm

Tired of the constant bickering between mania and depression, the endless looping of every survived assault and trauma digging into my shoulders

Tired of the ringing in my ear
Tired of forgetting to breathe
Tired of flinching at everyone's touch

Tired of my brokenness
Angriness
Sadness

But most of all I'm tired of how you pushed me away, when I needed you the most.

It's 1984, after all

In light of all the horrendous shenanigans currently going on here in the ole' You Ess of Ay, I have been doing a sort of spring cleaning of my digital life. Scrubbing any and all stuff and dealios that I am not OK with being publicly accessible.

This has MOSTLY entailed social media. 

Once upon a time, social media was this cool way we came up with to connect to people outside of our immediate geographical radius. Mama has ALWAYS been a rolling stone, so this was especially appealing to me. It was a communication tool; a way to stay connected to folks I encountered during my travels and such, not a revenue stream and certainly not a foundation of ones identity. 

The money pigs hadn't yet infiltrated this free and public area much beyond ad space on the websites that were hosting these gatherings, and generally speaking, you weren't being force-fed nonsense by algorithms tracking you and your interests. If you wanted dark, or unsettling content, it was there, but you had to go looking for it.

Folks could do neat things like share art or their writing or music and chat with folks visually and in real time. It was a way to shrink the world and grow our communities: A place where people could realize that maybe they weren't alone. A person could access all the worlds knowledge and culture with just a few keystrokes.

It was uncharted territory.

And sure, you had your predators, and trolls and the like, but that was anywhere, and most of us knew about "stranger danger" and had the sense not to let ourselves be too exposed. There was enough real world experience going around to know how to navigate such things -- generally. 

But over the last 20ish years, it's gotten spoiled. Turned rotten. It's been appropriated by greed and paranoia. People live and die by how many faceless randos "like" the most basic, empty, unimportant stuff, and it's sad.

Kids don't go out to play. To explore. To discover. To imagine and grow. Instead, people let social media raise them; Fill their heads with conspiracy, and idiotic pablum. Basic life skills are being lost. More and more people are succumbing to anxiety and self isolation.

Now that the money pigs are running the show, people are backing off. Unplugging. Meeting friends in person.

Maybe this needs to happen. Maybe people need to work on themselves and rediscover the tangible world. Reestablish human contact. Perhaps this is our wake up call to detox and find ourselves offline again. 

Hard to say. I'm only musing here.

But I and some of my cohorts are cashing out. We're unplugging from the matrix, so to speak. There are non corporate, grass roots and crowd supported platforms out there to help scratch that itch and ease your withdrawal. It's the original recipe of digital encounters. Mastadon, Loops, Pixelfed... even blogs and personal websites are starting to come out of retirement.

Maybe so will art shows, and local events and music and dive bars and playgrounds and parks. Maybe we won't panic if we leave the phone off for a day, or on silent or in the car while we hang out with our friends and loved ones.

The mind boggles. 

So here I am, rebooting this blog of mine that I started 19 years ago. I gave it a new paint job, greased the wheels and pruned some of the dead bits. If you're reading this, welcome. Have a look around. Maybe come back to visit.

Let's see how it goes. 

Have You Hugged An Artist Today?

In the public eye of the United States, we artists are often times marginalized. Our best efforts – bastardized and formalized by big business, gets put into neat little boxes and promptly mass produced to aid in the national pursuit of more, ultimately useless “stuff.” Stuff that clutters our lives thereby making us feel as though we are somehow more or less successful in some ridiculous way than the person standing right beside us. In the film “Fight Club,” actor Brad Pitt delivers a simple yet scathing observation; “The things you own, end up owning you.” Truer words are seldom spoken. 

But I am veering off point.

When people ask me what I do and I say; “I’m an artist,” the usual reply I get is; “no, I mean what do you really do?” Because… what? You’ll spend your life living out of a box? Being an artist is not a real vocation; it’s a hobby, at best? If you honestly think that, then you are an ignorant moron.

Consider this: Everything tangible in the world that is not naturally occurring was created by an artist. EVERYTHING.

The clothes you wear.

The vehicle you operate.

The place where you keep your stuff.

All of it exists because an artist of some sort thought it up. When you go out to eat, your meal is prepared – for better or worse, by a culinary ARTIST. If Jules Verne hadn’t penned: “From the Earth to the Moon,” would science have figured out the logistics to do just that a mere hundred years later? Doubtful. And let’s not forget to thank a certain Captain James T. Kirk for introducing us to the cellular flip phone or, Leonardo Da Vinci for inventing the first working model of the airplane. Or the helicopter.

It’s thanks to him and other such artists that modern medicine has precise and detailed and exceptionally thorough schematics of human anatomy. If you’ve ever been operated on and lived to talk about it, well… you’re welcome.

But these are only a few examples that cover mostly “commercial” applications.

Museums are FILLED with art chronicling, with painstaking detail, the entirety of human history. For you Christian types, you should consider the genius of Dante degli Alighieri. If not for his writings, you’d have no concept of Heaven or Hell or any of that. Nor, if not for Michelangelo Buonarroti, would you have the uplifting and inspiring visuals to accompany them.

Art, so profound, that it influenced and changed the perception of an entire RELIGION.

Politically, art is often a key element in helping to shape a nations awareness. Case in point, the Obama hope poster. Televised satire in the form of sketch comedy. Informative documentaries. I could go on but my ultimate point is this; without the arts, civilization as we know it would simply cease.

POOF.

And it’s not like anyone can just dive in and do it. Physically, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually, psychologically – Art is HARD. It takes a lifetime of dedication, commitment and a willingness to experience life completely unfiltered. All for your benefit, I might add. 

As an artist, you have ‘to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it’ and constantly tear yourself apart only start the whole process over again. And again. For some, this level of intensity can often times lead to madness. (insert Van Gogh or Sylvia Plath or Dali, for example, here)

But for those of us who persevere and find that delicate balance between reason and intuition, the arts can also be one of the most rewarding life choices a person can make.

This is why I get so pissed off when people ask me stupid questions like; “An artist?!? What, you couldn’t get a real job?” or when I hear about local governments cutting funding to the arts and especially, art education. Ken Danby, an insightful and beautifully gifted painter once said; “The degree to which the arts are included in our educational curriculum is totally inadequate. The arts are just as important… as any other endeavor in our lives.” This is not a new thought, folks. Long before the near decimation of our current, rather pathetic “educational system,” it was once the belief that you were not fully learned unless you had studied art, as you would science or math or astronomy. 

Note: You don’t have to be an artist to study and appreciate art. 

Practically, art teaches us critical thinking as well as the ability to problem solve and to 'think outside the box.' This translates to gains in math, reading, cognitive ability and verbal skills. Beyond that, involvement in the arts can also improve motivation, concentration, confidence, teamwork and (perhaps) a healthier form of self expression. Consider that after the next family function, when you're found under the table, in a fetal position. Naked.

This why I feel that there should be a day; An “Artist Appreciation Day.” There isn’t one, I checked. 

I don’t know about you but my calendar is just lousy with holidays like, Groundhog Day, Flag Day, International Youth Day... No Artist Appreciation Day!

International youth day?!? Seriously?? What the fuck?!? 

This needs to be rectified. I say, put it right as autumn gets started; on September 23rd, when nature is exploding with color and there are no other pesky holidays to interfere. The day could begin with a celebratory brunch, because we artists often like to sleep in a bit... 

French toast.

Cereal.

Fruit parfait.

Something nice. And artists also appreciate quality materials to work with so, treat the creative person in your life to a gift card to their favorite supply shop/recycling center/hardware store. Go to a reading. Hit up an art opening. Pay the cover charge on open mic night. 

Break out the crayons and color for an hour – go nuts, you’ll be glad that you did. 

And the next time you see a squirrely kid whip out a sketchbook and start mapping out their next masterpiece, walk right up, stick out your hand and say; “Thank you, artist, for making my life interesting. I appreciate you!” 

Then, bow low, as you gracefully back away.

Seeing the Light

“I catch hold of one thing and another; later things will arrange themselves and settle into shape of their own accord. But here I will not begin with a prearranged plan; on the contrary, I want my plan to result from my studies. As yet I do not know the real character of the country; now I draw everything that presents itself, but later on, after some experience, I shall try to reproduce it in its real character…”

— Excerpt from a leter from Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, drenthe, 12 October 1883



In art school, aside from absorbing technique, perspective and anatomy, color theory, composition and getting in some sweet studio time, you burn a lot of calories studying the usual suspects of art history – analyzing the “How” and “Why” they created what they created, and when. As a result, I have many art heroes: Michelangelo for his passion and devotion, Leonardo for his keen scientific approach, Mucha for his sensitivity, Dali and Picasso for their genius and innovation. And like many fellow art school geeks, I also spent a good amount of time studying the impressionists. This is my favorite period of art. The impressionists were all about seeing beyond convention. They seemed to exist in a place where intellect and inspiration mingled with the bittersweet, candid passing of the everyday moment. Perhaps, this new take on life was brought on by the invention of the camera, calling to mind the type of old family snapshots you might happen upon while rummaging around in your grandmother’s attic.

Never the less, the notion of studying the light and expressing its reactions within the context of the impressionist’s eye has much to do with understanding the color spectrum and how time of day, emotion and even season change can affect the impact it has on a wide range of subject matter. Waves of tall grass tickling the sky on a windy day, dancers preparing for a show, a couple surrendering their sorrows to the hallucinogenic properties of absinthe, even a bright and starry night, swirling high above a sleeping metropolis can become something more than just a mundane moment if cast in the right light. And for many of the impressionists, Van Gough for instance, the right light could only really be found off the Mediterranean coast, in the “Cote D’Azur.”



So when I was offered the chance to spend a couple of months crashing with friends along the French Riviera as guests in Cogolin: the sleepy, French-provincial village that time forgot – I freaked out like a 1960’s teen-aged girl at a Beatles concert.

Seriously.

It’s one thing to read about color theory and have a working knowledge of light and atmospheric perspective, it’s quite another to see it in action. Of course, I’ve been applying these theories to my urban life… cities remain for me a bottomless pit of inspiration, forever flooding me with unexpected and willing subject matter. Add to this, compounding years of unquenchable wanderlust and you begin to get a sense of why I refer to myself as the “Artist at Large.” I’ve traveled to, through and spent some time exploring every continental state in the U.S.. I’ve taken stock of the multitude of historic landmarks, roadside attractions and strange, out-of-the-way corners that this land of ours has to offer, along the way capturing and analyzing the things that pique my artistic curiosity. We live in a multifaceted, beautiful and diverse country. Sadly, not enough of us see that as a good thing… however, not to be diverted… my point here is that I have seen the light through more filters than I can count. The bald bulb glare of the Utah Salt Flats, the Texan sky, so vast and clear, you can actually see where the horizon begins to curve down. Then, there’s the blurry, smeared orange light of Mississippi in the summer, the surreal, life altering glow of Arizona’s Painted Desert, just as the top edge of the sun dips out of view… endless, endless filters.



I discovered my favorite American light source on my way home from a long month on the road in June, 2007. Close to the California border, just out of Nevada, there’s a small, winding road off the main highway. I took it on recommendation of my fellow traveler and navigator, with the hope of getting us home a day sooner. Sadly, the name escapes me but regardless... I followed a river up the side of a mountain and back down into a valley where light was reborn amongst the redwoods and sequoias, becoming prismed, the way it would through the rose window of a cathedral. It danced on leaves and floated down in rays, twinkling like glitter and refracting within the calm waters of the neighboring river like diamonds. It was so beautiful; I had to keep reminding myself to breathe. “This,” I thought, “is why they called this land ‘California.’”

One legend claims that "California" means “heaven on earth.”

That said, I’ve never seen light like the way it is here in the Gulf of St. Tropez.

If you’ve ever flown anywhere and pressed your nose against your window as the plane makes its decent, you might notice a band of burnt orange nestled in between where the sky and the ground meet. That’s pollution and it acts like a lens filter changing the light, which in turn affects the color of everything it touches. Here on the ground, we’ve become so accustomed to the ambient light, that we’re not likely to even notice. Of course, depending on where you’re landing, this tell-tale band may be anything from a faint, subtle change in tint to a dense, almost opaque haze like you see when you fly into L.A.. The thing is, I’ve never NOT seen it – until recently, when I flew into Europe on the invite of a Belgian gallery. I want to say that this is the reason the light is so different, but I can’t really be certain.



Anyway.

Being here, experiencing the light in similar settings to some of the most innovative minds in art history has been more valuable to me than any formalized schooling. And like a small child, I’ve been actively seeing –experiencing everything around me as though for the first time. The trees, vested in vines, are a sonnet of every hue in the Green gamut, Black and Grey. Depending on the time of day, shadows spread out in wide abstract pools of Blue-Violet, Violet or sometimes even a deep Red-Violet, as though someone knocked over a bucket of paint. And against all this lush, intensely saturated plant life are bright Red daubs of Poppies and spatters of wildflowers exploding like fireworks in Oranges and Yellows. Everywhere you look, along the sides of roads, against the dusky hillsides – is a painter’s wet dream.



I attribute this arrogant display of tints and hues to the truly unique light I have found here. Its balance of both temperature and clarity turns the sky into a specific shade of cerulean that causes the world beneath it to vibrate with a static charge that you can almost feel. Colors pop and hum with an intensity that leads one to believe that if you were to reach out and touch it, your hand would come away wet with paint. The scenery alone is staggeringly succulent but when you add in the neighboring architecture and loose, pastel linen attire of the locals reflecting a summer sunset and cut that against the deep sapphire hue of the Mediterranean, it’s no wonder why so many travelers become lost here.

Imagine being Van Gough, alone in a field fighting against time and the elements to capture not just the colors he saw but the way they felt. The way they moved in playful union with the wind, flickering and sparkling… every vista more gorgeous than the last… a deeply religious man experiencing rapture first hand for so long that he had no choice but surrender to it.

I’m an artist that prides herself on being a master of technique. True enough, my work is constantly mistaken for the less-than-romantic digital methods that I openly shun and actively avoid. To me, painting – brush in hand, the feel of raw pigment claiming a virgin board versus the disconnected, formulaic approach afforded me by contemporary design software, is like comparing the heated feel of unhinged passionate lovemaking to internet porn. No thank you. But for all my skill at presenting the perfect beauty of imperfection, my desire to create the reddest Red or the bluest Blue – I worry that I may not be able to accurately capture the subtle impressionistic overload of this one-of-a-kind paradise… it’s a long overdue challenge that I willfully embrace: can I finally, utterly and completely submit to my senses?

Only time will tell.