tRuST mE, YoU Don't kNOw ANYONE (not really)

Brought beers and chips out to my sweet, mild- mannered little old super. We sat on the front stoop, eating, munching and watching the parade of passers- by engulfing themselves in a perfect summer afternoon.

In the course of our chat, he mentioned that he got out of Attica just in time, because the riots occurred the week after he'd been freed. ??????? I'm like, "what were you in for?" He's like, "a dime for attempted murder." ATTEMPTED MURDER??!?? THIS SWEET OLD MAN? Then he described how some dude had stepped to his woman, so he threw the guy out a window, jumped out after him and stabbed him repeatedly.

Go effin' figure.

RANDOM BLOGSHOT, Fri Aug 27 2010, Prospect Heights, Brooklyn

Swans and Pistols

LA bElle Léon

Writer Léon Bing, whom I've come to know on a semi- BFF basis, has a new memoir out, Swans and Pistols. I'm on page 168 and have had to take a quick break, owing to the fact that my head is spinning wildly (not to mention that I am clutching my pearls) from all the tales of the outrageously cool life this woman has had. Favored Rudi Gernreich model? Lover of art icon Ed Ruscha?? Dirty talk from Warren Beatty in his prime???

READ THIS BOOK. Way too hot to put down!!
WARNING: Will induce suicidal tendencies if your life is all about sitting on the couch and punching the clicker...

PS: She's stunning. Still waiting for news of that long- lost twin sister,  Léon:)

ThInKing of thIngS pAsT

It was Election Night in Trinidad- 1990s?
Things were pretty rote/ quiet, as it was a mere formality as to which party would win.
Then in walked two female police constables (yeah, we former colonists are quaint like that- constables:))
They had the tiniest little girl with them, in a shabby white dress. The female constables said she'd been found wandering on Stanmore Avenue, a wide thoroughfare in the midst of the capital city. I picked the kid up. She weighed nothing. The moment she felt my body, her arms went tight around my neck. She was so compact in my arms, like she fit there. The constables asked if I'd get her on the air, so that perhaps someone might call and ID her. I couldn't believe someone who just leave her like that... she couldn't have been more than 2 or 3. One of the women laughed when I relayed my thoughts. "It was deliberate. We see this all the time. They knew what they were doing."
I put her on the air, then picked her up again and walked with her in my arms to the outside doors.
I've never forgotten how she felt against me- so trusting, so small. How I felt in my heart, like she was supposed to be mine.
I've thought about her ever since. But I was 24 and trying to find my way and a kid was the last thing I could handle.
Did she survive? Where is she now? How did her abandonment affect her?
All these years have passed and I wish I'd adopted her, no matter what.
Totally contradicts what I posted earlier about me and kids... but perhaps not, perhaps that experience killed the spark, inspired the caution.
Life is complicated.

1st DIBS: iS YoU ouT yOuR DaMneD MIND???!!!???

Your prices are at level of insanity that is beyond rational thought... do you set your prices during the afternoon cocktail shindig??



First off, you need to have this dealer take off $3000 off for spelling Napoleon's name incorrectly:

http://www.1stdibs.com/furniture_item_detail.php?id=414317&cur_tab=PR

Next, this green chair should more correctly be priced at $1.00, because it's butt ugly and anyone who tried to sit on it would FALL.


Lastly, NO ONE in their right mind would pay $8,750 for 4 BASKETS. I don't care HOW old they are. You can pick the same thing up for less at Pier One, or even better, for 99 cents at your local Salvation Army store.

And this: no words I'm aware of can describe this chair, but I wouldn't want to know anyone who'd have it in their home. That is why you've had to put it ON SALE. Better to put it in the dumpster.

Get your act together people. Go to Starbucks as a team and simmer down on a few dozen cups of joe.

RANDOM BLOGSHOT, Fri Aug 19, 2010, Prospect Heights, Brooklyn

cheong sam and leggings for ncs

KiDs

My friend Frankie made a comment on a post I did earlier on Justin Bieber's rabid fans and where I said that if I had a daughter who was so out of her mind for some crazy little boy on tv I would start feeding her some sense right quick.
That got me to thinking about my feelings on children. Of my own.

There was an article in September's Marie Claire by this woman, Polly Vernon who set about explaining why she'd never have children. The expression I related to was: "They told me that...by my late 20s-early 30s at the latest- I would be yearning for a baby with every fiber of my being. (I have never yearned; I am now 38.)"

I am now 43 and (God have His mercy, how the clock ticks!) neither did I. I'd listen in wonder as friends would describe how they HAD to have kids, like right then. Like if they didn't, they'd wither and disappear into a sad pile of grey dust.
I was never bitten by that compulsion to procreate. Never felt those twinges in my stomach, faceless little beings tugging at my womb (wow, that sounds macabre, Euphs) sending me shrieking for sperm, any sperm.

Children always seemed like obstacles: to freedom of movement, travel, a slim stomach, career advancement, naps at will, the wind in my hair. To say nothing of the excruciating pain of pushing a bushel of watermelons out of one's teeny-tiny vaginal cavity.

Despite this, I did experience one caveat.
The only one who could, and did, make me concede is She Who Shall Remain Nameless. I loved that woman so definitively, with every atom of my soul, wanted her happiness so deeply, that I'd willingly bear the most Herculean of burdens. In fact, everything that previously believed destined for doom or a threat to my otherwise chic lifestyle began to suddenly, stunningly, glow. I began to see through her eyes: first her body filling with life, rendering her even more breathtaking. Then, our babies, a girl, then a boy. Now desired and craved not just for her, but for myself. I actually wanted a family. I discovered that I was not such a solitary gus after all, brought skipping out into the light by a girl who seemed embroidered in pure joy.

The plans began: numerous, meticulous, preemptively strategic from so far afar: from what we'd do about childcare, to how I'd buy a gun the minute my daughter turned 9, and bring it out and silently, ominously clean it in front of her future suitors. We fought over the names, (eventually agreeing on two lovely ones that held meaning for us both), whether we'd use organic diapers, worried about how to save for the kids' college tuition. I even bought a tiny cheong sam meant for a baby girl and in blunt defiance of orders, miniature black leggings, which SWSRN deemed too "grown" for a toddler.

Then, it was over. She was gone, and with it, my son and daughter, who, though unborn, were as real as anything for me.
All my loves in one swift clean shot.
And with it, the death of that desire. Because it only meant something with her. It was only supposed to happen with her.

The regrets are multitudinous, the self-recrimination forming and reforming under the unstinting microscope of second- by- second analysis. The pain: boy, is it sharp. And like a black cat, barely visible at times but then jumping out suddenly, claws outstretched, like a feral beast.

But... but missing out on this monumental love, this abandonment of self (without thought or safety net or pride or the most minute of hesitations) in devotion to another, well, I have to say, it was my greatest moment as a human being.

I'll let you go, now..

PrEciOus chAnGe

I've been collecting those weird old pennies (the ones with Lincoln and what I used to think was a halo) for a while and happened to check today to see if they are valuable or not. The link below was an eye- opener... had my butt searching for coins all over the house! There's a 1943 penny that is supposed to be worth $100K!!! It's like the lottery, but one you can actually see yourself winning!
Happy Hunting:)

http://www.blifaloo.com/info/rare_coins.php

KaRzAi

Sorry, but what a pussy.
You can't please all the people all of the time, as Obama is finding out, to his eternal regret. As my father said so many years ago: "Being a leader means having to make some hard, cold, decisions."
Therefore, if you're an inveterate people- pleaser, the job of leading a country is not for you.
Try Barnes and Noble. Or The Home Depot.

ON haPpInEsS

The fact that this week's Business Section of the Sunday New York Times featured a piece exploring happiness (But Will it Make You Happy by Stephanie Rosenbloom) was food enough for thought. The central line of the article rode on the experience of a couple, $30,000 in debt, who sold most of their things and moved to a studio in Portland, Oregon. They're now out of debt, working less and playing more.

I couldn't help but immediately look up at the space surrounding me: my shelves of design books and literature, a bust that had displayed hats in the old Bamberger's department store, my gilt mirrors topped by an 18th century lithograph of a comtesse at her writing desk, my beloved, beloved, grey tweed sectional, with the chaise the width of a bed. I had literally dreamed for years about having a furnished apartment. From just a futon and one chair, 10 years later. I now had a place that made me smile, that I felt safe in. I treasure each and every piece.

There are times when I think I should really sell my stuff off, that I could use the money, that I could clear some long- standing debts. But something inside rebels.
Every single item was hard won. Each piece represents blood, toil and cliche as it may sound, tears. I am literally, at this moment, in a fight to maintain a space that has been my haven, that has cradled me in moments of sheer despair.

Yet, at the same time, I've realized I need a life that is on my terms.
I'd really rather not do the 9 to 5 anymore, to let someone else profit from my expertise and long hours and still fuck me in the ass at the end of it all.
I also know I need some sort of sabbatical, which can only truly comfortably happen until I have upped my income a bit.
I think if I could just spend two weeks in Tahiti, or on a transatlantic cruise, I'll be ok.

The yearning to flee to a shack near the sea will stop.

BrAvE Old WOrLd

In my continuing obsession with the Jews and Jewish culture, I just finished a documentary on the Hasidim (the Orthodox) Jews in Brooklyn. I must confess that I'd drive through Crown Heights and Williamsburg and wonder why these people wanted to live such an antiquated life. Now, even though I still don't agree with their marginalization of women, I do applaud the will it took, for these Rebbes to come to New York after World War II and attempt to rebuild what the Germans had tried to destroy: their culture, their community, as it existed in Eastern Europe before the raging tide of anti- Semitism took hold.

As one man said, for his father, a Holocaust survivor, his happiest day each year is on Hannukkah, when his 72 grandchildren, along with the rest of the family, are gathered together. Each grandchild was named after a lost member of his family: his mother, father, brothers, aunts, uncles. So in a way, he is seeing them alive again- the ultimate kissoff to the Germans, that 60 years later, he has survived and retrieved what had been lost.

I found that soberingly profound. Every child born signals victory.

On the other side of the coin, one expert on Hasidism (I had no idea there were so many sects other than the Satmars and the Lubavitchers- there are also the Gers, the Bobovs, the Belz and others, all named after the towns in Eastern Europe that their Rebbes came from) said that the Rebbes, those leaders, mostly elderly men and Holocaust survivors, in order to achieve the goal of reviving their culture, had to make decisions that would impact the lives of generations to come. For, in their rejection of modernity: popular music, movies, books that did not conform to their way of life, universities, they were essentially ensuring that there would never be Hasidic doctors, lawyers, executives. That would leave most Hasidim to poverty (as evidenced by the sight of so many of them lined up at the Social Security office) or a modest success in business, because they aren't allowed to accept work that requires them to put off their traditional garments or to ignore the Sabbath.

Then there was the one guy whose primary requirement in a wife was money, because all he wanted to do was study. So would I. I'd like to sit and read/ learn all day, every day, and let someone else foot the bill. Shouldn't we all have a life where we're not made to be worker bees, afraid to step out of line, forced to shuffle along to jobs we hate so we can keep a roof over our heads and food on our tables? Isn't that our right and privilege as human beings? How did we ever get to this place where mere contentment is not enough?

I know that there is a line somewhere in the Declaration of Independence about the pursuit of happiness... How did that become fine print?? I think we should be supported, at least once a year, in some sort of sabbatical. Radical, but healthier, I think, than more psycho drugs and the latest self-help book.

I think again of Matt, walking across country, being cleansed with each step, and wonder if that's not the way to go.

LoNG Sighs FoR bRave meN

"Les sanglots longs/ les violins de l'automne/ blessent mon coeur/ d'une langeur monotone."

Paul Verlaine poem used to launch the Allied invasion of Normandy on Jun 6, 1944.

The SorroW And the PIty

There's a 1960s French documentary called "Le Chagrin et La Pitie" (translation above), that I finished seeing on Wednesday night (it's like, 4 hours long). It paints a very realistic, riveting portrait of France during the German occupation. The filmmakers were smart enough to confine their study to the small town of Clermont- Ferrand, and the personal-ness of the events that went down, given the intimate confines of the locale, made for a compelling story.
They also interviewed extensively: from Anthony Eden, the British envoy to the French government, to the son-in-law of Pierre Laval, the President of the collaborationist Vichy regime, to a French aristocrat who joined the Wehrmacht, to two farmers who became influential members of the resistance, to a gay British secret agent who'd been parachuted into occupied France.
What interested me most was the vastness of human emotion captured: bitterness toward the less brave townspeople displayed by grizzled old maquisards (members of the resistance). The convenient memory loss of a woman who'd been outed as having fraternized with Germans, and therefore got her head shaved when the war ended. "Ah, je ne rapelle pas", "I don't remember" was her litany, but her eyes told a different story.
The German soldiers who insisted that their prisoners were well treated and that they had no idea about concentration camps. That fascinated me: this utter whitewash of their roles in the war, and what their leader was trying to do, which would surely have been apparent to anyone with a grain of sense, even if no one in command had actually explained it to you. And the son-in-law of Pierre Laval, who insisted that his beau- pere was a "good man", despite the fact that he'd signed what was essentially the death warrant for thousands of French Jews... The Nazi government would request a quota and Pierre Laval and the French Head of State, Marechal Petain, would comply, excusing themselves by saying that those lives consigned to Buchenwald, Aushwitz, Treblinka, Dachau, were a small price to pay for survival of thousands of others.
But can we truly be mad at them, these people who made what in retrospect were horrific choices? We all imagine that were the occasion to arise, where we were called upon to make a life or death decision to help, we'd do so unhesitatingly. But in the crux of such a moment, facing your own possible death, what would really happen? Would we morph into the heroes we imagine ourselves to be?
I am obsessed with the Holocaust and World War II these days. I have been reading and watching everything I can on those subjects: Hitler, Goebbels, Roosevelt, Churchill. Perhaps in the middle of my own... don't want to use such a strong word as hell, but very nearly,in these past several months, I want to understand betrayal. I want to comprehend how seemingly decent people can act in evil ways, without a qualm. How some people can speak, knowing as they speak it's all lies.
And most of all, I want to know how to survive it all.

One of the most memorable scenes for me in "Schindler's List", which I have seen at least 6 times, is the one at the very end, where the actors escort their real life counterparts out into the sunshine. I always cry at this point, because each character had suffered so and it was a miracle they'd lived through it all. Then the clincher would be this mass of people walking over a hill.
The descendants of all the Jews Mr. Schindler had saved. His legacy.
The realization that there was a hell-for-leather attempt at total extermination, but this one man, aided by the tenacious lust for life employed to its utmost strength by one thousand souls, made sure that a significant pocket survived and in time, grew.

Always at that point, a tiny spark is lit within me...that perhaps it is possible to endure, after all.

Bieber Fever

This week's New York magazine had a profile on of-the-moment tween obsession Justin Bieber. I swear, kids are out of control: I have to ask my mum, but even in the throes of my Leif Garrett obsession, I'd never say something like:

"You know what I think of? We're sharing the same oxygen as Justin Bieber."

Oh brother...we have a Trinidadian word- dotish- that means stupid, but stupid to the 125th power. The above statement definitely qualifies.

I get being a fan, but I don't get the crying, hysterical screaming, fainting, etc. And the parents who support it. If I had a daughter carrying on in such a fashion, I'd lock her in the basement. And make her listen to Stephen Hawking tapes for two days.

I'm Just Walkin'...

Sounds like the title of an early Bob Dylan song, but it's the theme of the ongoing journey of an intrepid soul named Matt Green, who has undertaken the Herculean task of walking from Rockaway Beach, Queens, to Rockaway, Oregon.
The endeavor struck a chord with me... that idea of chucking it all and just taking off: no rent, no bills, no office politics. No pressure, clean air.
It all appeals, except for the part about possibly becoming a lurid New York Post headline due to some misadventure.
So I guess I'll live vicariously through Matt's adventure and get my wimpy ass down to the DMV pronto so I can perhaps do the same thing from the (relative) safety of a vehicle, preferably armoured.

Matt- I'm with you all the way. Thanks so much for the sweet email.

Check for his updates and lovely images here:

http://imjustwalkin.com/

Jewelry...

Got into making jewelry while in the hospital (long boring story) and from beading I've been moving into wire creations. I love the potential and malleability of wire. I have also been making lots of crowns and tiaras: a message to myself?

Starting my blog again...

I think I need the outlet. Shit has been mad tough lately, but what can one do but keep on keeping on, right? Happily, I awoke to the news that rumours of the death of my turtle, Transexual Sandy, were greatly exaggerated. I think she went into an overeating- induced coma. Que vivo Transexual!