As I embark...

As I embark on a new life for myself as an artist committed to finally face my fears and phobias of rejection, alienation, humiliation...and see whats on the other side, I just came upon this apropro and provocative quote:

"The woman who does not require validation from anyone is the most feared individual on the planet." —Kat Gordon

Photo of me on a cliff on the coast of Portugal, land of my maternal ancestors, Dec. 2014

On Dualism...

Feeling guilty that I have neglected this blog for so long...and thus my writing to some extent, as well. Where do I begin now, after such a hiatus? Here are some of my thoughts of late: I've been thinking about dualism and how much unhappiness this insidious concept creates. Good, bad, right, wrong, true, false, love, hate, joy, pain, success, failure...we walk our lives on a tightrope, clinging at thin air, trying not to let the other shoe drop and yank us down from our shaky perch of feeling in control... I want to live in the grey areas. I am exhausted of black and white, teetering on high wires, tiptoeing on crackling eggshells...exhausted of precarious landing places, of finding myself right, only to find myself wrong, of pedestals that inevitably come crashing down -regardless of my rigorous efforts to keep them upright. I'm tired of the intense fear of "mistakes" that dualism brings, the night terrors it instigates, the over-glorification, the self-deprecation, the false pretenses it perpetuates. I want my life to be about embracing imperfections whole-heartedly with curiosity, humor and openness. I want to live the in between places, the goofy, awkward moments, the questions, fully. I want to be the tide, to dwell in the dawn and twilight, the autumn and spring, the meeting of opposites, where they attract, entangle and mate until symbiosis is so evident that there is only awareness of mutualism. I want to give each feeling, emotion, experience its due course and equal value, like the inhalation and exhalation of breath, with enough curiosity to follow an impulse, explore a dream and embrace inspiration. I want to live in the freedom of transformation and convert the concept of "all or nothing" to "all for one and one for all".

Postcard from Paris, Sept. 2013

As I walk to the metro from my apartment, the not-quite-full moon shines itself over Paris, sprinkling its eager light into reflections on the rainy streets. I hear beautiful music growing louder...a small, young woman passes me crossing the street, wearing a sleeveless dress in the chilly autumn air and singing breath-taking Italian music in full soprano. Her face is full of heart breaking emotion, dark eyes intense, dark curls waving...as she simply heads home from work. As I near the next block, I can still hear her gorgeous, operatic notes bouncing off the apartment buildings as they grow fainter in the distance...

The next evening I am on the Champs Elysee watching street performers draw a crowd as they breakdance on the sidewalk. L'Arc de Triumph stands nobly at a near distance and the full moon is enshrined in clouds above. Particularly enjoying the show among the multi-cultural crowd is a sheik, dressed all in white from turban to toe...laughing at every pantomime and antic the performers deliver. One of the dancers asks the audience to clear a path with one swift gesture...the crowd parts a bit to make room as the agile performer backs up dramatically, preparing for an acrobatic feat. He takes a running start, reaches the center circle and with impressive comedic timing fakes out the audience. Instead of delivering the back flip he has prepped, he grabs the sheik by the waist and starts dirty dancing. The audience erupts with laughter and the sheik willingly plays along, amused. Next, a tall, trendy, young Chinese tourist is pulled from the crowd and is demanded to imitate risqué and challenging dance moves by one of the performers. To everyone's surprise, this skinny, reserved Asian guy out does his opponent on every challenge, demonstrating the precision of one with many generations of martial arts masters behind him. He is surprisingly athletic, eager and ready for more.

Stripes are in again. On a Saturday night, I am led to a crowded, grungy local bar in the north of town, not far from City Hall and within view of Sacre Coeur. It has French beers on tap and is sprinkled with long-haired hippies and French hipsters in black and white striped shirts...unknowingly, they create a caricature, almost a mockery...at the very least, a cliche throw-back to the classic French pantomimes of old...while I wonder...where is Waldo? I visit a back-street, authentic Italian pizzeria only a few blocks from the bar. The friendly, young Tuscan waitress hears that I am from NY and excitedly tells me it is her dream to one day go to the U.S. Charmed, I sling out my few Italian words and phrases with wild (wine-induced) abandon...Mainly, they consist of terms for food: "Pasta Primavera!", "Fettucini Alfredo!"...the waitress is genuinely delighted and calls over the chef and more of the wait staff to listen in. "Mille grazie senior, grazie para tudo gentileza!" I exclaim with emphatic hand gestures. They all respond with enthusiastic delight, as they continue on with their work. My French companion is impressed. "Wow, you seem to know a lot about the language," he says. I tell him confidentially that most of the Italian I know I learned from Monty Python (the Italian sketch). I am pleased that these whimsical lines have effectively found some real-life application...

In the metro on a Sunday afternoon, a well dressed young black man scoots over and graciously offers the vacant seat next to him to an older white woman on the crowded subway. She happily accepts. Unexpectedly, he then stands up and in what seems to me like a timeless moment, he offers his own seat to the older woman's white husband, with a sincere smile. The husband smiles back and politely refuses. Racism has lost its hold in this moment of cross-generational, cross-cultural respect among strangers on a train in Paris.

Sitting in the famous Cafe Flore, the haunt of Hemmingway and many a known philosopher and writer of classic literature, I enjoy a cappuccino and dessert while I ponder how much brighter the term "creme caramel" is than plain old "flan". One name conjures up a mouth watering image of delight...while the other simply hangs awkwardly off the tongue...I would rather be a creme caramel than a flan.

I walk along Boulevard St Germain with a 20-something Parisian friend who is dividing time between University and work in corporate business. As we stroll along talking, he suddenly comes to a full stop, looks around and takes a deep breath. "Isn't this city beautiful?" he says, looking up at the old architecture of apartment buildings he must have walked by a thousand times...I am glad I'm not the only one who falls deeper and deeper in love with this town!

I wake luxuriously at 10am on a Monday and bask in the knowing that the day is mine to spend exactly as I please. I am suddenly alarmed by the sound of the front door of my apartment rattling. Then an awkward banging sound. Someone is trying to break in! I hear the knob turning rapidly back and forth with urgency...then more rattling. "What the hell?" I wonder, half afraid, half angered as I spring out of bed and rush to the door knowing that I have no idea how to call the French police if I need to. ("Shit, what do I do?" I wonder.) "Q'est que c'est?!" I demand from inside...trying to sound intimidating. I hear a man's deep voice reply rapidly in French...I can't understand a thing. Eventually, in his unintelligible-to-my-ears explanation, I hear my land lady's name mentioned. Ok, that is a good sign and his voice sounds non-threatening. I am relieved. It occurs to me that he might be the contractor friend she mentioned was planning to do some maintenance work in the apartment...it was just never clarified when exactly he was coming over... With a slight hesitation, I bravely open the door and suddenly...standing before me is the most charming, adorable, unassuming old-world gentleman I have ever seen. He is tall and handsome with a friendly face, distinguished mustache, short gray hair and bright blue eyes. He is straight out of the movie "Gigi". He has on a checkered blazer with an elegant silk dickie, tailored pants and blue suede shoes. He looks to be in his late 60's but is spry and earnest. We sort out the mix up, he picks up the check and note that he came for and cheerfully goes on his way. A happy turn of events. Late in the afternoon, I blissfully lose track of time meandering the winding cobblestone streets of St. Germaine, getting lost in the boutiques and bakeries along the way...the sun is shining, a band is playing old time jazz in the street, people are sipping beer and coffee in sidewalk cafes, flowers and fruit are spilling out of shops everywhere and it feels as though I've stepped onto a Woody Allen movie set. Summer has returned in late September and jubilation is in the air. As I wind my way to St. Michele, a young man calls out to me, offering a chair massage. The two women beside him are offering the same. They are all French and well dressed, so I pause, intrigued. I am a sucker for massage. The sign says (in French) "10 minute massage, pay what you please." I ask about the price and the guy confirms, "pay what you want." I glance to see if either of the women have a vacancy, assuming that would be the safer bet, but they are occupied. The guy gestures warmly, so I agreeably sit down on his stool and suddenly notice how good looking he is. He explains (in French) that he is going to massage my shoulders,arms, head, face and neck and to just relax. So I do. His touch is simultaneously soothing and invigorating. It is an excellent massage. At one point, he extends his leg out and leans my spine along his thigh, resting the back of my head on his stomach, as he very gently, almost tenderly, massages my face. I melt. I don't mind this handsome, Gallic stranger laying his hands on me at all. I meet a friend in front of Hotel de Ville early in the morning and we walk to Place de Vosges. We choose some pastries and decadent cakes at Cafe Carette and order 2 coffees for a petit dejeuner picnic. Sitting in the city's oldest park, built by an early king, we watch with surprise as a hoard of Hispanic women, all dressed in identical clothes (tan pants, blue polo shirts and tan jackets), with identical long brown hair...and appearing to be clones...walk by in a large, streaming line. My friend comments humorously that we must be in a sci-fi film. It is baffling and eery how similar they all look. Next, an even larger group of Hispanic men in identical clothes and haircuts begin to flood the park. What is going on? As some of them pass by our bench, I ask in Spanish: Where are they from? Chile, they answer emphatically. Next, a large Chilean flag is pulled out and we watch, nibbling our pastries, as each clone takes turns posing in front of their flag in the French historic park. Paris is full of mysteries...

The more time I spend in Paris, the more time I want to spend here...it's a way of living in the present and many romantic eras of the past all at once. Black and white Converse sneakers, skinny jeans, and leggings with loose, over-sized shirts are the trend just like everywhere...but here they weave daily through meticulously maintained Gothic Cathedral plazas, centuries-old parks, cobble stone streets and avenues that have survived several hundred years of war and revolution...The aesthetic, the romance, the way that art weaves its way into every experience...

There is still so much to experience. I have never stayed up late writing and drinking at Cafe Flore like the philosophers of old...I have still never dined on a boat on the Seine, sipping Bordeaux as the famous monuments drift slowly by...I have not spent a rainy afternoon with my nose buried in books at Shakespeare and Company...or faithfully devoted an entire day at the Louvre...there is so much more always to explore, to enjoy, to take in...art in every form. It is a love affair with all urban and social aspects of myself in a bigger city context...so different than what most of my life experience has consisted of growing up in mountains. In one month's time it takes about two weeks to acclimate and adjust, two weeks to start to settle in...and then I'm gone again...but I will return again to discover new aspects of both this enchanting city...and myself...

Glimpse of Paris...Jan 2013

Thursday night, walking along the shiny wet streets of the city near Hotel De Ville, we pause to witness the large ice skating rink in front of the historical building. It must be "gangsta" skate night, as roughly a dozen young, minority males skate aggressively around the rink, bobbing and weaving in defense and attack gestures at super speed in a high-risk game of tag. Spectators look on, but no one dares to enter the rink with them. They own it tonight.

We stroll across the Seine, past Notre Dame in its melancholic slumber and wander into the winding cobblestone streets of San Michelle. From outside the window of an ancient tavern, we hear operatic singing and glance into a foggy window to view a warm and cozy scene aglow inside. We duck inside, away from the chilly drizzle and find a seat close to the piano and the singers. The young, Asian, high soprano stands facing us, grandly singing out ballads in Italian and French. Jean- Francois and I choose mint tea over warm red wine and as I look around the cavernous room, the characters come alive...as though we have suddenly entered a timeless scene...around midnight in Paris...

All throughout the following sequence, the singer passionately gestures through her arias as the hurried wait staff nearly trample her at intervals, as they maneuver past with glasses and plates of food to and from the bar...

The steamy room is pleasantly crowded with a multi-generational variety of characters, fit for any good piece of theater...it could not have been more entertaining or perfect had it all been rehearsed before our arrival...

Across from us is a table of 4 middle aged women, some in woolen hats, having dinner together. They chat amongst themselves, looking up at the singer at intervals with soulful eyes... as though they have lived through the very sufferings of love that she sings of...

In the far corner, a young couple sit gazing at one another. The girl has silken, straight, curtain-like blonde hair, reminiscent of Rapunzel. She absent-mindedly plays with it while her suitor softly whispers romantic overtures to her with longing in his eyes. She twists her golden hair into a long rope over her shoulder, as though she might let him climb up to her tower...her admirer can resist no longer...he takes the luxurious locks into his own fingertips, professing his admiration for her beauty, wooing her as she listens intently, basking in his attentions through the melodic night. At a tender moment, he takes her hand and gently kisses it. She nimbly takes advantage of the pause to swiftly open her purse with her other hand and check her make-up in a pocket mirror. Satisfied once again that she still looks perfect, she tucks the mirror away and turns back to continue absorbing her lover's flattering devotion.

To the right, another couple enter...not quite so young...but still youthful enough, though a bit more hardened by time. The stoic, robust Italian-looking man orders champagne upon entry and sits dominantly straight-backed in his chair, facing the music. The woman by his side is classically beautiful in an understated way, with dark brown hair, arched eyebrows, pale skin, and hazel eyes, looking far-off in the distance. She appears almost achingly bored beside her companion, as he continues throughout the evening to make fervent gestures to gain her affection.

Next, a thin, dark, curlied- haired Italian second soprano steps forth in a gypsy-like red dress. She embodies Carmen of Seville, flirting flamboyantly with the crowd, expounding on the perils of love with a firm hand on the hip. The waiters speed past her, barely missing her with handfuls of empty -or full- glasses of wine as she sings on, undaunted. At a poignant moment of her song, a waiter obliviously folds a towel over his arm and pops open the champagne bottle with a grand gesture but without a sound...as though choreographed in an elaborate pantomime.

Meanwhile, the woman with the lonely gaze looks off in the distance with stony eyes, seemingly not registering the champagne, the passionate music, the warm glow of the room...

At the table beside me, a very young American girl with long chestnut hair and flawless skin sits opposite her cute, but slightly-too-old French date. She dialogues with him in French at an unauthentically loud volume and an awkward, Anglo accent as she flirts seductively, if subtly. He is trying to listen to the music. She doesn't seem to like having to share his attention...

Sprinkled throughout the room are local old-timers enjoying a glass of wine or a meal as they reminisce with one another...as the musicians play on...

Next, the high soprano begins another heart-wrenching Italian ballad. At the climax of the song, she gives a classic operatic hand gesture emphatically toward the audience...just then, a waiter swoops through the door with a flurry of wine glasses and just barely dodges a tragic collision with her hand as he hurries past to the bar, unphased.

The opera singers conclude their sultry segment and, with no detectable segue, another singer jumps in, belting out American and French jazz covers in flashy Vaudeville fashion. The contrast is harsh, but the wine-induced crowd eats it up and are singing along in no time. Even the stony-eyed beauty with her long, forlorn expression seems to finally melt into the scene, looking around as though suddenly waking up to her surroundings. Her gaze softens and she snuggles contently into her lover once more...

Sifting...

May 23, 2011

Driving through town today, I glimpse a tan car with a bike rack on the back and a tall, slightly bewildered guy with long hair loading fuel beside it.

For a moment, I am paralyzed, shock and fear creeping over my skin like a shadow. For a moment, I am lost on a vast wave of an unnamed emotion...unable to tell direction, unable to recognize myself.

Flashing back to reality, I realize his hair is blond and wavy.
Different guy.

And hesitantly, not trusting my own eyes, I breathe again.

Then a feeling of sorrow surfaces, the memory of a strong love inside me. I gave everything I had and this is where it led. Emptiness.

I feel a twinge in my heart of longing for acceptance. Then, somehow my thoughts shift further back in time, to a memory of another love, far deeper than that one, which somehow lives on, inside me.

This love is more innocent, with the purity of untouched youth and the integrity of inexperience.

I pull up to the post office to retrieve my mail for the first time since coming back home. The first person I see before me is my one remaining link to the actual person, (now mythic in my mind), who was the reciprocal of all that early love.

"I think he's supposed to get back today", she says casually, as we say a quick hello and then goodbye.

(He is real?)
He is real.

Instead of terror, this news gives me comfort. He belongs here. Just as I belong here.
I am glad he continues to love and return to this place.

And again, all these years later, I am swept away by the remembrance of that love that was grounded in the earth-but was so full of fire that it consumed us-till we finally tried to put it out.

Yet it undeniably lives on inside of me, like a constant flame that I warm myself by from time to time.

I don't know the person any more,
but I still love the spirit, no question.

And I can feel its mutuality. I, in turn, can feel that I am still loved.

It has that quality of forgiveness
regardless of circumstance.

And puzzling as it is, with odd pulls to the heart at unexpected moments, it's both unsettling and comforting to realize that it's still there, unchanged by time.

Next, I go to the market and buy a newspaper with my picture in it.
I stare at the picture, wondering how it might look through his eyes, after all this time between us...

Who is that girl?

In the black and white photo, I am in the background. There is a shadow over my face, yet somehow my teeth still look crooked. My body looks slim and my arms look strong, but my face...somehow it seems odd and ugly.
I guess that's how I still feel about myself.

Staring at the darkly shaded picture of my face, my life seems strange and obscure. I look like a grown-up. Who have I become?

I look so inconsequential, so average, so nonthreatening.
Has anything about me changed?

Shattered Pieces

May 18, 2011

It seems parts of me
have gone missing again.

Every time I turn around
I divide into fragments
and some of them escape.

How is it that these dreams I had
are now only broken pieces shattered
like ancient pottery
in the tracks of dust
I've left behind?

Such beautiful dreams they were
of so much brilliant potential
overflowing
with love
success...

But now, cold shadows
and broken clay
and
even
this poem
sucks!

From the Heart

I realize it's been awhile since I've posted, but that doesn't mean I haven't been learning, processing and writing. Sometimes the art of bearing your soul can be intimidating...and takes a little time passage to warm up to again, when at last you realize how much you long for the humility and intimacy of self-effacing honesty more than the comfort of being safe inside your shell. I have some catching up to do on experiences, memoirs and moments with dance, travel and cuisine. So, I will try to share with you the recent or semi-recent ones that I feel will be most insightful and meaningful. Here it is, from the heart...